"I dunno. Not supposed to give out home numbers." The male voice was wary. "You want him on business or social?"
"Social," Victoria declared, and let her own voice go cute. "This is Kitty, his new girl friend. Maybe he spoke of us. He was expecting me to call, but I couldn't get to the phone till now. And I've misplaced his home number."
The voice on the other end had softened. "All right. One second and I'll get it for you." The voice quickly returned. "Got a pencil?"
"Sure."
"Endicott 2-9970. Got it?"
"Sure."
"If you can't find him, maybe call me back. I'm Ozzie. I'm not busy tonight."
"Sure."
She hung up. Ozzie. Howie. Jesus. Okay, Howie.
She dialed thhe phone once more. The long direct dial. She got Howie Dittman on the first ring. After Ozzie, she had not known what to expect, but Howie Dittman was a serious type, with a low voice and what sounded like a controlled stutter.
After she had introduced herself, she started to explain that she was a friend and colleague of Nick Ramsey. But Dittman interrupted her before she could finish.
"I know about you," Dittman said. "Nick gave me a call from D.C. yesterday to tell me you might contact me and to cooperate."
Victoria felt a warm tingle for Nick who had been thinking of her from so far away.
"You in Paris?" Dittman asked.
"Yes, I'm still in Paris, at the Plaza Athénée Hotel!'
"Then we better get right on with it. Let's not run up your costs."
This reminded Victoria to make certain that she paid cash for these phone calls, to be sure that they were not charged to the Record and somehow came to the attention of Armstead or Dietz.
"I need some quiet and fast research help from you," said Victoria. "I want to find out what I can about a person, a media person who's received a lot of attention in the media itself. I want to learn whatever can be known about him. I want to trace him. I have to speak to him."
"His name?" inquired Dittman, businesslike.
"Mark Bradshaw, a foreign correspondent on the New York Record."
"What else can you tell me about him?"
"Not a darn thing. That's just it. He's pretty famous by now, I'd imagine. He's done those front-page scoops for the Record starting with the kidnapping of the king of Spain—"
"Yes, I know, right through to the killing of the Israeli prime minister. His name has become quite well known, Miss Weston. Yet you can find out nothing about him?"
"Not a thing. I need help. Don't bother with the New York Record. I've tried it, fairly thoroughly, and officially Bradshaw is not on the paper, except on the front page. I don't understand it."
"Obviously he's working for the paper in an unofficial capacity, or on a personal basis with someone high up there."
"That's what it sounds like. I want to get to him."
"You think someone wants to keep you from getting to him?"
"I don't think anything as dramatic as that. In fact, except for Nick, you, a friend of Nick's at the Record, the publisher's secretary, and the bureau chief in Paris, no one even knows I want to meet Bradshaw."
"Is that what you want to know? How to meet him?"
Victoria backtracked. "Well, maybe not exactly, although it might come to that in the end. No, what I want from you is something about Bradshaw, and most of all, where he can be reached. You think you can help?"
"I can try."
"Nick said you were a whiz."
"I'm hardly that. But I am good at what I do. I'm just smart about where to look and I work hard. I have access to all kinds of sources that wouldn't be available to you in Paris. In my experience, there is a mention of every person in existence somewhere, right down to the least-known nonentity. Mark Bradshaw is hardly a nonentity, so I hope to find something."
"That's wonderful."
"When do you need this material?"
"Yesterday."
"Oh, it's one of those. Will tomorrow do?"
"I'll be right here at the Plaza Athénée cuddled up to the phone."
"I'll give it this evening," said Dittman. "I'm off tomorrow, so I can give it tomorrow morning and afternoon, too. I should have something for you by six our time tomorrow—possibly before—what's that your time?"
"Midnight."
"Stand by tomorrow around midnight."
Through with the telephone for the day, she fell back on the sofa, hoarse and exhausted.
But hopeful. Dittman had kindled the last flicker of optimism. If Carlos had not been responsible for the terrorism that had been part of her life these recent weeks—and this she believed—she might soon know who was really responsible, and be onto the biggest story of her career. Tomorrow night she might have Bradshaw, and Bradshaw no doubt would provide the answer.
