The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Hazel was pleased. “That’s exactly what I was thinking, Jay.” Her affection for him continued to increase. She felt fewer guilts about her afternoon meeting in the Jardin, and she felt better about the following night, now that she had a Cause.

  “Some of these kid performers are remarkable,” Doyle was saying. “If I owned a Nardeau painting, and my whole life depended on it, and then someone stole it away, I don’t think anything on earth could make me go out in public and pretend nothing had happened.”

  “It’s her job, Jay. As a matter of fact, she is feeling better. I spoke to her on the phone just before you picked me up. Didn’t I tell you? She had a little bit of good news.”

  “Really?”

  “I called her to tell about how you, Brennan, and I put our heads together at Fouquet’s today, and had agreed we’d find some means of helping her. Well, meanwhile, the Sûreté located Nardeau on the Riviera and informed him of the robbery. He was incensed, more about Medora’s loss than his own, and he’s been on the phone to Paris all day. The upshot of it was that by the time Nardeau called Medora, he was able to cheer her up a little. He said that the Paris police were trying to get in touch with some underworld figure—you know, a paid informer—who might finger the art thief or thieves for them and help them recover the paintings.”

  “Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “Anyway, Medora was a little higher tonight. Nardeau’s arriving in Paris in the morning, on the Train Bleu, and he wanted Medora to meet him… By the way, I asked Medora if she’d like to join us after the show for a drink. She grabbed at it. She’s been so alone, poor kid. We’ll wait for her in the Lido Bar, and we can have something there or maybe all go over to my apartment. I hope you don’t mind, Jay?”

  “Suits me fine. I only hope Matt—” He saw Frances Neely returning from a visit to her other two tables of guests. About to address her, he waited, since she was waving to someone at the other side of the stage runway.

  She came back to their table. “Just bringing Herb in,” she said. “He’s on his way with Mr. Brennan and Miss Collins in tow. We were so worried. Herb sneaked out to call the California Hotel, but I guess he ran into Matt in the lobby.” She waved past Hazel again. “Well, thank God they’re here, safe and sound.”

  Hazel turned in her seat, and Doyle puffed to his feet as Neely arrived victoriously with Matt Brennan and Lisa Collins.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Neely apologized. “They would have been here half an hour earlier, but all my fault. I caught them coming in, and when I heard why they were late, I kept them in the lobby where we could talk without interruption. Let me see, now—” He brought Brennan and Lisa forward. “You two know everyone?” Quickly, he introduced Lisa Collins to Hazel and Doyle.

  Hazel studied Brennan carefully. His features were drawn, unsmiling, harassed. He was carrying two rolled French newspapers, and his fists kept working them tighter and tighter. The Collins girl, dark, tall, lovely, wearing her pink brocade dinner gown with the aplomb of a mannequin, also appeared disturbed. She had poise, but her graciousness seemed forced, as she constantly, anxiously, looked at Brennan. A marvelous body, Hazel decided, nothing as blatant as Medora’s figure or the figures of The Troupe girls, but subtler, slender and cool. Probably a great bed partner, Hazel decided, and then wondered whatever these young girls saw in older men.

  “Before you sit down,” Neely was saying to Lisa and Brennan, “let me have you meet my guests at the other two tables.”

  As Neely herded them ahead of him, Doyle, still standing, called after him, “What kept them, Herb?”

  “Murder,” replied Neely over his shoulder. “A slight case of murder.”

  Hazel looked at Doyle, as he sat down next to her. “Now, what in the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” said Doyle slowly. “Except he didn’t seem to be joking.”

  Hazel drank in silence, and when she finally turned around, she found Brennan settling Lisa into a chair, then seating himself next to her, with Hazel on his other side.

  Neely had secured a freshly opened bottle of champagne. “This is what you need, Matt.”

  ‘To the brim,” said Brennan, holding out Lisa’s glass before offering his own.

  Pouring, Neely said, “I’d better drum up two dinners.”

  “No, thanks,” said Brennan. “No appetite.”

  “Me neither,” said Lisa.

  Hazel felt Doyle lean across her. “For Chrissakes, Matt, what’s been going on? Herb said something about murder. Is he kidding?”

