The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  They were passing the corner edifice that housed the staff and presses of Le Figaro, and then the two huge outdoor terraces of the Café du Colisée, with middle-aged Frenchmen absorbed in their newspapers as they enjoyed their brioches and coffee at yellow formica-topped tables, and with petite Parisiennes, the urchin-faced girls in sweaters and skirts gossiping beneath the fringed umbrellas, and then there was a bus with the sign PONT DE NEUILLY, and a Loterie Nationale ticket booth.

  He could see, peering up the intersecting Rue la Boëtie, the lofty neon sign reading Club Lautrec and the mammoth cardboard cutout of a nude chanteuse with a streamer across her thighs reading: PREMIÈRE DEMAIN—LA SCANDALEUSE BEAUTÉ ANGLAISE—EN PERSONNE. There were, on the broad sidewalks, large French families in their Sunday best, boys walking their bicycles, pigeons strutting, and window-shoppers hiding the fronts of the luxurious stores. They were rolling past No. 76, the maw of Les Arcades that led into the underground Lido, and suddenly, they were at the corner of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées and the Rue de Berri, where two bearded Left Bank art students were squatting as they sketched a holy picture on the pavement while tourists gathered, and where a vendor nearby was selling foreign magazines from his improvised plank counters, and now they were turning to the right and entering the Rue de Berri.

  Leaving the Champs-Élysées, he thought: Paris. It was all he had just seen, and it was more. It was mille-feuille and le scotch. It was feux d’artifice from the Pont Neuf on Bastille Day. It was les grands magasins closed Mondays and épiceries open Sundays. It was a carnet de tickets for the Métro. It was garçon and service compris. It was pissoirs and les Immortels de l’Académie Française. It was vin ordinaire and citron pressé. It was géraniums en pots and porcelaine de Limoges. It was pneumatique and zones bleues. It was le bistro and le bidet. It was Prisunic and Cartier. It was Simcas and truffles and Flaminaires and Opéra-Comique and Venus de Milo and the Sorbonne and girls named Giséle. It was Noél in June. It was bien. It was trés jolie. It was Paris, his Paris, unchanged, and he felt extraordinarily alive. He did not know if the sorcery was Paris alone, or Lisa in Paris, or Rostov in Paris, and he did not care. He felt wonderful.

  His excitement, he realized, had been crystallized in a fleeting moment, for they had only just entered into the Rue de Berri.

  “We get out in the next block,” he said.

  “You think it’ll be all right?” Lisa asked.

  He smiled. “Of course, it will. This is Paris.”

  “I love Paris, it’s so beautiful,” she said, kissing his cheek, “and I love you, Mr. Brennan.” She looked ahead. “Very well, sir, I’m prepared to live in flagrant sin.”

  It had not been until they were nearing Milan last night that Brennan finally persuaded Lisa to move into the California Hotel with him and occupy an adjoining bedroom, or, if necessary, share his own room. As for the suite her company had reserved for her in the Plaza-Athénée, she could retain it and pretend to be living there to satisfy her fashion associates, but she would use it merely as working quarters.

  Brennan had told Lisa that they would enjoy more privacy at the quiet California than at the bustling Plaza-Athénée. What he had not told her was that the Athénée was the hotel where he and Stefani used to stay, and that he did not wish to relive painful memories or meet those who might remember. Since the divorce and his expatriation, he had broken from the past and taken to staying at the California Hotel whenever he was in Paris. He had done this not only because the hotel was new to him, inexpensive, casual, accessible to restaurants and shops, but because, despite the newspapermen in the New York Herald Tribune Building across the street (who were fellow expatriates and friendly), the California was not a prestige hotel attracting the famous, and therefore he could remain relatively unrecognized.

  “Here we are, Lisa,” he announced. “Number 16 Rue de Bern, the California.”

  “I can’t get used to that name for a French hotel.”

  “Well, we crossed the Avenue Franklin-D.-Roosevelt coming here, and the next block down is the Rue Washington, and one night I’ll take you to the Crazy Horse Saloon, and that’s not Las Vegas, that’s Paris, too.”

  The porter had the taxi door open, but Brennan felt Lisa’s restraining hand on his arm. “Matt,” she said softly, “I’m glad you came here. I know you won’t be sorry.”

