If such dedication argues total indifference to the effect she creates, it is reassuring to learn that Ursula spends up to an hour each day answering fan mail, much of it requests for a certain photo in which she is bent forward as if to receive the baton in a relay race, but winking at the camera. She has no steady boyfriend, despite persistent offers of dates. “There will be time after Moscow,” she says. “I don’t think I should want to go out with an athlete. I like to talk about other things than track.”
Goldine, too, has had to curtail her social life since joining the gold rush. “I’m a normal girl, and I like going out with guys as much as anyone,” she confides, “but you have to make sacrifices. I’ll make up later.” Nineteen, with cornflower-blue eyes that light up in surprise each time anyone suggests she is America’s Olympic hope, she reveals an innocence of her commercial potential that would gladden the hearts of the International Olympic Committee. “Endorsement contracts? What are they? Look, I’m only just beginning to think of myself as a runner. Don’t confuse me any more by turning me into some kind of merchandise.”
Goldine might deny it to herself, but the middlemen who made a killing each Olympic year are already jostling on the sidelines over the right to manage the girl who could become the hottest property in U.S. sport. “There have been inquiries from agents, it’s true,” says Professor Serafin. “Of course, Goldine isn’t considering anything like this. If she won a gold medal, I wouldn’t know what to advise. It’s really up to her. We’re just ordinary people with no experience of sports. She’s doing this for America, not with any profit motive.”
How do track experts rate Goldine’s chances? “She’s unquestionably a brilliant talent,” says Dale Dennigan of Track and Field News. “She made a lot of mistakes in Eugene through inexperience, and still did more than any girl in U.S. track history. If you analyze her best clockings of 10.8, 22.7 and 50.52, they indicate that she has a great chance of Olympic medals in all three events, but let’s remember that her best running in the 200 was achieved in the Quarter-Final, and her personal best in the 400 was made a month back in San Diego. She must learn to spread her effort more judiciously. She’s short on experience, of course, but that could mean she’s capable of improvement. It’s not unknown for a sprinter to take the Olympic title on a slender competitive record. Helen Stephens is an outstanding example, coming from a farm in Missouri in 1935 to set world records and then win two gold medals the next year, but it’s right to point out that she had a lot of intensive coaching before the Olympics. By any criterion, Ursula Krüll remains clear favorite for the 100 and 200 meters with her personal bests of 10.78 and 22.0 in the German trials. Remember, she hasn’t lost a race in two years. Taking the events in isolation, I’d put Goldine’s chances highest in the 400, but I’m afraid the short sprints will take a lot of her steam, as they did in Eugene. I’m picking her for silver in the 100 and 200 and hoping she can surprise me.”
Goldine accepts this estimate as a reasonable summation of the evidence available. “I’d rather not go to Moscow as favorite for anything. I’ll take it as it comes. Of course, I have my ideas of what I can do, but they won’t be helped by speculation in the papers.”
Ursula, too, is reluctant to make predictions on the outcome of her clash with Goldine. “I don’t know much about this girl, but her times I must respect. Do you have a picture of her? I send her my good wishes and I look forward to meeting her in Moscow.”
Ursula now possesses a photo of her U.S. challenger in action. “I’d like to send Goldine one of my pictures, so we’ll know each other in Moscow,” she says, “but the only ones I have just now are taken from the back. Well, I’ll send her one,” she adds with a mischievous smile. “Maybe she ought to get used to seeing me from that position.”
Smiling, though not at the wit of Fraulein Krüll, Dryden treated himself to another look at the cover picture. He was pleased because the Sportscene article chimed in well with the chorus of publicity Goldine was getting from the media. The rivalry with Krüll could become a highlight of the Games — the souped-up jogger versus the peerless product of the German machine. He liked that.
He opened his briefcase. Before landing at Kennedy Airport, there was work to do. The past ten days had seemed like 1969 again, when he had started the agency in London with the help of one part-time temp, and lived on sandwiches and four hours’ sleep, spending the other twenty generating business. These days, he was used to farming out the work to those sub-executives on the next floor, not seeing it through himself, every stage from the pitch to the signing. Still, he had kept control of the thing; if there were leaks, they wouldn’t be traced to Dryden Merchandising.
All told, he had done pretty well on the West Coast. The old sales patter hadn’t deserted him. On a quick count, he had logged upward of two million in endorsements, all provisional, of course, and peppered with escape clauses, but it wasn’t bad at all. If he could do as well in New York this week, the project would be right on target.
Already, the agreements had chiseled some shape into the Goldengirl image. She was hooked on California oranges, eggs and soft drinks. She drove a four-seater sports coupe with a V-12 engine, wore cashmere sweaters and white pantyhose and welcomed visitors to the U.S.A. Her hair was shampooed nightly with Goldtress, she showered under a Softspray de luxe and always took a malt drink last thing. Her preference in tracksuits was still under discussion, but shaping promisingly; enough gear had arrived gratis from the major sports manufacturers to outfit the entire agency staff if they ever fielded a track team.
