by Anthology
The phone shrilled. Alicia scooped it up, and said, “Yes?” Then her voice drifted softly into a tender reproach. “Reggie, you are a naughty little boy. I waited last night, just worrying myself sick. I thought something might have happened to you. Lunch? Why, that would be delightful.”
She winked across at her father, and he blew a stream of contented smoke toward the ceiling.
That morning, about eleven o’clock, Reggie stood in the men’s bar of the Drexel Club, smiling with fishy affection at Doaby Forsyth.
“I say, seen the papers yet?” he said, patting Doaby’s shoulder.
Doaby Forsyth was a large, cheerful-looking young man, with blond hair and round blue eyes. He was thoroughly normal in most respects, except that he suffered from the conviction that if he went outside in the daylight he would be struck by an automobile. For that reason he stayed indoors until dusk, usually hiding out in barrooms. Now he glanced at his watch, a beautiful, paper-thin platinum affair, given to him by his family to celebrate his twenty-first birthday, and said, “Well, no, old man. Papers aren’t in yet, you know.” Doaby knew the papers weren’t in because he had glanced at the table on which they were customarily deposited and had seen that it was empty. The glance at his watch was a bluff; Doaby couldn’t tell time.
Reggie chuckled. This really wasn’t cricket. “I say, I’ll bet you I know what’s going to happen to the Space Cadet,” he said.
Doaby glanced at him sharply. “Without seeing the papers?” he said.
“That’s, right.”
Doaby stroked his chin, “Bet you can’t,” he gambled.
A man standing at the other end of the empty bar looked at them with interest. He was a well-dressed man, handsome in a jaded fashion, with graying hair and pouchy eyes.
“All right, he’s getting ready to leave for the moon, right? I’ll bet he takes off.”
“How much?”
“Five—no, seven dollars,” Reggie said.
“But you can’t know unless you’ve seen the papers,” Doaby said.
Reggie’s smile was superior. “Seven dollars says I know,” he said.
“All right, it’s a bet.”
‘Ten minutes later the papers were delivered. Doaby scampered for them, opened one to the comics page. “We’ll see now,” he said. “I’ll . . .” His voice faltered. He stared at Reggie with solemn respect. “Damn it, he did take off for the moon.”
The man with the pouchy eyes drifted over to them, smiling. “Say, that’s a neat trick,” he said. “How does it work?”
Reggie blushed with pleasure. “Oh, it’s nothing, really.”
“It’s damn clever,” Ben said.
“Damn clever.”
Reggie scraped a toe on the floor. “Well, I guess you might call it that,” he said.
Ben scratched his head, smiling admiringly at Reggie. “You must have second sight, or something. Maybe you been reading next week’s paper,” he said, and laughed loudly.
“‘Well, let’s try it again tomorrow,” Doaby said moodily, and paid Reggie seven dollars.
They all had a drink then, and another. Reggie found himself warming up to the well-dressed man with the pouchy eyes. The man was all right I Kept patting Reggie’s shoulder and telling him how clever he was. Yes sir, a fine chap. After a bit the fellow, whose name was Ben, suggested they go to watch some prize fighters who were training for a big match. This struck Reggie as very exciting. Doaby, of course, wouldn’t consider it.
“But why not?” Ben said.
“And get hit by a car?” Doaby said. He shook his head. “Not on your life. You go ahead, if you want, but I’ll stay here where it’s safe.”
Ben ran a finger under his collar. He had the feeling that the room was a bit too hot. Reggie seemed unperturbed by Doaby’s attitude, and that added to Ben’s disquietude.
“Doaby won’t go out in the daytime,” Reggie explained. “Car might hit him.”
“Might,” Doaby said with a hollow laugh. “Willi”
“Can’t blame the chap,” Reggie said to Ben. “You wouldn’t go dashing into the street if there was a car there waiting to pounce on you, hey?”
“No, of course not,” Ben said weakly.
They took leave of Doaby. Outside, Ben excused himself to make a phone call. He got Malachy Nolan.
“Look, I think this thing is on the level,” he said, when Nolan answered. “This character, his name is Reggie Saint Gregory, is making and winning bets about what’s happening in tomorrow’s comic strip.”
