With glee, Hazel studied Nardeau’s Nude in the Garden, the challenging haughty adolescent face sensuously offering the naked body, small breasts rigid, one long leg brought up, the other flat, the cut of navel, the brazen vaginal mound, all vivid in oil. From this abandoned and canvas Fleur Grearson, Hazel’s eyes traveled toward the gallery entrance. Rising on her toes, stretching, she was able to make out the mature and living Lady Ormsby, blondly cool and aristocratic, glittering in a diamond tiara and bare-shouldered white satin evening gown from which she had removed her white sable stole. The impending drama was too, too much, and Hazel could not repress a vicious grin of anticipation.
She could make out the gallery dealer, Michel Callet, welcoming Her Ladyship, Earnshaw, and Carol, and then finding them catalogues, before leading them to the first picture.
Calculating. Hazel decided it would be five minutes before they arrived in front of her to observe Nude in the Garden.
More at ease now, Hazel swallowed her champagne and waited for the victim to reach the trap. No longer was Hazel sorry that she had come to the exhibit. It had been a wearying afternoon, and near the end of it she had hoped to rest before the tension of her reunion with Jay Doyle. But Medora had telephoned to thank her for bringing Carol to her aid. With little encouragement, Medora had outlined what had occurred in Joseph’s after the lunch and after Hazel had left them. Then she had outlined the scheme. When Medora had regretted that she could not personally be on hand to observe the drama unfold, Hazel had blurted out that she would represent Medora by proxy. Prodded by an old instinct to be where news was being made, even if it was news that could not be printed, Hazel had volunteered her attendance.
After making her promise, Hazel had felt conscience-stricken about treating Jay Doyle so rudely. He had been due to pick her up for dinner at eight. But now she had offered to be at the Nardeau Retrospective Exhibit at eight. She had considered taking Doyle with her to the showing before dinner, but had finally vetoed the notion. Their reunion deserved the absence of public distractions. Instead, she had telephoned the Hotel George-V to leave a message, but had found Doyle in his room. They had spoken briefly. She had explained that she had promised to attend the art exhibit in order to help a friend, and would tell Doyle about it later. The delay would be of brief duration. Could he make the dinner for nine?
After the call, she had been even sorrier about the interference of the exhibit. She had wanted to be with Doyle as soon as possible, to overcome the awkwardness of reunion after so many bitter years of separation, and to find out if there was a possible future for them, which she had seriously begun to doubt. But once inside the teeming Nouvelle Galerie d’Art, she had been caught up in suspense, and had forgotten Doyle until these reflective moments.
She glanced off again, and with a start she realized that the three of them, led by the springy, voluble French dealer, were almost upon her.
Lady Ormsby, regal, unmussed, above the crowd really, glided toward her, an open catalogue in her gloved hand. Accompanying her, but a step behind, was former President Earnshaw, appearing older, grayer, than at yesterday’s impromptu press conference, and seeming strangely tormented. Hazel’s reporter mind wondered why: Was he suffering some political slight from the incumbent President, or merely suffering from hurting corns? Then came Carol, solemn, plainly nervous about the success or failure of her stratagem. Hazel caught Carol’s eye. Except for an acknowledging blink, there was no recognition.
They were passing between Hazel and the painting, and Fleur Ormsby, reading her catalogue, seemed not to see it.
Suddenly, Carol dashed forward between Fleur Ormsby and her uncle and gripped each by an arm, bringing them to an abrupt halt and forcing them to give attention to Nude in the Garden.
Pressing forward, Hazel could hear Carol’s voice clearly above the noise in the room. “Oh, Fleur, wait—look at this one—how beautiful! Have you ever seen anything like it?”
As bystander, able to observe Lady Ormsby only in profile, Hazel waited breathlessly, automatically pushing closer for a better view.
Beneath her penciled, highly arched brows, Fleur Ormsby’s eyes had narrowed. In silence she examined the oil.
“Nude in the Garden” announced Carol, reading from the printed placard beside the oil. “Nardeau did it ten years ago.”
Earnshaw had directed himself to the object of his niece’s ecstatic praise. He scowled. “What’s so good about it? Some shameless girl with her clothes off. That’s not art. That’s just fancy—uh—pornography. I’m sure there are better things to look at.”
