"You know, thick neck, a chest like Mae West, shoulders like an elephant, that kind of thing."

Rudman nodded slowly. "Uh huh. With a dumb look on his face? You left that out."

"Yeah, that too. I mean, you're no skin and bones but you don't look like any wrestler."

"That's a very prejudiced attitude," Rudman said rather loftily."

"What do you mean, prejudiced?"

"To you all wrestlers are the same. They all have thick necks, their chests are popping through their shirts and they have a collective IQ of four. That's a prejudice. Not an important one but a prejudice just the same."

"You're a real trick," said Keegan. "I don't know anybody else who could turn a discussion of wrestling into a lecture on bigotry."

"Also they left out that I play a mean ukulele."

"Thanks for warning us.

"Well, anyway, it's great, Bert," Keegan said. "Think about it, here we are at the big social event of the Paris season. It's almost mandatory to show up if you have any social standing at all and here we are with a famous person."

"Right," Rudman said, half embarrassed. He tapped Jenny's arm. "Now that gent over there in the double-breasted tweed suit and the thick mustache studying the form? He's famous. That's H. G. Wells, a very important writer."

"I know who H. G. Wells is, silly. We do read in Germany, you know. Look at those two SS in their uniforms. That makes me sick."

Two German SS officers in their formal black uniforms were stalking the crowd, dope sheets in hand. They stopped to talk to a well-dressed couple.

"That tall one?" Rudman said bitterly. "That's Reinhard von Meister. Believe it or not, he's a bloody Rhodes scholar."

He nodded toward the taller of the two, a captain, who was lean to the point of being emaciated, with intimidating, vulture-like features and blue eyes so pale they were almost cobalt, all of which seemed appropriate with the uniform.

"He's the military attache to the German ambassador here. Actually he's nothing but a damn Spion and everybody knows it."

"Who's the old fud with the young wife talking to him?" Keegan asked, nodding toward a couple on the far side of the paddock.

"She's not his wife, she's his daughter. That's Colin Willoughby, Sir Colin Willoughby, used to write a society gossip column for the Manchester Guardian called 'Will o' the Wisp.' "

Sir Colin Willoughby was a somewhat stuffy Britisher, trim, handsome in a dull sort of way, his mustache trimmed and waxed, his fingers manicured. He held himself painfully erect, his posture military, his attitude full of arched-eyebrow superiority. He was elegantly dressed in the blue double-breasted suit and red tie that seemed to be the uniform of proper Englishmen that spring and his silver hair was trimmed perfectly.

His daughter, Lady Penelope Traynor, the widow, was equally stunning. Her posture painfully correct, her features classic from the perfect, straight nose and pale-blue eyes to petulant mouth, she was almost a gendered reflection of her father. Like him, she had a cool, tailored, untouchable air that detracted from her natural beauty. Only her red hair, which was longer than the fashion and tied in the back with a bright red bow, was a concession to femininity.

"So that's old 'Will o' the Wisp,' " Keegan said. "I've been reading his trash for years."

"He's given up trash. He's become a political soothsayer. 'Will o' the Wisp' is now 'The Willow Report.' Old Willoughby's been through it. His wife died two years ago and the daughter's husband was killed last year."

"I remember that," said Keegan. "He got killed at the Cleveland air races."

"Right. Tony Traynor, he was an ace in the war, knocked down twelve or thirteen kites. She's Willoughby's assistant now, goes everywhere with him."

"And he's covering politics at Longchamp race track?"

Rudman shrugged. "Maybe they're on holiday like me."

"Maybe she's your type," Keegan said. "Why don't you give her a fling?"

"Not that one. She's all iceberg," said Bert.

"Well, you know what they say, only the tip shows," Keegan said with a wink. "Eighty percent is under the surface."

"Believe me, this one is ice to the core," Rudman said. "The ultimate English snob. Come on, I'll introduce you. Let's see if he acknowledges my appointment."

Rudman led Keegan through the crowd toward them.

"Bonjour, Sir Colin, good to see you again," he said.

"Well, Rudman, good to see you. Been a while," Willoughby said with a condescending smile.

"These are my friends, Jennifer Gould and Francis Keegan," Rudman said. "Sir Colin Willoughby and his daughter, Lady Penelope Traynor."

"A pleasure," Keegan said, shaking Willoughby's hand. Lady Traynor regarded Keegan with aloof contempt, as she might regard a train porter or restaurant waitress. At another time, Keegan might have been attracted by her aura of inaccessibility but now it annoyed him, as did Sir Colin. As in Bert Rudman's case, events had altered Willoughby's career, elevating him from a kind of society gossip to a political observer. But whereas Rudman dealt with the reality of Hitler, Willoughby pontificated, his rampant editorializing devoid of even a semblance of objectivity.

"I see you've been to Africa and Spain," Willoughby said. "Very enterprising. Is it true you're to take over the Times bureau in Berlin?"

"Yes."

"Hitler is simply full of himself right now," Willoughby said dourly. "He's full of his success. In a few months he will realize he must conform to a more moral world viewpoint. I think the man thirsts for recognition and acceptance. I've met him, y'know. Did one of the first English interviews with him."

"And we expect to interview Mister Roosevelt this fall when we're in the States," Lady Penelope said.

