At once, all sexual desire for Denise Averil evaporated.
Yet, he was trapped. Any minute, Denise would appear, nude and passionate. He would have to undress. There would be the duet, Denise’s moaning endearments and the bedstead’s shuddering complaints, and this entire spectacle before a stadium of Lisa’s. There was no way to avoid the obligatory performance. He weighed the key to Joe Peet in his hand. He had been paid in advance. He had never broken a contract yet.
Brennan tried to console himself with fatalism. What is to be, will be. Besides, he had lost Lisa already. One could not lose something one did not possess.
Dreading what lay immediately ahead, not only because of Lisa on the other side of the doors but because of his own temporary impotence, he determined to deaden his fear with more liquor.
As he started for the sitting room, he heard the telephone beside the divan ring loudly. He rushed to it, wishing only to muffle its shrill intrusion, but the instant his hand touched the receiver, he hesitated. It was probably Lisa calling from the next room. He could not suffer her fury and hurt. Yet, never could he leave a telephone ring unanswered.
He picked up the receiver, acknowledged his name, and then realized that the feminine voice on the line did not belong to Lisa Collins. It belonged to Medora Hart, and it was frantic.
“Matt, I’m in a terrible stew. I need help desperately.”
Brennan was instantly alert. “What’s the trouble, Medora?”
“Willi von Goerlitz,” she gasped through the telephone receiver. “Thank the Lord you’re already there. I poured a gallon of black coffee into Willi, got him on his feet, walked him up and down the Champs-Élysées for some air. But when I tried to get him into a taxi, he refused to go. He absolutely insisted he wouldn’t sleep without seeing Carol first. I kept arguing that he was in no condition to see anyone, least of all Carol. I warned him that if Carol saw him this way, certainly if President Earnshaw saw him, he could expect to be cut by them forever. But you know how impossibly stubborn a drunk can be. So, to pacify him, I began to lead him toward the Lancaster, then I decided I’d better sober him a bit more. Finally, when we reached the Val d’Isére, know, the outdoorsy restaurant across from Carol’s hotel—I managed to sweet-talk Willi into it for more black coffee. He didn’t resist, and I daresay he was beginning to be grateful. Well, Matt, when Willi started sobering ever so slightly, he began blabbing about his father, spilled the whole frightful thing, and I must say I can hardly blame him for becoming stoned. It’s a bloody business, poor fellow.”
“What are you talking about, Medora?” demanded Brennan. “What about Willi’s father?”
“He’s had a stroke,” said Medora, voice quavering. “Old Goerlitz keeled over in the Ritz late this morning. Worst part, it had to be kept secret. The company director—Schlager, I think he’s called—clapped secrecy on the whole thing and ordered Willi not to speak a word of it. Something to do with not affecting the international market and needing time to reorganize management at the plant while they waited to see how seriously ill Dr. von Goerlitz was. So poor Willi and this Schlager, they got the management of the Hotel Ritz to cooperate. Arranged for a private ambulance, some sort of little-used exit, and whisked old Goerlitz out and off to the American Hospital in Neuilly, where he’s registered under another name.”
“What shape is Goerlitz in?” Brennan asked.
“Critical, I’m afraid. In a coma, and according to Willi, it’s nip and tuck tonight. Willi’s been at the hospital two or three times, but Schlager won’t let him stay, afraid that in his upset he might let out who the old man really is, what with the press checking there all the time for celebrated patients.”
“I see. That’s awful. And now Willi wants to get to Carol Earnshaw?”
“Yes. To explain why he was so rude and had to lie to Carol’s uncle this afternoon. He’s frenzied about helping his father, but he doesn’t have much of anyone here, so he’s rather set about explaining things and holding on to Carol.”
Trying to think, Brennan realized that he was nodding to himself. “Yes, I can understand,” he said into the telephone. “Have you still got Willi with you?”
“In the Val d’Isére, yes, down the block from you. I’ve got my eye on him right now. He’s still taking coffee, but he’s only half sober, and I don’t know what to do, Matt. We’ve just had a frightful row. I want him to go back to his hotel to sleep it off. There’s enough time for Carol Earnshaw later. But no, he won’t budge. He’s absolutely determined to go up to the Earnshaw suite under his own power and clear the misunderstanding up. But, crikey, how can I let him break in on a—a former President? And especially at this hour?”
