Fallen Sparrow

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Kit was not just curious. His face was sober.

  Ab reassured him, “No, I’m not a Fascist. Heaven forbid, Kit. I’ve nothing but the utmost respect and pity for the poor victims who’ve come over here and are doing their damnedest to build themselves some kind of refuge in exile. But—”

  “Always a but.”

  Ab’s gray eyes narrowed. “A big one. We’re getting the Continental riffraff. That’s to be expected, I presume, with other playgrounds turned to bomb grounds.”

  Kit said, “If the fools who take them up can’t spot the breed, they deserve to be rooked. But you’re not classing the Skaases there?”

  “No.”

  They stood together, half hidden by palms, ignoring the perpetual motion of furs and toppers sweeping toward the gilt elevators.

  Ab repeated, “No. I don’t know.”

  “Who do they say they are?”

  “The uncle is Dr. Christian Skaas, Norwegian chemist. Crippled as he is, he escaped from a prison camp—” Ab looked at Kit and hurried over that. He didn’t know Kit had recovered. “He’s to have a chair at the University of Chicago in the fall. Otto had to run out of Germany fast when his uncle got away. Automatically that put his name on the proscribed list.”

  “And you don’t believe it,” Kit stated.

  “Do you mind?” Ab lifted his shoulders. “I don’t.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Kit said quietly.

  “I haven’t a damn thing to go on. They’re friends of Prince Felix Andrassy, live in the same apartment. All our friends raised hell until they exhumed Prince Felix out of Paris. There can’t be anything wrong in the old man. Christian Skaas isn’t an unknown; he won the Nobel prize in ’28. And it can’t be a ringer for him. Everyone knows about the chemical he invented that made him bald as an onion. The eyebrows are false. But between you and me, Kit, my hunch is that the nephew is a refugee from the Reich’s inner circle and will be welcomed home with open arms as soon as he brushes off his job in this country. It might have been just weltschmerz for a good accent that used to send him over to the German Library of Information in his spare time.”

  Kit said lightly, “How do you learn these things, Ab?”

  “I’m working these days,” he admitted. There was a shy pride in his face. “I’m with the Department of Justice. I asked Sidney Dantone to give me a job and he did.” He continued, “And it may not have been homesickness.”

  “How do you tie him to Skaas?”

  “The old man might be in a spot.” Ab spoke softly. “Maybe they’re holding his family hostage and he has to play ball. There were young grand-daughters—”

  Kit felt cold run through him.

  Ab jerked his head. “They must have run out of gas.”

  Barby and young Skaas had just come through the revolving door. Her hair was starred with snow, her lovely face lifted to the man in joy.

  Kit shoved Ab forward. He called out, “Been waiting for you. Held up in traffic?”

  She didn’t allow the momentary annoyance to remain in her eyes. She took his arm. “How sweet of you to wait.”

  They crushed into the elevator. She shouldn’t have been annoyed. She shouldn’t want to be with Otto Skaas.

  The others of their party were already seated at one great table in the crowded ball room. The benefit for the refugees was a success. Everyone and everyone who knew anyone was there. Even a supercolossal movie wouldn’t have done it with more mocking detail, jewels and wine, terrapin and winter roses, privilege and decadent luxury. The elder Tavitons and Dr. Skaas had evidently arrived while he and Ab spoke below. The scientist sat between host and hostess, his lashless eyes downcast, as if the mockery were not to be borne, counterpoised by memory of hunger and cold and trembling death.

  Kit didn’t intend that Barby should escape him; he didn’t know how it happened that he was facing her across a glittering width of table, facing her and Blue Eyes’ insolence. Ab hadn’t run away. He was by Kit, in the next chair, and his face was in shadow. None but he and Christian Skaas seemed to realize the Masque of Death. Kit wanted to reassure them that he too could feel but that he didn’t dare. He had to keep that shoved down. When he felt, he was forced to do something; he couldn’t just talk about it, worry it like a bone. And he couldn’t take on any more now, not until he found out who’d done Louie in, and why. Particularly not until he knew if he were a part of it. He hadn’t considered that before meeting Otto Skaas; now, cold-spined, he wasn’t certain. Louie was the only one who had shared any part of his secret; maybe they hadn’t given up as easily as he’d thought. Unconsciously he found himself listening for footsteps, for lurching, limping steps. He shook his head with ferocity. He was over that.

