The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Medora Hart somehow thought, whenever her activities passed through the amoral filter of her conscience, that Paddy and his girls and she herself were performing naturally in a perfectly acceptable, somewhat known, entirely legal, if permissive way. In the very few times that she had been apprehensive, wondering whether the activity was contrary to the law, she had put her fears aside, assuming that Paddy knew everybody who counted, and what could be done and not be done, and that, anyway, they were all of them above the law since their lovers were, in a sense, the law itself. Yet, apparently, now the police and the press decreed otherwise, and the scandal was shaking the foundations of Great Britain and being emblazoned across a thousand front pages, in hundreds of tongues, around the entire globe. She was stricken less by what appeared to be misconduct on her part than by the danger of being humiliated and punished for doing what she had not known was wrong.

  Considering Paddy’s notable and illustrious patrons, Medora could not conceive how their private behavior had been revealed to the slobbering masses. But as lurid newspaper edition supplanted lurid newspaper edition, the truth came into the open. Paddy Jameson had been a victim of his own weakness, unknown to her, and his weakness had been gambling. He had fallen deeply into debt, and his life had been threatened by a gang of Soho boys. Unable to obtain personal loans from his friends for a large enough amount, he had clumsily attempted to blackmail the crusty old duke, the one out near Hampton Court, the host of the orgies, and Paddy had miscalculated His Grace’s temper. Infuriated by a young man’s blackmail, and too old to care about his already tarnished career, the duke had gone to Scotland Yard, turned over the evidence of blackmail, and told all he had seen and all in which he had been a participant. This confession had led the investigators to an alcoholic newspaper columnist who had bought Paddy’s tidbits and secondhand bed talk and transformed them, without names and with much use of the words “rumor” and “alleged,” into print. Since his Catholic conscience, and liver and gout had recently been nagging him, the newspaperman added substantially more and racier information to His Grace’s confession.

  And so the scandal was loosed and out—at least, some of it was out. Paddy himself, when interrogated at the Yard, pretended rage, claimed persecution, defended his good name, and admitted to nothing. Paddy’s flat, the police had expected, would be the depository of enough evidence to convict him, but its drawers and desks and safe offered them only fastidious respectability, Bond Street apparel, birthday cards from relatives, insurance policies, bills from the corner chemist. Obviously, someone, with more of a stake in Jameson’s future than a mere loss of friendship, had visited the flat first. The police departed empty-handed.

  The disappointment of the officers of the Yard and the Security Service did not trouble or long deter the public prosecutor. He already possessed enough to proceed. Two of Paddy’s girls were located and arrested. Four members of Paddy’s illustrious clientele were located and interrogated and retained as Crown witnesses. There were hints of others, other girls, other patrons, but the public prosecutor did not worry, certain that some would come forward voluntarily and the rest would be flushed out by the sensational headlines and the ominous police statements in the daily press.

  For an entire week, Medora kept herself to her service flat, maintaining liaison with the outer world through the newspapers that her loyal, overpaid, backward Jamaican housekeeper brought to her. Two and three times daily, Medora combed each fresh edition, with the same caution and dread that the elderly feel when they turn to each day’s obituary notices. So far, her name had not been mentioned in print. The two of Paddy’s girls under arrest had not known her name, and of the three remaining at large only one knew her name, address, and something of her history. As to those of Paddy’s clients who were being assembled for testimony, not one had been her client. So far, safe. But safe from what, she was unable to understand. The case against Paddy was strong. But the case against Paddy’s girls was not clearly set forth—only references to “prostitution,” which were, to Medora, utterly ridiculous.

  Her fear, a throwback to childhood’s fear of suffering hell-fire for immorality, she could only attribute to the public prosecutor’s thundering pronouncements about corruption and sin, his latest pronouncements having drawn upon a predecessor, the one who had prosecuted Stephen Ward during the Profumo affair and who had said, “We have come in this case to the depths of lechery and depravity.” The tone reminded Medora not of Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys but of the Reverend Davidson. She did not fear justice but rather sanctimonious hypocrisy. Miss Sadie Thompson’s contemptuous hatred had been in her mind: “You men! You filthy, dirty pigs! You’re all the same, all of you.” And then, thinking of this, Medora would be afraid.

