Natasha sat on a sofa in the lobby of the Plaza-Athénée. Her hair was pulled back under a floppy fedora. Hidden by huge round sunglasses, her eyes were rimmed with the weariness and tension of the past days.
It was nearly midnight when she arrived. Alois, the concierge, kissed her, took her luggage, and sent a cable to Achille telling him that she was in Paris. Then Alois suggested she have a drink while he located Max. The lobby of the Plaza had always been one of her favorite places. Unlike the Ritz, one could never tell what time it was simply by looking at what the tenants were wearing. It could be noon or midnight: there would be the same overdressed Brazilians and the same exotically understated Parisians. The Plaza offered sanctuary from time.
Max sat down beside her and took hold of her hand. They looked at each other, almost without expression, neither one feeling anything need be said. It was enough to be held and to be holding. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and tears streamed from under the sunglasses. He pressed close for a moment, then helped her up. With his arm still around her, he motioned as they passed Alois for her baggage to be brought upstairs. She walked with her head resting on his shoulder. They said nothing in the elevator.
Max opened the door to his suite and led her through the living room into the bedroom. Natasha stood silently in the middle of the room while he pulled back the bedspread. He came over and took off her sunglasses. The tears were still streaming down her face. He brushed them away gently and slipped off her jacket. Natasha stared into space as he unbuttoned her blouse, unzipped her skirt and took off her underthings. She stepped out of her shoes and he slid off her stockings. The last thing Max removed was her hat. He unpinned her hair and let it fall to her shoulders. Then he helped her to the bed, and covered her lovingly.
There was a knock at the door. The porter brought Natasha’s valise and alligator case into the living room. Max latched the door shut. He went into the bedroom. Natasha was staring at the ceiling. He watched her while he took off his clothes, and then he drew the drapes and turned off the lights. Once in bed, he pulled her close. She rested her head on his chest and he felt the wetness from her eyes. He stroked her hair gently. Then they became aware of his erection.
He was afraid she would misunderstand, that she would interpret his putting her to bed as a planned seduction. Ironically, he had for months been thinking how he might get her into bed. He even once thought about taking her forcibly. But not this way.
Natasha resented the hardness against her stomach. She didn’t want to think about Max now; her mind was already filled with too many unformed thoughts. There was no room to consider the consequences of making love with him. It was the wrong time. Even though she felt her nipples hardening, it was the wrong time.
Max had not been embarrassed by an erection since he was in school. He closed his eyes tightly telling himself it was wrong, that he loved her too much, that this was an opportunity to show her how much he really did love her. Goddamn it, he loved her. His erection began to fade. Now what should he do? Would she think there was something wrong with him?
She felt the pressure subside, and held him more tightly. She raised her head and kissed him on the cheek. There was nothing to say.
Max woke first Natasha was still in his arms. He got up quietly to go to the bathroom. Natasha was awake when he returned and she watched him walk toward the bed.
“I’ve never understood how a man could have breakfast in bed without getting up to pee first,” Max said.
“I’ll unlock the door. You call room service.” Natasha went to the bathroom while Max called the kitchen directly. Then she unlocked the living-room door. Max was staring at her breasts as she came back into the bedroom.
“They think I killed Louis.”
“Who thinks?”
“Carmody.” She got back into bed and sat upright. “Inspector Carmody of New Scotland Yard. That stupid son-of-a-bitch thinks I killed Louis.”
“How do you know?”
“They told me in Rome. The police in Rome were alerted by Carmody that I was coming.”
“But you’re being absurd. If Carmody really thought you killed Louis, he would have held you in London. He obviously had no evidence. Besides, there was no motive.”
“But then Nutti is killed while I’m in Rome.”
“I still don’t see there has to be any connection between the two murders except you were in both places.” She looked at him angrily. “You know what I mean. And the fact they were both killed in the same style.”
“That’s the point, Millie. The police haven’t yet picked that up as more than a coincidence. But it was no coincidence. Louis and Nutti had to have been killed by the same person, or maybe some international group of organized criminals.”
“You mean like Weight Watchers?”
“I mean that someone was trying to make a statement, not merely by killing them, but by the way in which they were killed.”
“So it has to be some organized group that hates food.”
“Yes,” she said. “Something like that.”
“There’s only one group that fits the description.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Waiters.”
She laughed and sat back. “Millie?”
“Yes?”
“Did you really cry over the silverware?”
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Max called. The waiter rolled in a cart. “Bonjour.” He took a folding tray from the side of the cart and set it at the foot of the bed. He put on it a small vase with a single rose, a glass of orange juice, a dish with two brioches and one croissant, butter, strawberry preserves, and coffee. “Madame,” he said, giving her the tray.
He took another tray and unfolded it. He put on it a second vase with a single rose, a dish of corn flakes with a sliced banana, toast, grape jelly, and a pitcher of milk. “Bon appétit,” he said, and left the room.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she asked Max. “Com flakes and bananas!”
