The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  When Signe appeared, little had to be explained to her. Nardeau had already recounted to her the discovery of the nude of Fleur Ormsby, and Medora’s plan to use it. Rapidly, then, Medora apprised Signe of the scheme she had devised with Carol Earnshaw’s help. The Swedish model abandoned all Nordic reserve in her delight with the complex ruse. She rushed off, the wrapped painting under her arm, to bully M. Michel into making last-minute changes, in order to give a prominent place to Nardeau’s Nude in the Garden.

  Signe had promised to call Medora after the arrangement had been made. Medora, fortified by a ten-grain tranquilizer—enough to keep her calm, not too much to keep her from being at her best at the Club Lautrec that night—paced the hotel bedroom, watching the cradled telephone as if it were a judge readying to announce a verdict.

  When the telephone sounded at last, Medora pounced upon it.

  She heard Signe’s cheerful voice. “It is on the wall. It is beautiful and very naked.”

  Medora sagged with relief. “Oh, Signe, thanks, thanks, thanks ever so much.”

  “Medora, a moment. Michel is calling to me.” Medora could hear a muted conversation, and Signe was on the line again. “Medora? Ah, that was Michel. He wishes to know if he may reveal the name and address of the owner of the nude, should a visitor inquire about it.” Signe laughed and said gayly, “I told him the owner welcomes all who inquire… Now we cross our fingers and wait We have dangled the bait. We are ready for the lioness.”

  After that, Medora’s tranquilizer did not work. There was no drug on earth, she knew, that could restrain the excitement of her high hopes.

  The bait was placed.

  The trap was set.

  The lioness need only be lured.

  Medora’s mind had gone to Carol, and desperately, she wanted to pray, but for the life of her she could not remember a single prayer. It was a sin, not knowing a prayer.

  Well, God will forgive me, she thought, it is His business.

  She had never heard of Heinrich Heine.

  SLUMPED DEEP in the sitting room sofa of his suite, the telephone receiver caught between his ear and shoulder, Emmett A. Earnshaw rattled the ice cubes in his highball glass and listened, trying to understand Fleur Ormsby’s quick speech and unclear Mayfair accents. Aware of his niece hovering nearby and of her anxiety, he listened more closely and finally understood.

  “Of course, Fleur, that’s all right,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Fine. I know how it is, but that’s fine. Good-bye.”

  No sooner had he completed the call than Carol was over him. “What did she say, Uncle Emmett? You mean, they can’t make it?”

  “Can’t make it?” He swallowed the last of the drink and set aside the empty glass. “Of course, they can make it.”

  Carol gave a whoop of joy, and quickly bent to plant a kiss on the bridge of his nose.

  “Well, now,” Earnshaw said, pleased, “someone would think I’d gotten a maharaja to take us to dinner. No, there was no problem. Fleur had planned to stay in tonight, to get some rest for the festivities ahead. She’d intended to skip the—well, that painter’s show altogether, because she’s busy, but she said the combination of having us as well as seeing a preview of the show was too much to resist. Apparently, that man is one of her favorite painters.”

  “Nardeau. Yes. She collects him.”

  “No matter. All that bothered Fleur was that Sir Austin is going to be tied up at the Embassy early in the evening. She said he’d have to miss the exhibit, and did we mind if she came by here, picked us up, and the three of us went to the Nar—uh—Nardeau show together. Then later—well, she’ll reserve a restaurant table—and she said she’ll arrange for Sir Austin to meet us there, at the restaurant. Oh, yes, and she’ll get invitations for the art thing. Are you satisfied?”

  Carol did a little mincing two-step, singing out over her shoulder. “I’m thrilled, Uncle Emmett. Merci beaucoup”

  He scratched an eyebrow and contemplated her. “I never knew you were so interested in art.”

