The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Yet, what he had suffered from the most in the last two hours, Earnshaw knew, was not so much the boredom of rehashed history as a kind of insult—well, that was too harsh—rather a degradation or humiliation of having been invited to a second-rate and late-starting official luncheon.

  Brooding about it, and how it had accentuated his awareness of his unhappy fall from popular favor, Earnshaw now regretted that he had accepted the invitation. Of course, he had done so for his niece, because of her understandable excitement over an opportunity to see the restricted inside of the Quai d’Orsay. But still, it had not been worth it. Pierre Urbain had begun apologizing to him from the moment that they started for the Great Dining Room. The French President, Urbain had said, sent profound apologies for not being able to attend. He was occupied receiving the recently arrived Premier of Russia and the Chairman of the People’s Republic of China. The President expected to receive Earnshaw formally later.

  Of course, it was all logical, Earnshaw knew, since the French President’s duty was to attend to active world leaders, not retired ones, not has-beens. Moreover, Earnshaw’s sudden appearance in Paris had been unexpected. Still, from the moment that Earnshaw had settled himself at one of the two magnificently decorated tables, no amount of rationalizing could alleviate his hurt. The caliber of the other state guests made it clear that he was receiving the B treatment, not the A treatment to which he had so long been accustomed. Among the two dozen guests present, there was not a single important current or past head of state. There was a throneless Bourbon monarch, an inactive British general, a Pakistan minister, a small African nation’s ambassador, a UNESCÔ secretary, an Italian Nobel Prize winner, a Greek shipping magnate. And there was the former President of the United States, Emmett A. Earnshaw.

  He could not remember the meal, except that it had been underdone and overspiced, at least for his country palate, and the overwhelming smell of cut flowers and perfume had nauseated him. He could not remember the small talk, except that it had been uninteresting, steered safely past the political shoals by M. Urbain into the safer soundings of art, books, music. When the ordeal had ended, Earnshaw had popped out of the Foreign Ministry like a cork out of a champagne bottle.

  Once more, peering through the rear door of the limousine, now opened, Earnshaw could see Carol approaching, freckled face and hands animated, as she addressed Urbain and Callahan. Her glow of pleasure momentarily lightened Earnshaw’s dark displeasure, even made him ashamed of his irritability. To see her like this was compensation enough. Besides, in all fairness to the French President, both he and Simon Madlock had several times, during their term in Washington, treated out-of-office foreign guests in this same manner, especially when there had been more useful foreign leaders staying in Blair House. He must not, he knew, expect anything better.

  The others had reached the limousine door. Embarrassed, trying to repress a giggle, Carol allowed the French protocol chief to kiss her hand. She was effusive in her thanks, and Earnshaw added his own. Finally, Carol and Callahan were in the seat beside him, and the limousine was on its way.

  An hour and a half of sightseeing had been scheduled for the remainder of the afternoon. Earnshaw had meant to suggest that this be postponed until tomorrow because of what might be waiting for him at the hotel, but before he could speak, Callahan was informing Carol that Les Invalides was nearby and that the sight of the red granite tomb that held the corpse of Napoleon Bonaparte, a tomb set deep in a circular well, was a memorable sight.

  “Oh, I’d love to see it!” Carol exclaimed. She covered Earnshaw’s hand with her own. “Wouldn’t that be fascinating, Uncle Emmett?” With a weary smile, Earnshaw surrendered.

  They left the Quai d’Orsay and the Seine behind them, turned up the Rue de Constantine, moved past the green trees in the spacious Esplanade des Invalides, circled around the seventeenth-century Invalides’ complex of buildings, dominated by the towering gold-leafed dome.

  When they parked in the Avenue de Tourville, Earnshaw felt his niece tugging at his arm. “Here we are, Uncle Emmett,” she said.

  He remained seated. “You run along with—uh—run along with Mr. Callahan, my dear. I’ve visited the Invalides before. I’d prefer to stay put and finish my cigar.” Conscious of her concern, he added, “I’ll be happy right here. You have a good time.”

  “If you don’t mind,” she said slowly. Then she brightened. “I know what. You’re just jealous at the idea of my going inside to see another great man.”

