The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  With little effort, he had sent himself backward through four years, to the evenings when Rostov and he had sat in the Cabaret Voltaire or Kropf’s in Zurich, discussing politics and personal pleasures. Brennan had picked through his remembrance of the many conversations and had gradually narrowed memory down to what he sought. There were two subjects on which Rostov had collected material avidly. One was Lord Byron. The other was Sir Richard Burton, explorer and archeologist, the Burton who had visited Mecca in disguise, had discovered Lake Tanganyika, had called upon Brig-ham Young in Salt Lake City, and had either written or translated at least fifty books, among them the classic Arabian Nights. Brennan had guessed there might have been other great men that Rostov collected, but Byron and Burton were the names most vivid in his memory, and especially the name of the eccentric, headstrong Burton.

  The next had been more difficult for Brennan to remember. The sources of Rostov’s collection. This had been discussed, too, Brennan was sure, but the exact sources teased just beyond his memory. Brennan had thought and thought, and finally, the name of a rare-book store in London had come to mind, and then another in Berlin, both of which Rostov had dealt with by mail. There had been some in Paris, too, of course, one shop for certain, one from which Rostov had regularly received catalogues, and Brennan remembered that the name of the shop was somehow connected with a famous French personality. He had begun to review French names. But that had been an appalling game. There had been too many. And suddenly, a clue had come to him. Rosetta stone. He had begun to associate names involved with the Rosetta stone. The man who had deciphered the hieroglyphics? Champollion! That—but no, that had not been it, either. Then who? Who had found the basalt slab? Napoleon? No. A soldier of Napoleon’s, a French officer, an engineer, Boussard. Yes, but that wasn’t it, either. Where the devil had that slab been found? The town of Rosetta in Egypt—yes, but no, actually an excavation near a military—a military installation—a fort—a fort—Fort St. Julien. Yes! Julien!

  Hastily paying his bar bill, Brennan had rushed through the lobby to the telephone switchboard. There, with the help of an operator, he had leafed through the formidable Paris telephone books. Five minutes later, with a triumphant smile, he had written on a torn strip of paper, “Librairie Julien—Livres et Autographes—Rue de Seine.”

  A wild-goose chase, but, nevertheless, here he was in the Rue de Seine.

  Outside the taxi window he could see the quaint and cranky little art shops, book stores, grocers’ cubicles, bistros, as they flashed by, and then he saw a cracked sign, JULIEN, blurring past his vision. He gripped the taxi driver’s shoulder. “Here—ici—let me out right here,” he ordered.

  Leaving the taxi, he walked back to the dilapidated shop. In one window, handsomely displayed against a velvet-draped stand, was a framed letter dated 1766 and signed “Jean Jacques Rousseau.” In the other window, arranged in a semicircle, were rich leather-bound first editions of Marcel Proust’s works.

  Opening the door and entering, Brennan heard a bell tinkle above. He found himself in a small anteroom furnished with three ladderback chairs and a low commode inlaid with tortoiseshell, on which rested a bronze ashtray and a stack of the shop’s latest catalogues. Ahead, a pair of four-shelf bookcases, neatly filled with rare volumes, served as dividers, separating the anteroom from a recess for an office beyond.

  A cherubic head, with incongruous mussed gray hair and gold-rimmed spectacles, popped up from behind one of the bookcase dividers. The proprietor nodded his greeting, called out, “Tout de suite” and lowered his head from view.

  Brennan drew a chair up to the commode, sat, and found the most recent Julien catalogue, which was devoted to “Documents et Livres Historiques.” The numbered book items for sale were listed alphabetically by author, then title, and each was followed by a description in French of its contents and condition, as well as an explanatory line stating whether it was a first issue or only an early edition, an autographed presentation copy or a private press volume. Brennan turned to the authors listed under “B,” and immediately, he found “Burton, Sir Richard Francis.” Two first editions were for sale: Falconry in the Valley of the Indus, London, J. Van Voorst, 1852; The Highlands of Brazil, 2 vols., London, Tinsley Bros., 1869. Next, Brennan searched for a listing for “Byron, George Gordon, 6th Baron Byron.” There was “Butler, Samuel.” There was “Byrd, William.” There was no Byron.

