Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  Before I left the hotel, I wrapped up a copy of my latest book, and wrote “Hope you enjoy it” on the outside.

  Duncan lives in one of those apartment houses on Seventy-second and Park, and though I’ve been there many times, it always takes me a few minutes to locate the entrance to the building. And, like Duncan’s girlfriends, the doorman seems to change with every trip.

  The new doorman grunted when I gave my name, and directed me to the elevator on the far side of the hall. I slid the grille doors across and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. It was one of those top floors that could not be described as a penthouse even by the most imaginative of estate agents.

  I pulled back the doors and stepped out onto the landing, rehearsing the appropriate smiles for Christabel (good-bye) and Karen (hello). As I walked toward Duncan’s front door I could hear raised voices—a very British expression, born of understatement; let’s be frank and admit that they were screaming at each other at the tops of their lungs. I concluded that this had to be the end of Christabel, rather than the beginning of Karen.

  I was already a few minutes late, so there was no turning back. I pressed the doorbell, and to my relief the voices immediately fell silent. Duncan opened the door, and although his cheeks were scarlet with rage, he still managed a casual grin. Which reminds me that I forgot to tell you about a few more opposites—the damn man has a mop of boyish dark curly hair, the rugged features of his Irish ancestors, and the build of a champion tennis player.

  “Come on in,” he said. “This is Christabel, by the way—if you hadn’t already guessed.”

  I’m not by nature a man who likes other people’s castoffs, but I’m bound to confess I would have been happy to make Christabel the exception. She had an oval face, deep blue eyes, and an angelic smile. She was also graced with that fine fair hair that only the Nordic races are born with, and the type of figure that diet advertisements make their profits out of. She wore a cashmere sweater and tapered white jeans that left little to the imagination.

  Christabel shook me by the hand, and apologized for looking a little scruffy. “I’ve been packing all afternoon,” she explained.

  The proof of her labors was there for all to see—three large suitcases and two cardboard boxes full of books standing by the door. On the top of one of the boxes lay a copy of a Dorothy L. Sayers murder mystery with a torn red cover.

  I was becoming acutely aware that I couldn’t have chosen a worse evening for a reunion with my old friend. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to eat out for a change,” Duncan said. “It’s been—” he paused “—a busy day. I haven’t had a chance to visit the local store. Good thing, actually,” he added. “It’ll give me more time to take you through the plot of my novel.”

  “Congratulations,” Christabel said.

  I turned to face her.

  “Your novel,” she said. “Number one on the New York Times bestseller list, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, congratulations,” said Duncan. “I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet, so don’t tell me anything about it. It wasn’t on sale in Bosnia,” he added with a laugh.

  I handed him my little gift.

  “Thank you,” he said, and placed it on the hall table. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “I’ve read it,” said Christabel.

  Duncan bit his lip. “Let’s go,” he said, and was about to turn and say good-bye to Christabel when she asked me, “Would you mind if I joined you? I’m starving, and as Duncan said, there’s absolutely nothing in the fridge.”

  I could see that Duncan was about to protest, but by then Christabel had passed him, and was already in the corridor and heading for the elevator.

  “We can walk to the restaurant,” Duncan said as we trundled down to the ground floor. “It’s only Californians who need a car to take them one block.”

  As we strolled west on Seventy-second Street, Duncan told me that he had chosen a fancy new French restaurant to take me to.

  I began to protest, not just because I’ve never really cared for ornate French food, but I was also aware of Duncan’s unpredictable pecuniary circumstances. Sometimes he was flush with money, at other times stone broke. I just hoped that he’d had an advance on the novel.

  “No, like you, I normally wouldn’t bother,” he said. “But it’s just opened, and The New York Times gave it a rave review. In any case, whenever I’m in London, you always entertain me ‘right royally,’” he added, in what he imagined was an English accent.

  It was one of those cool evenings that make walking in New York so pleasant, and I enjoyed the stroll, as Duncan began to tell me about his recent trip to Bosnia.

  “You were lucky to catch me in New York,” he was saying. “I’ve just gotten back after being holed up in the damned place for three months.”

  “Yes, I know. I read your article in Newsweek on the plane coming over,” I said, and went on to tell him how fascinated I had been by his evidence that a group of UN soldiers had set up their own underground network, and felt no scruples about operating an illegal black market in whatever country they were stationed.

  “Yes, that’s caused quite a stir at the UN,” said Duncan. “The New York Times and The Washington Post have both followed the story up with features on the main culprits—but without bothering to give me any credit for the original research, of course.”

  I turned around to see if Christabel was still with us. She seemed to be deep in thought, and was lagging a few paces behind. I smiled a smile that I hoped said “I think Duncan’s a fool and you’re fantastic,” but I received no response.

  After a few more yards I spotted a red-and-gold awning flapping in the breeze outside something called Le Manoir. My heart sank. I’ve always preferred simple food, and have long considered pretentious French cuisine to be one of the major cons of the eighties, and one that should have been passé, if not part of culinary history, by the nineties.