  Earnshaw chuckled. “I’m jealous of nobody in his position. Just give Napoleon a bon joor from your Uncle Emmett.”

  After they had gone, and the chauffeur had received permission to step outside and stretch his legs, Earnshaw glanced behind him. He was relieved that the pesky Secret Service agents were keeping their distance. Luxuriously, he sank back, welcoming this interlude of privacy. Relighting his cigar, he remembered what he had said to Carol: He was jealous of no man in Napoleon’s position. He knew this for certain, because often he himself felt entombed. The difference was that he could do something about premature burial, especially a burial without honor, and immediately, his mind went to Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz and to an assessment of what had been accomplished, so far, this first day in Paris.

  Except for his luck in stumbling upon Doyle, it had been a frustrating and profitless day. Once he had settled in the Hotel Lancaster, early this morning, his first order of business had been to get hold of Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz. Filled with trepidation, but somehow confident that his name would bring the voice of the gruff old industrialist to the other end of the line immediately, he had telephoned the Goerlitz suite in the Hotel Ritz. He had been mistaken.

  Someone who had identified himself as Herr Schlager, Goerlitz’s general director—speaking in an incongruous blend of the Teutonic with American colloquial, yet businesslike—had taken the call. Earnshaw had given his name, even spelled it out, and it had unnerved him that Schlager gave no indication of recognizing it. Desperately in those moments, Earnshaw had wished for Simon Madlock alive, beside him, briskly and efficiently overriding the German general director, who was either dumb or insulting. But alas, there had been no Simon Madlock, only himself. Irritated, Earnshaw had explained that he was an old friend of Dr. von Goerlitz, and that he must speak to the industrialist at once.

  Schlager had gone off to inquire as to the whereabouts of his employer, and Earnshaw had waited uneasily at the silent telephone. Schlager had returned shortly and breezily explained that Dr. von Goerlitz was in a meeting and would be tied up for hours, perhaps the entire day. Possibly, Schlager suggested, he could handle whatever Mr. Earnshaw had wished to discuss. Earnshaw had restrained himself from saying that he was not used to dealing with subordinates. What he had said, finally, was that he was calling on a purely personal matter, that he could speak only to Dr. von Goerlitz, and that he would like to leave a message.

  “Tell Dr. von Goerlitz that Emmett A. Earnshaw telephoned. I have an urgent matter to discuss with him as soon as possible. I’m at the Hotel Lancaster—do you have that?—Lancaster. I’d appreciate it if he’d leave word at my hotel exactly when I can see him. The appointment can be entirely at his convenience. Is all of that clear?”

  Apparently, all of that was clear, and Herr Schlager had written down the message, for he had repeated it aloud and had promised to put it in Dr. von Goerlitz’s hands sometime during the afternoon.

  While returning to the hotel from the Palais Rose to dress for the lunch at the Quai d’Orsay, Earnshaw hoped he’d find some message from Goerlitz. For even though—as he had confessed to Sir Austin—he anticipated resistance from Goerlitz in removing the offending material from his memoirs,

  Earnshaw had come to believe that the German would nevertheless be ready to meet with him in person. But when he had returned to the hotel in the early afternoon, there had been no message from Goerlitz in his mail slot behind the concierge’s desk and no message in the paper bag hanging from
the doorknob of his suite.

  While the silence had not necessarily meant that Goerlitz was avoiding him—after all, he might have still been occupied with his meeting—the lack of response did give Earnshaw minutes of anxiety. After changing for lunch, he had decided that the best strategy would be to present his request for an appointment more directly. Sending a telephone message through Schlager might prove less persuasive than a personal handwritten note. And so, on the hotel stationery, he had addressed himself to “My dear Dietrich.” He had invoked their old friendship, the warm memories of dinners together in the capitals of Europe when they had had corporate dealings, of their social evenings in the Villa Morgen outside Frankfurt-am-Main. He had gone on to recollect Simon Madlock’s glowing report to him of Goerlitz’s comeback and good health four or five years ago. Earnshaw had then written that he prayed his friend’s health was still as good today, and that he hoped all went well with his children. As for himself, Earnshaw had added, life had become lonely since the loss of both his wife and his trusted adviser and aide. His only consolations now were the devotion of a niece, Carol, who was vacationing with him on the Continent, and his continuing interest in doing what could be done to keep America as well as Europe, and especially Goerlitz’s West Germany, democratic, strong, and free of outside domination. While visiting London the other day, Earnshaw had gone on, he had learned that Dr. von Goerlitz was in Paris. At once, he had determined to see his old friend again, not only to renew a long friendship but to discuss a private matter of concern to both of them. He hoped that Dr. von Goerlitz could receive him as soon as possible. “As ever, most cordially yours, Emmett A. Earnshaw.”