“Good, now get the dope on the fight,” Nolan said.
“We’re heading over to Ace Nelson’s gym right now,” Ben said. “If Reggie knows anything, I’ll try to jolt it out of him.”
“What kind of a guy is he, by the way?” Nolan said.
“Oh, a simpleton, but all right. He’s not afraid to go out in the street, anyway.”
“Well, why should he be?” Nolan said.
“A car might get him. You know, sometimes I worry—” Ben stopped, suddenly cold. He wet his lips. “Boss, that Drexel Club is a hide-out for rich screwballs. They got me half-goofy, X. I’ll call you when I get the info on the fight.”
Ben hurried out of the booth, collected Reggie, and they cabbed over to Ace Nelson’s training quarters.
This was a new world for Reggie. Grown-up men danced about skipping rope, and pint-sized managers with cigars in their mouths screamed at their hulking meal tickets. “Snap that left, map k, you stupid jughead! Ya ain’t wavin’ at ’im, you’re trying to hit ‘im.” The place, a huge sweat-and-liniment-reeking hall, was crowded with hangers-on, sightseeers, panhandlers, young kids looking for fights and managers looking for likely prospects.
Ben steered Reggie to a front seat near the centrally located ring. After a bit a bell rang and Ace Nelson climbed through the ropes. There was a good amount of cheering. Ace was a barrel-chested, finely-muscled young man, with dark hair and small eyes. He shook his hands over his head and danced around the ring. His sparring partner came in and they began to fight.
Ben nudged Reggie. “Well, what do you think of him?”
“Which one?” Reggie said. “Nelson, of course.”
“Hmmm,” Reggie said.
“You think he’s got a chance?” Ben whispered tensely. He watched Reggie’s face for a tell-tale sign.
“A chance at what?”
“The big fight, the championship,” Ben said nervously.
“Oh, sure,” Reggie said, with ” a grand gesture. It gave him quite a pleasant thrill to be consulted this way.
“A good chance?” Ben said in an insinuating voice.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Reggie said. He felt the conversation getting muddy. He peered up at the ring. “Is this the fellow he’s fighting for the championship? I mean, the one he’s fighting now?”
Ben smiled weakly. “You’re a great kidder, aren’t you? No, he’s fighting Wild Billy, Bell. Would you like to watch him, too?”
“Who?”
“Wild Billy Bell.”
“Sure. Why not?”
They went to Wild Billy Bell’s training quarters and watched that young man box three rounds with a lumbering heavyweight. Ben watched Reggie’s expression, he pumped him with questions, he laid clever traps for him, he tried to trick him into an inadvertent disclosure.
He learned nothing.
Outside, in the middle of the afternoon, he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He was feeling badly used. A concentrated dose of Reggie frequently left people limp. He decided to call in reinforcements. Excusing himself again, he ducked into a drugstore and made a phone call. When he came out he was beaming.
“Well, let’s have a bite of lunch,” he said to Reggie.
“Lunch,” Reggie said, and frowned. “Well, what’s wrong with that?”
“I seem to remember something about a lunch date with someone,” Reggie said. “Well, it couldn’t have been important,” he said, after a bit of knotty reflection
. Smiling again, he turned into a restaurant with Ben. After lunch, Ben said he had to go to his office to sign some letters. Reggie was somewhat perplexed by this abrupt termination of what had been an extremely exciting acquaintanceship.
“I say, you’re dashing off, eh?”
“Yes, but we might get together tomorrow,” Ben said.
“Well, fine, top-hole,” Reggie said. “Watch some more boxers, eh?”
“Sure thing. You finish your coffee, don’t bother leaving with me. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With a wave of his hand, Ben was off.
