"What?”
"Oh, surely you knew that he used to be a pimp in Bucharest before he got sidetracked into smuggling and money-changing and . . ."
"No," John said, "I did not."
"Well, leave Popescu to me. That's one of the places where I can help you. And here is where you can help me: You know that I'm a damned capable performer, don't you? Don't you?"
"Y-yes," he said slowly, "you are." And it was true that she was, but he would have preferred that she not make the announcement herself.
"And you also know that I acted rings around that old bag from the West Coast last night, don't you? In fact I acted rings around the whole bunch of them in that creaking melodrama. I stood by and let them cut my part down to the bone when a word to Popescu could have had every last one of them—yes, and you, too—kicked out. But I still walked away with the whole show. Didn't I?"
"You did," he said quietly. He realized that every word she was saying was correct, but he couldn't help wishing that she weren't saying them, and saying them as calmly as anyone else would be reciting the alphabet. There was something eerie about her total self-assurance.
"But you don't realize the obstacles that stand in the way of a genuinely talented actress," Besame continued in her businesslike fashion. "I mean an actress like me who has background and an education and a certain amount of money and who isn't willing to sleep around with every shoestring producer in town just to get a walk-on in some turkey that may never open."
"I have heard of similar cases," he said.
"But you can't know what it's like to be a—well, to be a lady, if you'll forgive so archaic a term, with taste and intelligence and have to . . ."
"It must be very difficult," he said uncomfortably. He almost never had bursts of intuition and usually ignored his hunches. But tonight, right now, he had an uneasy feeling about Besame that had been building up ever since he set foot into her apartment. It was something he couldn't quite label. He still found her attractive and he still thought that he found her likable. And if she was acting right now, she certainly was turning in an offbeat performance, because he'd never heard another actress go after a part in a play she hadn't read in quite this manner.
"Of course I knew the minute I met you that you and I were going to amount to something—to something big"
"Oh, really?" he said.
"Yes. Really. I went straight to the Drama Collection and read your first two plays, and Popescu let me see the kinescope of your first Pulse Beat shows. They were good—all of them; especially the plays. I could see right then and there that you were the kind of writer I needed. That you and I could . . ."
It just occurred to him that the question was usually: "What kind of actress does the writer need?" and not "What kind of writer does the actress need?" but he was too spellbound to comment. He felt absolutely flattened beneath the steamroller of her logic, her confidence, her personality and her power.
Besame gave him an astute glance and decided that now was the time. "And you know as well as I do," she continued, "that you'd far rather be a successful playwright than simply a cog in Popescu's machine, which could collapse at a moment's notice."
"Sure, sure. Who wouldn't?" he said groggily.
"Very well then. Listen to me and you can really go places without taking any risk at all. You can use Popescu while he's using you. First this play, with a decent part in it for me; a part where I can really command some attention from the critics—where they can see how I look and how I can act. With the notices I'll get, I'll be ready to star in your next play. Agreed?"
"Well, I . . ."
Besame realized perfectly well that she had him where she wanted him. She had made it abundantly clear to him that she could get him backing, plenty of free time to work and a first-class production of any suitable play he might turn out. And right now struck her as a good time to tie him up emotionally.
"Good," she said quietly. "This is one step you're never going to regret. How shall we seal the bargain? Would you like to kiss me?"
It suddenly struck him that he didn't want to kiss her; that he was being completely and utterly trapped; that if he had ever wanted to have an affair, it would be with a nice cuddly little thing like his secretary and not with a powerhouse like this—attractive as she was. However, a gentleman could hardly refuse.
Before he could answer, Besame was in his arms, eyes closed, lips parted. It was something more than a kiss of business partners. His reason began to quaver. Maybe I was wrong, he thought, as she stirred voluptuously in his arms. Maybe this girl really does like me.
Maybe . . .
"Mmmmmmmmmm," Besame moaned, running her hands under his jacket.
Good God, he thought, maybe this girl , . .
