The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Listening, Medora squealed her appreciation. It sounded so authentic. “Thanks, Medora, but it had better look authentic when Fleur, and maybe her husband, read the advance flimsy,” Hazel said. “After all, they’re in the newspaper business, too. In fact, I’m beginning to think I’d better not goof it up in any way. I’ll tell you what—I was just going to sit down and knock out the story, but I really haven’t anything special to do until late afternoon. So I think I’ll just walk over to the Avenue de Friedland, pop in on Monsieur Michel and the Galerie, have myself another peek at our precious Lady Ormsby bare-ass, maybe ask Michel a few questions without letting him know what we’re up to, you know, just to get the real ring of truth in the quotes I’m inventing, and then I’ll have notes and can dash it off.”

  Promising Medora that she would have the story in her hands before nightfall, Hazel checked her purse for pad and pencil, as she left the apartment and started toward the Nouvelle Galerie d’Art.

  It was not a long-distance, no more than eight or nine blocks, and she covered most of it at a leisurely pace, enjoying the early warmth of the summer’s morning and fantasying the new promise that life held for her.

  The landmarks were familiar, and she guessed that she was in the neighborhood of the Galerie. Squinting ahead, she could discern the poster of the exhibit a half block away, and she crossed the street and headed for it. Nearing a small café, her attention was distracted by an American family of four, the twin children noisily complaining about the lateness of their breakfast. The rawboned father of the family, a Stetson pushed far back on his head, glowered at his shrill wife and his brawling brats, and lay back in his wicker chair to read his Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune. He opened the paper wide to screen off his troublesome family, as he sought the latest sports results.

  As he buried himself in the newspaper, Hazel automatically glanced at the boldest of the front-page headlines. Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks.

  Her vision had tricked her, she was sure, but she darted toward the newspaper being held aloft in the tourist’s hands. The headline was distinct now, and there was no mistaking what it trumpeted:

  DARING PARIS ART THEFT

  FIVE NARDEAU PAINTINGS STOLEN FROM GALLERY EXHIBIT POLICE MYSTIFIED

  Chilled by apprehension, Hazel tried to make out the lead. The front page buckled, and the head of the Texan, obviously Texan, appeared glaring above it.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Hazel said quickly. “I hadn’t got my paper today, and there was something on the front page—”

  “You American?” the Texan drawled, instantly companionable. “Hey now, sure. Already finished that part.” He separated the front section and handed it to her. “Have a free look on the house.”

  Hazel snatched at the paper and began to scan the lead story, one sensational enough to have nudged the Summit news over to the next column. In seconds, her trained eye had picked up the gist of the fragmentary news report, the flash slugged in on the final night run of the newspaper. A charwoman had been cleaning in the Nouvelle Galerie d’Art after midnight. She had finished her labors around two in the morning and had taken out her keys to secure the rear door after her when she left. Then she remembered she had forgotten to put away her broom. Returning with her broom to the utility room, she was surprised to find that two large windows had been left open. Going to close them, she saw that the iron shutters had been pried apart. Fearful and frantic, she had at once telephoned M. Michel, and he had notified the Commissariat de Police of the arrondissement. And then the proprietor and the authorities had converged upon the Galerie to find blank spaces on the walls. At press time, all that had been ascertained was that five valuable Nardeaus were missing—the art dealer had not yet seen fit to announce precisely which paintings had been stolen—and the police were still carefully combing the premises for clues.

  Hazel shoved the newspaper back at the Texan. “Thanks a million,” she called out.

  “We Americans gotta stick together,” he bellowed after her.

  Hazel walked no more. She ran, arriving breathless at the Nouvelle Galerie d’Art, and rushed inside. In contrast to the opening night, when the main exhibit hall had been swarming with festive celebrities carrying glasses of champagne, the main room was occupied by grim-faced uniformed police sent by the arrondissement’s Commissariat and with intent plainclothes detectives from the brigade de voie publique. Some officers were in hushed conference. Others were searching for fingerprints.

  Hazel saw the distraught dealer, Michel, emerge from a side door. She hurried to intercept him. “Monsieur Michel, which paintings were stolen?”

