She searched his face. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
There was a ripple of muscles along his set jaw. “I wish I could promise you I’d change—it’s a terrible temptation, I want you so much—but it would be a promise I couldn’t keep.”
A supreme effort was required to keep her voice as rigidly calm as his had been. “Why do you imagine that I’d want you to change?”
“The world doesn’t think very much of my kind any more. I was born a couple of generations too late.”
“Your grandfather?”
“Mrs. Atherson told you about him?”
“A little.”
“What?”
“Nothing very much—except that he was a wonderful person—and that he had a magnificent beard. And that you were a little like him. Mr. Atherson has a theory that inheritance works that way.”
“I know. He told me. And it is strange how close I’ve always felt to my grandfather. I hardly knew him myself—he died when I was a child—and my father couldn’t have influenced me because he never mentioned him except as an example of everything that a good businessman shouldn’t be—the robber baron, the lone-wolf gambler, the man who once made a million dollars between breakfast and lunch and then lost it before dinner. I don’t know how much money he made in the course of his lifetime—millions—and he died leaving almost nothing. I think my father always thought of that as a triumph of right over wrong, a bad man coming to a bad end.”
“Mr. Atherson must have felt differently about him.”
Cash nodded. “Yes, I’ll never forget that day. I’d told him how I felt personally obligated to go through with this deal that Ranson had welched on. He hadn’t said a word all the time I’d been talking, just sat there smoking his pipe, but when I was through he said he could see how I’d feel that way, being Andrew McCall’s grandson. And then he loaned me the money with no more security than my grandfather’s reputation as an honorable man. I’ll never forget one thing he told me—that my grandfather had once said that the only thing that ever worried him was giving another man just cause to think that he had been treated unfairly.”
Her hands went up, fingertips to his cheekbones. “Yes, you’d look very nice in a beard.”
“Lory, I—”
“You’re perfectly safe. I’ve been warned. You’ve been an honorable man and told me all about yourself. I’ll never be able to say that I’ve been treated unfairly.”
“Lory, you can’t—”
“Except that you are being a little unfair about one thing—making me wait so long to tell you that I do want to marry you.”
“Without even being told that I love you?”
“You’ve told me—a thousand times—as many times as I’ve told you.”
“Shall I say it out loud? Just once—for convention’s sake?”
“It isn’t necessary—unless you want to.”
“I want to.” He held her away from him, looking down into her face. “I love you, Lory Austen.”
“And I love you, Cash McCall.”
Their bodies came together as if drawn by the magnetic pull of the earth. But their lips were lightly touched, neither the pledge nor fulfillment of passion, but a solemn covenant consciously offered and knowingly accepted.
As they parted, Cash glanced toward the window, measuring the height of the low sun, and it seemed that it was a response to her mind rather than his. There had been, in the instant before his eyes had moved, the memory of his having said yesterday that there were no lights on the airstrip in Aurora Valley, that the plane could be brought in only during the hours before sundown.
Her eyes dropped and she saw the red rock of the cliffside above the falls, the voice of memory reminding her that she should have worn a different pair of shoes.
And Cash’s mind, inside her own, must have heard because he said, “It doesn’t have to be Aurora.”
“I want it to be Aurora.”
Cash’s words had been whispered, but hers were clearly spoken, the strong words of a mature woman in that first moment of discovery, realizing at last the fulfillment of self-determination. Decision had indelibly marked the point beyond which there was no need for either question or answer. He was a man and she a woman and they were in love. Now it was as simple as that. This was the end of aloneness, the beginning of her real life.
Ten
1
Grant Austen was more or less responsible for the middle-of-the-road position that had been taken on the question of the Associates Reception. It was one of his accomplishments during the first year that he had served on the Program Committee. He had not argued with those who maintained that there was a need to generate a feeling of fellowship and good cheer on the evening before the start of the formal sessions, nor could he oppose the view that the Associate Members—defined in the by-laws of A.A.P.M. as all manufacturers or distributors of materials, machinery or services to the molding industry—could rightfully be called upon to provide the entertainment and foot the bill. On the other hand, he had seen the point of those who held that, over the years, the Associates Reception had developed into nothing but a drunken brawl that was a disgrace to one of America’s great industries.
If the matter had ever been brought to a morning-after vote, the more conservative element would undoubtedly have triumphed, the opposition being largely incapacitated and not in attendance. However, the decision lay with the Program Committee which rarely began its work until last year’s convention had faded into a rosy glow and, by then, indignation over past transgressions had usually given way to a balancing concern over convention attendance, the point being well made that there were, unfortunately, some members who might not turn up at all if it weren’t for the Associates Reception.
