The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Doyle was interested in knowing more. “Do you mind telling me what happened?”

  “Between Earnshaw and me? I’d relish it. Reinforces my natural masochism.”

  Brennan waited for the beer to be served, and for the waiter to leave, and after that he recounted his entire experience with Earnshaw.

  Doyle had been nodding throughout the recital, and when it was finished, he said, ‘That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “His miserable mood. Refusal to see me. Now that I think of it, he sounded absolutely suicidal.”

  “Because I laid it on the line for him about Madlock? And laid the whole responsibility for the Varney mess in their laps? Hell, despite his phony vagueness, he heard all of that when I testified at the Congressional hearings.”

  “No, that’s not it alone,” said Doyle slowly, still trying to think. “It was a matter of timing, Matt. You see, I know something very few people know. I don’t mind sharing it with you.

  I’ve been up in Earnshaw’s suite quite frequently, and books or no books, I guess I’m still a journalist at heart. I’ve always had big ears, and I still have. I can also read letters, notes, telephone pads upside down. I see what I’m not supposed to see. I know how to go out, use what I have, to learn more. Once you have the acorn, it’s not hard to find the tree. Maybe one time only God could make that tree. Not any more. Not in these days of super-gardening. Anyway, from what I’ve learned, put together, what I’ve guessed, here’s what I know about Earnshaw. You got time?”

  “Nothing but,” said Brennan. “I’m listening.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to be in Paris at all. He was supposed to leave London for a tour of Scandinavia. Suddenly, he changed his mind and came to Paris. Why? Because his old pal—I checked this out—Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz is in town. If you’ve heard of Zaharoff, Krupp, Wenner-Gren, you’ve heard of Goerlitz.”

  “I’ve heard of Goerlitz,” said Brennan.

  “Why is Goerlitz in Paris? Officially, to meet with the Chinese about something called a Nuclear Peace City he’s contracted to build and run for them, using his German scientists and technicians.”

  “Yes. I heard about that from a French scientist today.”

  “Well, that’s why Goerlitz is really here. That’s his big official business. But he’s also here on some other business, and that’s unofficial. He’s here to sell his memoirs. His memoirs touch lightly—like a sledgehammer—on his former friends. One of them was Earnshaw.”

  Doyle went on to relate what he had learned of the earlier relationship between Earnshaw and Goerlitz, of the German’s vengeful chapter on the former United States President, and of Earnshaw’s determination to persuade Goerlitz to omit or revise that chapter before publication.

  “Yesterday I found out that Earnshaw went to see Goerlitz at the Hotel Ritz,” said Doyle. “How’d I find out? Through Earnshaw’s chauffeur, who’s trying to convince me that I should write his autobiography. All right. Yesterday Earnshaw saw Goerlitz. Today Earnshaw is suicidal. It doesn’t take a computer to figure out what happened.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” agreed Brennan.

  “And just now you barge in on Earnshaw and heap more coals on the fire. So first Earnshaw sees what a bum he’s been from the German, and now he gets more of the same from you. For the first time, he has to face the truth about himself. No wonder he wasn’t in a mood to see me.”

  “And no wonder he wouldn’t help me,” said Brennan. “I guess he’s got other problems on his mind besides helping me get to Rostov.”

  “Rostov!” Doyle sputtered from his beer, sending foam dribbling down his chin. “The devil with Earnshaw. It’s Rostov I really wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Have you found out anything?” Brennan asked quickly.

  Doyle wiped the foam from his face with a napkin. “Found out anything? Brother!” He pushed his chair back so that he could bend forward despite his belly. “Matt, I saw Nikolai Rostov in person this morning. Saw him with my own two eyes.”

  Savoring every moment, Doyle began to narrate the events of the night before—how he had had a date with Hazel Smith, how Hazel Smith had delayed their date in order to participate in the scheme to help Medora Hart, how he had accompanied Hazel to her apartment after La Tour d’Argent, how he had fallen asleep, how he had awakened to find her note, how he had gone downstairs for breakfast, how he had seen a man drive up with Hazel and walk her to the entrance, how he had recognized the man to be Nikolai Rostov himself, and how he had figured it out afterward and how it all made sense.