  For Medora, in her seclusion, the second week of the scandal proved to be the most suspenseful and trying. The second week began promisingly. Preparations for the trial were underway. The prosecution admitted, with sniffing dismay, that no new girls had been turned up, but they were still seeking Paddy’s male acquaintances. For Medora, faint hope. Then new editions, later stories, vaguely alarming, soon sinister. Several of Paddy’s acquaintances had been traced, had agreed to cooperate with the police, were being questioned in secrecy today. For Medora, fainter hope, but hope still, not despair. Compulsively, she ate her sweets, and between newspaper editions, she listened to the wireless, and she waited, hopefully waited. No news, her mother used to say, was good news, luv.

  Then overnight, with the first front page of the new morning, with the vacuous face staring up at her, all hope was shattered.

  The headline read:

  ORMSBY NAMED IN JAMESON AFFAIR!

  The subheadline read:

  NEW WITNESS REVEALS INTELLIGENCE DEPT. OFFICER,

  BROTHER OF MILLIONAIRE M.P., SEEN AT

  PADDY’S ORGIES.

  Her wide eyes raced down the column for her name. It was not there. Exhaling her relief, she began to read the story from the start. One of the latest witnesses had given the police a half-dozen names of influential persons that he had recently met during a brief cocktail visit to Paddy Jameson’s flat. Among these, he had recalled, was Mr. Sydney Ormsby, attached to British Intelligence, and the younger brother of the rising politician. Sir Austin Ormsby, Member of Parliament and head of Ormsby Press Enterprises, Ltd. The younger Ormsby had, on that occasion, been accompanied by a pretty blond girl in her twenties. The witness did not know her name. However, young Ormsby had seemed to be quite familiar with her and apparently was on the best of terms with Paddy Jameson. The newspaper story concluded with the fact that Mr Sydney Ormsby was being summoned by the police for questioning.

  Huddled in her service flat, forgoing sweets for gin-and-tonic, Medora fatalistically surrendered to the inevitable. She waited for the officers of the law. Yet, throughout the day, no one came to the door. She waited for the late evening newspapers, and when they appeared, she was almost limp with relief, as if a last-minute reprieve had rescued her from the gallows. There was a news photograph of Sydney arriving for the interrogation, smirking and confident. There was a portrait of Sir Austin, bearing a caption to the effect that the M.P. “stood steadfastly behind his allegedly errant brother.” Then there was the report of the interrogation: Sydney Ormsby had flatly contradicted the testimony of the witness who claimed to have seen him in Paddy Jameson’s flat. Sydney had sworn that while he did have a nodding acquaintance with the defendant, he had never once been inside Jameson’s flat. Even more firmly, he had sworn that, at least to the best of his knowledge, he had never met a so-called Jameson girl, let alone enjoy the favors of any of them. It had surprised him, he added, to learn that the mild, well-bred Jameson had actually been a procurer.

  As she read this, Medora’s relief was leavened by amusement at Sydney’s audacity. Sydney had brazened out a lie, she knew, had maybe even committed outright perjury, but he had convinced his inquisitors that he was blameless and uninvolved. Somehow, she felt safer after this, becaus
e if someone in Sydney Ormsby’s position could dare such a denial under oath, and come off with it, then she need have no alarm for herself. For the first time, she possessed the comforting feeling that her anonymity would continue to be preserved.

  That night, having washed her hair and done it up in curlers, she felt optimistic enough to ignore the wireless for once and to give the late hours over to an old American film spectacle about the romantic South that was being presented on the telly. Sipping a Grand Marnier, relaxed on her ruffled divan, she was fully absorbed in the gracious plantation set among the magnolias, and the brooding master caught between two women, when suddenly a shrill piercing sound startled her, sent a chill through her, and made her sit upright.

