The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “Whatever you say, my dear.”

  In the wake of ignominy, at least one good thing, Earnshaw thought. At least there was Carol, his brother’s child once and his own for the rest of his time, and she was faithful and constant. It was something. Maybe it was everything. Again, with greater urgency than earlier, he wanted to return to the hotel and learn what the future held in store for him—and for his child.

  The limousine had hardly halted before the Lancaster when Earnshaw leaped out of it, waved a thanks to his retinue, and hurried into the hotel. At the concierge’s desk an assistant manager was already waiting with his key and messages. There were formal invitations to government functions and there were advertisements, delivered by hand, but there were no telephone messages, and nothing from the Hotel Ritz or from Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz.

  Disheartened, he started for the birdcage of an elevator, and Carol hurried to join him in it.

  After they reached the sixth floor and had climbed up the flight of stairs to their seventh-floor suite, Carol said, “Is anything wrong, Uncle Emmett?”

  “Wrong? Uh—no, nothing. I’d expected to hear from someone on a business matter, that’s all.”

  In the foyer of their suite, after putting down her camera and purse, Carol asked if she could make him a drink. Earnshaw nodded tiredly.

  He followed her up the short flight of carpeted steps into the large sitting room. As she went to the antique mahogany tambour desk, where the tray of bottles, glasses, and ice stood, he moved restlessly within the luxurious rectangle of overstuffed furniture. At the tall French windows, he paused and looked out upon the irregular roofs of Paris, streaked by the orange rays of the day’s last sun, and he studied the far-off misty white Byzantine domes of the Church of Sacré-Coeur that rose out of Montmartre like giant magical mushrooms crowning some wizard’s aerie. The beauty of the scene deepened his sense of loss and isolation.

  Moodily, he turned to accept the bourbon from Carol, as the telephone rang.

  “I’ll take it,” she said, and ran to pick up the receiver.

  He sipped the drink and waited while Carol listened. She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “Uncle Emmett, it’s the desk. There’s someone downstairs in the lobby to see you. I think the name is Goerlitz.”

  He came erect so fast that it was like a man, clinging to a rope, suddenly being yanked up from a deep pit by rescuing hands. Spilling part of his drink, he shouted, “Send him right up—have him come right up!”

  Repeating this instruction, Carol dropped the receiver back in its cradle and moved forward, puzzled. “Goerlitz. Sounds familiar. Is he—isn’t that the German munitions man, the one who was in jail?”

  “One of the richest and most powerful men in the world,” said Earnshaw quickly. After glancing around the sitting room, he hastened to look at himself in a mirror. “Is everything in order, do you think?”

  “Why, I don’t know what you mean. Why, yes—”

  Earnshaw gulped at his drink. “He’s important, Carol, very important.”

  “You mean—do you mean important to you?”

  “What? Yes. Do we have enough liquor? No, not liquor—soft drinks? Cigarettes? Turn up the lamps. You’d better change before—no, I guess you’re all right. You can be here when he comes in. He’s—uh—rather old, maybe in his seventies, kind of Prussian-formal, and he’ll seem grumpy, but actually, he’s not half bad. We’ve known each other a long time. Yes, I’ve been Waiting for his call. I expected a call for an appointment. He’s the one I wrote the note to. But he’s come all the way across town to see me. A good sign, that’s a good sign.”

  Still puzzled, Carol asked, “Is this a private meeting? Should I stay or go?”

  “Stay or go? By all means stay for a while. Yes. I—uh—I wrote him about you. I think it would be nice for him to meet you. Then—uh—when you see we’re settling down to a real talk, you—uh—make a sort of polite, well, excuse yourself, you can go to your bedroom.”

  “I’ll go out and do some shopping.”

  “Anything you want,” Earnshaw said abruptly. “The lamps—turn up the lamps.”

  Putting his drink down on an end table, Earnshaw hastened into the foyer to await his guest. Every nerve fiber within him had been roused and quickened, and he felt ready for the old man. He had expected his note might touch Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz. He had not expected his note to bring Dr. von Goerlitz to him. Yes, a good omen, and he was heady with anticipation.

