The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  At eight o’clock, the Chiefs of State and the guests would sit down to dinner in the fantastic 242-foot-long Hall of Mirrors. The banquet would end at nine-thirty. After that, the leaders, their wives, and their closest aides would proceed to the Cabinet du Conseil, next to the Hall of Mirrors, have coffee for twenty minutes, and continue on through the palace to the Opera Royal to join the others who had attended the dinner as well as 400 added guests for a ballet performance. Meanwhile, although the press would not be permitted inside the palace, there would be a tent erected at one side of the entrance court where specially invited correspondents could assemble to obtain information on the progress of the state dinner and receive background briefings from their respective press attachés. Neely’s briefing for the American journalists would begin at nine-thirty, just as the dinner finished upstairs, and before the ballet began.

  “The dinner’s just about underway,” Hazel had said to Doyle, “and I think we ought to be there by nine.” She had started for the stairs to her bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse, but had hesitated on the first step and glanced at Brennan. “Sorry, Matt, that you couldn’t prove it,” she had said. “I respect you for giving it a try.” She had smiled sadly. “And, Matt, given the chance, I’d do it again. Okay?”

  Brennan had appreciated that, but it had not been okay then, and it wasn’t okay now, as he trudged into the lobby of the Hotel California. Hazel’s review of the night’s schedule had heightened his sense of failure.

  He became aware of M. Dupont, the concierge, waving an envelope at him. “Monsieur Brennan, a letter has just arrived by the Special Delivery.”

  Brennan accepted the letter stamped ESPRESO, postmarked from Rome, forwarded from Venice, and about to shove it into his pocket, he thought to turn it over. When he did, he saw that the signature of the sender was scrawled above the imprint of the Albergo Mediterraneo, Roma. The signature was that of Ted Brennan.

  He stood holding the envelope, blinking, until the full import of the signature struck him. Ted Shepperd was once more Ted Brennan.

  He felt the tears well in his eyes, as he stumbled into the inner lobby, and sat on the arm of a chair, ripping the envelope open.

  The letter, in his son’s hand, an almost indecipherable scrawl, was brief. Throughout the past week in Italy, Ted had thought again and again of the evening with his father in Harry’s Bar, and he wanted to tell his father that he was deeply ashamed of himself. He believed in his father, in his father’s innocence and decency, and he wanted to say it now, and he hoped he would be forgiven for any wrong impression he had created in Venice. He hoped his father would come home to the United States again so that they could be closer. And his sister, Tracy, felt exactly the same way. They both believed in their father, and missed him, and hoped that he would be in touch with them. The letter was signed “With my best wishes, and love, your son, Ted.”

  Brennan felt choked and flushed.

  His hands trembled, as he returned the page to the envelope and folded it into his pocket.

  The real wonder of this, he realized, was not that such a letter had come to him at last, but that it had come to him now, at this moment. For in the eyes of the world, Brennan still bore the brand of traitor. A letter of faith now, a letter such as this, was worth a million times what it would have been worth in a week or two, when Earnshaw’s public announcement and affidavit would have absolved and cleared Brennan of committing any crime and have restored his honor.

  He had never loved his son and daughter more than at this moment.

  Somehow, too, this letter had revived his spirits. Brennan had come to Paris for self-vindication, and had allowed himself to be sidetracked by a greater quest, pretending his new goal was a more selfless, more ennobling, more humanitarian work. But now, in better perspective, he could see that his greater quest might have been inspired more by vanity than anything else. He had wanted not merely the victory of citizenship but the laurels of conqueror and hero. Unconsciously, perhaps to compensate for the ugly years of disgrace, he had wanted to come back not only as a man but as a prophet—yes, prophet—even as Doyle had facetiously addressed him. As a result, he had undervalued the achievement of reaching his first goal, because he had overvalued what might be gained for himself by reaching his second and greater goal.

  He had told himself he was acting in the name of humanity, when all the while he had been serving only his bruised ego.

  Maybe.

