The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “Did you recognize him?” asked Brennan.

  “As easily as spotting a ferret or a weasel let loose among people,” said Medora. “Only he wasn’t at his table. He was trying to force his way backstage by the second of the two doors, and a couple of Michaud’s pugilistic waiters had him by the collar, arms pinned behind him, and were giving him a bad time. They were about to—how do you Americans say—the bum’s rush, give it to him, when I intervened. I asked the waiters to let go of him, leave him to me, and they did, of course. Well, he was so grateful for my rescuing him from such an indignity that I almost felt sorry for the lad. I passed on Denise’s message, and he accepted it calmly, though I’m afraid skeptically. But he was so shaken up, I doubt if he’d have pursued Denise further tonight anyway. He told me that he wanted only a few minutes to settle down, and insisted I join him for a drink so he could show his appreciation for my helping him. If I did this, he promised to give no more trouble and leave afterward. I kept thinking of poor Denise cowering upstairs, waiting for the all-clear, so I agreed to have just one for the road with this pathetic little Mr. Peet. I went to his table with him—littered with Coke bottles—can you imagine?—and we had a spot of whisky each, and he told me about this girl friend in Moscow, how he was going to marry her, all that, and how mean everyone had been to him, and he was feeling sadder and sadder about what he’d been through, and warming to me because I’d been sympathetic. And then he ordered more whisky, determined to continue talking, and I was wildly desperate, thinking of Denise gnashing her teeth upstairs, and of you waiting at the Lido Bar, but I simply couldn’t get rid of the little beast.”

  “Did he tell you why he was in Paris?” asked Brennan.

  “Only that he was trying to get back to Russia to marry his girl.”

  “Did he mention books at all?” said Brennan,

  “Books?” Medora’s face had gone blank.

  “Reading them, collecting them.”

  “Him?” Medora burst into laughter. “I’d wager he signs his name with an X. Anyway, the second whiskies came round, and he resumed talking and I was ready to scream, but suddenly a very big man in a sort of raincoat came up to the table. Didn’t even give me the time of day. Simply put his hairy hand on Peet’s shoulder. He said in sort of a gravelly voice something like ‘My friend Joe, girls yes, but no drink, no drink.’ Something like that. Then he said, much as I could make out, ‘I have been waiting. Come, Joe, it is late. We go.’ Like that. Peet started to get surly and protest, but he seemed to think better of it and merely thanked me, left money for the drinks, sent regards to Denise, said he had another appointment he’d forgotten, and away he went with the behemoth who was my salvation. I dashed off to sound the all-clear for Denise, and then came dashing to meet you.”

  “Very good, Medora,” said Brennan slowly. His eyes met Doyle’s. “What do you make of it, Jay?”

  “Interesting. The keeper, that is.”

  “Yes,” said Brennan. He smiled down at Medora. “I wish I’d known Peet was in the Club when we were there. But your account was thorough enough. By the way, Medora, that friend who came to pick up Joe Peet—did he speak with an accent?”

  “Oh, he was a foreigner for sure.”

  “Any idea of his nationality?”

  “Not the faintest,” said Medora. “I’m not very clever at telling that.”

  “One more thing,” said Brennan. “Do you know where this Joe Peet is staying?”

  “His hotel? Oh, I know. Denise mentioned it several times.” She snapped her fingers. “Plaza-Athénée.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay,” said Brennan. “Thanks for everything, Medora… Jay, would you mind seeing Lisa back to the California?”

  “Where are you going?” Lisa wanted to know.

  “I thought I’d pay Mr. Peet a visit.”

  Lisa clutched his arm. “Not alone, you won’t.”

  “She’s right,” said Doyle. “Why don’t we come along?”

  Brennan frowned. “It’ll be tough enough trying to see Peet alone, without—” He shrugged. “Okay. You can wait for me down in the Plaza-Athénée bar.”

  “I have my car here,” Hazel volunteered. Then she remembered. “I forgot. It’ll only hold three—Jay and myself.”