Grant Austen, as his first contribution to the working of the Program Committee, had forced through a meeting in the month immediately following the convention, demanding that the question of the Associates Reception be resolved once and for all, an effort that had ended in the compromise that was now in effect. At 7:00 P.M. the Associate Members, black-tie, formed a receiving line down which the Active Members filed in decorous submission, shaking hands with a representative of each of the industry suppliers, thereby earning the reward of what few cocktails could be snatched from waiters pushing their way through the mob, and as much food as could be carried away from the famous Moon Beach buffet table. Everyone now agreed that the atmosphere of the whole affair had been substantially elevated, making the Associates Reception a true reflection of the character of the industry, and a party to which any man could bring his wife without arousing suspicions of what he might have been doing at past conventions without her.
All proprieties having thus been satisfied, the exodus began. Guided by invitations made especially intriguing by the whispering of room numbers, the delegates slipped away with a great show of secrecy and, minutes later, just as they had always done, reassembled in the upstairs suites where the manufacturers and suppliers kept open house for their customers and prospects. Since there was no delegate who could not be classified in one of those two categories, there were few who stayed behind. Additionally, since all owners of molding plants recognized the wisdom of maintaining a strongly competitive situation among their sources of supply, none stayed long in any one place. The result was a constant milling from suite to suite, slowing only as the night wore on and the merits of competition were outweighed by the difficulty of negotiating long hallways and the dangers inherent in a bad memory for room numbers. It was then, in the small hours of the morning, that there were happenings destined to become A.A.P.M. legends, either hilarious or disgusting according to the hearer’s point of view.
But now it was still early in the evening and, as Grant Austen explained to his wife, there was no reason why she shouldn’t accompany him on a first-round visit—unless, of course, she preferred to join the Ladies Bridge Tournament which had been announced for the West Lounge, provided that at least four women showed up.
“I’d much rather go with you,” Miriam Austen said. “If you’re certain it’s all right and I won’t be the only woman.”
“Sure, it’s all right,” he assured her. “We won’t stay long, anyway—just drop in a few places and say hello. Couple of fellows I want to see for a minute.” His eyes wandered the room, looking for Harlan Bostwick who, strangely, hadn’t even come to their table to meet Miriam.
“And there’s one man who said he was anxious to see you.”
“Who’s that?”
“Remember the gray-haired man who was talking to me when you came back to the table? I think you called him Harvey.”
“Yah, Harv Bannon,” he said wearily, knowing what the president of Cavalier Chemical Company was trying to find out … the same thing all the material manufacturers wanted to talk to him about. The only thing any of them were interested in knowing was who was taking over Suffolk Moulding … so they could jump in fast and get their hands on the business.
Miriam edged forward as the elevators, a gulp at a time, gnawed into the waiting crowd. “If you don’t mind, dear, I think I’d like to go up to the room first.”
He nodded, thinking that if it weren’t so necessary to have a minute alone with Harlan Bostwick, he’d go up to the room and just stay there! There were a lot of fellows he hadn’t talked to yet … but what was there to talk about? Right away they all wanted to know who the Gammer Corporation was … and when he couldn’t tell them, that was about the end of it. Most of them said something about his retiring but that didn’t lead anywhere … what was the use of trying to argue that he wasn’t retiring when he couldn’t tell them what he was going to do? He had to find Harlan Bostwick.
“There’s no use of you going up if you don’t want to,” Miriam said. “I could meet you somewhere.”
“No, I’ll go along.” The other elevator was down now and he took Miriam’s arm, guiding her toward the opening door. “I’d better try to call home again.”
Miriam shot a peculiar glance at him but her eyes fell almost instantly, the strange look on her face gone so quickly that he couldn’t be sure what it had meant.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing, dear.” The door closed in front of her. “I want you to have a good time, that’s all.”
They were pressed closely together in the crowded elevator and Miriam’s hand found his, her fingers a tight band on his wrist. He guessed then what the trouble was … Miriam was worried, too, just as worried as he was. Everybody kept saying all the time that airplanes were as safe as automobiles, but still there was always the possibility of something happening. There’d been another plane crash story in the paper tonight … somewhere out in Arizona … no survivors …
The elevator door opened and they walked down the long hall, neither of them speaking. Miriam kept glancing at him but he pretended not to notice it, not wanting to add to her fears by a sharing of his own … and maybe there wasn’t anything to worry about. As Miriam had said, Lory might still have been out in the studio when he had called the last time. But now it was after nine … Lory wouldn’t be out in the studio now. If she didn’t answer this time …
Fear urged him toward the telephone as they entered the living room of the suite but he hung back, not wanting to alarm Miriam unnecessarily, picking up the instrument only after she went in the bathroom.
But she hadn’t closed the door and he had no more than given the call to the operator when Miriam came back to the doorway and stood watching him. He closed his eyes when the ringing started, listening with growing apprehension to the unrewarded repetition of the distant sound, hope fading but still alive until the operator told him, unnecessarily, that the number didn’t answer, asking if she should try again in twenty minutes.
He hung up without reply, forced now to face Miriam.