  At any rate, Ted’s miraculous letter had restored his sense of proportion, as Rostov’s unwitting confession would soon restore his good name. It could be a world worth living in after all. Or could it, after tonight—after tonight at Versailles?

  Maybe.

  Brennan stood up and crossed to the small cage of an elevator. The adolescent operator banged the iron grille shut and took him up to the first floor. Brennan emerged, heard the elevator descend noisily, and he turned the corner and started up the dimly lighted hotel corridor to his suite. A step from Lisa’s room, at the jog leading around to his rooms, he heard a rustle and a hiss. It seemed to come from the service alcove, behind his left shoulder.

  Stopping abruptly, he looked back, and there was Lisa in her bathrobe, pressed against one glass swinging door, desperately beckoning to him.

  Surprised, he said, “Lisa, what in the—?”

  He never finished. Lisa had bounded toward him and clamped a hand full over his mouth. Her hand was icy, and her eyes were strained with fright, and he felt his heart begin to pound.

  Removing her hand from his mouth, she put her lips against his ear. “Don’t go near your room, Matt,” she whispered. “Get away from here. I’ll meet you down in the bar and explain—”

  “No you don’t,” he whispered back. “If anything’s wrong, I’m not leaving you.”

  “Matt, please do as I—”

  “No.”

  She glanced furtively at the corridor corner toward which he had been heading, and suddenly, she signaled him to follow her. She started back to the cubicle that the chambermaids and valets used, and she pushed open one frosted glass door and held it until he had followed her inside. Avoiding the pails of sudsy water, the pans and brooms, she drew him quickly into a recess of the alcove beside the table stacked high with fresh towels and bedsheets.

  “Matt, someone is in your room,” she said in a frightened undertone. “It’s dangerous. I’ve been waiting for twenty or thirty minutes to intercept you.”

  “Who’s in my room?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think there are two of them, and they’re turning it upside down.”

  “When did this start?”

  “Right after I first heard them. Maybe a half hour ago. I got in late. I was undressing to take a bath, and I kept worrying about what was holding you up. Then I heard you come into your sitting room, or at least I thought it was you. I was eager to know how you made out with Rostov, so I went to the two doors between our bedrooms. They were both shut but unlocked. I opened my door and was about to open yours when I realized there wasn’t one voice in your sitting room but two. I figured you had company, had brought some man back with you. Then I realized the two in your room were speaking French, and I tried to listen from my side, and when the two came into your bedroom, I could hear them clearly. It was perfect French, without the slightest American accent, and the voices—neither one was yours, and then I knew they were strangers.”

  “What were they saying? Could you understand any of it?”

  “You know my French—no, not much, just a little bit.”

  “What, Lisa?”

  “Something about a manuscript that Monsieur Brennan had written—I think they were saying a manuscript that was against or attacked Russia.”

  “That damn fiction again.”

  “Anyway, they kept throwing things around, they couldn’t find it—”

  “It doesn’t exist.”

  “—but then one of them shouted to the other that he’d found something else, and it wa
s enough to satisfy the charges against you. I think that’s what he said. I’m not positive.”

  “Charges against me?”

  “That’s the instant when I closed my door, threw on my robe, and slipped out of my room to wait for you here.”

  “You did the right thing, Lisa. Are they still in there?”

  “I haven’t heard anyone leave on this side.”

  “Good.”

  He started to go, but she caught his arm. “Matt—?”

  “I’ve got to get into your room and find out what this is all about,” he whispered. “I have a feeling—well, let’s see if we can find out.”

  He left the service alcove quickly, Lisa at his heels, and crossed the corridor to Room 110, opened Lisa’s door swiftly, pushed her in ahead of him, and followed her inside. He closed her corridor door, directed her to stand near the mirrored wardrobe, and started on tiptoe around the brass bed.

  Lisa came up behind him, stopping him while she cupped her mouth to his ear. “Matt, I told you neither of our doors is locked. If you open mine, there’ll only be yours. And if one of them should try it, you’ll fall right in their laps.”