  He gave her a tentative smile. “If you’re even half as much of a prophetess as you are a woman—well, maybe something will work out. Let’s pray to God and Comrade Rostov.”

  The moment that they entered the lobby, the beefy concierge, M. Dupont, red-cheeked and reeking of red wine as usual, rushed out from behind his counter to pump Brennan’s hand, and to acknowledge jovially his friend’s friend, Miss Collins, and to welcome her. At the reception desk, running another line of greetings and introductions, Brennan was pleased to learn that the management had transferred several Chinese journalists from the first floor to the seventh to accommodate an old customer. Brennan signed the registry card for his bedroom and parlor, and Lisa signed for the single bedroom next to Brennan’s own.

  They took the confining elevator to the first floor. Brennan led Lisa up a dim corridor to Room 110. Inside, two porters were already setting Lisa’s suitcases on luggage stands. Then, after pulling open the heavy drapes, they lingered briefly for the tip and were gone.

  Happily, Lisa examined the bathroom, with its deep tub, bidet, washstand, and the narrow toilet next to it with a pull chain dangling from its archaic overhead water tank. Then she went into the green bedroom, studying the mirrored armoire and large brass double bed. She followed Brennan to the French windows, which he had opened, and she hung over the rail of the tiny balcony, looking down into the serene inner court with its splashing fountain.

  She turned back and hugged Brennan. “It’s charming, quaint and charming, and best of all, it has my favorite decor—you. Brennan XIV baroque. That’s what I adore… Matt, where are you going to be?”

  “Wait,” he said. He indicated the door between the windows and bed. “Unlock and open that, Lisa, and then wait.”

  He left Room 110, hurried around the corner past 111, and entered 112. The stiff old-fashioned parlor held a velour-covered divan, maroon plush chairs, leather-inset desk, and marble-top commode. He continued on into his bedroom, unlocked the second of the two doors between their rooms and pulled it back—and there was Lisa, waiting.

  “Lo, we’re one,” he announced, bowing her into his larger bedroom.

  She entered slowly. “Maybe you should carry me over the threshold,” she said. She glanced about. “It doesn’t feel like sin. It feels like light housekeeping. I’m so glad you made me come here with you.”

  “Only one thing, Lisa. The amenities. When we’re together, alone, we can keep our two connecting doors open, have our three rooms. But whenever one of us leaves, we probably should play the game for the maids and any visitors, by shutting and locking the connecting doors. Pretend we have separate rooms.”

  “I never knew you were really a prude, Mr. Brennan.”

  “I’m really a gallant gentleman, protecting my fair lady’s honor.”

  “Of course, Matt.” She walked into his sitting room, then gayly returned to him. “Oh, I adore this… Well, here we are—you—me—Paris. It’s bewildering. What do we do next?”

  Sitting on his bed, smoking cigarettes, they discussed what she should do this first day here, and what he must do. She would take a lazy bath, she decided, then unpack, separate her work materials and a few unneeded articles of clothing, and repack them and check them into the Plaza-Athénée. There she would read her mail, go over her schedules of the fashion showings, and confer with her colleagues. As for himself, Brennan decided that he, too, would freshen up before seeking a means of locating Nikolai Rostov.

  When she turned her back to him so that he could unbutton her blouse, she said, “I may be tied up for dinner tonight, with my confreres.”

  “I rather expect you wi
ll be.”

  She pulled off her loose blouse. “What will you be doing, Matt?”

  “Maybe I’ll get lucky and connect with Rostov right away. More likely—well, I have a few friends around—”

  “Any of them pretty girls?”

  “They all have mustaches.”

  “No, seriously—”

  “I’ll probably be too bushed to go out tonight. Maybe I’ll take a walk on the Champs, grab a snack somewhere, and be back here early to plan the next few days, catch up on my reading, and wait for you.”

  “Will you? I don’t want to sleep alone my first night in Paris.”

  “You won’t, Lisa.”

  “Mmm, good… Can I walk to the Plaza-Athénée?”

  “Yes, but don’t, not with a piece of luggage. Ask the doorman to get you a taxi.”

  “What do I tip the taxi driver?”

