A Kiss Before Loving

by Mack Reynolds

  Heads turned to her.

  “Me and Mike. We announce our engagement, too.”

  Mike had come toward her when she had first climbed up on the chair. Now he looked up at her flushed face.

  “Oh now, really, my dear,” he said. ‘“Really, you know. A more propitious occasion and all that. Possibly back in London.”

  Sissy looked down at him. “Mike,” she said, “you’re an old stuffed shirt, but I’ll marry you anyway. Catch!” She dribbled some of her champagne over his head.

  While the room laughed, Mike shambled backward hurriedly, out of range, grabbing his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing awkwardly.

  “Oh, I say,” he protested.

  Some of the guests spotted Shell emerging from the bedroom and crowded in on him, making it momentarily impossible for him to get through. Other elements in the party had closed around Connie, Sissy and Brett-James as they moved across the room, saying their good-byes as they went.

  In sheer mental agony, Shell Halliday could see Sissy at the door, about to leave.

  He could have pushed through. He could have made some scene. But to what end?

  Could she have possibly believed him? Hardly. Sissy Patterson had had her disappointments in men before. Now she expected them. It was nothing new to have her husband or lover turn out to be interested in her money, rather than Sissy herself.

  He felt queerly empty. For the first time in days, his mind wasn’t churning in the attempt to bring up some all-encompassing answer to all the fouled-up imbroglio that confronted him. He had given it up.

  In the hallway of the George Fifth, Sissy and Brett-James made their way toward the elevator, Sissy marching very erect, Mike trailing in puzzled fashion, slightly to the rear. The glow of champagne was completely gone from her now, and she was infinitely weary. However, Mike was still in the spirit of the party — to the extent that Mike Brett-James was ever capable of entering into the spirit of a party.

  “I say, my dear,” he said. “Why are we dashing off so precipitately? I was just beginning to enjoy myself. Some of those chaps are quite clever, you know. And that tipping the champagne over my head — I’m not angry, you know — but it was a bit of a rag, what?”

  “I’m sure,” Sissy said bitterly. “However, I hope you have cab fare, darling. It seems our host just ransacked my pocketbook with disastrous results.”

  The Britisher stiffened. “I say,” he said.

  Sissy went on, still bitterly, “I shouldn’t have said that. I knew what Shell was and could have stayed away from him if I objected to his way of life. All right, so he ran true to form. What am I complaining about?”

  “But the man should be thrashed,” Mike blurted. He paused as though to turn back.

  “Oh, come on, Mike,” Sissy said impatiently. “That overgrown rhinoceros of a friend of his would break you in half if you caused any trouble.”

  “But one should do something. Are you sure it was Halliday?”

  Sissy pressed the button for the elevator. She said wearily, “I caught him doing it — bag in hand.”

  Mike let air out of his lungs as though in indignation. In truth, it was in relief.

  “Good Heavens, Mike,” Sissy said. “I don’t know what we’re upset about. We should be happy. We’re engaged. I’ve made up my mind, at last. Let’s take off for London, or Scotland, or your Irish estate tomorrow. Let’s cable little Bunny to join us. We’ll get married immediately.”

  “Well, one must post the banns you know,” Mike said. “But, my dear, we’ll see what we can do in the way of expediting things. I have influential friends, of course.”

  The door of the elevator opened and two Americans emerged, talking and chuckling in alcoholic volubility.

  “Good old Biggy,” one of them was saying. “Brother, will he be surprised.”

  They were both very well lit. The second said, “Yeah, he thinks we’re back slaving over his gags. This’ll stop him.”

  Sissy pointed and said wearily, “Down that way, gentlemen. Where you hear the noise. You’re just in time for the party.”

  The first of the two eyed her figure appreciatively. “Hey, don’t go way just when we’re arriving,” he protested. “If there’s a party, it won’t be the same without you.”

  “Just watch your wallets,” Sissy said grimly. The door closed behind her and Mike.

  The one gag man said to the other, “What’d she say?”

  “Damned if I know. Except Biggy is throwing a party. Let’s go. The edge is beginning to wear off.”