  Duncan led us down a short crazy-paving path through a heavy oak door and into a brightly lit restaurant. One look around the large, overdecorated room and my worst fears were confirmed. The maître d’ stepped forward and said, “Good evening, monsieur.”

  “Good evening,” replied Duncan. “I have a table reserved in the name of McPherson.”

  The maître checked down a long list of reservations. “Ah, yes, a table for two.” Christabel pouted, but looked no less beautiful.

  “Can we make it three?” my host asked rather halfheartedly.

  “Of course, sir. Allow me to show you to your table.”

  We were guided through a crowded room to a little alcove in the corner which had only been set for two.

  One look at the tablecloth, the massive flowered plates with “Le Manoir” painted in crimson all over them, and the arrangement of lilies on the center of the table made me feel even more guilty about what I had let Duncan in for. A waiter dressed in a white open-neck shirt, black trousers, and black vest with “Le Manoir” embroidered in red on the breast pocket hurriedly supplied Christabel with a chair, while another deftly laid a place for her.

  A third waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and inquired if we would care for an apéritif. Christabel smiled sweetly and asked if she might have a glass of champagne. I requested some Evian water, and Duncan nodded that he would have the same.

  For the next few minutes, while we waited for the menus to appear, we continued to discuss Duncan’s trip to Bosnia, and the contrast between scraping one’s food out of a billycan in a cold dugout accompanied by the sound of bullets, and dining off china plates in a warm restaurant, with a string quartet playing Schubert in the background.

  Another waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and handed us three pink menus the size of small posters. As I glanced down the list of dishes, Christabel whispered something to the waiter, who nodded and slipped quietly away.

  I began to study the menu more carefully, unhappy to discover that this was one of those restaurants that allows only the host to
have the bill of fare with the prices attached. I was trying to work out which would be the cheapest dishes, when another glass of champagne was placed at Christabel’s side.

  I decided that the clear soup was likely to be the least expensive starter, and that it would also help my feeble efforts to lose weight. The main courses had me more perplexed, and with my limited knowledge of French I finally settled on duck, as I couldn’t find any sign of “Poulet.”

  When the waiter returned moments later, he immediately spotted Christabel’s empty glass, and asked, “Would you care for another glass of champagne, madame?”

  “Yes, please,” she replied sweetly, as the maître d’arrived to take our order. But first we had to suffer an ordeal that nowadays can be expected at every French restaurant in the world.

  “Today our specialties are,” he began, in an accent that would not have impressed central casting, “for hors d‘oeuvres gelée de saumon sauvage et caviar impérial en aigre doux, which is wild salmon slivers and imperial caviar in a delicate jelly with sour cream and zucchini drizzled with dill vinegar. Also we have cuisses de grenouilles … la purée d’herbes … soupe, fricassée de chanterelles et racines de persil, which are pan-fried frogs’ legs in a parsley purée, fricassee of chanterelles and parsley roots. For the main course we have escalope de turbot, which is a poached fillet of turbot on a watercress purée, lemon sabayon, and a Gewürztraminer sauce. And, of course, everything that is on the menu can be recommended.”

  I felt full even before he had finished the descriptions.

  Christabel appeared to be studying the menu with due diligence. She pointed to one of the dishes, and the maître smiled approvingly.

  Duncan leaned across and asked if I had selected anything yet.

  “Consommé and the duck will suit me just fine,” I said without hesitation.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the maître. “How would you like the duck? Crispy, or perhaps a little underdone?”

  “Crispy,” I replied, to his evident disapproval.

  “And monsieur?” he asked, turning to Duncan.

  “Caesar salad and a rare steak.”

  The maître d’ retrieved the menus and was turning to go as Duncan said, “Now, let me tell you all about my idea for a novel.”

  “Would you care to order some wine, sir?” asked another waiter, who was carrying a large red leather book with golden grapes embossed on its cover.

  “Should I do that for you?” suggested Christabel. “Then there’ll be no need to interrupt your story.”

  Duncan nodded his agreement, and the waiter handed the wine list over to Christabel. She opened the red leather cover with as much eagerness as if she was about to begin a bestselling novel.

  “You may be surprised,” Duncan was saying, “that my book is set in Britain. Let me start by explaining that the timing for its publication is absolutely vital. As you know, a British and French consortium is currently building a tunnel between Folkestone and Sangatte, which is scheduled to be opened by Queen Elizabeth on May 6, 1994. In fact, Chunnel will be the title of my book.”

  I was horrified. Another glass of champagne was placed in front of Christabel.

  “The story begins in four separate locations, with four different sets of characters. Although they are all from diverse age groups, social backgrounds, and countries, they have one thing in common: they have all booked on the first passenger train to travel from London to Paris via the Channel tunnel.”

  I felt a sudden pang of guilt and wondered if I should say something, but at this point a waiter returned with a bottle of white wine, the label of which Christabel studied intently. She nodded, and the sommelier extracted the cork and poured a little into her empty glass. A sip brought the smile back to her lips. The waiter then filled our glasses.

  Duncan continued: “There will be an American family—mother, father, two teenage children—on their first visit to England; a young English couple who have just gotten married that morning and are about to begin their honeymoon; a Greek self-made millionaire and his French wife, who booked their tickets a year before, but are now considering a divorce; and three students.”

