Neither Five Nor Three

by Helen Macinnes

  “Now, not you too!” Mrs. Hershey said angrily.

  “I’m not saying she did.” Miss Guttman was hurt. She started typing. “One thing is sure,” she paused again to add, “Scott Ettley isn’t going to like it.” Then she went back to the problem of burgundy towels with pink or blue monograms.

  Mrs. Hershey said nothing. She pursed her lips and began to read her notes. But the frown didn’t leave her brow. When she finished dealing with the most urgent of her letters, she rose and left the room. Mrs. Hershey bustled around a good deal; none of the typists, not even Miss Guttman—who was now thinking of midnight blue towels but would Hubert like anything so daring?—paid any attention to her sudden departure.

  Mrs. Hershey went straight to Paul Haydn. “It’s none of my business, I suppose,” she added at the end of her story. “But someone has got to deal with this.”

  Paul Haydn nodded. When she left, he arose and went to see Weidler. “Something’s got to be done,” Paul ended grimly, after Weidler had heard him through without one interruption.

  “But what?” Weidler’s face, weathered red from a week-end of gardening and golf, was furrowed with worry. He turned his chair to stare out of the window. He said slowly, “This explains a side remark I was given at the Club yesterday. In the locker-room, a publisher I know said he had heard we were having trouble at Trend: that was what happened when we took women into business—cartoonists would have to think up a new angle to the joke about big executive chasing pretty secretary.”

  He swung his chair back to face Paul. “You believe this story about Rona Metford and Blackworth has been purposely invented? That’s hard to swallow, Paul.”

  “There never has been any malicious gossip about Rona before. Why now?”

  Yes, Weidler thought, it could be a story to cover up the reasons for Blackworth’s dismissal. And certainly the Communists would blame Rona for that. “But who’d invent such a rumour? Who’d spend good time on a thing like that? Pretty cheap occupation for a grown man.”

  Paul said nothing. The rumour was not only invented but spreading, that was what worried him.

  “That publisher I was telling you about—he said he’d been running into the darnedest trouble with one of the books on his recent list. It was a factual report on Soviet espionage, with a chapter on that scientist Fuchs. An important book. Well, in several bookstores—good, reliable stores where he knows the men in charge and they are as honest as you or I—he was puzzled because the book had low sales. So he sent someone to investigate, quietly. His man wandered into the stores in question and found that either the book was badly displayed or not even displayed at all; piles of copies were tucked away behind a counter, for instance. And you know who was responsible for smothering the book? Just one clerk. Out of ten or twenty reliable clerks there was one weasel who made a point of attending to that book. He had put it where book buyers wouldn’t even notice it. Now, who’s going to believe that? Yet the publisher checked with some of his business friends, and one or two admitted that they had been finding some difficulties for the last five years whenever they handled a book the Commies didn’t like. Small difficulties, things you can’t bring out in the open without looking a fool. It’s hard to believe that pettiness can be organised into a weapon. That’s what makes me so damned mad—the pettiness.”

  “Yes, it’s petty. But it injures a lot of people, all the same,” Paul said. He was still waiting. “What about Rona Metford?” he asked point-blank.

  “Well, you know we can’t tell the truth about Blackworth.”

  “You could tell the truth to Rona. That would explain this attack on her. She’s bound to hear the rumour. Some kind friend is going to tell her she doesn’t believe a word of it, and then give the full details.”

  “This is a hell of a way to spend a Monday morning,” Weidler said, looking at the pile of correspondence on his desk. “All right, let’s have her in. No, you stay here. I’ll need your help, Paul.” He picked up the inter-office ’phone and asked Miss Metford to come and see him. Then he sat back in his chair again. “Don’t worry,” he told Paul, “I’ll give Rona the full details. We can trust her to keep them to herself?”

  “Yes.”

  “By the way, I’m meeting Roger Brownlee for lunch today. He called me first thing this morning.” Weidler looked at his watch. “Don’t let me be late.”

  “He didn’t waste much time in reaching you,” said Paul. “I told him about you only on Saturday.”

  “Oh?” Weidler was interested.

  “We wandered around Central Park and fed the squirrels.”

  “Did he think I was wrong to hush up the Blackworth affair?”