  “Funny, funny,” said Doyle.

  “I’ll get a cab,” said Brennan. “Want to come with us, Medora?… See you in the lobby of the hotel, Jay. Incidentally, no more secrets. You can tell Hazel how I first ran into Joe Peet.”

  Hazel watched Brennan lead the two girls into the middle of the Champs-Élysées toward the row of taxis. Then, taking Doyle’s arm, she walked with him to her car parked in the Rue de Berri. Her headache had not returned. Instead, her dependable journalist’s inquisitiveness was alive within her.

  Not until she was behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, and heading for the Avenue Montaigne, did Hazel voice her curiosity. “All right, Jay, no more games. What’s with Brennan and his fix on Joe Peet?”

  Doyle began to recount the story of Brennan’s adventure at Julien’s rare book and autograph shop in the Rue de Seine, concluding with Joe Peet’s purchase of a nonexistent 1890 edition by Sir Richard Burton.

  “I get it now,” said Hazel when he was finished. “That’s the place you and Brennan considered a possible Communist drop.”

  “That’s it.”

  With dismay, she remembered having told Rostov something of this, too. “And what does Brennan think?” she asked. “That Peet’s maybe a Communist spy?”

  “Or errand boy. We’re not sure. But we’re fascinated.”

  She looked out the window. “I’ll park over there.” She maneuvered the Volkswagen into the empty space near the Canadian Embassy. Leaving the car, she joined Doyle on the curb, and they started for the Hotel Plaza-Athénée.

  “Whatever you’re thinking about Peet, forget it,” she said flatly. “I can’t explain that Rue de Seine episode. But I can tell you this about Peet. After his press conference in Moscow, I took him to my apartment to find out if there was more to his story. I filled him full of booze and got him talking, and all he had to talk about was that Russian broad of his. You want the truth? You must have suspected it from what Medora’s girl friend had to say about Peet. He’s nothing but an impotent half-pint who took a vacation and it happened to be to Russia, where he found a girl who didn’t scare him the way American girls did. With this Russian girl, Ludmilla, he was Somebody. And so he got it up. Got laid straight for the first time in his life. Well, that was it. Like that girl was a gift of manhood to him. It’s happened before, to some mighty important people, including even a king in our time. Know what I mean, Jay?”

  “I sure do.”

  ‘That’s all little Joe Peet is interested in. Connecting with that girl again and being a man permanently. Otherwise, he’s nobody and nothing. Spy? The Communist apparatus, our own CIA, the Chinese—they wouldn’t take him on even as dogcatcher.” She smiled at Doyle. “Maybe your friend Brennan is on the beam with some of his other notions. But with this one, he’s wasting his time and ours.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Doyle unhappily. He pointed ahead. ‘There they are outside.”

  Under the shell-shaped glass awning of the entrance to the Hotel Plaza-Athénée, Brennan and the girls were waiting. Doyle tried to hurry Hazel along, but Brennan had seen them, and with Lisa on one arm and Medora on the other he came toward them.

  As they approached one another, Hazel could see the excitement in Brennan’s features.

  “Peet was registered at the Plaza-Athénée all right,” Brennan said quickly. “But he checked out a half hour ago.”

  Doyle whistled. “No kidding?”

  “I told the concierge I was a lodge brother of Peet’s, and we got quite chummy,” said Brennan. “Joe Peet had a reservation at the Plaza-Athénée for a week and a half. Then suddenly, an hour ago, he came in with his big friend—the concierge has seen them
together before—and a few minutes later, he phoned from his room and announced he had to leave Paris immediately. The hotel was a trifle upset, but they brought his bags down, and away he went, he and his friend, a half hour ago.”

  “Any forwarding address?” asked Hazel, impressed.

  “None,” said Brennan. “You’d think he’d have been expecting mail here if he was planning to stay on, and would leave some sort of address. He left nothing behind. Just took off into thin air. Whatever any of you have to say, I say it’s queer.”