“The time doesn’t matter nor does it matter who Earnshaw is or was,” said Brennan quickly. “Willi’s right, Medora. Earnshaw should be informed of this development. Carol is secondary. But Earnshaw—you don’t know the complete facts, Medora, but there might be more ramifications to this than meet the eye. Quite definitely, Willi should be allowed to see Earnshaw.”
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. But I had no idea what to—”
“No, no, you did the right thing.”
“Well, I’ll just continue nannying Willi until he’s perfectly sober, and then—”
“You can’t wait for that,” said Brennan with impatience. “Earnshaw should know about this immediately. He’s one of the few people who might be able to do something for Goerlitz. Does Goerlitz have his own physician with him?”
“No. That’s another problem. Willi was in a frenzy because his father’s doctor—in fact, his father’s three doctors—are off in China somewhere on some kind of official inspection tour. They can’t be reached until tomorrow. And that may be too late. And Schlager’s afraid of calling in any French specialist, because the case history would have to be sent for and Goerlitz’s identity would leak out. Oh, they have doctors, but they need—”
“Medora, that makes it more imperative than ever that Willi see Earnshaw about this at once.”
“Right now?” Medora sounded distressed. “Matt, I can’t manage him. I’m afraid I’ll need your help. Can you—”
The creak of the bathroom door diverted Brennan’s concentration from the telephone. He heard footsteps, and suddenly, he remembered his guest and bed partner.
“—come right over?” Medora was pleading. “I can’t manage without you. Will you?”
“Of course—of course I will—there’s only one problem. I—” He had no idea how to explain it.
“What’s the matter, Matt? Are you in the middle of something?”
He lowered his voice as the footsteps came nearer. “Denise is with me,” he said desperately.
“Denise?” exclaimed Medora. She seemed to understand. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Matt.”
A purring sound brought Brennan’s attention from the telephone to the bedroom doorway. Holding the receiver, he came fully around. Denise Averil was leaning lazily against the door frame, whispering, “Naughty boy, look at me, and look at you.”
He could not help but stare at her with amazement. Except for the narrowest strip of white lace panties, Denise was stark naked, and as easy and reposeful as only one more used to nudity than to clothes can be. He had never seen, so intimately, so infinite an expanse of bare feminine flesh. Denise’s long arms reached out over the milky mounds of her deep cone-shaped breasts, and her fingers wiggled, silently beckoning him.
With his free ear, Brennan thought that he could hear Lisa kicking over a piece of furniture in her locked bedroom. With his telephone ear, Brennan could hear Medora saying, “You really mean Denise is there?”
“She’s not only here,” Brennan gasped into the telephone, “she is all here. Look, Medora, you’d better speak to her—explain for me—and—I’ll be right over to help you.” He leaped up, proffering the telephone receiver to Denise. “Medora wants a word with you. Absolutely urgent.”
Puzzled, Denise left the doorway and advanced in her feline wa
lk. Nervously Brennan waited, holding the phone as far from him as possible, as if it were some device that would ward off the temptation of mortal sin. Waiting, he could not help but marvel at her naked poise. He shoved the instrument into her hand and hurried to the wardrobe.
Observing him with bewilderment, Denise brought the mouthpiece to her lips. “Hello, Medora, what’s all the—?” She stopped short. Brennan had snatched down his coat and tie, and was heading for the corridor door. “Hey, wait a minute, big boy!” Denise shouted across the mouthpiece. “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?”
Hand safely on the door handle, he called over his shoulder, “Medora will explain. Forgive me. I’ve got to run. It’s an emergency.”
Before slamming the door behind him, Brennan could hear Denise’s shrill epithet for him after the ignominious episode. It was directed to the telephone. “Dammit, Medora, what in the hell kind of friends do you send me? Another femmelette! Spelled fag, to you!”
STANDING THERE in a shadowed corner of Earnshaw’s suite in the Hotel Lancaster, Matt Brennan could sense the air of tension in the room.