  “I wish he were,” said Brennan. “I’ll tell you, but first—” He picked up the newspapers beside his plate, unrolled one, and handed it to Doyle. He unrolled the second, flattened it, and gave it to Hazel. “Lisa and I were up in ANA waiting for the late editions and hanging around while Fowler was telephoning the Préfecture for us.” He pointed. “Turn them over. Story is on the bottom of the front page. The one about the Englishman killed in the Bois. Read that first. Then I’ll tell you what happened.”

  Puzzled, Hazel slowly translated the three-paragraph French news story. George Simmons, thirty-five-year-old engineer and British citizen. Found dead in the Bois de Boulogne. Playing in a game of boules. Stepped in front of a flying ball. His skull crushed by ball. Died instantly of compound skull fracture. Death officially attributed to accidental causes. His fellow players, frightened, fled. Police still investigating in an attempt to discover their identity. No other witnesses. The victim, Simmons, a resident of Liverpool, England. Came to Paris two days ago for a three-week holiday. Régistered at Hotel Scribe. British Embassy has notified next of kin, brother in Liverpool, three sisters in Manchester.

  More confused than ever, Hazel looked up to find Brennan staring at her. “A freak accident, but otherwise not extraordinary,” Hazel said. “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “First of all, I have every reason to believe that it was not an accident,” said Brennan evenly. “Simmons was murdered, and the murder was premeditated. In the second place, I have every reason to believe that I was the intended victim.” He touched the newspaper. “The only accident that occurred was that someone got Simmons by mistake instead of me.”

  “Come on now, Matt,” protested Doyle quickly.

  “Well—” said Brennan, and he hesitated. The unconcealed skepticism on Hazel’s face gave him pause.

  “Go on, Matt, tell them exactly what you told me,” Neely called from across the table. “I’ve just been catching Frances up on what happened to you.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Frances Neely with emotion.

  Hazel had made up her mind. He was a nut. But she didn’t want to disrupt the party. “Yes, Brennan,” she said in a fiat, challenging voice, “go on, tell us.”

  “All right,” Brennan said defiantly. “It started around four-thirty this afternoon. I was in my hotel room, trying to sleep. The telephone rang. A girl—no idea who—a girl with a slight British accent wanted to speak to Matthew Brennan. I said I was Matthew Brennan. She said—” He stopped. His eyes shifted from Hazel to Doyle, and then back to Hazel. “I’d better explain something, Miss Smith. It hasn’t been exactly a secret, but it hasn’t been highly advertised, either. People who know me casually think I’m in Paris on business. I am, but not the kind of business they think. I’m here because I learned that a certain Russian diplomat is also here for the Summit. He’s a fellow I once knew quite well. He was with me when Professor Varney defected at Zurich. As you know, I was blamed for that, and bore the disgrace of the whole affair. But this Russian friend of mine was there in Zurich with me, and could still help me clear my name. So when I found out he was in Paris, I came here, hoping to see him.” Involuntarily, his gaze strayed past Hazel, then quickly returned to her. “You’ve been working in Moscow. Maybe you’d recognize his name.”

  Hazel sat phlegmatic and contained, hands folded before her. “Maybe,” she said.

  “He’s Talansky’s Assistant Minister for F
ar Eastern Affairs. His name is Nikolai Rostov. Do you know him?”

  For Hazel, it was strange, hearing Niki’s name spoken openly among these Americans, her new friends, and in front of Doyle, her past and her future lover. It was strange and it was unsettling, for suddenly, she felt half of this place and half of another. She must betray nothing, especially in front of Doyle. Brennan had asked her a question. What was it? She remembered.

  “Do I know Rostov?” Hazel repeated. “Only slightly. I’ve met him several times, in the line of work, the way I’ve met most of the Russian Government officials.”

  Brennan nodded understanding. “Well, he’s the fellow I’ve been trying to see. But for some reason he hasn’t wanted to see me. So I’ve approached several important people who I felt might intervene on my behalf, help bring Rostov and me together. I’d been anticipating that I’d have some luck, but I had none until that telephone call at four-thirty this afternoon. This anonymous female said someone had approached Rostov for me, and Rostov had agreed to see me. I was instructed, carefully instructed, to be at a certain place in the Bois.”