“Grant, it’s nothing to be concerned about, really it isn’t,” she said, surprising him with how good a job he’d done in keeping her from becoming alarmed. “She’s probably still out in the studio. You know how anxious she was to get that book finished. Or she may have gone out somewhere for the evening.”
“Maybe that’s right.”
“And Anna wouldn’t be there yet. She never gets back from one of those Reading trips until way after midnight. Anyway, Grant, there’s no point in worrying about it. Lory’s old enough to take care of herself. After all, dear, she’s a grown woman.”
“Sure,” he said … but if something went wrong with a plane, what difference did it make how old you were?
This time Miriam closed the bathroom door and there was no longer the necessity of preserving the innocently unconcerned look on his face. He would wait another hour. If there was no answer then, he’d call the Suffolk Municipal Airport. Someone there would know whether or not Cash McCall’s plane had gotten back. But why wait? He could call the airport now … then he’d know.
He reached for the telephone instrument but stopped himself before he lifted it … Miriam would be panicked for sure if she heard him trying to check up on the plane … no, he’d better wait. Visiting a couple of suites would be enough for Miriam. By that time, things would probably start getting a little rough and she’d be glad enough to come back here. Then he’d make some kind of excuse … somebody else he still had to see … slip downstairs and call from there.
“You all ready, dear?” Miriam asked, opening the bathroom door.
“Sure, you bet.”
It took him a moment to find where he had dropped the key and Miriam moved ahead of him to the door.
“Grant, if you’d have a better time alone—?”
“No, come on, you’ll get a kick out of it, just seeing it. But we don’t have to stay any longer than you want to. We can come back any time you feel like it.”
Her eyes were very bright … he’d done the right thing, keeping it to himself, not spoiling Miriam’s fun … but the sooner he got that call through, the better it would be.
2
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kennard, but I can’t refill this prescription without your doctor’s permission.”
“But that’s ridiculous! It’s nothing but a little phenobarbital, you know that as well as I do.”
“If I could do it for anyone, I’d do it for you. I know it’s a silly law but that’s the way it is. We can’t refill a prescription like this.”
She fixed the pharmacist with her eyes and, finally, there was the crumbling.
“Maybe I could call your doctor for you,” he said to the counter top. “Would you want me to do that?”
“Just get it for me, that’s all I want.”
He went behind the partition. Listening, she heard only the dialing of the telephone, no voices, but when he came back he handed her the filled box.
3
Lights blazed behind every door along the corridor as Gil Clark hurried toward Winston Conway’s office. The entire Jamison, Conway & Slythe staff had been drawn into the all-night drive to knit up the legal loose ends that the completion of the deal required.
Vincent Thompson of Thompson & Slater came out of Conway’s office as Gil approached, holding open the door for him.
“How are things going?” Gil asked.
“It’s a tax man’s dream,” Thompson grinned. “The further we go, the better it looks. Having those Gammer losses to carry ahead is really sweet.”
Thompson was off down the hall and Conway was nodding his agreement to the overheard conversation as Gil entered the office, his smile a fulsome greeting. “So it went all right with General Danvers, eh?”
“Couldn’t have been better,” Gil exulted. “Oh, it was a little touchy for the first few minutes, but Cash’s telephone call had paved the way and—well, as I told you over the phone, he’s riding with us a hundred per cent. Allenby can’t get on the job too fast to suit him.”
“And it’s set up so that making Allenby president will look like the General’s own idea?”
“Yes, and he’s gra
teful as the devil for being allowed to handle it that way.”
“He should be.”
“I know but—well, you know, Danvers really isn’t such a bad sort. All of this mess over there wasn’t his making. He inherited a lot of it. Andrews had really gone to seed before he got out—and there were a lot of places where General Danvers’ hands were tied, even after the old man was dead. What I mean is—well, there are two sides to the story.”
“There usually are,” Conway said philosophically. “And there are very few people in the world who aren’t fundamentally decent characters—with only one proviso.”
“What’s that?”
“That you don’t challenge their pride. There’s more of the Oriental view around than we sometimes suspect. The fear of losing face drives more men into trouble than almost any human frailty—even sex. You can’t be around the law very long without realizing that.”
“That was true of General Danvers all right,” Gil agreed.
“It’s so often true,” Conway said. “And Cash understands that—along with a great many other things, I might add.”
“He’s really a wonderful man,” Gil said, an effervescent bubbling of the admiration that had been building up within him all day. “What I mean is—well, it looks so easy to come in and do what I’ve done, just pick up the ball, but you know all the time that it was Cash who set up the play for you. A lot of things look like lucky breaks—Bergmann calling Allenby, even General Danvers coming to see Cash last night—but the whole trick is in always being ready to take advantage of these breaks.”
Conway looked at him steadily. “You’re a very discerning young man, Mr. Clark.”
“Well, it’s plain enough.”
“But so few people see it,” Conway observed. “It’s rather a shame you didn’t go into the law, Gil.”
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