Three to Be Read

by Philip Wylie

  Extracurricular education. It was an interesting phrase. “I’m afraid—from what I’ve heard—that I’d have to fight my way through a swarm of male undergraduates.”

  Miss Macey laughed—and stopped laughing. She said gently, “You wouldn’t have to fight at all, Professor.”

  That did it.

  Women seldom acknowledge the fact; more often, they repress it vigorously; but the fact remains, as all men know: there is a certain contagion in romance, at least among males. The man who breaks down and kisses Girl A is more liable to kiss Girl B than the man who held himself aloof from A.

  What was happening to the Professor was a variant of that phenomenon. He was looking at Miss Macey—thinking about Miss Maxson. He recalled, with the utmost clearness of detail, his sensations at the time of her kiss. Or kisses. He perceived that the same sensation—or possibly a different and even more powerful one—could be produced by, or elicited from, another: Marigold Macey. It is a shattering experience. He stared at the girl in a way which, he reasoned afterward, must have been appalling. She merely blushed a little and looked away. He decided to ask her when he might see her at home.

  A hand pounded his back. “Well—Burke!”

  The trancelike mood collapsed. He turned. Feebly, he said, “Ah. MacFalkland.”

  “What are you doing—flirting with my golf partner?” He saw surprise. “Yeah! She and young Stratton and Mrs. Ames and I have a foursome this afternoon, old boy. Hi, Marigold!”

  “Oh, I see. Very pleasant.”

  “You ought to get out more, Burke,” MacFalkland said. “Rode by your lecture hall yesterday. Heard you droning away. Well—see you by and by, Marigold!”

  He strode away, waving heartily at people here and there in the room. Professor Burke sagged. MacFalkland was, after all, a natural leader—the sort of man who should head up a department.

  “He’s a friend of Daddy’s,” Miss Macey said uncomfortably. “Daddy’s a judge, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yes. Mac—Professor MacFalkland—works with Daddy on several things. Slum clearance projects.”

  The luncheon regressed into a rather ordinary professor-student meal.

  Chapter VII

  His schedule wound up, that day, at four. He walked home, reflecting on the range of moods which accompanied any regular route, such as his. Item one, Miss Macey. He could see her happily married to such a chap as that ex-pilot, Stratton. Item two.

  MacFalkland. When the University could afford a full-scale Socio-Psychology Department, MacFalkland would be the director. He, Burke, would live in the imminence of that boisterous voice and sudden back-slap. The third item was more difficult to define: a vague, almost sad sense that a bright light had winked in his life—and gone out.

  Bedelia called from the side porch. “Want tea?”

  He came around the house.

  “Your car’s been hauled to the garage. The man estimated it would cost around a hundred dollars.”

  “Gosh.” He munched a bit of orange cake.

  “I sponged your dinner clothes. With alcohol—for the lipstick. And sent them to the cleaner this morning.”

  “Thank you, Bedelia.”

  “There were pieces of fern in the pocket.”

  “Fern? In the pocket?”

  “I didn’t know what it was, either. I took it to Alice Beardsley. She’s secretary of the garden club.”

  “However—oh!” He smiled faintly. “Last night. I really was dramatizing myself, Bedelia. Looking for clues. Observing closely. All sorts of idiocy. That wad of plant stuff came from the hinge of the sedan that held us up.”

  “It did?” she leaned forward interestedly.

  “What of it? Hedge somewhere.”

  “It only grows on certain Keys. A subspecies. The fronds are much wilder on one side than the other.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Which means, of course, that car last night had very recently made a trip to the Keys.”

  “Marl.”

  “What?”

  “I said ‘marl.’ There was whitish marl on the tires and wheels. The kind you see in ruts on those little side roads in the Keys.”

  “That proves it! Alice gave me a list of the Keys where the fern is known to grow.

  Only four or five. We could drive down Sunday… .”

  “Drive down? What on earth for?”

  “Aren’t you curious? Wouldn’t you like to know just what a carload of gangsters were doing in the Keys? And where they did it?”