  She stopped her solitary polka. “This isn’t just art, Uncle Emmett. This is Nardeau. I mean, it’s like getting into the first night of a Gauguin exhibit when he was still alive. Now, don’t grump, Uncle Emmett. I promise you that you’ll enjoy it. Fleur’ll explain anything we don’t understand. And that’s another thing. Won’t it be fun to be with the Ormsbys, hearing all the intimate lowdown on the Summit?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Earnshaw said without conviction. He was emotionally exhausted, although he had done little that was tiring this day. He had confined himself to the suite these many hours, waiting to hear Goerlitz’s reaction to the explicit message communicated through Willi yesterday. As yet there had been no reply, and the long vigil had drained his strength. Still, he’d been unable to deny Carol’s request to visit the art show with the Ormsbys. Perhaps, he decided, he would nap later in the afternoon.

  “I’d better pick out what I’m going to wear tonight,” Carol was saying.

  As she started for her bedroom, Earnshaw wondered if he should order a corsage for her, and this reminded him of something else. “Carol! I almost forgot. A box of flowers came in for you a little while ago. On the chair next to the desk.”

  Carol rushed to the long pink box, tearing off the ribbons and lid as if expecting to find the Koh-i-noor inside. “Roses!” she exclaimed. “Gorgeous long-stemmed red roses!” She had found the card, opened it, and then dropped to her knees, dreamily enjoying the roses.

  Piqued by curiosity, Earnshaw came off the sofa. “Who are they from?”

  Without looking up, Carol said, “From Willi von Goerlitz.”

  Confused, since Earnshaw related the Goerlitz family only to himself and his problem, he wondered what any Goerlitz could have to do with his niece. “Why on earth would he send you flowers?”

  Carol scrambled to her feet and scooped the dozen roses out of the box. “To thank me for having dinner with him last night.”

  “You had dinner with young Goerlitz last night? I thought—” He remembered that he had been too tired to take Carol out, and after having a sandwich in the room, he had retired at eight. “I thought you were going to have a bite in the hotel dining room downstairs.”

  “I was. But after you went to bed, Willi von Goerlitz called up from the lobby to find out if I was in. He said he was free, and if I was, also, he’d like to take me to the old Les Halles district.”

  Earnshaw’s feelings were mixed. He tried to sort them out. His niece going out on a date with a Goerlitz was like one of his political cronies consorting with members of the opposition party. On the other hand, it was also like an ambassador treating with a potential ally. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about it.”

  “Uncle Emmett, you were asleep. And today I’ve been out until now. Last night, it was just dinner. Actually, very nice of him.”

  Earnshaw tried to define his paternal role and wished for Isabel’s advice once more, but there was only himself. “I hope—uh—I trust he behaved himself.”

  Carol flushed. “Really, Uncle Emmett. You’re sounding just like some stern Victorian papa—like, I mean, in Wimpole Street or something.” She hesitated, then added with sincerity, “Willi was a perfect gentleman. We had onion soup and steaks at Au Chien Qui Fume, and talked, and danced to an accordionist, and then drove out to the new Les Halles, called Rungis, and walked through the markets watching the forts and clochards—that means porters and bums—literally unbelievable. And I was back here at midnight.”

  Earnshaw’s personal problem had begun to intrude upon his parental role. Since they had talked and danced, he wondered if Willi had discussed his father and his father’s reaction to the message. Apparently not, Earnshaw decided, or Carol would have mentioned it. He settled back into the role of his brother’s child’s keeper. “What about today? You’ve been out for hours. Were you with Willi again?”

  “I was not. I had a long lunch with a newspaperwoman who interviewed me. And I was
very careful about what I said. I mean, no politics. Oh, yes. And Medora Hart was at the lunch, too. The Ormsbys’ bete noire—the one who was involved with Sydney, remember?”

  Earnshaw suddenly and distinctly remembered. “The prostitute,” he said. ‘That doesn’t show good sense, Carol.” He frowned. “I don’t want to be harsh, but I must say I am somewhat concerned about you, Carol. I feel I have a great responsibility for your guidance and behavior. Here you are in Paris only two days, and the minute you’re out of my sight, you go off gossiping with one of the most shameful young ladies alive. And before that, you’re out half the night with some wild boy, whom we know nothing about except that his father was a Nazi war criminal. Carol, what’s got into you?”