The following day, a cool, gray autumn Paris morning and afternoon, Victoria, with no word from the Record on a fresh assignment, with her hunt for Bradshaw at a temporary standstill, welcomed an opportunity to devote herself entirely to shopping. To have free time in Paris, and acceptable credit cards, was as promising as a Muslim's dream of heaven.
In the morning she hopped into her rented red Renault and made for the Galerie Maeght on the Rue de Téhéran. There she whiled away two hours inspecting posters and lithographs, and at last selected two signed lithographs, one by Joan Miró and one by Calder, to be mailed to her mother in Evanston. Preparing to leave the Right Bank, she detoured her car to Aux Trois Quartiers, the fashionable department store on the Boulevard de la Madeleine, and bought herself two silk scarves and a marvelous white cashmere sweater. Hungry, she walked to the Rue de Rivoli, and under the shopping arcade located W. H. Smith & Sons bookstore, and after surveying the English-language bestsellers, mostly British, on the front stand, she bought three paperbacks, one suspense, one romance, and a reprinted classic by Samuel Butler to make her feel less guilty about reading the other two. Then she climbed up the wooden staircase to Smith's tearoom and ordered two small sandwiches, one chicken, the other cheese, and a pot of hot tea.
By midafternoon she had crossed over the Seine to the Left Bank, and parked in a narrow street off St. Germain-des-Prés. Her first destination was the Galerie Claude Bernard in the Rue des Beaux-Arts. After studying and enjoying the numerous Ciacometti oils and sculptures on exhibit, which she could not afford, she searched for something for her father that she could afford. She rummaged among the racks of posters and lithographs, and found a wildly amusing signed poster in color by Fernando Botero. She bought it and arranged for it to be shipped off to Georgetown.
The rest of the afternoon she spent wandering up and down both sides of the Rue Bonaparte window-shopping, eventually taking time out to warm herself with a cup of coffee at the Brasserie Lipp.
After that she hurried back to her car and on to her hotel, to change for dinner. She had been invited to have dinner with Sid Lukas and his French wife, Odette, at their apartment in the Rue de Teheran. Odette, whom Victoria had not met before, proved to be a sharp-tongued but bright middle-aged Frenchwoman of inherited wealth, and the apartment was so richly furnished that the only object that seemed out of place was Sid Lukas himself. Two other couples had been invited, the first a handsome French publisher who disdained everything American, and his intimidated poet wife. The second included an impish, overweight Hungarian film maker, who had made countless deals but no films in twenty years and liked to quote the witticisms of Georg Lichtenberg—"Perhaps in time the so-called Dark Ages will be thought of as including our own"—or Stanislaus Lec —"The dispensing of injustice is always in the right hands"—and his plain Czech wife who always remembered to give attribution to the aphorisms. At dinner the talk was cynical and sophisticated, and the meal served on silver platters carried by a Filipino houseboy wearing immaculate white gloves.
Victoria might have been thoroughly uncomfortable except for the presence of Sid Lukas, who was slouchy and homey and liked to use American slang whenever possible, p
robably to tease or annoy his chic French wife.
After dinner, assisting Victoria from the table, Lukas asked her, "Are you on a new assignment?"
"Bradshaw," she whispered. "The hunt for." She glanced at him. "Between us."
"Between us," he promised.
Actually, her mind was entirely filled with Bradshaw, aware that the time was nearing when Howie Dittman might soon introduce them, and Victoria was hardly attentive to the after-dinner conversation.
At five minutes to eleven, when the Hungarian film maker begged to be excused because of a toothache, and left with his Czech wife, Victoria was quick to leave with them.
Once ensconced in her room at the Plaza Athénée, she changed into her nightgown, eye on her travel clock, biding her time. When the minute hand reached fifteen to twelve and the telephone remained still, Victoria's stomach tightened, a sign of nerves.
Nine minutes to midnight and the telephone rang.
The caller was Howie Dittman from New York.
