* * *
Jay was also on his way to the meeting. He had flown in from New York this morning, and was coming directly from Logan Airport. He wondered if Greg had wrung himself dry of ideas. Two years had gone by since “The Pepper Pot” had premiered. But today Greg was bringing a new musical to the meeting for his approval, so he figured he must have been wrong.
As he rode in the cab through the streets of Boston he thought of Hilary. Not a day had gone by since their conversation on that awful day two years ago that she hadn’t popped into his head. She had seemed so innocent and sincere that he wondered if he had been too abrupt with her. Try as he would he couldn’t shake the strong attraction he felt, or erase the image of her angelic face.
Jay was a very kind man, and it bothered his sense of fair play to think he might have been too hasty not having given her a chance to explain why she had made such an accusation about Greg and “The Ginger Jar,” as she called it. Greg, a plagiarist? No way! Greg has written so many wonderful musicals, why would he find it necessary to steal from her?
He kept telling himself to forget it. He had no idea where she was now, anyway, so there was nothing he could do about it. Still, every day, there she was haunting him. The picture of her standing at the door of his hotel room, staring at him with those hurt, innocent eyes, refused to leave him.
All eyes were on Jay as he made his way to the table to join Greg. Casually clad in white slacks and a red shirt, his six foot, slender frame cut a striking picture. He looked like a movie star with his dark blond, wavy hair and blue eyes.
Greg was ten years older than Jay’s thirty years, and was striking in a different way. There was a premature gray streak in his brown hair now, and his eyes looked dark and piercing, camouflaging his terrible secret. His gray slacks hugged his slim body, and he wore a green shirt rather loosely outside his slacks.
Both men were extremely attractive, but that’s where the similarity ended. They were so totally different in character it was hard to imagine how they came to be such good friends. Jay was honest, loving, compassionate, and caring. Greg was selfish, cruel, criminal, and didn’t much care about anything but getting his own way, no matter how he did it.
“Well! You look deep in thought. Is anything wrong?” Jay greeted Greg.
* * *
Greg managed a smile. “No! Everything’s fine! I’ve got my new musical ready to show you.” He pulled it out of his briefcase and handed it to Jay. “I hope you like it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Jay asked. “I’ve liked everything else you’ve written. What’s the name of this one?”
“I’ve called it ‘Sunny Days,’” Greg replied.
Jay studied the score for about five minutes, then put it down and smiled at Greg. “Looks great!” he said. “But what else would it be, coming from you?”
Greg relaxed. “So? When do you think it can go into production?”
“As soon as I get back to New York!” Jay promised. “I want to get this one going as fast as possible. The music looks excellent! I don’t know how you do it! One right after the other!”
As they studied their menus Greg noticed that Jay seemed preoccupied. “Is there a problem?” he asked. “I’ve done all the rewriting I thought was necessary. What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. The script and music are fine.” He took a deep breath. “I was just wondering - - I’ve often thought about the lassie you were engaged to. Do you ever hear from her?”
Greg stiffened at the unexpected question. He took a sip of his Scotch on the Rocks to steady his nerves. The elation he had felt moments before quickly faded. Did Jay suspect anything?
He did his best to sound casual as he answered. “Oh - no. When she found out she couldn’t put her name on my musical, she decided I was of no further use to her. You see, she was just using me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. You must have loved her a lot to want to marry her.”
“Well - - “ Greg stammered - - “who - who wants someone who doesn’t really love you? She was just an opportunist. I’m glad I found out in time. It taught me something. Next time I’ll be more careful. I’ll find the right one some day.”
They ate their lunch and talked a little about the production of “Sunny Days,” and Greg saw to it that nothing further was mentioned about Hilary. Every time he thought Jay might bring it up again, he carefully steered him away from the subject. He could only hope that Dan would find her quickly.
When he arrived home around three o’clock, he still had the uneasy feeling someone was stalking him. He tried to shake it off as he parked his Rolls Royce in the garage and entered the house. He peered nervously out the window. A car was parked across the street. The man at the wheel looked familiar, although at first he couldn’t identify him.
Then he remembered!
He quickly pulled the drapes. It was the young man who wrote the musical he just showed to Jay!
Greg shivered. What is he doing here? What is his name? Oh, yes, Roger Fielding!
Icy fingers of fear gripped him, and his heart pounded. I’ve got to get out of town for a while! But where?
He decided to set the security alarm. He knew if Roger tried to break in that once the alarm went off he wouldn’t stick around long, knowing the police would be on their way. As he stood there wondering where he could go to escape from him, the phone rang.
It was Dan.
“I’ve found her!” he exclaimed. “Her name is on a passenger list that’s scheduled to fly from Los Angeles to Paris day after tomorrow.”
“Great work!” Greg exulted. “I’m coming out to California. Do you know where she’s staying?”
“Not yet. I’ll keep you posted. Where can I reach you?”
“Where I usually stay - the Bon Aventure Hotel in Los Angeles. Which airline is she using? And what flight number?”
“Parisian Airlines. Flight #867.”
“Great work! Thanks! When you call the hotel ask for George Wilson. That’s the name I register under when I don’t want to be bothered by would-be writers who want my help.”