Reggie finished his coffee and to his surprise learned that his chum, Ben, had already taken care of the check. This was fortunate since Reggie had not a nickel in his pockets. For a few moments he sat lost in thought, chewing reflectively on a toothpick. The day stretched ahead of him, long and lonely, unbroken by any prospect of fun or excitement. He might go back to the club and talk to Doaby Forsyth, of course. This was hardly under the heading of fun, though, for all Doaby liked to talk about, outside of the comics, and the cars that were lurking about to smash into him, was a distant ancestor of his named Fortune Forsyth, who had gone to his grave insisting that he was the inventor of the Phoenician Alphabet. For some reason, obscure to Reggie, Doaby considered this tic of his ancestor’s highly interesting, and talked of it endlessly.
Reggie decided on a walk and, as he left the restaurant, he was wondering just who it was he had been supposed to have luncheon with. Because of that, perhaps—since when Reggie wondered about something he gave it his heart and soul, not to mention his eyes and ears—he didn’t see the girl who was turning into the restaurant as he left it. They collided sharply, and the girl bounced off Reggie’s chest and let out a little yelp of pain.
“Oh, I say, I’m terribly sorry,” Reggie said, removing his hat.
“You should watch where you’re going,” the girl said indignantly.
“Why?”
“Well, for Heaven’s sake, so you won’t be barging into people like a Sherman tank,” the girl said.
“Oh, of course, of course,” Reggie said, flustered. He hadn’t meant to say, “Why?” But this girl’s very definite loveliness had added to his normal state of confusion.
“I turned my ankle,” she said, putting one hand against the wall of the building and taking the weight from her foot.
“Oh dear, that’s shocking,” Reggie said, and fanned her face with his hat. “Shall we get a doctor, or something?”
“No, I’m not likely to need an operation. And stop fanning me, please.” She laughed, looking up into his harried face. “If you’ll help me to some place where I can sit down, I’ll be all right.”
There was a bar a few doors down, “Take my arm,” Reggie said, feeling unaccountably masterful. “We’ll have a drink, and you can rest a moment. My name is Reggie Saint Gregory. I feel like an awful ass, really.”
“Well, it’s not that serious.”
A moment later they were sitting in a booth, and a waitress took the orders for drinks. Reggie beamed at the girl. The day was suddenly very bright. She was a ripping thing. Silky blonde hair, very fine features, piquant to the point of sauciness, and level, intelligent eyes that would be difficult to fool. If she weren’t so pretty, she would almost seem cynical, Reggie thought. Disillusioned, or something equally mysterious. She wore a black suit, a tweed coat, and a tiny black hat,
“Now, let me see that ankle,” he said.
“Really, it’s much better.”
“Nonsense. Can’t neglect a thing like that,” Reggie said. He blinked owlishly at her. “I once knew a chap in Burma who let a little thing like that go for a few days. Turned into leprosy. Frightful mess. Had to shoot him, I think. His father was Resident Governor. Terrible row all around. Changed the local laws. Sprain an ankle in Burma today, tonight for that matter, and they pop you into bed under quarantine. Censor your mail. Terrible to-do. Come now, let’s have an examination, save you from a fate worse than death.”
She was laughing. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re crazy?”
“The word has a familiar ring,” Reggie said.
She put her foot on the edge of his seat and Reggie was pleasurably massaging her ankle when the waitress appeared with their drinks. It was a very nice ankle, Reggie decided; his fingers fitted about it quite comfortably.
The waitress coughed.
“Ah, beverages!” Reggie said. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Sari,” the girl said.
The waitress raised her eyebrows as she served the drinks. Moving away, she muttered, “Now, there’s fast work for you. He don’t even know her name.”
After the drink, the girl said, “Really, I’ve got to be going now.”
“Oh, please don’t,” Reggie said. He was enjoying himself immensely. He liked this girl. “I’ll tell you what— let’s, go to my apartment.”
“You’ve got the wrong slant on me,” Sari said. “Spraining a girl’s ankle doesn’t entitle you to any special privileges.” She spoke very coldly and sharply, but actually she was a little sad. This droll and slightly touched young man had seemed very pleasant; but he was just like the rest, it seemed.
Reggie stared at her blankly. “Nothing to be mad about, old girl,” he said. “The truth is, I’ve got something to show you.”
“Etchings, perhaps?” Sari said, with a sweet smile.
