Henri paid the bill and they filed out of the narrow restaurant, Felix leading the way with Antoinette by his side. Jacques came next and he had an automatic wisecrack for the little hat-check girl, and then the restaurant door closed behind Henri St. Georges, the neighborly import-export man who was also a better-than-average spy whose reports, in order to make apprehension more difficult, went to Moscow via his firm’s offices in Marseilles, where Papa had correctly placed him because of his accent.
“Did you see her?” Papa asked of Maman. “But how could you help seeing her? Never have I seen such a woman.”
“She’s beautiful all right,” Maman said dryly, “but you’re an old goat and I think it’s disgusting.”
“Ah, to be twenty years younger,” said Papa, still pursuing his dreams.
“Lecher!” she said amiably. “You’d have to be fifty years younger before she would look at you and then she’d be a fool, as I can testify… But did you notice, Papa, she never spoke a word. At least, I never heard her. The men did all the talking. Curious, is it not?”
“No,” Papa snorted. “Men like that are fools and talk too much to show off. And anyhow, if you look like that, why do you need to say anything?”
Papa was more, far more, correct than he knew. It was not curious that Antoinette had not spoken a word, because she was a deaf-mute. Henri had found her in Marseilles while he was learning the tricks of his trade and had immediately realized that she could be of use to him. He had gained her confidence, spirited her away to New York, where she was now thought of as Felix’s girl. To Henri, she was a beautiful object to be used—he had no time for women in the job to which he devoted himself. He had no time for friends of any kind.
As for Antoinette, she did not have a bad time. She was given beautiful clothes and, occasionally, jewels, and such was her metabolism that she could dine well and extravagantly, seemingly forever, and never lose that perturbing and svelte silhouette which had so enticed Papa.
In Henri’s tortuous reasoning, Antoinette made a good blind for the occasionally public meetings he had to have with his fellow conspirators. “It seems more natural,” he would explain, “to have a beautiful woman along. It makes you look normal—nobody will wonder what you’re talking about; they’ll be sure they know. And with Antoinette, anybody who looks at our table (and this goes for women, too) will remember Antoinette and have no idea of what we men looked like. That is good.”
Antoinette could lip-read, but only in French. Therefore, when he was with her, Henri conducted his business in English so she would have no idea of what was going on in case she wanted to make trouble with the authorities. This was smart and it was safe. It was the way Henri liked to play things.
CHAPTER 5
Springtime is a season and a frame of mind. It is much written of and also sung about. The most famous springtimes seem to be in Paris and Vienna because those cities have romantic names and allusions, but springtime anywhere is romantic.
Possibly the only place in the United States where springtime is not of the utmost importance is southern California, where the residents claim it is always springtime and therefore rob it of its newness. There is also springtime in Manhattan—and Alice discovered it in Central Park.
It was just beginning to be spring and the yellow forsythia, a bold if undistinguished shrub, was proclaiming it to everybody. The ground, still largely brown but splotched with patches of bright green grass, was visibly swelling with the life beneath it.
She was riding with Jacques in a dusty, musty hansom cab which they had picked up at the old stand opposite the Plaza Hotel. The forlorn brown horse looked as if it had been brushed the wrong way and so did the beat-up top hat of the old coachman. The horse clopped along in peace, the private cars and taxis that whizzed by seemed not to bother it, and the dozing coachman woke only to rein his steed at red lights, although the horse without doubt would have stopped and waited safely and wisely by itself.
The westering sun threw a blanket of light on the wall of buildings that lined the entire length of Fifth Avenue and Jacques said, with one of his not-too-frequent references to France, “It reminds me of a new version of the old walled cities of France, like Carcassonne. Behind those walls is a city unto itself—which is a pretty good phrase for a Frenchman to use. There are private houses and embassies and hospitals, churches and slums and then, of course, more apartment houses. New York City is a lot of different cities and the one between Fifty-ninth and 125th Streets is entirely different from any of the cities above or below it. I say this because you are an American and Americans do not look at their cities as closely as foreigners. But you have heard me say this before. I am boring you…
“No, you aren’t, Jacques,” said Alice, who was indeed bored. “You should be a professional guide. You are just as well informed as, but more poetic than, that nice young man on the boat. Remember the bridge looking like a diamond necklace?”
