note TO THE reader
The art of making others laugh is surely a wondrous gift
from the gods. I affectionately dedicate this book to the
comedians, the men and women who have that gift and share
it
with us. And to one of them in particular: my daughter's
godfather,
Groucho.
This is a work of fiction. Except for the names of
theatrical
personalities, all characters are imaginary.
If you would seek to find yourself
Look not in a mirror
For there is but a shadow there,
A stranger...
-silenius, Odes to Truth
PROLOGUE.
On a Saturday morning in early August in 1969, a series
of bizarre and inexplicable events occurred aboard the
fifty-five-thousand-ton
luxury liner S.S. Bretagne as it was preparing
to sail from the Port of New York to Le Havre.
Claude Dessard, chief purser of the Bretagne, a capable
and meticulous man, ran, as he was fond of saying, a
"tight
ship". In the -fifteen years Dessard had served aboard the
Bretagne, he had never encountered a situation he had not
been able to deal with efficiently and discreetly.
Considering
that the S.S. Bretagne was a French ship, this was high
tribute, indeed. However, on this particular summer day it
was
as though a thousand devils were conspiring against him.
It
was of small consolation to his sensitive Gallic pride
that the
intensive investigations conducted afterwards by the
American
and French branches of Interpol and the steamship line's
own
security forces failed to turn up a single plausible
explanation
for the extraordinary happenings of that day.
Because of the fame of the persons involved, the story was
told in headlines all over the world, but the mystery
remained
unsolved.
As for Claude Dessard, he retired from the Qe.
Transatlantique
and opened a bistro in Nice, where he never tired
of reliving with his patrons that strange, unforgettable
August
day.
It had begun, Dessard recalled, with the delivery of
flowers from the President of the United States.
One hour before sailing time, an official black limousine
bearing government license plates had driven up to Pier 92
on
the lower Hudson River. A man wearing a charcoal-gray suit
had disembarked from the car, carrying a bouquet of
thirty-six
Sterling Silver roses. He had made his way to the foot of
the gangplank and exchanged a few words with Alain
Safford,
the Bretagne's officer on duty. The flowers were
ceremoniously
transferred to Janin, a junior deck officer, who delivered
them
and then sought out Claude Dessard.
"I thought you might wish to know," Janin reported.
"Roses from the President to Mme. Temple."
fill Temple. In the last year, her photograph had appeared
on the front pages of daily newspapers and on magazine
covers from New York to Bangkok and Paris to Leningrad.
Claude Dessard recalled reading that she had been number
one in a recent poll of the world's most admired women,
and
that a large number of newborn girls were being christened
Jill. The United States of America had always had its
heroines.
Now, Jill Temple had become one. Her courage and the
fantastic
battle she had won and then so ironically lost had
captured
the imagination of the world. It was a great love story,
but it was much more than that: it contained all the
elements
of classic Greek drama and tragedy.
Claude Dessard was not fond of Americans, but in this
case he was delighted to make an exception. He had
tremendous
admiration for Mme. Toby Temple. She was -- and
this was the highest accolade Dessard could tender --
galante.
He resolved to see to it that her voyage on his ship would
be
a memorable one.
The chief purser turned his thoughts away from Jill
Temple and concentrated on a final check of the passenger
list. There was the usual collection of what the Americans
referred to as VIP's, an acronym Dessard detested,
particularly
since Americans had such barbaric ideas about what
made a person important. He noted that the wife of a
wealthy
industrialist was traveling alone. Dessard smiled
knowingly
.and scanned Ae passenger list for the name of Matt Ellis,
a black football star. When he found it, he nodded to
himself,
satisfied. Dessard was also interested to note that in
adjoining
10
cabins were a prominent senator and Carlina Rocca, a South
American stripper, whose names had been linked in recent
news stories. His eyes moved down the list.
David Kenyon. Money. An enormous amount of it. He
had sailed on the Bretagne before. Dessard remembered
David
Kenyon as a good-looking, deeply tanned man with a lean,
athletic body. A quiet, impressive