Over the dessert, Earnshaw had remembered his indebtedness to Matt Brennan. He had pledged himself to speak to the President on Brennan’s behalf. Mindful of this, he had told the Ambassador he rather hoped to run into the President during the Summit. “Why, you’ll be seeing him tomorrow night, Emmett,” the Ambassador had said. “You’ll be at the same party, the reception the French are giving at the Hotel de Lauzun. I know, I saw your name high on the list.” Earnshaw had forgotten, but at that moment recalled, the invitation. It had pleased him that he would be able to speak to the President about Brennan. Earnshaw hated unpaid debts. He knew also that, in this one respect, Goerlitz was like himself. And he had felt even better.
As he paused before the Goerlitz suite in the Hotel Ritz, the feeling of well-being and confidence remained. He need only push the button, and the offending chapter in the German’s memoirs would go up in smoke forever, and his own reputation would survive unsullied.
Earnshaw pushed the button.
One second, two, three, four, five, and slowly, the double doors opened.
To his surprise, it was not the liveried butler who stood before him, but the boy, Willi von Goerlitz, in shirt-sleeves, hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot, in want of a shave, and holding a filled highball glass.
Taken aback by the young man’s appearance, Earnshaw sought to maintain his composure. “Hello, Willi.”
Willi did not acknowledge Earnshaw’s greeting. He simply said, “Yes?”
Annoyed by the young man’s unusual disrespect, and even more irritated by the fact that the young man was keeping him standing in the corridor, Earnshaw said, “Do you mind if I come in for a moment?”
Willi hesitated. “I—I’m not sure—” He swallowed, and stepped aside. “Please.”
With determination, Earnshaw walked through the doorway into the spacious entry hall. He waited for Willi to take his hat and topcoat, but the young man did neither. He merely rolled his drink in one hand and considered his guest owlishly.
“I know I’m here unannounced, and perhaps it’s improper,” Earnshaw said, “but there are times when formalities should be dispensed with, and this is one of them. I’ve learned something that could be of vital importance to your father, something he’ll want to know. I came right over to tell him about it.”
Earnshaw pointedly looked at the salon beyond the hall, waiting for Willi to invite him into it, but Willi made no such move. Instead, he gulped his drink.
Watching him, Earnshaw decided that the boy must be exceedingly intoxicated. There could be no other explanation for his rudeness. Earnshaw remembered that he had warned Carol about the boy. But that warning had been motivated, as Carol had rightly guessed, by his own pique with the boy’s father. Actually, he had been favorably impressed by Willi. But now, having caught the boy unprepared, Earnshaw decided that Willi was probably his father’s son after all, as spoiled and as churlish.
“I must see your father, Willi,” said Earnshaw with all the sternness at his command.
“You—you can’t—”
Earnshaw could feel his blood pressure rising. “Of course, I can. See here, young man, when you’re older, you’ll realize there are times when we can’t stand on formality. Something’s come up involving your father, and he must hear about it immediately, certainly before he meets with the Chinese tomorrow morning. Now, will you tell him I’m—”
Willi waved his drink, to interrupt Earnshaw. “No—no—it is impossible, Mr. Earnshaw. My father is not here. He was called out of the city a few hours ago. He is in Frankfurt.”
“In Frankfurt? Well, why didn’t you say so? Well—uh—that makes it a little difficult. Perhaps I can phone him there, even go to see him there tonight, if I must.”
“He cannot be reached,” said Willi laconically. “I—I do not know where he has gone for his conference.”
“What about tomorrow?” Earnshaw persisted. “I know he has this business meeting and contract signing with Marshal Chen in the morning. He’ll be back in Paris for that, won’t he?”
“Maybe,” said Willi. “I do not know.” He began to drink again, adding, “If he is not returned in time, the meeting with Marshal Chen will have to be delayed.”
Earnshaw was at a loss. It was as if he were addressing the wall. “Willi, will you be in touch with your father?”
“Yes—yes—later.”
“Okay. Can I depend upon you to tell him I was here?”
