The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Silence.

  Medora: “You had your chance, Sydney, you sure did.”

  Sydney: “Give me another, that’s all I ask. Forget the past. I’ll make up for it by ten. I’ll do anything you say, get you the best apartment in Paris, an allowance, a motorcar, and you’ll be free of this miserable Maggie-magging about and of all those dreadful stripteasings about. You can have your self-respect again, and—and your mother—I’ll provide for her, too. Please, Medora.”

  Silence.

  Medora: “I—I don’t know.”

  Sydney: “Please, dearest, please—”

  Medora: “I wish I could believe you, trust you. But you’re too weak to do anything on your own. Your brother winds you up, sends you off, and you go in his direction. We’d end up like the last time, with your brother throwing me out, defaming me, and sending you to your room. And you, you’d be afraid to lift a finger. I can’t risk it again, Sydney. If you knew what real love was, you might find strength, but this way—”

  Sydney: “I know what love is, Medora. I know this minute. I’ve got to have you. Let me love you now, and I’ll prove—please, Medora, let me—”

  Kiss, moan.

  Medora: “No, Sydney, don’t.”

  Moan.

  Medora: “No, really—no—”

  Sydney: “I’ve got to—ah, your softness—”

  Medora: “Don’t unbutton me. I won’t have it. Once was enough. I won’t have you leaving me again.”

  Sydney: “Dearest, dearest, I won’t leave you, I never left you the first time. It was Austin who was to blame, just as you said. He forced me to stay away from you, against my will. It was Austin who made you leave London for Paris before the Jameson trial. It was his scheme to protect the Ormsby name and his own reputation. All that matters to him, all that ever matters, is Sir Austin Ormsby and his bloody ambitions. He’s the one who drove you out of England and has kept you out all these years. He’s a Minister. He can do anything. He’s the one who went to his colleagues and rigged the naturalization charge against your father and the morals act against you, even though they were not justified. I had no part in any of that. But, Medora—you must believe me—I wasn’t as passive as you think. I fought him tooth and nail. It was no use. He controlled the family purse strings. But it’s different now, Medora. I’ve come into money of my own. I don’t have to listen to him anymore. I can take care of you—”

  Medora: “Sydney—”

  Sydney: “What?”

  Medora: “Maybe you have changed, if you’re finally man enough to admit your brother used his power to have me illegally banished from England all these years.”

  Sydney: “That’s what I said. I don’t mind telling you, ‘cause what’s right is right and what’s wrong is wrong, and my brother behaved wrongly, and I intend to make it up to you… Now come on, Medora, let’s go to bed. After that, we can discuss some arrangement.”

  Medora: “Some arrangement. What kind, Sydney?”

  Sydney: “I told you. I’ll put you up comfortably on an allowance in a flat—”

  Medora: “Where, Sydney?”

  Sydney: “Where? Why, as I said, here in Paris.”

  Medora: “Why not in London?”

  Sydney: “London?”

  Silence.

  Sydney: “Well, perhaps one day—might be a bit sticky at the moment—but I promise you, one day—”

  Medora: “Right now. What about setting me up in London right now?”

  Sydney: “Well, there’s that bloody immigration ruling against your entry, but—”

  Medora: “You’ve admitted it’s illegal.”

  Sydney: “Of course, Medora, but some of that we have to live with. I couldn’t impose upon my brother at this time, but one day, at the right time—oh, look, Medora, London isn’t half as good as Paris, and I can cross over in an hour’s flight. It’d be the same.”

  Silence.

  Sydney: “Medora, what in the devil are you doing?”

  Medora: “I am buttoning my blouse, Sydney.”

  Sydney: “But I thought—”

  Medora: “You thought. I had no such thought, my friend. I have no intention of hopping into bed with you. I haven’t the slightest interest in you, not the slightest. Now I shall take my sweater, my handbag, and I shall bid you farewell.”

  Light footsteps.

  Sydney: “Hey, now—”

  Heavy footsteps.

  Medora: “Stop where you are, Sydney. If you come one inch closer, I’ll shout the rafters down. That’d be a pretty pickle for you, wouldn’t it?”

