Hazen nodded. "I let the chauffeur go for the night. His fiancee came into town and I did my share for young love. Where're the ladies?"

"They're up in their rooms. They're making an early night of it."

Hazen looked at him keenly. "They're all right, aren't they?"

"Fine," Strand said.

"Leslie told me about Eleanor's going back to Georgia. That's quite a mess down there, isn't it?"

"Ugly," Strand said. "Gianelli's acting like a fool."

"He's got guts. I admire that."

"I admire it a little less than you do," Strand said dryly.

"I called the police chief down there and told him he had to put a man on to guard their house. I made it plain to him that if anything happened to those kids I'd have his hide."

"I hope it helps."

"It better," Hazen said grimly. "Now, what I need is a drink. How about you?"

"I'll join you." Strand went over to the bar and watched while Hazen poured them two large Scotch and sodas. They carried their drinks back to the fireplace and sat facing each other in the big leather wing-back chairs. Hazen took a long gulp of his drink and sighed contentedly. "Man, I needed this," he said.

"The last time we had a drink like this," Strand said, "the telephone rang and you were gone like a streak. I hope you'll at least be able to finish your drink before you have to go again."

Hazen laughed, a pleasant low rumble. "I'm not going to answer the telephone for a week. I don't care who's calling, the Pope, the President of the United States, any one of a dozen assorted lawyers, they'll have to struggle along without me."

"I'm glad to hear that. How're things going?"

"So-so." Hazen stared into his glass. "Nobody's declared war-yet."

"Leslie told me about your wife's threatening to name her as correspondent."

"She's threatening every woman I've said hello to for the last thirty years. She's digging up graves from Boston to Marseilles. I felt I had to tell Leslie that there was a possibility it would leak. But I told her I didn't want you to know about it."

"We're on a new policy here," Strand said. "Full disclosure."

"A dangerous experiment." Hazen peered intently at him. "You don't believe for one instant...?"

"Not for one instant," Strand said. Looking at the powerful, fleshily handsome man in his immaculate clothing Strand could understand why any woman, even his wife, would be attracted to him. Nixon's Secretary of State Kissinger, in one of his less diplomatic messages, had said when asked about his success with women that power was an aphrodisiac. By any standards Hazen was powerful and certainly by comparison with an ailing, obscure, disabused schoolteacher he must be overwhelming. Love finally could withstand only so much temptation. He wondered just what Hazen had said or done or looked that had made Leslie understand that Hazen had wanted her. Better not to know, he thought.

"I've kept my wife at bay, at least for the moment. The sticking point is this house," Hazen said. "I've agreed to let her strip me of just about everything else, but I have other plans for the house. We'll see." Hazen drank thirstily, emptying his glass. He got up and went to the bar and poured himself a second drink, "Oh, by the way," he said as he came back, "our man in Paris happened to call and I spoke to him about you. He says he thinks it can be easily arranged for next September, when the new school term starts. They have a big turnover in the faculty, people drifting in and out, like the wandering teachers of the Middle Ages. He'll be getting in touch with you. Do you think you can stand Dunberry for another five months?"

"I can. I'm not sure Leslie can."

"Ummm." Hazen frowned. "I suppose she could go alone. It would just be a few months."

"That's a possibility. Don't worry about it. We'll work something out."

"Allen, there's only one thing wrong, as far as I'm concerned, with you and Leslie," Hazen said. His tone was earnest and Strand feared what he was going to say.

"What's that?" he asked.

"When I look at you two, it makes me realize what I've missed in my life." Hazen spoke reflectively, sorrowfully. "The love, spoken, unspoken, intimated, that passes between you. The dependence upon each other, the unwavering support of one for the other. I've known many women in my life and I've enjoyed most of them and maybe they've enjoyed me. I've had money, success, a kind of fame, even that very rare thing-occasional gratitude. But I've never had anything like that. It's like a big hole in me that the wind goes howling through-endlessly. If you're lucky, you'll both die the same minute. Oh, hell..." He rattled the ice in his glass angrily. "What's come over me tonight? Talking about dying. It's the weather. Snow on a seacoast. Maybe people are wise to close down their houses, put the shutters up, when the leaves begin to turn." He finished his drink, put his glass down deliberately, with a gesture of finality. "I'm tired." He ran his big hand over his eyes, stood up. "I'm going to treat myself to a long, long sleep. Don't bother to put out the lights. I don't want the house to be dark tonight." He looked around him. "This room could stand a new coat of paint. A lighter color. Well, good night, friend. Sleep well."

