The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  She had considered one more call before midnight. There had been five message slips today, the last one just before she came back from the Club, each asking her to please return the call, and each from Sydney Ormsby. She had thought about it and thought about it as the night wore on, and at last, on impulse, she had picked up the receiver, requested the Hotel Bristol, requested Mr. Sydney Ormsby—“Yes,” she’d told the operator, “I’m quite sure he’s awake, I am only returning his call”—and she had been put through.

  And it was to Sydney Ormsby that she was speaking this minute.

  “Well, I didn’t answer your calls because, well, it hardly seemed appropriate after the way—ended our little reunion yesterday.”

  “Oh, that? Bosh, Medora. It was all temper on both sides. You forgive, I forgive, we both forget, what?”

  “It’s fine with me.”

  “Look here, Medora, I called for several reasons. First off, wanted to congratulate you on getting back to the old sod. I hear good Austin came right through.”

  “He did. I thought you’d be in a rage about that, Sydney.”

  “Not a bit, not at all. Quite the contrary. Deucedly clever of you and Brennan, that playlet. Quite justified. You know how I feel, Medora. My brother treated you shabbily. He deserved tit for tat. Besides, it was worth all the dressing down he gave me, just to see that blotched pink face of his after he heard the tape. It was magnificent of you, Medora.”

  “I’m afraid Brennan should get all the credit. And I’m so happy you’re not angry.”

  “I’m pleased, I tell you. And Brennan. Remarkable chap. Have you heard what’s gone on tonight? He’s a bloody hero.”

  “Yes, I heard. I’ve had the wireless on for hours.”

  “Medora, one thing. Does Brennan really have that book?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s what I thought… Uh, Medora, besides congratulations and all that, there’s really another reason why I’ve been calling you. I mean, it’s about your being back in London again. Changes things a bit. Rather exciting for you, I’d imagine.”

  “It—it might be.”

  “Any special plans?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “After being away so long, I should think you’d want someone to squire you around.”

  “I might. Any suggestions?”

  “I’d highly recommend a dashing and generous young chap with a good allowance and dishonorable intentions who goes by the name of Sydney Ormsby.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of him.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Whatever you’ve heard, he’s not half bad. You really should give the chap another go… You know, Medora, everything I told you during the playlet—I meant it. I’m not the Nizam of Hyderabad exactly, but I’m prepared to lay London at your feet. West End flat. Bentley. Baubles. Gay times. You write your order. Medora, it’s been wretched without you. I’d like us to be friends again.”

  ‘That’s asking a lot.”

  “I’m not demanding a lot. It’s simply that we do have something to offer each other. Could make life a bit more pleasant on both sides. Know what I mean? I mean, you like your comforts. I like mine. Fair bargain. Good contract. Maybe it can even be more.”

  “I—I don’t know, Sydney.”

  “Come on, dear girl. As the Americans say, London can be dreadfully lonely on Sundays. Hate to see you spend the Seventh Day resting your feet because you’ve been on them all the other six days shopgirling it behind some plebeian counter for a few bloody pounds a week. Not for you, not at all. Look at it this way. I’m Moses. You’re manna from heaven. We belong together.”

  “Silly… But, well—putting it that way, it—well, it makes a little sense.”

  “Really, Medora? Oh, good. Simply marvelous. Then we can be friends again?”

  “Maybe it’s possible.”

  “When can I know for certain?”

  “You might ring me up in a fortnight Mum’s number.”

  “Can’t I call you sooner?”

  “If you like.”

  “Can’t wait! See you in London, honey.”

  “See you—in London.”

  MATTHEW BRENNAN.

  He lay back, contented, on the double bed, an island surrounded by his discarded pajama top, the newspaper extras strewn everywhere, the emptied bottle of champagne, the radio muted and the television set darkened at last.

  He lay back drowsily, looking up at the ceiling and waiting for Lisa.

  When she returned, she was naked. She stood beside the lamp, studying him thoughtfully.

  He turned his head on the pillow and smiled. “I’ve always wanted to possess my own nude,” he said.

  “You own one now,” she said.

  “Lisa, what were you thinking just then?”

  “How proud I am of you. How lucky I am.”

  “I’m the lucky one, darling.”

  “Matt, will we live in Washington?”

  “Probably.”

  “I don’t care where I live, as long as it’s with you.”

  “It’ll always be with me, darling. Always, come to bed.”

  She turned off the light and settled down beside him.

  “Matt, what were you thinking?”

  “What’s the first line of that book Melville wrote?”

  “‘Call me Ishmael.’”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you ask?”

  “Nothing.”

  But it was something, he knew. His long hunt, like Ahab’s, had ended. He would have to learn to live again.

  He took her soft body in his arms, and he kissed her hair, and eyes, and throat, and he felt her smooth stomach against his own, and thought of the life she would give him, give him who need no longer be ashamed of his name.

  He held her close, and he listened to the sounds of distant music drifting up through the bedroom windows. It was a romantic French song, and it was beautiful and evocative of something poetic, a wisp of verse, Rimbaud, he had long cherished and dared not call his own. Until now.

  To the music, he whispered the words:

  Elle est retrouvée.

  Quoi? L’Éternité.

  He felt Lisa’s lips move against his ear, sleepily wondering. Softly, he whispered:

  It is found again.

  What? Eternity.

  In the far away, from the heart of Paris, a church bell was ringing, bidding adieu to the past. A new day had begun.