Maynard looked troubled. “You mean—you’re short of cash?”
“Just for the moment,” Ray said loftily, cursing inwardly because he had to take the time to con Maynard, angry because it gave Maynard a lead that a smarter, more ruthless man could make good use of. “Don’t give it a thought. I can get all the money I need from the banks, but I hate to pay ‘em any interest. And with my bundle of blue chip stocks zooming every day on this war scare market, I don’t want to cash in.”
“I—I’ve got considerable cash,” Maynard said haltingly. “I wouldn’t mind paying for the office for a month or two.”
“Oh, no,” Ray finessed, his mind joyfully estimating this new angle. “I don’t want to confuse the books that much.” He peered at Maynard like a shrewd trader, the simple, transparent, selfish, glance that the man would think he understood. “Would you be willing to loan me some money without interest, Ralph?”
“Why—yes. It wouldn’t be for long, would it?”
“No. I’ll give you an I.O.U. payable in three months. Can you spare five thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then Silvia will give you the I.O.U. in the morning, for five thousand, and you give her forty-five hundred after you take care of the office rent and the hundred you put down, if it isn’t refunded. O.K.?”
“Yes, that will be all right.”
“Thanks a lot, Ralph. Your salary will be paid every month when due. Don’t get the idea that I can’t get money when I want it, it’s just that I like to keep mine working.” He gave Maynard the shrewd look again. “Take my advice. When you get the five thousand back, invest it. Cold cash is a liability.”
Maynard nodded vaguely, confused by the switch. “Maybe I will.”
Ray put Maynard to work writing a more detailed report on Russcorp’s national advertising program, and told Silvia to get Herman Botsch on the telephone. When she held up the instrument he went in and heard Botsch’s deep tones barking, “Hello. Hello.”
“Good afternoon, Herman,” Ray said warmly. “Just wondered if you’re all set for tonight—I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”
Botsch was quick on the reply, jumping at the faint implication in Ray’s words. “Got something to tell me, huh?”
“Yes. Nothing vital or too important. Just interesting.”
Botsch chuckled, with relief, it seemed to Ray; just what worries did the big man have on his conscience? Ray would have given a lot to know. “Oh, I see. You can’t talk too much right now. Dinner is at eight. Come up about seven. We can have a talk over a drink.”
“All right. What is the best way to reach Russ’s place? My car hasn’t come in from Chicago yet. I’ll have to use a cab.
“Never mind a cab, Ray,” Botsch ordered with heavy cordiality. “I’ll send my car around for you. I’m going up early with Louis, but my wife is driving up. They’ll leave about six-thirty. Where will I tell ‘em to pick you up?”
Ray thought fast. Have the limousine with Botsch’s wife pick him up at his flea-bag of a hotel? Or drive to the drab section of Brooklyn where Silvia lived? Hardly. He said: Tell them to pick us up at Twenty-One. We’ll be having a drink there.”
“O.K., boy. I’ll be looking for you.”
Ray hung up, looked at Silvia. “That was our host, or rather, one of our hosts. Can you get home and back to meet me at the Twenty-One Club by quarter-of-seven? I hate to ask you to ride the subway in your evening gown, but it’ll probably be the only way you’ll make it. You can take a cab if you want to—charge it to me.”
“Oh no, I never use them if the subway will do.” She glanced at him knowingly, almost confidentially. “And it would be unnecessary expense right now. It’s just that I live so far out—then a bath—my hair—”
“That’s easy. Go home now. You’ll have plenty of time.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, it’s too early. But if I could leave at three-thirty—”
“Get out.” He grinned affectionately at her, and he let it show, turned on the heat. That’s an order. And take a cab from the subway to Twenty-One. Don’t walk. And in case I forget to tell you—put in all your costs for tonight on an expense account.”
She started to protest, but he turned and went into his own room. A moment later she had gathered her work together, said good-by to them, and gone.
* * *
Ray sauntered through the wrought-iron gates of Twenty-One at exactly six-thirty, impeccably attired from head to foot, a package of prominent young man out for an evening. But he was glad the night was clear and warm—for he had forgotten to obtain a suitable topcoat.