"Good night, Russell. You, too." Strand watched him walk heavily out of the room. He stumbled a little as he crossed the threshold and Strand thought, He must have had a lot to drink in New York before he started out, it's lucky a cop didn't stop him on the road or he'd have spent the night in jail instead of in his big warm bed. Then he climbed the stairs to the room where Leslie was sleeping, breathing gently, her bright hair spread out on the pillow, shining in the light of the bedside lamp. He undressed silently, put out the lamp and slipped into bed beside his wife.

Sometime during the night he awoke because in his sleep there had been a noise of an automobile engine starting up, then dwindling in the distance. He wasn't sure whether he had heard it or if he had been dreaming. He turned over, put his arm around his wife's bare shoulders, heard her sigh contentedly. Then he slept.

He awoke early, just as the dawn started to show through the windows. It was still snowing. Leslie slept on. He got out of bed, dressed quickly and started out of the room. He stopped at the door. An envelope was lying on the floor, half under the door. He opened the door silently, picked up the envelope. It was too dark in the hallway to read something that was scrawled on the envelope. He closed the door softly and went downstairs quickly to the living room where the lights still burned and the last ashes were glowing on the hearth. The envelope was a long, fat one and on it was written one word-Allen. He tore it open. Dear Allen, he read in Hazen's bold, steady script.

By the time you read this I will be dead. I came here last night to say good-bye to you and wish you happiness. Everything has piled up on me-my wife, the investigation in Washington, Conroy threatening me with blackmail. I've been subpoenaed to appear before the Committee on January second. I can't appear without committing perjury or implicating, criminally, old friends and associates of mine. One way or another I would have no shred of reputation left at the end of it. I've figured this out carefully and I am taking the only possible way out. When my will is read it will be discovered that I have left the beach house to Caroline. For good and sufficient reason. To pay for its upkeep, she can sell off several acres of the property. There's plenty of it-forty acres-and it's very valuable. All my liquid assets I've left to my wife, with the proviso that if she contests any clause in the will she will be completely cut off. My daughters have substantial trust funds my father set up for them when they were born and there's nothing they can do to break the will. I'm a good lawyer and the will is ironclad. All my pictures have long since been donated to museums with the understanding that they were to remain in my possession during my lifetime. The tax laws make death something of a morbid game, a game at which I was expert. As I look back at it now I knew how to play too many games-legal, corporate, legislative, philanthropic-the sleazy, profitable American gamut. One of the things that endeared you and Leslie to me most was that you were not entrants in the competition. It wasn't that you were above it all. It was as though you didn't realize its existence. It undoubtedly made you a worse historian, but a better man.

Thoughtlessly and without malice, I involved you and your family in my world. Lonely and bereft of family myself, I believed I could insert myself into a happy family. What I thought was generosity turned out to be disaster. Jimmy learned all too quickly how to succeed. Caroline is on the competitive American merry-go-round, whether she likes it or not. Eleanor and her husband have learned failure and live in fear. I hate to say this, dear Allen, but Leslie's new career can only push you further apart and uproot you once again. Opportunity is a two-edged weapon. It might have turned out well, but it didn't. The same might be said in the case of Romero.

The Renoir drawing in your bedroom was bought after I made the arrangement with the government, and I am happy to be able to leave it to you in the will which is now in my partner's safe.

Strand stopped reading for a moment. The enormity of the document in his hand left him numb and the fact that it had been written so carefully, so neatly, by a man preparing to take his life by his own hand made him marvel at the almost inhuman rigor of his friend's self-control. Along with reading law, Strand thought, Hazen must have read Plato on the death of Socrates. "Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius: will you remember to pay the debt?" A cock for Asclepius. A Renoir for Strand. An antique grace in dying. Famous last words.

Dry-eyed, Strand continued reading.

In the smaller envelope, which is enclosed with this letter, there is ten thousand dollars in five hundred dollar bills to help make the Paris adventure more pleasant for you and Leslie. I suggest you do not mention this to anyone.

You and your family have made this last year of my life an important one for me and I have learned too late what it should have taught me.