  Silently, Hazel agreed. It was queer. Forgetting what she had just been saying to Doyle, she now reminded herself of her new respect for Brennan. “Yes, it’s odd,” she said to Brennan. Something else had crossed her mind. She considered Medora, and suddenly, she found herself saying, “Medora dear, that friend of Peet’s, the big man who came into the Club and convinced Peet to leave with him—”

  “My savior, you mean?”

  “Your savior. Do you think you could recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Why, of course. He looked like one of Paddy’s—like—like someone I once met socially in London. I mean not exactly, but rather the same type.”

  “Can you describe Peet’s friend?”

  “Big, like I told you,” said Medora, “maybe upwards of six feet and husky. Hardly any forehead, chin, neck. A kind of pushed-down-sideways nose. Lots of eyebrow. Sooty complexion, and one cheek—one cheek sort of mottled, pockmarked. And foreign, definitely foreign.”

  Hazel glanced at Brennan. “You’re probably thinking what I’m thinking, Matt.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “This.” Hazel stared at Medora. “Do you think you could meet Matt and me at the automobile gate of the Palais Rose tomorrow morning by a quarter of ten? That’s when the delegates begin arriving.”

  “I believe I can,” said Medora. “Yes, definitely. I’m meeting Nardeau’s train earlier, but I’ll have time enough for both. I’ll be there. Palais Rose. You can count on it.” Her smooth brow furrowed briefly. “Why do you want me there?”

  “Why do we want you there?” Hazel nodded with deference to Brennan. “Tell her, Matt. Tell her why we want her there.”

  Brennan looked at Medora. “To help us find out who Joe Peet really is,” he said. “It could be of great consequence.”

  VI

  THE CHAUFFEREURED Citroën that had called for Medora Hart early that morning, and had taken her to the Gare de Lyon to meet Nardeau’s train from the Riviera, was now parked across from the building of the Préfecture de Police, in the Boulevard du Palais on the Île de la Cité in the middle of the Seine.

  In the rear seat, Medora Hart crossed her legs, adjusting the short skirt of her comfortable Italian wool suit, and she leaned contentedly on the armrest. Despite her lack of sleep after the late excitement of last night and her early awakening, she felt refreshed and renewed.

  From the moment that Nardeau had emerged from the train, seen her, and lifted her off her feet with his lovely shout of “Maydor!” her spirits had soared. He had ordered the chauffeur to drive them directly to the Préfecture de Police. He had been indignant about the theft of his paintings, above all about the theft of Nude in the Garden, and he was going straight to the top about the matter. No mere police inspector, not even the commissaire divisionnaire of the quartier, where the robbery had occurred, would do. Non! Only a personal interview with the Secretary-General, the chief executive under the Préfect de Police, would satisfy him. And the interview had been arranged. He had arranged it by telephone from Nice.

  Arriving at the Préfecture he had decided it would be best to meet with the Secretary-General by himself. He had hoped that Medora did not mind waiting, and that she had no other plans. She had told him then about her new friends, Hazel Smith, Doyle, Brennan, Lisa Collins, and of her appointment with Hazel and Brennan at the Palais Rose by a quarter to ten. Nardeau had said that he would be finished with the Secretary-General well before that time, and would report to her what news he had learned, and would then drop her off at the Palais Rose.

  That had been a half hour ago. It was now nine-thirty. Medora speculated as lo whether the length of Nardeau’s stay in the Préfecture meant good news or bad.

  Medora pressed the electric button beside her to lower the window for some air. At once, she realized how nippy it was this gray and cloudy morning. She was watching the chauffeur gossiping with two agents de police when suddenly, since the group blocked her view of the Préfecture entrance, she saw Nardeau walking around them. The beret that he was clapping on his bald pate, the string tie he wore, the unpressed trousers of his blue suit, did not deceive her. He looked more than a bohemian artist. He looked like France incarnate, just as Napoleon Bonaparte had. Following his passage across the street, Medora thought that Nardeau was probably the tallest short man alive. The agents de police doffed their caps, the chauffeur leaped to open the rear door, and Medora sat up, intently studying Nardeau’s expression to see if it contained optimism or pessimism.