  Brennan had been listening intently. “So it turned out you were the one to see Rostov,” he said.

  “Mind you, this is confidential, Matt.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you realize what this means to me, if Hazel and Rostov have always been a twosome? It means he’s the one who accidentally spilled to her, back in Vienna, the news of the conspiracy to assassinate Kennedy. It means at last I know her source, and I’m in with the girl who can bring me together with that source. It means I almost have the final proof of my story, and it means, if I play my cards right, I’ll have the biggest exposé book in history.”

  “Yes,” Brennan agreed. “It’s just difficult for me to think of Rostov as Lothario. Your whole hope is predicated on the fact that they really have been intimate for years.”

  “That’s right. And I had to be sure. So look what I’ve done.” He yanked the briefcase to his lap, and opened it. “See these photocopies from Figaro? Rostov’s movements.

  These from ANA? Hazel’s movements. I’ve matched them hastily. I’ll double-check them later, but from what I’ve seen so far, it’s open and shut. Nine times out of ten, when Rostov was in Moscow, Hazel was also there. When Rostov left Moscow, or was forced to leave, Hazel left, too. When Rostov returned, Hazel returned.” He looked up. “Conclusive or not?”

  “Conclusive as circumstantial evidence can be. I think there’s no question. You’ve got them paired. You’re on the right track.” He smiled faintly. “I only wish I were as close.”

  “Look, Matt, I haven’t forgotten you, by God. Now we’re both after the same man. I’m positive that even as I try to help myself, I can be helping you. I may get stuff on Rostov from Hazel. Or I may get to meet him personally. In either event, I can be watching for something useful to you, or even make a pitch for you, when the time comes.”

  “I’ll appreciate that, Jay.”

  “You deserve it. There’s not enough I can do for you.” He pushed aside his beer mug and laid the bulky briefcase on the table. “I gather, from what you said before, you’ve had no luck on your own.”

  “Still zero,” said Brennan. “Earnshaw, well, you know. Before that—” He went on to report the results of his meetings with Wiggins and with Professor Isenberg. “Yesterday was no better.”

  Doyle recalled their exchange in the lobby of the Hotel California the day before. “What about that rare-book shop that Rostov patronized in Paris? Were you able to come up with it?”

  “Oh, yes, I remembered it, all right. That is something I wanted to discuss with you. I haven’t told a soul about it except the girl I’m here with, Lisa, but I thought maybe you could figure it out. I went there yesterday. Absolutely improbable. I’m a little embarrassed about telling you what happened.”

  Doyle’s curiosity was now fully aroused. “What do you mean? Was it the shop Rostov buys from?”

  “I’m sure of that. But listen—”

  Quickly, Brennan related the details of his visit with M. Julien, the rare book and autograph dealer. Then he described the appearance of the American, Joe Peet, and of Peet’s acquisitions.

  “And there you have it, Jay. First, the proprietor mistakes me for Mr. Peet. Next, Mr. Peet comes in to pick up his three rare books by Sir Richard Burton, one of them so rare it doesn’t even exist. Who’d believe that? But it happened. I can’t make any sense out of it, yet that’s exactly what I heard and s
aw.”

  “I believe you,” Doyle muttered, but already his reporter’s mind had sent him poking into his briefcase. “You said the name was Joe Peet?”

  “Yes… What are you doing? Does the name mean anything to you?”

  “It might,” said Doyle cautiously. “I think so.” He had removed the clipped photocopies of Hazel’s by-line stories from Moscow, and he was turning them back hastily. “Peet is not an easy name to forget. Anyway, it rang a bell.”

  As Brennan watched anxiously, Doyle continued to scan the contents of Hazel’s by-line stories.

  “About a year or so ago,” said Doyle, still concentrating on the clippings, “there was an American kid who went to Russia on an Intourist sightseeing trip. Along the way he got himself involved with a young Russian girl—a ballet dancer, a garage mechanic, I forget what she was—and he fell for her. When the tour was ended, the American kid didn’t want to leave her. He tried to get his visa extended, but the Russians refused. Then this romantic nut called a foreign press conference in Moscow and proclaimed that he was ready to renounce his American citizenship and become a full-fledged Soviet citizen if the Russians would let him stay on and marry his girl. The Russians said no again, and threw him out. And then—hey, lookee here.” He held up a photostat triumphantly. “Here it is, Matt. By good old Hazel herself, reporting from Moscow early last year.” He handed it across the table. “Meet Mr. Peet.”

