Gift Shop

by Charlotte Armstrong

  Miss Emaline said craftily, “Callie, could you drive me to St. Bart’s? Couldn’t I just go there? Wouldn’t they take me in? I don’t want … your doctor. I don’t want … anybody to know where she is. I know it’s an imposition.”

  “Sure, I can drive you, if you want,” said Callie.

  Miss Emaline leaned dizzily on her sister. She tried to take her own weight.

  “Impose. Impose,” said Callie gently.

  Chapter Eight

  They traveled first-class, Harry on the aisle, Jean at the window. As the big plane slipped along toward the top of the globe he couldn’t be rid of the sense that she was bouncing. She didn’t, of course, literally bounce but she was so … thrilled was the word, he supposed grimly.

  He had told her to go to sleep. She’d said she couldn’t. It was too early. He’d said she’d be sorry if she didn’t. Then he had taken out the paperbacks that he had selected haphazardly. John Donne? Okay, he’d refresh his soul in decent silence, whether she bounced or no.

  He conceded that Jean had not, obviously, done much traveling. He knew now that she was an orphan, on her own, with limited resources, and, he presumed, narrow horizons. It wasn’t that Harry minded traveling, but he’d had it. He, for instance, felt that he could take the North Pole or leave it alone. Even if the romantic idea, that the polar route went over the Pole, had been true, the North Pole, he reasoned, was not perceptible to the unaided human senses. Even if you were standing on the thing, you would have to imagine it. Harry felt that he could imagine the North Pole as well, or better, in his chair at home. But there she was, hanging out the window as if she were going to see something.

  Oh well, here they were. Harry had very little doubt that he was making a monumental fool of himself. Chasing a pig! But one could make a fool of oneself with a certain amount of dignity and aplomb, by not compounding folly with a wiggly enthusiasm. So he read, with stern diligence, trying his best to ignore his companion.

  Now she was definitely wiggling. “Oh,” she said, “Donne? Oh, the line I love above all lines …”

  He cocked an eyebrow. Now what?

  “Bracelet of bright hair about the bone,” she quoted.

  He gave her a look of terrified disdain and she subsided.

  Jean snuggled down into her seat and told herself she had better stop acting like a puppy dog. All right, she couldn’t help being excited, but she had better simmer down. The trouble was she’d had so much fun. Quite a day, this had been. She smiled to herself over the story of the old man and his unexpected little daughter. She thought it was touching. She wished she could have met Harry’s daddy. But Harry wouldn’t have that.

  He hadn’t even gone to see his daddy, himself. He’d spoken on the telephone, said he’d be away a couple of days, might have something to report, didn’t know, wasn’t sure. Harry really believed there was a spy in that house, close to his father; he wouldn’t say a word that might be revealing.

  The Gospel According to St. Bernie, thought Jean. But she had to agree that, if you believed any of it, you had better believe it all. She did believe firmly that there was something in a pig.

  There were three of them now who knew about pigs. There was Bonzer. Harry had told him all, and nothing in Bonzer’s mien betrayed whether or not he had already suspected that pigs mattered. Jean liked Bonzer; she thought his manners were elegant. He looked like the White Knight, but with a higher I.Q. He had a calming effect, as if absolutely nothing would ever surprise him. He sat on improbabilities and kept them in their places as perfectly reasonable possibilities, at least. He made everything respectable, somehow.

  So she had sat happily on the big couch in Harry’s apartment, looking over the city, listening to Harry explain what Bonzer was going to do about the traveler’s check. Bonzer was to go to the bank where the president, having been told a tale, would have culled out the check in question. Harry had put up a yarn that there was a young lady in whom Harry took some discreet interest, who was very much concerned lest she had been conned into taking a spurious check, a forgery. She did not wish to be in trouble about it, on her job, and Harry did not wish her to be in trouble, either. So Harry, although feeling it his civic duty to give warning, nevertheless proposed that he, personally, would supply the ten dollars, so that the accounts of the shop would not be short and the girl home free.