  Félix answered the door, gave them one swift covering glance and opened wide. They were obviously invited guests.

  The second one said, “Listen, Bill, let’s not even let Biggy know we’re here until he spots us. You know, we’ll have a glass in one hand and something to eat in the other, and he’ll come up against us, not thinking, and bam, it’ll hit him. What’re we doing here instead of back in New York?”

  “Right, Sammy,” said Bill. “Snag a coupla drinks off that tray. Isn’t this the same suite Biggy had that time all three of us came over together?”

  “Looks like it.”

  The two gag men, drinks in hand, filtered into the milling, hard-drinking crowd. They could see Bigelow Warren, his back to them, at the far side of the room, obviously in animated conversation.

  A girl came up to them, smiling. “How did I miss meeting you?”

  “Shucks,” Sammy said. “How did we miss meeting you?”

  She laughed, not quite understanding. “I’m Connie Lockwood,” she said.

  “And we’re Bill and Sam,” Bill said. He grinned. “And not exactly party crashers. We work for Biggy. He gets all the dough and we do all the work.”

  “We need a union,” Sam said. “Hey, there’s old Shell over there.”

  “You know Shell, too?” Connie said, smiling. She realized the two were already tight but, by this time, practically everybody else was, too.

  “Do we know Shell? Without Shell our boss’d be a goner. Good old seeing-eye dog, Man Friday, pick-up-the-pieces Shell. The best-hearted, lousiest artist, biggest free-loader in Paris.”

  From across the room, Bigelow spotted them, realized with stomach-sinking horror that they were talking to Connie, and began pushing and shoving his way in their direction. No simple task in the throng.

  The expression on Connies’s face had dropped. She said coldly, “You’re talking about your host, after all, and — ”

  Sam chuckled his amusement. “Host?” He picked up another champagne from the tray that sat on the table next to where they stood. “Shell couldn’t afford to buy anybody a bag of peanuts. Did that tout tell a nice girl like you that Biggy’s suite was his?”

  Bigelow was upon them. “Hey! What are you two doing here?” He shot a quick nervous look at Connie. Her face was gray, the lipstick a slash of red on a corpse face.

  “Work’s all caught up, Biggy. We came over to help you celebrate. What’s the occasion of the big party?”

  “Our old pal, Shell,” he said quickly, “is announcing his engagement to Miss Lockwood. Connie, have you met — ?”

  “We introduced ourselves,” Connie cut in emptily. “It’s true, isn’t it, Mr. Warren?”

  The cartoonist glared at his gag men.

  Sam said blankly, “Engagement? Shell — ”

  “I knew it,” Connie said dully. “I think that subconsciously I knew it all along. Something didn’t ring true.”

  “Listen, Connie — ”Bigelow started.

  “I … I think I’ll go to my room,” she said, her voice tight and hard.

  “Hey, did we let something out of the bag?” Bill asked. “Why didn’t somebody give us the office? We didn’t — ”

  “Shut up,” Bigelow growled at him.

  • • •

  The room was a shambles. After he’d shooed out all the guests, most of them protesting, Bigelow Warren had also dismissed the help, telling them they could have the place clea
ned on the following day.

  Shell sat on the couch, staring emptily at the carpet, at a wet spot where somebody had spilled a nearly full glass of wine. His mind couldn’t seem to function.

  Bigelow, cold sober now, poured them both a stiff Scotch and added only ice cubes.

  “Here,” he said, proffering the other the Old-Fashioned glass.

  “I don’t want it,” Shell said.

  “Drink it anyway. You can use it.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Shell took a breath. “Well, this tears it. The chickens are now all home to roost.”

  Bigelow knocked back his drink unhappily. “Maybe it’s for the best, Shell.” He poured himself another.

  Shell looked up at the big cartoonist. “The best?” He grunted his disgust. He was going to have to tell Biggy the whole story, the whole complicated, messed-up story — but he hated to get started on it.

  “You’re going to have to face reality now, Shell. You’ve been putting it off for nearly five years. You didn’t expect to spend the rest of your life here, did you?”