  Her cheeks matched the roses in her arms. “I—I think you’re being unfair, Uncle Emmett, terribly unfair. Willi’s perfectly nice, like I told you. Why, even you were impressed with him when he was up here. Whatever his father was or is has nothing to do with him. As for Medora Hart, she’s suffered more than you can imagine, and meeting her was a lesson to me not to believe everything I read in the scandal newspapers. She—” Carol caught herself abruptly. “I’m not blaming the Ormsbys, you understand. If I did, I wouldn’t have wanted to see them tonight. I—I don’t know all the facts. No one does. I’m only saying I happened to meet Medora, and it was interesting. That’s all. Is that so awful of me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m surprised you’re so—so—oh, I don’t know—how did we get into this squabble anyway?”

  Earnshaw was about to embark on a detailed explanation of his duties as her father substitute when he checked himself. He and Carol had an honest relationship, a close one.

  She was a decent child, and she could be trusted, although possibly, she was a bit unsophisticated for the kind of people she was being thrown together with in a dangerous city like Paris. Considering the evidence, he was probably being unduly exercised. Nevertheless, in this setting immorality was rampant, and there would be temptations. He made up his mind that once his business was concluded—and the sooner that was done the better—he would remove Carol from this place, revive their excursion to Scandinavia, and return to California as soon as possible.

  For the moment, he would relent and withdraw disapproval, lest he lose her confidence. “I didn’t mean to criticize you so severely, Carol, even if it came out sounding that way. I have complete faith in you. I was only trying to warn you of how easy it is to fall in with questionable company. That can lead to trouble. So let’s—”

  The telephone on the mahogany rolltop desk rang out loudly, and Earnshaw was grateful for the interruption. He was satisfied to have the discussion terminated, just as he used to be relieved when a minor emergency brought to a close those interminable and never happy meetings with his Cabinet in the West Wing of the White House.

  Carol had answered the telephone. He could see her features light up and he heard her saying, “Oh, hello, Willi… Yes, I enjoyed it, too. Les Halles was just what you promised, the living end. And the flowers, thank you ever so much. You shouldn’t have. How did you know roses were my favorite? What?… Ummm, that might be fun. Why don’t you call me?… All right… What?… Oh, yes, he’s right here beside me… No, he’s free. I’ll put him on.” She cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and beckoned to her uncle with the other hand. “It’s Willi von Goerlitz, Uncle Emmett. He was really phoning for you. He says it’s urgent. Here.”

  She held out the receiver, and Earnshaw eagerly took it. Seeing her sweet girl’s face, conscious of how openly, she had spoken to Willi in his presence, he regretted the unnecessary scene that he had provoked. He, too, covered the mouthpiece with his palm. “Carol, I’m sorry if I upset you by being old-fogyish. I’m sure you understand.”

  Her smile was instantaneous and forgiving. “I’ve forgotten it,” she said. “I hope you’ll do the same. I’d better look over my dresses. I want something low-low-cut for tonight.”

  She winked. “Evil Paris.” She nodded at the telephone. “Hope it’s good news.”

  She hurried off to her bedroom, and Earnshaw realized that he was alone with the telephone. He was reluctant to remove his hand from the mouthpiece. He hated moments of irrevocable decision. If Willi had reached his father, he would have a definite answer. This time it would be yes or no, and if yes, his future would remain suspended, and if no, his future would be a ruin.

  He brought the bare mouthpiece closer. “Hello, Willi? Good to speak to you again. How are you?”

  “Very well, sir. I hope you are, too.” The voice at the other end was clipped and formal. “I am sorry I was unable to report to you earlier. My father was occupied with his business colleagues. I have right now spoken to him. I have delivered your message.”

  There was the briefest interval of silence, like the blank space preceding the indentation of a new paragraph. “My father has requested that I convey to you his reply. He has carefully considered your statement that you are informed as to certain of the contents of his memoirs, that you feel some of his information is misleading, and that you are prepared to offer fuller information. He says that while he would not have the time to receive you for merely a social visit, he will make the time to receive you for a short business appointment, inasmuch as you feel it is important. He is prepared to confer with you one hour from now in his suite at the Hotel Ritz if this is satisfactory to you, sir.”

  Earnshaw waited for Willi to say more, but Willi had nothing more to say and was awaiting his reply.