Much relieved, Greg hung up and called the airline. The clerk told him they had an available seat in First Class on the six o’clock evening flight to Los Angeles.
Next, he called Jay at his hotel to tell him where he would be.
He hastily packed his suitcase. His mind raced as he dialed for a limousine. How do I get out of here without Roger seeing me?
The answer came to him as someone on the other end picked up. “This is Gregory Wilcox,” he said. “How soon can you send a limo? Fine! But don’t come to my house. Meet me at the corner of Beacon and Clarendon Streets. I don’t want anyone to see me leave. I’m being stalked. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
He grabbed his things and went down to the underground garage and out the back door. He peered around to make sure no one was following him and rushed the few blocks to where the limousine was waiting to take him to Logan Airport. He boarded the limousine as fast as he could, grateful for the blacked out windows.
The plane arrived in Los Angeles on schedule. The limousine he had hired before leaving Boston was already there, parked at the curb. The chauffeur picked up Greg’s luggage and placed it in the limo, and they were on their way to the Bon Aventure Hotel. Although it was only eight o’clock, California time, when Greg arrived at the hotel he was still on east coast time, so his body clock said it was eleven. He was tired and tense. I’ll wait till morning to call the detective, he decided. We’ll find Hilary no matter where she is. I’ll shut her up for good, he promised himself, and drifted off to sleep.
The phone woke him at six o’clock the next morning. Who would be calling at this ungodly hour? Must be important. Only two people know where I am. Jay and the detective.
It was Jay.
“Greg, I have a great idea! Since your musical takes place in Nuits, France, why don’t we fly to Paris as soon as you’ve finished your business in Los Angeles - say in a day or two? We can go to Nuits from there to get a feel for the country and its ambience. That way we’ll produce a better show.”
“Fine!” Greg agreed. “I’ll fly back to New York tomorrow night, and we can leave the next day.”
“Good! I’ll make the reservations,” Jay told him. “Why don’t you come straight to my apartment? Do you need to go to Boston for anything first?”
“No,” Greg replied, relieved that he didn’t have to go home and face Roger. “I have clothes with me, and whatever else I need I can buy here or in France. My plane won’t get in till around midnight. Sorry it has to be so late. I have something to take care of before I return to New York.”
“That’s okay,” Jay assured him. “I’ll wait up for you.”
“See you tomorrow night,” Greg said, and hung up.
He showered, dressed, and went down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. He had a plan, but he needed to think about how to carry it out. He finished eating and returned to his room.
He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. Plenty of time. No need to feel rushed.
He sat for almost an hour - thinking - plotting - then made a decision.
He dialed the Concierge. “Is there a library near the hotel?” He waited. “Great!”
He hung up and went into the hall to ring for the elevator. He sped through the lobby and out to the street. In five minutes he walked through the revolving door of the library and into the building, stopping at the desk to ask where he could find a particular book. But as he opened his mouth he changed his mind. I’ll find it by myself. Just as well not to arouse any suspicions. He wandered through the aisles until he found the shelves he was looking for. When he spied the book that contained the necessary information he took it into one of the private cubicles.
He thumbed through the pages till he saw a chapter entitled, “How To Make A Bomb.” There was no one at the copy machine, and in a few minutes he had copied the instructions.
Next, he looked in the phone book and ran his finger down the page until he found a store that had all the materials listed in the instructions.
He donned his dark glasses and pulled his collar up around his face so no one would recognize him. The store was only a ten minute walk.
After making his purchase he made a quick exit and hurried back to the Bon Aventure and up to his room.
Following the directions from the library was easy, and in a short time he had assembled a bomb. He planned to set the time for detonation later.
He placed it in his carry-on, confident that he had found the perfect way to get rid of Hilary.
He lay down on the bed feeling strangely weary. When he woke it was dark outside. He was famished. He rose, dressed, and went down to the lobby.
As soon as he finished dinner, he wandered through the shopping mall connected to the Bon Aventure. It was a city in itself, with everything for the most meticulous shopper. One of the shops had some clothes in the latest fashions displayed in the window. He stopped and studied them. Just the clothes I need for Paris, he exulted. He picked out a blue cashmere sweater, some coordinating slacks, and a couple of suits.
At nine-forty-five he returned to his room and went to bed. Time enough tomorrow morning to plan how he was going to get the bomb on board the plane that Hilary would be flying to Paris.
The next morning he ate a leisurely breakfast in the hotel coffee shop while he read the newspaper that had been handed to him when he entered. He was a lot more relaxed now that he had completed his plan to do away with Hilary. All except for the final touch - setting the time, and smuggling the bomb on to the plane.
It was eleven o’clock when he finished eating. Once he returned to his room he wasted no time. He picked up the phone and dialed the International Operator.
“What is the time difference between Los Angeles and Paris?” he asked when the operator came on the line. “I see. Thank you.”
Next, he called Parisian Airlines. “When is the arrival time in Paris for Flight #867 from Los Angeles?” he asked the agent. He waited a moment. “Twelve-ten PM, Paris time? Thank you.”