“Yes, of course—”
“Impress upon him that it is absolutely imperative that he hear what I have to say before—do you understand me?—before he meets with the Chinese Reds to sign the Nuclear Peace City contracts. Tell him I’ve learned something about the Chinese that he’ll have to know before he does any further negotiating with them. Is that clear?”
“Yes, it is clear. I am not a dumbbell as you think. I do not forget.” Willi was plainly distraught “Next time, please telephone before coming.”
Earnshaw glared at the young man. Willi was not only befuddled from his excessive drinking, but he was being deliberately impudent. For an instant, Earnshaw was tempted to put him in his place, but he thought better of it. He still needed Willi to pass on the message to Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz. Also, there could be good reason for Willi’s behavior. Possibly Carol, in her naivete, had repeated something about Earnshaw’s disapproval of the boy and his desire that she not keep company with him. That was probably the explanation…
From somewhere in the salon a voice shouted, “Willi!”
Willi gravitated toward the summons. “Ja, Herr Schlager?”
“Kommen Sie—” Schlager, a small, well-fed middle-aged man, managing director of all the Goerlitz industries, appeared in the salon archway. Upon seeing Earnshaw, he changed over to English. “Sorry, Willi, I did not know you had company, but—”
“Mr. Earnshaw is leaving,” said Willi hastily. He looked hopefully at Earnshaw. “Good-bye, sir.”
“Don’t forget to tell your father what I told you,” said Earnshaw.
Willi von Goerlitz did not reply. He had already gone to Schlager, who had taken him by the arm and begun to lead him into the salon.
Disconcerted, Earnshaw edged toward the open doors. He could hear Schlager’s resounding voice, still speaking in English. “Come, come, Willi, do not waste time. We must see your father immediately. It will take us another twenty minutes, and we are late already. The car is waiting downstairs in front.” Willi’s voice responded in German this time, and Schlager’s receding voice interrupted in German.
Overhearing them from the doorway, Earnshaw had been unable to understand the last. But now he understood something else. The pair were hastening off to meet Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz somewhere nearby. Willi had lied. His father was not in Frankfurt. He was right here in Paris.
Wondering about the strangeness of it, about the reason behind Willi’s behavior and his lies, wondering if Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz would know that he had called with urgent information, then wondering how he would be able to see Goerlitz before the industrialist met with the Chinese, Earnshaw left the hall of the suite for the corridor.
It surprised him not at all that the acrid smell of defeat once more hung in the air.
BY SIX-THIRTY in the evening, Matt Brennan had almost finished shaving. Studying his jaw line and neck in the bathroom mirror, he could see that he had made a poor job of it. He always did when he had other matters on his mind. Still, he wanted to look well groomed this evening. For the first time, he was going to meet some of Lisa’s associates and friends, people who also represented her Manhattan fashion house.
Lisa had planned the evening carefully. There would be eight of them, and even though her expense account did not cover a personal night on the town, she had made reservations at Le Grand Véfour, where the cuisine was of the best and most expensive in Paris. After dinner, if there was time, she had thought that they could visit Montmartre and look in on Le Lapin Agile, which Brennan had so often praised, and hav
e fun joining with the other customers in singing French ballads. Or, if it were too late, since her colleagues had to rise and go to work early, she might bring everyone to the hotel bar for coffee and cognac.
Because the unveiling of Brennan to her circle was so important to Lisa, he was determined to be at his best and most youthful.
He started the electric razor once more, and resumed shaving.
As always, the solitary act of shaving inspired introspection. Running the razor over his chin, Brennan realized that all this preening and preparation might be futile. The odds were still heavy that he would never see Lisa’s friends, or indeed Lisa herself, after they took their leave of Paris. He had not succeeded in accomplishing that which had brought him here. He had not cleared his name. Unless this was done, it would be useless to continue the charade with Lisa. He would remain an outcast, and he would have no choice but to return to the stones and tombs of Venice.