Medora Hart was at the windows, less confused, smoking cigarettes ceaselessly, not peering outside at the darkened roofs of Paris but gazing steadily across the sitting room at Earnshaw. On the sofa, Carol, in shirt and jeans, her hair still in curlers, sat beside Willi von Goerlitz, still pale but now cold sober, as both of them anxiously stared at Earnshaw.
Now Brennan looked at Earnshaw, too.
The former President, wide-awake, jaw set, remained on his feet, rigidly keeping the telephone receiver to his ear.
Not twenty minutes ago, Brennan and Medora had half carried, half dragged Willi von Goerlitz to the door of this seventh-floor suite, had brought Carol on the run from her hair dryer, roused a sleep-dazed Earnshaw from his bed, and had explained their mission. First, Brennan had spoken, next Medora, but finally, it had been Willi who had found the sobriety and strength to take over.
When Willi had finished, he had lamely added his apologetic postscript. “Perhaps you can understand, Mr. Earnshaw, my behavior to you this afternoon. I am sorry to have offended you.”
“You just forget about me,” Earnshaw had retorted crisply. “Your father’s our only concern… It’s a doctor we want, a cardiovascular surgeon. Well, with any luck, we might be able to borrow one of the best ones in the world. He’s right here in Paris with the United States delegation. Admiral Oates, the White House physician, was a vascular specialist at Bethesda Naval Hospital. He’s served four Presidents, including the incumbent and me. I’m going to try to locate him. I can’t promise anything after I do, but let’s find out.”
And then Earnshaw had gone to the telephone and made two calls, and this was his third, to the United States Ambassador’s residence, where not only the President was staying but his physician as well.
Suddenly, Earnshaw pressed the telephone to his ear. “Yes, I’m still on.” He listened, frowning, and he barked back, “Well now, young fellow, I don’t care if he has just gone to sleep. You go right in there and you wake Admiral Oates and you tell him Emmett A. Earnshaw is on the phone waiting to talk to him. You tell the Admiral it’s mighty important.”
Snorting, he changed the receiver to his other ear and stood tapping one slippered foot on the carpet impatiently.
“Uncle Emmett,” Carol called from the sofa, “let me get you a brandy.”
“I don’t want brandy,” Earnshaw growled. “I want the Admiral.”
He glared down at the mouthpiece, and paced in a tight circle. Abruptly, he halted.
“Admiral Oates? Earnshaw here. Sorry to shake you out of bed at this ungodly hour. You know I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important… No, no, Admiral, I’m perfectly fine. Just darn irritated by all the snarl of red tape. Now listen to me. You remember Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz, don’t you? You were there with me in Frankfurt when—” He paused. “That’s the man, Admiral, that’s the one. Well, I’m right here in the Lancaster Hotel where I’m staying, and I’ve got Goerlitz’s son here beside me. I’ve been doing some business with Goerlitz, but he had a stroke this morning… Yes, you heard me, a stroke, a cerebrovascular accident. It’s all been kept hushed up, for various reasons, but they’ve got him over to Neuilly, the American Hospital, registered under some phony name—name of—uh—” He looked off. “What was it again, Willi?”
“Goessler, sir. Hans Goessler.”
Earnshaw was back at the phone. “You hear that, Admiral? He’s registered as Hans Goessler. His own physicians are off somewhere in the Far East. Haven’t been reached yet. His plant director, fellow named Schlager, is getting his medical history and treatment record down from Frankfurt, but he won’t show it to the French doctors. They need somebody in on the case they can trust, the best man available, and I thought of you… What? What do you mean—what’s this got to do with us, our Government? It could have plenty to do, and you’re going to have to take my word for it. No need to go into that, just take my word for it, Admiral… Okay, okay, I knew you’d go along. When you’ve played poker with a man, you get to know w—he will do and won’t do, right?… No, I don’t have any information about that. Hold on a second.” Earnshaw consulted Willi von Goerlitz once more. “Willi, the Admiral wants to know if the French doctors mentioned how serious it was and if they talked about surgery.”
