Chapter 11

It was nearly dark by the time Carlo reached Marceau's mansion atop Nob Hill. Nick, the huge Nubian valet, directed Carlo to a large walnut-paneled study which was Marceau's working room.

"Ah, Carlo, my boy. It's good to see you again," Marceau greeted him from behind an enormous desk in one corner of the room. "You have done your part, I trust?"

"Marceau, you know me better than that. Have I ever let you down?" Carlo answered, striding toward the warmth of a marble fireplace which dominated the wall adjacent to Marceau's desk. "They will all be here. And you? Have you prepared the little surprise I phoned you about?"

Marceau Verner III stroked his neatly trimmed beard thoughtfully and watched Carlo carefully through half-shut lids. "My boy, you never cease to amaze me. First you give me less than a full day to prepare, and then you phone me hours before the party with some special request. And to top it off, you expect to extract from me a commission for your, eh, services." His hand slid forward several inches and tapped a plain white envelope lying in the middle of the huge desk.

Carlo eyed the man narrowly. "Ah, yes, Marceau, but it is not everyone who could bring you such beauties. Young virgins. And six of them."

Marceau sat motionless, his eyes closed, only the tip of his tongue flicking once through compressed lips, betraying whether he was asleep--or dead. After a few moments his lids fluttered open and the corners of his mouth twisted upward in a wry smile. "Ah, Carlo, forgive me. Growing cynical is the leprosy of advancing age. Forgive me, please," he said, rising. "A brandy?"

"Yes," was all Carlo replied as he watched Marceau limp slowly to the well-stocked bookcase bar. His gout must be getting worse, Carlo mused. It was a shame really. He wasn't that old. If it gets much worse I'm liable to lose a customer, he thought, walking quickly to meet him and take the offered drink.

"To our success," Marceau said, raising his glass in toast. They both sipped, then, Marceau lowering his glass continued: "I have taken the liberty of having Meg set a place for at the dinner table. It is not well for one to work on an empty stomach. No? And then we shall tour the ballroom and the top floor. You agree?"

"Umm," Carlo answered, lowering the glass from his lips. It really was good brandy. Expensive. Marceau did have good taste. Well in most things. "Yes. That would be great," Carlo answered. It wasn't often he was treated to fine brandy and an exquisite dinner. Only once before had Marceau invited him to dine.

When dinner was finished, both Carlo and Marceau sat quietly, contemplating. It had come to Carlo during dinner that Marceau was the only man he had met whom he admired. Now, as he sat, sipping an after dinner cordial, he wondered if it was really the man he admired or his ways; his aristocratic grace, his wealth, his passion for getting what he wanted. Somehow, Carlo knew, that he too would someday acquire all of these.

"My boy," Marceau began, interrupting Carlo's musings, "We had better be off. The guests will be arriving soon, and there are still some details that must be taken care of. Come, I will show you to the elevator. As you know, I have made many changes since you were here last. Meg is already upstairs and she will show you around."

As they walked to the elevator, they passed the grand ballroom. The room blazed with light from three huge chandeliers. Three waiters arranged a buffet on tables set up at the far end of the room, while on a dais opposite the buffet, a five-man ensemble was tuning up. The thought crossed Carlo's mind that Marceau was indeed a careful man. Should any uninvited or unwanted guests drop in, the respectable party with its legitimate guests should provide a perfect cover.

When they reached the elevator, Carlo noticed there was now a second one next to the one Carlo had always used before. Marceau took a key from his pocket and placed it in a lock where the call button usually was. He turned it and the doors opened. Removing the key, he handed it to Carlo; then stepped aside to let him enter.

"All you have to do is press the Up button," he said. "There are no stops between the foyer and the top floor. You do the same in reverse when you come down."

Carlo nodded, then smiled. He pushed the button and the doors hissed closed.

Meg was waiting for Carlo as the elevator doors opened. She was in her late twenties, tall, slim, and brown-eyed, with darkly burnished auburn hair tied neatly with a black ribbon behind her head; she was wearing a simple, expensive dress in basic black with one unobtrusive gold pin on her shoulder.

Carlo smiled at her and she returned the smile. "Let me show you around," she said.

She turned and he noticed she had a good ass, fine legs, and slim ankles. He followed her around the circular corridor. Everything was white, highlighted only by paintings; paintings in gilded frames mounted on red velvet; paintings of nude men and women depicting various forms of copulation.

Meg caught his gaze. "All the paintings are from Mr. Verner's private collection." She stopped at the only door on the right and opened it, letting him walk in ahead of her. He stood there for a moment. It was almost unbelievable. The entire circular room was actually a small amphitheater; half of the room was a slightly sunken stage, the other half consisted of private booths facing it. An elaborate fountain, fashioned entirely of colored glass, played in the center of the otherwise bare stage. Opposite were five booths; two accommodating eight, and the center booth accommodating perhaps a dozen. They were designed so that from within, only the stage could be seen.