  He considered her suspiciously. “Who are you, madame?”

  “I’m Hazel Smith from ANA, the American newspaper—”

  “I have nothing to comment,” he interrupted rudely. “I cannot speak to journalists as yet.”

  He turned on his heel and started toward a group of busy police. Hazel took several steps in pursuit of him. “But, monsieur, I’m a friend of Medora Hart, and she’s—”

  “Medora Hart?” someone behind her repeated.

  Hazel wheeled to find herself facing a tall, ash-blond, magnificent Scandinavian girl attired in blouse and slacks. “Yes,” Hazel said, “I’m a friend of Miss Hart’s. I’m Hazel Smith.”

  The Scandinavian girl’s solemn features softened. “Ah, Miss Smith, I know of you. Medora, she has spoken to me of your kindness.”

  “I was just on the phone with Medora,” Hazel continued. “I came here, to help her on something when I heard about the robbery. What’s going on?”

  “It is terrible, very terrible,” said the Scandinavian girl. “I too have been on the telephone, to locate Nardeau—I am Signe Andersson, his model, also Medora’s friend. All morning, I have been trying, but Nardeau is not in the villa, not in St.-Paul. He is off somewhere in the hills and will not be back until later. But the commissaire divisionnaire himself—the bald one over there with Monsieur Michel—he has taken over personally, because he is a friend and admirer of Nardeau and it is his belief—mine, too—this has been the theft of a French national treasure.”

  “Signe, just tell me one thing,” Hazel said. “Is Medora’s painting still here? Nude in the Garden. Is that still here?”

  Signe Andersson did not reply. She raised her arm and pointed past Hazel’s shoulder to the center of the main exhibition wall.

  The center of the wall was blank.

  There were Nardeau oils hanging to either side, but in the center, where Nude in the Garden had previously been, there was only a metal hook and an empty wall.

  Hazel stood very still, feeling rage against Medora’s persecutors rising within her. She wanted to shout out to everyone in the room, to the judiciary police, the brigade of detectives, the dealer, the model beside her, that she knew the thieves. She wanted to cry out that the culprit was Lady Ormsby, or Fleur and her big-shot husband, who were not above any act of crime that would protect the Ormsby name. Tempting as it was to do so, Hazel contained her venom.

  She heard Signe addressing her once more. “Such a pity. I grieve for Medora. Himself, Nardeau, presented it to her, his farewell gift, because he thought it would take her back to her home.”

  “You know about Medora and the Ormsbys?” said Hazel.

  Signe nodded. “I know.”

  Hazel’s hand swept toward the French police. “Tell them, then. Maybe they can do something about it.”

  “Tell them what, Miss Smith? What can be proved against the Ormsbys? That they have harmed Medora? That they have put her in exile? That they committed this theft? I have thought of it, but no, there is not one evidence to show. The French police, I know them, they will think us lunatics. Besides, Miss Smith, maybe it was not the Ormsbys. It was maybe ordinary thieves, who could have taken that picture by a coincidence or because it was hanging in the important place.”

  “You know as well as I do that’s not true,” said Hazel fiercely. “Fleur met with Medora
yesterday. Fleur was scared and she had to do something. She has money. She has connections. She could have hired a professional who has done this sort of thing, several of them, to pull it off. Now she has the painting and she’s safe. And Medora, poor Medora, she has nothing.”

  Signe was thoughtful a moment. “I think you are maybe right, Miss Smith. Because it is strange. The thieves, they took the nude of Lady Ormsby and four others—they took five paintings worth one and a half million francs—but they left behind others much, much more valuable. There is one across the room, one alone, borrowed from the Jeu de Paume, that is worth two million francs by itself, and another over there on loan from the Musée National d’Art Moderne worth as much. But no, those they do not touch, but Medora’s one and the four other not costly ones they take. Why? This I ask myself.”

