Trevayne by Robert Ludlum

at the Plaza Hotel. He specifically had said seven-thirty; there was no reason why he should be late, he’d expressly pointed that out.
    It was eight-fifteen, and no message had arrived to explain his absence. She was hungry as hell, among otherthings. And besides, she had had her own plans for the evening. Both children were leaving for their respective schools within the week; Pamela back to Miss Porters, Steve to Haverford. Husbands never understood the preparations; there were as many logistic decisions to be made prior to sending children away for three months as there were in most business dealings. Probably more. She had wanted to spend the evening making a few of those decisions, not driving into New York.
    Besides, she had a lecture to prepare. Well, not really; that could wait.
    She was going to talk to Andy about getting a chauffeur. She hated that goddamned Lincoln. She hated the idea of a chauffeur, too, but she hated the Lincoln more. And Andy wouldn’t let her drive a smaller car into New York. When she objected, he produced statistics about the vulnerability of small cars on the highway.
    Oh,
damn! damn! damn!
Where was he?
    It was eight-twenty now. Carelessness was rapidly becoming rudeness.
    She’d ordered a second vermouth-cassis and nearly finished it. It was an innocuous drink, a feminine drink, and the best to sip while waiting, because she didn’t really like it. And of course it was necessary that she didn’t like it. She was flattered that several men had passed her table and given her second looks. Not at all bad for forty-two—about to be forty-three—and two grown children. She must remember to tell Andy about them. He’d laugh and say something like: What did you expect, you think I married a mongrel?
    She had a good sex life, Phyllis reflected. Andy was a passionate man, an inquisitive man. They both enjoyed the bed. What had Tennessee Williams said? Was it Williams? Yes, it had to be.… Some character in an early play, a play about Italians … Sicilians, had said it.
If the bed’s okay, the marriage’s okay!
… Something like that.
    She liked Tennessee Williams. He was a poet as much as a playwright. Perhaps more of a poet.
    Suddenly Phyllis Trevayne felt sick, terribly sick. Her eyes lost their focus, the entire Palm Court seemed tospin around and around. And then she heard voices above her.
    “Madame, madame! Are you ill? Madame! Boy! Boy! Get smelling salts!”
    Other voices, crescendos of volume, a blurring of words … nothing made sense, nothing was real. There was a hardness against her face, and she vaguely knew it was the marble floor of the room. Everything began to go dark, black. And then she heard the words.
    “I’ll take care of her! It’s my wife! We’ve a suite upstairs! Here, give me a hand! It’s all right!”
    But the voice wasn’t that of her husband.
    Andrew Trevayne was furious. The taxi he’d taken from his office at Danforth had rammed into a Chevrolet sedan, and the policeman had insisted he remain on the scene until all the statements were taken. The wait was interminable. When he told the police officer he was in a hurry, the patrolman replied that if the passenger in the Chevrolet could wait, prone on his back, for an ambulance, the least Trevayne could do was wait for the statements to be taken.
    Twice Trevayne had gone to a corner pay phone to call his wife at the Plaza and explain, but each time he reached the bell captain to have her paged, he was told she wasn’t in the Palm Court. The traffic down from Connecticut was probably lousy, and she’d be doubly upset if she arrived late and found him not there.
    Goddamn it! Goddamn it!
    Finally, at eight-twenty-five, he’d given his statement to the police and was allowed to leave the scene.
    As he flagged down another cab, he vaguely thought about the fact that the second time he’d called the Plaza, the bell captain seemed to recognize his voice. Or, at least, the time span between his