The pleasing thing about the negotiations was that top management had heard of Goldine. That extra day in Eugene had repaid handsomely in publicity. Executives might not believe she was capable of three gold medals, but they knew enough to talk about her, and that was a foot in the door. The take-up had been better than 60 per cent, with less than 15 per cent outright refusals. Moreover, nobody had wanted to know who was behind the project. To a man, they swallowed the line that Goldine was Superjogger, the girl who found by accident she was America’s fastest sprinter.
The ingénue image had gone over strongly, as the Sportscene story testified. It fulfilled all requirements at this stage, providing good copy for the press and prime material for the admen to work on. No question of it: Goldine had done everything right in the interviews after Eugene. There was no hint anywhere of the self-indulgent stirrings she had admitted to him afterward. Just as well: the media would have a field day if they heard she was developing a power thing.
He took out a cigarette. No future in worrying what she might say. She had the intelligence to preserve the image, whatever her private statements revealed. In a way, that conversation in the hostel had been a demonstration of the point she was making. She had shown she had power over him. She could destroy his work with a few words in a press conference. He had to believe she wouldn’t, that it was enough to know she had the power. For, like her more explicit threats, it was self-defeating. To execute it, she would have to destroy Goldengirl, and if she did that, she removed herself from her position of influence.
He started sifting through his papers.
*
It wasn’t pure chance that he bought an evening paper before he left the Pan Am terminal at Kennedy Airport. He wanted to see how his golfers were doing in the Philadelphia Classic. It was a long time before he found out. His eyes were riveted by something else:
TRACKSTAR VANISHES: KIDNAP THEORY
NEW YORK, Aug. 1. — Goldine Serafin, 19, blond star of the recent U.S. Olympic Track and Field Trials, was today reported missing by her father, Dr. William Serafin. Early Wednesday morning she left Cleveland Hopkins Airport, Ohio, to travel by air taxi to New York, where the U.S. Olympic team had been asked to report for a pre-Games medical check. She did not arrive. This came to light yesterday afternoon, when Dr. Serafin contacted Murray Randal, of the U.S. Olympic Committee. Police are now investigating Goldine’s disappearance. A spokesman confirmed they were
working on the theory she was kidnaped.
Goldine made headlines last month, when she raced to U.S. records for 100 and 200 meters in qualifying for the U.S. Olympic team. She also qualified in a third event, the 400 meters, which makes her the first U.S. girl to attempt this triple in the Olympics. Prior to the Trials, she was almost unknown as a runner.
Dr. Serafin today described how he escorted Goldine to the airport from the house in Cleveland where they have been staying with friends. “I saw her into the plane, a light aircraft, red and white in color,” he said. “I actually lifted her baggage aboard.”
When Goldine failed to return to Cleveland Wednesday night, Dr. Serafin assumed she had been delayed in New York and made arrangements to stop overnight in a hotel. It was late Thursday afternoon, when she had still not contacted him, that he thought of phoning the U.S. Olympic Committee, and heard from Murray Randal that she had not reported for the medical. Dr. Serafin then informed Cleveland Police of her disappearance.
Heading the inquiry in Cleveland is Police Captain Sam Mortenson. “It’s too early to be definite, but we’re working on the possibility that she has been kidnaped,” he said this morning. “This girl is big news, with the Olympics coming up in ten days. Her abductors could believe they have a strong bargaining position. People with a big interest in the Olympics might be persuaded to put up a ransom so that Goldine can compete.”
Dryden didn’t read any more. He crossed the hall to the telephones, found the Cleveland book, looked up the Thomas Jefferson College, and stabbed out the number. In seconds he was speaking to Serafin: “Look, I just saw a paper. Is this true? She really is missing?”
“Unhappily, yes,” said Serafin. His voice was strained. “There’s no news of her. The police are waiting for a ransom demand. When I picked up the phone we thought perhaps …”
It was a clear warning to watch what he said. The police had a tap on the phone.
“I’ve just arrived at Kennedy Airport,” said Dryden. “If there’s anything I can do to help …”
“Not at this stage,” said Serafin. “It’s in the hands of the police.”
“I understand. Do they think she got to New York?”
“Probably not. They’re proceeding on the supposition that the pilot of the air taxi was implicated. I gave them a detailed description, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone like that known to the other pilots.”
“You walked into a trap?”
“It seems so. Listen, if I should get any news, can I contact you?”
“Through my New York office,” said Dryden. He gave him the number. “It looks as though I’ll be here till August sixteenth, or thereabouts. When does the team fly out?”
“August ninth.”
“Christ, I hope you hear something soon. This can’t be helping her preparation for the Games.”
“Leave me to worry about that,” said Serafin tersely. “There’s nothing you or any of my friends can do. It’s a police matter. Don’t let it interfere with your visit to New York. I’m confident we shall hear something soon. I must ring off now. I don’t want to miss the call if it comes.”