  Brennan read the interview rapidly, reread it carefully, and put it down.

  “Crazy,” he said. “Hazel Smith quotes Peet as saying he was raised in Chicago, dropped out of Roosevelt High School after two years, was drafted and sent to Vietnam where he drove a supply truck. All kinds of jobs after that. Was working as a sort of errand boy backstage at Lincoln Center in New York when the Bolshoi Ballet was there. The Russians were nice to him, and he fell in love with them. He’d always thought his parents were Lithuanian, but after that he decided they’d emigrated from Russia. Then—”

  Brennan picked up the clipping again and scanned it. “He told Hazel Smith he became obsessed with Russia. He saved money, went on this short trip, met a twenty-three-year-old Russian girl named Ludmilla in Moscow. She was working in an automobile factory. He’d known some American girls, almost married one, but this Ludmilla was the most wonderful girl he’d ever met—she treated him differently from the way American girls did—she made him feel like a man—” Brennan looked up. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean? Anyway, Ludmilla wasn’t permitted to leave Russia with Peet, so he decided to stay and marry her. But because his motives for becoming a Russian citizen were decadently romantic, instead of healthily ideological, the Soviets refused to let him stay.” Brennan stared at the clipping. “Peet’s last words to Hazel Smith were ‘I’m going to devote the rest of my life to getting back to Moscow and marrying my Ludmilla. I’m going to keep after my Government and the Russian Government until I make it.’ That’s it, Jay.”

  He started to hand the clipping back, but Doyle said, “Keep it… Well, what does it tell you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Brennan. “Maybe Peet’s Ludmilla is working for the Soviet delegation and he came here to see her.”

  “A factory worker with the Soviet delegation?”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Brennan.

  “More likely, he’s flown over here because some important Russians are in Paris, and he wants to persuade them to let him be readmitted to Russia.”

  “That sounds more logical,” said Brennan. “But what isn’t logical is this, Jay—I go to Rostov’s favorite rare-book shop in Paris to find out whether Rostov has been there, or whether any other Russian has been there, to buy up first editions of Sir Richard Burton, and instead of Rostov, I run into an unlettered American buying up rare Burton editions.”

  Doyle had an idea. “Maybe he heard Rostov was a Burton addict, and he bought some of Burton’s books to bribe Rostov, or someone on Rostov’s staff, so he’d be more kindly disposed to Peet’s application for Russian citizenship?”

  “Possibly,” said Brennan. “At least, that theory ties Peet in with Rostov. Gives his action some meaning. Yet, why would he buy a book that doesn’t exist—and get it?”

  Doyle was fascinated. “Maybe he asked for that nonexistent book and went away with something else in place of the book. Maybe the title was a password, and maybe that rare-book store is a Communist drop.”

  “Espionage drop—yes, that was what I was thinking, but it seemed so fanciful, I was afraid to mention it. Julien could be a French Communist. They’re not uncommon. I remember seeing a copy of France Nouvelle in his back room. That’s the official Communist weekly, isn’t it? But picturing him running an espionage drop—I don’t know.”

  “Those things happen,” said Doyle.

  “Yes, they do,” Brennan agreed. “But in a way, that notion makes no sense either. It doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “Only because you don’t know enough about it,” said Doyle. “Why don’t you look into Peet a little more?”

  “And come up with what? No, I don’t think I want to play boy-detective. I came here to meet with Rostov, and it’s becoming quite apparent I’m not going to meet him. If Earnshaw had pitched in, well, there might have been a chance. But obviously, he can’t help himself, so how’s he going to help me, and why should he? No, Jay, I’ve just about had it. I don’t want to be a pigeon for false hopes, at least not here. I belong back in the Piazza San Marco along with the real pigeons, who know there’s nothing more to life than sleeping, eating, and eventually dying. I’m afraid that’s what I’m going to have to tell my young lady tonight. But you’ve been swell, Jay. Thanks for the old college try. And good luck. At least one of us should make it to Rostov.”