  Now all of Hazel’s senses had been aroused. She desperately wanted to hear every word Brennan spoke and she was afraid that she showed it. “Sounds dramatic,” she said lightly. “Don’t skip a thing.”

  “Did you get to see him?” Doyle called out.

  Brennan shook his head. “No. I don’t think I was ever meant to see him. In fact, I’m almost sure he wasn’t there. But let me go back to the phone call—”

  While Brennan related the events of his late afternoon, Hazel absently fiddled with her newspaper, but she gave him her full attention. Toward the end of his recital, she began to lose interest in his obvious delusion of persecution. Her mind wandered, until she realized that there was silence. Brennan had finished. He was inspecting the others at the table for their reactions.

  Frances Neely had covered her mouth with her hands. “It’s perfectly horrifying.”

  “I’m frightened for Matt,” Lisa Collins blurted out. “To think that—”

  Herb Neely interrupted. “Matt, why don’t you let me put you in touch with the FBI and CIA?”

  “No, Herb, absolutely not,” Brennan said. “They wouldn’t believe me. I can’t even prove I received that telephone call. It would be my word against that of the French police. And the police say accident.”

  “Matt?” It was Doyle now. “It could have been an accident, you know. The laws of chance, coincidence. Maybe that was a crank call you received. There are plenty of people, delegates, journalists, who still think you’re a traitor. Some of them may have heard of your need to find Rostov. Perhaps Wiggins spread it. There might be some sadist who wants to tease you, see you run around, suffer disappointments, because he thinks you hurt your country and deserve harassment. There are people who get big charges out of that.”

  “And the murder in the Bois?” asked Brennan.

  “Maybe not murder. Repeat. A unique accident. Plenty of people are accidentally killed every year because they’ve been clunked on the head by hard objects, balls, baseballs, shot-put balls. And boule balls, too.”

  Brennan thought about it. “Well, possibly, Jay. Yet, somehow, I doubt the crank call and accident theory. If you’d been through it, you’d feel the same way. I believe someone was after me. I really believe someone meant to murder me. The only thing I can’t figure out is why. If I knew why, I might know who. But why on earth should anyone want to get rid of me? I’m harmless. I’m nobody.”

  Hazel had been listening to Brennan with renewed skepticism, more and more sure that he was paranoidal, when she felt the weight of Doyle against her, as he addressed Brennan.

  “Matt, some people might not think you as harmless as all that,” Doyle was saying. “Set aside what I’ve said for a moment. Let’s give credence to your own version of what was behind that anonymous phone call. We’ll agree someone wanted you out of the way. But you can’t figure out why. Right?”

  “Right,” echoed Brennan.

  “Well, Matt, remember at noon today, when you, Hazel, and I were in Fouquet’s? When I got you to divulge to Hazel some of your grab bag of hints and suspicions about the Summit? Well, any one of a hundred people, had they been sitting with us and heard you, might have had good cause to consider you a serious troublemaker, or worse, as someone whose political prying was dangerous.”

  “You mean—do you mean—?”

  “Matt, you’ve told me you have suspicions about the way the Russians and Chinese are behaving at the Summit, because you think there’s some hanky-panky behind the scenes. You have as much as accused the Soviets and Chinese of perfidy. You told me so, and I got you to tell Hazel, and you told her, and I don’t know how many others you’ve told. But Hazel warned you not to go around prattling that stuff because it was nonsense.”

  Hazel found her voice. “Only because I was afraid you’d make a fool of yourself, Brennan.”

  Doyle patted Hazel’s shoulder. “That’s right, honey, that’s what you said.” He addressed Brennan once more. “But, Matt, suppose it wasn’t nonsense. Suppose you’ve stumbled on some genuine political treachery. And suppose some foreigner, a Russian, a Chinese, a Commie of any stripe, overheard you. Especially, suppose they overheard you announce, as you did, that you were going to continue searching until you’d tracked the whole thing down. What would they want to do?”

  “They’d want to shut me up,” said Brennan. Doyle clapped his pudgy hands. “Exactissimo. And can you name a better way of shutting up a person than making him extinct?”

  Brennan bit his lip. “No.”