“Oh, Uncle Emmett, really, there’s so much more to it. You’ve got to understand Nardeau. I’m sure Fleur could tell you all it symbolizes.” She had turned to Fleur Ormsby. “It’s magnificent. Don’t you agree?”
Behind them, Hazel continued to stare at Lady Ormsby’s profile. It offered no sign of comprehension, no reaction, no comment. But Hazel could see the growing rigidity of muscles along her chin line.
“Rather interesting,” conceded Fleur Ormsby, turning away, “although rather obvious, as your uncle suggests, Carol. It was not one of Nardeau’s better periods. It was obviously transitional. Still, his craftsmanship is always evident.” She looked indolently at Carol. “It’s not really quite Nardeau at his best. The nuances are not so subtle as in his later period.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean the painting was that great,” Carol said quickly. “I meant the model in the picture. I think she’s the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen. You just know every man on earth would desire her, and she looks as if she wouldn’t mind.” Carol turned back to the painting. “Lucky girl. What I’d give to be so attractive.”
Earnshaw frowned at his niece, but Fleur Ormsby was examining the nude once more.
“I see what you mean,” Fleur Ormsby said almost to herself.
“In fact,” said Carol, looking from Fleur to the painting and back to Fleur again, “you know what—I mean, if you don’t mind, Fleur—there’s a sort of resemblance between you and the girl in the painting. I mean, look—”
“Carol!” Earnshaw interrupted angrily. “What’s got into you? You’ve got better manners—”
Fleur Ormsby’s patronizing smile and gesture were airy. “I’m really flattered, Emmett. I’m sure Carol means well.”
“I meant it as a compliment,” Carol explained with urgency, “a big compliment, that’s all, Fleur. I’m not talking about the nude body part, really I’m not. It’s the face. It’s exquisite, just like yours.”
“Well, thank you, Carol.”
“I’d like to see a picture of you when you were that age. I bet you looked almost the same.”
Fleur Ormsby forced a laugh. “I was a ghastly fat Lilliputian.” She nodded at the painting. “If I’d looked anything like that, I wouldn’t have shed so many tears of self-pity in boarding school.”
“I don’t believe you,” insisted Carol. “You’re just being modest. I’m going to look up some pictures of you in magazines—”
Fleur Ormsby’s features had tightened. “I wouldn’t bother, Carol. Take my word, it would simply be a waste of time.”
“Well,” said Carol, staring longingly at the oil, “if I looked like that, I’d want to own the picture, just so I could remember when I was old and gray.”
“How fanciful,” said Fleur Ormsby with a short laugh, but to Hazel’s ear she did not sound at all amused.
“If I had the money, I’d buy it for you as a present,” Carol said, “I really would. I’d hate to have anyone else own my double and not—not appreciate it.”
“Well, you are generous, Carol, but she’s just not quite my double, you know,” she said with a trace of peevishness.
“I’d still hate to have anyone else own it.”
Fleur Ormsby’s gaze had gone from Carol back to the painting once more. She considered it in silence. “Yes, it has a rather blatant charm,” she said at last. “It is a Nardeau, and it might enliven some dark corner of ou
r country house. Nothing Austin would want the P.M. to see, I’m certain, but at any rate, it’s surely not for sale.”
Carol was pointing to the placard. “It’s ‘On loan. Donor anonymous.’ What does that mean?”
Fleur Ormsby continued staring at the painting. “I really can’t say.”
“Let’s move on,” Earnshaw grumbled. “Half the press is coming this way.”
“Are they?” said Fleur Ormsby, looking around nervously, then back at the painting. “Yes, we’d better push along.”
As they resumed their round of the exhibit, Hazel could see that where Earnshaw had become more impatient, Lady Ormsby had become completely lost in thought. With surprise, Hazel realized that Carol, who had hung behind, had drifted close to her. “What do you think?” Carol whispered “I did my best, but I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either,” said Hazel.
“She’s veddy, veddy cool,” said Carol. “Maybe she didn’t even recognize herself.”
“I have a hunch she did.”
