“It could’ve been a coincidence.”
“Come on, Jay, I thought we were on the same wavelength.”
“You mean you detect Lady Ormsby’s fine artistic hand.”
“I mean I’m positive.”
Having read the story, Brennan tossed the paper on the table, bewildered. Doyle had recently told him something about the stripper at the Club Lautrec—Medora—Medora Hart—and about the Ormsbys’ persecution of her, and something about a Nardeau painting, but he could not recollect the details.
He found Hazel staring at him. “Did Jay tell you what this is all about?”
“I think so. I sort of remember that—”
“I’ll give you a quick recap, friend, just so’s you can belong to this table,” said Hazel. She stopped, irked by the appearance of the waiter, and she said to Doyle, “I’ll have a Coca-Cola without the lemon peel.” Impatiently, she waited for Doyle to give their order, and once it was taken, she addressed Brennan again. “You remember the notorious Jameson affair in England about three years ago?”
“How could anyone forget it?” said Brennan.
“Okay,” said Hazel. “Medora Hart was one of Jameson’s girls. Her last lover was Sir Austin Ormsby’s younger brother, Sydney Ormsby, a real aberration. Sir Austin—protector of family name, home, hearth—railroaded Medora out of England, and then double-crossed her by having her barred from re-entry as an alien, actually on some trumped-up technicality.”
With indignation, Hazel revealed the tawdry details of Medora’s enforced existence abroad, and of her helplessness in combating the Ormsby clan—until she had remembered a certain painting of a nude that Nardeau had done.
“There it was,” said Hazel, “the sublime, impeccable Lady Ormsby as Lady Horizontal herself, garbed only in a smile. With that, Medora had her big bargaining instrument. But lo, this morning, no more painting. It is pilfered in the night. In summary—yesterday Fleur tries to buy the scandalous painting from Medora, fails; today Medora has no painting, gone, snatched. Okay, jurors, what say you as to the culprit? Fleur guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty as charged,” declared Brennan.
“Whatever you did once, you still have all your marbles, Brennan,” said Hazel. “Then you’re on Medora’s side?”
“I’m on the side of all losers.” Brennan smiled wryly. “They’re my kind of people.”
Hazel turned to Doyle. “And what say you, Jay?”
“Fleur? Guilty beyond a doubt.”
Hazel leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I adore all of you, Jay… Okay, the verdict is unanimous. Even if it weren’t, I’d still want your advice, Jay. Medora needs a Brain Trust.”
“You know I’d do anything I could for her,” said Doyle.
“But please, not for my sake, Jay. For hers. I’m not being sentimental over an unhappy whore. I’m aching for every young kid on earth who gets taken by her so-called betters. This is a nice girl, pure at heart, still more decent than dozens of virgins who get theirs in movie houses or in dreams. Medora’s helpless, lost—no friends. What she needs is muscle on her side. The enemy’s got muscles. She needs equal heft.”
Hazel, seeking a cigarette, accepted one from Brennan and gave her attention to Doyle again. “I had to break the news of the art theft to her this morning. Rough, I tell you. The poor thing got hysterical, and I can’t say I’d have behaved differently if I’d had my last hope stolen. Jay, I didn’t like the way she sounded on the phone. I’m afraid of what this might do to her. I simply won’t have it. I promised her anything, just to settle her down. I promised her that if the police didn’t get her painting back, I’d find another way to force Sir Austin to run up the white flag. Well, the pabulum worked. She’s clinging to that. But now I’ve got to deliver. I can’t have her life on my conscience. And I won’t see it wasted, either. I’ve got to do something. So I did something. I called you. I know this isn’t fair, Jay. I don’t want to pressure you into backing my pet charities, but you’ve got to help me find a means of salvaging Medora’s life. I mean, I come strictly from the steppes. You know more people than I do in the Big City. What about it, Jay?”
Doyle massaged his moon face thoughtfully. “Of course, I’ll do what I can, Hazel. The question is—what?” He was silent for some moments before speaking again. “I suppose the smart thing to do would be to investigate Ormsby’s circle. Who are Sir Austin’s friends and enemies here? There may be numerous newspapermen and diplomats who might know of a skeleton in his closet. And maybe we could look into Fleur’s circle, too.”