  The buzzer sounded.

  Earnshaw charged at the front door, taking no notice of the creaking protests of his aged legs. Holding the knob, his greeting already framed, he drew himself up, and then he pulled the door open.

  What met Earnshaw’s eyes was so confounding that his jaw dropped, while the rest of him stood rooted and dumb.

  He had expected to find in the doorway the gnarled, hunched, severe Teuton, and what he found before him instead was a slender boy in his twenties, a boy with dark blond hair, light blue eyes, a boy with the keen whippet face of a Swiss skier, a boy standing straight in his navy blue sport jacket with its metal buttons and Heidelberg insignia sewn on one pocket, an ascot, and gray flannel slacks.

  “You—you must have the wrong room,” was all that Earnshaw could say.

  The boy was not flustered. “You are President Earnshaw?” he inquired.

  “Why, yes, that’s—”

  “I had them telephone from the lobby. I am Willi von Goerlitz, sir. Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz is my father. He has sent me to you with a communication, sir.”

  Recovering from his first shock of surprise, Earnshaw understood. The heir had been dispatched with tidings. That old Goerlitz had selected none other than his only son to bring word was heartening. “I see, I see, your father’s made you his courier. Very good. Forgive my first reaction. When I heard from the desk that Goerlitz was here, I—I expected your father. I couldn’t—” Suddenly, Earnshaw remembered his manners. “Good heavens, I mustn’t keep you standing in the hall. Come in, come in.”

  The young man bowed formally from the waist. “Thank you, sir.” He stepped through the doorway. “Forgive me if I intrude. I will only be a minute.”

  “Nonsense! You come inside now—have a seat, have a drink.”

  “Thank you, sir, but…”

  Earnshaw guided Goerlitz’s son across the foyer and led him up into the sitting room. “Besides, I’d like you to meet my niece.” Carol was standing, looking very ladylike, in front of the fireplace, and the first sight of their visitor surprised her as much as it had Earnshaw. “Carol,” Earnshaw said, beckoning. As she advanced, still bewildered, now diffident, Earnshaw said, “This is Dr. von Goerlitz’s son, Willi… Willi, my niece, Carol Earnshaw.” She extended her hand, boarding-school manners for Europe, expecting to shake Willi’s hand, but instead he took it lightly and bent low over it.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Earnshaw,” said Willi, looking directly at her.

  She avoided his gaze. “I’m pleased to meet you, too.”

  “Well, now, you know each other,” said Earnshaw jovially. He addressed himself to his guest. “How old are you, young man? Carol here is nineteen.”

  “I have just had my twenty-sixth birthday, sir.”

  Earnshaw was thoughtful. “Yes, that adds up. I knew you when you were about—let me see—you must have been no more than fifteen. Well, now, you’ve grown into quite a young man… Sit down, will you? Let’s sit down here.”

  Earnshaw lowered himself into the plump folds of the richly textured sofa, and Willi, trying to sit stiffly on the edge, fell backwards with a thump, feet in the air. As he made an effort to regain his balance and his dignity, Carol covered her mouth to suppress a giggle. Willi’s waxen poise broke, and he grinned. “It was like sitting on edelweiss,” he said to Carol.

  “Or dandelions,” she said, laughing. Feeling easier, she added, “I’m still kind of stunned by you. I expected someone much older to walk in, your father, t
hat is, and there you were, and it sort of threw me, like as if your father had just come from getting de-aging animal-cell shots from one of those miracle doctors in Switzerland.”

  “But he has taken those shots,” Willi said seriously. Their eyes met again, and both burst into laughter.

  Earnshaw coughed. “Well, young man, as I remember, you were going to some sort of private school in Switzerland.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Willi von Goerlitz. “After that, I studied in Paris and attended the University of Heidelberg.” He looked up at Carol. “But no scars, you see. Everyone was most pacifistic. I had my diploma in Engineering.”

  “What do you do now, Willi?” Earnshaw inquired.

  “I am in the Industry, as my father refers to his firms. I am under Mr. Schlager, the general director, who is instructing me in management.”

  “That must be literally fascinating,” said Carol.

