The Hunt

Keegan could not remember exactly what the occasion for the party was, there was always an occasion, but Wallingford had drawn a good crowd. There were the obligatory hangers-on, a few dull foreign diplomats, and, as usual, several officers of the German SS in their snappy black uniforms. There were also some new and interesting faces. The diminutive German actor with the pop eyes and the voice like an angry bee, Peter something, who had become an overnight sensation playing a child molester, was standing alone in a corner while in the opposite side of the room the English playwright, George Bernard Shaw, was holding forth to a large, mesmerized group, while the German actress Elizabeth Bergner, star of Shaw’s play, Saint Joan, stared up at him adoringly.

There were several other new faces. A half dozen beautiful women. Wallingford did have a good eye for pretty ladies.

One of them was a new international film star. She stood on the far side of the room, and was immediately attracted to the tall man in the tuxedo who seemed to command the doorway as if he owned it. She was also aware that everyone else had seen him too. A murmur of whispers swept the room.

“Who is he?” she asked her escort, an American military attache named Charles Gault.

Whispers always started the moment Keegan entered a room. He attracted rumors the way J. P. Morgan attracted money. Men usually glared at him with disdain, women stared at him with hunger. Royalty doted on him and the cafe society of England, France, Germany and Italy pandered him. Keegan materialized wherever the action was, slightly aloof, with an acerbic wit that intimidated men and an arrogant half-smile that dazzled the ladies. There was also a hard edge to his charm, a toughness that enhanced the rumors and added a hint of danger to his allure.

“That’s Francis Scott Keegan,” Gault answered.

“So that’s Keegan?” she said in a soft, husky voice, without taking her eyes off him.

“His notoriety always seems to precede him,” Gault answered.

It had. She had heard about this brash American playboy who was supposedly richer than Midas. Had heard that he had sired two or three illegitimate offspring among the rich and titled. That he was an American war hero. That he was a gangster with a price on his head. That he was an active member of Sinn Fein, the Irish rebel army. That he once cleaned out a Greek shipping magnate in a poker game and then gave it all back—with a shrug. They always added that. With a shrug.

“I’ve even heard he’s a Russian nobleman, got out just ahead of the revolution,” Gault whispered.

“He’s no Russian nobleman,” her dusty voice answered. Keegan entered the room now, stopping to speak to Jock Devane, the American ambassador, and his wife Cissy.

“You will be at the lawn party Sunday, won’t you, Francis?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, kissing her hand.

“I’ve already picked you for my badminton partner.”

“Good,” he said and, leaning over, he confided, “I’ll work on my backhand for the rest of the week. We’ll cream ‘em.”

He moved on, shook hands with a Nazi SS officer, exchanged pleasantries with the wife of an American industrialist and rarely took his eyes off the actress.

“Interesting,” she said.

“Want to meet him?” asked Gault.

“Oh, he’ll be over,” she said with assurance.

As Keegan made his way casually through the room, stopping here and there to exchange greetings or kiss a perfumed hand, he was aware that one guest, a small man with a hump on his back, seemed intently interested in him. Keegan ignored him but was constantly aware of his presence.

His course through the room eventually steered him straight to the actress.

“Hello, Gault, how’re things with the army?”

“Dull as usual. Francis, have you met Marlene Dietrich?”

“No,” he said, kissing her hand then looking directly into her eyes, “but I saw you in Morocco and I’ve been weak-kneed ever since.”

She laughed. “Should I be complimented?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“And what do you do, Mr. Keegan?”

“Francis.”

“Francis.”

“Not much of anything,” he answered. “I suppose you could say I’m on an extended holiday. A little business now and then.”

“How nice,” she said. “And when you’re not on holiday?”

Absolutely stunning, Keegan thought. Killer eyes and a taunting voice that was both promising and forbidding at the same time. She took out a cigarette and he lit it for her.

“I don’t remember,” he said with a crooked, almost arrogant smile, and changed the subject. “Are you doing a movie now?”

“I am going back to Hollywood next week,” she said. “I’ll be starting a new picture next year.”

“What’s it called?”

“The Devil Is a Woman.”