  Sydney: “What’s got into you? Why were you leading me on? You can’t—”

  Medora: “I can do whatever I please, my friend. Unlike you, I need dance to no one’s tune. Today, it pleased me to hear the truth from an Ormsby. Just once, the truth. I heard it. That’s my only interest in you, my puny friend.”

  Sydney: “You’re talking like a bitch.”

  Medora: “How else does one address a bastard? Sydney, I wouldn’t sleep with you for all the gold on earth, not only because you’re a mole, a worm, a squirmy slug and a lousy lover, but because you’re as rotten and corrupt as your beloved Sir Austin.”

  Sydney: “You goddam chippy!”

  Medora: “That’s my only qualification for becoming an Ormsby, just like your sister-in-law Fleur. Ta-ta, Syd, my sweet.”

  Sydney: “Medora, damn you, listen—”

  Medora: “Pass my best wishes On to your brother. My best wishes for both of you are that you go straight to hell.”

  Door opening, door slamming.

  Silence.

  Heavy footsteps.

  Cork pulled. Whisky splashing.

  Silence.

  Telephone ringing.

  Sydney: “Hello, Mr. Brennan’s suite… Oh, you, Matt? Ha-ha. Quite forgot. Where the devil are you?… Next door? That’s right… Maggie? Who’s—oh, Maggie, yes. Frightfully exciting, Matt, marvelous little whore, must see her again when the red corpuscles have had a rest. Just packed her off… What’s that you say, Matt?… I see. You’re having another go-‘round? Well, good luck to you, ‘cept wouldn’t want you to overdo it, have a heart thing or any such’ before you’ve signed our contract, ha-ha. Well, I’ll just wait about here till you’ve… Oh, I see. You’d really prefer Monday? I mean, I’d hate to let that book get away from us… Fair enough. I have your word. The manuscript under lock and key until Monday. And you’ll call me at the Bristol?… Good, good, I’ll be there waiting. What’s that?… Oh, I did enjoy her. Not every man can say he’s had a tigress by the tail, ha-ha!”

  They had agreed beforehand that she would be waiting for him after it was over, and twenty minutes later, reached Le Colisée café, she was seated under the red umbrella, waving to attract his attention.

  Medora Hart’s anxious eyes never left him, as he went up the aisle to her table. She had been poking at a tarte aux fraises, but now, as he dropped into the wicker chair, she put down her fork and automatically covered the shoulder tear in her silk blouse.

  “Congratulations, Medora,” he said instantly. “You pulled it off.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “You certainly did.” He observed her hands clenched bloodless. “Are you all right?”

  “It was depleting. But I’ll survive.” She paused. “I hated it, Matt.”

  “So did I,” he said. “But remember, they didn’t observe the Marquis of Queensberry rules, and we couldn’t either. They set up the game. When it was our turn, we had to play it their way.”

  “I know.” She paused, and stared at Brennan. “Sydney confessed the whole bloody thing. He damned Sir Austin. I remember every word. There was no mistaking it for me. The only question is, did you—?”

  Brennan smiled reassuringly. “Yes, Medora.”

  He took the cartridge of magnetic recording tape from his pocket and held it in his hand, showing it to her.

  She blinked at the cartridge. “You mean it’s all there, eve
rything Sydney and I said?”

  “All there. I played some of it back. It’s all there, 600 glorious feet of it. Take a good look, Medora. The odds are it’s your re-entry visa to England, your guarantee of English citizenship and permanent residence in your homeland again.”

  She slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes. Her fingers unclenched and her hands went to her eyes. “I want to cry, Matt,” she said. “I just want to cry.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you,” he said.

  He tried to offer her his handkerchief, but she refused it. She lowered her hands to her lap and opened her eyes. They were brimming, but no tears escaped. “I’ll save it for Mum and Sis,” she said. She was staring at the magnetic tape once more, and suddenly, worriedly, she lifted her gaze to Brennan. “Is that enough evidence?” she asked, anxiety returning.