As his taxi headed up the Van Wyck Expressway, Dryden sorted through the theories his reeling brain supplied. A kidnaping might appeal to the police, but it seemed likelier Goldine had arranged her own disappearance. At the first opportunity, she had slipped Serafin’s leash and hidden herself in New York like any teenager on the run. She had talked about doing it that evening in La Jolla, hooking off to join a commune somewhere. At that time she had rejected the idea, but the pressures had mounted since. The urge to escape, go into hiding until the Olympics were over, could have overwhelmed her.
A more devious, but possibly more credible explanation was that this was a try-on. The next round in her power game. She was getting back at Serafin and the consortium, making them suffer a little. She would lie low for a few days to make them aware how much they depended on her. When she reappeared, she would have the gratification of seeing how relieved they were, knowing they dared not antagonize her. It was perverse, but so were some of the things she had said in her room in Eugene.
Then he remembered Sternberg and Valenti. They had wanted to pull stunts, stir up press interest in Goldine. When it had come up, he thought he had squashed the suggestion with Cobb’s help, but they could have decided later to stage something of their own. He could imagine Valenti crowing over the idea of a kidnaping.
There remained the theory the police were working on. If they were right, and it was a kidnaping, a genuine one, disturbing possibilities were raised. Professional crooks didn’t kidnap amateur athletes on the off chance that some sports-loving millionaire would put up. The chances were high that somebody had got wind of the money involved in Project Goldengirl. They knew the consortium would pay heavily — perhaps up to a million — to get Goldine back. Some ugly questions had to be faced. Not only did the kidnapers know about the stake in Goldine; they must have learned she had transferred from California to Cleveland. In the consortium, only Serafin and Dryden knew about Cleveland. The only others who could have leaked the information were Klugman, Lee or Melody.
By the time the taxi dropped him at the Roosevelt on Madison Avenue he had dismissed the kidnap theory. This had to be Goldine playing games of her own. A porter carried his cases inside. The desk clerk recognized him from previous visits.
“Mr. Dryden, sir. How nice to see you. We have a message for you to call your office. Urgent, they said.”
“My office here?”
“That’s right, sir. The booth over there is free, if you’d care to use it.”
This signified some kind of emergency. The New York office knew his time of arrival, of course, but they weren’t expecting to see him before tomorrow. After the flight from L.A. he always spent the evening relaxing.
The switchboard operator stammered her apologies. “I wasn’t sure what to do when I took the call, Mr. Dryden, so I asked Mr. Helpern, and he said as it was personal, I should leave a message for you at the hotel.”
“Fair enough. Who was the caller?”
“That’s why I was doubtful, sir. The lady wouldn’t give her name. Just said she wanted to contact you urgently, and it was personal. She asked if you were in New York, and I said you were expected late this afternoon. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong, but she was very insistent.”
“A young lady? I suppose you couldn’t tell.”
The pause at the other end of the line was palpable with embarrassment. “She sounded like she was my generation, sir. I’m twenty-two.”
“Lucky for you. Did you tell her where I’m staying?”
“Most certainly not, sir! I wouldn’t do that. Not to a caller that wouldn’t give her name.”
“So what did she do — ring off?”
“She gave me a number you can call.” Another diffident pause. “Would you care to take it down, sir?”
He noted it, and assured the girl she still had a job. In return he got an unsolicited promise that nobody else in the agency would hear about it.
In his personal appointment book were the phone numbers of two girls he occasionally met on his visits to New York. The numbers he had just written down were different from either.
Goldine? If it was, he had a few things to say to her.
He dialed the number and waited.
“Who is this?”
“Jack Dryden.”
“Hi, lover boy,” said Melody. “So sweet of you to call.”
Chapter 18
He met Melody in the main cocktail lounge of the Century Paramount She was on a stool at the bar in a jade-green cheongsam. Dryden ignored the leg show. He wasn’t there for a sexual encounter. She had told him she had news of Goldine. If that was just a come-on, he wasn’t staying.
She was drinking tomato juice, and asked for another. He ordered a straight scotch for himself.
“Surprised to find me in New York?” she asked. “I guess you must feel flattered, being p
aged to call me the moment you check in.”
“Surprised, I’ll give you,” said Dryden, measuring his response. “What brings you here — orders from Dr. Serafin?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t follow you.”
“I thought you might be assisting the search for Goldine.”
“You thought what?” She broke into a ripple of laughter. “Hey, that’s priceless! Casing the clip joints to see if her ladyship is sold into white slavery! Honey, I’m here because I walked out. Quit. I’m finished with Serafin.”
“What happened exactly?”
“Got a spare smoke?”
He opened a pack for her.
“It was obvious he was going to boot me out in a couple of weeks,” she went on. “There’s no job for me once the Olympics are over. Klugman, Lee, everyone on the payroll has to look for a new job.”
“I see what you mean, but what makes you give up now? This way you miss a trip to Moscow.”
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