“What on earth made you remember that?”
“Oh, girls remember diamond necklaces and, anyhow, you were so funny. You had forgotten about your own sister’s necklace. When am I going to meet her, Jacques?”
“You’re a darling girl, Alice. Someday I’d like to give you a necklace, too. And I do want you to meet my sister. But right now she’s back in France.”
Jacques had no sister.
He had been holding Alice’s hand—this is an absolute must if you ride through Central Park in a hansom cab—but now he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was still wonderful, Alice thought, but when was he going to propose? How long could a girl wait?
As for Jacques, he had been postponing the proposal. He was pretty certain of his acceptance, but he had argued again against the maneuver with Henri St. Georges. “Why not a seduction?” he had asked. “It would actually be much more difficult, but it would insure a continuing line of information once we get her properly placed and married, very likely to an important Navy officer. That ONI man is in love with her. Think how much better that would be.”
“You are a fool, Jacques, seduction is not the answer and, if she married the ONI man, he would not let her see you.”
“Marriage is a pretty permanent business. It could be that she might not turn out to be a brilliant Washington hostess and then my usefulness would be at an end.”
“You mustn’t let that happen, Jacques. This is foolproof and good. It cannot, non, it must not fail.”
If it did fail, Henri St. Georges would not suffer. Jacques could be replaced, a new plot hatched. But right now this was the way the Big One wanted it; he had thought it up and it was his favorite, and what the Big One liked, he got. Suppose Jacques’ “usefulness” did end? Who cared?
Jacques’ espionage function was simple—to transmit all information and gossip he gathered to the proper funnel. It was altogether unnecessary and indeed inadvisable for him to be able to evaluate it. If the French Government thought of him at all, it would be favorably. He had been a messenger boy for De Gaulle during the Occupation. His father was a typical frugal Frenchman. Rich, and getting richer, he scrupulously falsified his income-tax reports and put his money into safe investments of low but certain returns. To his son’s pleas for a raise in salary, he would reply: “I do not wish you to get into the habit of extravagance; then when you die you will die rich like me. That is a good end…”
That is how Henri St. Georges had got to Jacques, and how he would replace him if necessary. You reached a man through his weakness. Jacques’ was a love of luxury, and luxury requires money. St. Georges very simply offered it to him. To bind him and also, if necessary, to blackmail him he had Jacques sign papers committing part of his inheritance, but Jacques was assured this was only a formality. It was to the interest of the Party to have him rich. They would never be stuffy about such “loans.”
It never bothered Jacques that he had become a member of the Communist Party. He was completely a
political. He had worked for De Gaulle because De Gaulle resented the physical invasion of his country by the Germans, but philosophically it meant little more to Jacques than a game of cops and robbers. He did not consider the Communists as invaders and he liked the prospect of all that money.
Secretly, he thought the Communists were foolish. All he had to do to earn their money was report gossip which anybody could gather from the political columnists. But the money was there and Jacques eagerly accepted it. One does not look a gift horse in the mouth, not even a Trojan horse.
In the hansom cab, Jacques, having kissed Alice, now held her hand and was silent the rest of the way. He had only a little time, precious little, but he could not bring himself to propose yet.
* * * *
There was so much to do, so much to see. The hospital kept Alice busy and she made friends, went to dances, swam, and played tennis. She could not get Jacques out of her mind, nor did she want to, but she felt guilty toward Morgan, whom she had not seen for several months. Tonight, however, she would. Pat had invited the two of them to her apartment for Sunday supper.
