“No, no,” said Doyle quickly, embarrassed. “I’m taking it fairly easy this time. I’m doing some research on a book, and—well—loafing a little.”
“Good, and good to see you again. Maybe we can have a drink sometime. Well, good luck, Doyle.”
Earnshaw ducked into the limousine, and the chauffeur slammed the door. Up ahead, the Secret Service agent had joined a colleague, who waited behind the wheel of a small sedan. With a vague smile at the occupants of the limousine, Doyle started away. He heard the motor purr behind him, abruptly die, and he heard his name.
Bewildered, he turned to hear Earnshaw, who was being helped out of the limousine, calling to him. “Doyle! Wait—hold on!”
Doyle began to return to the car, still puzzled, but Earnshaw met him halfway. Placing a paternal arm around his shoulders, the former President drew him over to the curb. “Uh, Doyle, the second I set myself inside the car, something occurred to me. Uh, that book you’re researching—can’t take all your time, can it?”
“Well—no,” said Doyle cautiously.
“That’s what occurred to me. You see, to be truthful, there’s a little business here I could use some help on, uh, something more in your own line of work, and it struck me that maybe it could be of interest to you.”
“It depends—”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Earnshaw. “Uh, I need a writing collaborator to work with me from tomorrow, the sixteenth, to the last day of the Summit, which is the twenty-fifth.” He grinned shyly at Doyle. “Uh, the old adage holds—what fools we mortals be. In a moment of weakness I agreed to spend some of my time in Paris as an observer of the Five-Power Conference, strictly as an ordinary citizen, and to produce a 500-word daily commentary for the Ormsby Press Enterprises—they’re in London—and just now our own national syndicate, ANA, has contracted for my daily columns, too. Uh—now what the devil, Doyle—I’ve never made any great pretensions about being a writer fellow. You know that. So what would be real useful for me, I just realized, is to have a professional kind of assistant to attend the Summit meetings every day, report to me what’s been going on, and I’d interpret it for him and let him write it up under my name and put it on the wires, and I’d let him keep most of the money I get. Well, seeing you made me realize how perfectly you’d fit the bill. I can’t imagine that it would be much of a sweat for you, and you’d get a press pass on my behalf, entrée into everything, lots of free meals and sport, a chance to see everyone and everything, and maybe, oh, to make it worthwhile, maybe I’d see fit to pay you $300 a day for the ten days. I’m sure that’s chicken feed to you, but it would provide you with tip money. And the work involved is little enough. You’d have plenty of time to carry on with your own book research.” He watched Doyle’s face. “How does it strike you, my friend?”
Doyle had already been thinking hard, balancing the pros and cons of the offer. On the con side, all that he could find objectionable was that the ghostwriting chore might cut into the free time he required to pursue Hazel and the big breakthrough on his book. Weighed against this were numerous pros. For one, Hazel would be busy most of the day with her own work and would be difficult to see, so very likely, he’d have plenty of time on his hands. Besides, and more important, with Earnshaw’s prestigious press credentials in his possession, credentials underwritten by Hazel’s very own syndicate, ANA, Doyle would have legitimate access to wherever Hazel might be, both around the city and in the ANA offices. Finally, the money was nothing to sniff at, and, indeed, might be sorely needed if Hazel demanded a payoff for her secret information on the Kennedy assassination.
“Did you say ANA?” Doyle asked.
“ANA and the Ormsby chain.”
“And I’d get full press credentials?”
“Absolutely. I could arrange it before the end of the day.”
Doyle’s poker face wreathed into a smile. He stuck out his hand. “Mr. Earnshaw, you’ve got a deal.”
Earnshaw wrung the extended hand enthusiastically. “I’m so pleased. This is a load off my mind… Okay, Doyle, why don’t you drop by my suite in the Lancaster around five o’clock? We can iron out the details, and by that time I’ll have squared you away for credentials from our press section. Five o’clock, then?”
“I’ll be there. And make it bourbon.”