“And what about that pinhead Sydney Ormsby? I hear he’s in town.”
“Sydney, too. Yes, I ran into that little snot in Vienna. He’s here all right. They’re all here… Honey, let me give this a little thought. We can talk about it more in the next few days. I’ll try to come up with an idea. Then we’ll do something for Medora.”
“But soon,” implored Hazel.
“Very soon,” Doyle promised.
Hazel slumped back in the wicker chair, exhausted. And Brennan, who had listened carefully to her plea and the subsequent exchange, suddenly found that he was viewing Hazel Smith with complete affection. The change in his attitude was dizzying. He had come to Fouquet’s prepared to tolerate a heartless bitch. He had found instead that the bitch was a warm and eloquent Madonna. The very notion of Hazel Smith as Madonna made him smile to himself, but the fact remained that she had just performed selflessly for another soul, one who could be little more than a stranger to her and one who was considered undeserving of sympathy in the eyes of the world.
Still, Brennan reminded himself, he had better keep his new affection tentative, and to himself. Hazel Smith seemed the type of person who saw other people in a simple spectrum that consisted of only black and white. To Hazel, Medora had become Joan of Arc-white. To Hazel, Brennan was still Benedict Arnold-black. Now, with his new affection for her, with his new affection for life itself, Brennan wanted this affection returned, desired at least Hazel’s understanding and good opinion, wished her to see that if black he must be, let that black be not the smut of villainy but only the darkness of undeserved martyrdom.
It surprised him, with a small jolt, to find that he cared at all. It was like emerging from the unfeeling numbness of anesthesia into the pain of life. But care he did.
He saw that Hazel was busily removing her purse and the newspapers from the table, to give the waiter room for the Coca-Cola and the two cups of coffee.
She placed her straw in the soft drink, swore softly at the lemon peel obstructing her straw, picked the peel out, then drew on her straw steadily. Afterward, when she sat straight, she appeared as revived as if she had partaken of ambrosia. “I feel better,” she said. “I was drying up inside. I don’t know if it’s the weather or my aggravation about Medora. Anyway, so much for immediate business… Jay, did you say you and Brennan were both up talking with Earnshaw?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” She did not wait for Doyle’s reply. Her gaze had shifted to Brennan. “You, of all people. What were you doing with The Ex? I thought he was your Mortal Enemy Number One.”
“Well,” said Brennan uncomfortably, “he’s not half bad, when you get to—”
“He signed your execution papers,” said Hazel.
Hastily, Doyle intervened. “That was four years ago, dear. People change.”
Hazel kept her eyes on Brennan. “But their deeds remain. Brennan and Earnshaw closeted together. Wouldn’t that make a fine story?”
“Hazel, you wouldn’t—?” Doyle began with alarm.
“I’m kidding, Jay. Can’t you tell? I just don’t figure what those two would have to talk about at this late date.”
“Nothing to do with their old differences,” said Doyle hastily. “Earnshaw happened to need some information and advice on a certain pending matter. I happened to mention to him that Matt could probably be helpful. So Earnshaw invited him over. Actually, Hazel, Earnshaw was passive during Matt
’s Congressional hearing. As in all such decisions, he would have allowed Simon Madlock to think for him. But Madlock was dead, so Earnshaw didn’t turn thumbs up or thumbs down. Instead, he abdicated judgment to Senator Dexter, and Dexter fed Matt to the lions.”
Hazel heard this out with undisguised skepticism. She made no comment. She studied the foot traffic on the Champs-Élysées. “Look at that girl,” she said. “The one in the loose white jersey blouse and blue skirt. I bet she’s not wearing a stitch underneath. I think it’s unbecoming. What do you men see in those French girls?”
“No brassieres, for one thing,” said Brennan with a grin.
Hazel scowled at him. “I’m trying to remember. You still married?”
“No.”
“Now I remember. Well, I was wondering, but I guess I know why you’re in Paris.”
“A man doesn’t have to come to Paris for that, Miss Smith.”
“I suppose not… What does he have to come to Paris for, then? What are you doing here?”