Since these will be my last words and we are now, as you said, on a course of full disclosure, I will make one more confession. It sounds absurd for a man my age to say this, but I fell in love with Leslie the very first time I saw her. If ever a woman could make me happy it was she. When it looked as though you were going to die in the hospital in Southampton, I wished for your death. Not consciously or willfully, but for a fraction of a second the thought was there. Then I would not be only the friend of a family I loved, but of the family, not merely the guest at the table, but at its head. The fact that I was happy that you survived could never make me forget that dark and evil moment.

Please burn this letter as soon as you have read it and don't let anyone but Leslie know that it was written. I have written another note, which I will leave in the car, explaining merely that I have decided to commit suicide. In it I've written that I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown and fear for my sanity. I have a gun in my pocket and it will be quickly over. They will find me at the end of some lane beside the car.

Don't grieve for me. I don't deserve your grief.

I embrace you all, Russell.

PART FOUR.

1.

IT IS A FEW DAYS before Thanksgiving again, and the first snow is whirling in the darkness outside my window, flurries of white specks flickering through the beams thrown by the lamp on my desk. I am in Dunberry, but not in the apartment in the Malson Residence. I am alone, since Leslie is in Paris.

I did not permit either Leslie or Caroline to accompany me to the funeral of Russell Hazen. There would be no telling what sort of scene Hazen's widow might have made and neither my wife nor my daughter were in any condition to confront that mad and vengeful woman at such a moment. I sat in one of the back pews and she did not see me. Beside her sat two tall young women whom I took to be Hazen's daughters. They were all three dressed elegantly in black and behaved with sorrowful decorum.

I got a glimpse of the daughters' faces as they passed up the aisle at the end of the service. They were not un-beautiful, but they were at the same time hard and self-indulgent and suspicious. Of course, when we finally see people about whom we have previously formed opinions, we are likely to see what we have imagined, rather than what is actually there. Be that as it may, they were two women I would prefer to avoid.

Both the minister in his eulogy and the Times in its obituary spoke of Hazen's great civic contributions, his probity and his many useful services to the City of New York. I could imagine Hazen's bitter laughter if he had been alive to hear and read the tributes to his memory.

Hazen's death and especially the manner of it left Leslie prostrate. For days after it, she would suddenly burst into tears. It was as though all the complex emotions she had kept for the most part under control for my sake and the sake of her children at last had been too much for her and had burst through some psychic dam. It was impossible to comfort her. The depression that had assailed her before our Thanksgiving trip to the Hamptons last year was like a mere passing shadow compared to what she was going through now. She gave up all pretense of teaching classes, had me cancel all lessons in the city, didn't touch the piano or a paintbrush and sat all day, stone-faced when she wasn't in tears, in the repainted kitchen of our apartment in the Residence. She blamed herself and me for what had happened. Somehow, she felt, if we had been the friends that we believed we were, we should have sensed what Hazen was going through and where it was leading and stopped him. There was nothing I could say to convince her otherwise.

When Linda suggested to me that it was dangerous for her to continue in her mourning and that perhaps Paris and work would heal her, I agreed. Leslie listened like an automaton as both Linda and I urged her to take off immediately for France. Finally she said, "Anything is better than this."

So, ten days after Hazen's body, partially covered with drifting snow, had been found on a sandy road leading to the ocean, I put Leslie on the plane to Paris. We didn't speak of how long she might stay or when she would return.

Before leaving, she burned all her old paintings.

Babcock, that saintly man, tactfully suggested that since I was a bachelor, at least for the time being, it might be better for me not to have the responsibility of running a house with nine boys by myself. When the term was over, I moved. As there was no longer any need for me to be on the campus, I rented a small furnished apartment in town over the shop that sells tobacco and newspapers. The smell drifting up the stairs is comforting. The Renoir drawing looks incongruously voluptuous hanging over the cracked old leather couch on which I take my naps. I commute to the school by bicycle, which has improved my health. I cook my own meals and eat them in peace. I sometimes dine with the Schillers, where Mr. Schiller allows his wife to do the cooking. Mrs. Schiller serves, as her speciality, potato pancakes.

I spent the summer in France with Leslie. A small portion of the ten thousand dollars took care of the airfare. The summer was not a great success. Leslie had developed quite a large circle of friends, mostly artists, and with her ear for music had become quite fluent in French, the language in which almost all the conversations were carried on, usually about her work and the work of others. My schoolboy French was of little value to me and while everyone, and of course especially Leslie, tried to include me in the give and take of opinions, it was impossible for me not to feel like a rather backward intruder.