  “Heavens, no! Why should I? Fishing trip, perhaps. Maybe they own a juke joint down there. What of it?”

  “I would be mighty curious.” She settled back. “Do you remember the tires?”

  “Diamonds and dots,” he said. “Alternating. But I’m not going on any wild-goose chase in the Keys. I’m going to finish up the marks for the month, and eat dinner, and read Conover’s Hidden Social Culprits—and get a good night’s sleep. I’m tired out.”

  He was not too tired to hurry down the stairs when, at six, she called him to the phone. There was something in Bedelia’s voice. “Hello?”

  “Hello, darling!” His reaction was like near-electrocution-short of fatal, but violent. “Miss—Maxson!”

  Bedelia put the lid on the veal curry, quietly.

  “I wheedled your number out of the University operator. What you doing this evening?”

  “Well—I was—that is—”

  “I’ll pick you up around eight-thirty-after supper… .”

  This time, he made it more effectual. “I really couldn’t, Miss Maxson. I’ve got work to do. And—my dinner things—”

  “The hell with your dinner things! Wear shorts, if you feel like it. A certain person wants to meet you.”

  He opened his mouth to say it was utterly out of the question. But the light had winked on again. And it was not his doing. He gave her the address.

  Bedelia was elated. “You know, Martin, girls aren’t any different now, from my time. They simply go out and act the way we merely used to feel.”

  “I have no business letting her do it.”

  “You have no business missing such an opportunity! Even if only for my sake—so I can get a look at her. I’ll be at the window curtain, sure as shooting!”

  Chapter VIII

  Miss Constance Maxson drove up quietly, walked through the lush front yard, and knocked on the door. Bedelia answered, and called up the stairs for the professor. He came—rather nervously. “You’ve met?”

  Connie nodded and Bedelia boomed, “Prettiest girl this house has seen in ages!”

  The car at the curb was a convertible, long and grey and brand new. Connie drove toward Miami. She seemed to be serenely pleased with the world—and not inclined to talk.

  “What happened?” he finally asked, breaking through their occasional amiable platitudes.

  “Double-O will tell you. How do you like this car?”

  “It’s a beauty.”

  “It’s yours.”

  He gasped. “Mine!”

  “From Double-O. In repayment for your coupe!”

  “I couldn’t accept it! It’s—fabulously magnanimous. But I couldn’t think of such a thing!”

  Connie smiled. “I told him you’d refuse it. You know, Professor, you’re something of a sweetheart.” After a while she said, “I suspect that Double-O may be a shock to you.

  You better get set.”

  “I’m quite prepared to meet him on his own terms.”

  Connie turned over the new grey convertible to the doorman of the Bombay Royale, whisked the professor through the lobby so fast he only glimpsed the photomurals of Hindu temples, and took him to the roof in a private elevator. On the roof he could taste the sea and hear a rumba band playing in the patio far below. The girl knocked at the door of a small penthouse; it was opened by a butler.

  “Come in, Miss Maxson. Professor Burke, good evening,” the butler said.

  The prof
essor experienced a series of stupefactions. The room behind the butler was furnished with modern pieces and a few Eighteenth Century French chairs. A fire was burning on a marble hearth. There was a white cat curled under the piano. On the walls were etchings of cats by Peggy Bacon and a magnificent print of a Cézanne.

  A man rose from a chair which was set in front of corner bookcases, beside a lamp and a small table. He turned a book face down. This he did slowly, unhinging his long frame-and smiling. The book was Professor Burke’s own Ruminations of a Socio-Psychologist.

  “Very kind of you to come over,” Double-O said. “I should really have called on you. I’ve been reading your collected lectures. Most interesting. Before the evening’s over, perhaps I could add a few bits to your theory of crime. It was theoretical interest that brought you to the Egret last night, my niece says.”

  His eyes were twinkling. He held out his hand.

  Professor Burke looked at Connie in a sort of frenzy. “Niece?” The tall, lanky gambler said, “Oh—oh!” He cocked an eyebrow at the girl and then at the professor.

