‘The devil with my husband,’ said Denise suddenly. ‘There is me.’
‘I heard nothing about you.’
‘No,’ she said, thinking hard, ‘because the thing about me was too recent. You say every room of his house has a microphone?’
‘So I was told.’
‘His private laboratory out in the rear. Was anything said of that?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘No matter. That would be wired, too. Well-’ Suddenly, she grinned and looked at Craig. ‘I gave Mr. Hammarlund quite an earful yesterday. I do not mind telling you, since you already know about my husband. In fact, you can probably be of assistance to me. You are a famous author-you do know everything about plots-’
‘My books do not always have happy endings, Dr. Marceau.’
‘I will take my chances. You see, Mr. Craig, I have worked out an intricate little plot of my own. I do not know if it will have a happy ending. It probably will not. But I am proud of my creative bent.’
‘Are you sure you want to tell me about it?’
‘Of course, I do. If an enemy already knows, why should not a friend?’ She sipped her Bacardi and then set it down. ‘My husband was at a loose end after our long years of work on our project. It was inevitable, at his age, that he would find some mischief. He met a Balenciaga mannequin, and she was clever and with loose morals, she saw a good thing, and she seduced Claude. Now, the affair has gone on a month or two-I know not how long-and it is still not resolved. The girl is flying here tomorrow, and Claude is meeting her. You can see that she is determined to take him from me. I am not sure that he is worth fighting for-but now I have become determined, too, to make the fight for him. How do I do it? What does a woman do? Nothing I have said has restrained him or made him give up this girl. Then, I decided that there was only one hope left-and that is to fight fire with fire. Do you understand?’
‘I’m not sure I do,’ said Craig.
‘To do as he does, and try to make him jealous of me.’
‘I see.’
‘He has pride. He is possessive-or used to be-and so I am gambling on this. You remember Dr. Oscar Lindblom at the Hammarlund party?’
‘I don’t think-’
‘Hammarlund’s head chemist, a tall, thin Swedish boy.’
‘Yes, I know now.’
‘Yesterday, on the pretence of being interested in his synthetic work-I suppose that is why Hammarlund thinks I am interested-I called upon Dr. Lindblom in his laboratory. I was shameless. I seduced the poor boy. You may look amazed. I know I am not the temptress type.’
Craig tried not to reflect either astonishment or disapproval. But he found it incredible to imagine this sedate, intellectual, almost matronly middle-aged chemist seducing anyone and committing adultery. ‘Why did you have to go to all that bother, unless you care for the young man?’ asked Craig.
‘He is nothing-a child-but I am trying to make him more, so that he will feel, and therefore appear to the world, to Claude especially, like a man deserving of my love. Otherwise, the plot would be a fiasco. Now, I will reveal the rest of my plot. If it has weaknesses, perhaps you will give me your professional advice. Tonight, Claude will be in Uppsala. I have invited Dr. Lindblom to my suite, to drink with me, to dine, to continue our passionate affair. What I plan to do is this. I will have drinks ready-I will make Dr. Lindblom consume more than usual, so that he is more, more-so that he is less afraid-and of course, before dinner, I will take him to my bed. After that, I will tell him not to dress-to put on Claude’s pyjamas-so that we can enjoy each other again after we dine. I will send for room service to see the menu. When the waiter comes, I will arrange that he clearly observes Dr. Lindblom, and after we have ordered, I will follow the waiter into the corridor and give him a large tip for a favour. I will tell him Dr. Lindblom is my husband, and tomorrow is his birthday, and I am eager to surprise him with a gift, a bottle of his favourite French champagne. I will give the waiter money, and ask him to buy the bottle and bring it back tomorrow and give it to no one but Dr. Lindblom. I will warn him that we may have visitors tomorrow, but he must ring and come in and give the gift only to Dr. Lindblom as a surprise. Do you see the outcome?’
‘Tomorrow, the waiter will find your husband instead of Dr. Lindblom.’
