studied Newman's companion surreptitiously. Some people had all the luck he thought without envy.
The girl was in her late twenties, Nagy decided, memorizing her appearance for Jaccard. Thick, titian- (Nagy called it red) coloured hair with a centre parting, a fawn cashmere (at a guess) sweater which showed off her ample figure and tight black leather pants encasing her superb legs from crotch to ankle as though painted on her. Gleaming leather. The new `wet' look. Very good bone structure — high cheekbones.
A stunner. At first Nagy thought she was a tart, then decided he was wrong. This girl had class, something the little man respected. Exceptionally animated, their conversation gradually developed so she listened intently while Newman talked, drinking his cup of coffee at occasional intervals.
At one stage she reached across to straighten his tie, a gesture Nagy duly noted. It suggested a degree of intimacy. Something else for Jaccard. Nagy had the impression Newman was instructing her, that she asked a question only to clarify a point.
When Newman paid the bill and left she remained at the table. Nagy had a moment of indecision — who to watch now? But only a moment. Newman walked towards Nagy — and the exit, putting on his sheepskin as he walked past the little man without even a glance in his direction. Nagy, who had paid his own bill as soon as his coffee had arrived, followed.
This time Newman jibbed at the exposed elevator. He ran down the staircase and walked back briskly along the Siberian promenade. He dived inside the revolving doors of the Hotel des Bergues and went straight up to Room 406. Nancy, wearing a transparent nightdress, opened the door a few inches, then let him inside.
Was she good?' was her first question.
`You think I'm some kind of stud?' he replied genially.
`I'll tell you something — when we arrived and you had to register, I was like a jelly inside with embarrassment. Mr and Mrs R. Newman..
`The Swiss are discreet. I told you...' He had already taken off his tie. `.. they only want to see the man's passport. And it's bloody freezing outside. I walked miles.'
`Come to any decisions?'
`Always sleep on decisions. See how they look in the morning.'
It was in the morning that the world blew up in Newman's face.
Ten
Geneva, 14 February 1984. -2 ? . The concierge called out to Newman as they made their way to the Pavillon for breakfast. Nancy had tried to persuade him to use Room Service and he had refused point-blank.
`You Americans can't think of any other war of living except Room Service...'
He excused himself, stopping at the concierge's desk. With a broad smile the concierge spread out the front page of the Journal de Genêve . Newman's photograph stared back at him inside a box headed Sommaire . The text was brief, not a wasted word.
M. Robert Newman, famous foreign correspondent (author of the bestseller KRUGER: THE COMPUTER THAT FAILED) has arrived in Geneva. He is staying at the Hotel des Bergues. We have no information as to his ultimate destination or the new story he is now working on.
`It is good to be famous, yes, no?' the concierge remarked. `Yes, no,' Newman replied and gave him a franc for the paper.
His face was grim as he pushed open the door into the restaurant. Nancy had chosen the same window table, sitting in the banquette. Newman sat in the chair opposite and stared out of the window. At eight in the morning Geneva was hurrying to work, men and girls heavily muffled against the chilling breeze.
`I've ordered coffee,' Nancy said, breaking a croissant as she studied him. 'Bob, what's wrong?'
He passed the newspaper across without a word, steepled his fingers and went on staring at the swollen Rhone. She read the news item and glowed, waiting until the waitress had arranged their coffee pots.
`I'm going to marry a real celebrity, aren't I? Where did they get the photo? I rather like it...'
`From their files. It's appeared often enough before, God
The girl was in her late twenties, Nagy decided, memorizing her appearance for Jaccard. Thick, titian- (Nagy called it red) coloured hair with a centre parting, a fawn cashmere (at a guess) sweater which showed off her ample figure and tight black leather pants encasing her superb legs from crotch to ankle as though painted on her. Gleaming leather. The new `wet' look. Very good bone structure — high cheekbones.
A stunner. At first Nagy thought she was a tart, then decided he was wrong. This girl had class, something the little man respected. Exceptionally animated, their conversation gradually developed so she listened intently while Newman talked, drinking his cup of coffee at occasional intervals.
At one stage she reached across to straighten his tie, a gesture Nagy duly noted. It suggested a degree of intimacy. Something else for Jaccard. Nagy had the impression Newman was instructing her, that she asked a question only to clarify a point.
When Newman paid the bill and left she remained at the table. Nagy had a moment of indecision — who to watch now? But only a moment. Newman walked towards Nagy — and the exit, putting on his sheepskin as he walked past the little man without even a glance in his direction. Nagy, who had paid his own bill as soon as his coffee had arrived, followed.
This time Newman jibbed at the exposed elevator. He ran down the staircase and walked back briskly along the Siberian promenade. He dived inside the revolving doors of the Hotel des Bergues and went straight up to Room 406. Nancy, wearing a transparent nightdress, opened the door a few inches, then let him inside.
Was she good?' was her first question.
`You think I'm some kind of stud?' he replied genially.
`I'll tell you something — when we arrived and you had to register, I was like a jelly inside with embarrassment. Mr and Mrs R. Newman..
`The Swiss are discreet. I told you...' He had already taken off his tie. `.. they only want to see the man's passport. And it's bloody freezing outside. I walked miles.'
`Come to any decisions?'
`Always sleep on decisions. See how they look in the morning.'
It was in the morning that the world blew up in Newman's face.
Ten
Geneva, 14 February 1984. -2 ? . The concierge called out to Newman as they made their way to the Pavillon for breakfast. Nancy had tried to persuade him to use Room Service and he had refused point-blank.
`You Americans can't think of any other war of living except Room Service...'
He excused himself, stopping at the concierge's desk. With a broad smile the concierge spread out the front page of the Journal de Genêve . Newman's photograph stared back at him inside a box headed Sommaire . The text was brief, not a wasted word.
M. Robert Newman, famous foreign correspondent (author of the bestseller KRUGER: THE COMPUTER THAT FAILED) has arrived in Geneva. He is staying at the Hotel des Bergues. We have no information as to his ultimate destination or the new story he is now working on.
`It is good to be famous, yes, no?' the concierge remarked. `Yes, no,' Newman replied and gave him a franc for the paper.
His face was grim as he pushed open the door into the restaurant. Nancy had chosen the same window table, sitting in the banquette. Newman sat in the chair opposite and stared out of the window. At eight in the morning Geneva was hurrying to work, men and girls heavily muffled against the chilling breeze.
`I've ordered coffee,' Nancy said, breaking a croissant as she studied him. 'Bob, what's wrong?'
He passed the newspaper across without a word, steepled his fingers and went on staring at the swollen Rhone. She read the news item and glowed, waiting until the waitress had arranged their coffee pots.
`I'm going to marry a real celebrity, aren't I? Where did they get the photo? I rather like it...'
`From their files. It's appeared often enough before, God
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