He laughed; the sound betrayed that he had not expected the question. She said contemptuously: “Don’t show that you’re shocked, Ellsworth.”
“All right. We’re taking it straight. I have nothing specific against Mr. Gail Wynand. I’ve been planning to have him meet you, for a long time. If you want minor details, he did something that annoyed me yesterday morning. He’s too observant. So I decided the time was right.”
“And there was Stoneridge.”
“And there was Stoneridge. I knew that part of it would appeal to you. You’d never sell yourself to save your country, your soul or the life of a man you loved. But you’ll sell yourself to get a commission he doesn’t deserve for Peter Keating. See what will be left of you afterward. Or of Gail Wynand. I’ll be interested to see it, too.”
“Quite correct, Ellsworth.”
“All of it? Even the part about a man you loved–if you did?”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t sell yourself for Roark? Though, of course, you don’t like to hear that name pronounced.”
“Howard Roark,” she said evenly.
“You have a great deal of courage, Dominique.”
Keating returned, carrying a tray of cocktails. His eyes were feverish and he made too many gestures.
Toohey raised his glass. He said:
“To Gail Wynand and the New York Banner!”
3.
GAIL WYNAND rose and met her halfway across his office.
“How do you do, Mrs. Keating,” he said.
“How do you do, Mr. Wynand,” said Dominique.
He moved a chair for her, but when she sat down he did not cross to sit behind his desk, he stood studying her professionally, appraisingly. His manner implied a self-evident necessity, as if his reason were known to her and there could be nothing improper in this behavior.
“You look like a stylized version of your own stylized version,” he said. “As a rule seeing the models of art works tends to make one atheistic. But this time it’s a close one between that sculptor and God.”
“What sculptor?”
“The one who did that statue of you.”
He had felt that there was some story behind the statue and he became certain of it now, by something in her face, a tightening that contradicted, for a second, the trim indifference of her self-control.
“Where and when did you see that statue, Mr. Wynand?”
“In my art gallery, this morning.”
“Where did you get it?”
It was his turn to show perplexity. “But don’t you know that?”
“No.”
“Your friend Ellsworth Toohey sent it to me. As a present.”
“To get this appointment for me?”
“Not through as direct a motivation as I believe you’re thinking. But in substance–yes.”
“He hasn’t told me that.”
“Do you mind my having that statue?”
“Not particularly.”
“I expected you to say that you were delighted.”–“I’m not.”
He sat down, informally, on the outer edge of his desk, his legs stretched out, his ankles crossed. He asked:
“I gather you lost track of that statue and have been trying to find it?”
“For two years.”
“You can’t have it.” He added, watching her: “You might have Stoneridge.”
“I shall change my mind. I’m delighted that Toohey gave it to you.”
He felt a bitter little stab of triumph–and of disappointment, in thinking that he could read her mind and that her mind was obvious, after all. He asked:
“Because it gave you this interview?”
“No. Because you’re the person before last in the world whom I’d like to have that statue. But Toohey is last.”
He lost the triumph; it was not a thing which a woman intent on Stoneridge should have said or thought. He asked:
“You didn’t know that Toohey had it?”
“No.”
“We should get together on our mutual friend, Mr. Ellsworth Toohey. I don’t like being a pawn and I don’t think you do or could ever be made to. There are too many things Mr. Toohey chose not to tell. The name of that sculptor, for instance.”
“He didn’t tell you that?”
“No.”
“Steven Mallory.”
“Mallory?…Not the one who tried to…” He laughed aloud.
“What’s the matter?”
“Toohey told me he couldn’t remember the name. That name.”
“Does Mr. Toohey still astonish you?”
“He has, several times, in the last few days. There’s a special kind of subtlety in being as blatant as he’s been. A very difficult kind. I almost like his artistry.”
“I don’t share your taste.”
“Not in any field? Not in sculpture–or architecture?”
“I’m sure not in architecture.”
“Isn’t that the utterly wrong thing for you to say?”
“Probably.”
He looked at her. He said: “You’re interesting.”
“I didn’t intend to be.”
“That’s your third mistake.”
“Third?”
“The first was about Mr. Toohey. In the circumstances, one would expect you to praise him to me. To quote him. To lean on his great prestige in matters of architecture.”
“But one would expect you to know Ellsworth Toohey. That should disqualify any quotations.”
“I intended to say that to you–had you given me the chance you won’t give me.”
“That should make it more entertaining.”
“You expected to be entertained?”
“I am.”
“About the statue?” It was the only point of weakness he had discovered.
“No.” Her voice was hard. “Not about the statue.”
“Tell me, when was it made and for whom?”
“Is that another thing Mr. Toohey forgot?”
“Apparently.”
“Do you remember a scandal about a building called the Stoddard Temple? Two years ago. You were away at the time.”
“The Stoddard Temple….How do you happen to know where I was two years ago?…Wait, the Stoddard Temple. I remember: a sacrilegious church or some such object that gave the Bible brigade a howling spree.”
“Yes.”
“There was…” He stopped. His voice sounded hard and reluctant–like hers. “There was the statue of a naked woman involved.”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, his voice harsh, as if he were holding back some anger whose object she could not guess:
“I was somewhere around Bali at the time. I’m sorry all New York saw that statue before I did. But I don’t read newspapers when I’m sailing. There’s a standing order to fire any man who brings a Wynand paper around the yacht.”
“Have you ever seen pictures of the Stoddard Temple?”
“No. Was the building worthy of the statue?”
“The statue was almost worthy of the building.”
“It has been destroyed, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. With the help of the Wynand papers.”
He shrugged. “I remember Alvah Scarret had a good time with it. A big story. Sorry I missed it. But Alvah did very well. Incidentally, how did you know that I was away and why has the fact of my absence remained in your memory?”
“It was the story that cost me my job with you.”
“Your job? With me?”
“Didn’t you know that my name was Dominique Francon?”
Under the trim jacket his shoulders made a sagging movement forward; it was surprise–and helplessness. He stared at her, quite simply. After a while, he said: “No.”
She smiled indifferently. She said: “It appears that Toohey wanted to make it as difficult for both of us as he could.”
“To hell with Toohey. This has to be understood. It doesn’t make sense. You’re Dominique Francon?”
“I was.”
“You worked here, in this building, for years?”
“For six years.”
“Why haven’t I met you before?”
“I’m sure you don’t meet every one of your employees.”
“I think you understand what I mean.”
“Do you wish me to state it for you?”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t I tried to meet you before?”
“Yes.”
“I had no desire to.”
“That, precisely, doesn’t make sense.”
“Shall I let this go by or understand it?”
“I’ll spare you the choice. With the kind of beauty you possess and with knowledge of the kind of reputation I am said to possess–why didn’t you attempt to make a real career for yourself on the Banner!”
“I never wanted a real career on the Banner.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps for the same reason that makes you forbid Wynand papers on your yacht.”
“It’s a good reason,” he said quietly. Then he asked, his voice casual again: “Let’s see, what was it you did to get fired? You went against our policy, I believe?”
“I tried to defend the Stoddard Temple.”
“Didn’t you know better than to attempt sincerity on the Banner?”
“I intended to say that to you–if you’d given me the chance.”
“Are you being entertained?”
“I wasn’t, then. I liked working here.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever said that in this building.”
“I must be one of two.”
“Who’s the other?”
“Yourself, Mr. Wynand.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.” Lifting his head, he saw the hint of amusement in her eyes and asked: “You said it just to trap me into that kind of a statement?”
“Yes, I think so,” she answered placidly. “Dominique Francon…” he repeated, not addressing her. “I used to like your stuff. I almost wish you were here to ask for your old job.”