  “You just ask me,” said Hazel. “Fleur’s paid crooks stole Medora’s oil painting, because that’s what they were paid to steal, paid plenty, you can be sure, without any headaches about being chased for well-known museum pieces. And they took the four others, just anything at all, to make it look like a routine theft. I’m still tempted to tell the police about Fleur Ormsby—”

  “Please, I would not,” said Signe hastily. “It cannot help Medora. And maybe it could cause her trouble. The police will not side with her, an English scandal girl who is undesirable in her own homeland, such a one against a famous British Cabinet Minister who is here as a guest of France to the Summit. It is impossible. And maybe it would make Medora undesirable here, too.”

  The Scandinavian girl’s common sense blunted Hazel’s fury. Signe was right, and Hazel knew it. “But, Signe, we must do something. We can’t let that poor helpless girl—” She paused. “Does Medora know about this?”

  “No one has called her. I have not the heart to, yet. After I speak with Nardeau, I shall have courage to call her. Of course, maybe she has read the papers. But there is nothing of her painting in there at this hour. The names of the paintings will not be given out until later.” She looked off, troubled. “I do not know what progress they make. They have taken the wax castings of the marks on the shutters, where the shutters were forced open. They still take fingerprints. The commissaire has ordered all former art criminals, now free in Paris, to be brought in for the questioning, and he has called the Sûreté Nationale in Nice to make an interrogation with those on the Riviera who have police records. Perhaps it will lead to something, but—”

  She halted abruptly as M. Michel appeared between them, ignoring Hazel to speak rapidly to the Scandinavian model. “Signe, if you reach Nardeau before I do, you must inform him of the latest developments. So far, the police say it was an outside job. A motorcar jack was used to rip the shutters. In the rear there are tire markings of a light Citroën truck. The police are definite in the feeling this is the work of a specialist who has done the same before, who has done it now for immediate cash, but one too clever to take the most costly works which are difficult to be rid of. You tell Nardeau that the commissaire divisionnaire himself has the plan to deal with certain informers, and they may lead us to the thief and the paintings… Man. Dieu, every newspaper is calling to the office. You would think this is the biggest art crime since the—since when?—since more than a half century ago when the little Italian house painter stole the Mona Lisa from the Louvre… But this has its importance. It is shameful. We must recover the paintings. I go now. If there is more news, I will give it to you, Signe, before you speak to Nardeau.”

  The moment that the dealer left them, Hazel took Signe’s hand. ‘Thank you. I’ll keep my fingers crossed. I’m going to call Medora. Someone’s got to tell her before she reads it. And, Signe, I do want to be kept up on this. Well, I’m sure you’ll be in constant touch with Medora, so I’ll learn any new developments from her.” She hesitated. “Signe, we’ve got to get that painting back. We’ve got everything solved if we have the painting. That girl’s life depends on it.”

  “We will try, Miss Smith. Nardeau will turn Paris upside down, if it is necessary.”

  At the door Hazel looked back at the darting, jumping, kneeling police, and the Galerie seemed to be exhibiting not a collection of Nardeau paintings but a collection of Gaboriau characters. She opened the door and went outside. She needed cool, clean air to clear her head, but the day was hot and muggy.

  She would go back to the apartment, she decided, and telephone Medora Hart from there. She would tell her what had happened and give her hope that the painting would be recovered, but promise her that even if it were not, Hazel herself would find someone, somehow, to intervene with the Ormsbys on Medora’s behalf.

  And then Hazel vowed that she would go even further. She would telephone Jay Doyle at ANA or at Earnshaw’s suite, wherever he was, and try to meet with him before noon, so she could put this whole problem to him and find out what he thought could be done. This was important, suddenly as important as her own problem. No one on earth had the right to treat anyone else as less than human. Everyone on earth had the right to dignity and freedom and the pursuit of happiness. Meaning not only herself but Medora too. Dammit, something must be done and would be done. Meaning not only for Medora but for herself as well.

  Satisfied, Hazel started back to her apartment and the telephone.

  ACCEPTING THE INSTRUMENT from Earnshaw, Doyle said apologetically to Earnshaw and Brennan, “Sorry, it’ll just be a minute.” He brought the telephone receiver closer to him. “Hello, Hazel. How are you?” He waited, listening, then said, “Yes, I’ve just come in. I don’t think there’ll be much work. I should be through soon. Why?”