“What should I be ashamed of? Half the world eats corn flakes and bananas. And if they didn’t I couldn’t afford to be in this suite now. Jesus, there you go again.”
“And toast, yet. The best croissant in Paris, and you eat disgusting puffy white bread.”
“Nat,” he yelled, “shut up and eat.”
“Now the whole hotel knows I slept with a man who eats com flakes and bananas.”
“You didn’t sleep with me.”
She smiled. “I know.” She looked at him, reached over and took his spoon. She dipped it into the bowl and filled it with corn flakes and a piece of banana. Looking him straight in the eye, she put the corn flakes and banana into her mouth and ate them. Then she gave him back the spoon.
“That’s for last night,” she said affectionately.
“Old tit for tat Nat,” he said bitterly. “Well, fuck you, lady. You wanna repay me for last night, you’ll have to eat all of Battle Creek, Michigan.” He got out of bed and went into the living room.
Natasha followed him. He was sitting naked on the cut-velvet sofa, and she stood naked in the doorway.
“You’ll get pubic hairs on the furniture,” she said, trying to change his mood. He sat, arms folded across his chest, staring past her. “Millie, I’m sorry. I told you I needed a friend.” He stared without changing his position. “I want you to be my friend,” she said.
He looked up at her. “I won’t be your friend if we can’t fuck.”
“No. Requirements.”
“What other requirements are there?”
“Exclusivity.”
“Unlimited, exclusive fucking?” she asked.
“No, goddamn it. No,” he yelled, and stood up. “Nat, what the hell am I supposed to do? I want you.” He walked to her and held her shoulders. “I’ve dreamed about you for months. I’ve fantasized how it would be when we finally got together. Here I am, with you, in Paris, naked,” he said looking down at himself, “and with another goddamn hard-on. What the hell kind of situation is this? I bring you up here, I undress you, I put you to bed, I get into bed, and I feel like a child molester. I brought you up here because I love you and I want to take care of you. I want to make love to you. But no. We sit in bed, I look at your tits, you look at my cock, we order breakfast, you tell me you want to play Nick and Nora Charles but you want me to go to the Y every night.” He thrust his arms up into the air. “Do we not bleed?”
“Millie,” she asked softly, “will you help me?”
“Yes,” he said, putting his hands over his erection.
“Without requirements?”
“Yes.”
“Then put on your panties,” she said. “We have work to do.”
They walked along avenue Montaigne and turned left onto the Champs Elysées. It was noon and the sun was bright, but Max was sulking. He was annoyed at Natasha’s insistence on having her own room at the hotel. While she spoke to the desk clerk, Max stood behind her shaking his head “no.” The clerk explained to Natasha there was not a room to be had, but he would try. Max slipped him one hundred francs not to try too hard.
“Thanks for understanding about the room,” Natasha said.
“You know me,” he said.
“How much did you give him?”
Max smiled for the first time. “A hundred.”
“So did I,” she said, pressing his hand.
“As hard as you can,” he said, encouraging her to tighten her grip. “Harder.”
“You son-of-a-bitch, you know that’s killing you.”
“You want to know what killing is?” he asked, and then pressed with all his might.
She winced and looked him straight in the eye. “Fairy.” He bent over and they kissed. “Is that all I’m worth, a lousy hundred francs a night?”
“A night? That was a hundred francs for the week. If you prorate per night…”
“A week? I can’t stay until next Friday,” she said. “I’m starring at Harrods on Wednesday.”
They crossed to the other side of the Champs and stopped in front of La Norma, a sprawling outdoor café. Max looked at his watch, while Natasha tried to find Auguste.
“He’s not here yet,” she said, sitting down at a table in front.
“They get quite a crowd here,” Max said, sitting next to her.
“Why did you pick this place?”
“No particular reason. Garcon.” The waiter raised his hand, signaling he would be right there. “What do you want?”
“Something light. Lillet.”
The waiter came over and unsmilingly said, “Bonjour.”
“Lillet pour madame et pour moi Coca-Cola.”
“Merci, monsieur.”
Natasha shook her head. “You’re not fit to take anywhere.”
Max looked around at the passing parade. “This is really a terrific location.”
“For what?”
“For anything. For meeting friends.”
Auguste was coming toward them. A very small man, in his early seventies, his gray hair was close cropped and he wore very big steel-framed glasses. His suit was wrinkled and too large for him.
“Auguste,” Max called, “Ici!”
Auguste spread his arms in excitement and accidentally hit a German tourist. There was a momentary scuffle during which Auguste reached into his breast pocket and took out a carving knife. Max rushed over, made excuses to the tourist, and brought a shaken Auguste to the table.
