The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Dazed and shaken by the sudden transition from the grim aura of the meetings at the Palais Rose to the frivolity of this fashion carnival, Brennan groped after Lisa toward their reserved seats five rows back from the runway. Suddenly, the hoarse masculine voice of the directrice, Mme. Demaillot, announced the beginning of the Legrande collection, and instantly, the babble ceased and the showroom was blanketed by a hushed silence.

  Now, from behind the brocade curtains, Mme. Demaillot’s voice announced, first in French, then in English, the number and name of the initial dress. A haughty blond mannequin, Oriental eyes, hollow cheeks, parted pale lips, swished out from behind the curtains. She slithered down the runway in a low-cut tight afternoon dress, all bright yellow except for the half-moon insets of lighter yellow circling beneath her breasts. She halted above Brennan, thrust one shapely leg forward, arched her body backward, straightened, pirouetted, and strode disdainfully off, trailed by a burst of applause. Already another mannequin had appeared. The Legrande collection was underway.

  While Lisa devoted herself to making coded notes—it had cost her firm $2,000 for the buyer’s caution that had admitted her to this show—Brennan, in a state of euphoria, watched the skeletal mannequins come and go above him. They glided forth with provocative shadowed eyes and moist half-open mouths, they posed, they twisted, they removed suit jackets, they preened in strapless or one-shouldered decollete sequined silk-crêpe gowns. They trailed sables after them. They were acclaimed. And after fifteen minutes, the never-ending parade of beauties, of dazzling fabrics, was a soporific to Brennan.

  His mind had returned to Rostov, and to Rostov’s wife, and constantly, he kept an eye on the doors through which he and Lisa had entered the salon. But, after a half hour, there was no sign of the special guests. Once more discouraged, he ignored the doors and the runway, and lapsed into a spell of moodiness. He did not know how long a time he had detached himself from his immediate surroundings. He was certain that he had not dozed. Yet, the flurry of whispering all about him seemed to awaken him, and he felt Lisa’s hand press into his arm.

  She was close to his ear. “Matt, behind you, Madame Talansky and Madame Rostov! Legrande just brought them in.”

  He spun about in his chair in time to see the group as it entered the rear of the showroom. Legrande was pointing toward several empty front-row seats, and the older and larger of the two women was persistently shaking her head, declining, indicating that she preferred a seat in the back. Behind these three were gathered at least a dozen hefty plainclothesmen, and from the superior cut of their suits Brennan guessed that four of them were probably Russian KGB agents.

  Unhappily, but still valiantly exuding charm, Legrande was ushering the party to chairs in the last row. The first of the two women, sixtyish, dumpy in a formless mustard-colored dress, led the way, and from the attention that she was receiving, Brennan surmised that this was Mme. Tania Talansky, wife of the Premier. The other, a wraithlike mite of a woman, no more than forty, in a checked suit and matching checked pillbox hat, nervously followed, and Brennan guessed that this one was Natasha Rostov. Observing her, Brennan remembered a dinner with Rostov in Zurich. When Rostov was in his cups, he had complained that robust men should never marry tiny, frail women—“like trying to pour a liter of vodka into a wine glass,” Rostov had said, “you cannot get enough to be satisfied.” Brennan was positive that the wispy woman was Rostov’s wife.

  He turned back to Lisa. “How can I get to her?”

  “There’ll be an intermission in ten minutes.”

  “Good.” Suddenly, he said, “Lisa, give me a piece of your notepaper.” She handed him the paper, looking at him inquiringly, as he took out his pen. “When I meet Madame Rostov,” he explained, “I’m sure she won’t remember a damn thing I say. Too much confusion. Too many people and names. I’m going to write a note and ask her to give it to her husband.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  “The best one I’ve had.” He put pen to paper. “This may do it.”

  While Lisa gave her attention to the parading mannequins once more, Brennan constructed his note in his head, and then he wrote it out as quickly as possible. He addressed it directly to Nikolai, stating that he was in Paris to see Nikolai on private business, that their reunion need be only a brief one, and that he hoped his old friend would phone him. He signed his name clearly, adding his Paris hotel and telephone number.