  “No,” Paul admitted, still obviously disagreeing with that decision.

  “Well,” Weidler said with a smile of relief, “that’s one small ray of comfort on a bad morning.”

  Paul was watching the door. “I think I heard Rona’s voice,” he said. He looked at Weidler, who was no longer smiling. They exchanged a glance. Just a couple of men, Paul thought, who wish they were twenty miles from here at this moment.

  Rona entered. She looked pale and depressed. She was carrying, Paul Haydn noticed with surprise, her handbag. She had also brought a pencil and a note-book for any emergencies.

  Weidler, pacing around his room nervously, didn’t waste much time though. First of all, he gave her the full story about Blackworth. Then he told her the rumours about herself that had been spread around. And, at the end, he gave Paul’s explanation.

  Rona looked incredulous, and then horrified. Then she almost laughed. “It’s so—so silly,” she said. “That story about me, I mean.” She looked at Paul then. “I’ve dragged you into...” She couldn’t go on. She bit her lip. She sat quite still, looking down at her handbag.

  Weidler said awkwardly, “It is I who feel responsible.” He paused. Then suddenly, he was angry. “No, we’re not responsible. It’s Blackworth’s friends who are responsible for all this.” He quieted his voice with an effort. “I am sorry that we had to tell you, Rona, but it seemed the best thing to do. You won’t say a word of this to anyone?”

  She shook her head. “I’m glad you did tell me,” she said. “It is always best to know, even if you don’t want to believe.” Then her face brightened as if a new idea, a comforting idea, had suddenly been discovered. Scott... Scott, she was thinking, had heard this rumour. He couldn’t believe it, but it made him miserable, and all he could do was to pick a quarrel with her over Paul Haydn. I’ll ’phone him, Rona thought, I’ll ’phone him and tell him that I’m sorry, I understand, but he knows that the rumour is a lie.

  Paul Haydn, watching her, wondered what she was thinking. Out of bad news had come something good, seemingly.

  “That’s the way to take it,” Weidler said approvingly. “At first, you feel everyone is against you, that you can trust no one. Then you begin to realise that there are about seven million people outside these windows who are all on your side—if they knew, if they realised what was happening.”

  That’s fine comfort for Rona when Ettley hears the rumour, Paul thought bitterly.

  “Yes,” Weidler went on, “in all this city there’s probably only a few thousand against you. That’s what I thought out, one day, and it helped. A lot. Don’t forget that, Rona. There’s a clear seven million on your side in this city alone. Now, I’ve a luncheon engagement—”

  Rona rose to leave. Then she hesitated as she looked down at her handbag again. “Mr. Weidler,” she began, “I wonder—”

  “Is it urgent, Rona?” Weidler asked, looking anxiously at his watch.

  “No, that’s all right,” Rona said. She walked to the door, and Paul Haydn followed her.

  In the outside office, he said, “What’s the extra worry, Rona?”

  She pretended to laugh. “Do I show it as much as that?” She glanced at the secretary’s back now disappearing into Weidler’s office. They had this room to themselves for a few moments.

  �
�Paul, have you a safe in your office—one you keep locked?”

  “There’s one in Crowell’s office. I’m using it now.”

  “Would you keep something in it for me?” Her voice was low, hurried. She kept watching Weidler’s door. “Just for a few days. Please.”

  “Of course.” But he looked at her curiously.

  “I can’t explain. Yet.” She opened her handbag and took out an envelope. She slipped it quickly into his pocket. “You’ll keep it safe?”

  “Sure.”

  Behind them, Weidler’s secretary returned to her desk. Rona smiled to Paul and left. He waited for a moment or two before he followed her, making polite talk to the secretary.

  In the corridor, he met Murray looking appropriately gloomy for a Monday morning. Murray’s round face showed no sign of recognition.

  “Hello,” Paul said, “that was quite a party at Thelma’s last night. Sorry I had to leave early.”

  Murray looked at him, much in the same aggrieved way as he had tackled Paul on their first meeting. Then, he had stood in a corner of Rona’s living-room and expounded America’s mistakes in Germany while he stared disapprovingly at Paul’s uniform. Now, he was edging along the corridor trying to escape, but he still had the same disapproving stare for Paul’s shoulders. “Yes,” said Murray, not too convincingly, and moved farther away, his eyes shifting to Paul’s tie.