  “That’s the chance,” he said grimly.

  He continued toward Lisa’s connecting door. He pressed against it. He could detect faint voices, but the actual words were inaudible. He reached down and gripped the handle and turned it slowly. He heard the lock retract. Softly, he pulled the door open.

  Now there was the thickness of only one door, his own, separating him from the intruders.

  Moving in closer, he placed his ear against the remaining door and listened.

  The sounds were louder, but still indistinct. There were two of them, no doubting that, and they were in his sitting room, engaged in a muffled conversation.

  Suddenly, he tightened at the door.

  They were walking. Their footsteps were distinct. They were coming into his bedroom, very near. The steps ceased. The springs of his bed groaned. One of them had sat down on it. The receiver was being removed from the cradle of the telephone next to his bed.

  “Operator? Put me through to the Commissaire Controleur General. You have the number.”

  It was the crisp voice of a Frenchman, someone in authority, and the moment that he resumed speaking on the telephone, Brennan resumed automatically translating in his head, converting French into English.

  Brennan flattened’ his ear harder against the door, trying to make out every word.

  The deep voice on the other side was addressing the Commissaire Controleur General on the telephone.

  “Monsieur le Commissaire?… This is Superintendent Quarolli, des Services de la Sécurité Présidentielle. I am calling you from Monsieur Matthew Brennan’s rooms in the Hotel California, Rue de Berri… Yes, that is correct. It is on the formal charges lodged by the Soviet Russian Embassy about two hours ago… No, I do not recall the exact specifications, but they are in the complaint signed by Marshal Zabbin and attested to by Minister Rostov… Yes, about two hours ago. I am sure it is already on your desk. It is the document charging that Monsieur Brennan has made homicidal threats to a member of the Russian delegation… Yes, I will wait.”

  Listening, Brennan waited also. Not a muscle of his person moved, but beneath his flesh he could feel his nerve ends tingling.

  Superintendent Quarolli’s voice penetrated the wooden partition once more.

  “That is it, Monsieur le Commissaire, and I have the original warrant with me. What is that?… No, Monsieur Brennan has been out of his room most of the afternoon, but the concierge believed he would be back sometime this evening to keep a dinner appointment… Yes, Inspector Gorin and I have spent three-quarters of an hour making a thorough search of his two rooms. We have gone through all of his personal effects, examined every nook of his rooms. We have been unable to discover the manuscript that the Russian Embassy spoke about. However, we have found some evidence which may be far more incriminating. We have a sheaf of notes made in Monsieur Brennan’s own hand, and some of these plainly indicate that Brennan has been threatening the Russians and may be potentially dangerous, as charged. One second, please…. Voilà. Inspector Gorin reminds me that there is one line in Monsieur Brennan’s notes that reads ‘Assassinate—Russ delegate—soon.’ Gorin and I believe that is sufficient evidence upon which to arrest and to hold him, and satisfy the charge of the Russian Embassy… No, Monsieur le Commissaire, that would have to take place tomorrow. The Russians explained that they could not enter into this matter tonight, since both Zabbin and Rostov are guests of the President at Versailles this evening, the dinner for the Chiefs of State. What?… Exactly. They merely requested that Brennan be picked up this evening and detained, held in custody, until tomorrow when they will appear in person to make formal the charges and confront him. Gorin and I believe we have sufficient evidence to indicate the American is a menace to public safety and to the conference security… Agreed. We shall wait right here in his rooms. The minute he comes in, we shall place him under arrest and shall bring him to the Préfecture for questioning. In this way we can keep him locked up overnight and satisfy our Soviet friends… What is that?… Well, whatever you say, sir. If Brennan does not return within one hour, I will call you back, and you can issue the order for a general alarm to have him brought in… Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire, you need have no—”

  Brennan had heard enough.

  Quietly, he backed away, and noiselessly, he closed Lisa’s door and secured the lock.

  He swung around to Lisa, his eyes shining and .all of his being electrified with restored hope.

