The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Automatically, Hazel massaged her arms to warm them, to rid them of the ghastly goose pimples.

  And automatically, she was possessed of a new view of two men.

  One was Brennan. She could see him now as anything but a paranoidal fool. She could see him as someone solid, clever, perceptive, attuned to detect any word off key. She could see him as someone she had better begin to take seriously.

  The other was Rostov. She could see him as more than friend, patron, lover, more than a man who was only solicitous, amusing, sentimental. She could see him as a savage (as often this potential had been revealed in bed), a Communist party savage, manipulated by those above, manipulating those below, capable of any act to preserve Mother Russia.

  These were the possibilities Hazel saw now. Maybe they were distorted by her upset and fear, and maybe her original view of both men—Brennan as the paranoidal fool, Rostov as the constant friend and lover—was the correct one. But if it wasn’t, if the new view of the two—especially of Niki—was the correct one, then what lay ahead for her, the decision she must soon make, would be easier and reconcilable.

  But first she would have to know the truth, the truth Doyle wanted and then the truth Brennan wanted, and yet both truths had merged into one. For if men were capable of assassinating President Kennedy in Dallas, these same men were capable of attempting the murder of Matthew Brennan in the Bois de Boulogne.

  While her future actions were clearer now, it did not make her feel better.

  She shivered, and then she understood.

  She had caught the disease of fear. How her tough colleagues would laugh if they only knew. Good ol’ Hazel Smith, intrepid, dauntless ol’ Hazel Smith, afraid. Well, dammit, why not? It wasn’t any ordinary story she was after. It was her own story. Only scared people won medals for valor, an army psychiatrist had once told her. Only people who wanted to live had to be brave. Hazel had never been afraid, because she had never cared about the next day. Now, for the first time, she cared.

  Tomorrow night, there would be Rostov. And herself. No other. And, somehow, there might be truth. For herself, feeling as she felt now, there would be terror. And if Rostov was truly an animal, he would smell her fear. She refused to imagine what might follow.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Doyle whispered against her ear.

  “What?”

  “The show, Hazel. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “Everything’s wonderful.”

  AFTER THE SHOW, they thanked the Neelys and bade them good night, and fell in step with the customers who were leaving the Club Lautrec. They walked from the Rue la Boëtie to the Champs-Élysées, and there turned right.

  Allowing Matt Brennan and Lisa Collins, who were deep in conversation, to stroll ahead of them, Hazel tugged at Doyle’s coat sleeve. “Jay, I don’t know if I’m up to a nightcap at my apartment or anywhere else,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve got a little headache.”

  He was all sympathy. “I’ve got some aspirin in my pillbox.”

  “When we get to the Lido Bar.”

  “Can’t I take you straight home?”

  “I promised Medora we’d be waiting. She’ll be right along. We can have coffee with her and afterward I’ll make my excuses. I do want her to meet Brennan, since she may need him yet.”

  “If you’re up to it. Okay. What do you think of Brennan’s little adventure?”

  “I don’t know. Sounds fanciful. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, either. When in doubt, I always go with Billy boy, the Bard. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Anything’s possible.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I hope you’re feeling better tomorrow, Hazel. Maybe we can spend a quiet evening alone.”

  Hazel had been waiting for this opportunity. “Tomorrow? Oh, dear, I’d almost forgotten to tell you. I’m sorry, Jay, but I’m tied up for tomorrow night. I—the—some of the Russian delegation are giving a private dinner, and I’ve been invited. I wish I could have asked you to come, but I couldn’t. I’m accepted by them. But you’re an outsider.”

  His disappointment was evident to her. “Of course, Hazel,” he said.

  “But you’ll be with me in spirit, Jay,” she added quickly. “I may have a chance to—to make some discreet inquiries to help your book.”

  “Don’t take any chances, darling.”

  “You are sweet. You needn’t worry. I’ll be among friends. Can I have a rain check for the night after?”

  “For all the nights after, Hazel.”

  Matt Brennan and Lisa Collins were waiting for them at the entrance to the Lido Arcade. They went inside, between the jazzy record shop and the lines of tourists preparing to descend into the Lido Club for the late show, which was part of most tourists’ “Paris by Night” sightseeing schedules.

