Goodbye, Janette by Harold Robbins

asked sarcastically.
    “Damn right I am,” Shiki retorted.
    “Horseshit!” Juan snapped. “You haven’t even got enough money to pay your fare on the Métro.”
    “That’s how much you know,” Shiki retorted with a superior air. “Just this morning I signed the papers which will make me independent for life.”
    “Now, I’ll tell one,” Juan said.
    “I’ll prove it,” Shiki said, looking around the room. He saw Maurice and Jerry Johnson standing near the bar. “Come with me.”
    Juan followed him across the room. Shiki stopped in front of Maurice. “Juanita doesn’t believe that we made a deal. Tell him.
    Maurice was puzzled. “What deal?”
    Delgado chortled. “I told you you were full of shit. He doesn’t even know what you’re talking about. You have to be stoned out of your head.”
    “I’m never that stoned,” Shiki said, standing on his dignity as much as his four feet nine inches would allow. He turned back to Maurice. “I signed the papers this morning with your man, Schwebel. It’s with one of your companies. Tanya Parfums or something like that.”
    “That’s one of my wife’s companies,” Maurice said. “I have nothing to do with that. It’s all her affair.” He looked at Shiki curiously. “You say Schwebel signed the papers? Where was Tanya?”
    Shiki was surprised. “I thought you knew. She went to the clinic last night to have your baby.”
    “Last night?” Maurice was incredulous. “She wasn’t expecting for another two weeks yet.”
    Delgado broke up. He turned to the room, announcing in a loud voice, “Our good friend, the marquis, is about to have a baby and his wife hasn’t even bothered to inform him.” He paused for a moment. “But, then, why should she? She never even bothered telling him that she was making a baby when she was off fucking that American.”
    “You son of a bitch!” Maurice said angrily. “Why don’t you just suck my cock?”
    Juan fell to his knees on the floor before him. He held up his hand in mock prayer. “Thank you, God,” he said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “You’ve just made my dreams come true.”
    Maurice shoved him and he rolled backward on the floor, laughing, while Maurice, followed by Jerry, stalked angrily from the party.
    It was two o’clock in the morning when they got out of the car in front of the small private clinic. They crossed the deserted sidewalk and pressed the night bell. Maurice tried the door impatiently. It was locked. He put his finger on the bell and kept it there.
    A few moments later a sleepy concierge opened the door. “Monsieur, Monsieur,” he protested. “Patience. There are sick people in here.” He looked around behind them. “Where is she?”
    “She?” Maurice asked. “Who?”
    “The patient,” the concierge answered. “This is a maternity clinic. Only expectant fathers ring the bell like that at night.”
    “My wife is already here,” Maurice snapped. “I want to see her.”
    The concierge began to close the door. “Impossible, Monsieur. Visiting hours are finished at ten o’clock. Come back in the morning.”
    Maurice put his foot in the door, blocking it. “I want to see her now. I insist. I am the Marquis de la Beauville.”
    “I don’t care if you’re Charles De Gaulle,” the concierge said. “You come back in the morning.”
    A banknote appeared in Maurice’s hand. “If you would be kind enough to speak to the head nurse,” he said in a more reasonable voice, “I would appreciate it.”
    The banknote disappeared in the concierge’s pocket as quickly as it had appeared. “If Monsieur would be kind enough to wait. I will return in a moment.”
    The door closed, and Maurice and Jerry stood there. “Maybe we should come back in the morning,” Jerry said.
    “No. We’ll see her tonight.” Maurice’s voice was tight.
    The door opened again. This time a gray-haired nurse in a heavily starched uniform stood next to the concierge. “I am sorry, Monsieur,” she