  The doorbell had rung. And three short, sharp raps followed it.

  Fumbling for her robe, heart thudding, she realized that what she had dreaded most was finally happening. She was having a caller. The police, she had often read, always came at midnight, when your resistance was low.

  Pressing herself against the door, she asked tremulously, “Who is it?”

  The voice was almost inaudible. “A friend. Please let me in.”

  Distrustful, but fearful of opposing the law, she hastily unlatched the door and opened it.

  At first, she did not recognize him and then, from her obsessive reading of the newspapers, she did. She was face to face with The Brother. He stood there, aristocratic, contained, scrutinizing her with shrewd eyes, and then he said somewhat wearily, “Miss Hart, I presume? I am Austin Ormsby. If you are alone, I would suggest that you allow me inside.”

  In the living room, he glanced about, then slowly walked through the flat, and returned. He refused to remove his topcoat and he rejected the offer of a drink, but instead planted himself in the armchair, umbrella between his legs, and motioned her to the divan opposite him. She obeyed instantly, and waited for what was to happen.

  Although his voice was unhurried, he said at once that time was short and that he must come directly to the point of his visit. Of course, as she might imagine, the visit concerned his younger brother, Sydney, and Medora herself. Yes, yes, despite the press, he knew the truth of his brother’s relationship with her and with Paddy Jameson. It was most unfortunate, for everyone involved, but there it was and they must be realistic and make the best of a bad thing. But before proceeding further, a preliminary question.

  “Miss Hart, has the inspector of the police been by today?”

  “No—no one,” she said breathlessly.

  “Good,” he said, his face reflecting no satisfaction. “Then we still have time.”

  He would explain quickly, and without burdensome detail, and she must accept his word for all that he would say. With that, he went on. He had reason to believe that both she and his brother were in imminent danger. In his position he had access to certain reliable sources of information. He had learned, not more than two hours ago, that the police investigators were on to a lead that might ultimately, and seriously, involve Miss Hart and Sydney in the shoddy Jameson affair. Through a go-between, the police were in contact with a third one of Jameson’s girls, and this young lady was prepared to come forward with a full confession, but only if the law would guarantee to drop charges of prostitution against her. A compromise was this moment being discussed through the go-between.

  “A compromise will be effected,” Sir Austin said, “and when it is, this girl will emerge from hiding and will reveal the names of every one of you who have been represented by Jameson, and she will name all of your male friends as well. If this happens, as I am led to believe that it will shortly, your name will be made public, Miss Hart, and so will my brother’s again, and it distresses me to think of what will become of both of you.”

  Tears filled Medora’s eyes, and Sir Austin made a perfunctory effort to calm her. When she regained her composure, he said that he must inform her of the worst of it before undertaking to tell her the best of it. Waiting prayerfully for the best of it, Medora stiffened to hear the worst of it.

  If Medora should be found by the police and forced to stand in the witness box for the Crown, against the accused, Paddy Jameson, her testimony under oath would be ruinous not only to Jameson but to Sydney and to herself. A young woman, Sir Austin sermonized, has no greater asset than her public reputation. Once there is a blot on her fair name, she is ruined for life. An appearance in court would damage Medora Hart beyond repair. Moreover, if the Crown could prove that Jameson engaged or sold his girls as prostitutes, then after his trial and conviction, each of his young ladies could be tried, under the Sexual Offences Act, for prostitution. This action might be difficult for the Government to sustain, but it was a possibility not to be lightly regarded, and it could mean a jail sentence for Medora Hart.