  Shell thought about it vaguely. Biggy didn’t even know about Sissy, of course. He was going to have to tell him about her.

  Bigelow was saying, “You’re piling it on too thick, Shell. Take your medicine. Go on back home and tell them that you’ve decided an artist’s life isn’t for you. Tell them you want to go into your Old Man’s business. As for Connie … okay, you’ve probably lost her but, face it, you two had drifted away from each other, anyway. She no longer meant as much to you as she had when you were both back in Ohio.”

  Shell ran his right hand down over his cheek, as though checking his shave, but said nothing. Bigelow was right, of course, about that part of it.

  The big man went on persuasively. “Face it, Shell, she didn’t. If she had, you wouldn’t have brought that streetwalker up to the suite only a few days before Connie arrived.”

  Shell scowled at him. “Streetwalker? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. What streetwalker? I never had a girl up here.”

  “Listen,” Bigelow said impatiently, “don’t kid me about it. You were passed out, but don’t tell me you forgot entirely. You must have seen her again the next morning when you woke up.”

  Shell was staring at him, uncomprehendingly.

  Bigelow chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I did your little job for you. You were out like a light.”

  Shell stared at him.

  Bigelow chuckled again, but this time nervously. He couldn’t understand Shell’s expression. He said, “You were passed out here on the couch. Just as I came in — a little high myself, matter of fact — a voice called out that she was ready. So, for gags, I went in and laid her for you.”

  “You bastard.”

  Shell came slowly to his feet, his fists clenched.

  “What the devil’s the matter with you?” Bigelow growled. “It was just a joke.”

  “That was Connie,” Shell said in a flat rage.

  This was the root of all the trouble. This was what had fouled everything up. This had pushed him into that agreement to marriage, which had ultimately led to his disaster with Sissy. The stupid, drunken bungling of this do-gooder lush!

  Within him flowered a volcanic rage such as a fundamentally easygoing nature had never revealed to him before.

  Shell surged forward, sank his fist into the big man’s stomach. Bigelow, overwhelmed with what the other had said as much as with the sudden attack, staggered backward, caught himself and tried to seize the younger man’s arms.

  “Hey, easy …” he growled. But his heart wasn’t in his defense.

  Shell pulled free, lashed out again, smashing his fist into the other’s nose.

  Bigelow settled himself into position, pushed his left forward to Shell’s shoulder, throwing the other, momentarily, off balance.

  “Hold it, damnit,” he growled. “Let’s talk about this. I — ”

  Shell charged forward again, swinging freely, wildly, and landed two or three hard blows to Bigelow’s face. An angry red began to show on the big man’s face. He realized he would have to, inclination or no, fight this angry man who charged at him again and again, incapable of listening to reason.

  A punishing blow caught Biggy in the temple and anger seeped to the surface.

  “All right,” he muttered, “you asked for it.” But he held off, still hoping Shell’s inflated anger might begin to cool.

  Another of Shell’s barrage of punches landed on Bigelow’s nose and he felt blood spurting through one nostril. Biggy finally waded in, countering Shell’s punches and offering some of his own — a drive to the chest, another to the belly, and still another to the face. Shell began to look bewildered rather than angry now that his victim had turned on him. His breath came in short gasps as he tried to find his target and found it suddenly elusive.

  Bigelow, having decided that the only way the senseless fight could be stopped would be through an obvious victory on his part — and they were mismatched, there was no doubt about that, he, Biggy, had the edge in size and weight — he would have to end it quickly, painlessly — more or less.

  He lunged, aiming a pile-driver blow at Shell’s solar plexus and stepped on a shot glass left by some careless whiskey drinker earlier in the evening. He staggered, off balance, and felt a cruel blow at his middle, then one to his face and then his belly again. He lifted his hands to protect his face. A wild blow hit him behind the ear. Biggy’s knees began to go rubbery and he sagged forward, folding like a limp doll and sinking to the floor.

  Chapter Eight

  SOME TIME DURING THE NIGHT, Bigelow got up from the couch where he had crawled after Shell has stormed out of the suite. He went to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. His face wasn’t as cut and bruised as he had expected it to be, but it was a mass of pain. He dabbed cold water on it, muttering to himself.