Brennan had little patience for self-deception. He was an ex-romantic turned realist. As realist, he could see that his future was as unpromising as it had been a week ago. Only one hope had any substance. Emmett A. Earnshaw. But even this lone hope was iffy, too dependent on the vagaries of other people. The rest of the tumult, and there had been plenty, represented counterfeit hope. You came upon a man named Joe Peet buying a nonexistent volume in a rare-book shop that Rostov had done business with, and you deluded yourself into thinking this had something to do with Rostov. You received tantalizing hints from Isenberg and Lisa that Russia and China had a nefarious alliance, and because Russia was involved, and Rostov was Russian, you thought you had discovered something useful, when in fact you had gained nothing. You went to a meeting in the Bois, and because another who had been there before you had been killed, you were convinced you were an intended victim, despite the contrary opinion of the French police. You learned that the improbable bibliophile, Joe Peet, American, had a Russian KGB agent for a friend, and you thought it meant something to you, but there was no proof it had a damn thing to do with you.
Off and on throughout the day he had thought of Joe Peet and his KGB friend. Why would a Russian security agent have anything to do with an American nonentity like Peet, unless the agent had been assigned to keep an eye on Peet because Peet was a small cog in the Soviet spy apparatus, an errand boy possibly, or unless the Russians regarded Peet as a troublemaker because he had so long pestered them about getting back to Russia and his true love? At the same time, simpler explanations had occurred to Brennan, and he supposed they made as much sense. Perhaps Peet, on his tour of Russia, had actually made a friend of this Russian, who just happened to be a security agent. Perhaps the KGB man was a relative or acquaintance of Peet’s girl friend in Moscow. There were a hundred explanations, all as illogical as linking Peet to espionage.
But the point was, and Brennan saw it distinctly now, his interest and involvement in these findings and happenings were purely diversionary, as time-wasting as an author’s pencil sharpener. Frustrated by his inability to reach his real goal, namely Rostov, he had occupied himself chasing after spurious articles, pretending they were part of his mission. He had deluded himself into believing that the various clues would lead him to where he was going, when, in fact, they were leading him nowhere—except back to the life of a broken recluse in Venice.
Enough, he told himself. No more diversions, he pledged himself.
He heard his bedroom telephone ringing. Quickly, he rubbed the last of the after-shave lotion into his face, and hurried to catch the call on the third ring.
“Matt Brennan?” inquired the feminine voice with an English accent.
Cautiously, he said, “Yes, this is Brennan.”
“Medora Hart. I’m at the Club, backstage. Are you still interested in finding out where Joe Peet is staying since he left the Plaza-Athénée?”
Brennan’s heart leaped, and he hated his excitement. Nevertheless, he broke his pledge, consoling himself that vows were intended to be altered by changed circumstances. “Am I interested? You bet I am, Medora.”
“I rather thought you might be,” she went on. Her voice dropped perceptibly. “My girl friend here, you know, Denise Averil, the one Peet’s been after—”
“Sure, I remember.”
“Well, she knows where Peet is staying. She just heard from him.”
“Do you know the place?” he asked eagerly.
“No, but I think I can help you find out. It’s difficult for me to talk from here, Matt. Why don’t you come right down to the Club before the show starts? Meet you in the lobby.”
“In ten minutes,” said Brennan.
Hastily, he slipped on a fresh shirt and knotted his tie. There was no time’ to change into the freshly pressed suit he was to wear to dinner. Then he remembered the dinner, Lisa’s dinner, at Le Grand Véfour.
Snatching up his sport jacket, he hurried through the open double doors into Lisa’s bedroom. He heard her in the bathroom, humming, still splashing in the tub.
He went to the door and called through it. “Lisa?”
“I’ll be right out, Matt. I know I’m running behind.”
“Honey, listen, something terribly important has just come up. I’ve got to run over to the Club Lautrec for a little while. Can you make it to the restaurant alone? It won’t be for long. I’ll catch up with you by the time you start eating.”
There was a momentary silence. “Must you, Matt?” She sounded distressed. “Can’t you put off your business until tomorrow?”
“I hate to do this to you, honey, but this is important, or could be.”
“Does it have to do with him?