He cautiously removed the bomb from the carry-on. With careful deliberation he set the bomb’s clock and date to agree with Paris time, and to go off at eleven-fifty-five, fifteen minutes before Hilary’s plane was due to land in Paris. He carefully wrapped it in three towels to deaden the sound of the ticking. He placed it back into the carry-on, attached a padlock to the zipper, and locked it. No one would know he had a bomb in his carry-on. As soon as he arrived at the airport he walked into one of the coffee shops. When he finished his sandwich, he went up the escalator to Parisian Airlines Gate #7. Hilary’s plane wouldn’t leave for another two and a half hours, and there was only one ticket agent on duty. Greg sat in a corner trying to figure out how to get the bomb on the plane.
Just one passenger had arrived, and was talking with the agent. He was very upset. Greg couldn’t help overhearing what he was saying. As he listened he realized this was the opportunity he’d been looking for!
The man was almost in tears. “My wallet was stolen!” Greg heard him say. “My ticket, my money, my credit cards were in it! I have to get to Paris! My daughter was in an accident! She’s all I have since my wife died! I have to get on this plane! Please!”
The ticket agent spoke gently but firmly. “Sir, without identification I can’t do anything for you.”
“But I told you,” the man pleaded, “my identification is in my wallet that was stolen!”
“I’m sorry,” the agent said.
As the man turned away in despair, Greg beckoned to him. “Excuse me,” he said, “I couldn’t help overhearing. I can help you.”
The man turned to Greg with tears in his eyes. “I have to get to my daughter,” he explained. “My wallet was stolen and they won’t sell me a ticket without identification.”
“Just wait here,” Greg told him. He rose and walked over to the counter. “I’d like a First Class ticket to Paris, France on Flight #867.” He pulled out a credit card with the name of George Wilson, the pseudonym he used when he wanted to hide his identity. “Charge it to this card, please,” he told her.
He soon had the ticket in his hand. Seat #2D, right in back of Hildy and Jenny. He walked over to the man and gave the bag and the ticket to him. “This will get you to Paris,” Greg told him. “But I want you to do me a favor. I have a friend in Paris who needs this. Put this bag on the rack just above you on the plane. My friend will pick it up.”
“Yes, Sir!” the man agreed. “How can I thank you?”
“Just deliver this bag. That’s thanks enough,” Greg said. The last Greg saw of the carry-on was in the man’s hand as he sat down and waited for the boarding call for First Class. As Greg walked away his heart was pounding. He felt like cheering, but resisted the temptation. Instead, he left the area quickly and headed toward the cocktail lounge across from Parisian Airlines to celebrate. He sat in a secluded corner of the lounge and ordered his favorite drink - Scotch on the Rocks.
He smiled, pleased with himself as he sat there jiggling the ice cubes in his cocktail glass. Now all that was left to do was to make sure Hilary was on that plane. He had just enough time to check it out before flying back to New York. He finished his drink and went back to Gate #7 of Parisian Airlines. With a triumphant smile he sat down to watch for Hilary.
CHAPTER VII
The morning Hildy was to fly to Paris she woke up late. It was drizzling. Unusual for southern California, but the sound of it falling against the window panes was gentle and soothing.
For the first time in months she didn’t have that awful feeling of impending doom, as though something dreadful was about to h
appen. On the contrary, something wonderful was coming into her life, and she jumped out of bed, exhilarated, ready to face a world that seemed brand new. As fast as she could she showered and dressed, and packed the rest of her belongings into her suitcase. She had just finished when Jenny called to her.
“Hildy, you have just time enough for some lunch before leaving for the airport.”
“I’m all ready,” Hildy sang as she opened the door. It was all she could do to keep from dancing. “Jenny,” she said to her loyal school chum, “do me a favor. Please pinch me! I want to be sure this isn’t all an incredible dream!”
“It’s no dream, Hildy.” Jenny looked wistful. “I’ll miss you. I was getting used to your being here. I’m a little envious. I’d love to go to Paris with you.”
Did Hildy imagine it, or did Jenny seem jumpy? Her pretty face looked pinched and drawn. Why hasn’t she told me what’s bothering her? She decided not to pressure her. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.
They were just beginning to prepare lunch when a ring on the phone interrupted them. Hildy noticed an abrupt change in Jenny’s attitude. She looked frightened and her whole body stiffened.
Hildy stopped what she was doing. “What’s the matter, Jenny? You’re shaking.”
Jenny stared at the phone.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Hildy asked.
“It’s him! I know his ring! He said he’d be back today!”
“Him? Who?” Hildy was puzzled and concerned for her friend.
“Ken!” Jenny started to cry.
Hildy walked over and put her arms around her. “Jenny? What’s going on? I thought you were divorced, and everything was settled!”
Jenny pulled out a tissue from the box on the counter top and wiped her eyes. The phone continued to ring. “I’d better answer it,” she said. “Maybe it’s not Ken. It might be for you.” She took a deep breath and picked it up. “Hello,” she answered timidly. She waited. “Hello? Who’s there?” She slammed the phone down and turned to Hildy in sheer terror.
La Fleur Rouge The Red Flower Page 4