  By the time he had finished, there were no more mannequins on the runway and the lighting had brightened. He slipped the folded note into his pocket and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Lisa. Let’s get to Legrande and have him introduce me.”

  While many of the spectators were already standing, mostly gathering in groups and mostly repeating the superlative divine, the majority remained seated, some finishing their notations, others accepting glasses filled with champagne or fruit juice, or selecting pastries from the trays being offered by green-jacketed waiters.

  Brennan, with Lisa right behind him, pushed his way past the rows of people, down the irregular aisle, to the rear. Then his heart fell. Legrande and his Russian guests, only partially protected by the formation of security agents, were the center of a thick mass of fashion writers, all vying for introductions or shouting questions to Mme. Talansky. The crowd around Legrande and his guests was already ten deep in every direction.

  Brennan glanced helplessly at Lisa, whose own face reflected disappointment. “It would take two days to see even the color of their eyes,” Brennan said. “It’s no use, Lisa.”

  Lisa was on tiptoes. “Wait—I think maybe—take another look, Matt.”

  He raised himself to peer over the heads of the others, and he saw what she had seen. Mme. Talansky, the Russian Premier’s wife, was the celebrity. Mme. Rostov, to all but Brennan, was a nonentity. The clamoring fashion press wanted the Premier’s wife, wanted the number-one guest and the number-one designer, and no one else. The crush of reporters had broken between the two Russian women, separating them, had engulfed Mme. Talansky, had isolated Mme. Rostov and rudely pushed her toward the rear. Now the wraithlike visitor, after a losing effort to hold her place, had given up and was retreating toward the outside of the vortex, attempting to stagger free.

  Brennan did not wait for Lisa. As fast as possible, he ran around the circle of gesticulating females, then skidded to a stop. He could see Mme. Rostov, pillbox hat askew, breathless and afraid, trapped among the outermost members of the horde.

  Yanking two aggressive female fashion writers aside, Brennan opened a hole, an escape hatch for Rostov’s wife, and she darted through it. In the clear, she wavered, gasping, and then she saw Brennan staring down at her, blocking her path, preparing to address her, and she covered her mouth and backed away.

  “Madame Rostov,” Brennan was saying, “I’m a friend of your husband and I’d like you to—”

  His hand had gone swiftly into his jacket pocket for the note that he had prepared. Mme. Rostov’s eyes widened at his bulging pocket, and she squealed, “Nyet! Nyet! Kto ty?

  He had extracted the folded slip of paper, trying to explain, “I am gospodin—gospodin—tovarich—”

  But she was casting about in desperation, forearm raised protectively before her, as she cried out for help in Russian. Brennan snatched at her lifted palm, trying to shove the note into it, but she knotted her fingers into a fist, batting and lashing out at him.

  —dame, listen, I only—”

  That instant, heavy hands, like steel clamps, smashed down on his shoulders. Buckling, Brennan tried to turn, to explain, but the hands were scooping him under his armpits, closing in like vises. Protesting, Brennan found himself half lifted from his feet, swung around like a stuffed dummy, and hastily dragged from the main salon through the door and into the vacant entry hall.

  Pummeled toward the boutique counter, and suddenly released and dropped weak-kneed and wobbly on his feet, Brennan choked, as he stood trying to catch his breath. Three glowering, an
gry, stocky, plainclothesmen, as muscular as weight lifters, one cursing in Russian, stood over him. He could see several French DST security officers approaching on the run. One of the officers, older and more authoritative, less volatile, than the others, brushed past the KGB agents, flinging back a question to them in Russian and receiving a torrent of Russian in reply.

  Nodding, the Frenchman moved to within inches of Brennan, fixing him with an autopsic glare. “Je suis l’inspecteur Gorin, de la Sécurité Présidentielle,” he said. “Quelle est votre nationalité.”

  Panting, Brennan gasped, “American.”

  Immediately, the inspector switched to impeccable English. “Your passport.” Brennan produced it, and the inspector examined it, then looked up. “What was in your hand when you confronted the Soviet Minister’s wife?”

