‘What makes it so warm?’ she whispered as they moved toward a table.
‘It’s some new trick that keeps the warm air from rising. I don’t know the principle of the thing, but I know it’s open like this even in the middle of winter. Do you see that man at the corner table? That’s the heavyweight champion of the world. He knocked out the challenger at five o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Where’s the Prince of Wales?’ she demanded tensely.
John looked around.
He hasn’t arrived yet. He won’t be here for about half an hour.’
She sighed profoundly. ‘It’s the first time I’ve been excited in four years.’ Four years – one less than he had loved her. He wondered if when she was sixteen, a wild, lovely child, sitting up all night in restaurants with officers who were to leave for France next day, losing the glamour of life too soon in the old, sad, poignant days of war, she had ever been so lovely as under these amber lights and this dark sky. From her excited eyes to her tiny slipper heels which were striped with layers of real silver and gold, she was like one of those amazing ships that are carved complete in a bottle. She was finished with that delicacy, with that care – as though the long lifetime of some worker in fragility had been used to make her so. John Chestnut wanted to take her up in his hands, turn her this way and that, examine the tip of a slipper or the tip of an ear or squint closely at the fairy stuff from which her lashes were made.
Rags became suddenly aware of the sound of violins and drums, but the music seemed to come from far away, seemed to float over the crisp night and on to the floor with the added remoteness of a dream.
‘The orchestra’s on another roof,’ exclaimed John. ‘It’s a new idea. Look, the entertainment’s beginning.’
He broke off. Just as the light went down for the number, Rags had given a long sigh and leaned forward tensely in her chair. Her eyes were rigid like the eyes of a pointer dog, and John saw that they were fixed on a party that had come through some side entrance and were arranging themselves around a table in the half darkness. The table was shielded with palms, and Rags at first made out only three dim forms. Then she distinguished a fourth who seemed to be placed well behind the other three, a pale oval of a face topped with a glimmer of dark yellow hair.
‘Hallo!’ ejaculated John. ‘There he is now!’
Her breath seemed to die murmurously in her throat. She was dimly aware that the comedian was now standing in a glow of white light on the dancing-floor, that he had been talking for some moments and that there was a constant ripple of laughter in the air. Her eyes remained motionless, enchanted. She saw one of the party bend and whisper to another, and after the low glitter of a match the bright button of a cigarette-end gleamed in the background. How long it was before she moved she did not know. Then the moment was over. The lights returned, the comedian left the floor, and the far-away music began. John leaned toward her. She started. There were now only two men sitting at the table across the floor.
‘He’s gone!’ she exclaimed in quick distress.
‘Don’t worry; he’ll be back. He’s got to be awful careful, you see, so he’s probably waiting outside with one of his aides until it gets dark again. He’s not supposed to be in New York. He’s even in Canada under another name.’ The lights dimmed again, and almost immediately a dark-haired man appeared out of the darkness and was standing by their table.
‘May I introduce myself?’ he said rapidly to John in a supercilious British voice. ‘Lord Charles Este, of Baron Marchbanks’ party.’ He glanced at John closely as if to be sure that he appreciated the significance of the name. John nodded.
‘The Baron Marchbanks had the pleasure of meeting Mr Martin-Jones on a previous visit here several years ago, and would be honoured if Miss Martin-Jones would join his party for the next number.’
‘Very well,’ she said, glancing back again interrogatively at John. Again he nodded. Then she rose and, with her heart beating wildly, threaded the tables, making the half circuit of the room, then melted, a slim figure in shimmering gold, into the table set in half darkness.
The number drew to a close, and John Chestnut sat alone at his table, stirring auxiliary bubbles in his glass of champagne. Just as the lights went on there was a soft rasp of gold cloth, and Rags, flushed and breathing quickly, sank into her chair. Her eyes were shining with tears. John looked at her moodily.
‘Well, what did he say?’
‘He was very quiet.’
‘Didn’t he say a word?’ Her hand trembled as she took up her glass of champagne.
