The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  PARIS HAD HELD no surprises for her so far. It was exactly as it had been the other times, and as she had anticipated it would be this time.

  In the short walk from the Hotel San Régis in the Rue Jean-Goujon to the Avenue Montaigne, and then to the Rond-Point des Champs-Élysées, Medora Hart had been approached on four different corners, by four different Frenchmen, who had flirted with her or propositioned her in undertones, each hoping for much but expecting little and undismayed by her haughty shrugs of dismissal.

  One would think, she had thought, that they would have been surfeited by the readily available fashion mannequins in the neighborhood, or be put off by her unprovocative city attire (this was not the Riviera, after all), but she knew better. In Paris, the husband or lover of France’s most beautiful actress might flirt with a waitress, and everyone would understand. And so Medora Hart, a veteran of male overtures, understood, and was neither annoyed nor flattered.

  Having attained the Champs-Élysées, and being closer to her destination, Medora slowed before several shop windows to appraise herself. The ravages of the long drive from Juan-les-Pins and the sleepless night had been repaired by a sound two-hour nap in her quiet, darkened, Louis XVI inside room above the inner San Régis court. Refreshed by her rest, and a cold shower, Medora had returned Alphonse Michaud’s call, promising to be present for a brief rehearsal to ready her for the next night’s show. She had disposed of her rented Mercedes, and at last she had dressed.

  She had intended to do her flaxen hair in pigtails, and wear a middy blouse and skirt, all childish innocence, but she had discarded the notion as too cute and too much of a blow for Michaud, who was awaiting a sex symbol. In the end, she had decided upon a compromise, the tousled fun look, and dressed herself in a teal-blue lightweight-wool dress with a yellow stand-away collar that matched her soft yellow boots. She had swept her blond hair up, pinning it into place, and set a teal tam-o’-shanter on her head. Finally, with her makeup kit, leotards, and dance slippers in a yellow straw handbag, she had been ready.

  Glimpses of her reflection in the display windows along the Champs-Élysées, and the swiveling heads of male passersby, reassured her that she would make a satisfactory first impression on Michaud.

  Actually, the Club Lautrec engagement occupied the lesser part of her mind. It was no more to her than a means of keeping herself occupied until she had humbled Sir Austin Ormsby, and a final effort to make a bundle of money to pay for her beautician’s course once she was happily back with her mother and sister in her beloved London. Yet, the fussing about her appearance, the eagerness to attend the rehearsal and to do well at the cabaret, were vaguely tied in with her determination to bring about Sir Austin’s surrender. If she were well reviewed, well publicized, her appearance in Paris could not help but come to Sir Austin’s attention. Her audacity might unsettle him, make him more receptive to compromising with her so that he might be permanently rid of her. She had not yet had the opportunity to learn where she might reach Sir Austin or Fleur. She assumed this information would be mentioned in the evening papers, and if it was not, she would find out anyway. All that mattered was that she possessed Nardeau’s blatant nude of the hitherto unassailable Lady Ormsby, and that the nude, discreetly wrapped, was resting in the safety of the hotel vault.

  Medora had arrived at the Rue la Boëtie. As she turned right off the Champs-Élysées, she saw the massive neon sign proclaiming the location of the Club Lautrec and, below it, the giant cardboard cutout of a nude female. Suspicious, she hastened toward the cabaret entrance, but even before she had planted herself in front of the grotesque nude, her suspicions had been confirmed. The painted cardboard face in no way resembled her own, and the mammoth moon breasts and six-inch navel could be claimed by no woman alive. The sparkling silver fig leaf between the legs, disproportionately small compared to the size of the nude cardboard body and the reach of the legs, was offensive. There was no doubt that this Amazon was meant to represent Medora herself, for there it was in oversize black letters on the streamer across the thighs:

  PREMIÈRE DEMAIN—LA SCANDALEUSE BEAUTÉ ANGLAISE—EN PERSONNE—DANS SON FAMEUX NUMÉRO DE STRIP-TEASE—ELLE CHANTE, ELLE DANSE—C’EST MEDORA HART.