The suave gentlemen inside the door, as casual and amiably efficient as the iron grillwork across the windows of a private sanitarium—bars masquerading as ornaments—said good-evening with a slight questioning inflection.
“Good-evening,” Ray answered, with the broad smile and the friendly nod. He handed his hat swiftly to a floorman, chattered fluently to the watchdogs. “Very warm for May. A beautiful night. Too bad you can’t just go out and take a long walk. I’m expecting a Miss Silvia Nuss. I’ll be at the bar. I’m Mister Hitchcock—do you remember me?”
The attack carried the breach. “Certainly, Mister Hitchcock,” replied the man with the reservation book, making an entry. “I’ll look out for Miss Nuss.”
Ray walked through the luxurious foyer, turned right and went to the far end of the bar, unobtrusively mapping the ground where he would conduct future campaigns. Johnathan Meyers, one of the foremost printing salesmen in Chicago, had told him—”Twenty-One, Ray, that’s the place to take customers. Let ‘em soak up the scotch the joint is boosting and meet a bunch of celebrities. Just sit back and pay the checks. They’ll shove the orders in your pocket.”
He ordered Ballantine and water, and drank steadily, but a little at a time, telling himself he was spacing them, and studying the scale models of locomotives suspended above his head. He had finished three drinks when the man came to tell him that Silvia was outside.
She was standing in the foyer, sleek and beautiful and precisely groomed, like one of the polished women in the slick magazines who sell their endorsements and pictures for advertising illustrations. Her gown was of pale blue silk faille, the decolletage cut to a deep point, on a foundation of silk passementerie ball trimming in very dark maroon and blue. The waistline was snug and cleanly cut to where the skirt flowed out to a wide hem, with an inverted pleat in the front and a buslee-like, not-too-large gathering at the rear. She wore black strap-slippers and a white cape.
He walked slowly to her, watching the composed, pleasant manner with which she welcomed him, pleased to note that other men were discreetly glancing at her.
She carried blue gloves in one hand. He took the other and held it and said: “I can’t believe it. Our little Silvia? You’re beautiful. You’re Hedy dressed for a big scene—or Lady Ashtonbucks ready for the ball.”
She smiled, graciously and with reserve. “Thank you, and you look very handsome and sturdy in evening clothes.”
He drew her to one side, still holding her hand. “Where did you learn to dress like this? You’re a dream.”
“My mother was a fashion writer,” she said frankly. “She selects and buys my clothes, and I listen to her.”
“I hope she gets them wholesale.”
“She does—I mean, we do.”
He saw that her silky black hair was held by a gold clip, nestling above the hood of the white cape, which when worn back, formed a collar. He said: “I’ll always trust my judgment. You’ll be perfect for some of our modeling.”
“I hope so,” she answered simply.
The man was at his elbow again. “Mister Hitchcock—Mister Botsch’s car is outside, with Mrs. Botsch. They’re expecting you.”
Ray said, “Thanks,” and took the hat which appeared at his hand as if by magic. “My check—” he began.
“It’s been placed on Mister Botsch’s account,” the man interjected smoothly. “At his order
. He telephoned.”
“Thanks again,” Ray said, and they went out through the big doors and the iron gates to the car.
Mrs. Botsch was an unhappy woman. It was Ray’s first impression of her under the sort lights of the tonneau after the big, bland faced chauffeur had closed the door. He handled the introductions, smiled and kept up a light, general conversation as he studied the woman.
She was well-dressed, diamonds sparkled on her fingers and wrists, and she looked like a healthy fifty able to pass for forty. Her hair was pale blonde being permitted to gently pass to gray, and she smiled easily, but her eyes were quiet and sad.
“Herman spoke very highly of you,” she told Ray. “That’s unusual for him. He’s always so busy. When he comments it means he’s impressed.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Ray replied. “I believe he and I see eye-to-eye on a number of things. He’s almost like an advertising man. Very progressive and alert—the kind of a businessman I like to work with.”