Cheered by his decision, and by the opportunity the job offered him of constant and natural contact with Hazel, Doyle resumed his walk to the Club Lautrec. Reaching the Champs-Élysées, he turned his back on the Arc de Triomphe and pointed his steps toward his destination. Preoccupied with what might await him at the cabaret, he was oblivious of the French couples and families lazily promenading on this mild Sunday afternoon. His overburdened legs carried his shimmying belly swiftly through the mass of strollers, as he wended his way nearer to the Rue la Boëtie.
Approaching the Café Français, Doyle involuntarily succumbed to the Parisian practice of scanning the habitues of every outdoor terrace. His eyes passed over those in the rear, moved across those in the center, and began to glimpse those in the front rows—and suddenly, he stopped walking.
From a distance of thirty feet, he stared at her. Except that her hair was redder, her figure fuller, her dress smarter, the erosion of more than a decade had left little mark upon her. There could be no mistake about it. Sitting at the café table ahead, deep in conversation with a pretty young girl, was Hazel Smith, at last, at long, long last.
Doyle’s throat constricted, and he tried to swallow. For the life of him, he could not remember his lines. He could only remember his goal. Nervously, he smoothed back his sparse hair, brushed at his lapels, hitched up his belt to pull his pants over his stomach, regretting the million extra calories that had been his only companions in the gluttonous years since Hazel. Resolutely, he started toward her.
As his shadow fell across her, he bellowed effusively, “My God, it can’t be! Hazel—how are you, Hazel?”
Alarmed, she jerked her body convulsively and twisted her head around. Before she could react further, Doyle bent low, rocking the table and knocking over an empty cup, as he tried to kiss her. Hazel’s face congealed in horror, and when his puckered lips were almost upon her, she pulled her face away to avoid them, and his kiss landed wetly on an ear lobe.
With a grunt, he straightened. “What luck, running into you like this. I’d read you were in Paris, and when I had to come here, my first thought was to try to find you.” He was conscious of the perspiration growing on his brow. “You look younger than ever, Hazel. Wonderful. You’ve hardly changed at all!”
She examined him with cold distaste. “That’s more than I can say for you.”
“Very funny, ha-ha.” He patted his belly. “It’s an old wives’ tale that you waste away when you pine for someone. Sometimes it has the opposite effect. Anyhoo, I was just up at ANA asking for Hazel Smith. First order of business. I wanted you to know I’ve been following your stories from Moscow, from everywhere, and they are tops, absolutely tops.” He had been reaching behind him for a chair, and now grasped one and dragged it forward. “Mind if I join you for a minute? Unless you two are in the middle of something earthshaking?”
Hazel tried to ignore him. Nevertheless, Doyle sat down firmly, beaming foolishly at Hazel, then at her pretty young friend. There was an awkward strained silence until finally Doyle swallowed, nodded at the confused pretty young girl, and said, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m—”
Sourly Hazel’s voice buried his own. “Miss Medora Hart, Mr. Jay Doyle. I’m sorry, Medora, but—”
“Miss Hart?” said Doyle. “Of course. The famous dancer.”
“Singer,” said Medora weakly.
Hazel glowered at Doyle and cast an apologetic glance at Medora. “I’m sorry, Medora. You were in the middle of a sentence.”
Medora looked helplessly from Hazel to Doyle, and, vaguely uncomfortable, she addressed Hazel. “Well, I—I guess I’ve told you almost everything. I appreciate your
being so kind. Well, I suppose All that is left is for me to locate Sir Austin Ormsby and—and convince him of—”
Doyle poised to pounce on any conversational cue, leaped on this one, even though it had no meaning to him. “You want to locate Sir Austin Ormsby?” he said quickly. “I can help you. I just flew in from Vienna to go to work with former President Earnshaw, writing a daily column on what goes on at the Summit, and you know who I’ll be writing my column for? Miss Smith’s American wire service, ANA, and Sir Austin’s own press chain. So if you want to know how to get hold of Sir Austin, I’m sure I—”
“Nobody asked you, so please stay out of this,” said Hazel frigidly to Doyle. “It’s a private matter.” She returned her attention to Medora, who was clutching her handbag. “Medora dear, I’ll have the information for you tonight. I’ll call you. Then you can get hold of Sir Austin in the morning.”