  Willi von Goerlitz nodded vigorously. “Yes, it is like learning to rule a country. It is extremely trying. My fattier sometimes thinks I am too impractical and poetic for it, my head in the clouds above, and perhaps he is right.”

  “Uh—your father,” said Earnshaw. “How is your father?”

  “His health? He is better, sir. He has been often unwell in recent years, but I believe he is stronger now, but not with his old strength. He travels infrequently. However, he felt it imperative to visit Paris, although his physicians considered it too strenuous. He will be only one week here.”

  “Ummm, I see,” Earnshaw muttered. He had brought his drink to his lips when he realized that he had been deficient as a host. “Uh, Willi, I’m sorry—I forgot to get you that drink I offered you. What would you like Carol to mix?”

  Willi squirmed forward on the sofa. “Thank you, sir, but nothing right now.” His narrow Nordic features had become grave. “I must deliver my father’s communication to you, and take my leave.”

  “Of course. Business before pleasure.” Earnshaw stood up restlessly, then moved to a hard-winged armchair. He looked at the young man. “You have a message to give me from your father?”

  “Yes, sir. It is not in writing, but oral.”

  “I see, I see. Very well. Go ahead, Willi.”

  “My father requested that I relay the following.” He began to recite in a monotone. “He has received your letter. He is surprised to hear from you after so long. He is able to remain in Paris no more than six or seven days. He is here to confer on several vitally important business ventures. Since he has so much to do, and since the time to do everything is limited by his impaired health, he is unable to see anyone or meet anyone outside of his scheduled business meetings. He has not one minute to spare.” Willi caught his breath, and finished weakly, “He is sorry that he cannot see you. He sends his regrets.”

  Willi had come to a full stop and now stared down at the pattern woven in the carpet. While Earnshaw knew that there was no more to the message, he could not accept its finality. “Uh, Willi—that is all of it? You are sure?”

  Willi swallowed hard. “I have left nothing out, sir. That is my father’s entire communication precisely.” He came hastily to his feet, avoiding Carol’s eyes. “I had better go.”

  Frowning, Earnshaw rose. As Willi ducked an apologetic nod to Carol and started to turn away, Earnshaw suddenly said, “One minute, Willi.” The young man halted hopefully. Earnshaw went on. “I don’t think your father really understands how vital it is for him to see me. It might be best if I responded to his message with one more of my own. Do you think you could repeat to your father, accurately, what I tell you? Or should I write my message?”

  “I can repeat it, sir.”

  “Good. Uh—you’d better give me a few moments to think it out. You just keep yourself busy—uh—talk to Carol, yes, you and Carol can talk. Tell her about Paris. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Earnshaw went down the steps into the hallway and entered the darkening master bedroom. He switched on a lamp, and noticing that the door to the breakfast terrace was still open, he moved thoughtfully out upon the terrace. The air was wondrously mild, and the largest dome of Sacré-Coeur was still visible in the distance, yet Earnshaw’s inner turmoil was not soothed. Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz had sent word that he was too busy to see him. No man was ever that busy. Since Goerlitz could not know that Earnshaw knew of the contents of the memoirs, the rebuff was for other reasons. Plainly, Goerlitz remembered that Earnshaw, as President, had not stood by him when he had been indicted as a war criminal. The German still pursed the old grievance and would not forgive. Earnshaw could see that there was only one hope: to be more explicit, to jolt Goerlitz by revealing his own knowledge of the memoirs. This might have no effect, but it was the only course left.

  After giving the matter more thought, Earnshaw returned to the sitting room. As he silently entered the room, he became aware of his niece and Willi seated together comfortably on the sofa, too absorbed in conversation to notice him. Carol had just finished saying that she wished she had been to Paris at least once before, as Willi had been, so that she might know how to use her time to the best advantage. And now Willi was saying that he had studied in Paris for two years, after going to boarding school in Switzerland. Definitely, he was saying, Carol must visit the old Les Halles district one dawn, and try the grilled pork with garlic at Le Cochon d’Or, a marvelous bistro with sawdust on the floor, in the Rue du Jour. Carol had begun an animated reply when Earnshaw cleared his throat and interrupted them.

