by Jack Iams
“Oh, wonderful. A real bang-up binge.”
“Why not? A fellow doesn’t meet a new wife every day.”
“You might think it was every day,” murmured Sybil with a trace of a pout, “considering the distance between us.”
Chapter Three
Double Feature With Fireworks
Their evening on the town started at the Stork Club in order to get that orthodox procedure out of the way. They drank a dry martini each and saw Walter Winchell’s very own table. “Like Dr. Johnson’s at the Cheshire Cheese,” said Sybil. Then, for a change of pace, they looked in at Tim Costello’s on Third Avenue and saw James Thurber’s very own drawings on the wall. “Like Tom Webster’s at the Falstaff,” said Sybil. They had dinner at a little French restaurant where they held hands and ate crêpes suzette. “Like Prunier’s,” said Sybil. Afterward there were night clubs; Larue, which reminded Sybil of Quaglino’s, and Leon and Eddie’s, which reminded her of the Palladium Crazy Gang, and finally Downtown Café Society. “What does this remind you of?” asked Tim, watching Meade Lux Lewis take a piano apart. “Nothing on earth,” said Sybil. “I thought not,” said Tim. “It’s supposed to be out of this world.”
At three in the morning, this bit of badinage sounded a great deal funnier than it would have at three in the afternoon. It even sounded funny to another couple standing next to them at the crowded bar and presently they were buying each other drinks. It seemed perfectly natural, as the boogie-woogie and the lights faded, for the other couple to suggest that they all go on together to the Breeze Club.
Tim looked dubious, but Sybil cried rapturously, “The Breeze Club! Why, even in London, we’ve heard of that. Something like the old Four Hundred.”
The other couple didn’t know anything about the old Four Hundred, but the Breeze Club was one swell place, they said. Open till noon.
“Don’t you have to be known to get in?” asked Tim.
Sure, but that was all right, the other couple was known. Next thing, the four of them were in a taxi, bowling north. It was a long ride to the Breeze Club, which was way uptown on the East River, and a damp and chilly ride as well. Tim felt himself growing soberer and soberer, not to mention sleepier, and the whole enterprise growing less and less attractive. Still, Sybil seemed to be enjoying herself enormously, and he decided he owed her all the fun that could be squeezed out of this one night. “Tim, darling,” said Sybil, “stop yawning.”
The Breeze Club was packed and confusing. Getting into it was confusing to begin with, because you entered at street level and then went down in a satin-lined elevator. The place got its name, presumably, from its site at the river’s edge, but there was no breeze in evidence just then. In fact, a breeze could hardly have fought its way through the atmosphere, cloyed with perfume and opaque with smoke. Tim began to feel woozy as soon as they got inside. He had a dizzying sensation of being swallowed up in the milling, chattering crowd, mostly in evening dress. Who were all these people, he wondered, Who wanted to stay up till noon?
“Oh, look,” exclaimed Sybil, pointing toward an adjoining room, its doorway hung in heavy crimson. “Roulette! I adore roulette.”
“Better not adore it tonight,” said Tim. “We’re almost broke.”
Sybil didn’t seem to hear him. She was staring with wide, excited eyes at the crowded roulette table. Then she turned to him and said, “I’ve got to spend a penny first. I’ll meet you at the bar.”
She slipped away into the crowd, leaving him with a sudden sense of panic lest he lose her. He looked around for the other couple, but they apparently had seen some people they knew and drifted off. A drink, he thought, might help him shake off this feeling of being on the edge of a maelstrom, and he threaded his way to the bar. The bartender fixed him a Scotch and soda, picked up the dollar Tim laid on the wet mahogany and said, “Thanks for the tip. The drink’ll be two fifty.”
Tim sipped the whisky, trying to get his money’s worth of pleasure out of it, and stared across the room, wondering from what direction Sybil would come. Then he saw her and blinked. She was carrying something, something decidedly large. For a second, it looked like a coffin, then it looked like a door. It was a door, he discovered as he hurried toward her, a green-painted, wooden, slotted door.