  The main section of the Arcade, running from the Champs-Élysées the depth of the block to the Rue de Ponthieu (where the service entry to the Hotel California was located), consisted of expensive shops on either side, with a pastry cafeteria, a restaurant, and a modern bookstore in the center. Immediately to the right of the main section was the open door of a narrow snack stand, furnished with a long counter and stools. Since it served until four o’clock in the morning, the stand was much frequented by people from the entertainment world, including the girls of both the Lido Club and the Club Lautrec. This was the Lido Bar, and the menu signs on the wall promised a Gallic version of the American hot dog and hamburger stand.

  There were three vacant stools near the cash register, and Brennan insisted that Lisa, Hazel, and Doyle take them. As they perched themselves at the counter, Doyle said to Brennan, “I’m afraid Hazel and I aren’t quite up to going on from here. Do you mind if we make it another night, when we can get an earlier start?”

  Brennan, behind Lisa and Hazel, was packing tobacco into his pipe bowl. “I’m glad you said it, Jay. I wanted to. I’ve about had it for today.”

  “I should think so,” said Lisa from above her compact. “Matt, I’ve never seen you with a pipe. I must say, it fits you. Complements your soulful eyes. Most men don’t look good with a pipe. One usually sees only the pipe.”

  Brennan’s match flared over the bowl. “I’d almost forgotten how steadying it is. Once I had it out, I got myself some tobacco and—”

  “But, Matt, maybe it’s not wise.”

  ‘The mood is defiance, honey. From now on my uniform is sunglasses, sport jacket, slacks, and the pipe.”

  “You’re asking for it, Matt,” said Doyle.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” said Doyle lamely. “Well, we’d better have something to justify occupying this counter space. I recommend the hot dogs Américains. What’ll you have, Hazel?”

  “Those aspirins,” said Hazel. “And a Perrier.”

  After she had got both, and while the others waited for their hot dogs, she said to Lisa, “Sorry to poop out on you.

  I wouldn’t keep you here any longer, except I wanted you and Matt to meet Medora. If you think you’ve got problems, Lisa—do you mind first-naming? I’ve finally converted Brennan to Matt—formality is so tiresome—anyway, has Matt told you about Medora Hart?”

  Lisa nodded. “Yes. I’m so sorry for her. I’m always surprised when awful things happen to beautiful people or rich people.”

  “They do, they do,” said Brennan. “Scott Fitzgerald was wrong. The very rich are no different from you or me. But on the other hand, he did name a book The Beautiful and Damned!”

  Hazel said, “Our Medora is beautiful and she is certainly damned, and if Nardeau can’t change that last part, we should.”

  “We shall,” Brennan promised.

  Hazel spun sideways on her stool and looked off. “She should be here any second. Once the show is over, those girls go over the side fast. She said she’d be here ten minutes after us. We can have a bite with her—and, Jay, then we can take
her home.”

  The hot dog sandwiches and soft drinks were served, and Hazel moodily watched the other three eat, only half listening to their inconsequential conversation. Once, she noted that not ten minutes had passed but twenty minutes. She lost herself in thoughts of Brennan’s adventure, and of her first meeting with Rostov in Vienna in another age, and of some of the times in Moscow, and before she would permit herself to consider the next night, her headache had gone. She noticed that the hot dogs of the others had disappeared, and they were reordering drinks to hold on to their seats. She realized that fifty minutes had passed, and still Medora was missing. She wondered if there had been a misunderstanding about their meeting place, but no, she was certain it was Medora who had suggested the Lido Bar right after the show.

  Restless, and about to wander out into the Champs-Élysées to watch for Medora, she heard a voice behind her say, “I’m terribly sorry, Hazel.”

  She jumped off the stool to greet Medora Hart.

  Without stage makeup and spangles and spotlight, sloppily dressed in a dark turtleneck sweater and slacks and sandals, Medora resembled a lonely adolescent more than a nightclub star. Hazel took Medora’s hand as the English girl, with her free hand, frantically pushed back her flaxen hair.

  “It’s so good to see you, Medora,” said Hazel. “I want you to meet our friends, and, from tonight on, your partners.”