“Well—” This was dangerous ground, and Brennan hesitated. He was tempted to utter the name of the one that he and Hazel knew in common. But he had promised Doyle that he would not. He considered some fiction he might offer her. But before he could invent a plausible excuse involving general business, Doyle came to his rescue.
“Matt’s always coming up to Paris, Hazel,” Doyle was saying. “He’s tied up with an import-export firm in Italy. And—and while he’s here, he’s seeing his old State Department friends who happen to have checked in for the Summit.”
Hazel looked at Brennan. “You mean they’re still your friends?”
“Not many, Miss Smith. But a few. There are still a few who believe in me. I like to see them. And, of course, I’m still trying to clear myself.”
“Well, if you’re still trying, why didn’t you give me that interview last Sunday?” demanded Hazel. “The first thing you need is a sympathetic press.”
“How could I know that it would be sympathetic, Miss Smith?”
“You couldn’t know. But you’ve still got some remnants of that State Department charm. Besides, most of us reporters are usually for the underdog. However, treating us like beasts of prey isn’t going to help you much.”
“Miss Smith,” said Brennan earnestly, “sob stories aren’t news. Facts—real facts, new facts—are news. If I ever find factual evidence to support my claim of innocence, something beyond my own word, I’ll have news, and you’ll be the first one I’ll come to with it.”
“Maybe I’ll appreciate that, Brennan. Right now—thanks for nothing.”
“Because I have nothing, Miss Smith.” From the corner of his eye, Brennan could see Jay Doyle sweating like a nervous press agent seated between a hostile reporter and an intractable client.
Doyle lurched forward heavily, determined to prevent an utter calamity. “Matter of fact, Matt, you do have something, something that might interest a really astute foreign correspondent like Hazel.” Doyle now addressed himself to Hazel. “Honey, seeing Matt in action here tells me one thing. You can take a man out of diplomacy, but you can’t take diplomacy out of a man. In renewing his acquaintance with some of the delegates, inside people, Matt picked up a little backstairs gossip that you or I, without his trained ear, would have thought unimportant.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Hazel. “Like what?”
Puzzled, Brennan wondered what his press agent was up to, and he waited, allowing the perspiring Doyle to go on. “Well, Matt’s heard a lot of strange things, and privately, he’s come to the conclusion that there might be something fishy going on behind the scenes of the Summit.”
At once, Brennan detected what his ally was trying to do, and he attempted to head it off, to avoid embarrassment.
“Wait a second, Jay. I don’t have any concrete evidence yet, only some provocative clues. Maybe we’d better not go into it until—”
Hazel ignored Brennan. She gave Doyle her inquisitor’s glare. “What’s fishy behind the Summit?”
Holding up a hand to reassure Brennan, Doyle continued to engage Hazel. “Hazel, you’re the pro on Soviet Russia, but I think you’ll agree that in recent years Premier Talansky has been inclined to align his country with the democracies as the best means of containing Red China and maintaining world peace. As a result, China has denounced Russia as antiparty and antisocialist, and has been treating Russia like an unfaithful mate or a traitorous friend. China and Russia are on the outs, and China, forced to go it alone, has also been forced to compromise face and pride by coming to the Summit. All because of the ideological falling out with Russia. Is that an accurate estimate?”
“Accurate enough,” said Hazel.
“Well, now, Matt Brennan finds himself with evidence, based on hearsay and deduction, that entirely contradicts what the world sees and believes. According to Matt, while the Russians and Chinese pretend to be enemies in public, they are secretly palsy in private. In other words, they’re paying lip service to a concord of nations, a world community dedicated to peace, but planning a Communist alliance to be maintained sub rosa after the Summit. If this is true, if Matt’s findings and deductions are true, it means the Summit makes no sense. It means the Summit is only a Potemkin façade erected to deceive the democracies about the realities of Communist ambitions. And if it’s true, it’ll give you the biggest beat of the year, Hazel. I think it’s worth looking into. I’m sure Matt won’t mind. In fact, I’m sure he’d be delighted and would encourage you to do it.”
Hazel had been listening, stony-faced. She continued to ignore Brennan, as she said to Doyle, “On what does your friend base his deductions?”
Momentarily, Doyle was at a loss. “Well—” He glanced at Brennan.
Brennan roused himself. “I’d rather not cite my sources or evidence yet.”