“Look at this bloody thing,” said Sybil. “Absolute gimcrack.”
“I’m sure it is, dear,” said Tim in bewilderment, “but why have you got it?”
“I wanted to show it to you.”
“Why?”
“Because I seem to have broken it, and she wants ten dollars for it.”
“Who wants ten dollars for it?”
“She does.”
For the first time Tim was aware of somebody chirping at his elbow. It was a woman, small and middle-aged, who might have looked motherly in different circumstances. Just then, she looked stepmotherly. “She walks right into the powder room, she does,” this small woman was saying, “and rips this door right off its hinges.”
“They open the other way in England,” said Sybil.
“I don’t care how they open in England,” said the small woman. “How would you feel, mister, if somebody walked into your powder room and tore a door right off its hinges?”
“I’d remind myself that the customer is always right,” said Tim.
“You’d expect the customer to pay, though, wouldn’t you, right or wrong?”
“Right or wrong, my customer,” said Tim.
“Anyway,” interrupted Sybil, “you wouldn’t expect the customer to pay ten dollars. Not for a bit of gingerbread like this. I offered her two. All I had.”
“All you had?” repeated Tim. “In that case, I’m afraid—”
“Hey, what the hell’s going on here?” snapped a voice behind him. Tim turned and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tightly stretched dinner jacket, a man with blue-black jowls and no forehead to speak of.
Sybil said coldly, “Careful of your language, fellow.”
The big man blinked as if she had struck him on the chin with a fan. His thick lips curled slightly. “I said what the hell’s going on, and that’s what I mean.”
The small woman started to explain. “Okay, pay the ten bucks,” said the big man, “and then get your fanny the hell out of here.”
He could hardly have known that fanny is considered much more offensive in England than in America, but even if he had he could hardly have expected the stinging slap that Sybil planted on his blue-black cheek. He took a dazed step backward, then hunched toward her like an enraged great ape. Tim grabbed at his arm. Under the soft sleeve it felt like an iron bar.
Another voice, to Tim’s frank relief, joined the colloquy. “Easy, Jake,” said the new voice. It belonged to a short, cheerful man in his fifties, with smooth gray hair, a clipped gray mustache, and alert blue eyes. Unlike Jake, he wore his evening clothes as if he was used to them and liked them.
Jake didn’t turn immediately. He looked as if he might be counting ten, then he looked around with a petulant expression. “Okay,” he said, “but you know the powder room’s a concession and I can’t afford no trouble over it.”
“The difficulty with Jake,” the gray-haired man said pleasantly to Tim and Sybil, “is that he can’t get it through his Neanderthal skull that his clientele includes ladies and gentlemen.”
“Ladies!” said Jake. “Did you see her sock me?”
“Ladies can be quite as high-spirited, Jake, as the trulls you associate with. This particular lady, unless I’m much mistaken, spells it with a capital L.” He smiled at Sybil and said, “You are the Lady Sybil Hastings, are you not?”
Tim blinked at the gray-haired man and then at Sybil. Sybil was blinking, too, then a slow, almost sheepish smile crossed her face. “Well, yes,” she said, “but I’ve tried awfully hard to live it down. The Lady part, I mean.”
Tim gap
ed. “For Pete’s sake,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me?”
Sybil shrugged. “Nonessential,” she said. “And a lot of rot, into the bargain. In any event,” she went on, turning back to the gray-haired man, “I’m Mrs. Tim Ludlow now. This is Mr. Tim Ludlow.”
“Charmed,” said the gray-haired man.
“But how in the world did you know?” asked Sybil. “Do you read the Tatler?”
“Occasionally. It so happens, however, that I had the pleasure of meeting you a good many years ago. When you hadn’t been long out of pigtails. It was on a Mediterranean cruise. Remember?”
“Of course I remember,” cried Sybil excitedly. “And now I remember you. You were the jolly American who used to play bridge with Daddy.”
“Quite so. I might add that I was extremely fond of—of the late Earl.” He lowered his voice a trifle. “His death was a severe blow to me.”
He and Sybil were both silent for a moment, while Tim stared from one to the other.