  “I’m not saying that’s what happened, Matt. Maybe you’re a mile wide of the truth about a secret, fishy friendship between Russia and China. But even if you are wrong, the very fact of your talking around like that, being so provocative, might touch on other open sores among certain people. There are plenty of people in Paris right now who would kill for less, real pros, trained for the job. Security is their only concern. To preserve security, they’d stamp out a human the way you’d stamp out an ant.” He looked up. “Herb, isn’t that so?”

  Neely nodded gravely, and said to Brennan, “That’s no exaggeration. You should know from experience, Matt.”

  Lisa had slipped her hand over Brennan’s. He looked down at her hand a moment, and finally, he raised his head, first facing Neely, then Doyle.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let’s say I’ve been a provocateur. I can see the danger inherent in that. But one thing you’ve got to believe. I haven’t discussed my ideas with anyone outside our tight little circle. I can name my confidants on my fingers.” He held up a hand, fingers widely spread, and slowly, bending down one finger at a time, he announced the names of those who had heard of his suspicions. “Lisa knew. Herb—no, I never discussed this with Herb until now. All right. Lisa. Jay Doyle. Let me see. Earnshaw this morning. That’s three. I think that’s it.”

  “And Hazel,” said Doyle.

  “Forgive me. I forgot. And Hazel Smith. That’s four. And that’s all. Not a Chinese or Russian or Communist of any kind among you. So whom have I provoked?”

  Doyle threw up his hands. “Beats me.”

  The overhead lights had begun to dim, and as darkness enveloped the Club Lautrec, the white spotlights crisscrossed above the stage. The sound of customers’ voices gave way to a blaring medley of French cancan music.

  Matt Brennan smiled and shrugged. “Beats us all,” he said. “Another of life’s lesser unsolved mysteries. You may be right, Jay. I’m gradually leaning toward your crank call and accident theory. That’s the only interpretation that seems to make sense… Well, the devil with it. Sorry to have bored you, friends. You’re free to go back to your Agatha Christie. At least, she provides answers. Better yet, let’s enjoy the show.”

  “Let’s, darling,” Lisa said, sliding her chair closer to his and curling into his extended arm.

  The Troupe, clad in feathers and bare bosoms, was on t
he stage.

  All the occupants of the Neely table were concentrating on the spectacle above them—all, that is, save one.

  Hazel Smith stared down at the rolled newspaper in her lap and was not surprised to find that she had shredded it. Unobtrusively, she slid the tattered newspaper beneath her chair and brushed the torn pieces of paper from her dress.

  She sat silent and alone, staring down at her dessert knife.

  Minutes ago, when Brennan had enumerated those who knew of his findings, of his suspicion of a Chinese-Russian intrigue, he had counted out the names of Lisa Collins, Jay Doyle, Emmett A. Earnshaw, and herself. That’s four, and that’s all, he had said. Not a Chinese or Russian or Communist of any kind among you, he had said.

  In those moments Hazel had felt the goose pimples spreading across her back and down her arms, and now she felt sickly cold and weakened.

  Because now she knew that Brennan was wrong about one thing. There were not merely four persons who knew of his suspicions. There were five.

  The fifth was Nikolai Rostov. The fifth was Nikolai Rostov in the Jardin d’Acclimatation.

  My tragic milochka,… So Brennan the philosopher, the capitalist provocateur, he says we are intriguing with the Chinese and will not honor the Summit? Where did he become inspired by such a fanciful idea?

  Niki, not only is he, alone, trying to prove he knows more about Russia and China than delegates who really know, but he’s running around Paris looking for spies… investigated a bookstore in the Rue de Seine… Communist drop…

  She heard no music now, only the ridiculing reverberation of her idle gossip and the hearty boom of Rostov’s laughter.

  But she was not reassured.

  At two o’clock this afternoon, she and Rostov had parted company. At four-thirty Brennan had received a call that Rostov would see him. At five minutes after five o’clock, a man who had been where Brennan was supposed to have been, who wore sports attire and sunglasses and carried a pipe, as Brennan was supposed to have done, lay dead of a skull fracture. The police had said accident. Brennan had said intentional murder. But why on earth should anyone want to get rid of me? I’m harmless. That from Brennan. Matt, some people might not think you as harmless as all that. That from Doyle.