“I deeply appreciate that, Hazel.”
Hazel Smith was already signaling off. “Waiter!” she called. “Garçon!” She located the check, lodged beneath the water carafe, and tried to reach it, but Doyle was already dislodging it and he held it up triumphantly. “The pleasure is mine, ladies.”
In a flashing movement Hazel’s hand zoomed upward, tearing the check from Doyle’s grasp. “You don’t owe us anything,” she said angrily. As she began to fish through her change purse, ladling out francs, Medora quickly pushed her chair back from the table.
“Glad to meet you,” she said uncertainly to Doyle. She touched Hazel’s arm. “I’d better run. I don’t know how I can ever thank you for being so decent.”
Hazel glanced up. “It wasn’t just conversation, Medora. I’m on your side all the way. As I said, I’ll phone you tonight.” Then, obviously for Doyle’s ears, she added, “I want to talk to you some more when we can be alone. We’ll make a lunch date. Okay?”
Medora nodded vigorously, and before Doyle could bring himself fully to his feet she was out of the chair and gone up the Champs-Élysées.
Dropping back into his seat, still wearing his jocular Dionysian mask in a desperate attempt to hide his anxiety, Doyle watched Hazel pay the waiter and determined not to allow her to escape him.
The instant that the waiter left, and Hazel had snapped her purse shut, Doyle wrenched his chair closer to her. “Hazel, my dear, I can’t tell you what a sight you are for these sore eyes. When I last saw you, you were a callow youngster. Now I see a sophisticated and handsome woman.”
“Some people have reasons to grow up overnight.”
He pretended not to hear her. “I’m proud of your achievements, Hazel. I still remember our long talks, about writing, your future, when we were together. It pleases me that the student outdid the master.”
“It pleases me, too.”
Doyle gave a soulful sigh. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
The serrated teeth on Hazel’s bridges (too white and inexpertly done in Moscow) were clenched. “Not long enough for me,” she said.
Absorbing this punishment, which he acknowledged to himself might be deserved, Doyle fought to carry on. “It’s been ages since we last sat like this, yet, in all honesty, it seems like yesterday. I have so much to tell you, Hazel. And there’s so much I want to hear about you. I’m sure you know that. You must’ve got all those letters I wrote you these last years.”
“Really?” she said. “I didn’t know you could still write.”
Deflecting her sarcasm, he persisted. “Aw, come on, Hazel, I wrote you maybe fifty times telling you how much I wanted to see you.”
“You did?” she said. “How surprising. I’d have thought you were too busy with your society sluts after Vienna, like the Countess Ester-ass, or whatever her name was.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t? Let me refresh your conveniently failing memory,” she said scornfully. “Let me see. The last time. Your suite, wasn’t it? Hotel Imperial. Vienna. There we were, big-shot you and nobody me, and you said something like this. You said, ‘I’ve had about enough, so why don’t we call it quits, Hazel, and thanks for the memory, and you take off and go back to your fairy-tale Russian and leave me alone, because I’ve got to change for the opera, because I’ve got somebody coming by, the Countess Ester-ass, and your being here could be embarrassing. Okay, baby? I think we understand each other now.’ And I said, ‘You’re a goddam son of a bitch, and I never want to see you again in my life.’” Hazel stood up, rigid. “How long ago was that, baby? Thirteen, fourteen years ago? Okay. No rewrites. I still don’t want to see you again, now or ever.”
He had trembled to his feet, mask shattered, all his chins and layers of fat quivering. His voice sniveled and groveled. “Hazel, listen, no—you got it wrong—you got it mixed up—I was busy in those days, sure, lots of pressure—but one thing sure, I loved you, and I’ve never been interested in any other woman since, because you’re the only one I ever loved.” He tried to smile, failed, and said, “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Sure you are. That was one of your best points, always, your sense of humor. Aw, come on, Hazel, what’s done is over with, and we all live and learn, and that’s all that counts, because there’s so much ahead. If there were faults I had once, well, lots has gone under the bridge, and like I said, you live and learn, and I’ve learned, I’ve changed. Be reasonable. This is a reunion. We’ve meant too much to each other to—to not pick it up now. Give us a chance, Hazel. Let’s start with dinner tonight. I’ve missed you.” He halted because her thin face was pale and pinched tight and her lips were one lip and her eyes were working him over like cleavers.