  “That’s certainly satisfactory, Willi,” said Earnshaw. “Tell your father I’ll be there in exactly one hour.”

  After hanging up, he realized that he was more wrought up than elated. The hour ahead would be longer than the years of his life. The ordeal of confronting Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz after that would be nerve-racking. Yet, it must be done. It was the meeting that he had so desperately wanted, and had despaired of ever obtaining, but now it was arranged at last.

  Slowly, Earnshaw started down to the master bedroom to change his clothes and to organize his approach toward the old German.

  He saw Carol emerge from her bedroom with a dress on her arm. She held the dress up. “I’ve got to have it pressed.” Then she studied him questioningly. “Is everything working out?”

  “Working out? Yes—oh, yes. Willi was reporting on his talk with his father. Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz is seeing me in an hour.” Earnshaw shook his head. “That took some doing.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Earnshaw stared at her with sudden suspicion. She was glad. But she was not surprised. It was as if she had expected this all along. A dark suspicion crossed his mind. “Carol,” he said slowly, “did you have anything to do with this?”

  He observed her closely. She feigned bewilderment, or was bewildered. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “You were out with the Goerlitz boy last night. Maybe you spoke about me. Maybe you even told him how important it was for me to see his father. Did that happen?”

  “Of course not! Well, maybe the subject came up in passing—we talked so much—and maybe, well, I might have said it was too bad you and his father weren’t able to get together, since the two of you were such old, old friends, and all that—but there was nothing else, literally nothing.”

  “Good enough.” Earnshaw still remained unconvinced and troubled. “Well, whether you did try to help me or you didn’t—and I accept your word that you didn’t—I still don’t like the idea of your spending too much time with the Goerlitz boy. Maybe I was unfair to him before. But the whole thing bothers me. You come from different worlds. His background and yours are complete opposites. I’m sure your father would have agreed with me that you must be prudent. I don’t want to dictate to you. I merely want you to promise me you’ll give some thought to what I’m saying.”

  “I promise,” said Carol gravely.

  “Uh, and one more thing. It would distress me to know that you were discussing me, or my affairs, whatever you
know of them, with anyone else. I don’t want you involved in grown-up matters. You’ll have time enough for that later.”

  “Yes, Uncle Emmett.”

  “Well, I’d better get ready. I like to be on time. Not that seeing Goerlitz is all that vital, actually. It’s been blown up way out of proportion, no matter what you think. It’s a minor irritant, nothing more. But I like to keep my house in order. Well, I—uh—I should be back with plenty of time to spare before Fleur Ormsby comes around. I think I can dispose of the Goerlitz nonsense rather quickly. In fact, I’m sure of it. Now, you take care.”

  HE HAD LEFT the Secret Service agent at the far end of the corridor, and now he stood alone before the double doors to the Goerlitz suite on the first floor of the Hotel Ritz.

  Earnshaw pushed the button and shifted his weight from one leg to the other uneasily. Dimly, a memory of his last visit to the Ritz, when he had been the occupant of its best suite as President of the United States, came to mind. During that visit what had impressed him was the history of this hotel, where King Edward VII had stayed, where a countess had been asked to move out because her pet lion had grown too big, where an opera singer had inspired the invention of Melba toast. In those days, Earnshaw recalled, he had been received with pomp and ceremony. Unhappily, he contrasted the past with his present unostentatious, almost furtive, reception and appearance.

  The doors were opening, and he braced himself.

  A butler with a white thatch of hair much like his own and an elongated, phlegmatic face, attired in a livery of silver-satin waistcoat and green breeches, was ushering him inside. “Guten Tag, Herr Präsident,” the butler said, taking his hat.

  “Good day,” Earnshaw replied. Standing in the entry hall, he found the surroundings were familiar. Off this hall, if memory did not fail him, there should be three rooms for servants. Yes, and in the master bedroom there would be buttons to summon the hotel’s own valet or chambermaid or waiter, but there would also be a fourth button marked Service Privé, which a guest pushed to summon one of his personal retinue of servants from one of these hidden rooms off the entry hall. Yes, he had not forgotten the opulence of it, and he had kept his White House valet, his press secretary and secretary’s assistant, in those quarters.