Paris Match

Holly made her entrance, her auburn hair piled on top of her head, in her strapless emerald green gown that set off her hair and skin color. Everyone oohed and aahed, and they had a drink while waiting for the other guests to arrive.

Stone opened the terrace doors and they stood, watching the elegant crowd as they spilled out of big black cars—Bentleys, Rollses, Mercedeses—and passed slowly through the doors and the security checkpoint, where metal detectors and X-ray machines were set up. Well-dressed guards from Strategic Services—no uniforms—greeted them while armored weapons specialists patrolled the courtyard and the rooftops.

“Everything seems in good order,” Stone said. When the bulk of the crowd had passed in, the women made one last pass at the living room mirror, adjustments were made, and they all took the elevator down to the main floor.

A string orchestra was playing light classical music in the big lobby, and handsomely uniformed waiters passed among the glittering crowd with trays of champagne and canapés. The American ambassador to France arrived through the main doors, accompanied by Lance Cabot. Stone took Holly’s hand and drew her closer. “Help,” he whispered.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fight her off,” Holly replied.

Just behind the ambassador, Marcel duBois entered alone to applause and made a beeline for Stone. They shook hands and embraced.

“Is it going well, do you think?” Marcel asked.

“It’s going beautifully,” Stone said.

Marcel shook everyone’s hand and admired the women. “You didn’t cash the big check, did you?” he asked Stone.

“Lance Cabot took it from me before I could,” Stone said.

Then a momentary hush caused everyone to look toward the entrance. Mirabelle Chance was seen first, in a flame-red gown, no doubt of her own creation, then behind her appeared her brother, Jacques, resplendent in a dress uniform with much gold braid. The crowd began to chat again, no doubt about the infamous Chances.

“He must have designed that uniform himself,” Holly said. “Shades of General Custer!” Everybody laughed but Stone.

“I didn’t think he’d have the gall to show up,” he said. “Perhaps I should go and greet him properly.” He started to move.

“Don’t,” Holly said, taking his arm and tugging to stop him.

“He’s probably in better shape than you are,” Dino said.

Marcel spoke up. “Perhaps pistols at dawn!” That relieved the tension, and they turned their attention to meeting and greeting the other guests.

Lance and the ambassador wandered over, and Stone took shelter behind Holly. “What’s the news from the States?” Lance asked Stone.

“I’ve heard that the reporter didn’t file his story, because of a lack of corroboration. There is much relief in the Kate campaign.”

Lance leaned in. “I let it be known to Henry Carson that if the story did emerge, there would be consequences,” he said quietly, “in the form of a story tracing the leak to his campaign.”

“Very good,” Stone said.

Then chimes were rung, and the crowd filed into the grand ballroom and found their tables and seats, while a jazz trio played the American Songbook.

“Take a look at that,” Dino said, holding up a beautiful steak knife from his place setting.

“They were especially made for our hotels by an American custom knife maker,” Marcel said. “A set of them will be party favors for each of the gentlemen guests, while the ladies will receive a specially created perfume called ‘Arrington.’”

Dino chuckled. “After all that security at the door, the guests have been armed, and these things are razor sharp. I hope no fights break out.”

Soup and fish courses were served, then thick slices of boeuf à la Wellington, for which the knives were intended, came next, and the accompanying wines were superb.

After dessert, Peter Duchin, who had been flown in from New York, led a big band for dancing.

Jacques Chance and his sister swept around the floor, and people made room for them. No one was smiling, Stone noticed.

He noticed something else, too: at the edges of the room uniformed French gendarmes were appearing in twos and threes.

Jacques Chance noticed, too, and he maneuvered Mirabelle toward the bandstand, where an American singer was performing.

From his angle of view, Stone noticed something else: cradled in Jacques’s hand was the haft of one of the hotel’s steak knives, its blade concealed in his sleeve.

Stone began to move quickly toward the couple, but he knew he wasn’t going to make it in time.

61

Stone felt as if he were moving in treacle, dodging waiters carrying cheese and glasses of port. He struggled on.

Jacques Chance, clutching his sister’s wrist, dragged her toward the bandstand, where he shoved the singer out of the way and stood before the microphone. “Attention!” he shouted. The orchestra and the crowd began to fall silent.

Stone grabbed a cane from the back of the chair of an elderly gentleman and continued moving toward Jacques, knowing that he was about to witness a murder/suicide.

Then a tall, rigidly erect, white-haired man in a police uniform appeared at the edge of the dance floor and shouted, “Jacques Chance!”

Jacques had raised the knife in his hand but was momentarily transfixed by the sight of his father in this unlikely setting, and he hesitated, giving Stone his chance. He hooked Jacques’s hand with the cane and jerked him off the bandstand. The knife skittered a few feet away, and Jacques fell to one knee, still clutching Mirabelle’s wrist and taking her with him.

With Jacques disarmed and momentarily off balance, Stone took a wide swing with the cane and co

Stone was roughly pushed back by a policeman, and he took the opportunity to make his way back to the table, rehanging the cane on the back of its owner’s chair along the way. He sat down next to Holly and mopped his face with his napkin. Pandemonium reigned at the bandstand. Peter Duchin got up from the piano, shouted something to the orchestra, and gave them a downbeat. “La Marseillaise” filled the ballroom, and even the policemen stood at attention.

“Good work,” Holly said.

Dino spoke up. “The cane was a nice idea.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Stone said. He took Holly’s hand and led the others toward a side door. By the time the anthem had ended, they had escaped to the elevator.

—

THEY LANDED at dawn, just after Teterboro opened for business. The sleepy passengers disembarked, said their goodbyes, and their luggage was transported to the front of the terminal, where their drivers took their luggage and Stone’s man, Fred Flicker, awaited with the Bentley. He and Holly piled in.

“Home,” Stone said wearily.

“My home first,” Holly said, “to leave my bags with the doorman. I’m back in the real world now, and I have to go to work.”

“So be it,” Stone said.

—

STONE LEFT his luggage to Fred and let himself into his house. His secretary, Joan, who lived in the house next door, was up early to greet him.

“Welcome home,” she said. “Do you want to see the mail and messages?”

“I want my bed,” Stone said, kissing her on the forehead, and, getting into the elevator, “I’m going to sleep all day, if I can. Hold off the world.”