“Oh, I hope so. We’ll see. You going to be here a little longer?”
“Well, I’ve—”
Carol looked off, then said quickly, “Fingers crossed.”
“Good luck,” said Hazel, but Carol was already gone.
The end of the scene had been disappointing, flat and inconclusive as the champagne she was finishing, Hazel decided. Yet, she was certain that Fleur Ormsby had recognized Fleur Grearson.
Making her way past the Nardeau sculpture, past two Riviera landscapes, Hazel meant to return her empty glass to the sideboard and leave. But the thought of Joy Doyle waiting for her made her edgy, and she held out the glass to the waiter for one last pouring of the yellow, sparkling champagne. Drinking it too quickly, she searched the far end of the gallery for another glimpse of the drama’s cast of characters. She finally saw them, Fleur Ormsby addressing herself to the gallery owner, Michel, with Carol nearby, attentive to them, while Earnshaw stood somewhat apart, tearing at the wrapping on a cigar.
The refilled champagne glass was empty, and Hazel felt better, if not about Medora’s future, then at least over her own prospect of a conceivably nice and nostalgic evening with Doyle. Firmly putting aside the glass, she opened the compact from her evening bag, glanced at her makeup, and started for the door. She had got no more than halfway when she heard Carol call, in a whisper filled with repressed excitement, “Miss Smith—Hazel—I’m right behind you, but make like I’m not.”
The child is a lover of games, Hazel thought, but all right, she would play. “Okay, Carol.”
As they progressed single file through the crowd, Carol said, “It’s utterly fantastic. You won’t believe it. Listen. When we got to the other end, Fleur kept looking around for the guy who runs the gallery—you know—”
“Michel.”
“Right. She finally brought him over. Then—”
They had reached the door, and Hazel halted, and came around to face Carol and hear the rest.
“Can you see them over my shoulder?” Carol asked anxiously.
Hazel peered off. “No.”
“They think I went to the powder room… Oh, this’ll kill you, Hazel, but literally. Fleur got hold of this Michel, the proprietor, and she wanted to know if any of Nardeau’s paintings were for sale. Michel told her none were officially, but he had reason to believe some were unofficially. Of course, he said, he had no prices, and wasn’t acting as agent for any of the owners who had been generous enough to loan their stuff for the exhibit. But if Her Ladyship was interested in inquiring about the availability of any specific painting, he would be only too pleased to give her the name and telephone number of the owner. He went on to say she’d have to negotiate and transact any business on her own. And hear this, Hazel. Fleur said, ‘Well, there are several oils about which I should like to inquire. May I have the names of the owners?’ And he said, ‘Do you have the names of the paintings?’ And Fleur said, ‘Yes, I believe I’ve jotted them down somewhere,’ and then she said, ‘May we go to your office? Dreadfully noisy here.’ And she excused herself to us, and off she trotted with him.” Carol patted herself on the chest proudly. “I bet it’s working. I bet this minute she’s asking who owns Nude in the Garden.”
“If she is, it’s a helluva story,” said Hazel, “and I wish I could write it. Especially, if your plan does work out.”
Carol’s face fell. “You mean—you think there’s some doubt?”
“If you were dealing with anyone else, some coming-apart wife who’s quick to get the vapors, I’d say you’re in. But as you said, our Fleur is a cool customer. She doesn’t panic easily. She’s on top of everything.”
“But she’s got to think of her position, and there’s that shocking nude out in the open. What if someone recognized her as the one in her birthday suit? She’s got to worry about that.”
“She doesn’t have to worry about anything, Carol. But she might. In fact, she should and probably will.”
“Well, after we get back and Uncle’s safe in bed, and after Medora is finished with her show, I’m going to call her and try to see her. And I’m going to tell her exactly what I’m telling you right now.”
Hazel smiled at the young girl’s eagerness to make Wish into Fact. “What are you telling me right now, Carol?”
“That one’ll get you ten that Medora Hart receives a phone call from Lady Fleur Ormsby tomorrow morning. Want to bet?”