  Not only the indecent size of the figure angered Medora, but also its total lack of feminine appeal, which she was sure would repel any questing male. Turning away, she realized that several Frenchmen were standing nearby, staring up at the cutout with smirking approval.

  Well, maybe, Medora decided. Perhaps Michaud did know what he was about, but at least, at the very least, he could use more delicacy when publicizing her. This kind of promotion would only confirm in Sir Austin’s mind that he was treating with some four-bob chippy instead of a topflight entertainer who was admired by celebrities like Nardeau.

  She hurried into the tunnellike lobby of the Club Lautrec and walked by the tastefully framed original Toulouse-Lautrec affiches hanging on the walls, until she arrived at the high desk where a skinny bespectacled Frenchman in a blue serge suit was taking a dinner reservation over the telephone. When he was through, she introduced herself, and his wizened countenance came alive. In a torrent of French, he told her that M. Michaud was expecting her and that this moment he was directing the rehearsal inside.

  Abandoning the desk, the receptionist preceded Medora down a short flight of green-carpeted steps and opened heavy velvet curtains to allow her to pass through a doorway. In a dim cavern to her left, she made out an elegant padded horseshoe bar, and turning to her right, she was overwhelmed by the vastness of the cabaret. Now, it was erratically lighted except for the glaring brightness on the distant stage, a highly polished wooden platform that extended out into the dining area and was surrounded by empty tables.

  While the receptionist raced ahead to inform the proprietor of her arrival, Medora, who had never been inside the Club Lautrec before, advanced slowly and unobtrusively between the tables. Below the stage, several young Frenchmen were gathered, and a broad-shouldered, well-dressed gentleman sat tilted backward in a beige chair smoking lazily. Nearby, a stoutish, shapeless elderly woman, with short shingled purple hair, an empty cigarette holder clenched between her teeth, hands militantly on her hips, surveyed the stage, then addressed herself to the sound engineer at her elbow. The engineer, a curly-haired Algerian in a checked sport shirt, sat behind an intricate metal tape recorder and player, busily going through reels of tape.

  On the stage, a dozen, closer to a dozen and a half, tall young girls, magnificently limber and flawlessly beautiful, stood around, at ease and with apparent disinterest. These were, Medora guessed, the highly publicized girls of The Troupe. There appeared to be no standard for rehearsal dress except that it be comfortable and scanty. Several barelegged dancers wore black tights cut high at the sides. Others wore blouses knotted behind or in front, and skin-hugging bikini bottoms, their navels exposed. Still others wore form-fitting jersey sweaters, and pastel shorts or long dancers’ body stockings.

  Off to the right, below the platform, a half-dozen other leggy girls lounged at the tables in various states of rehearsal undress, sipping coffee or Cokes from paper cups, or smoking as they read French, German, English newspapers. Behind the girls, chattering and flirting among themselves, Medora could make out six or eight willowy young male dancers, probably French judging from their haircuts, most of them in T-shirts or thin sweaters, blue jeans or shorts, all of them in tennis shoes.

  Suddenly, the elderly woman clapped her hands together. “Troupers, attended” In rapid-fire English she loudly commanded, “Let us try ‘The Lady Is a Tramp’ from the beginning. Remember, remember, to kick out sharply, kick out, turn, look above the heads, but kick, don’t behave as if you have sticks in your backs.” She was gesticulating like an orchestra leader. “One, two, kick—three, four, turn—five, six, kick—fluttering your hands—and forget your old ballet lessons, don’t lay your heads back—heads straight—then weave forward, plop, down you go, up fast, get your derrieres o
ff the floor fast, spin and start the march to the rear. Now, let’s have it perfect this time. You, Christine, what’s the matter? Why that frown? You’ve been a swing long enough to manage right off, and if you become rattled, just do as Denise does. Ready? To your places!”

  The elderly lady said something to the engineer, who had finished adjusting a tape, and suddenly “The Lady Is a Tramp” blared from loudspeakers above, and the elderly lady was clapping her hands to mark the tempo, and the stockinged legs and bare legs were kicking high together. And then Medora realized that the broad-shouldered, handsome Frenchman was coming briskly toward her.