"Well, you know what they say," Willoughby remarked. "In America, you elect someone to office and then sit back and wait for him to fulfill all the lies he told to get elected. In Europe, we elect a man and sit back and wait for him to make mistakes."

"I'm really sick of politics, it's all anyone talks about," said Jenny. "This is Paris, not Berlin. Why don't we change the subject. Francis has a big race coming up today."

"Right," Keegan agreed. "Anyone care to discuss horses?"

Lady Penelope glared at him with a look of pure contempt.

"I've heard your interests run to the mundane," she said.

Jenny bristled. "That is ill-mannered and untrue," she said suddenly. "And I should think someone with your privileges would know better than to speak that way."

The British woman recoiled in surprise. Jenny had surprised even herself with the outburst and her cheeks flushed.

"There's nothing mundane about a good thoroughbred," Keegan said with a crooked grin, trying to overlook the exchange. "Isn't that why we're all here?" He turned to Lady Penelope. "What do they call you, Penny?"

"You may call me Lady Penelope," she snapped back and, wheeling around, she walked away.

Willoughby shrugged. "You'll have to forgive my daughter," he said apologetically. "Her sense of humor hasn't been just right since her husband's death."

"Perhaps I was being a bit too familiar," Keegan answered. "Extend my apologies."

"Of course. By the by, Keegan, should I bet on your horse?"

"I'm going to," Keegan said as the stuffy Britisher left.

"That's telling the spoiled brat," Rudman chuckled.

"I am sorry," Jenny said. "It just burst out."

"You sure let the wind out of her sails," Keegan said and laughed. "She looked like she'd been whacked with a paddle."

"I say we have brunch at Maxim's on me and get back for post time," Rudman said.

"We have to pass," Keegan said, wrapping his arm around Jenny's waist. "We have previous plans."

"Oh?" Jenny said. "And can't Bert join us?"

"Nope," Keegan said, leading her toward the Packard. "We'll see you in two hours at the post party."

Rudman watched them walk across the parking area and get in the back of his car. He had never seen Keegan so excited and happy. It was the opening of the Longchamp racing season, a major social event in Paris, and they had been generous, sharing their days with him so he felt no slight when they decided to slip away for a couple of hours before the races started.

Rudman was so absorbed in his good feelings for Keegan and Jenny, he didn't see von Meister cross the parking lot toward him.

"Herr Rudman," the Nazi said. "It is nice to see you."

Rudman glared at him. "That uniform seems out of place here," he said brusquely.

"You will get used to it."

Rudman started to walk around the tall Nazi but von Meister stood in his path.

"By the way," he said. "You have an employee in your office, a photographer named Marvin Klein."

"That's right."

"Perhaps The New York Times did not receive Reichminister Goebbels's order. You cannot hire Jews to work in Germany anymore."

"We didn't hire him in Germany. He's an American."

"Well . . ." The German smiled. "Don't concern yourself." As Rudman started to walk away, von Meister said, "Your friend, the one who owns the racehorse, what is his name?"

"Keegan."

"Ah yes, Keegan. I believe his girlfriend-or is it his wife?-no girlfriend, I imagine . . . I believe she is German."

"So?"

"Just curious. I am always interested in German girls." The German chuckled. "So . . . tell him I hope his horse wins. I bet on him."

NINETEEN.

"Poor old Bert," Jenny said as they got in the car. "We must find him a woman so he can share our happiness."

"Old Bert'll do all right. His mistress is his job. If he gets too lonely, he'll go get his trenchcoat and he'll have to beat them off with a bat."

"Stop that. You give him such trouble."

"I'm showing my affection. It's the only way men can show affection for each other without getting arrested."

She tossed back her head and laughed. "Sometimes you make me laugh and I am not even sure why." She snuggled against him. "I am so happy, Kee." For a month now they had been living in a dream world. The subject of Hitler and politics was rarely mentioned.

"Someday we'll look back on these days and realize how special they are," Keegan said tenderly.

"Promise?"

"Absolutely. Falling in love is a magic time."

"Are we falling in love, Francis?"

"A fait accompli for me, my love," Keegan said softly. "I fell in love with you that night at Conrad's, the first time I laid eyes on you."

"What a lovely thought."

"You are a lovely thought," he said.

"Oh Francis, it has been so wonderful it makes me nervous. I am so happy."

He laughed. "That may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Nicer than 'I love you'?" she said, taking his arm in hers and squeezing against him.

He looked down at her with surprise. "You've never said 'I love you,' " he said. "Not to me."

"I just did."

"Very obliquely."

"Then I will say it directly," she said looking up at him with tears in her eyes. "I love you. Je t'aime. Ich liebe dich. " She reached up and barely touched his lips with her fingertips. "I do love you so, Francis. When we are together, my chest hurts but it is a good hurt. When we are apart, it is painful."

She cupped his face between her hands and barely touched his lips with hers. They brushed their lips together, their tongues flirting with each other, as the chauffeur drove them away to a park he had selected near the Seine on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, where the track was located.

They spread a blanket and he wound up the Victrola and put on "Any Old Time" by Lady Day and she leaned back and sang along softly.

"I learned that song listening to Billie Holiday on the radio," she said. "Have you ever seen her?"