‘Exactly. But he will think Claude is a visitor only, and that my husband is not there, and he will refuse to give the gift to Claude but say he will return to give it to the right man. What follows is almost mathematically predictable-I hope. Claude will collar the waiter or corner me to find out what other man has been with me. There will be a horrific scene. Because of violence, I will be forced to confess my infidelity. Then, one of two things will happen. If I have already lost Claude, this will merely hasten his leaving. Or, I will bring him to his senses, make him jealous, make him see how he has treated me-and maybe-there is a chance-maybe I will win him back to faithfulness. So, you see, Mr. Craig, Hammarlund holds no blackmail weapons over our heads. What can he do? Threaten to tell me of Claude or Claude of me? I already know about Claude-and, heavens, I want Claude to know about me. Violà. There you have it.’ She sat back and brought her Bacardi to her lips. ‘There you have my precious plot. Do you see a flaw?’
Craig had been entirely disarmed by her easy candour. She spoke of herself, of her husband, her lover, his mistress, as if they were marionettes she was manipulating. It was difficult to take this seriously, it had so much the flavour of traditional Gallic sex comedies, and yet, Craig perceived, his confidante had suffered, and was deadly serious out of a desperation now repressed.
‘A flaw?’ he repeated. ‘Yes, possibly one.’
She leaned forward intently. ‘You must tell me.’
‘No one can fight fire with fire,’ he said simply. ‘You are a scientist. You should know that. Fire feeds fire. It doesn’t put it out. You may get your revenge and see destruction-that I won’t deny-but you speak of salvaging your marriage. I can’t believe this is the way. It’s not a plot I would write, because it’s psychologically wrong. You wanted my advice, Dr. Marceau, and I am giving it to you.’
She had not expected this, and she was less assured, less gay. ‘What do you expect me to do? Just sit by, while he gets in deeper and deeper with this prostitute of his? I have tried that.’
‘I would suggest you try it longer. Sit by, go your own way with dignity, and that may make him more ashamed than anything else. But remain above him and make him less. Wait for him to tire of the other woman. The odds are heavily in your favour that he will come back to you, contrite, and with the single necessity to prove himself, hold his youth a day longer, a month longer, entirely out of his system.’
‘And what if he does not come back to me?’
‘That is the chance, of course. But what you are doing now-I think it is a longer shot. Men are more moral than their women. Once he learns of your behaviour, he will never be able to look at you in the same way again. And you won’t be able to look at yourself in the same way. Not only will you have lowered yourself to his level, lost the one superiority you now possess, but you will have soiled yourself. You’ll never feel quite the same, just as he won’t.’
‘You are not a woman, Mr. Craig.’
‘Indeed I am not. At the same time-’
‘Men have an opposite view of it. I feel no differently now, and will feel no different later, than I ever have. It is only true love that changes one, that damages beyond repair, not a frivolous copulation.’
‘Perhaps that is the French attitude. I can only speak to you from my background and moral precepts, American and Calvinistic.’
‘Understand me, Mr. Craig. In all my marriage of so many years, I have never cheated or shown disrespect in this way for my husband. Before my marriage, before I ever knew there was anyone like Claude on earth, I had several earnest young student affairs. These were not mere indulgences of the flesh. For, whatever you have heard of the French, there are many of us brought up moral and constrained, and raised strictly French Catholic. Those student affairs were, you might say, part of the growing process, like menstruation and development of the bust. They were a process of maturing, seeking life’s full potential, and a self-probing to learn if you could feel the way all the poets and novelists said you were supposed to feel. But when I was grown and I met Claude, there was never anyone else, no thought of it. Why should there have been? For me, the marriage was a contract, not to be lightly broken or ever broken. Furthermore, there was no need for infidelity, for I had nothing more to seek or prove. There was Claude, and there was our work, and that was enough for nine lifetimes. But when the work was done, and there was no Claude-what was there left for me, for the dull and serving wife, but a broken contract held in hand?’