‘He just – looked at me while it was dark. And we said a few things, conventional things. He was like his picture, only he looks very bored and tired.’
‘Is he leaving New York tonight?’
‘In half an hour. He and his aides have a car outside, and they expect to be over the border before dawn.’
Just as she turned back an utterly strange young man who had been standing for a moment in the main entrance came toward them with an air of hurry. He was a deathly pale person in a dishevelled business suit, and he laid a trembling hand on John Chestnut’s shoulder.
‘Monte!’ exclaimed John, starting up so suddenly that he upset his champagne. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘They’ve picked up the trail!’ said the young man in a shaken whisper. He looked around. ‘I’ve got to speak to you alone.’ John got to his feet, and Rags noticed that his face, too, had become white as the napkin in his hand. He excused himself, and they retreated to an unoccupied table a few feet away. Rags watched them curiously for a moment, then she resumed her scrutiny of the table across the floor. Then John returned to the table, and Rags was startled to find that a tremendous change had come over him. He lurched into his chair like a drunken man.
‘John! What’s the matter?’ Instead of answering he reached for the champagne bottle, but his fingers were trembling.
‘Rags,’ he said unsteadily, ‘I’m done for!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m all through, I tell you.’ He managed a sickly smile. ‘There’s been a warrant out for me for over an hour.’
‘What have you done?’ she demanded in a frightened voice. ‘What’s the warrant for?’ The lights went out for the next number, and he collapsed suddenly over the table.
‘What is it?’ she insisted, with rising apprehension. She leaned forward. His answer was barely audible.
‘Murder?’ She could feel her body grow cold as ice. He nodded. She took hold of both arms and tried to shake him upright as one shakes a coat into place. His eyes were rolling in his head.
‘Is it true? Have they got proof?’ Again he nodded drunkenly.
‘Then you’ve got to get out of the country now! Do you hear me, John? You’ve got to get out now, before they come looking for you here!’ He loosed a wild glance of terror toward the entrance.
‘Oh, Heaven!’ cried Rags. ‘Why don’t you do something?’ She looked distractedly around the roof. Her eyes strayed here and there in desperation, became suddenly rigid. She drew in her breath sharply, hesitated, and then whispered fiercely into John’s ear.
‘If I arrange it, will you go to Canada tonight?’
‘How?’
‘I’ll manage if you’ll pull yourself together a little. This is Rags talking to you, don’t you understand, John? I want you to sit here and not move until I come back!’ A minute later she had crossed the room under cover of the darkness.
‘Baron Marchbanks!’ she whispered softly, standing just behind his chair. He half rose, motioned her to sit down.
‘Have you room in your car for two more passengers tonight?’ One of the aides looked around abruptly.
‘His Lordship’s car is full,’ he said shortly.
‘It’s terribly urgent.’ Her voice was trembling.
‘Well,’ said the Prince hesitatingly, ‘I don’t know.’ Lord Charles Este looked at him and shook his head.
‘I don’t th
ink it’d do, sir. This is a risky matter anyhow, with contrary orders from home. You know we agreed there’d be no complications.’ The Prince frowned.
‘This isn’t a complication,’ he objected. Este turned frankly to Rags.
‘Why is it urgent?’ Rags hesitated.
‘Why –’ She flushed suddenly. ‘It’s a runaway marriage.’ The Prince laughed.
‘Right-o!’ he exclaimed. ‘That settles it. Este here is just being official. Bring over the lucky man right away. We’re leaving shortly, what?’ Este looked at his watch.
‘Right now!’ Rags rushed away. She wanted to move the whole party from the place while the lights were still down.
‘Hurry!’ she cried in John’s ear. ‘We’re going over the border with the Prince of Wales. You’ll be safe by morning.’
He looked up at her with dazed eyes. She hurriedly paid the account and, seizing his arm, piloted him as inconspicuously as possible to the other table, where she introduced him with a word. The Prince acknowledged his presence by shaking hands, the aides nodded, only faintly concealing their displeasure.