“Mon amour,” he said, hugging Natasha. “It has been so long. And to see you under these conditions.” There was fear in his eyes. “I have been afraid I might not live to see you again.”
“But why, Auguste? Have you been sick?”
“Look at me,” he said, pulling his oversized jacket away from his body. “I am like a cheap roast that is shrinking.”
“Auguste,” Max asked, “are you sick?”
“Sick? I have never been sick a day in my life. Jamais. I would be lucky if sickness were the thing I had to worry about.”
“Then what is it?” Natasha asked.
“What are you worried about?” Max put his hand to Auguste’s breast pocket. “Why do you carry that thing?”
“Pourquoi? Pourquoi? Because,” he whispered, “of the murderer.”
“The murderer?” Natasha asked, looking at Max. “What murderer?”
“What murderer?” Auguste whispered. “The murderer who murdered our dear Louis, and then murdered our beloved Nutti. The murderer who has already murdered the greatest chef in London, and then murdered the greatest chef in Rome. And what is he working toward, this murderer? It is obvious. He is next going to murder the greatest chef in Paris.” Natasha and Max looked at one another, stunned by the clarity of Auguste’s theory. “But,” Auguste said, taking the carving knife from his pocket, “I am ready for the murderer. The murderer will never murder me.”
“So, Auguste, how else have you been?” Natasha asked.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Cognac, please.”
“Garcon. Un cognac, s’il vous plaît.”
“Oui.”
“I am so sorry, my friends, to see you this way. In such bad times. That Nazi, I should have killed him.”
“The man didn’t do anything to you.”
“Are you crazy? They have reoccupied Paris. It was better during the war. There were fewer of them. But enough of my problems. Tell me, I hear you have gotten married.”
Natasha and Max looked at one another and laughed. “We got divorced,” Natasha said.
“That was as foolish as getting married.” The waiter brought their drinks. Auguste sniffed his cognac and swallowed it in one gulp. “How long will you be here, mon éclair?”
“Until tomorrow.”
“Until Tuesday,” Max corrected.
“Then I will have time to prepare a dinner for you. You will come to the restaurant Monday. At eight o’clock. Do not eat anything but an omelette for lunch.” Auguste began to laugh. “I am talking about omelettes in front of him.”
“You know about his plans?” Natasha asked.
“Do I know? I have been searching for him for a chef. And who do you think negotiated for him to buy this café?”
Natasha moved her heel onto the toe of Max’s shoe and began pressing down. “No particular reason for being here?”
“Ouch,” Max yelled, pulling his foot out from under the table.
“You do not act like you are divorced,” Auguste said. “That is nice. But, chérie, he did not tell you perhaps because he wanted to surprise you. I think, for myself, his restaurant is disgusting. But he knows I feel this way. Still he pays me very well. So it does not matter.”
“Auguste,” Max asked to change the subject, “do you have any idea who might have killed Louis?”
“Of course.”
“A waiter,” they all said simultaneously.
“Or another chef?” Natasha asked.
“C’est possible. Or, if they were not so spineless, a maître.”
“But who?” Natasha asked. “Do you know of someone in particular who hated Louis?”
“Everyone hated Louis. Even his friends. What does that prove? We would not kill him. His food was too good. The murderer must be someone who loved Louis, or someone who hated food.”
“Auguste,” Natasha began, “the police think I killed Louis and Nutti.”
“Incroyable!”
“Do you know anyone who would have wanted to kill Nutti?” Max asked.
“Nutti is different. He was not Louis. He did not have so many who hated him.”
“Do you think the same person killed Louis and Nutti?”
“Naturellement. And that is the reason the murderer must be a waiter or another chef. They were each prepared for cooking. I do not like to talk about it. But,” he said, patting his breast pocket, “he will not get me. Have you seen Hildegarde?”
“Did the Titanic see the iceberg?” Natasha asked.
“You know, she knew always about you and Louis.”
“I know. She told me.”
“But she loves you very much,” Auguste said, patting her hand.
“Thank you.”
“Now I must go. They have already begun serving the lunch and I know they have ruined everything. Ma petite,” he said, getting up and kissing Natasha’s hand, “if I am not murdered before Monday, I will see you. And you will eat a meal that van Golk himself would kill for.” He turned to Max and they shook hands. “I have not yet received the check. Of course, I do not worry about such things. But you will remind them for me. After all, I could be murdered at any moment.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Max said.
“And do not give her a hot puppy for lunch. Take her to Bertrand’s. He has a new salad chef from Belgium. He talks to the lettuce. I like him very much. Au revoir.” He blew a kiss to Natasha. “Mon amour.” Auguste turned briskly and walked away, holding one hand inside his jacket as though he were impersonating Napoleon Bonaparte.
“Let’s go to Bertrand’s,” Natasha said, getting up. “Unless you’ve bought him too.”
“No, but I’ve got a deal for Fauchon to package its own bubble gum.”