  He dug into his pocket for a handful of coins and sorted through them. “If you want to be a rich American and spoil it for everyone else, and make it simple for yourself, tip either one of these coins.” He handed her two silver coins. “The one with the female head and torch is a 100-franc piece, old style—do you see?—and the other with the full figure of the woman is one franc, new style—100 old francs, one new franc, and they both have exactly the same value. They’re worth twenty cents American each. Got it?”

  She nodded. “You see how much I need you?”

  He kissed the back of her neck and rubbed his cheek against her soft dark lustrous hair, and unfastening her brassiere, he whispered, “I need you more, darling.”

  As her brassiere fell away, and his arms encircled her, she said unsteadily, “Shouldn’t we wait until tonight?”

  “No,” he said, and then withdrew his hands and said, “but we will.” He lifted her from the bed to her feet. “Have a good time, darling. And lock that door behind you.”

  She went quickly into her room, closed the door, and turned the latch. Reluctantly, Brennan shut and locked his door. He went into his sitting room and phoned down to have the concierge send out for shaving and toilet articles and four bottles of Scotch and cognac. He explained about the luggage that was following him and requested M. Dupont to check customs for it. Then he asked that a long-distance call be put through to the Hotel Danieli in Venice.

  Waiting for his call, Brennan removed his drip-dry shirt, washed it thoroughly, and hung it near his window in the sun. He ran his tub. As he finished, the connection with Venice was made. He learned that his suitcases were on their way to Paris and would arrive that evening. He discussed the holding of his rooms at the Danieli and the forwarding of his money, and he left messages for several Italian friends, especially the Armenian fathers at San Lazzaro, who might worry about him. He promised that he would be back in Venice in two weeks, if not sooner.

  Once undressed and immersed in the tepid water of the tub, he tried to concentrate on his mission. Since learning in the Rome Daily American last night of Nikolai Rostov’s resurrection, and telling Lisa about it on the train, he had not had time to think clearly about his next move. Now, rubbing himself with a soapy washrag, he considered the immediate future. He must locate Rostov. He must arrange to see Rostov. He must know what to say to Rostov. But first, he must locate him. The latest newspapers had offered no information. Yet, Brennan believed, discovering this would not be difficult, despite the fact that Rostov was a Russian and Russians were usually secretive, because Rostov was also a public delegate to a public international conference.

  By the time Brennan had dried and dressed—except for his shirt, which was still damp—he knew what his first step would be. Actually, he had known from the moment of his arrival in Paris. He would telephone the United States Information Service at the American Embassy and ask for Herb Neely, the press attaché. Of the handful of Brennan’s friends from the past who had remained steadfast after the Congressional hearing, Herb Neely had been the most trustworthy and the most loyal. Brennan and Neely had been roommates at Georgetown long ago, and they had worked together as recently as Zurich four years before. Afterward, the new President had appointed a new Ambassador to France, and his Ambassador had selected Neely as his press attaché. Whenever Brennan had passed through Paris, coming from or returning to Venice, he had always looked forward to the ritual dinner and evening with Neely and his wife, Frances, and their three adopted children. With Neely, there was no need for apology or pretense. With Neely, Brennan could be himself.

  Going to the telephone, Brennan suddenly realized that it was Sunday and Neely might not be available. Yet, as he sank into the deep feathery divan, he knew that the entire American Embassy staff would be on the job, since the Five-Power Disarmament Conference would open at the Palais Rose in the morning.

  Brennan lifted the receiver and asked for Anjou 74-60, Extension 7549. When a woman in the American Embassy press section answered, he asked for Herb Neely. After giving his name, he sat expectantly, and to his relief he heard Neely’s mellifluous, faintly Southern, faintly weary voice.

  “Hallo. That you, Matt?”

  “None other,” said Brennan. “How are you, Herb? How’s the family?”

  “Fine, fine. It’s sure good to hear your voice again, old man. Frances and I, we’ve discussed you a hundred times. Worried maybe you fell into a canal. Not a peep since last Christmas.”

  “Well, there’s really been nothing to write about, I guess. You know—”

  “Dammit, I don’t know, Matt. Next time, write about nothing. That would mean more to us than most people who write about something. So—no changes?”

  “Well, I saw Ted in Venice last night.”

  “No kidding? How was it? Sticky?”

  “Not easy, but I may have reached him. Then—” Brennan hesitated, weighing the next and deciding that he could be honest with Neely. “Well, one more thing. I’m not here alone, I brought a young lady.”