Although after her initial surprising success Leslie has not had any of her paintings exhibited or sold, she goes to the studio of the artist she is studying with three mornings a week. He is a small, lively, round old man named Leblanc who swears Leslie will be famous one day. Her paintings have a curious overcast of melancholy, as though there were touches of twilight purple hidden in her palette, even in her noonday pictures. She works with single-minded devotion to her art, and when she is not at her easel, she is tirelessly making the rounds of the galleries and museums. After a few days in the city, I was surfeited and spent most of my time sitting at cafe tables reading.

We lived in a rather bare one-room studio on the Left Bank, where the atmosphere was pervaded by the smell of paint and turpentine, an odor that gives continual pleasure to Leslie but which finally brought on an allergy in me which made me sniffle and blow my nose constantly. Leslie, who at other times was quick to notice my slightest indisposition, never even remarked that I was red-eyed almost all the time and ran through a box of Kleenex every two days.

Her period of sorrow was definitely over and her energy and enthusiasm, like that of an eager and avid young student, made me feel much older than my fifty years.

The people at the American School in Paris did indeed offer me a job there, but I decided that I did not want to live in a city in which I could not speak the language and where I would be considered an awkward appendage to my wife by her friends. I remembered the words of an author of a story about another American in Paris, "This continent is not for me." I declined, with regrets. The president of the school could hardly hide his relief. I could understand why. The staff of the school were wanderers and all between twenty-two and thirty and my gray hair must have been a sign of decrepitude and disconcerting permanence to a president who could not have been more than thirty-five.

Leslie took my decision calmly. Art, I have discovered, leads inevitably to the same self-absorption as disease. When one is sick one thinks only of one's illness and the cares or aspirations of others are of no importance.

We spent two weeks down south with Linda in her delightful house in Mougins. I sat in the garden and tried to read in the hot sunlight and swatted mosquitoes, as Hazen had predicted. Leslie suggested that I sell the Renoir and with the proceeds buy a small house next to Linda's property. "You don't have to work anymore," she said, "and this is a wonderful place to sit and do nothing."

She was right about that, but I didn't want to sit and do nothing. Idleness, I found, bored me. I am a teacher. That defines who I am. I am a teacher or nothing. Given just one bright and questing child in a class of thirty who argues with me or whose horizons I feel I am widening and I know that I am doing what I was put on earth to do. Romero, exasperating as he was, was just such a boy. When I told Leslie about my sense of belonging in the front of a classroom, she said that was exactly how she felt in front of a blank piece of canvas. I hope for her sake, if not for mine, that her canvases turn out better for her than Romero did for me.

Nothing I could say or do could make Caroline return to Arizona. Instead, she transferred to Hunter College in New York, intent on majoring in child psychology. She refused to use any of the money that came from selling two acres of the land that Hazen had left her in his will, a deal that had been handled, and handled very well, by one of Hazen's partners. She took a part-time job as a waitress to support herself through college and never yet, to my knowledge, has visited the house on the beach that is now hers. Instead, with the help of one of her teachers, she threw open the house last summer as a vacation home for what the newspapers call disadvantaged ghetto children, of all races, up to the age of fifteen, complete with volunteer counselors from various social worker agencies. "Jesus Romero taught me something about children," she told me when I remonstrated with her. "That is, get to them before they become a Romero." Whether the experiment will succeed or not remains to be seen. In another age and if she had been born a Catholic I believe she would have become a nun. Self-sacrifice in the service of a high-minded ideal may be noble, but a father cannot help but feel that it is a petrification of his child's humanity. Naturally, there has been grumbling among the neighbors in East Hampton and there is a rumor on foot that a petition is being circulated for the Town Council's attention to have the house condemned as a public nuisance.

Caroline hired Conroy to oversee the physical management of the house. She has not forgotten the day he swam out to save me from the Atlantic Ocean. From what she tells me he is efficient and dedicated. There has not as yet been any accusation of homosexual attempts on the young boys collected in the house. The poor Ketleys resigned their jobs in the middle of the summer. They said they had not been hired to work in a madhouse.

I must confess that I haven't had the heart to go down to see for myself what was happening in the place where I had a glimpse of an easeful and generous life such as I had never had before and in which I nearly died.