  “This.” Brennan produced the note. Inspector Gorin accepted it in one hand as his other patted Brennan’s pockets for weapons. Reassured, he slowly read the note. Again, he looked up. “Minister Rostov is a friend of yours?”

  “He was. We were both delegates to the Zurich Parley.”

  “You can prove this?”

  “Call Rostov. I wish you would. Or better yet, call the United States Embassy.”

  The inspector ignored this. “Where are you staying?”

  “Hotel California.”

  The inspector spoke rapidly to a French agent behind him. “Voilà, son passeport. Allez voir ce que nous avons sur lui, et revenez immédiatement”.

  “À vos ordres, monsieur,” replied the agent, and he disappeared around the corner.

  Brennan could see a frightened Lisa watching from the door. He tried to wave her away. But the inspector, noticing his gesture, walked over to Lisa and began to question her. Unable to hear a word, Brennan nervously observed them in conversation. As the inspector finally doffed his flat-topped cap to Lisa and started back, his aide returned and intercepted him. There was another indistinct exchange. Nodding once more, the inspector summoned the KGB men and addressed them rapidly in Russian. After the exchange, they appeared only partially satisfied, but with a last backward glance at Brennan they left for the salon.

  Brennan came forward. “Well?”

  Inspector Gorin made an aimless gesture. J’ai des bonnes nouvelles pour vous. On vous a innocenté. You are free to go. But with one word of advice, monsieur. Do not ever again attempt to approach any minister’s wife or any minister, during our Paris conference, in such an abrupt and suspicious manner. Next time, there may be gunshots first and questions later. If you want to see Minister Rostov, see him personally. I always suggest the direct approach. Good day, Monsieur Brennan.”

  Alone with Lisa at last, Brennan convinced her that he was perfectly all right. While he had no more interest in Legrande’s collection, he insisted that she return to her seat and finish her work. As for himself, he promised that he would not pursue Rostov any further this day. There would be no more spur-of-the-moment attempts to get to Rostov, he pledged. He would return to the hotel and rest, and give careful thought to how best to resume his hunt tomorrow.

  With reluctance, Lisa finally went back into Legrande’s main salon. Once she was inside, Brennan walked thoughtfully out of the fashion house and slowly started for his hotel on foot. Sauntering up the Avenue Montaigne, he found that he was more amused than embittered by his rashness as well as by his rough manhandling. But what amused him most was his recollection of Inspector Gorin’s advice: “If you want to see Minister Rostov, see him personally. I always suggest the direct approach.”

  The direct approach.

  It was like advising a tourist, who was eager to get down from the Eiffel Tower in a hurry, to jump. That would be the direct approach. Jump. It would get him where he wanted to be fast—even if feet first.

  No, he could not jump, not after this brief experience with the KGB. There must be a safer and surer, if more circuitous, route to Rostov. All that was wanted was a sense of direction. Right now he had been deprived of such sense. He was lost, and less confident than ever that he would find his way.

  ALTHOUGH NOT ONE OF THEM was French, the waiter pointed out, the three of them made a perfect tricolor.

  They laughed agreeably as they sat squeezed together in the semi-private booth that was separated from the other booths by tasteful curtains above the glass-and-wood dividers. As Hazel Smith and Carol Earnshaw finished the last of their interview, Medora Hart fiddled with the dessert spoon and checked to see if they were, indeed, a tricolor. And, indeed, they were. Hazel wore red, as if to flaunt her rebellious daring, Carol was in white, as if to announce her purity, and Medora was in blue, as if to—well, complement her mood, which was blue.

  Medora was not sorry that she had accepted Hazel’s last-minute invitation to lunch. It had been pleasant, the lunch, and it had rescued her from the claustrophobia of her hotel room and the maddening dumb telephone. But, unhappily, the escape, the companionship, had not altered her despairing mood.

  When the telephone had rung two hours ago, she had leaped at it, certain that it was Sir Austin Ormsby. It had only been Hazel Smith, calling from ANA, to find out whether Medora had had any luck. The futility of her efforts to reach Sir Austin had made her pour out her heart to Hazel, who, although obviously busy, had been sympathetic and kind enough to listen.