  HE HAD TURNED IN his rented car before dark, and at a quarter to eight in the evening, they had taken a taxi to the Left Bank, to have dinner at the restaurant that Doyle had recommended.

  Now the taxi came to a halt at the intersection of the Quai de la Tournelle and the Rue Maître-Albert, hard on the closed wooden bookstalls that ran along a wall of the Seine, and just south of the massive Cathedral of Notre-Dame. The driver, grateful for the generous tip, pointed down the narrow, dimly lighted side street. “Atelier Maître Albert, monsieur,” he said.

  Assisting Lisa Collins from the taxi, Brennan was pained to see how beautiful and buoyant she was this night. Elaborate gold earrings accented the Grecian face, and the chartreuse chiffon cocktail dress dramatized her classic figure. She was vivacious because she was in love and she was twenty-two and she was in Paris. And his pain came from knowing that emotionally, he could not afford her, that he must lose her and lose with her his second chance at life, and that tonight would be their farewell dinner. He had meant to tell her at once, but her gaiety and expectancy of a wondrous evening had been too great and he had not had the heart to spoil it so early. He would try to hide his melancholy, he had decided, and let the evening have its life before he destroyed it and the eternity of evenings she dreamed about.

  Taking her arm, Brennan escorted her into the side street. “Doyle insisted we come here,” Brennan said. “He said it’s positively unique. I suppose he should know. He’s a rabid restaurant collector, specializing in offbeat issues in mint condition.”

  “I can’t wait, darling.”

  “Here we are.” They stood beneath a long rectangular sign reading: ATELIER MAÎTRE ALBERT… BAR/ROTISSERIE/GALERIE. Brennan opened the door, and they went inside.

  It was unique.

  There was a barroom, but instead of bar stools to sit upon, there were children’s swings, actual swings suspended by ropes from the ceiling. The maître d’ was attentive, checking and confirming M. Brennan’s reservation, but perhaps Madame and Monsieur would enjoy a drink in the bar swings first?

  Wide-eyed, Lisa watched several patrons swinging and laughing as they tried to balance their spilling glasses of whisky. “Oh, let’s!” Lisa said cheerfully.

  He was too sober, a
nd in no mood for fun. “Next time,” he said, guiding her toward the main dining room.

  She cast him a sidelong glance. “All right, Matt… I’m sorry you’re not happy.”

  “I’m sorry I’m too old for what you enjoy.”

  “Oh, Christus. Must you?”

  They passed through the dining room. To their left, on a huge open hearth, a fire crackled and blazed. Before the fire, dinner guests circled a heavy wooden block of a table upon which were heaped platters and bowls of appetizers, and some guests were slicing pieces of salami from the rolls hung from the rafters, dangling over the table. To their right was a steep staircase that climbed to the art gallery upstairs.

  It was a perfect room for lovers, Brennan thought bitterly, resenting the waste of it. Rough wood beams crossed beneath the roof. The stone walls were covered with deep red cloth hangings, and here and there a crazy swishing of abstract art grinned down at them.

  Their table was intimate, illuminated by candles thrust into two empty Ballantine bottles that were streaked with white wax.

  “Yes, I think I will have something to drink,” Lisa was saying. “Lots and lots of champagne.”

  Brennan tried to smile. “We’ll start with one bottle.” He considered the menu. “We’ll live it up.” He nodded at the red-jacketed waiter. “Clicquot Rosé 1955.”

  Lisa was hidden behind her menu. “Why the most expensive, Matt? That’s twice the cost of the entire dinner.” She peered over the menu. “You feeling guilty or something? Found another girl?”

  “Found three. And they speak French.”

  “I speak French, too. Listen.” She devoted herself to the listing of the fixed dinner, reading aloud, “La table de hors-d’oeuvres et charcuterie. La grillade au feu de bois. Salade de saison. Plateau de fromages. Dessert, Glacé noisette au chocolat chaud… How’s that? Do I qualify?”

  “Now I’ve got four girls.”

  “Nobody loves you more than I do, Matt.” She put aside the menu. “What made you so depressed?”