“You’ve missed me,” she said with contempt. “I can see you’ve been pining away, wasting away, all three of you. Well, all I can say to you is that you always were an insensitive bastard, and now you’re not only an insensitive bastard but an insensitive slob as well. Dinner, you say? What’ll the menu be—pick my brains and eat my heart out? You can go to hell, Jay Doyle. But go it alone. I wouldn’t be seen with you in public, anywhere!”
She went past him so fast, he was unable to move. Horrified by his loss, he turned and called after her, “Hazel! I’m at the George-V if you—” His voice trailed off behind her swiftly receding figure—“if you change your mind…”
He stood wavering, feeling like one riddled by a firing squad, and at last he slumped into his chair. He gazed blankly down at the table until the aproned waiter came over to mop it with a wet cloth. “Anything for you, monsieur?” the waiter asked.
“Arsenic on the rocks,” he started to say, but a frog caught it in his throat. He had expected her to be difficult, but not impossible. He had expected her to be angry, but not vindictive. He had expected a scene, but not one like this. His bright hope had become a black cloud of despair. Still, she was here and he was here, and they were both ANA, and there must be some means by which he could bring her down to what she had once been, his own, his entire Trilby. He had to devise some kind of stratagem, but he could not think because his mind and stomach were weak from starvation. His hunger had finally overrun and obliterated the diet pill, and now it attacked him, so that he could not concentrate on anything else, certainly not on Hazel or himself. Appeasement was necessary, survival was necessary, before he could possibly devote himself to thoughts of a triumphant comeback.
“What’ve you got?” he demanded of the waiter.
“At this hour, monsieur, only the sandwiches—sandwiches jambon, rosbif, poulet, saucisse, fromage—”
“I’ll have the sandwiches,” said Doyle.
“A sandwich? Oui, monsieur. Which one shall it be?”
“All of them, you idiot!” Doyle exploded angrily. “One of each. And un verre de bière—no, make it une bouteille de bière. And make it fast!”
“Tout de suite, monsieur!”
You’re damn right, tout de suite, Doyle thought, grimly staring out at a young French couple, hugging and kissing, as they went past the café. He’d better think of som
ething at once, tout de suite, or otherwise blow his brains out.
WITH THE SINGLE-MINDEDNESS of a fugitive who had successfully escaped his prison walls, Emmett A. Earnshaw left the grand vestibule of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and strode swiftly, looking neither right nor left, through the courtyard toward the Embassy limousine. The chauffeur was at attention, and Earnshaw smiled absently at him, paused to note that the two Secret Service agents were entering the sedan pulled up behind, and then he got inside.
Once safe in the cushioned rear seat, Earnshaw unbuttoned his suit coat, loosened his belt, and peered back at the formidable Quai d’Orsay. The others—Carol, their guide Callahan, and the French President’s head of protocol, Pierre Urbain, a narrowly intellectual museum piece with a monocle—had emerged from the vestibule and were still huddled in the court. Earnshaw saw Urbain gesturing toward the Italian-style roof, the balconies, the columns of the Quai d’Orsay, and Earnshaw was relieved to be out of earshot.
He was bored with Urbain’s minute descriptions of the Ministry’s mixed Louis XIV and Renaissance interior, with the French protocol chief’s endless monologues on each precious console, mantel clock, chandelier, most borrowed from the Louvre. For Earnshaw, it was tedious because he had been here before, actually slept here with Isabel, dear Isabel (the King’s Chamber, the Queen’s Chamber, the Beauvais Salon in their private royal apartment), in better days, when he had been President and his host had been the President of France and not some lowly academician recently transformed into a government receptionist.
The Plot Page 38