  Paul went toward his room.

  “Haydn!” Murray called. “I’ll have to break that lunch date with you tomorrow.”

  “Too bad.” Paul went into Crowell’s office which he was using temporarily. He closed the door firmly, and went over to the safe. He placed Rona’s envelope carefully inside it and locked it. But he was thinking about Murray.

  Whatever it was that had happened, Paul was sure of one thing: Murray’s friendly interest in him had died as quickly as it had begun. He began to wonder what he had done at Thelma’s party to get this brush-off from Murray. For that was what it was. And another thing he could be sure about, he would never be invited to attend one of Mr. Nicholas Orpen’s discussion groups. It was probably Orpen who had passed on the word to Murray to stop bothering about him. Murray didn’t do things on his own initiative. He probably asked Orpen’s permission to brush his teeth.

  Hell, Paul thought, what mistake did I make yesterday at Thelma’s?

  13

  That evening, when Jon Tyson returned from the University around five o’clock, bringing with him a stack of blue-covered examination papers, he found two of his pupils being entertained in the living-room by his family.

  Milton Leitner was listening to Barbara, busy with her favourite story book. Her short legs stuck straight out in front of her as she sat on the rug like a miniature Degas ballet dancer. Her fine smooth hair was held back from her forehead by a narrow blue bow, and beneath this touch of gaiety her round, pink-cheeked face frowned as she studied a printed page. “Now, I’ll read,” she was saying in her high light voice. She cleared her throat and began to recite “Jack and Jill,” her small forefinger tracing the printed lines, her eyes fixed with concentration on the book which she held upside down. Now and again, she’d glance up at Milton with a smile just to make sure that he was understanding everything.

  Bobby, fully armed with his six-shooters, was explaining to Robert Cash the mechanism of a rather battered train which still ran fairly well if you pushed it.

  Jon said “Hello everybody,” as if this happened every evening. He gave Peggy a hug and a kiss, and dropped the pile of blue books on his desk. Peggy glanced at Robert Cash and then back to Jon, a question now in her eyes. But Jon only smiled and hoped he didn’t look as surprised and puzzled as he felt. He hadn’t seen Bob Cash, outside of his classroom, since that evening when the Burleighs and Rona and Paul had been there. Usually Bob Cash was one of the students who came to him with questions after a lecture. But in these last few weeks. Cash seemed to be avoiding him. At this moment he was looking worried, almost nervous, glancing over at Leitner as if to say, “You got me here. You’d better do the explaining.”

  Bobby abandoned Robert Cash and came running to Jon to get his share of his father’s welcome. But Barbara only looked up and said, “I’m busy.” And she gave Milton one of her glancing smiles.

  “Come on, Cleopatra,” her mother said, “let’s get our bath before supper.”

  Barbara quickly turned the page for the last verse, and came upon an illustration too. She righted the book without a sign of embarrassment, and stared down at the coloured drawing. “And broke his crown,” she said slowly, and stared again. “Where is it?”

  Milton said, “And broke his crown and Jill came—”

  “Where is it? Where is it?” She stabbed at the illustration with annoyance, her eyes as solemn and accusing as if she had discovered a misprint in the Oxford English Dictionary. Milton looked puzzled.

  Peggy said, “It’s all there, darling. See, there’s Jack falling down and Jill tumbling after him, and there’s the pail of water and the hill and the—”

  “Where is the crown?” Barbara asked angrily. “Where is it?”

  “Oh!” Milton said, and looked at Peggy. “It isn’t that kind of crown, Barbara. Not a crown with gold spikes. It’s this crown, the crown of his head.” He showed her.

  “Come on, Barbara,” Peggy said, glancing at Jon and Robert Cash. Barbara rose, putting aside the book slowly, pulled out a crushed pleat in her skirt, felt her crown again, and then suddenly darted at her father. She hugged his legs and he swung her high in the air. She waved to Milton, while Bobby collected a wheel of his engine and Peggy picked up the Teddy bear and one-armed doll which had been playing house under Jon’s desk. Peggy glanced at the stack of test papers, waiting to be marked. Well, she thought. I’ll get some sewing done tonight. Then she hurried after the children. Baths first, while she washed their clothes; then their supper, and Barbara put to bed. By that time, Milton and Bob would have gone—or would they? She began worrying how far she could stretch the beef stew now simmering on the kitchen stove.