“Honey, I won’t bet on anyone I’m for,” said Hazel, “because I’m a born jinx. If I bet on Medora’s chances, it’s a cinch that her phone will be out of order tomorrow morning. So I’ll stay out of it. But, Carol, you go to Notre-Dame Cathedral and light a candle for Medora Hart tonight. Because she’ll need everything possible going for her, everything, believe me.”
NOT ONCE but several times during the two and a half hours that they had been sitting at the corner table of La Tour d’Argent’s sixth-floor penthouse dining room had Hazel Smith remembered her parting advice to Carol Earnshaw and wished that someone had been kind enough to light a candle for her. Because she now felt, watching the second of Jay Doyle’s empty main-course dishes being removed, that she needed everything going for her, too.
Thus far, it had been, at least for her, and perhaps for reasons subtle and highly personal, an absolutely excruciating evening.
During the first moments following her tardy arrival on the sixth floor, after emerging from the small elevator, she had thought it would all work out very well. Her companion, and the background of their meeting, had made the reunion a promising one. Jay Doyle, despite two unaccustomed drinks of whisky and his considerable bulk, had been spruce-looking, freshly cologned, neatly dressed, friendly, even sweet, if a trifle too eager. The setting that he had chosen was perfect, the lovely room of one of the oldest restaurants in Paris. In this restaurant, in other times, a clientele that included Cardinal Richelieu, Alexandre Dumas, Napoleon III, Edward VII, Sarah Bernhardt, had been surrounded by the same Gobelin hangings and Aubusson rugs that surrounded her, and had enjoyed the same ambience that she and Doyle were enjoying.
They had been placed at the table where the two large picture windows met, and this, if nothing else, should have been enough to make their evening a success. Always before, when she had dined at La Tour d’Argent, Hazel had been mellowed into romanticism by the illuminated Gothic towers of Notre-Dame visible outside, by the beautiful night silhouettes of the Pantheon’s dome, the Sacré-Coeur’s cupolas, the Place de la Bastille’s golden statue of the God of Liberty, as some of these shadowy outlines were swept by light from the circling beacon on the Eiffel Tower.
Yet, tonight, for the first time, once seated and engaged in conversation with Jay Doyle, she had not attempted to enjoy what was beyond the windows; she had become entirely oblivious to the charm of the dining room because she had been forced to revise her first hopeful impression of the mighty person she had once loved so truly and had later hated so persistently in her bitter
sweet love-hate fantasies.
What had made the evening excruciating for her, after the strain and testing of their small talk, had been the spectacle of Jay Thomas Doyle, Fallen.
Over the years, she had heard all the latest rumors about him from the visiting press in Moscow and from other correspondents met in her travels, but she had never quite believed what she had heard. Competitors in the fraternity of the fourth estate were as merciless in their rending of one another as competitors in any other fraternity on earth, be it one of entertainers or politicians or housewives. Her only sure picture of Doyle had been her memory of a powerful figure, invincible, kingly, self-sufficient, and not even his begging letters in recent years (clever, crafty, Trojan horses, she had surmised) had altered her old image of him.
Tonight had been a shock.
In their first minutes, the man across from her, despite his unnatural bloat (which, like the Germans, she equated with good living and continuing success), had seemed a fair representation of the one she had known as dominant, authoritative, superior, and therefore the same one she had once invested with her love. But as the evening had worn on, a transformation had taken place before her eyes. She had come to see that this was not the Doyle she remembered. This man did not match the memory she had so masochistically clung to, but was only a reasonable physical facsimile. The character of the inner man had been replaced by that of another, one who was a stranger to her, a usurper, who was anything but kingly, or kingly only if one regarded the drooling, sniveling buffoon, Emperor Claudius, as Caesar. For the Doyle revealed was obsequious, uncertain, unsuccessful (without so much as the grace or strength of pretending). With silent grief, she had conceded to the veracity of the press rumors, to the obvious meaning of those begging letters, to the simple truth that, divested of his syndicated column and his reading public, Doyle was as helpless, as ineffectual, as pitiful, as Samson shorn of his locks. _
Loneliness had brought Hazel to this reunion. Rashly, defying all reason, she had wanted to regain the past, or the best of it, but she had learned to her dismay that the past was inevitably gone and there was only the unpromising present.
The Plot Page 51