The air was rent by a crash that sounded like the end of the world.
Besame thrust herself away from him, her face white, her eyes bulbous with fear.
"My God!" he said, "what was that?"
Besame didn't bother to answer. She bounded to her feet and raced across the apartment in the direction of what he supposed was her bedroom. He could think of very little to do but follow.
He saw a light flash on and heard Besame scream. Dashing into the bedroom behind her, he was aware, in his vast confusion, of an overpowering odor; of an open window and fluttering curtains; and of a man in dinner clothes.
"Besame," the man wailed brokenly, "you've got to give them to me!"
"My God," John said, "Whitney Martin!"
The bedroom was tiny, just large enough for a double bed and a small mirrored dressing table. The dressing table had been overturned and Whitney Martin stood in the middle, broken bottles of perfume and cologne up to the tops of his pumps.
"How did you get in here?" Besame screamed.
"The fire escape, Besame," Whitney moaned. "You wouldn't talk to me. You wouldn't let me in. All I want is my letters. I . . ."
"Whitney Martin," John said. "What are you doing here? How the . . ."
Besame turned to him. "This is the one I told you about. This is the maniac who goes around ringing doorbells and talking Communism all the time and breaking into lone women's apartments and terrorizing . . ."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Besame," John said, "but I believe you told me that this was a local crackpot, perfectly harmless and an anarchist. Elderly was my impression."
"Yes," Besame said wildly. "That's the one!"
"Well, he has been deluding you," John said. "Actually, his name is Whitney Martin. He is my age. He lives in Riveredge. He's Chairman of the Membership Committee, as a matter of fact. And I suspect that he wears an old Landon button on his B.V.D.'s."
"Besame," Whitney bleated, stepping forward through the debris, "if you'll just give me my letters, I swear to you that you'll never hear from me again. Please, John," he begged, "reason with her. She's driving me out of my . . ."
In spite of his astigmatism and his consequent tortoiseshell glasses, Whitney Martin had always been considered a very handsome man, patterned, more or less, along the lines of those gentlemanly models who pose for higher-priced ready-to-wear suits. Probably no one had ever seen Whit's face in repose, because it was such a busy face—its lips always winding up to pitch a brilliant smile upon meeting someone important; its brows always prepared to pucker becomingly and sympathetically upon hearing of an Eastern plague, a social injustice or a Yale defeat; its nostrils set to quiver exquisitely upon hearing the name of T. S. Eliot or the more profound strains of Couperin. From sheer force of habit, the face strove for animation as Whit began to smile and to say, "John, this is all a terrible mistake. I must have been delirious or . . ." But tonight the lips gave up their grin before showing even the bicuspids. The smile that orthodontists love withered and died. The face was just too tired to go on.
Besame turned to John beseechingly, her face also haggard and ashen and far from its public self. "John," she said, clutching at his jacket, "I was wrong. This isn't the one. The light fooled me for a m
oment. I swear to you on the grave of my father that I've never lain eyes on this man before."
John hadn't liked Whitney Martin from the moment of his first interview with the Riveredge Membership Committee. But he had never quite summoned the energy to despise him. He and his wife had tagged Whitney as a completely empty being, inflated to the bursting point with glib, ready made virtues such as Civic Responsibility, Good Fatherhood, Love of Nature, the Fellowship of Intellect, the Obligations of Aristocracy—all splendid qualities when genuine, but ludicrous if fashioned from shoddy and worn without alterations. Yet he felt reasonably certain that Whitney was too successful, too snobbish, too faint of heart and just a little too bright to supplement his income as a house-breaker or a rapist.
Looking at the two of them, he was as moved to laughter as to pity. He had no idea what there could be between them, but he was certain that the answer would be as amusing as it would be amazing.
"This is obviously a matter for the police," he said, turning on his heel. "I'm going to telephone right now."
"John! Please don't!" Whitney groaned.
"No!" Besame cried, harshly, shrewishly. She clutched his arm and held on tight. "Don't call! Just get this sneak thief out of here. That's all I want. Get him out and no trouble."