  His eyes went around the room. He wasn’t surprised to see Tobin dressed up like a trained ape; that was why the police couldn’t find out what happened to their own; they were too busy helping society stage a refugee circus. He swerved his head suddenly to Ab. “Who is that girl?”

  Ab’s mouth turned wry. “Content. You haven’t forgotten Content?”

  He hadn’t meant the one who came now into the blue circle spotted on the silver platform. Of course he hadn’t forgotten Content Hamilton, cousin to Ab, and as unpredictable as Ab was stable. Content didn’t let herself be forgotten; he’d learned in sickbed last year that it was a poor week when some tab couldn’t use the standing head: Society’s Madcap Heiress does something or other. He hadn’t heard she’d taken up exhibitionism but it was no surprise.

  The other girl he couldn’t see, now that the ballroom lights had been dimmed the better to display Content’s figure. It was displayed; the crystalline glitter of her dress, blue in the light, wasn’t made to hide much. Her hair was blue too in this light and her cheeks were more gamine than ever. She sighed to the rapt faces, sighed with the cloying heartbreak of the words she sang. And then the lights came up and she was laughing at them, at their discomfited hearts dangling from their sleeves.

  He made another attempt to see the stranger before the lights faded down again but too many heads blocked the way. She had had a young girl’s grave profile, but it wasn’t that he had noticed. It was when her head turned and he saw the smoky hair about her shoulders. If he could have seen her legs he’d have been certain.

  Content wasn’t alone now in the ring of light that turned her hair amber. There was a young man with a violin under his chin and the face of a dark Pan. The noisy tables waited in incongruous silence. Content sang to the violin and it answered with unspeakable heart-quivering beauty. The hands of the room made deafening response.

  Kit whispered, “Who is that?”

  “That’s José.”

  “José?”

  “José—something Spanish,” Ab said. “Another refugee. But he’s earning his keep. God, the man can play.”

  The diners were clamoring, “Tsigane! Tsigane!” José smiled into Content’s eyes. She shook her head, her blonde hair, short below her ears, curled under slightly, the way she’d worn it when she was an underfoot brat at Hamilton garden parties. She was younger than the rest of them.

  The audience’s insistence beat against her refusal. Kit watched her; she seemed to be looking directly at him. José raised dark brows and she began to sing recitative. The violin answered in brilliant coloratura. If the room had been quiet before, now it was a void. Mad music, wild incredible pagan music; for those breathless moments Content’s voice was lifted into greatness by the accompaniment. Silence, utter silence, and then noise crashed in thunderous, bombing salute.

  Kit shook his head. That was what the Athenians meant by catharsis. He looked towards Barby but he couldn’t find her eyes. Ab’s voice beside him said, “It’s obscene.”

  He was actually startled.

  Ab laughed a little. “I mean that Content can do that. She doesn’t mean a word of it.”

  Kit brought himself to earth. “I suppose José’s her refugee. She picked a good one.” And then Barby saw him. He pushed back
his chair. He wanted to touch her in the echoes of beauty. “Would you dance with me even if I am incognito?”

  “But of course.” She rose.

  He had her in his arms before he realized that Otto Skaas wasn’t in his chair and that might account for her acceptance of him. He didn’t want to think it, that things had changed that much. He didn’t want to think at all; he wanted to absorb her.

  She made words as if their silence on the overcrowded floor was too intimate. “Content’s improved, hasn’t she?”

  “She’s surprisingly good.” He didn’t know if she’d improved; he hadn’t heard her sing before. “And the fellow.”

  “José’s a genius.” She tossed that away. “She’s just come back from Hollywood. Screen test. It’ll be good. She’s so sure of herself.” She said it as if she weren’t sure of herself, as if she envied that. “She always was, even as a child.”