  “Depends where it’s presented,” said Brennan. “If it was presented at the Old Bailey, I’d say it might not be enough. But if it’s presented in Sir Austin Ormsby’s suite in the Hotel Bristol here, I’d say it’s almost too much. Of course, everything depends on what Sir Austin says. If he wants to keep the family respectable, he’ll buy, and you’re on your way home. If he doesn’t give a damn, if he’s bullheaded about it, then I’m afraid that’s that and you’ll have to dream up something else. My guess is he’ll buy, and if he does, you can, too—you can buy a one-way ticket home, Medora.”

  “What’s the next step, Matt? How’ll you manage it?”

  “I’ll have a copy of the tape made this evening. That’ll give us two recordings of Sydney’s confession. One I’ll place in a bank vault. The other I’ll turn over to Earnshaw, and he’ll probably get Doyle or Willi or someone else to make the proper diplomatic negotiations with Big Brother. I imagine the tone will be, ‘Sir Austin, would you prefer to acquire this rare taping for your personal library or prefer that it be played for the London press? Oh, certainly, you may own it. Much more desirable to possess than a Nardeau. But the price is the same, you know. A scratch of your pen, permanently lifting the ban on Miss Hart and permitting her return to London.’ What do you think Sir Austin will say to that?”

  Medora smiled broadly, and then, watching Brennan pocket the cartridge, she shook her head and asked, “How did you do it, Matt? I still don’t understand.”

  Brennan winked. “We are living in the Age of the Ear.” He slipped his hand inside his jacket, dug into his shirt pocket, and carefully placed two tiny objects on the formica top of the café table. “What do you see, Medora?”

  She bent her head, glanced up blankly. “Two paper clips.”

  “Two ultrasensitive subminiature microphones, powerful enough to pick up any sound in a room, a whisper, even the scuff of a shoe on the carpet. I borrowed these mini-microphones and the recording devices from a friend in the United States Embassy who shall be nameless, who borrowed them from a friend in the CIA who shall also be nameless.” Brennan brushed the two metal paper clips into the palm of his hand. “One of these was attached to some notepaper lying on the desk of my sitting room suite, next to the tray of drinks. The other was clipped to a travel folder in my bedroom, in case Sydney ever got you into there.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “When you and Sydney were having it out, the paper-clip microphone in the sitting room transmitted every word into the bedroom adjoining mine. I picked it all up through headphones I was wearing. The headphones were attached to an FM receiver. Also, hooked up to the FM receiver was a patch cable leading to a voice-activated automatic tape recorder next to me.” He patted his coat pocket. “And lo, the electronic re-entry visa won and Operation Medora ended successfully.”

  “Thanks to you,” said Medora. “Thanks to you forever.”

  “Let’s shelve expressions of gratefulness for the duration. We owe one another a great deal. If you’re in the hotel tonight, I’ll call to tell you whether Earnshaw carried the word to Sir Austin successfully. Or are you back at the Club?”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t. That overdose has still got me groggy. I told Michaud I needed rest until Monday. But I might be out for dinner tonight. I hate being alone on Saturday night. Carol Earnshaw and Willi von Goerlitz were nice enough to invite me to join them for the show at the Crazy Horse Saloon. I might take them up.”

  A café waitress, pink apron wrapped around her blue dress, loomed over them. She was carrying a tray of cakes, and affixed to the tray was a sign reading: “TARTE AUX FRAISES, PTISSERIE, BRIOCHE, TARTE.”

  “Monsieur?” she inquired.

  “No, thanks,” said Brennan.

  Medora touched his arm. “Do have something, Matt. My treat to celebrate.”

  “Thanks, Medora, but not before dinner. I’ve—” He held up his wristwatch. “My God, I’m five minutes late already. I promised to meet Lisa for an early dinner at Le Tangage. She’s got to eat early this evening to catch some fashion conference, and I’ve got some homework to do.”

  “Oh, I hope I haven’t kept you too long. Is it far—that place?”

  “Le Tangage? A couple of blocks. I can cut through the Lido Arcade. You come out the rear and the restaurant’s right across the street in the Rue de Ponthieu. alongside the Hotel California. You must try it with us sometime. My treat though, to celebrate the liberation of Medora Hart.” He came hastily to his feet. “I’d better run. Lisa’ll be waiting out in front.”

  “Kiss her for me, and tell her that Medora says she’s lucky to have the greatest guy in the world.”