  His own brother would suffer, Sir Austin admitted, but to a lesser degree. Once Medora was made to confess to her affair with him, Sydney, in turn, would be forced to acknowledge it, and to stand witness against Jameson in the near future and against Medora at a later date. While this kind of scandal was rarely as damaging to a male as to a female, Sir Austin explained in a somewhat pretentiously paternal tone, still it would do harm to Sydney’s future career, and, worse, it would unfairly embarrass Sir Austin himself and the entire Ormsby family. Did Medora fully understand all the consequences that would result from her detention and exposure in the Old Bailey?

  Medora fully understood; and, by now controlled, she also understood that The Brother had been giving her the most of it and Sydney the least of it.

  “You forgot one thing about my testimony,” she said bravely. “It would land Sydney smack in prison for perjury. He swore to the police he’d never had anything to do with any of us, but he had, and I’d be the second one made to say it.”

  Sir Austin studied her with new respect, and he nodded gravely. “Yes, Miss Hart, I daresay that might be a possibility. It would depend on whether my brother made his denial this morning under oath. There is a legal question there that is debatable. But yes, that would remain a possibility. In any event, and you must believe me, it is not for Sydney alone that I am here tonight, but to protect you as well.”

  The worst of it had been horrifying, and Medora’s composure had begun to disintegrate. Thinking of her prospects, she was no longer able to conceal her agitation. “What can be done?” she asked with anguish.

  “What can be done by us? Everything. What can be done by the police? Nothing, Miss Hart, nothing—as long as you are not here to cooperate with them.”

  “But I am here!”

  “Today, yes. But tomorrow—it is my hope, and my advice, that tomorrow you will be far from here, out of the reach of the law and the scandal.”

  “You mean run away?”

  “Run away, Miss Hart? Not at all. What would you be running away from if you were to leave England for the Continent tomorrow? You would be merely another young lady, with an income, seeking a change of climate and enjoying a long-desired holiday. As of now—and for the next twenty-four hours, I trust—you are a free citizen of a free land, at liberty to go where you wish and to do as you please within the limits of the law. If you choose to vacation in France, there is no reason why you cannot do so. Legally, you have as yet no connection with the Jameson case, and so you are of no interest to the police. If, however, while you happened to be on the Continent, outside British jurisdiction, it should turn out you were wanted as a witness in England, you would be safe to ignore a summons. You would be within your rights, I assure you, and there would be no effort at extradition. The Crown will have witnesses enough. The trial would consequently go on and end without you. And once Jameson is convicted and sentenced, the affair will be forgotten, and you will be forgotten, and after a lovely holiday of three or four months, you would be free to return to London, your reputation unimpaired, your freedom unfettered, your future before you.”

  “And Sydney, he’d get off, too?”

  “He would not be involved. The unsubstantiated e
vidence that he had consorted with one of Mr. Jameson’s girls? Who is there to prove it? Indeed, where is the girl?”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? Very well. I am prepared to finance your holiday on the Continent until the trial is over and it is perfectly safe for you to return. The only condition is that you must leave no later than tomorrow.”

  While Medora had not been deceived by Sir Austin’s solicitude—she had been perfectly aware that his sole concern was to protect the Ormsby family name—she realized that whatever course served his self-interest also served her own. She nodded. “All right. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

  “Clever girl.”

  Immediately, he replaced paternal regard with a solicitor’s questions. Did she have a passport? Yes, she had obtained one about six months ago to spend a weekend in Deauville with a friend. Could she shut down the flat and pack at once? Yes, easily, if she paid the van and storage people in advance and retained her housekeeper to undertake the task of packing after she had gone. Were there any papers, correspondence, diaries, photographs, receipts, cuttings, notes in the flat that would be self-incriminating and so should be destroyed? Nothing. Everything like that had already been destroyed. Did she have any money of her own? No, not really, unless she pawned her furs and jewels. Would she mind taking these valuables abroad? Oh, she would take them anyway. Did she have any urgent personal matters to settle before departing? Well, she’d have to see her mother and sister, drop by the bank, pack what she’d need on the Continent, arrange about the van and storage, and give up the flat.