Free The Pigeon Project by Irving Wallace Page A

the building for its international headquarters. Five years ago, just after the Venice Must Live Committee was formed, the insurance company had donated a dozen of its offices in this building for the use of the committee. Jordan occupied one of these offices, Marisa another, and Gloria, the secretary they shared, maintained the office between them.
    His mind still on the message that he had taken from the pigeon’s leg, Jordan made his way up the corridor to the glass door to his office and went inside. Marisa, in a tight pink sweater and flared blue skirt, her shining black hair down to her shoulders, was busily poring over the contents of some folders in the open drawer of his green file cabinet. On his entrance, she pivoted to meet him, tilting her head back to offer him her lips. He gave her a perfunctory kiss.
    “How are you, darling?” he asked. He moved thoughtfully to his oak desk beside one of the three windows overlooking the Piazza.
    Marisa eyed him quizzically. “How are you? Something on your mind?”
    “Always something on my mind,” he said lightly, pushing around the memorandums on his desk.
    Marisa came closer. “I hope sometimes it is me.”
    “I’m sorry, Marisa. I’ve just been tied up lately. I want to see you.”
    “When?”
    “Why—why, tonight. If you’re free tonight, we can have dinner at Harry’s.”
    “For you, I am free.”
    “Fine. We’ll arrange it before I leave. Anything urgent today?”
    “Generally quiet. The correspondent for The New York Times in London called. He wanted some recent photographs of our miniature Pirelli-Furlanis inflatable dam, especially shots showing it in action. I’m digging them up now. He would not tell me what they are for.”
    “All right. Keep digging.”
    Marisa stared at him a moment. “Something is troubling you. Can I be of help?”
    “Thanks, but no. I’ll see you later.”
    She was about to leave the office when his voice caught her. “Marisa, please tell Gloria to hold off incoming calls and all visitors for the next hour. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
    No sooner had she gone, and he was alone, than his mind fastened on the so-called message for help from the so-called Professor Davis MacDonald. In retrospect, it seemed more sinister than cranky. Yet its implications were so melodramatic, so far removed from his humdrum workaday world, that he could not accept it as genuine.
    His hand had gone into his jacket pocket and come’ out with the message. He lowered himself into his swivel chair and placed the slip of paper on the desk before him.
    Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro…
    His eye skipped to Call Dr. Edwards Plaza Athénée Paris to tell world.
    Why not? The worst he could do was make a gullible fool of himself. It would not have been the first time. On the other hand… if the message was authentic…
    His instinct told him to act.
    He pressed down his intercom button and buzzed his secretary. She answered. “Gloria, get me the Plaza Athénée Hotel in Paris.”
    “Anyone in particular?”
    “Just the switchboard. I’ll take it from there.”
    Jordan thoughtfully fingered the piece of paper, saw a push button light up on his telephone, and waited. Seconds after, Gloria could be heard on the voice box. “Mr. Jordan, I have the Plaza Athénée in Paris.”
    Jordan pressed down the lighted button and picked up the receiver. “Operator, I’m calling from Italy. Do you have a Dr. Edwards registered in your hotel? If so, I’d like to speak to him.”
    “Attendez,” said the operator. A pause. Then, “I am ringing.”
    Two, three, four rings, no answer. A fifth ring. Someone had picked up the phone at the other end. A low feminine voice said, “Hello.”
    “Hello,” said Jordan. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Edwards. I’m calling long distance. Is he in?”
    “You are speaking to Dr. Edwards,” replied the feminine voice, with mild exasperation. “I’m Dr. Alison Edwards.”
    Somewhat