  “Who did she say she was?”

  “I told him,” Connie answered, giggling, “that I was a hostess. It’s true enough. I think he assumed I was your moll, Bill. So 1 let him think so-for punishment.”

  The professor was scarlet. “I honestly—as a matter of fact—the truth is—I made no estimate.”

  Double-O walked to the grate to hide his grin. He poked the fire. “Women,” he said, “are cads, Professor. Born bounders. Connie’s mother is my half sister, and hardly proud of the fact. I’m the family black sheep. Connie herself, however, has a drop of the restless Sanders blood. This year—since no polite institution for young ladies could hold her—I hired her to keep people happy at the Egret.”

  “I supervise the kitchen,” Connie said proudly. “And I helped re-do the gambling room. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  “Very,” said the professor—that being as much as he could say for the moment.

  Fortunately for him, the butler wheeled in a tea wagon and Double-O mixed a Tom Collins for Connie and a Scotch and water for the professor. For himself he made nothing, and explained that he did not drink.

  “Now,” he said, taking the chair in which he had been sitting, “I would enjoy hearing the story from you, Professor Burke.”

  “First,” the professor said, “I’d like to know—how things turned out?”

  Double-O laughed.

  “They kept all of us at Headquarters till morning. They searched the place—ripped it up a bit. Let us go finally. I called Connie—”

  The girl had taken a seat on the floor by the fire and the cat was in her lap. “I asked him to look at his mail.”

  The gambler went to a desk and took an envelope from the drawer. “Your money, Professor. Connie says part of it represents winnings at my tables. I’m delighted!”

  “In other words—the—funds—reached you?”

  “Yes, Professor. They did. Thanks to you. Now—let’s have the story.”

  Professor Burke told it, in bare outline and with several deletions. Double-O listened—his face reflecting understanding, excitement, appreciation. “I suppose,” he said when the professor finished, “that you knew French Paul would just as soon use a gun as not?”

  “He slapped Miss Maxson—with no need. She hadn’t even refused to answer his query. He simply slapped her. Brutally. There was no alternative for me but to tell the swine—”

  “No alternative, eh?” Double-O’s grey eyes seemed amused. “I also suppose you realize you quite possibly saved a very large sum of my money from confiscation? Not to mention my niece’s life—perhaps—if she’d been alone.”

  “He wouldn’t accept the car—” Connie said.

  Double-O nodded. “I was afraid of that.” He stretched his legs and looked at his shoes for a moment. “Professor,” he said, “I’m possibly a curious man—from your viewpoint. My ideas of ethics may differ from your ideas. But I think our concept of gratitude must be about the same. I never owed anyone so much as I owe you. It was foolish to offer the car and hope you’d accept. I realize I haven’t anything you would accept. One trifle, perhaps—the hospitality of the Club Egret. If you will be our regular guest for dinner this winter—with your friends—I’ll be happy. I’ll be disappointed if you won’t. The Club is yours. And if I could think of anything else… .”

  To his astonishment, Professor Burke found himself very much moved. He momentarily felt that tears might come in his eyes, which would have been a hideous embarrassment. He had looked forward to meeting the notorious Double-O as a source of firsthand—and scornful—lecture material. But the man in front of him—obviously cultured, plainly sincere-was very upsetting.

  The professor’s eyes moved away—and fastened on the Cézanne. It was not, he realized, a print. It was real.

  “I told you,” Connie said softly to her uncle, “the guy was nice.”

  Double-O nodded very slightly at her. His grey eyes followed the professor’s.

  “Like it? I do. One of my—clients—lost quite a large sum of money. He happened to be pressed for cash at the moment and offered the painting.” The cat walked over and the gambler stroked it absently.

  Professor Burke’s mind finally churned through his emotions and the surprises which had given rise to them. Somehow, he felt, he had been guilty of an indecency.