  The doorbell rang as Peggy pulled a nightdress over Barbara’s half-dried hair. Bobby, still in the tub, was navigating his ferryboat with the handle of the bath brush.

  “Stay there!” Peggy said to Barbara, and to Bobby, “Stop kicking up such big waves!” She hurried to answer the door. It was Rona.

  Rona didn’t explain her unexpected visit. And Peggy noticing the serious, set expression on her younger sister’s face, asked no questions. Besides, a shriek from the bathroom drew her back there at a run. A major wave had soaked Barbara.

  “Oh, Bobby!” Peggy administered a well-placed slap and evoked a sharp yelp of protest. She looked at Barbara’s freshly ironed nightdress now clinging to her fat stomach in wet folds, and she shook her head helplessly. “You’ll need sea boots in here,” she warned Rona.

  Rona was smiling now. She had slipped off her shoes and stockings, and was fastening a towel round her waist. “I’ll straighten them out if you get the food ready for the little brutes,” she said. “Come on, brute!” She pulled Bobby out of the bath, handed him a towel, saying, “Don’t grumble, now. You made it damp.”

  Peggy nodded gratefully, hurried to get a fresh nightgown for Barbara, and then retreated to the kitchen in time to rescue the stew from burning. She counted the pieces of meat worriedly. The children, Rona, Milton, Bob, Jon. There wouldn’t be enough. Not enough vegetables, either. Perhaps some spaghetti? Rona and I can take spaghetti and say we are on a diet or something, she decided. Damn, she thought angrily as she smelled the stew, this is the first time we’ve had meat in three days. And then she reprimanded herself sharply for being so inhospitable.

  Rona carried Barbara, all very pink and white and dry, into the kitchen. “First batch,” she said, fastening Barbara into her high chair. “Where’s the mop, Peggy? I’ll swab the deck for you.”

  When she returned with Bobby, her face was serious. “Jon’s having an unpleasant interview,” she said
. “I couldn’t help hearing.”

  “No one would say this apartment was well silenced.” Peggy too had heard enough from the living-room to feel worried.

  Then she exchanged glances with Rona behind Bobby’s interested eyes, and they said nothing more.

  By half-past six, the children were fed and Peggy was tucking Barbara into bed with a story. Bobby, who usually spent the last half hour before his bedtime with his father, was giving his wandering attention to Rona as she read to him in the kitchen. “Won’t they go away?” he asked with annoyance. And then his ears heard the sounds he had been listening for, and he slipped off his chair and flapped in his bedroom slippers into the narrow hall to stand beside his father as the visitors left.

  Listening, in spite of herself, Rona thought Jon’s voice sounded cheery. Certainly, there had been no bitter argument. And Robert Cash was saying good night evenly. She was suddenly happier. I’ll tell Jon about my troubles at dinner, she thought. And then I’ll leave early so that he can get on with his own work. But if I only tell Jon and Peggy about everything—well, not everything; Charles’ letter couldn’t be mentioned, but it was the least of her worries now—at least, if I tell Jon and Peggy, they can give me some advice. Jon’s the kind of man whose judgment you can trust, sane and kindly and never dogmatic. Even if you don’t take his advice, you respect it, and you feel a bit better too, somehow.

  But Peggy, coming back into the kitchen to see that the stew was thoroughly heated again, said, “Rona, let’s keep conversation fairly light at dinner. I know from your face that you’ve got something to tell us. But leave it until we have coffee, will you?”

  And Rona nodded. She could always give a description of Thelma’s party at dinner. That was light enough. And it would be an introduction, too, for what she would tell them afterward.

  * * *

  Over coffee in the living-room (“Tonight, we’ll leave dishes and everything,” Peggy had said), Rona was finding her story hard to tell. Darkness was falling. The house was at peace now, the children were asleep, and yet the room’s shadows and the silent audience made the story seem twice as serious, twice as difficult to relate.