Then the gray-haired man, speaking more cheerfully, as if to indicate that the solemnities had been duly observed, said, “I must confess that I had the advantage of you. There was a bit in this morning’s paper about you and your fellow brides’ arrival. Or should I say sister-brides?”
“Sisters under the skin,” said Sybil.
The gray-haired man smiled. “It occurred to me,” he went on, “that you might possibly appear in this checkered establishment. Your father was a great one for the old Four Hundred Club, and this is its nearest New York equivalent.”
“Tim, darling,” said Sybil, “this is something wonderful. More wonderful than you dream. I propose we observe the occasion with a bottle of bubbly.”
Tim coughed. “There’s a slight technical hitch,” he said, looking embarrassed.
“I’m sure this kind chap will cash a check for you,” said Sybil, waving airily toward Jake. The latter’s eyebrows rose into his hair’s oily gloss.
The gray-haired man held up a restraining hand. “I quite agree,” he said, “that the occasion calls for champagne, but let there be no misunderstanding as to whose treat it shall be. Jake, send a bottle of Cordon Rouge to my table. Preferably the twenty-eight.”
“What about my door?” demanded a querulous little voice.
“Imagine forgetting that one’s holding a door,” said Sybil merrily. “Here it is, duck.”
The woman accepted it and said, “Yes, but—”
“Pother,” interrupted the gray-haired man sharply. “Get thee back to your nunnery. This way, good people.”
He led them through the crowd, like Moses passing through the Red Sea, to a low balcony that extended along one side of the room. There was a vacant table at one end, toward which their host bowed them. It was comparatively cool and tranquil on the balcony, and one could look down upon the kaleidoscopic crowd with Olympian detachment.
“Reminds me of the Cafe Royal balcony on extension night,” said Sybil.
“Just so,” said the gray-haired man. “Much the same sort of people, too. Stage folk, artists, a dash of society, journalists, and the like. What you might call the moneyed Bohemia.”
“If I’m not being personal,” said Tim, “are you the owner?”
The other shook his head with rueful amusement. “I’ve paid for it several times over,” he said. “I’m just a very, very good customer. Incidentally, I haven’t introduced myself properly, have I? My name is Magruder. Sam Magruder.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Sybil. “It’s all coming back to me now. I’ve often heard Daddy speak of you.”
Magruder smiled reminiscently. “You and I must have a long talk one of these days. I’m sure Mr. Ludlow won’t mind—although, of course, he’s more than welcome to join us.”
“I never butt in on old home weeks,” said Tim.
Magruder felt in his pockets. “Afraid I haven’t a card,” he apologized. “I’ll scribble my number down for you.” He brought out a black notebook and started to write in it. “By the way,” he said, “you’d better give me your address, too.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t one,” said Sybil. “Except for a frightfully temporary hotel.”
“What!” exclaimed Magruder, looking up from the notebook. “You mean you’ve no place to live?”
“That’s how it looks,” said Tim.
Magruder laid down his fountain pen and stared at both of them with genuine concern. “By George,” he said, “this is terrible. Is this the sort of hospitality America gives its English visitors? Is this the thanks our veterans get? By George, something’s going to be done about this.”
“I wish it were,” sighed Tim.
“Damn it, young man, I’m serious. Something will be done. As sure as my name’s Sam Magruder.” He gave his head a firm little shake. Then he wrote some more in the notebook, ripped the page out, and handed it to Sybil. She tucked it into her bag.
It struck Tim that their host must have written a good deal more than his telephone number, a thought which Magruder apparently read because he chuckled and said, I’ve added a few protestations of undying love. D’you mind?”
“Not a bit,” said Tim, immediately ashamed of any unworthy suspicion. “Me, I’ve got my eye on that redhead over there.”
“Redhead?” said Magruder, looking. “I don’t see any redhead.”
“I’m afraid she’s imaginary,” said Tim. “Strictly a dream girl.”