‘We’d better start,’ said Este, looking impatiently at his watch. They were on their feet when suddenly an exclamation broke out from all of them at once. Two policemen and a red-haired man in plain clothes had come in at the main door.
‘Out we go!’ breathed Este, impelling the party toward the side entrance. ‘There’s going to be some kind of riot here.’ He gasped. Two more bluecoats barred the exit there. They paused uncertainly. The plain-clothes man was beginning a careful inspection of the people at the table. Este looked sharply at Rags and then at John, who shrank back behind the palms.
‘There’s going to be trouble,’ whispered Rags. ‘Can’t we get out by this entrance?’ The Prince, with rising impatience, sat down again in his chair.
‘Let me know when you chaps are ready to go.’ He smiled at Rags. ‘Now, just suppose we all get into trouble just for that jolly face of yours!’ Then suddenly the lights went up. The plain-clothes man whirled around quickly and sprang to the middle of the cabaret floor.
‘Nobody try to leave this room!’ he shouted. ‘Sit down, that party behind the palms! Is John Chestnut in this room?’ Rags gave a short, involuntary cry.
‘Here!’ cried the detective to the policeman behind him. ‘Take a look at that bunch over there. Hands up, you men!’
‘My God!’ whispered Este. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ He turned to the Prince. ‘This won’t do, Ted. You can’t be seen here. I’ll try and stall them off while you get to the car.’ He took a step toward the side entrance.
‘Hands up, there!’ cried the plain-clothes man. ‘And when I say hands up I mean it! Which one of you’s Chestnut?’
‘You’re mad!’ shouted Este. ‘We’re British subjects. We’re not involved in this affair in any way!’ A woman screamed somewhere, and there was a general movement toward the lifts, a movement which stopped short before the muzzles of two automatic pistols. A girl next to Rags collapsed in a dead faint to the floor, and at the same moment the music on the other roof began to play.
‘Stop that music!’ bellowed the plain-clothes man. ‘And get some handcuffs on that whole bunch – quick!’ Two policemen advanced toward the party, and simultaneously Este and the other aides drew their revolvers and, shielding the Prince as best they could, began to edge toward the side. A shot rang out and then another, followed by a crash of silver and china as half a dozen diners overturned their tables and dropped quickly behind.
The panic became general. There were three shots in quick succession and then a fusillade. Rags saw Este firing coolly at the eight amber lights which lit the roof, and a thick fume of grey smoke began to fill the air. As a strange undertone to the shouting and screaming came the incessant clamour of the distant jazz band. Then in a moment it was all over. A shrill whistle rang out over the roof, and through the smoke Rags saw John Chestnut advancing toward the plain-clothes man, his hands held out in a gesture of surrender. There was a last nervous cry, a shrill clatter as someone inadvertently stepped into a pile of dishes, and then a heavy silence fell on the roof; even the band seemed to have died away.
‘It’s all over!’ John Chestnut’s voice rang out wildly on the night air. ‘The party’s over. Everybody who wants to can go home!’ Still there was silence. Rags knew it was the silence of awe. The strain of guilt had driven John Chestnut insane.
‘It was a great performance,’ he was shouting. ‘I want to thank you one and all. If you can find any tables still standing, champagne will be served as long as you care to stay.’ It seemed to Rags that the roof and the high stars suddenly began to swim round and round. She saw John take the detective’s hand and shake it heartily, and she watched the detective grin and pocket his gun. The music had recommenced, and the girl who had fainted was suddenly dancing with Lord Charles Este in the corner. John was running here and there patting people on the back, and laughing and shaking hands. Then he was coming toward her, fresh and innocent as a child.
‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’ he cried. Rags felt a faintness stealing over her. She groped backward with her hand toward a chair.
‘What was it?’ she cried dazedly. ‘Am I dreaming?’
‘Of course not! You’re wide awake. I made it up, Rags, don’t you see? I made up the whole thing for you. I had it invented! The only thing real about it was my name!’ She collapsed suddenly against his coat, clung to his lapels and would have wilted to the floor if he had not caught her quickly in his arms.