  Duncan paused as a Caesar salad was placed in front of him and a second waiter presented me with a bowl of consommé. I glanced at the dish Christabel had chosen. A plate of thinly cut smoked gravlax with a blob of caviar in the center. She was happily squeezing half a lemon, protected by muslin, all over it.

  “Now,” said Duncan, “in the first chapter it’s important that the reader doesn’t realize that the students are connected in any way, because that later becomes central to the plot. We pick up all four groups in the second chapter as they’re preparing for the journey. The reader discovers their motivations for wanting to be on the train, and I build a little on the background of each of the characters involved.”

  “What period of time will the plot cover?” I asked anxiously, between spoonfuls of consommé.

  “Probably three days,” replied Duncan. “The day before the journey, the day of the journey, and the day after. But I’m still not certain—by the final draft it might all happen on the same day.”

  Christabel grabbed the wine bottle from the ice bucket and refilled her glass before the wine waiter had a chance to assist her.

  “Around chapter three,” continued Duncan, “we find the various groups arriving at Waterloo Station to board ‘le shuttle.’ The Greek millionaire and his French wife will be shown to their first-class seats by a black crew member, while the others are directed to second class. Once they are all on board, some sort of ceremony to commemorate the inauguration of the tunnel will take place on the platform. Big band, fireworks, cutting of tape by royalty, etc. That should prove quite adequate to cover another chapter at least.”

  While I was visualizing the scene and sipping my soup—the restaurant may have been pretentious, but the food was excellent—the wine waiter filled my glass and then Duncan’s. I don’t normally care for white wine, but I had to admit that this one was quite exceptional.

  Duncan paused to eat, and I turned my attention to Christabel, who was being served a second dollop of caviar that appeared even bigger than the first.

  “Chapter five,” said Duncan, “opens as the train moves out of the station. Now the real action begins. The American family are enjoying every moment. The young bride and groom make love in the rest room. The millionaire is having another row with his wife about her continual extravagance, and the three students have met up for the first time at the bar. By now you should begin to suspect that they’re not ordinary students, and that they may have known each other before they got on the train.” Duncan smiled and continued with his salad. I frowned.

  Christabel winked at me, to show she knew exactly what was going on. I felt guilty at being made a part of her conspiracy, and wanted to tell Duncan what she was up to.

  “It’s certainly a strong plot,” I ventured as the wine waiter filled our glasses for a third time and, having managed to empty the bottle, looked toward Madame. She nodded sweetly.

  “Have you started on the research yet?” I asked.

  “Yes. Research is going to be the key to this project, and I’m well into it already,” said Duncan. “I wrote to Sir Alastair Morton, the Chairman of Eurotunnel, on Newsweek letterhead, and his office sent me back a caseload of material. I can tell you the length of the rolling stock, the number of carriages, the diameter of the wheels, why the train can go faster on the French side than the British, even why it’s necessary for them to have a different-gauge track on either side of the Channel—”

  The pop of a cork startled me, and the wine waiter began pouring from a second bottle. Should I tell him now?

  “During chapter six the plot begins to unfold,” said Duncan, warming to his theme, as one of the waiters whipped away the empty plates and another brushed a few breadcrumbs off the tablecloth into a little silver scoop. “The trick is to keep the reader interested in all four groups at the same time.”


  I nodded.

  “Now we come to the point in the story when the reader discovers that the students are not really students, but terrorists who plan to hijack the train.”

  Three dishes topped by domed silver salvers were placed in front of us. On a nod from the maître d’, all three domes were lifted in unison by the waiters. It would be churlish of me not to admit that the food looked quite magnificent. I turned to see what Christabel had selected: truffles with foie gras. They reminded me of a Mir6 painting, until she quickly smudged the canvas.

  “What do you think the terrorists’ motive for hijacking the train should be?” Duncan asked.

  This was surely the moment to tell him—but once again I funked it. I tried to remember what point in the story we had reached. “That would depend on whether you eventually wanted them to escape,” I suggested. “Which might prove quite difficult, if they’re stuck in the middle of a tunnel, with a police force waiting for them at either end.” The wine waiter presented Christabel with the bottle of Cheval Blanc she had chosen. After no more than a sniff of the cork she indicated that it was acceptable.

  “I don’t think they should be interested in financial reward,” said Duncan. “They ought to be IRA, Islamic fundamentalists, Basque separatists, or whatever the latest terrorist group catching the headlines happens to be.”

  I sipped the wine. It was like velvet. I had only tasted such a vintage once before, in the home of a friend who possessed a cellar of old wine put down with new money. It was a taste that had remained etched in my memory.

  “In chapter seven I’ve come up against a block,” continued Duncan, intent on his theme. “One of the terrorists must somehow come into contact with the newly married couple, or at least with the bridegroom.” He paused. “I should have told you earlier that in the character building at the beginning of the book, one of the students turns out to be a loner, while the other two, a man and a woman, have been living together for some time.” He began digging into his steak. “It’s how I bring the loner and the bridegroom together that worries me. Any ideas?”