“They said it is extremely critical, sir. They do not know if he will survive tonight. My father is half paralyzed, has suffered a loss of speech—and the last few hours he has been in a coma—from an obstruction in the innominate and left common carotid artery. I believe they said the clot has been located between the artery and the heart. They must operate, but they are afraid because of my father’s weak heart. The hospital says they have heart pumps, but not one that can be implanted in a patient’s chest. One or two of the new types are available in Europe but they do not possess one here. I must give permission for surgery tonight, but I cannot with so little hope.”
Earnshaw had been holding the receiver out toward Willi. Now he brought it back to his mouth. “You hear that, Admiral?… Yes, yes… yes, I guess you’d better. I sure appreciate it. I’ll be right here waiting.”
He hung up, glanced at the others, and finally addressed Willi. “Admiral Oates is phoning the American Hospital. He’ll speak to their staff and learn exactly what your father’s condition is. If it’s necessary, he’ll act. In any event, Willi, you’ve got your father a doctor, the very best, the President’s own.”
Willi von Goerlitz was close to tears. “I cannot tell you what this means to me. I thank you, sir, with deepest sincerity.”
Moved, Earnshaw said gruffly, “Don’t go thanking anyone yet, least of all me. I’ve got my own selfish reasons for pitching in. Not what you think. But your father and I, we were friends once. When he got in trouble, I let him down. That’s still on my conscience. I don’t intend to let him down a second time.” He looked around. “Anyone want a drink?”
Brennan considered holding up his hand. But he thought better of it.
Earnshaw roamed the room restlessly. “Where’re those darn cigars?”
Carol started to rise. “I’ll get you one.”
“Just tell me,” Earnshaw insisted.
“The new humidor I bought you, remember? On the dresser in the bedroom.”
“I forgot,” said Earnshaw. He stared at the telephone. “What’s keeping the Navy? He said he’d call right back.”
Brennan watched Earnshaw leave the sitting room. He saw Carol pouring a soft drink for Willi. His mouth felt dry, and he said, “Carol, if you have enough, I could stand a sip.”
He accepted his soft drink as Earnshaw returned, smoking a cigar. Brennan had just brought the sparkling glass to his lips when the telephone rang out. In three long strides Earnshaw was beside it.
“Hello,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Well, what is it, Admiral?… Yes, yes, go on.” He listened, for what seemed to Brennan an interminab
le time. Once he interrupted. “What was that, Admiral? Did you say a bypass graft operation? Is that the surgical technique?” He was listening at length again. At last, he spoke. “Yes, I think it’s clear, Admiral. Chest incision between the ribs. Artery graft to bypass the extensive obstruction. Is that right?… Yes, but if it’s that routine, then what are you worried about?… Oh, I see, I see… Yes, I understand. The regular heart pumps on hand won’t do. But what about that implantable device you always had flown around after me? The Garrett-Farelli artificial heart. Don’t you have one of those with you?… You do? And a newer one, you say? Well, wouldn’t that pull him through?… Okay. At least those are reasonable odds. All right, then, go ahead, use it.”
He listened, and gradually, his face began to knot with anger. “Wait a minute, Oates!” he interrupted. “What in the devil you saying—you can’t use it? The hell with the President’s permission. We’re not waiting until morning, Admiral. I’ve given you plenty of orders when I was your Commander in Chief, and I’m giving you one more right now. I want you to call Orly and get that Garrett-Farelli device over to Neuilly on the double. I want it there for Goerlitz immediately. That’s my decision, and I’m taking full responsibility for it. What do you say to that?” He listened, and suddenly, his face broke into a broad boyish grin. “Thanks, Admiral. I knew it. When all’s lost, you can count on the Navy… Okay, friend, see you there in an hour.”
Brennan came forward, as did Willi, Carol, and Medora, when Earnshaw turned away from the telephone.
Earnshaw smiled at them. “Admiral Oates is on his way to the American Hospital. So is that new heart contraption.” Earnshaw brushed past the others to Willi von Goerlitz and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Willi, your father goes into emergency surgery in an hour. At his age, it’s going to be rough, and you’ve got to face that. But maybe this’ll comfort you. A little while ago, the odds were ten to one against his surviving. Right now, with Admiral Oates and that latest cardiac pump, the odds are down to two to one against him. He’s got a solid outside chance.”
The Plot Page 78