  “Palais Rose,” Nardeau commanded the chauffeur. He turned to Medora. “You see, as I promised, you shall be on time.”

  “I wasn’t worried a bit,” she said, still searching his face.

  As the Citroën began to move, Nardeau brought his fists down hard on his thighs and said, “Well, Maydor, there is now reason to be confident.”

  Medora sagged with relief. “There really is?”

  “Absolutely. I gave the Secretary-General a proper tongue-lashing. This theft, I let him know, was not a mere theft of private property. It was a rape of France’s honor. When a bandit steals a Nardeau, he does not steal the goods of an individual but the treasure of France. The responsibility, I told him, belongs to the Government, the Republic’s protectors. If a president or premier were kidnapped from the Summit, I told him, would the concern be a private family’s or all of France’s?” Nardeau uttered a short hoarse mischievous laugh. “That is the way one must handle officialdom. Disarm them quickly, before they can bind one in red tape. I had the Secretary-General jumping. You’d have thought Louis XIV or de Gaulle was standing over him. I think he personally telephoned, on the emergency line, every branch and department of the police in Paris. He even, sad fellow, suffered a nosebleed. But results, Maydor, I have some results.”

  Awed, Medora asked in a small voice, “You think they can recover the painting? I mean, is there the slightest hope?”

  “More than hope,” boomed Nardeau. “The police will now do what they were reluctant to do before. They have a lead to a criminal of the Paris underworld, a much wanted mastermind of robbery, a specialist in directing thefts of objets d’art, but until now they have not desired to compromise with him. They have wanted to catch him—this Savary, his name—and incarcerate him for life, not negotiate with him. But after my tirade the police have reconsidered. Through several intermediaries they are contacting this Savary. They are offering him complete pardon and amnesty for past offenses, as well as a sizable cash reward from the Government and myself, if he will lead them to my five missing paintings. The Secretary-General of the Préfecture felt certain that Savary would be cooperative, and if he was, the police would have no trouble in locating and returning the art, including, my dear Maydor, your Nude in the Garden. Are you satisfied, kitten?”

  “I love you, Nardeau!” Impulsively, she bent over and kissed his chapped lips.

  Nardeau pushed her off. “Save your thanks for the one called Savary,” he growled. “He is the one we must depend on.”

  “Oh, Nardeau, I can’t tell you what this means. You see, once I have that nude of Fleur back, I can go ahead with the scheme that Hazel Smith—you know, the American journalist I spoke of—she’s been such a marvelous friend—the scheme she’s worked out with me.” Quickly, Medora explained the entire plan of showing Fleur Ormsby a fake wire story, written by Hazel, which would guarantee Her Ladyship’s unconditional surrender.

  “Clever,” Nardeau agreed when
she had finished, “but such subterfuges and playacting are no longer necessary.

  I have made my mind up to enter personally into the Ormsby contest. We shall bring this business to a successful conclusion by direct action.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Today is what? Thursday? So. Friday or Saturday, if all goes as the police expect, you shall once more be in possession of Nude in the Garden. We will allow Sunday for the sensational news of the recovery of the paintings to appear in print. Fleur Ormsby will read it, and know her reputation is truly in danger. On Monday morning, I will telephone her myself, and inform her that I, Nardeau, am representing you. I will warn her that unless, by nightfall, she has prevailed upon her husband to lift the banishment order on you and give you documents guaranteeing safe passage back to England, I shall call a press conference that will lead to her exposure and damage to her husband. I shall summon the press to the Galerie, and there, with you beside me, I shall hold up Nude in the Garden and identify the naked woman as Lady Ormsby, who so posed for me as the model not many years ago. This will be my warning. Do you think our Ladyship will capitulate?”