  From his chair across the coffee table, Matt Brennan watched Earnshaw watching Doyle, knowing that the former President was puzzled and made uncomfortable by Brennan’s presence in the Hotel Lancaster suite.

  Brennan had enjoyed a wonderful and drunken celebration with Lisa last night, and he had overslept this morning, awakening with only the slightest hangover. Something about a hangover always anchored high hopes to reality. In the sober light of midmorning, last night’s celebration seemed premature. Still, after objectively reviewing what Lisa had related to him twelve or thirteen hours earlier, there was enough to justify making a move.

  Brennan had telephoned the Hotel George-V and been relieved to find Jay Doyle in his room. Without going into detail, he had informed Doyle that he had stumbled upon certain information which might be highly useful to Earnshaw in his relationship with Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz. Doyle, in a gay mood, almost manic, had been eager to cooperate. He had to speak to Earnshaw anyway, he had said, to learn whether The Ex wanted to resume collaborating on his daily commentary about the Summit or whether he preferred to have Doyle continue to ghostwrite it entirely on his own. He would be pleased to pass on to Earnshaw what Brennan had been telling him. Five minutes later, Doyle had called back to report that while Earnshaw, listless and unconcerned, was not interested in working on the column, he was interested in hearing any word Brennan possessed about Goerlitz.

  Within a half hour, Brennan had met Doyle in the Hotel Lancaster lobby, and together they had gone up to Earnshaw’s suite. Even as Earnshaw and Doyle had settled into the overstuffed sofa, Brennan had perceived that The Ex had become dubious about the meeting. It was as if Earnshaw, on second thought, had decided that Brennan was merely leading him on with what would prove to be another disappointment, as if he had decided Brennan was employing any means to see him again, in a persistent effort to use him. Brennan wondered how Earnshaw would react to the information Lisa had inadvertently acquired for them. The answer to this had been briefly postponed by Doyle’s phone call from Hazel Smith.

  Doyle was speaking into the telephone. “All right, Hazel, of course. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. I don’t know, but maybe I can help. Let’s say—I’d say in forty-five minutes, maybe less. How’s that?… Okay, dear, Fouquet’s. Perfect. I’ll find you.”

  He hung up, once more apologizing, as he gave the telephone back to Ea
rnshaw, who was slouched in the corner of the sofa. After returning the telephone to the end table, Earnshaw busied himself with a cigar, slowly unpeeling the wrapping, seemingly reluctant to begin the meeting.

  “I’m glad you were able to see me again, sir,” Brennan said to the former President. “I have a hunch you won’t regret it.”

  Earnshaw finished lighting the cigar. For a moment, his troubled blue eyes were friendly and his countenance was benign. “On the contrary, Mr. Brennan. It is I who should be grateful to you, since Jay here tells me you know something of my difficulties and you have a notion you can help me. I want you to know I’m appreciative. I truly am.”

  “Weil, I’ve had my share of problems, as you know,” Brennan said, “so I’m highly sympathetic toward other people’s problems. Not that a person in your position needs my help. Still—” He shrugged.

  “No man can walk alone all the time,” said Earnshaw. “I have often, in my public speeches, referred to the parable—uh—the parable of the good Samaritan. One of my favorites. Now then—” He took one more puff of his cigar, laid it in an ashtray, and cleared his throat. “I suppose we can be perfectly frank, Mr. Brennan. My good friend, Jay Doyle here, tells me that somehow you’ve found out about—. Dietrich von Goerlitz’s memoirs and—uh—about the unfortunate chapter in those memoirs concerning my Administration. Well, I’m sorry all of that leaked out, but I can’t say I’m surprised. In any case, I don’t suppose it matters too much since Goerlitz intends to make his misrepresentations public soon enough.” He considered Brennan through the haze of smoke. “You may or may not know that I met with Goerlitz personally, to try to knock some sense of decency into his Teutonic head. I didn’t have much luck. He’s determined not to listen to me. He’s bent on—uh—on doing me harm.”