"Nonsense, Besame," he said. "How could I do that? Here he is a fifth-story worker and dangerously insane, as you point out. He must have wrecked a couple of hundred dollars' worth of your stuff. He's a total stranger. He's a local crank. You're an innocent maiden living alone. He's a proselytizing anarchist and/or Communist. It might even be a case for the F.B.I. My duty as a citizen. . .”
"John," Whitney blubbered. "For the love of God don't call the police. If our friendship means nothing to you, think of Beth, Think of my children. Think of Riveredge! I only want my letters. When I saw you two at Chandelier, I thought I could just slip over and get them and then get right back. I thought she'd still be out. Nobody answered the bell. I . . ." he broke down completely, shaking with sobs, his lenses steaming with passion,
"He's lying," Besame said levelly.
"Why don't you give the poor chump his letters?" John said. "They're undoubtedly as dull as hell anyhow. Now, Whitney, if you'll explain just once more how you happen to be here . . ."
"Very well," Whitney said brokenly. "It all started last summer when Beth and the children were up at Mother Goodhue's in Maine. I ran into her on Madison Avenue. We had drinks together. I got to telling her about this play I've been working on. You didn't know I was writing a play did you?" Whit asked hopefully.
"So many of us are," he said.
"And it was a stinker!" Besame hissed.
"And before I knew it, I started getting involved. Well, you know," Whit said in a lackluster man-to-man intimacy, "a man gets lonely all by himself and what with Beth—um—enceinte, you know . . ."
"Oh, yes," Besame said. "You know. But how was I to know that he was married and had children? He's one of those typical men who lead a girl on without telling her that . . ."
Shattered, Whit said, "Besame was my wife's roommate at Miss Spaulding's. She was a bridesmaid at our wedding. She wore yellow."
"How very pretty," John said. "And I suppose your fan mail is all tied up in a yellow ribbon."
"I've done everything she's told me to do," Whit said. "I've given her money. I've arranged auditions at the agency. I've made appointments with producers. I've . . ."
John looked squarely at Besame and he didn't like what he saw. "Give him back his letters, Besame," he said.
"No," she said. "I don't have them. I threw them away. I don't even know where they are."
"They're right there in the drawer of that dressing table,” Whitney said.
"Go on, Besame,” John said. "Do something decent for a change. Give him his letters." He still didn't like Whitney, but he had a feeling for the underdog, for the fly in the spider's web.
"I won't!" she said.
"Then I guess the only thing to do is to call the police.” John turned toward the door and again Besame restrained him.
"Listen," she said earnestly, "you can't! Think of my career. Think of how it would look—an actress living alone and . . ."
"Please don't!" Whitney bleated. "I'll do anything you say. I've got a wife and a family to think of. I have a position in . . ."
"You certainly spent all summer thinking of them, too, didn't you Shakespeare?" John said. "Now get this straight. I don't give a good God damn about either of your reputations. You both deserve anything you get: you, Whit, for being such a smug snob slob, with literary pretensions when you're actually too stupid to write anything more than some hot mash notes to a scheming, blackmailing little bitch like . . ."
Besame's hand swung wildly out and caught him across the face. Very calmly, John turned, took aim and gave her a slap that sent her sprawling across the bed. She was too surprised even to cry out. Then he moved to the overturned dressing table and gave its drawer a vicious kick. The drawer flew open and a dozen letters tumbled out. He picked them up. "Are these yours, Whitney?"
"Yes. Yes, they are," Whitney gasped, grasping for them.
He glanced at the letters. "Whitney! Written on Yale Club paper! I'm ashamed! And now," he said looking scornfully around the room, "I think I'll get the hell out of here. Going back to round out your gay evening with the Marshalls, Whitney?"
"Y-yes. Yes. I'll have to get back right away. Beth will be wondering."