  That had been two or three hours ago. He was certain that Goerlitz, no matter what mistaken bitterness he felt toward Earnshaw, would reply immediately. Goerlitz possessed many shortcomings, but while frequently ruthless and occasionally brusque, he was still an aristocrat and a gentleman of the old school. Doubtless he would respond to Earnshaw’s appeal and would receive him. When the confrontation became a reality, Earnshaw felt assured, the battle would be more than half won. For Earnshaw persisted in trusting his greatest asset, a geniality as powerful as an amulet. His charm, he had read, could bring down the Walls of Jericho. It would also, he was positive, melt Goerlitz’s steely anger. He needed only the chance to exercise this natural talent.

  To his surprise, Earnshaw realized that Carol and Callahan had returned and were entering the limousine. Although impatient to be done with sightseeing and to get back to the hotel and Goerlitz’s reply, he checked himself, and despite his preoccupation he tried to be attentive to his niece’s enthusiasm over the Invalides. Enraptured, she bubbled on. Wasn’t the sight of Napoleon’s tomb deep in its majestic well, seen from the circular balcony above, terrific? Did Uncle Emmett know that it had taken the French seven years to persuade the British to allow the Emperor’s body to be exhumed from St. Helena and returned to Paris? Did he know that six layers of coffins, one of metal, one of acajou, two of lead, one of ebony, one of oak, encased Napoleon’s remains? Did he know that the French had hunted everywhere for six years to find the red stone for Napoleon’s sepulchre, and found it at last (irony) in Russia, and they spent three additional years quarrying and carving it?

  “Oh, I’ve never been more thrilled, Uncle Emmett,” she was saying. “Wait’ll the kids back at school hear about this… What do we see next?” Then, a worried pause. “Maybe you’re too tired, Uncle Emmett?”

  The last, from Carol, brought Earnshaw back to the present. Instantly, he was ashamed of his self-absorption. Carol had been so much to him, meant so much now, and he had given her so little of himself. She was his blood, in effect the daughter that he had never had, and she deserved paternal devotion.

  “I think I’d like to see a little more,” he said reassuringly. Callahan was rattling off the possibilities, the Eiffel Tower, Sacré-Coeur, the Place des Vosges, but Earnshaw ignored him. “Why don’t we continue driving around the Left Bank a bit, and then we can decide?”

  They had gone past the Eiffel Tower and swung into the Quai Branly on the river, when Earnshaw saw the massive rise of the Palais de Chaillot on the Place du Trocadéro across the water. Something was illuminated in his memory, and with more excitement than he had evinced on the entire ride, he leaned forward and said to the driver, “I think that’s the—uh—Pont d’Iéna—however you pronounce it—the bridge there. Take it to the other side. When you get on that Kléber street, I’ll tell you where to stop.” He sat back and winked at Carol. “There’s something I’ve got to show you. I think you’ll get a kick out of it.”

  The limousine went around the Place du Trocadéro, and finally eased into the Avenue Kléber.

  Earnshaw, squinting across the pair beside him and through the car window, called out to the chauffeur, “Go slow now—slow—mmm, yes just one block down—that’s right, good!” He sat up. “Park anywhere around here.”

  There was a problem finding a place to park, and when the chauffeur, out of exasperation, at last drew up in an illegal zone, a blue-coated agent de police materialized immediately. Callahan slid out of the car with his Embassy credentials and delivered a torrent of French interspersed with Earnshaw’s name and former rank, and finally, it was the agent de police, apologizing, deferential, who opened their rear door and signaled the Secret Service sedan into a spot behind them.

