"Take my word for it, pal, they're the ones you have to worry about. Hitler's all talk."

"You sound like the isolationists back home. You should read Mein Kampf, it's all laid out there."

"I've read Mein Kampf. "

Rudman looked surprised and said, "Well, I give him two years, three tops. He'll have the Saar back, Austria, Poland, probably Czechoslovakia. He's already using the Versailles treaty for toilet paper."

"Rudman, I came here to be entertained, not to listen to lectures on the rise and fall of the German Empire."

"Okay," said Rudman, and abruptly changed the subject. "Okay. What's this Gold Gate I've been hearing about?"

"Sex show upstairs."

"Any good?"

"If you like naked men and women covered with oil rolling around under bad lights."

"I do," Rudman said with a leering grin. "Shall we?"

Keegan shook his head. "I came for the singer."

"Does she sing covered with oil?"

Keegan rolled his eyes. "She's coming on next. As soon as they round up that herd and get them off the stage." He nodded toward the chorus line, all of whom were at least ten pounds overweight. As he spoke they lumbered into the wings.

"I'll be where the action is," Rudman said and headed upstairs. "Dinner tomorrow night?"

Keegan nodded and waved him away because now the stage lights were lowering. They went out. Keegan could barely discern the tiny woman who came out on the darkened stage carrying her own stool. She put it down in front of the microphone on the corner of the stage and sat down. The piano man started playing trills, warming up. Then the baby spot faded in on her.

He was immediately taken by her appearance. She was barely five feet tall, thin, rather frail. Her face was narrow to the point of being gaunt and her sharply honed cheekbones seemed etched into her face. The result was an almost haunted look, an impression strengthened by large, saucerlike eyes that gleamed in the tiny light and seemed almost tear-struck. A simple, long black dress accented the aura of vulnerability that surrounded her. He had to strain to hear her name when the emcee introduced her. Jenny Gould.

She stood without speaking for a few moments, just long enough for Keegan to worry that perhaps something was wrong, that she wasn't going to perform. Then she began to sing.

The voice startled him at first. It was low, throaty, a torch-song voice that tortured every word of the Cole Porter song she chose to interpret, not as a cynical dirge, but as a metaphor about love gone sour.

Love for sale,

Appetizing young love for sale,

If you want to try my wares,

Take a chance and climb the stairs,

Love for sale.

The crowd was ill mannered and inattentive. Chattering, laughing, clinking glasses, creating a constant babel that underscored every word she sang, and Keegan finally moved down the bar closer to the stage to hear better. He was mesmerized by her. When the song was over there was a smattering of applause, except from Keegan who wore out his hands clapping.

He thought she glanced over at him as he applauded, but couldn't be sure, felt foolish in fact at how pleased he was that she might have noticed him. Then she began her second song and he was, once again, caught in the magical, sensual spell she was weaving.

In the darkened room, Vanessa suddenly decided it was time to make a break for it. The boys were trapped on the other side of the room. The singer was into her second song and Vanessa snatched up her purse and stood to leave. From the bar there was a smattering of wolf whistles mostly lost in the clamor. She stalked across the room, her dress swaying in sparkling waves as she walked. Deenie struggled to her feet, trotting after the haughty beauty. Then Vanessa stopped so suddenly that Deenie bumped into her.

"Oh my God," Vanessa said half-aloud.

"What is it?" Deenie asked.

"Somebody I know," Vanessa said, her mouth curling into a sly smile.

"From Boston?" Deenie asked wide-eyed.

"Oh yes, he's from Boston all right."

"Oh no!" Deenie cried out and turned her back to the bar.

"Don't be silly. If there's one person in Boston I'd prefer to be seen by, it's him. C'mon."

She grabbed Deenie's hand and dragged her through the crowd, ignoring the looks and the comments. She stood ten feet behind Keegan, waiting for the song to end.

"Which one is he?" Deenie whispered.

"Shhh."

The second song was a German tune Keegan was not familiar with. Then she sang "Someone to Watch Over Me" and every syllable was plaintive, every word a plea to be loved, every note a heartbreaker.

There was a smattering of applause, again except for Keegan. He looked around the room, wondering if all these people were crazy. Didn't they know what was happening up on stage?

The set was over. He had barely been aware that she'd sung several more songs. Her voice had mesmerized him, hypnotized him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so thrilled.

She left the stage rather meekly and, to Keegan, the rest of the room came back into focus. He caught Herman's eye and urgently waved him over.