"I shouldn't be at all surprised. Goodnight, Miss Bessamer," John said. "Watch out for all this glass. I'd hate to think of your cutting an artery—or anything as painless as that. Coming, Don Juan?"
"Yes, wait for me," Whitney said, crunching and tinkling out of the shattered scent bottles.
They were at the head of the stairs when Besame appeared at the door looking like a witch and screaming like a banshee.
"Get out of here! Both of you! As for you, you'll never work for Popescu another day. You'll . . ."
"You bet your boots I won't, Miss B. Goodbye." As he and Whitney started down the stairs, Besame's door slammed with the report of a cannon. In silence they descended to the street. An empty cab was making a U-turn in the middle of the block. Whitney whistled for it and it pulled up smartly at the curb.
Whitney had regained a bit of his usual composure. The facial muscles had resumed their old fight and John could see Whit's glasses and teeth gleaming through the night. Whitney held out a muscular hand. "Naturally I can never thank you for this, so it's silly even to try."
"It is."
"And I know that, as a gentleman, you'll never repeat a word of . . ."
"Goodnight, Whitney,” he said.
"Oh, but here, old man," Whitney said, "can't I drop you?"
"I'm dropping you, Whitney—and I'm walking."
"Make up yer mind, rosebud," the cab driver said, sniffing eloquently.
John heard the door slam and cab drive off as he strode down the empty street toward First Avenue.
Nine
There had been only one reason for him to return to the Bacchus Club. He was broke. He had thrown something like eighty dollars in the face of the Chandelier waiter. It had seemed worth every penny at the time, just to get out of the place. But he had begun to regret his imprudence when he discovered that he had just fifteen cents in his pocket, enough for a one-way trip on a jouncing, nearly-empty Lexington Avenue bus.
It was just midnight when he got to the Bacchus Club. There were lights in every room. The front doors stood wide open and so did every window. A policeman on the club's marble doorstep was hawking and spitting noisily.
As he made for the front door the officer straightened up and barred the way with his night stick. "Can't go in there, buddy,” he rasped and went into another violent fit of coughing.
"I'm a member," John said. The statement sounded pompous and foolish beyond belief.
"Don't matter. Nobody's allowed in. Guy tried to bump himself off. Gas."
"Who?"
"Can't tell yuh, buddy. City ambulance took him off fifteen-twenty minutes ago."
There was a tremendous rumbling from within the hall and he could see Toby's luggage cascading down the stairway in glorious disorder. Toby followed jauntily behind.
"Hey, Toby!" he called. "What's happened? Who . . ."
"Sonny-boy!" Toby said gaily. "No room at the inn. Autres temps, autres moeurs, and all that sort of thing. Officer," he said to the policeman, "would you just hail a taxi for me?"
"Huh?" the cop said.
"I said, 'Would you just hail a taxi for me?”
"Oh, sure. Sure thing, sir'" Still coughing, he bustled to the corner and began tooting his whistle.
"But, Toby, what happened?" he said.
"Oh, nothing. Teddy tried to 'do way with himself,' as they say. The dinge who works here came home and found the silly bastard with his fat head in the oven."
"Is Teddy dead?"
"Only from the ears up. Teddy goofed—natch. Never could do anything right."
"But where is he now?"
"Bellevue or some such place. How should I know? I was up stairs packing when they carted him off. Thank God I'm going. Place smells like a crematorium."
"But if Teddy . . ."
"To hell with Teddy," Toby said. "He'd be better off dead. Got a cigarette on you, kid? Careful with the match."
"Sure, Toby. Here. But who's looking after . . .”
"Here's your taxi, sir," the policeman said with a smart salute.
"Oh, thanks. Now would you mind giving me a hand with my bags? Here," Toby said, settling himself into the back of the taxi-cab, "give the poor flatfoot an assist. New York's finest, you know."
Silently, John and the policeman piled Toby's scarred kit into the front seat with the driver.
"Much obliged," Toby called to the policeman. "Now, get in, kid. I'll take you to wherever you want to go. Besides, I've got news for you."
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