  She recognized him from the layout that she had seen in Paris Match, the pictures of him beside his Karmann-Ghia convertible, on his yacht outside Biarritz, in his luxurious bachelor’s apartment on the Île St.-Louis, in his régence office above the Club Lautrec (chatting with his Troupe girls, as he indolently fed his Yorkshire terrier). Yes, he was well made, virile-looking, jaunty, she could see, slicked hair, broad tanned features, athletic body in a blue alpaca suit, diamond tiepin, and heavy gold cuff links.

  “I am Michaud,” he said, lifting up Medora’s hand gracefully and brushing the back of it with his lips. “Welcome to Paris, Miss Hart. This is a distinct honor.”

  She nodded uncertainly, instantly disliking the arrogance of his eyes and manner, the surface glibness that would too thinly mask lies. But this was bread and butter, and perhaps the trap for Sir Austin, and so she said, as coolly remote as possible, “I am pleased to be here, Monsieur Michaud. I hope that I can work into the show satisfactorily despite so little preparation.”

  “No difficulty about that, my dear.” The din of the taped music became louder, and Michaud wrinkled his nose, peering off at the stage. “We can put you on in fifteen minutes. My apologies for that long a wait. My assistant, Countess Ribault, she is entirely in charge of The Troupe, and she has her endless problems. Her ancestry is half English, half Norman, thank goodness. It takes one of such sturdy forebears to cope with our little United Nations of eighteen girls and the two substitutes—swings, as we call them. Unfortunately, there has been a minor disaster. One of the swings has had her eye blackened, and one of the regulars ran off with a customer to Majorca, and a third announced this morning that she is pregnant, so we must contend with three new girls in the line.” He shook his head. “Someone is always becoming pregnant. Understand, I do not mind our girls having a love life”—he winked at Medora, and then studied her—“for I am certain, Miss Hart, that you agree that every young lady must have a satisfying love life. It is a necessity for well-being, no? I only resent, among my charges, carelessness. I cannot imagine you, if I may venture to say so, Miss Hart, being careless when making love?”

  It was the first slippery feeler, and with its inevitable appearance, Medora felt easier. This was familiar home ground, and here she had confidence. In her mind she turned the key, locked the door. Ignoring his question, she said, “I don’t mind waiting my turn to go on. I can use the time to change.”

  He smiled a handsome false smile. “How rude of me to keep you standing. Let me show you your dressing room, Medora.”

  The first feeler had been made, and now the intimacy of the first name, but Medora refused to waver. “Thank you, Monsieur Michaud.”

  He took her arm possessively, although she stiffened the muscles beneath his grip, but then he paused to hold her off, examining her from the teal tam-o’-shanter to the yellow boots. “What a cunning outfit,” he said. “Very clever. You are as winning as one of Colette’s cats. However, I’m afraid our clientele might not appreciate the ensemble, since it does not accent your best features.”

  “I dress as I please on my own time,” she said.

  “I spoke for our clientele, not for myself,” he said. “I, for one, admire individuality. Come now, my dear.”

  The music had ceased, and on the way to the cabaret dressing rooms Michaud paused to introduce Medora to the Countess Ribault, who was formal but friendly. Passing the girls on stage and off, who watched her with interest and envy (no doubt having heard rumors of her salary), Medora followed Michaud through a door at one side of the stage and entered the backstage area, which resembled a warehouse. Halting between the control booth and the resin box, she was introduced to an amusing Australian named Lewis, who was the chief of the control booth and who directed all cues from lighting to revolving stage sets.

  Preceding Michaud up a steep, winding circular staircase, conscious of his eyes on her calves and thighs, Medora hurried to reach the corridor above. Michaud stepped ahead to open the second door, and he bowed her inside. What she beheld was the replica of dozens of dressing rooms she had known throughout Europe, a cramped, utilitarian cubicle, with flat, dirty whitewashed plaster walls, tiny yellow bulbs arranged in a halo around the dressing table mirror, a lumpy cot, a chest of drawers, and a torn Japanese screen folded against one wall.