"Miss Weston? I've located Mark Bradshaw for you."
"Wonderful! Where is he?"
"In the 'Annual Media Almanac,' page fifty-four."
Uncomprehending, she blurted, "I don't—"
Howie Dittman did not let her finish. "Let me explain," he went on. "Three years ago a very reliable publisher of reference books in New York here, Ravenna Books, put out a new kind of Who's Who listing the living people in journalism, radio, television, slanted for that market. That was the first edition of the 'Annual Media Almanac.' It was also the last and final edition. While a few copies sold, found their way into a handful of firms, the reference book did not catch on. So the publishing house dropped it as an annual. There was only this one relatively obscure edition. I stumbled on a copy late today."
"Arid Mark Bradshaw is in it," Victoria said with a rush of excitement. "What does it say about him? Where do I find him?"
"Whoa, not so fast—let me finish," said Dittman. "As with every media personality listed, Bradshaw had an address where he could be reached. His address was a post-office box number at the Times Square Station. I could have written or wired him care of that post-office box, but I knew that I was calling you tonight, so I didn't waste time. I tried to find out whom that box number belonged to. Not easy. But I found out."
"Where Bradshaw can be reached?"
"I found out his box number was the box number of Ravenna Books, publisher of the defunct 'Annual Media Almanac."
"He works for them and the Record?"
"Miss Weston, he works for no one," said Dittman. "Mark Bradshaw does not exist,"
"What?"
"You heard me. There is no Mark Bradshaw. Once I knew whom Bradshaw's box belonged to, I guessed what was going on right away. I remembered once hearing that the highly respected 1888 Appleton's Cyclopedia of American..Biography was exposed between 1919 and 1936 for listing among its real people eighty-four biographies of nonexistent, fictitious persons. Then I remembered reading somewhere that one of our major contemporary biographical guides—I've forgotten which one; again, a sort of "Who's Who-type reference—used to mix in a half dozen or so phony names with make-believe biographies. They did it to tell whether unsavory and fraudulent characters were using their reference work to solicit victims by mail. Well, I suspected that was the explanation for the insertion of the name Mark Bradshaw in the 'Annual Media Almanac.' I lost no time in getting over to Ravenna Books, caught the executive editor just as he was leaving work. He squirmed a little, didn't like to admit it, but finally had to confess that Mark Bradshaw was one of ten phony names invented and inserted in the 'Almanac' to draw letters from borderline characters who might pester their very real entries. I'm afraid there is no real Mark Bradshaw. I'm sorry."
Victoria let it sink in. She had difficulty speaking out. She started to say, "But why—?" She choked it off, knowing it was pointless to discuss the matter with Dittman, and instead she said, "I'm sorry too. Thanks for your good work. Let me tell you where to bill me." She gave him her New York apartment address, and hung up.
Sleep would not come easily this night, Victoria knew. At least not while there were so many unanswered questions rattling around in her head. The thing to do was to try to get the answers from someone who was sympathetic. It would be the best antidote for insomnia. The riddle must be put to rest.
She was wide awake and on the telephone once more, after an overseas dialing to the Washington, D.C., bureau of the Record in the National Press Building. Nick Ramsey was in and the operator was putting him on the line.
She heard, "Nick Ramsey here."
Her emotion was one of immediate relief. "Nick, it's Vicky."
He sounded genuinely pleased. "Great to hear from you. Where are you?"
"Gay Paree."
"Why aren't you asleep?"
"Too much on my mind. I had to talk to you. I have something to tell you—"
"Let me tell you something first," he cut in. "That was an excellent backgrounder you did on Lourdes, excellent. I suppose you heard what happened at Lourdes last night?"
Her voice quickened. "No, what? I haven't had TV or the radio on yet."
"A near disaster," said Ramsey. "The Pope was being taken down to the underground St. Pius X Basilica in Lourdes—being escorted, with hundreds of people milling around, pressing and pushing—when the lights suddenly failed. There were some frightened or unruly people, a near panic—the Pope was saved from being trampled to death only by the prompt reaction of his heavy security guard. When the lights finally came on, there were at least forty pilgrims injured, some seriously—"
"But the Pope was all right?"