One of the loveliest sights in New York is the horse-drawn carriage filled with spring flowers and potted geraniums. The horse, in fact, is one of the most pleasant curiosities of the warm Manhattan seasons and there are actually children living in the mechanized suburbs whose first sight of a horse is in the city itself. One of these sweetly sad vendors was parked along Seventy-ninth Street when Alice arrived before the house she had once lived in. She bought a geranium. Morgan had arrived a few moments earlier and had done exactly the same. It made for a light and amusing moment and it broke the ice of what could have been an awkward reunion.
Pat had planned to find herself another roommate when Alice had left but had never got around to it. The place was unchanged—even the rug with the picture of the dog sniffing the flower was alongside Alice’s old bed, which she had sold to Pat when she moved to St. Albans. Alice had received permission to spend this Sunday night in New York and she would sleep in that bed tonight. It was old home week.
Pat made drinks and said, “You can see I haven’t changed, Alice. I need milk and I’ve forgotten it. I won’t be a minute. You take care of Morgan. I still feel this is as much your apartment as ever.”
Alice shot Pat a darkly suspicious glance. Was this a deliberate and, if so, clumsy move to leave her alone with Morgan? But Pat’s expression was bland and noncommittal. There was nothing to do but let her go. Though Morgan, she noticed, had not offered to fetch the milk in her stead to spare Pat the trouble.
When Pat left, Morgan smiled the shy smile that had first so attracted her and said, “No, Alice, it was not a put-up job. Pat told me about it when I came in and I offered to go, but she said she didn’t want me to, that she might see something she wanted. So, truly, it wasn’t a put-up job, but I’m going to take advantage of it.”
Alice gasped. She was afraid of what was coming, afraid of hurting Morgan and knowing that she was going to.
Morgan said it very simply. “This is an odd sort of time to pick, but there’s no rule about when you should propose to a girl. You must have known for a long time that I’m in love with you, Alice. Will you marry me?”
Morgan felt a great sense of relief in asking her. He felt certain it was a hopeless request, but it was almost cowardly not to ask her. Perhaps the pain of loving her so one-sidedly would be alleviated if she gave him a flat “no.” There was no sense and comfort in continuing to tread water emotionally.
Alice was miserable. She had come to love this man, to recognize in him a tower of strength and shelter which no doubt Jacques could not afford her, but what could a girl do? It was Jacques who excited her, Jacques whom she wanted to marry. She remembered vividly the first day she had met Morgan at the Pantheon Club. Even then she had thought of him becoming for her the brother she never had.
What were the words to use? All words about love were trite and flat, almost ridiculous because of their familiarity.
“Morgan, I feel so very close to you. I so count on knowing you are around, on knowing I can go to you for advice or even help if I should need it. But I do not love you in the way that would make for a happy marriage. Besides,” she concluded lamely, and falsely, “I’ve really just started my Navy career. I shouldn’t be contemplating marriage.”
Gently, Morgan recognized the falsity and said, “If you feel that way about me, Alice, be honest. It isn’t the Navy really, is it? Isn’t it Jacques Stern?”
Tears came to her eyes. She was crying for Morgan, who was so simple and honest, where Jacques in sudden comparison seemed superficial and evasive. She was crying over her own bewilderment. “Yes, Morgan. It’s Jacques.”
“Are you engaged?”
“No.”
“Will you be?”
“I don’t know, Morgan.” She looked like a little girl as she added, “He hasn’t asked me.”
Morgan rose suddenly, deliberately and consciously cheerful. “Well then, there’s still hope for me. Anyhow, I’ve put the idea in your mind. Come on, brighten up your face and let’s have a drink. I’m going to drink to your happiness, no matter what.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “Oh, Morgan, I’m so fond of you. Isn’t that an awful word?”
“There are worse,” he said, and went into the kitchen where the ice was.
They were thoroughly composed by the time Pat returned, in slacks and with her bright red hair tied in a purple scarf. Pat had no sense of color. The scarf should have looked terrible, but somehow it seemed just right. She was bearing a carton of milk and a wonderful long loaf of Italian bread.