He knew that she meant Rostov, the real thing. He couldn’t tell her he was off again after a spurious article. “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what I have to find out.”
“Well, all right, of course. If you’ve got to, you’ve got to go. But don’t be too late, Matt. I’d hate to look like the bride left standing at the altar… Oh, forgive me. You go. But hurry. And, Matt—good luck!”
Rushing out of Lisa’s bedroom into his own, he closed and latched the door on his side as usual, for the night maids who were probably never deceived, and quickly, he left his rooms. Downstairs, as had become his habit, he told M. Dupont where he might be found if someone wanted to see him. With that, he hurried out of the hotel.
Turning off on the Rue de Ponthieu, to avoid the crowded Champs-Élysées ahead, Brennan walked rapidly and made good time. In little more than ten minutes, he entered the long lobby of the Club Lautrec. A few late arrivals were still passing into the nightclub. The lobby was virtually deserted, and he was able to find Medora Hart at once. She was waiting beneath the framed Toulouse-Lautrec affiche of May Belfort. Both Medora and May Belfort were posed in red and black. Pretty poster, Brennan thought, but prettier girl.
“Here I am, Medora,” Brennan called out.
“Whew, in the nick of time,” she said. “Show’s beginning in a few minutes. I bullied Michaud into releasing one of the up-front tables for us.”
He started into the din and smoke of the nightclub after her. “Aren’t you in the show tonight, Medora?”
“Oh, yes, but not till the middle of the first act. So I have a bit of time before changing. Denise is in the opening number. I’ll point her out to you.”
The lights were dimming and the music coming on, as she merrily led him down the crooked aisles, between crowded tables, until they arrived at the tiny reserved table in the second row before the end of the stage runway.
When both were seated, Medora said, “You don’t have to have dinner, but I’m afraid you’ll have to order a bucket of champagne. Sorry.”
Brennan smiled. “Nobody has to twist my arm when it comes to champagne.” The waiter had appeared, and Brennan placed his order. He saw Medora turning her glass upside down. “Aren’t you going to have a drink with me?”
“Never before I go on,” said Medora. “Established foreign policy. It’s bad enough that I ha
d a couple with Nardeau late this afternoon.”
“Any news about the painting?”
“Not yet.” She listened to the music a moment, then said, “I’d better tell you what this is about. When Denise came in tonight, she found a bouquet of flowers at her dressing table and an envelope. There was a note from Joe Peet inside. He wanted her to know that he’d moved from the Plaza-Athénée to another hotel. He said he regretted he wasn’t able to attend the show tonight, but he’d be in his hotel room before midnight. Since he couldn’t go to Denise, he begged her to come to him. Apparently, he offered her some fantastic sum of money to spend the night with him. She didn’t seem too inclined to accept his proposition. The money enchanted her, but another Krafft-Ebing encore with Peet repelled her.”
“I think you said you didn’t know Peet’s new hotel?”
“No. I thought of you, and I inquired, but Denise played it coy. She may be frightfully munificent with her sexual favors, but when it comes to her purse, she’s as niggardly as any Provence housewife. I know that while she’s rejecting Peet’s offer, she’s still regarding Peet rather as money in the bank against a rainy day. And I suppose if he raises his offer higher, she’ll find herself reluctantly in bed with him once more, wherever he operates. So she’s loath to tell me, close as I am to her, or to tell any of the girls in The Troupe, where she has Peet and his money cached. She’s afraid, and rightly, that some poacher might move in on a good thing.”
“Well, Medora, if you can’t find out the name of Peet’s new hotel, then who can?”
“You can,” said Medora brightly. “I told Denise, as an incidental, that I’d just happened to run into a handsome and wealthy and very lonely American diplomat whom I’d once met in London and who’d just flown in for the Summit. And I told her that by crazy coincidence this American diplomat was a close friend of Joe Peet’s millionaire father in Chicago, and the diplomat had been asked by Peet’s family to look Joe up in Paris. I asked Denise if she wouldn’t, as a favor to me, let this nice and attractive American diplomat know where he might find Joe Peet.”
The Plot Page 74