  “Uh—Willi,” he said.

  Willi leaped to his feet, standing ramrod-straight, as if called to attention by a drillmaster. “Yes, sir.”

  “Give your father this message,” said Earnshaw. “Inform him that I appreciate hearing from him, and that I can also understand how he might be too busy for what he regarded as purely a social meeting. But tell him that the meeting I should like to have would involve more than a social exchange. Tell him it concerns a subject of—uh—well, of vital importance to both our interests.” He paused, exhaled, then plunged. “Tell him that I have heard that he has written a—a memoir or autobiography.” He paused again. “He has written such a manuscript, hasn’t he, Willi?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, all right, you tell him that I’ve learned from an unimpeachable source that he has devoted an entire chapter to discussing my administration as President, and, in fact, my own activities as President.” He considered Goerlitz’s son. “I assume that you’ve read this material, Willi?”

  Willi shook his head vigorously. “No, sir. I have not read the book. However, I do know it exists, sir.”

  “Well, forgive me. That should be no concern of yours. Anyway, tell your father that I know, in a limited way, the contents of his chapter on me. I wish to see him in order to give him fuller information for that chapter, firsthand information that only I can provide, information he cannot possibly possess. I can help him be more—well, more accurate—and thereby help him avert much trouble.”

  Carol was standing. “What did Dr. von Goerlitz write about you, Uncle Emmett?”

  Earnshaw dispatched his niece’s question with a wave of his hand. “Never mind.” His gaze remained fixed on Willi von Goerlitz. “That’s the sum of my message. Do you think you have it straight?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “Then you deliver it, and I’ll await his reply.”

  “Yes, sir. I will not see my father until dinner, but I shall present the communication to him at that time.” He hesitated. “Well, I had better go.”

  Carol had come forward. “Do you mind if I leave for a little while, too, Uncle Emmett? There’s some shopping I absolutely must do.”

  “Whatever you wish,” Earnshaw said absently. “I doubt if you’ll find anything open on Sunday.”

  “Mr. von Goerlitz mentioned that there’s a drugstore near the Arc de Triomphe—”

  “Le Drug Store,” amended Willi hastily. “It is always open. It has everything on earth for sale. I should be
pleased to show you where it is.”

  “How very nice of you,” said Carol to Willi. “But if it’s a bother—”

  “No bother at all, Miss Earnshaw. I would be honored.”

  “Fine. Thanks.” She looked at Earnshaw. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “You needn’t hurry,” said Earnshaw, hunting for a cigar.

  “And I shall deliver your message, sir!” called Willi von Goerlitz with more enthusiasm.

  “Very good, young man.”

  After they had gone, Earnshaw unwrapped his cigar, placed a match to it, and wandered restlessly through the big, lonely sitting room. He tried to recollect his conversation with Sir Austin in London last night, and exactly what the abstract said Goerlitz had put into his manuscript. He could not remember exactly. He could only recall that it had been bad, very, very bad, and he hoped that the young man would somehow convey the depth of his personal disturbance.

  The telephone was ringing. Earnshaw went to it, stood over it, and finally picked it up. The concierge’s desk was announcing that a Mr. Jay Thomas Doyle was downstairs, and that he claimed to have an appointment. Belatedly, Earnshaw remembered what he had forgotten, the invitation to his newly hired ghostwriter to discuss the daily column that must begin tomorrow.

  Earnshaw hesitated. He was in no mood for diversions and subterfuges. He wondered if he should postpone seeing Doyle until the morning. But then something else occurred to him. Doyle was a famous correspondent, with a keen reporter’s instinct for news and with countless connections. As Earnshaw’s collaborator, carrying the influential press pass that Earnshaw was obtaining for him, Doyle could be out in the city serving as Earnshaw’s brain, eyes, legs. Doyle could be made to keep track of Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz’s daily activities in the busy city, and report on them. Thus, if this last message through Willi failed to elicit a favorable response, there would still be Doyle to advise him where Goerlitz might be from day to day and where he might be confronted by “chance.” It would be another iron in the fire, and always better two irons than one, as Simon Madlock used to say.