  The availability of Burton, the lack of Byron, immediately determined Brennan’s strategy. He would ask to see the Burton items. He would ask where there were others for sale that had not been listed. Casually, he would inquire whether there were many Burton collectors who purchased through this shop, and if there were, and Rostov’s name was not mentioned, he would mention it himself. He would state that Rostov and he were old friends, that Rostov had recommended this place to him, and that they frequently corresponded about their Burton acquisitions. He would try to learn whether Rostov had been in touch with the shop, and whether he was expected in, and if so, exactly when—for Brennan would like to surprise his old friend and fellow bibliophile. It was a long shot, but, again, it was Something.

  He heard a voice say, “Bonjour,” and he looked up to find the individual with the cherub head, body attired in a gray smock, standing between the dividers.

  Brennan came to his feet. “Monsieur Julien?”

  “Oui….Américain?

  “Yes. I just—”

  “Welcome,” the proprietor said in English. “What can I do for you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I collect Sir Richard Burton. I—”

  “Of course, of course,” said M. Julien. “Right this way.”

  Brennan passed between the bookcase dividers into the office. To his immediate left there was a desk holding an open issue of France Nouvelle, and a book-covered refectory table draped with green felt stood in the center of the room. The walls on all sides of the room were lined with shelves of either old books or elaborate slipcases that contained holograph manuscripts as well as private press publications.

  The proprietor was bustling toward his desk. “I was expecting you,” he was saying. “I was expecting you a half hour ago. I have the Burton books all wrapped, Mr. Peet.”

  Mystified, Brennan was about to speak when suddenly, the proprietor, about to reach beneath his desk, straightened and said, “I almost forgot. First, the list, Mr. Peet.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else, monsieur,” Brennan said. “I’m not Peet. My name is Matthew Brennan.”

  M. Julien appeared startled, then unsettled, but quickly, he recovered his poise and bustled back to the felt-covered table. “Excusez-moi, forgive me please for my error,” he said apologetically. “I was, you see, expecting another American. A collector of Sir Richard Burton, too. He had ordered the books and was to have picked them up more than thirty minutes ago. So I thought—” He shrugged.

  “It is understandable,” Brennan said.

  “Now what can I do for you, monsieur?”

  “Well, as I said, I am a Burton collector. I’d like to have a look at the two firsts you’ve listed in your catalogue.”

  “They are sold.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Well, perhaps you have some lesser items that you didn’t list?”

  “Only the ones your fellow countryman purchased through the mail in advance,” said M. Julien. “There is nothing else. I am cleaned out, I am sorry to say.” His hand waved toward the shelves. “Of course, we have many other rare and interesting—”

  “No, just Burton,” said Brennan. “I’m surprised you sold those items so quickly. I thought there wasn’t much interest in Burton. What’s happened? Are you getting a rush of business from visitors to the Summit conference?”

  “Summit?” The proprietor snorted. “Those delegates are not here for books. They are here to kill Chinese. And when they are finished, they will go to the Folies and the Club Lautrec.” He had become impatient. “Well, if there is nothing else—�
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  M. Julien’s contempt for those who would “kill Chinese” piqued Brennan. He wondered if the proprietor was simply a Frenchman sympathetic to the Chinese or a member of the French Communist Party. While his quest had been a failure, he was reluctant to leave. He sought for a reason to stay on. Then he remembered Rostov’s interest in Byron. “As a matter of fact, there might be something else. Have you—?”

  The bell over the door tinkled, and Brennan stopped. M. Julien looked toward the door, absently murmured an excuse, and hastened between the dividers into the anteroom. Brennan had turned his back to the entrance, meaning to peruse the titles on the shelves, when he heard a reedy American voice with a flat Midwestern accent inquire with forced aggressiveness, “You Mr. Jewel-yan? I’m Joe Peet. I called you before, remember?”

  “Of course, Monsieur Peet, I was expecting you to come earlier,” the proprietor was saying in a forgiving, silky, customer-pleasing voice.