  Intuition led him to say what he did. “Mr. Sanders, I’ll be glad to be your guest some evening. I’d like Bedelia—my landlady, and a unique character—to see the Club Egret. But there is one thing you can do for me.”

  The barest trace of surprise showed in the gambler’s face. It was followed by a smile. “Name it!”

  “For years,” the professor said quietly, “I’ve postured as an authority on—on—”

  “—the way the other half lives?”

  “Exactly. But the fact is, I’m an ignoramus. My information is thirdhand—fourthhand—theoretical… .”

  The gambler looked at the facedown book and hid the ghostly beginning of a smile. “On the contrary. I thought—”

  “No college professor has had an opportunity for a—a briefing, by anyone who really knows the story. If you could understand the difficulty of discussing a subject without firsthand knowledge… .”

  Double-O nodded. He walked over and again poked up the fire. “We’ll start, Professor, with the gents you met last night. French Paul-who’s the present chief of the Maroon Gang—”

  “An Alsatian.”

  The gambler turned his head and smiled. “You’re quick. Yes. Born in Strasbourg, actually. The Maroon Gang began moving in on Greater Miami several years ago. I once ran their gambling—in three cities. We had a disagreement about—ethics. I’ll tell you their political setup here. It’s as good an example as any. Their interests in Miami, at first, were bookmaking, a few protection rackets, and the usual other enterprises. I gather from word that gets around that lately they’ve branched into the business of bringing in aliens who shouldn’t be here. Former Nazis who got out with loot. Possibly a few well-heeled people working for Russia. After all, Florida is full of tricky back doors to the U.S.—the rivers that run into the Everglades—the Ten Thousand Islands—the Keys… .”

  Professor Burke concealed a sudden, internal start. Marl and fern, he thought. He hadn’t mentioned these matters, in his account of the pursuit and holdup: his sleuthing impulse had seemed childish.

  Double-O went on. “Whatever makes money, interests the Maroon Gang. I’ll tell you how they muscled in here—and how they got set. I didn’t believe, until last night, that they were going to work me over. What happened makes it plain they have a better setup than mine. They know the whole score. They intended to beat the cops at a snatch of my working capital. I’ve banked it now, incidentally. Even my own club isn’t safe any longer.

  However. When I sketch the background on the Maroons—who they are—how they operate—where they come from—how they got
that way—you’ll know as much as I do about all of the gangs. I’m a gambler, Professor. Never had another angle. If I get pushed out of business, I’ll go. My connections are sound, so it will take a lot of pushing. After I tell you about the Maroon Gang, I’ll tell you the long and not always dull story of my own life. How I grew up. Why I quit college. Where I learned—my profession. Is that what you want?”

  “I’d like to hear it myself,” Connie said. Double-O lighted a cigar, and smoked for a minute. “What you are going to learn, Professor, you never heard. I never told you. If you use it as background for lectures—or books-or anything—it’ll just be your surmises and bald assertions. Every big shot in the rackets and every involved politician will deny it. Will that suit your purposes?”

  “Yes,” the professor said. “And more than repay any debt you may feel in my direction.”

  It was after one o’clock when Connie accompanied him to the lobby.

  He said, bemusedly, “I’ll get a cab… .”

  “I’ll drive you over.”

  “Not at this hour—with the long ride back. I refuse!”

  “Will we—I-see you again, Professor?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The doorman brought her car. They stood on the broad hotel steps. Already, the northwest high was diminishing. The warm winds of the Gulf Stream were pushing back over the immense, flat peninsula. Connie turned from her car-the one intended for him.

  She kissed him. “So long, Martin.”

  He was scarcely conscious of the ride in the cab. The amount of the meter shocked him. Then he remembered his winnings, paid, and tipped liberally. The driver thanked him and the red taillight of his cab whisked away on West Cortez Circle.

  Bedelia was waiting up—naturally. The glass coffee-maker was full, and hot.

  “You’ve got lipstick again,” she said. “But not so much. She was a very nice girl.

  So much more refined than I’d expected. What else do you know’?”