  “Now I reckon that’s the best news I’ve heard in years. The old man’s rejuvenated, and about time. An Italian babe?”

  “American. Here to cover the fashion shows. It embarrasses me a little, she’s so young.”

  “Lucky dog.”

  “I’m serious about her, Herb, but I don’t know… there are so many other considerations.”

  “I hope I get a chance to meet her.”

  “You will… Look, Herb, I don’t want to eat up your time like this. I know how busy you must be right now. I do remember. Actually, I’m calling you about something specific. Let me tell you, quickly, why I came to Paris.”

  “I already know.”

  Taken aback, Brennan said, “You do?”

  “Sure, I know. His initials are Nikolai Rostov. He’s out of hiding, or whatever, and he arrived here this morning. If you hadn’t showed up by tomorrow, I aimed to call you in Venice.”

  “Thanks, Herb. That was certainly a jolt, seeing his name again.”

  “All of us in the Embassy were just as surprised, believe me.”

  “Well, now you know why I’m busting in on you like this. I’ve got a question—”

  “And I’ll try to get you the answer as soon as possible,” said Neely. “Where can you find him? Is that it?”

  “That’s it. Do you think he’d be staying at the Soviet Embassy?”

  “Doubt it, Matt. Rostov’s a big fish all right, but the Russians have plenty of whales here, and the whales get first call on the prime space. He’s probably at some hotel. Let me find out and phone you. No, hold it, I’ll tell you what—I’ve got to be in your vicinity anyway—I’ve been ordered to take some of the American press on a dry run of the Summit headquarters, the Palais Rose, at one o’clock. Have to show them where it’s taking place, give them a briefing. But I’ll have time for a drink and a quick sandwich round noon, and I reckon by then maybe I’ll have what you want. Unless”—he paused—“would you prefer to come over here, join me in the Crillon bar?”

  Brennan felt his frown. “That might be a little rough for both of us, Herb.
If the Crillon is what it used to be, we’d probably run into your Embassy crowd, and some of my old State Department colleagues, and well, you know—”

  “Still carrying the Scarlet Letter, eh?” Neely snorted. But he quickly softened. “Oh, hell, I understand, Matt. It was a lousy suggestion anyway. I guess I was trying to force you out into the open again. Therapy of defiance. Don’t pay it any mind. Okay, back to your bailiwick—it’s the same arrondissement anyway. Let’s say the joint on the corner of the Champs-Élysées and Rue Marbeuf—Café Le Longchamp, twelve noon.”

  “Twelve noon.”

  “If I have anything to say about it, you’re going to pin down Rostov once and for all, and go home as pure and shining as Galahad.”

  “I hope so. Thanks for everything, Herb. See you at noon.”

  After hanging up, feeling that the plan for his exoneration had been set in motion, Brennan accepted delivery of his toilet articles. He shaved leisurely, visualizing what life could be like after Rostov’s support had cleared him, life with Lisa, life with Ted and Tracy, life in Washington, D. C, once more. Completing his dressing, he saw that it was a quarter to twelve, and he left immediately for the Champs-Élysées.

  When he arrived at the Café Le Longchamp, the sidewalk tables beneath the awning were only half occupied. He could not find Herb Neely. Moving in to stake claim on an isolated shaded table, he heard his name called and spun around, to find Neely waving, as he hurried toward him in long straight-legged strides. For an instant, Brennan saw his friend as Chad Newsome walking out of the pages of Henry James’s The Ambassadors, because Brennan had expected Neely to look so American and harried and, instead, he appeared so French and at home. He has found his place, Brennan thought, and envied him.

  They shook hands, and took the café table beneath the front of the awning.

  “We’d better order before it fills up,” said Neely, twisting around to find a waiter.

  Brennan observed his friend with affection. The blond hair had thinned, and as a result the sideburns had lengthened and the tuft of beard on his chin (“my authentic imperial,” he liked to say) had thickened, and his hair was combed sideways to cover a patch of bald pate. The rimless spectacles perched on the beaky nose, the high, pointed collar of the shirt, the short jacket and tight trousers of the striped mohair summer suit were French. Yet, the businesslike haste of his speech, with the contradictory roll of a Kentucky accent acquired in childhood, remained American.