  “Yeah, I know. Sony I’m late. I couldn’t help it. Flew in from Chicago in the wee hours. I slept like a log, then I got tied up in business. Everything’s running behind. Anyway, you got those Burton books I ordered?”

  “I have them ready for you, Monsieur Peet.” There was a pause. “First, so I have made no mistake, your order list, monsieur? You have the list?”

  “Sure.”

  Listening to the dialogue floating across the dividers, Brennan was suddenly curious. What intrigued him was the sound of the American customer, Joe Peet, a person for whom he himself had been mistaken. To Brennan’s sensitive ear, Peet’s accent did not suggest a collector of anything literary except possibly True Detective magazine or Popular Mechanics magazine.

  Brennan edged toward the center of the room and peered around one of the dividers. He got a brief glimpse of the customer just before the proprietor moved closer to his visitor and blocked him from sight. In that moment Joe Peet had reached inside his striped sport jacket for a letter and had begun to unfold it. Peet’s chestnut hair was plastered flat with some pomade. His thin sallow face, faintly pimpled, was ordinary and expressionless, like that of a thousand male carhops and gas-station attendants across the United States. He was short, perhaps no more than five feet five or six inches, but he was wiry. He had held the letter open before him, high, and it was then that the proprietor’s body had inadvertently blocked him from Brennan’s view.

  Brennan pulled back behind the bookcase divider and listened to Peet’s shrill voice as it read off his list of desired acquisitions.

  “I have ordered the first editions, in a mint and if possible uncut condition, of three of Sir Richard F. Burton’s published books, which are translations by Burton,” Peet read aloud. “They are the following: The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, volume one, published in Benares, 1885; Wit and Wisdom from West Africa, published in London, 1865; The Scented Garden, the first printing of the revised edition, published pos—posthumously in London, 1890.”

  Listening, Brennan recognized each of the titles despite Peet’s halting and uncertain reading, because they had been a part of Brennan’s most exhaustive college term paper so long ago. Listening again, he could hear the proprietor speak.

  “Excellent, exactly what you have ordered and paid for,” M. Julien said enthusiastically. “I have the three books in the office, wrapped and prepared for you.”

  Suddenly, the proprietor dashed between the dividers as Brennan turned back toward the shelves. Preoccupied with his task, M. Julien seemed to have forgotten the presence of another in the office. He stooped, dragged a heavy package from beneath his desk, and cradling it in his arms, he hurried back into the anteroom.

  His professional proprietor’s voice could be clearly heard. “Here you are, Monsieur Peet, here you are. The Book of the Thousand Nights, Wit and Wisdom from West Africa, The Scented Garden. All three first editions, uncut, pristine, as they were published. I hope you will find them satisfactory.”

  “I’m sure they’re okay,” said Peet. “Well, so long. Be seeing you.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Peet. Good day, and thank you.”

  The bell over the door tinkled, but Brennan hardly heard it. A strange thought had crossed his mind, and his memory had gone back to that college term paper.

  He looked up to find the proprietor, wide-eyed, staring up at him. “I had almost forgotten you were here, monsieur. Forgive me, please. So—à votre service. You were saying, before we were interrupted, you were saying you might be interested in some other items?”

  “No, nothing else,” Brennan replied abruptly. “I’ve been studying your shelves. There is nothing for me except what your other customer has already taken away. He’s got all that would interest me.”

  “Ah, monsieur, it is a lesson, then—to have foresight, always to act in advance and decisively. That is of primary importance.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Brennan. “Well, anyway, thanks for your time. Good day.”

  The moment that he was outside, he looked up and down the Rue de Seine for another glimpse of Joe Peet. But Peet was not to be seen anywhere.

  Slowly, Brennan walked to the modest corner café, took a wicker chair at the rear, and absently ordered a demi of Evian water.

  Alone at last, free from distraction, Matt Brennan reviewed the curious exchange between M. Julien and Joe Peet. As best he could reconstruct what he had overheard in the rare-book store, Peet had ordered three printed first editions by Sir Richard Burton. He had ordered and paid for The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, and he had received it. He had ordered and paid for Wit and Wisdom from West Africa, and he had received it. He had ordered and paid for The Scented Garden, and he had received it.