The supper was a success. But Pat didn’t have to be told that something important had happened and she guessed easily. Morgan left early, saying, “You girls must have a lot to talk about alone.”
He kissed Pat on the cheek as he left, and Alice, too. To her he whispered, “Be happy, darling. And remember, I may get you yet.”
* * * *
If a man can be disconsolate and at the same time cheerful, that was Morgan as he entered the apartment he shared with his father overlooking the Hudson River. Alice’s answer had not been unexpected but, at least, she was not committed to Jacques. At least he had stopped evading the issue and had brought it into the open.
The old man was sitting by the window, a book on his lap, but he was looking at the twinkling lights of his beloved river. Morgan went to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff drink.
“That’s sort of a heavy one, son,” the old man said. “Why don’t you make me a light one and tell me what’s on your mind, if it’s not a military secret?” Mr. O’Neill lighted his pipe and waited. It was easy to see something was disturbing his son.
Morgan made him his drink and said simply, “I’m in love.”
“I’ve known that for quite a time. What’s the matter? She won’t have you?”
“That’s it,” and Morgan told him about Jacques and Alice, who he had mentioned before casually—so very casually as clearly to indicate to a perceptive parent that here was more than passing interest.
“Ah, well, son,” said the old, logical accountant, “these things happen. It isn’t every man who gets accepted by the first girl he proposes to, though most, I suppose, do. You were, it seems, eighty to ninety percent sure of your refusal. Now you’re one hundred percent sure. That in itself is a sort of consolation in that it removes the misery of doubt.
“I don’t expect you to take this lightly, but you’re man enough not to knock yourself out brooding about it. You have some accumulated leave. Why don’t you take a trip to…” he was about to say Europe, that traditional opiate for the pangs of the lovelorn, when it occurred to him that under the circumstances of Jacques’ nationality, it might not be tactful, “…to San Francisco, where you should visit my older sister, but otherwise have fun?”
“Oh
, I don’t know. After all, Alice might change her mind.”
“That, too, could happen,” said the old man.
“Sure,” Morgan grinned, and he toasted his father. “I have not yet begun to fight.”
It was a warm, calm evening. Outside, on the river, a large freighter swooshed, lights a-twinkle, on her way northward to Albany. The old man looked at his son with affection and sympathy. There wasn’t much to say to a boy at a time like this. As for Morgan, he felt strangely at peace. He even felt a curious, unreasonable confidence. He might, indeed, as he had said to Alice, get her yet. “Not yet begun to fight…” Well, why not?
* * * *
On the other river, it was quiet also. Alice and Pat had had a long discussion that had got nowhere and that a few times had almost flared into tempers. Pat had made the obvious suggestion of putting things off. “Why not wangle yourself an assignment out of the country for a year or so? If you’re on a ‘till death do us part’ basis, a year more or less of waiting won’t make any difference and might put things into perspective.
“The trouble with you,” she had also said, “is that you don’t know what you want, or perhaps that you want everything you see. You want Jacques, but you don’t want to lose Morgan. And you also want the Navy. Well, it’s plain you can’t have all three. Can you even have two of the three, or must yours finally be a single choice?”
“There are married Navy nurses, if that’s what you mean, Pat, but he hasn’t even asked me yet.”
“Well, kid, sooner or later you’ll have to make up your mind. And the sooner the better for your peace of mind, not to mention mine.”
And it had gone on like that with Alice several times close to tears. She was sleeping now, fitfully, in her old room.
Pat was sitting in hers, in a nightgown that, being white, was for once something that could not possibly clash with her hair, trying to figure Alice out.
“She’s trying to be,” she concluded acidly, “an egocentric Florence Nightingale. And there can be no such thing. That’s what’s tearing her apart. A nurse is outgoing, an egocentric is ingoing—they can’t coexist. Our Alice is, I fear, a touch selfish. She won’t really get straightened out until her first thoughts are about someone else instead of about herself.” And Pat, having solved everything successfully and settled nothing, went peacefully to sleep.
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