Hollingsbee called me triumphantly on the day set for Romero's trial and told me that the boy had gotten off with a year's probation. But he is in jail as I write this. In a raid on what was suspected to be a hideout of the F.A.L.N., the terrorist organization working for the independence of Puerto Rico, Romero was picked up, along with a store of homemade bombs, machine pistols and revolutionary literature. I remembered his last words to me in the snow outside Hazen's front door-"The next time you see my name it will be in the newspapers." It might be termed a self-fulfilling prophecy.

With Hazen dead, the power of his protection was gone in Georgia and while Eleanor and Gianelli were not bombed in their home, the newspaper plant was burned to the ground and a night watchman perished in the fire. In our day it has become habitual for victims to be picked at random.

The building was adequately insured and with the money Gianelli received from it he bought into a newspaper in a small town on the west coast of Florida where the lure of year-round sunshine has brought a great increase in population and local prosperity. Eleanor writes that they are finally learning how to run a newspaper and they are doing well. She is also pregnant, and I face the prospect of becoming a grandfather. By the time he or she is grown I suppose my grandson or granddaughter will be walking through abandoned and burnt-out cities where automobiles will be strewn around everywhere, without fuel and immobilized on their last voyages. That is, if he or she is lucky and the men over whom we have no control have not yet decided on starting a nuclear war.

Like most people of my generation I feel powerless and regard the future with cynical resignation.

Rollins, I am happy to say, was taken off probation and played last season on the teams and has been given an athletic scholarship to Penn State. He never did make it below the Mason-Dixon Line.

Jimmy has married Mrs. Solomon, nee Nellie Ferguson. In Las Vegas. It seems to have become a dreadful habit in our family. I was not invited to the wedding. The company he runs with Joan Dyer has come out with what is called a Golden Record or Golden Disc, which means that it has sold over a million copies. Have not yet heard it.

I look forward to my classes these days. There is an extraordinary boy called Willoughby who is in two of my courses. He is sixteen years old, a Virginian, with courtly Virginia manners, and seems to have critically read everything from Thucydides to Toynbee, with Caesar, Josephus, Carlyle, Prescott, Hegel, Marx, and Freeman along the way, and of course Gibbon. He is as keen and intelligent as Romero, but with a sense of order and proportion that may come from his Virginian inheritance or some lucky twist of genes that permits him to grasp abstract ideas and the sweep of history without effort. I remember what Crowell, Leslie's gag-writer piano pupil, said about Mozart. I am astonished and delighted with the boy's papers and his arguments in class and the maturity and judgment he shows in the walks we take together in the autumn afternoons. When I read what he has written or listen to him recite, I feel once again the ardor I had when I faced my first classes with the almost religious belief that history, with its investigation of science, philosophy, the rise and fall of empires, the arts and the passions of the past, is indeed the queen of disciplines and the great teacher of mankind.

He says he intends to go into politics and I envision him as a senator by the time he is thirty-five. If there are ten such boys scattered through the country perhaps our troubled and magnificent country, built on courage, faith, savagery, looting, greed, compromise and hope, will at the last gasp be saved from catastrophe.

I had a letter from Leslie today. In it, as in every letter, she thanks me for my forbearance in permitting what she calls her middle-aged apprenticeship. She promises to come back for the summer and suggests that I travel with her through the West, which she wants to try to paint. Her letters are full of love and I have no doubt, although she is far away, that she loves me. As for me, I loved her when she was a young girl in the first row of my classroom, when we stood before the altar, when she first played the piano in our home in New York, when she was big with child, when she bound Hazen's wounds and slapped Hazen's wife in the dining room in Tours, when I put her on the plane to France. Whether it was fate or accident that put her in my classroom and threw her into my arms for life, I do not know or care. I know I love her and always will and the reasons are unimportant. We have done what we were fated to do or had to do. She says she will return. We shall see.

He stopped and reread the page he had just written. He shook his head, dissatisfied. He kept thinking of Romero. Romero haunted this place and Strand knew he was not through with him, "They graze in peace on grass," he remembered. "You hunt on cement." And, "You won't be here much longer, either."

Remembering, Strand shook his head again. The gall of the boy. Or was it the wisdom?

He stared at the opened copy book on the desk in front of him, reflecting the light of the lamp off the page. Then he started writing again.

Do I want to end my life here? Do I want to finish as an animal who grazes in peace on, grass? Where is the place where I am needed, where I fit the task and the task fits me? Does a boy like Willoughby need me? The answer must be no. He will blossom as he must and a man like me can only be flattering himself to feel that the final result would be his accomplishment. I am merely on the sidelines cheering on a boy who needs no cheers.