  Immediately, Brennan revived a paragraph in the second to last page of his college paper which had been devoted to Sir Richard Burton.

  Five years before his death, Burton had begun a new translation of a manuscript of Arabian erotology that he expected would be his most successful and scandalous book. He had sent a brief extract to a friend, and had written this friend, “Enclosed will show you what my present work is. More than half already done. It will be a marvelous repertory of Eastern wisdom; how Eunuchs are made and are married; what they do in marriage; female circumcision, the Fellahs copulating with crocodiles, etc. Mrs. Grundy will howl till she almost bursts and will read every word with immense enjoyment.”

  Burton had completed the manuscript of this book in Trieste, and there, on October 20, 1890, he died. Shortly afterward, Burton’s prudish widow, Isabel, had received a vision of her husband in the night. She had consulted an Italian peasant priest about the vision. The priest had agreed that Isabel Burton must follow the dictates of this vision. So Isabel Burton rejected a publisher’s offer of £6,000 for her husband’s last book. And then, because she believed that the contents of that last manuscript were foul and would tarnish her husband’s memory, and because the vision of him had commanded her to destroy it, Isabel Burton fed every single page of the only existing manuscript of that last book into the flames of a fire.

  And thus, Brennan remembered, the single draft of Sir Richard Burton’s last book vanished from the earth, never to be published, never to be read.

  And this book, Brennan remembered, had been entitled The Scented Garden.

  Yet, minutes ago, in an obscure rare-book shop on the Left Bank of Paris, a bookshop patronized by a Russian Minister named Nikolai Rostov, who collected the works of Burton, an American stranger named Peet had requested of a French dealer named Julien three published books by Sir Richard Burton, and had received them and taken them away, and one of these had been The Scented Garden.

  Incredible.

  Someone had sold a book, and someone had bought a book, a book that did not exist anywhere on earth.

  Why?

  Brennan had no answer. But he felt surer of one thing—that perhaps this had not been a wild goose chase after all.

  THE ENGRAVED INVITATIONS to the first night of the long-awaited Retrospect
ive Exhibit celebrating Nardeau’s sixtieth birthday, and showing forty years of his evolution, from impressionism to fauvism and then to a style—his own (if faintly reminiscent of Vuillard), had attracted a record and enthusiastic gathering of art critics and celebrities to the Nouvelle Galerie d’Art in the Avenue de Friedland.

  The art editors of La Croix and Paris Arts and Le Monde and Figaro Littéraire and Paris Match and Réalités were present. Correspondents of the foreign press, representing newspapers and periodicals as diverse as The New York Times and Der Spiegel and the Manchester Guardian and the Montevideo Marcha, and even Igor Novik of Pravda were present. And there were others, a Rothschild, a mayor of Nice or Marseille, a relative of Stavisky, a pretender to the throne of Romania just arrived from Lisbon, three ambassadors, eleven delegates playing truant from a night session at the Summit, numerous millionaire collectors, numerous dealers who had represented Braque, Chagall, Valtat, Picasso, Giacometti, and who were still wooing Nardeau—all of these were present. And Hazel Smith, of ANA, in her chic iridescent beaded cocktail dress and matching stole, was present.

  Precariously, in the movement and crush of the guests occupying the oblong gallery, Hazel Smith clung to her long-stemmed glass of champagne, obtained from the sideboard set up behind the white pedestal holding Nardeau’s bronze sculpture of a female torso.

  She had been watching the wall clock above Michel’s office window, and the constantly opening and closing front door. Her eye caught the clock again. It was exactly eight thirty-five, a moment when she was beginning to worry about keeping Jay Doyle waiting too long, a moment when she was beginning to wonder whether Carol’s scheme had failed and whether they would appear at all, when she saw the door open and the three of them enter the Nouvelle Galerie d’Art.

  Instantly relieved, immediately excited, Hazel Smith pushed through two groups of champagne-swilling guests to attain a point of vantage. She had planted herself six feet from the painting.