  On the sidewalk Earnshaw insisted that Callahan stay with the limousine, and if the Secret Service men had to come along, that they keep their distance. “This is something special I want to show my niece. It’s strictly between Carol and myself.”

  “I can’t imagine what this is.”

  “Really not that important,” said Earnshaw.

  “But I love mysteries. Should I bring my camera?”

  “We-ll, that might be fun.”

  She took her Kodak from Callahan, entwined her arm in Earnshaw’s, and they walked to the Rue de Longchamp and turned into it.

  Earnshaw strode purposefully up the street, and Carol had to skip every few steps to keep up with him. At last, he slowed his pace, and she said breathlessly, “Now that we’re practically alone, can you tell me?”

  “Sure can. It’s just a little thing that I thought would amuse you. Well, you’ve seen where they keep Napoleon, haven’t you? So I thought you’d like to see where they keep your old uncle. I’m taking you to the Avenue President Earnshaw.”

  Carol stopped short, her eyes saucers. “Avenue President Earnshaw! Ohh, no. Oh, that’s fantastic!”

  He grinned with deep pleasure. “Yup. The French named the street after me—well, about five, six years ago. Isabel and I saw it on our next trip, not long after. Not much of a street, but there it was, and I must say, I was impressed.”

  “So am I!” She fumbled at her camera case. “Let me get this ready. I want to take you standing right under the street sign, so I can put the picture on my wall, and I’ll make a copy for the Library. Are we far from it?”

  Earnshaw looked up toward the street plaque at the intersection. “Next one,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Together, they hurried down the short block, and when they reached the corner, Earnshaw motioned toward the narrow bricked thoroughfare that ran into the Rue de Longchamp. “Here it is. And the sign—”

  He went sideways around the corner of the granite office building and pointed upward, and his voice died.

  The high square metal street sign, blue with white lettering, read: RUE CATHAY.

  Earnshaw’s face, tilted backward, remained pointed at the street sign, but he could feel the crimson creeping to his cheeks. “Well, now—” he said.

  Carol was aghast, and frantic. “You must have the wrong street, Uncle Emmett.”

  Slowly, he lowered his gaze and stared thoughtfully into space. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m afraid it is the right street, Carol. I recognize the small café and that old-fashioned pharmacy. Yup, this is—was—the Avenue President Earnshaw.” He pulled
out a handkerchief, honked into it, stuffed it back in his pocket. He grimaced foolishly at Carol, and shrugged. “As someone said—here today, gone tomorrow.”

  He could see that Carol was desperately trying to cover his embarrassment and her own. “You know the French,” she said quickly. “Somebody was telling me how they’re like chameleons, always changing their looks and attitudes, absolutely mercurial—like—like they change street names as if they were newspaper headlines. Why, you know what, just before, I asked the concierge about an antique shop in the Rue de Trieste, and he looked up, couldn’t find it, and then he asked what year my guidebook was published, and when I told him, he said that it was outdated, because in the latest guidebook the Rue de Trieste has been renamed the Rue Mohammed. I thought it was funny, but now I see it’s insane sick of them, that’s what.” She glared up at the sign, and suddenly thumbed her nose at it. “So much for you, Rue Cathay.”

  Earnshaw was forced to laugh. “I wouldn’t carry on that way, Carol. It’s not all that darn important.”

  Her anger had not subsided. “Well, it is to me. Only it makes no sense. Why get rid of Avenue President Earnshaw for something silly like Rue Cathay?”

  “French logic,” he said quietly. “Cathay was the ancient name for China. De Gaulle recognized Red China, and France has been their ally during the years since. Today, China is in, and Earnshaw is out. Today, China is important, and Earnshaw is nothing.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “No matter, my dear. It is their logic.” He took her elbow. “Let’s go.” He considered the street sign once more, then sighed. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your picture.”

  Walking slowly, without exchanging another word, they returned to the limousine. Settled inside, Earnshaw had no more heart for sightseeing. Yet, he was reluctant to give voice to his feeling because he did not wish to spoil his niece’s day further. But then he heard Carol addressing the chauffeur and Callahan.

  “Ouch, my poor aching feet,” she complained. “I think I’ve had it for today.” She turned her head. “Do you mind terribly if we go back to the hotel, Uncle Emmett?”