  After learning last night that Sir Austin was staying at the Hotel Bristol, Medora had been unable to restrain herself, she had admitted to Hazel. She had called the hotel at once, and been connected with his suite. Someone with the supercilious tone of an old family retainer had answered. Medora had given her name and asked to speak to Sir Austin himself about an extremely personal matter. On the other end the mouthpiece of the telephone had been muffled, and at last the servant had reported that Sir Austin was out, might return by midnight, and would call her back. Medora had left her telephone and room number.

  There had been no response before midnight, or after, Medora had reported to Hazel Smith. This morning, early, Medora had tried Sir Austin’s suite again, and someone who sounded like a servant had told her again that Sir Austin was out, and it was not known when he was expected to return. Medora had insisted upon leaving her name and number once more. By mid morning, thoroughly frenzied, she had telephoned a third time, and this time the hotel operator had curtly informed her that Sir Austin’s suite was taking no calls. It had begun to be familiar, a repetition of the occasion, three years ago, after the Jameson trial, when she had tried to reach Sir Austin in London, from Paris, and had failed to get through to him.

  Spurred and emboldened by desperation, Medora had composed an ominous telegram to Sir Austin: I AM IN POSSESSION OF CERTAIN INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR FAMILY THAT YOU SHOULD SEE. IT WOULD BE ADVISABLE FOR YOU TO CONTACT ME IMMEDIATELY AT THE HOTEL SAN REGIS. She had made a duplicate copy of the telegram, sending one to Sir Austin at the Hotel Bristol and the other to him at the British Embassy. To neither had she received a response.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you with all this,” she had apologized to Hazel. “Next time, you’ll know better than to ask me how I am. But I admit it—I’m utterly despondent. What use is Nardeau’s painting of Fleur Ormsby if I can’t even get to His Majesty to tell him about it, let alone show it to him? I’m at my wits’ end.”

  “I suppose you might leak word of it to the press,” Hazel had said. “That might bring him on the run.”

  “I’ve even considered that. But Nardeau gave me permission to use his name only privately, that is, to pretend that he would support me in proving the nude is Fleur herself. He said that it would be unethical for him to reveal publicly that it was Fleur. Besides, if I had the picture published, well, there it is, it’s out, and there’s nothing left to hold over Sir Austin’s head. My ace in the hole is my promise that I shan’t put it in the press if he simply arranges my re-entry into England.”

  “You’re right, Medora. It’s a tough problem.”

  ‘Too tough for my bird brain. I really could kill myself.�
��

  “Now, you stop that kind of nonsense,” Hazel had said sharply. “There must be some way of letting Sir Austin know about what you have. It takes concentration. We’ll discuss it later. I’ve got to take off for an interview with—” Her speech had skidded to a halt “Medora, what are you doing right now?”

  “Nothing at all between now and tonight when I open at the Club Lautrec. Nothing but waiting to hear from Sir Austin, which is like counting on hearing you’ve won a football pool.”

  “Look, Medora, I’ve got a lunch interview with Carol Earnshaw. She’s in Paris with her uncle—you know, Emmett Earnshaw—he’s the former President of the United States.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Carol sounds like a perfectly sweet, unspoiled kid. About your age. Maybe younger. I thought she might make a good feature story. Well, something just occurred to me. I was getting some background from her on the phone, in order to help me line up questions. I asked her if she’d met many famous people on this trip, and she named a few, and one of them was Sir Austin Ormsby. She said her uncle and Sir Austin were friends, and they’d got together in London a few days ago and expected to see each other again here. Now it just hit me. If Carol and her uncle know Sir Austin, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt for you to know Carol. We could feel her out. Maybe she’d want to help.”

  Medora had been doubtful. “Why should she want to get mixed up with me? I’ve met some of those snooty rich American girls around Europe. You’d think they were born with built-in chastity belts, the way they look at me. As if I were dirty and unclean, and it might be catching.”

  “No, Medora, I don’t think Carol’s that kind at all. I trust my instincts. And I want you to. Why don’t you get out of that miserable room and join us? If no gain comes of it, okay, you’ve had a free meal on ANA, got your mind off the enemy for an hour, and nothing lost.”

  “I—I’m really not sure—”