"I told you, he had a heavy security guard. Thanks to that—"
"Nick, I'll bet you they—whoever they are—they got the lights off and tried to kidnap the Pope, and they couldn't make it."
"Now you're being far out. There's absolutely no evidence of that. If it had been planned, you can be sure Mark Bradshaw's by-line would have been emblazoned on the front pages as usual. If there's no by-line, there's no story."
Victoria sucked in her breath, exhaled, and finally said, "Nick, that by-line, that's a lie."
"I didn't hear you."
"That Bradshaw by-line over each exclusive, it's a lie. He didn't get the Dead Sea scrolls scoop. He didn't get, or write, any one of them. Mark Bradshaw doesn't exist."
There was silence on the Washington end, and then Ramsey's voice again. "Vicky, what are you talking about?"
"I've been chasing Bradshaw the last couple of days. I got your friend Howie Dittman to help. You remember, you gave me Dittrnan's name."
"Go ahead."
"I hired him to research Bradshaw. He did. Let me tell you what he just found out." She relayed to Ramsey everything that Dittman had told her right up to the admission of the "Annual Media Almanac" editor that Mark Bradshaw did not exist, that he was a concoction of their staff to bait fraudulent charity solicitors and other unsavory letter writers. "That's why I'm calling you, Nick. I'm going crazy trying to figure it out. What do you make of it?"
There was no immediate reply from Ramsey. At last he said, "I don't know, Vicky. I'm not sure."
"Why would Armstead by-line those big stories with the name of someone who doesn't exist?"
"We11, that's not entirely unknown," said Ramsey slowly, "using a false house name. It protects the publisher from building up a real correspondent or columnist who becomes such a hotshot that he can make exorbitant salary demands or even quit and go to a rival paper. If you've got a make-believe house name, you own what you build up and you keep it."
"Okay. But how come the name Bradshaw for the house name? How did Armstead come to pick a name of a non-person?"
"Even that can have a simple explanation," said Ramsey, making an effort to be reasonable. "One day Armstead heard someone who'd been on the 'Annual Media Almanac' tell an anecdote about those false names in the book. Good story. Someone told it. Armstead heard it, and when he wanted a hous
e name he remembered it and used it. He just put Mark Bradshaw as a byline on those exclusive stories."
"Knowing all the while that Bradshaw didn't exist, didn't write them."
"I guess so."
"But Nick, somebody did get those scoops, somebody wrote those stories. What I'm asking is—who?"
Again there was a marked silence from Ramsey.
Victoria persisted. "Somebody on the Record found out about the king of Spain, the UN secretary-general, the Dead Sea scrolls, the prime minister of Israel, before anyone else found out. Who could know about these things just as they happened, know about them and give them to the Record alone and instantly?"
"Vicky, I can't imagine."
"I can imagine. Armstead could have a contact with someone who has a connection with a terrorist gang, or even someone who is part of a terrorist gang. That someone could be selling material to Armstead on the spot. Can you buy that?"
"No. Too fanciful."
"Well, I have no other answer. I was hoping you might."
"Not at the moment. Let me think about it. Right now I've got to run over to the White House and hear Hugh Weston's statement on the President's decision to add a nuclear arms reduction plan to the London agenda."
"Okay," said Victoria unhappily. "Say hello to my father."
"Listen, Vicky, let me give the whole thing more thought." He was obviously attempting to cheer her up. "I'll try to see you shortly. You haven't forgotten, have you? Your father is taking a small group of the White House press corps with him on Air Force One to London. We'll be accompanying the President to cover his meetings with the British prime minister. That's very soon. I'll try to skip out for an afternoon and fly over to see you. We can talk the whole thing over. How's that?"
"I can't wait that long, Nick."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going right on—right on until I solve this, no matter what."
After eighteen holes of golf and a convivial lunch, Edward Arm-stead had returned to his office to be ready for the scheduled phone call. It had come on time, and he had been engrossed with it the past ten minutes, and now he was finishing up.
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