Mrs. Botsch turned to Silvia, asked kindly: “Are you in the advertising business, Miss Nuss?”
“Yes,” Silvia replied smoothly, “with Ray.”
“It must be fascinating,” Mrs. Botsch said wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to engage in some sort of activity, but Herman says I’ve earned a rest. Resting can be boring.”
“Let me make you an offer,” Ray suggested. “The next time you feel bored, call me. Well find something interesting for you to do.”
Mrs. Botsch laughed, said: “I will. You’d be surprised what I sometimes think of doing to pass the time.”
Ray realized that she was lonely as well as sad, and might well call him. Let her! He’d find something to amuse Herman Botsch’s wife if he had to hire a special office and two escorts!
Chapter 11
The dinner was magnificent—but Ray did not enjoy the procession of gourmandic courses, prepared by a chef whose salary put him in the upper income tax brackets. Ray felt angry, almost humiliated and cheated. He had not revealed his emotions by the flicker of an eyelid, but when Herman Botsch met them with Charlotte Sanderson at his side, Ray’s ego flared inside him like a pinwheel fastened to his ribs. There could be no doubt about the relationship—Charlotte’s anxious, pleading glance when they stood face to face—Botsch’s simpering affability, the force dvigor of an aging man with a girl too young—and Mrs. Botsch’s stiff mien, her cold greeting, told a clear story.
Standing in the spacious library with the men, in a group that included Russ, Botsch, and Sullivan, listening to Abbott tell a stag story, Ray wrestled with his ego. His face a smiling mask, his friendly laugh, concealed vicious thoughts. What had she said when he asked her to spy on Russcorp? “It’s not anything to hurt the firm, is it? I have a certain loyalty—I wouldn’t want to do anything wrong.”
Oh, no! She wouldn’t want to get caught. It might cost her that expensive apartment, those fancy clothes.
Grimly he mastered his anger, rationalized his position to salve his wounded pride. After all, he was new on the scene. Wouldn’t he have grabbed at the sugar bowl if he were in her place? It was the only quick leg up the girls could get. He could get her away from the older man whenever he wanted to—and there was Silvia. You’re just surprised because she didn’t tell you herself, he thought. Somebody snatched your candy and you can’t take it.
He saw Silvia’s sleek head in the group of women at the opposite end of the big room, and deliberately turned his mind to her. Now that was something worth having.
Abbott finished his story and Ray laughed because the others did. He had not heard a word of it.
“How about some poker?” Louis Russ suggested.
Most of the men answered affirmatively. “I’d enjoy it,” Ray said suavely. “But what about the ladies?”
“They’ll watch television or play bridge,” Russ said carelessly. “Come on. We’ll go down to the game room.”
The game room could have served a good sized club. It occupied part of the lower level under one wing of the main house, with one side opening directly onto a swimming pool and a broad lawn studded with tables and chairs. The pool side was closed by glass doors against the cool of the evening, and a fire burned briskly in the cavernous fireplace at one end of the room. The furnishings included a billiard table and a bar decorated in a nautical style that was superior to the ones in most night clubs. The tables and chairs, including the two circular poker tables, were of California light mahogany with colored, foam rubber cushions.
Louis Russ flopped down in one of the chairs around the poker table nearest the bar, called to a rotund man in a white coat: “Jeff, bring us some cigars and the cards and chips. And get the gentlemen’s orders for drinks.”
Ray was relieved when Abbott, as the banker, sold chips valued at a quarter and a half-dollar. He had been afraid that these men would play no limit or for five and ten dollar bets. Like many men with more money than they can use, the Russcorp officials played for moderate stakes, but fought joyously over every detail and hated to lose.
After they had been playing for more than an hour, Sullivan got up and went through a passage beyond the billiard table. Ray excused himself and followed.
Ray started back along the softly lighted corridor, his steps soundless on the thick carpeting, then stopped at the faint sound of a woman’s sobs. He felt a breath of cold air, followed it, and found one of the heavy glass doors that opened onto the terrace half-ajar. He stepped out into the darkness, went toward the sound—and stopped, watching two figures close together beside a high, thick bank of shrubs.