Cement.

There are as many Romeros on cement as there are Willoughbys on grass, maybe more. I have failed with one, but perhaps it has taught me how not to fail with others. The men and women here are one kind of teacher. I am another. I did not enter the profession merely to be comfortable and events have led me to forget that. For a time. For a time. That time is now over. I will not be shamed by my youngest child. "When you are ready to come back," the principal of my school said when he visited me after I got out of the hospital in the Hamptons, "when you are ready, just give me a call on the telephone. Your place will be open." I am ready now and I will call in the morning.

Call in the morning. I know the matter is not as simple as that, and he knew it too. It is the sort of thing a visitor to a hospital says to a friend agonizing on what may be his deathbed to pretend that all will be well, that recovery is certain and that he will not die and that his colleagues will be waiting for him to regain his place in the world. Well, I did not die. I will call in the morning, but I will not embarrass that good man by believing him. My place will not be open for me. There will be applications to fill out, suspicious boards to question me, public doctors to be satisfied that I am capable of working, pensions to be altered, positions to be considered, openings closed, transfers to be juggled, long, weary months of waiting, the possibility of eventual denial strong.

Still, I will call in the morning. The effort is necessary for my soul.

It is late now. I have to sleep. I must be fresh for Willoughby in the morning.

He put down his pen, closed the exercise book and rose from his chair and switched off the lamp in the cold, nighttime room.

A Biography of Irwin Shaw.

Irwin Shaw (19131984) was an award-winning American novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and short story writer. His novel The Young Lions (1948) is considered a classic of World War II fiction. From the early pages of the New Yorker to the bestseller lists, Shaw earned a reputation as a leading literary voice of his generation.

Shaw was born Irwin Shamforoff in the Bronx, New York, on February 27, 1913. His parents, Will and Rose, were Russian Jewish immigrants and his father struggled as a haberdasher. The family moved to Brooklyn and barely survived the Depression. After graduating from high school at the age of sixteen, Shaw worked his way through Brooklyn College, where he started as quarterback on the school's scrappy football team.

"Discovered" by a college teacher (who later got him his first assignment, writing for the Dick Tracy radio serials), Shaw became a household name at the age of twenty-two thanks to his first produced play, Bury the Dead. This 1935 Broadway hit-still regularly produced around the world-is a bugle call against profit-driven barbarity. Offered a job as a Hollywood staff scriptwriter, Shaw then contributed to numerous Golden Era films such as The Big Game (1936) and The Talk of the Town (1942). While continuing to write memorable stories for the New Yorker, he also penned The Gentle People (1939), a play that was adapted for film four different times.

World War II altered the course of Shaw's career. Refusing a commission, he enlisted in the army, and was shipped off to North Africa as a private in a photography unit in 1943. After the North African campaign, he served in London during the preparations for the invasion of Normandy. After D-Day, Shaw and his unit followed the front lines and documented many of the most important moments of the war, including the liberations of Paris and the Dachau concentration camp.

The Young Lions (1948), his epic novel, follows three soldiers-two Americans and one German-across North Africa, Europe, and into Germany. Along with James Jones's From Here to Eternity, Joseph Heller's Catch-22, Norman Mailer's The Naked and the Dead, and The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk, The Young Lions stands as one of the great American novels of World War II. In 1958, it was made into a film starring Marlon Brando and Montgomery Clift.

In 1951, wrongly suspected of Communist sympathies, Shaw moved to Europe with his wife and six-month-old son. In Paris, he was neighbors with journalist Art Buchwald and friends with the great French writers, photographers, actors, and moviemakers of his generation, including Joseph Kessel, Robert Capa, Simone Signoret, and Louis Malle. In Rome, Shaw gave author William Styron his wedding lunch, doctored screenplays, walked with director Federico Fellini on the Via Veneto, and got the idea for his novel Two Weeks in Another Town (1960).

Finally, he settled in the small Swiss village of Klosters and continued writing screenplays, stage plays, and novels. Rich Man, Poor Man (1970) and Beggerman, Thief (1977) were made into the first famous television miniseries. Nightwork (1975) will soon be a major motion picture. Shaw died in the shadow of the Swiss peaks that had inspired Thomas Mann's great novel The Magic Mountain.

Shaw as a young soldier crossing North Africa from Algiers to Cairo in 1943.

Shaw's US Army record.

Shaw just after D-Day in Normandy, France, in 1944.