  Breathlessly Medora said hello to Doyle and warmly acknowledged the introduction to Lisa Collins and Matt Brennan. Everyone congratulated her on her performance,

  “Thank you, thank you ever so much,” Medora said, still trying to catch her breath. “It went off well enough. It’s not the show that gets me in a state, it’s what one has to endure afterwards… And look at the filthy mess I am because of it. But when I saw how late I was, I just couldn’t bother. I’m sorry to have held you up this long. I ran practically all the way here.”

  “Nonsense, Medora,” said Hazel. “As long as there was nothing upsetting. I suppose it was your boss again—”

  “No, this time it was a customer.”

  “Oh, that” said Hazel. “Well, by now you must be used to that.”

  “I’m used to it,” agreed Medora. “If it had been only myself who was involved, I’d have been cm time. Unfortunately, this was a bit different, because what happened involved my only real girl friend at the Club, and I had to do her a favor. Some bumptious little American tourist fellow has had the hots over my girl friend, and was kicking up a frightful row, and she begged me to get rid of him. What could I do? I had to pacify him before I could send him packing, so I had to sit there with him, knowing all of you were waiting, and listen to the little bugger’s miseries. Why has everyone got miseries? At least this one was a bit more original. Trying to get to Russia to marry some girl he’s in love with. Now, who’d want to go to Russia for anything? Anyway, I beg your forgiveness—”

  “And I beg you to get off your feet,” insisted Hazel. “You’ve been on them all evening. Here, sit down and have something—”

  Doyle had come off his stool. “Sit here, Medora.”

  “I’m not really hungry,” said Medora hesitantly. “But if—”

  Hazel was conscious of Brennan, of how oddly he was looking at Medora. “Miss Hart—” said Brennan.

  “First names, remember?” said Hazel.

  Brennan ignored her, as he advanced toward Medora. “Did he happen to give his name?”

  Medora seemed bewildered. “Whose name?”

  “The man who detained you in the Club just now,” said Brennan. “The fellow who wants to marry some girl in Russia. Do you know his name?”

  “Sure thing,” said Medora with surprise. “It’s—” She tried to remember. “Silly name. But I know it.” Suddenly, she said, “I’ve seen them, those brown bogs in Ireland that they cut up for fuel. When I heard his name, I thought of them.”

  “The bogs are called peat,” said Brennan softly.

  “Peet!” Medora exclaimed with delight. “That’s it. His name was Joe Peet.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Brennan.

  Medora looked up at him incredulously. “You know him?”

  “Not really,” said Brennan, “but I’d like to.”

  Hazel had stepped back to let Doyle join Medora and Brennan. “Medora, where is Peet now?” Doyle asked. “Is he still in the Club Lautrec?”

  Medora shook her head. “Afraid not. By now I daresay he’s been tucked away in his trundle bed by his friend. That was another thing that was eerie. I was listening to the poor little blighter’s life story, meanwhile expiring from my anxiety to escape, when in like Father Christmas came Peet’s friend and told him in so many words to cut along. So away went Peet trotting after his friend, and at last I was free and I just charged out of there to meet you.”

  Hazel saw Brennan and Doyle exchange meaningful looks, and she wondered what was going on. “If this Peet’s the same person I’m thinking of,” said Hazel, “I met him once in Moscow.”

  “I know you did,” said Brennan.

  Bewildered, Hazel asked, “What’s he got to do with what?”

  ‘That’s what we want to find out,” said Brennan.

  “I’ll explain it later, Hazel,” said Doyle.

  Brennan was addressing Medora. “Would it be an imposition if I asked you to tell me exactly what Peet was doing in the Club Lautrec and what you two talked about?”

  “I don’t mind at all,” said Medora, “except it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It could,” said Brennan. He glanced around him. “Close quarters here. I think it would be better if we went outside.”

  Annoyed, Hazel stepped firmly between them. “Wait a minute, Matt. I don’t know what this idiocy is about, but give the poor kid a break. Let her have a sandwich or something. She—”

  “No, I’m fine, Hazel,” Medora interrupted. “I don’t want a crumb. I was just going to see you and get to bed. I have to be up early for Nardeau… Yes, Mr. Brennan—Matt—I don’t mind telling what little there is if you really can endure listening. This is fun. Let’s go outside.”

  The others followed Brennan and Medora out of the Lido Bar, and through the Arcade entrance to the sidewalk of the Champs-Élysées, which was still thronged with pedestrians even at midnight.