  Damn and double damn.

  But what use was there in taking the blame onto himself? It was no one’s fault, in particular. Is anyone ever to blame when you have all the factors at hand? Poor Connie, poor Shell.

  He grunted in self-pity. And poor Bigelow Warren, for that matter. He wished that Shell had cut the slaughter a little shorter. His nose felt as though a trip hammer had squashed it. He probed around in his mouth with his tongue and felt swollen, sensitive gums.

  He grunted again. He could have flattened Shell, except for the unlucky shot glass. In New York, between binges, Bigelow kept himself in shape, belonged to a wrestling team at the East Side Y, and had even taken a lengthy course in judo at one time. Besides which, he must have outweighed the younger man by at least fifty pounds.

  He ran a beefy paw back through his rumpled hair and made his way into the bedroom. He undressed only to the point of removing jacket, tie and shoes and then fell onto the bed and slid back into sleep.

  When he awoke, it was well into the day. His face ached and he had to orientate himself, an easier task than usual since he was stone sober and without hangover. In fact, his first reaction was surprise to find himself in Paris with a clear head. Then it came back. The disastrous party. His gag men, Bill and Sammy, dropping in and spilling the beans to Connie Lockwood. Her dashing out, in tears. And then, later, his inadvertently revealing to Shell that he, Bigelow Warren, had — what would you call it? — seduced, raped his girl. Yes, by legal definition he had undoubtedly raped the girl.

  Bigelow dragged himself from the bed and began shedding the clothes in which he had slept. There wasn’t any way he could set things right. He knew that. But he had to start trying.

  He showered hot and then cold to try to bring keenness back to his mind. He shaved carefully around still tender bruises and as he did so, gingerly ran his tongue over the sore gums. He grimaced sourly. Old Shell hadn’t done as complete a job as he might have. He’d been too upset to be accurate.

  The big cartoonist dressed in a dark suit, rather than the usual tweed jacket and slacks he affected in Paris. The binge was over. Someh
ow, deep within him, was a feeling that it was over for all time. The emotional stress of the night before had burned something out of him. He wasn’t mentally organized enough, for the present, to delve further, but the feeling was there that the need for the periodic binge was gone.

  He went to the phone and gave the operator Connie’s room number.

  Somewhat to his surprise, she answered, her voice empty.

  “Connie,” he said, “this is Bigelow. I’m coming around to your room. Be there in minutes.”

  “No — ” she began to say, but he hung up.

  At the door to her room, she said wearily, “I don’t want to talk, Mr. Warren. Please …” She was wearing a simple translucent negligee and beneath it her nightgown.

  “I do,” he said. Gently, he pushed her aside, entered and closed the door behind him.

  Her things littered the room. Obviously, she’d been packing.

  Her eyes were dry. She had evidently got past the point of tears.

  Bigelow took a chair, reversed it and sat down. He looked at her and saw what he had always seen: an inordinately attractive American Midwestern girl, unspoiled by the driving ambition that influenced most of the women he met at his work or in his social life. A girl who could probably cook and sew, who undoubtedly wanted children and to keep a home.

  He wondered how many such women he had met in the past decade. Any at all?

  He said abruptly, “It was my idea. It was my fault.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and said, disinterestedly, “What was your fault, Bigelow?”

  At least, she’d dropped the Mr. Warren.

  He summed it all up quickly. “Shell’s no artist. Never was. He doesn’t quite have the … the spark. But, evidently, from his early youth he was blackjacked by his parents — ”

  “His mother,” Connie said wearily.

  “ — into thinking he could make a go of it in one of the toughest fields there is, legitimate art. He couldn’t, Connie. Not through his own fault. However, Shell’s got the sensitivity of the artist, even if he hadn’t the talent it takes. He couldn’t go back to … what’s the name of the town?”

  “New Elba,” Connie said listlessly. She sat, hands in lap, almost as though she hadn’t heard, and as though she was only waiting for him to finish and to leave.