‘Some champagne – hurry!’ he called, and then he shouted at the Prince, who stood near-by: ‘Order my car, quick! Miss Rags Martin-Jones has fainted from excitement.’
Miss Rags Martin-Jones sat waiting – waiting for perhaps the first time in her life.
Mr Chestnut wants to know if you’ll come right in to his private office.’ It was a respectful voice at her elbow.
Obediently her slim feet moved along the carpet into a long, cool, exquisite room. John Chestnut sat at his desk, waiting, and Rags walked to him and put her arms around his shoulder.
‘Are you sure you’re real?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘You only wrote to me a week before you came?’ he protested modestly, ‘or I could have arranged a revolution.’
‘Was the whole thing just mine?’ she demanded. ‘Was it a perfectly useless, gorgeous thing, just for me?’
‘Useless?’ He considered. ‘Well, it started out to be. At the last minute I invited a big restaurant man to be there, and while you were at the other table I sold him the whole idea of the cabaret.’ He looked at his watch.
‘I’ve got one more thing to do, and then we’ve got just time to be married before lunch.’ He picked up his telephone to give some brief swift orders, rang off, turned to the wild-eyed girl with a laugh.
‘John,’ she asked him intently, ‘who was the Prince of Wales?’ He waited until they were in an outer room, and then pointed to a young secretary who had come politely to his feet. His face was pale, oval, framed in yellow hair. Rags blushed like fire.
‘He’s from Wessex,’ explained John. ‘The resemblance is, to say the least, amazing.’
Rags took the monocle from around her neck and threw the ribbon over his head.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply, ‘for the second greatest thrill of my life.’
Then John Chestnut began rubbing his hands together in a commercial gesture.
‘Patronize this place, lady,’ he besought her. ‘Best bazaar in the city!’
‘What have you got for sale?’
‘Well, m’selle, today we have some perfectly be-oo-tiful love.’
‘Wrap it up, Mr Merchant,’ cried Rags Martin-Jones. ‘It looks like a bargain to me.’
The Adjuster
I
At five o’clock the sombre egg-shaped room at the Ritz ripens to subtle melody – the light clat-clat of one lump, two lumps, into the cup, and the din
g of the shining teapots and cream-pots as they kiss elegantly in transit upon a silver tray. There are those who cherish that amber hour above all other hours, for now the pale, pleasant toil of the lilies who inhabit the Ritz is over – the singing decorative part of the day remains.
Moving your eyes around the slightly raised horseshoe balcony you might, one spring afternoon, have seen young Mrs Alphonse Karr and young Mrs Charles Hemple at a table for two. The one in the dress was Mrs Hemple – when I say ‘the dress’ I refer to that black immaculate affair with the big buttons and the red ghost of a cape at the shoulders, a gown suggesting with faint and fashionable irreverence the garb of a French cardinal, as it was meant to do when it was invented in the Rue de la Paix. Mrs Karr and Mrs Hemple were twenty-three years old, and their enemies said that they had done very well for themselves. Either might have had her limousine waiting at the hotel door, but both of them much preferred to walk home (up Park Avenue) through the April twilight.
Luella Hemple was tall, with the sort of flaxen hair that English country girls should have, but seldom do. Her skin was radiant, and there was no need of putting anything on it at all, but in deference to an antiquated fashion – this was the year 1920 – she had powdered out its high roses and drawn on it a new mouth and new eyebrows – which were no more successful than such meddling deserves. This, of course, is said from the vantage-point of 1925. In those days the effect she gave was exactly right.
‘I’ve been married three years,’ she was saying as she squashed out a cigarette in an exhausted lemon. ‘The baby will be two years old tomorrow. I must remember to get –’
She took a gold pencil from her case and wrote ‘Candles’ and ‘Things you pull, with paper caps,’ on an ivory date-pad. Then, raising her eyes, she looked at Mrs Karr and hesitated.
‘Shall I tell you something outrageous?’
The Fantasy and Mystery Stories of F Scott Fitzgerald Page 15