  “My profound apologies for the accommodations,” Michaud was saying. “They are not commensurate with your salary or billing, but since you were booked at the last minute, the more commodious rooms had already been taken by the other specialty acts. However, if you find this depressing, I might say that my own office suite is just above, and there is a magnificent dressing room which I would be only too pleased to—”

  “Thank you,” she interrupted. “This will do nicely.”

  “Je suis enchanté. It is good you are so easy to satisfy.”

  “Not always,” she said pointedly.

  He shot his cuffs. “Very well. If there is anything more I can do to accommodate you, Medora, do not hesitate to ask. Always à votre service”

  Then she remembered. “As a matter of fact, there is one thing. I am concerned as to how you—you present me to the public. That frightful poster of a woman, outside the entrance. It’s too obvious. And it doesn’t look like me at all.”

  “Ah, my dear, perhaps it does not do you full justice—what reproduction could?—but I suggest it does accurately convey your fine points, your voluptuousness.”

  Medora turned her bosom away from his gaze and began to open her straw handbag. “Well, maybe it’s not that so much as the words referring to the scandal. I don’t see any sense in dredging that up. It’s old history, and not very refined.”

  “My dear, we must be practical. This is a business. I am paying you an enormous fee. To make it worth my while, on top of the other salaries and overhead, you must attract customers we might otherwise not have. The Folies and the Lido have feature attractions who can sing well, dance well, offer nudity, but you alone can offer that little something more. The city is filled with foreigners, and the Jameson case is a part of their lives, and, in a sense, so are you.”

  She felt irritated. “At least play it down, and if you have to refer to it, please use good taste.”

  “Mademoiselle,” he said mockingly, “I have no desire but to present you exactly as you are, not as less than you are. I promise you that future advertising and publicity will be most discreet.”

  “That’s all I ask,” she said, dismissing him. “Thank you,

  Monsieur Michaud.” She had turned her back fully to him, and begun to remove her leotards, slippers, and makeup kit from her bag. When she did not hear the door close, she looked over her shoulder. He was still there, arms crossed over his chest, gazing down at her with an insolent smile.

  “I thought you’d gone,” she said.

  “No.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I thought I should se(c) what I bought.”

  “You’ll see it when I’m ready to show you,” she said sharply. “Please allow me to change.”

  Arms still crossed, he shrugged. “Of course, my dear.” He opened the door. “I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

  After he had gone, she tried to secure the door latch, but it was broken. Exhausted by these never-ending male games, she undressed slowly. Then she stepped into her all-white one-piece leotard and pulled it on
until it covered her as snugly as another thin layer of skin. After sticking her feet into her dance slippers, she unpinned her hair before the mirror, and regretted that she had not selected the black leotard. This white one, which revealed the deep cleft between her breasts, which failed to hide the outlines of her nipples, and which, she could see on half turning, exposed half of her buttocks, was too inciting for a playboy like Michaud.

  But what bothered her even more was that this routine rehearsal costume was relatively chaste, and that what she would be wearing (or not wearing) later would be far more provocative. How would the satyr Michaud behave after he saw her in the show itself? How impossible would he be when, having finished her striptease, she came off the stage nude except for that minute triangle of fabric held in place only by spirit gum? Well, she had been through this tiresome business before, and mostly, she had survived the passes, the attempted seductions, the insults. She would find the strength to endure the unpleasantness one last time before finally accepting Sir Austin’s capitulation and her safe passage to England.

  Quickly, she fixed her false eyelashes, did her lips, powdered, made one last satisfying pirouette before the mirror, and then she hurried downstairs.

  Upon entering the cabaret, she found to her surprise that the stage was empty and the music stilled. Off to the left, most members of The Troupe were seated in an irregular circle around Countess Ribault, as she paced and lectured at them. Straight ahead, Michaud, who had divested himself of his suit coat, was deep in conversation with the Algerian engineer. Boldly, she started toward Michaud, but not until she was almost upon him did he glance up, and instantly straighten to his full height.

  She halted. Impersonally, he inspected her up and down, took a few steps sideways to view her in profile, and at last he nodded.

  “Satisfied with what you bought?”

  He did not smile. He was all business. “Bon” he said. “The customers will not be displeased.”