  At that moment he saw the strange girl again, not mistaking the back of her head although her legs were hidden in the wide black taffeta skirt. He turned Barby. “Who is she?”

  “The one dancing with Otto?”

  He was annoyed. He hadn’t noticed the partner; it was Otto Skaas. “Yes.”

  Barby’s voice was far away. “I believe she works at Det’s. She’s Prince Felix’s grand-daughter—from Paris.” Her eyes came up to meet his. They were faintly troubled. “You’d like to meet her?”

  “No.” He’d said the right thing. Barby didn’t want him to want to meet her. Was she jealous? “No, darling. I don’t want to meet anyone but you.”

  But she withdrew from his tightening arm. “It’s too hot here to dance. Shall we return to the table?”

  He couldn’t find out now what was troubling her. He had to be alone with her for that. He sat down beside her in Otto’s chair. He asked casually, “Who are the Skaases, darling?”

  She stared at him as if she didn’t believe the question was asked seriously. “Christian Skaas is the Norwegian chemist. You know of him.”

  “And Otto?”

  He was right. It was Otto troubling her. The expression was there again.

  “He’s Dr. Skaas’ nephew. He had a horrible time escaping from Germany.”

  He didn’t look as if he’d ever been on the receiving end of horror.

  “Where did you meet them?”

  “Mother’s on the board for settling refugees. Father helped place Dr. Skaas at Chicago. He’s trying to find something for Otto now. Your father has been helping.”

  “What kind of training has Otto?”

  Her face lighted. “He’s brilliant. Speaks dozens of languages as all Europeans do. Father, and Geoffrey, are trying to place him in the Department of Justice as an interpreter.”

  Coldness enveloped Kit again. But he spoke casually. “Is that wise at this time—a foreigner—”

  She broke in, “Kit, how stupid. You sound like Ab. We couldn’t have more loyal workers than those who have been through the hell over there.”

  Otto Skaas’ yellow head was above the crowd, coming alone towards the table.

  Kit rose. “Will you lunch with me tomorrow, Barby?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m busy.”

  “Break it. I want to talk to you.”

  She smiled casually. “Make it the first of next week.”

  He was suddenly angry. Actually he hadn’t seen her in four years; her visits to his sick room last year didn’t count. Now he’d returned himself and she wasn’t interested. He said, “Tomorrow or nothing. I’m going to be tied up the next week or so.”

  She didn’t care; she was as beautiful and as aloof as the Snow Queen. “I’m busy tomorrow.”

  Otto Skaas was standing behind his chair but Kit didn’t move. Let the damn Bavarian wait.

  “No time at all?” He didn’t hide his disbelief.

  Skaas laughed. “We’re going to Franconia Notch for some skiing. Want to join us?”

  He didn’t believe the possessive implication in the man’s words. He resented it. Barby should have said something but she didn’t. He ignored the invitation, hoped that Barby did not miss the cold anger in his jaw as he silently circled to his own side of the table.

  Someone piped, “Don’t sit on me.”

  Content was in his chair, turning her impudent nose up at him.

  He barked, “Why not?” edged her over to share with him and Ab.

  “You’re too big. You’d spoil my dress.”

  “I was about to suggest you go home and put one on. I can see everything but your legs.”

  “Pleasant fellow,” she said to Ab. “But foul-mouthed. Definitely.”

  He leaned across her to Ab. “Let’s leave. Let’s go get drunk. I mean drunk.”

  “I can’t.”

  Content chomped celery. “I’ll go get drunk with you, Kit.”

  “They don’t serve minors where I’m going.”

  “I vote next year.” She was complacent. “You might as well take me, Kit. Ab doesn’t drink.”

  “Since when?”

  “I mean he won’t go.”

  Ab said, “I can’t, Kit. I’m on this party. I can’t leave.” He was looking at Barby.

  “His fräulein brought him up to have manners,” Content said. Her voice was incredibly gay. No one else was. She put down the celery leaves on Ab’s plate. “Come on, Kit. Let’s us be rude. I’m rude anyway or I wouldn’t have crashed in on you.”