  “I heard most of—” Lisa began to whisper, but she held her tongue when Brennan brought his forefinger to his lips.

  He pulled her across her bedroom, and led her to the corridor door.

  “What does it all mean, Matt?” she whispered.

  “It means I’ve got my final piece of evidence at last,” he said excitedly, “proof that there is a plot in existence, and the denouement of that plot is going to take place at Versailles tonight. You want to know who gave me the proof? Rostov himself.”

  “When? At Hazel’s?”

  “No. Right here. Just now. I saw him at Hazel’s exactly as we planned. It was no use. He wouldn’t crack an inch, wouldn’t admit to anything. I accused him of everything, but he simply denied it, and that was that. Or so I thought. But, now—” He beamed at the door across the room. “Now he tipped his hand. I must have been absolutely accurate about an assassination, about Versailles tonight. Because obviously Rostov ran back to his Embassy, informed his superiors—Zabbin, others—and they got in touch with the French police, drumming up any pretext of a charge to get me picked up and hauled off to jail tonight—tonight, mind you. All they wanted to be sure of was that I was out of the way, out of their hair, tonight, so they could be free to do whatever they want to do at Versailles. But I’m going to fool them.” Suddenly, he took Lisa in his arms and kissed her, and said, “And when I’m done with this, Lisa, I’m going home with you, and we’re going to be married, because Rostov confirmed my innocence in Earnshaw’s hearing, and Earnshaw is signing an affidavit to that effect, and he’s going to release it publicly and clear me.”

  Tears filled Lisa’s eyes, and she whispered against his chest, “Oh, Matt, Matt, Matt—thank God—”

  Firmly, he pushed her away. “Tell you about it later. Now I’ve got to hurry.”

  “Matt, you’re not leaving?”

  “You want me to stay, when I’ve finally got the proof? No, darling, too much is at stake. I’m going to get Earnshaw, and he and I are going to finish our business with Rostov.”

  “But they’re at Versailles.”

  “And I’m practically at Versailles, too.”

  He reached for the doorknob, but Lisa tugged at his arm. “Don’t, Matt. If you cause trouble, get mixed up in this, and you’re wrong, the French police will arrest you. They’ll be looking for you in an hour anyway, and you’ll be all over the fron
t pages again, another scandal. It’ll completely ruin the effect of Earnshaw’s release declaring your innocence. If you’re wrong here, nobody’ll believe, no matter what Earnshaw says, that you weren’t wrong four years ago. We’ve got everything in our favor now, this minute. Why risk it when you don’t have to? Matt, you do see the danger?”

  He nodded. “Yes, darling, but that’s not the only danger I see.” He kissed her hastily again. “I’m going out there and down the stairs. And in case there are any DST agents out front, I’m leaving by the back way, the hotel’s service exit. I’m going to phone Hazel and Doyle, because I’ll need help to get into where I’m going.” He grinned. “The French invited 600 guests to Versailles Palace tonight. I don’t know how, but I promise you, they’re going to have 601.”

  Lisa released him. She smiled up at him lovingly. “Matt, I—” Suddenly, she threw up her hands and said, “Oh, hell—just drive carefully.”

  IT WAS an unforgettable sight.

  Directly ahead, filling his windshield, ablaze with thousands of lights, rose the most dazzling, the most magnificent royal residence in the world, the Palace of Versailles, the Sun King’s gift of heaven’s eye to man on earth.

  As Brennan approached it through the staid city’s wide sweeping thoroughfare, his shoe brushed the brake of his steaming Peugeot, and he slowed to have a glimpse at the time. His wristwatch read two minutes after nine o’clock.

  He was sure, he told himself, he had made a record run from Paris.

  He had safely slipped out of the Hotel California and slipped into Le Tangage, and from there he had telephoned Hazel’s apartment. There had been no answer. He had remembered then Hazel’s remark to Doyle that she hoped to be at Versailles “about nine o’clock” to have plenty of time to look around before the state dinner ended and the ballet in the palace’s Opera Royal began, and before Herb Neely started his briefing of the American press.