  About to leave, Brennan hesitated. Medora’s eyes had filled again, and her cheerfulness had evaporated, as she took up her fork and glumly and listlessly cut into her pastry.

  “Medora—”

  She looked up, surprised. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “Medora, is there anything else I can do for you? I mean—”

  “You mean because of the way you caught me just now? Don’t worry about me, Matt, really. I’m a born manic-depressive. And besides, you know, good news is often harder to take than bad. When you’ve been sent to Coventry for so long, it’s frightening to know you’re free again. Takes getting used to.”

  “Yes, it does, Medora.”

  “And then, well, that whole give and take with Sydney Ormsby—it must’ve played havoc with my nervous system. I’m suffering a belated reaction, that’s all.” She paused. “Matt, our Sydney—he is a son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

  “He is, Medora. Don’t give him a second thought.”

  “You’re right, of course, only—you know, I can’t help it, but right now I’m sorry for the poor bastard. Those brothers—who killed who? Cain or Abel?”

  “Cain murdered Abel.”

  “Poor Abel… Off you go, Matt, or your Lisa’ll never forgive me.”

  Brennan left Le Colisée, and entered into the heavy after-work foot traffic on the Champs-Élysées.

  The traffic signal was with him at the Rue du Colisée, but after that, proceeding in the direction of the Étoile, he was slowed by the crush of pedestrians and delayed by the light at the intersection of the Rue la Boëtie. Once he was on the other side, going rapidly past the Hotel Claridge and the Café Francais, his worry about keeping Lisa waiting in front of Le Tangage too long began to recede. He would be not more than ten or twelve minutes late. He considered stopping at the shop with the TABAC sign over it, for another package of pipe tobacco, but thought better of it.

  Quickly, he turned off into the glittering tunnel of the Lido Arcade.

  By now, the interlude devoted to helping Medora had all but dissolved from his mind. Memory had leapfrogged backward to the earlier part of the afternoon, to the new information with which Jay Doyle had provided him, obtained from the journalist Novik and from the contradictory statements at the press conferences in the Palais Rose. With wry amusement, he noted that his theory of secret Russian-Chinese rapport had already gained the status of an unpublished book, promoted last night by Earnshaw at the Hotel de Lauzun and by Doyle at Lasserre restaurant. It was a bo
ok, he realized, that would never see the light of day, under either Doyle’s name or any other, unless he himself were to give the theory substance by obtaining more proof. Instantly, his mind developed one additional mental photograph, un-blurred, distinct, the one taken at the exit of Maisons-Laffitte when a KGB guard had opened a taxi door for Joe Peet.

  He would try out this new information on Lisa, over dinner, and, in so doing, attempt to make some sense of it for himself.

  The Lido Arcade, too, was crowded. He glanced into the Lido Bar. Every counter stool was filled. Inside the Arcade proper, stretching the depth of a block, late shoppers were gathering at various window displays to study suits, dresses, shoes, dishware, antiques. In the middle of the Arcade dozens of laborers and white-collar workers were having their hasty sandwiches at stand-up counters, while other Frenchmen, more affluent, sought the relative comfort of tables within the confines of an indoor restaurant walled around with showcases.

  Continuing through the enclosed Arcade, Brennan found himself inexplicably oppressed. It was as if every noise was too loud, every glass window too shiny, every strange face too hostile, every shadow of every passerby too grotesque. The air was dispiriting, stifling, and he felt claustrophobic, eager only to escape into the open air and then to the intimacy of a quiet haven like Le Tangage.

  It was unreasonable, he knew, and he attributed his feeling of anxiety to his obsession, lately complicated by so many enigmas. The week of tension was taking its toll, and his nerves were ragged. He would have a drink and light dinner with Lisa, later a tranquilizer and his first evening of rest, and by morning, he would be restored.

  Near the exit of the Lido Arcade, the pedestrian traffic thinned out and Brennan came to the open doors with no further delay. With relief, he went through the nearest of the doors and outside into the narrow one-way Rue de Ponthieu.

  Stopping on the sidewalk, he looked across the street and off to the right. Lisa, in something attractive and yellow, was standing before the entrance to Le Tangage, examining her face in her compact mirror.