Magruder, still looking across the big room, started to laugh, then the laugh died on his lips. They tightened and his blue eyes turned hard and glittery.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sybil. She and Tim both turned in the direction of his gaze and saw a group of men coming through the red-curtained entrance. They were in dinner jackets, but they kept their hats on. The hats looked more natural than the dinner jackets.
“Coppers?” asked Sybil.
“No,” said Magruder. For another second or two, he remained immobile, as if fascinated by a cobra’s eye, then swiftly, without rising, he slipped from his chair and moved in a crouching run toward the wail just beyond the table. Tim saw now that there was a door there, painted like the wall, and Magruder pushed it a little way open. “Better come with me,” he whispered. “That’s what your father’d have wanted. Both of you. And keep down.”
“Come on,” said Sybil to Tim. She slithered from the table to the door, which Magruder pushed farther open for her. Tim followed, and Magruder followed him, pulling the door shut.
Even as the latch clicked, a sharp, dry crack sounded in the room behind them, then another and another, each followed instantly by a splintering thud against the door.
“My God,” said Tim, “those were shots.”
“Isn’t it exciting?” said Sybil. “I’m crazy about New York.”
They were standing in a narrow stone passageway, dimly lit and damp. “Better let me go first,” said Magruder. “And don’t dawdle.” He slid past them and they followed him through the gloom.
Three more shots crackled distantly beyond the stone walls and somebody screamed; it might have been a man or a woman.
“Watch it,” called Magruder over his shoulder. “Flight of steps ahead.”
They could see his head and shoulders descending. Tim took Sybil’s arm and said, “Careful, honey.”
“I’m all right,” said Sybil. “Having a lovely time, in fact.”
The steps were steep and uneven and the dampness sweated more freely from the stones on either side. Below, a patch of light appeared, then fresh and wet and malodorous came the smell of the East River.
They emerged onto a ledge a few feet above the water, darkly visible through the mists of breaking dawn. Beside them, a smooth wall rose endlessly into the lightening sky.
“This way,” called Magruder, moving along the ledge with easy caution. “Don’t be alarmed by t
his stuff around you. It’s only daylight.” He sounded exhilarated, almost gay.
“Reminds me of the sewers of Paris,” said Sybil.
“Reminds me of a double feature,” said Tim.
Sybil risked her balance to turn and frown at him. “How stuffy, darling!” she exclaimed. “I’ll leave you if you say things like that. I’ll leave you for this lovely man.”
The lovely man had halted a little distance ahead of them. As they caught up, they saw that he was standing at the foot of another flight of steps, cut into the wall. “These’ll take you up to the street,” he said. “There’s a cab stand a block north. Forgive me if I don’t accompany you, but it’s a bit of a climb for a chap of my age and habits.”
“But what are you going to do?” asked Sybil anxiously.
“Watch the sunrise.” He smiled and patted her shoulder. “There’ll probably be a commotion in the street,” he went on, “but don’t you get mixed up in it. You go straight home. And don’t lose my number. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
He made them a courtly little bow and a careless salute, then he turned and stepped off the ledge. Sybil gasped and clutched at Tim. Neither had seen, in the mist, the small motorboat bumping gently alongside. Magruder stood up in it, waving, then he hunched down almost out of sight, and the boat itself vanished in the chill grayness.
“It reminds me of the Morte d’Arthur,” said Sybil. “And if you say anything about double features, I’ll push you into the river.”
“Honey,” said Tim, “you’re crying.”
“I know I am,” said Sybil. “He was a friend of Daddy’s.”
As they started up the steps, the dawn was shattered over their heads by the shrieking of a multitude of sirens.
Chapter Four
War Brides Improved
Sybil opened one eye upon the soupy light of blinds drawn against a gray afternoon. For a moment she wasn’t quite sure where she was. Her gaze moved slowly around the square, impersonal bedroom, then landed on Tim’s face, more boyish than ever in rumpled sleep. She smiled and brushed his cheek with her lips, then she sat up and looked at her wrist watch on the bedside table. It was one o’clock, presumably post-meridian. She swung her feet out of bed, feeling for her slippers. When her toes had found them and wiggled into them, she got up and padded into the sitting-room, closing the door carefully behind her.