"She's wonderful!" he told the damp little manager. He realized he sounded too excited but he didn't care. "She's absolutely-"

Herman rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately you are the only one who seems to think so." Then, looking over Keegan's shoulder, he saw the two American girls coming toward them.

As they walked down the length of the bar, Vanessa was aware that the little sweaty man in the soggy tuxedo was talking about them, his eyes darting toward them, then away. And she was also aware that the tall man with his back to them was staring at her in the deco mirror behind the bar. She led Deenie right up to him, standing behind him, less than a foot away, staring up at the back of his neck. He finally turned around and looked down at her.

Deenie caught her breath. Her impression was immediate: he's rich. That was always number one on Deenie's checklist. The man was rich, fashionable, handsome and self-confident. With his shock of black hair and gray eyes and persistent, arrogant smile, he epitomized what, in her mind, was the classic continental playboy. Definitely dangerous, she thought.

"Something?" He asked it pleasantly, but he was annoyed. He wanted to rush backstage, to meet the singer.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

All he could remember was that voice, the sunken eyes. Love for sale . . .

The girl reached up and pulled lightly on his lapel, interrupting his reverie, and when he leaned toward her, she whispered a name in his ear. His reaction was immediate and startled, although he quickly recovered his composure. He stared back at her, his gray eyes intent and inquiring.

It had been three years since anyone had called him that and this woman was perhaps nineteen, twenty at best. He made a quick study. She was tallish, maybe five-seven, slender and busty with turquoise eyes and jet black hair. Her face was angular, her features perfect. Her full mouth curved down at the corners except when she smiled and she wore very little makeup. The diamond choker around her long, slender neck was the real thing. A well-groomed, self-confident snob with money, he decided, and her long a's pegged her from Boston. Who the hell was she? And how did she know that name?

And then she repeated it aloud.

"Frankie Kee."

TWELVE.

"My God," he said finally, "you're not Vannie Bromley!"

"Vanessa Bromley," she corrected. "Nobody's called me Vannie since my sixteenth birthday."

"That makes us even. Nobody's called me Frankie for a couple of years, either. Where did you hear that name, anyway?"

"Daddy," she said. "I was eavesdropping after a party once and he was telling mother all about you. I gathered it was kind of his personal secret. He swore her to silence."

"And you?"

"Never told a soul. Too good to share."

"How are old David and Linda?"

"The same. Stuffy but nice."

"What are you two talking about?" Deenie finally interrupted.

"Oh, I'm sorry. This is Deenie Brookstone. Remember her?"

"Your father's Earl, right? Merrill, Lynch?"

"That's right," she said brightly. "Should I remember you?"

"Probably not," he said and let the subject die. "What are you two doing in this place?"

"We came to see the show. The one upstairs. Our dates are absolute dinosaurs. Personally I think they're afraid to go up."

"Hardly the place for proper Bostonians," Keegan said.

"Who said anything about being proper?" Vanessa's green eyes worked over every line in his face. There was no doubting her intentions.

Jesus, Keegan thought, here I am in the worst den of iniquity in Europe and the daughter of the president of the Bank of Massachusetts is sending out very definite signals. She had turned into a real dish. Big trouble, but a real dish. His dilemma ended abruptly with the arrival of their dates.

"What's going on?" one of them demanded in a voice that sounded like it was pitched an octave lower than normal. Vanessa turned to him, linked her arm in Keegan's and said, "We've just run into an old friend."

"Oh?"

"Francis, this is Donald, this is Gerald. Donald has blond hair, Gerald has brown hair. That's how you tell them apart."

"Take it easy," Keegan growled under his breath. He held out his hand.

"I'm Frank Keegan," he said, "friend of the family."

Donald, the blond, shook hands, then stuffed his in his pockets and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Gerald, who was built like a football player, was more aggressive.

"We've decided to go to the Speisewagen for breakfast," he said; ignoring Keegan's hand. "A lot of the gang will be there."

"I'm sick of the gang," Vanessa answered. "We're going upstairs."

"C'mon," Donald whined. "Your old man'll nail us to the wall if he finds out we took you up there."

Vanessa looked at Keegan for support. "Is it that bad?"

"Pretty risque," he said.

"How risque?"

"About as risque as it gets."

"See?" Donald said.

"Well, we just won't tell him."

"No!" Donald said firmly. "They'll find out. Parents always find out those things."

"Donald," Vanessa said firmly, "get lost." And she turned her back on him.

As Donald started toward her, three burly Nazi youths in brown shirts walked by. One of them slammed into Gerald's back. He turned angrily toward them.