  Kit glanced across at Barby. She was looking at Otto.

  Content said, “You might as well give up, Kit. She’s nuts about refugees.”

  His anger turned on her now.

  Her oval blue eyes were unwavering. “Hold it. I don’t want to hear it. I left my table because José was glomming over Barby being nuts about Otto. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and listen to you sing the chorus.” She stood up. “One side please. See you at the wedding.”

  Maybe Content was telling the truth. Maybe Barby had found the waiting too long. But he’d have to hear it from her to believe it, and it was evident that there would be no opportunity for that tonight. Meanwhile he wasn’t going to sit here and look sick the way Ab was doing. He said abruptly, “I’ll go with you. Ab?”

  Ab repeated. “I can’t.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I’m going to Washington in the morning. I’ll call you when I get back, Kit.”

  The floor was swaying with dancers. Content caught his forefinger. “You run interference.” He dragged her after him. She wasn’t any bigger than she had been when he and Ab had to postpone their attendance at deb parties to fetch her home from Junior Assembly. He knew which way to reach the exit. Past the table where he had seen the girl, where he could look on her face, know her if she bumped into him again.

  He didn’t notice Tobin until he collided with him. The Inspector bowed ironically. “Glad to see you took my advice, McKittrick.”

  Kit said, “Sez you,” but he’d already passed the man and it was better that way. It had been a mistake to go to Tobin in the first place. He didn’t want trouble with the police when he went after Louie’s killer. He could do it his own way, the new way.

  There were a host of people he and Content knew at the goal table but he didn’t stop, hesitated only long enough to take a good look at that girl. There was rare to non-existent purity in her small face, no other word would say it. Her eyes were dark, her forehead untroubled, her hair brushed simply away from it. She looked at him gravely, the way a person looked at someone passing in a crowd, with no recognition and less interest. Content scotched lingering, muttering under breath, “What are you waiting for? There’s a hole.”

  He retrieved his hat and coat from the check room. Content reappeared muffled and hooded in crimson velvet, crimson boots over her crystal sandals. She slipped her hand in his. “Where do we go from here?” The elevator dropped them to the main floor.

  He said, “I’m practically a stranger. You choose.”

  “I have to be at the
club before midnight. That gives us less than two hours for you to get drunk.”

  He said, “I don’t want to get drunk.”

  “It’s a solution. Ask Ab.”

  They had gone into the snowy night. She linked her arm, shook her head at a cab. “I like air, I’m shut up too much.”

  He asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I work at Number Fifty. Fresh air is considered an idiosyncrasy.”

  He said, “I don’t mean that.”

  “I know you don’t. But I like to mourn to big strong men. Then they’ll buy you a dish of zoop.” She turned him into the East Fifties, half way down the block, descent of basement steps of an old brownstone. “This is Carlo’s. The soup’s good. They put green noodles in it. The liquor is surprising too.”

  The narrow room was like any other Carlo’s, intimate, red-checkered, good to smell. There were no other customers at the between-dinner and after-theatre hour. The fat brown-eyed man who greeted Content might have been one of Louie’s uncles.

  Content was saying, “I want lots of green noodle soup, Carlo, and he wants a bottle. This is Kit McKittrick.”

  Carlo’s eyes went quickly over him. Content had pronounced the name with purpose. She added, “He’s just come back to New York. He’s been away.”

  “I know that, yes. I am glad that you have come back, Mr. McKittrick.” He made it a personal welcome but more than that. It was as if he’d missed Kit, but this wasn’t one of Kit’s New York eating places. He waited until the man went back towards the kitchen.

  “I didn’t catch the name.”

  Her clear eyes were wise. “His name is Lepetino. Carlo Lepetino.”

  He’d known it. Long ago he’d known him; Uncle Carlo wasn’t so round then. He took it as if the syllables had never been in his ears before. She had no business knowing that name; he didn’t want any outsiders mixed up in this, particularly not a harebrained infant belonging to the Hamilton tribe. He didn’t expect his findings to be what you’d call nice; despite her reputation certainly not nice enough for Content Hamilton.