  “Would you like to go to a café?” Brennan inquired.

  “I’ll forget what happened by then,” said Medora. “No, this is perfect. Here’s what happened—”

  Hazel, Doyle, and Lisa closed into a tight circle with Medora and Brennan.

  “The minute the show was over,” said Medora, “I raced up to my dressing room. Denise was there ahead of me, waiting, and very distraught.”

  “Who is Denise?” Brennan wanted to know.

  “Denise Averil. One of the very best girls in The Troupe. The most attractive, by far. She’s got more of everything, wherever it matters. She’s from Marseille, half French, half Czech. Speaks beautiful English. She’s been at the Club Lautrec two or three years. Remember the number when The Troupe comes from behind the fountain? Well, Denise was the nymph who came up out of the water.”

  “Who could forget?” said Hazel sourly. “I thought gas balloons were bringing her to the surface.”

  “She’s forty inches,” said Medora matter-of-factly, and returned her attention to Brennan. “Anyway, Denise was waiting for me in my cubbyhole, all upset, and she begged me to help her. There was a young man in the Club, a real creep she’d dated a few nights before, who was pestering her for another date The first time he came to the Club, I guess three or four nights ago, he was attracted to Denise and sent her a note with—well, if you don’t mind—with considerable money inside. Denise is rather a playgirl, likes to go out every night, and this lavishness titillated her. So she went out with this gentleman.”

  “Joe Peet?” asked Brennan.

  “Yes,” said Medora. “I don’t know if it’s proper to tell you the details—I don’t suppose I’d truly be
betraying any confidences, since Denise is rather frank with everyone—well, she admitted to me she went to his hotel room for the night—he was waving around all sorts of large-denomination bills—and anyway, what followed was perfectly unutterably ghastly. I mean there are certain types who can’t make out, like in those books, like Krafft-Ebing, I’m sure you’re grown up enough to know about that—”

  “Go on,” said Brennan.

  “Peet couldn’t make out normal, or wouldn’t, I don’t recall which, so he kept wanting poor Denise to engage with him in all sorts of—well—abnormal kinds of acts—perversions—and Denise is the sort who’s solid female and frightfully lusty, but conservative, and she loathed what Peet was after. So at dawn she simply walked out. You’d think the little beast would let well enough alone, but never. Turns out, according to Denise, he’d picked her from all the girls in The Troupe because she reminds him of his true love, some Russian girl in Moscow he’s trying to get back to see and marry. Anyway, in his mind, Denise was this Russian girl. So the next night Denise found herself bombarded with millions of flowers, and cards begging her forgiveness, and all kinds of gifts from Galeries Lafayette and Michel Swiss. Well, this attention seduced her again, and besides she was sorry for the vain hopeless little punk, so she gave in and saw him a second time. I shan’t go into it. Simply a rotten replay of the first time.”

  “You mean, she walked out again?” asked Brennan.

  “Exactly. Well, Peet didn’t show up the next night, and Denise decided that was that, and was grateful to be free of it. But tonight, during the last act, the flowers and trinkets began to pour into her dressing room, and then a half-coherent note arrived to the effect that he must see her or die, that he missed her like he missed his Ludmilla—that was the Russian girl—and that he would not leave the Club until he could see her. Ordinarily Denise wouldn’t have been too worried. She’s a cool sort. And there’s a rear exit from backstage. But tonight, of all nights, Philippe Feron was in the audience. You know, the French cinema producer. And he took rather a fancy to Denise, and sent her a formal note inviting her to his table after the show. He had a party of cinema people with him, and he wanted to meet Denise and have her join them. Well, she had stars in her eyes. So suddenly, there was the great Feron holding a place for her, and all that stood between Feron and herself was this maniac, Joe Peet. She didn’t dare send Feron a note explaining her predicament, or ask to meet him elsewhere. She had to go to his table. But how, with Peet out there ready to create a frightful scene? So here she was with me, pleading for a favor. Would I go and tell Peet she’d not felt well and had left by the rear exit? Would I get rid of Peet and let her know when the way was clear? What could I do? Friendship. She described Peet to me, and where he was sitting, and then she went to change and await the all-clear signal from me. So I had no time to throw on anything but this outfit. Then I went out to do battle with Mr. Peet.”