“You can understand that, Hazel,” Doyle said in quick concurrence. “You know how many times we’ve had to refuse to divulge our sources. Ethics of the profession.”
“Brennan has no profession,” Hazel said flatly.
“But he has friends, honey. Look, he’s given you a lead. That’s all you require to start with. If I were in your shoes, I’d at least look into it. You have the connections.” He paused. “What do you think, honey?”
Slowly, she turned to Brennan. “I think your friend is nuts,” she said to Doyle.
Doyle protested. “That’s being a bit harsh, Hazel, but—” Eager to placate her now, he said to Brennan, “Of course, in somewhat different language, that’s what Earnshaw thought, too.”
“Well, for once that nincompoop was right about something,” said Hazel. “Brennan, I don’t care what gossip you’ve heard. Political delegates carry unsubstantiated rumors the way Typhoid Mary carried the bacillus, and if you’re weak-headed, it becomes catching—because one thing I do know, and this is fact. I do know the Russians. I’ve been in and out of the Kremlin dozens of times. I’ve interviewed the whole Politburo. I’ve been to dinners at which Premier Talansky spoke off the record. And this I know. The Russian leaders believe going along with China means splitting the world and continued arms escalation and inevitable war and total catastrophe. The Russian leaders believe that by ostracizing China, by joining the Western democracies, they can force China to join with the rest of us and guarantee peace. There isn’t a chance in the world Premier Talansky will renege on this avowed policy. If you’ve heard rumors to the contrary, I remind you they are only rumors. But even if any of them have validity, you’ve misinterpreted their meaning. If the Russians and Chinese are talking of an alliance after the Five-Power Summit, you can be sure it will be no more than a trade or economic agreement. After all, once the Summit is over, there’ll be total disarmament and peace on earth, and there’s no reason why Russia and everyone else shouldn’t be on friendly terms with China. We’ll all be weaponless then, in the same boat, devoted to the same cause, survival, meaning we sink or swim together.” She took a sip of Coke. “Sorry, Brennan. If you’re g
oing to make something of your theory, you’d better get hard facts, which I doubt that you can find. You said you wouldn’t discuss your own innocence until you had facts. Well, don’t discuss the guilt of other parties either, until you have facts. Take it from me—and this means you, too, Jay—don’t go broadcasting this irresponsible kind of talk. Listen to me, Brennan. If you don’t, you’ll only make your reputation considerably worse, if that’s possible.”
Brennan picked up his pack of cigarettes, his lighter, and dropped them in a pocket. Hazel had made some sense, yet she had irritated him. “Thank you for your advice,” he said stiffly. “You’re probably right, but you don’t know what I know. I have sound reasons for my suspicions. There have been other inexplicable activities going on here, also. But—”
Suddenly, Doyle came to life. “Matt, maybe you should tell Hazel about the bookstore on the Rue de Seine that you investigated—the one we thought was a Communist drop—”
“What’s that?” Hazel interrupted.
Brennan shook his head firmly. “No, Jay. At the moment, Miss Smith suspects me of being a lunatic. If I tell her any more of my adventures, she’ll be sure I’m batty. Let’s put the lid on it, Jay, for now.” He came to his feet. “Thanks for the coffee, Jay. And again thanks for your advice, Miss Smith. But I’m not giving up. I like the smell of political intrigue. I guess it’s good to be back in harness, even unofficially. The next time I discuss my ideas with you, I’ll discuss them only if they are facts, not theories. Either that or I’ll bow to your wisdom and manfully concede I was, as you put h, nuts. Well, I’ll leave you two.”
“See you later,” said Doyle.
About to leave, Brennan hesitated. “Just one more thing, Miss Smith. I was going to say it before, when you were discussing Medora Hart. I haven’t met her, but I want you to know I’m with you. I don’t like helpless people being ganged up on. I’ve had some experience in that area, and it’s rotten. So for whatever it’s worth, I’d like to enlist on Medora’s side, too. If you and Jay fail to get anywhere, please let me know. When you two were talking about her, something struck me. A notion. A possibility. A long shot, but at least an idea. If you can’t get her home again, maybe I can try. Anyway, do let me know.”
The Plot Page 65