“No, of course not,” Reggie said. He leaned closer to her, grinning. “I’ve got an electric train. We could run it around on the floor. I’ll let you be the switchman. We change off, of course,” he added hastily.
Sari rubbed her forehead. “You know,” she said after a minute, “I’ll bet you do have an electric train.”
“Of course I do. Come on.”
There was a little confusion about the check. Sari paid it, finally.
“Roberts!” Reggie cried as they entered the apartment. “Company. Get out the train.”
Roberts came in, impeccably groomed as always, and nodded gravely to Reggie and Sari. “Very good, sir,” he said, and went to a closet in the hallway and began taking out several large cardboard boxes.
“Reggie, you have a train,” Sari said.
“It was a Christmas present,” Reggie said happily.
“Who gave it to you?”
“I gave it to myself,” Reggie said.
“Now sit down. On the floor. No, over there. Where we put the tunnel.” He pushed several chairs back to make more floor space, and removed his coat. “I say, this is going to be wizard,” he said.
Looking slightly dazed, Sari sat down on the floor, crossing her legs, tailor fashion. “Now,” she said thoughtfully, “I have seen everything, Reggie, do you like prize fighting?” Reggie paused and stared at her. “This is an amazing coincidence,” he said. “All day I’ve been towed around by a chap who’s buggy about it. We watched a lot of blokes knocking each other around. Really grim, I thought.”
“Who did you see?”
Reggie thought hard. “Well, we saw, let me see, a chap named Nelson and—oh yes, a bloke by the name of Wild Billy Bell.”
“They’re fighting next week for the middleweight championship, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I believe they are. Now, just give Roberts a hand with the track and we’ll be all set.”
“All right.” A minute later, Sari glanced at Reggie’s beaming, transfigured face, and said casually, “Reggie, who’s going to win that fight?”
“Huh? How should I know, old girl? Now, get set! Here comes the Orien.t Express. Wheee!”
Sari sighed. She looked at the little train racing about the tracks, and again at Reggie’s eager, happy face. Then she shook her head slowly, unbelievingly.
Alicia lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and threw the match in the direction of an ashtray. She paced the floor rapidly, her high heels sounding with staccato irritation.
“Now, my dear, you must remain calm,” the colonel said soothingly. He was sitting in a deep cha
ir, a whisky and soda in his hand, and an open copy of The Military Affairs Quarterly on his lap.
“Oh, shut up!” Alicia cried. She swept a lock of black hair back from her forehead and threw herself into a chair. “He stood me up for lunch, can’t you understand that, you rattled old idiot? He’s through with me, fed up. The honeymoon is over before it started.”
“Well, you might call him, I should think. Perhaps he forgot and—”
“Forgot, my foot. I’ve got some pride left.”
There was a knock on the door. “See who that is,” she said. “It’s probably the hotel manager to suggest that Colonel Masterson and his daughter clear out of his place or pay their bills.”
“I’ll handle this, my dear,” the colonel said, and marched to the door in step with an invisible drumroll.
The man in the corridor was handsome in a rather jaded fashion, with pouches under his eyes. He smiled familiarly at the colonel.
“Well, I’m glad to find you in,” he said.
“And who are you, sir?”
“Just call me Ben,” the man said, and strolled past the colonel into the sitting room. He bowed slightly to Alicia. “Miss Masterson, I guess. Nice to meet you, I’m sure.”
“And what do you want?”
Ben skimmed his hat on the sofa and sat down, crossing his sharply creased trouser legs. “Well, I want to talk with you two a little bit,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “Why don’t you sit down, Colonel? Might as well be comfortable, I always say.” He struck a match on his thumb nail and lit up a cigarette.
Colonel Masterson took a deep breath and swelled up to his full height. “Sir, I find your manner highly offensive.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Ben said.
“Hate to give offense, myself. Now listen a minute,” he said, and his voice was sharper, although he was still smiling. “My boss is interested in a character named Reggie Saint Gregory. Ah, the name means something to you, eh? Well, in checking into this Reggie’s background, so to speak, we find out that you, Miss Masterson, are engaged to him, for the purposes of marriage or blackmail, whichever looks to be most profitable.”