He listened carefully, without shame.
“Now, it isn’t as bad as all that,” he heard Sullivan mumble awkwardly.
The woman sobbed something in reply, and Ray identified the tones. Mrs. Botsch!
Her head was bent low, and Sullivan’s blocky shape seemed to envelop her as he clumsily patted what must be her shoulders. Noiselessly, Ray retreated and sped back to the poker table. Abbot was shuffling to deal a hand.
“Herman,” Ray exclaimed with excited, puppyish enthusiasm. “I’ve got it!”
Russ looked up in annoyance. “Got what?”
“The idea for promoting the linen service,” Ray answered, as if he had just discovered oil in the cellar. “Come here, just for a minute.”
“Oh, to hell with that,” Russ complained. “Sit down and play poker.”
“Just for one hand,” Ray pleaded. “This is hot.”
Herman caught the urgency in his voice. “Sure,” he boomed. “We need something with zip to it. I won’t be a minute, Louis.”
Botsch followed Ray down the corridor. When they were out of sight of the gameroom, Ray whirled and said softly: “Here’s what I wanted to tell you. Sullivan put a private detective on my trail. What kind of a punk is he, anyway?”
“That’s a new one,” Botsch rumbled thoughtfully. “But what difference does it make? He’s just one of these suspicious shysters. I’ve got plenty on him. You’re in the clear, aren’t you?”
“I’m not worried,” Ray answered. “Maybe it’s a good thing you have plenty on him, though.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s out in the garden right now cuddling and pumping your wife.”
“What! That son of—”
“Easy.” Ray gripped an arm as hard as a fence post, shook the big man slightly. “Don’t go off half-cocked till we know what he’s up to. And don’t mention me. I want a chance to keep an eye on him.”
“Yes,” Botsch growled. He was breathing hard. Ray wondered if he was worried about a business double-cross, or if his ego boiled at the idea he might be a cuckold. “Where are they?”
“Just outside the first open door. I think you ought to break it up, but remember—don’t mention me.”
“O.K.” Botsch cursed under his breath as he lumbered away. Ray walked almost gaily back to the game.
It seemed like a long time before Sullivan came into the room followed by Botsch.
The young lawyer was chastened, silent, like a man with a headache. Botsch was genial and sardonic, winked at Ray. Whatever going over he had given Sullivan had acted as a safety valve—cooled him off.
The men played until midnight, Ray and Russ winning modest sums, the others losing, Abbott complaining bitterly because he was out twenty-two dollars. Abbott—who was undoubtedly amassing his third million.
They rejoined the ladies for refreshments—coffee, highballs, cold meats, Welsh rarebit—Louis Russ knew how to live well. Standing beside Silvia, Ray said to Herman Botsch: “It’s been a nice evening, Herman, but I think we’d better go. Busy day tomorrow.”
“Whatever you say,” Botsch replied. “My wife is ready to leave.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Not yet. I’m going to drive Miss Sanderson home. I keep another car here. He gave Ray the half-smile, the confidential glance, expecting Ray’s admiration for his amorous success and virility. Ray gave it to him—right up to the congratulatory flicker of an eyelid—and hoped Botsch fell down the three stairs into the living room and broke his neck. No! He recalled the wish. He needed Botsch in his business. Let him enjoy the apartment and the blonde he was paying for. Blonds are plentiful—good contacts scarce.
Mrs. Botsch was very quiet during the ride to New York. The few times she spoke, her voice trembled. Ray wondered what Herman had told her in the garden. Certainly the big man would be rough and to the point. He asked her to let them out at the Waldorf, and she did not question them.
“Good night,” he told her as the limousine stood under the canopy on Park Avenue. “Don’t forget to call me when you are bored.”
She smiled faintly, the doorman closed the polished panel, and the big Packard rolled away. Ray gave the doorman a half-dollar, said, “Signal a cab,” and turned to Silvia, “Well, how did you like it?”
“Nice,” she answered as they climbed into the taxi.
“Just nice?”
The Heel Page 13