  Bonzer, therefore, was to appear in his employer’s behalf, and insist upon handing over ten dollars in cash, which the banker would not take, of course. Harry said that this was not done. Bankers were very suspicious, especially about given money. But the device, although very silly, would serve to get Bonzer a good look at the check. He was to make a note of the name and also whatever identifying numbers there might be on it. If there were two or more such checks submitted by the gift shop, then Bonzer was to take notes on all of them. He could choose any one upon which to fasten the banker’s suspicions. Harry had no qualms. The false accusation would prove false, of course, he said airily.

  Having secured this information, Bonzer was to go to Bernie’s office and consult with Bernie’s colleagues in the matter of locating the man who had signed the check. But Bonzer was not to tell even them why he wanted to know this.

  And the word “pig” was not even to be breathed.

  Harry thought they had covered the pig’s tracks. Bonzer had already divided the box of toys into two sections and sent one to each of two children’s hospitals. Even if the toy transaction were to become known and arouse the villains’ curiosity, they could not discover which of the toys Harry had really wanted. The pigs would have vanished, fallen into a crevice between hospitals, as it were. Harry himself had already cleaned away the crumbs and pieces in this apartment. (Bonzer accepted this statement impassively.)

  Furthermore, Harry had explained with satisfaction, Mrs. Mercer would no doubt understand that toy-buying spree to be Harry’s reaction to a sudden overwhelming yen for a pretty girl named Jean Cunliffe.

  Also (Aha!) if anybody inquired of Mrs. Mercer how come Harry Fairchild and Jean Cunliffe seemed to have vanished, Mrs. Mercer had a full-blown explanation ready and willing to explode from her lips.

  “Deviosity,” he had beamed.

  Jean couldn’t help smiling, remembering the argument that had ensued. Bonzer had rustled up a delicious meal and she had enjoyed it very much, meanwhile telling Harry that there was no such word as “deviosity.” What he meant was “misdirection,” a technique used by magicians. Harry had said he liked his own word better. Had there ever been, at any time, any question in her mind about what he meant by “deviosity”? Well, no. All right, then. It was not progressive—in fact it was pretty stuffy—to discourage a man who could coin a word with an immediately obvious, perfectly dear meaning. There ought to be more such words, Harry said, and he would have to see what he could do.

  They had then discussed a code word for “pig” that might be useful on occasion. They could not, Harry declared, discuss the matter in any even partially public place. But some emergency might arise. So they made hilarious suggestions to each other, but settled on none.

  Armed with passports and documents, they had taken a cab at the last minute. Jean had tumbled lightheartedly into the beginning of this journey, as frisky and friendly as a puppy dog. They’d boarded swiftly and been more or less shooed into their places just before takeoff. Harry had shaken his head at her to indicate that he had seen no villains on their heels, but they both knew that this didn’t mean a thing, since they had no idea who the villains were. Or, for that matter, how many.

  The mystery of why there should be any villains was unsolved. It could be, of course, that Bernie had other information to interest villains, about some entirely different matter, even though he had said in his famous phone call that Harry was to take the message to his daddy. Still, Jean was thinking, wasn’t it at least possible that the message would explain itself as having nothing to do with the Fairchilds? Bernie had seen those pigs in the gift shop. The syndr
ome, pigs-Harry, Harry-pig, had leaped into his mind. Bernie may have pressed his old friend Harry into service just because of a coincidence.

  “Is this a coincidence, Harry, darling?” a voice was saying. There was a female standing in the aisle. She was wearing a soft gold-colored wool dress, cut in such a way as to set another female’s teeth on edge with sheer despair.

  Harry, struggling, with a threshing of limbs, out of his seat, was bleating, “Well! Dorinda, darling!”

  Who is she? Jean wondered with ferocity.

  Harry floundered around making introductions. Jean smiled. Dorinda smiled. Then Jean lay very low, listening, naturally, as hard as she possibly could.

  Harry said, “I will admit I am a charming fella, but isn’t this going a little far, Dorinda, darling?”

  “Something came up. I tried to phone.” The lovely face was smiling daintily.

  “That was awfully nice of you.”

  “How far are you going, Harry?”

  “Just as far as the plane goes. You too, eh?”

  Well, either they weren’t going to tell each other a thing, or else they understood each other very, very well, indeed.

  “How sad,” Dorinda was saying, “that we didn’t know. But, of course, you already have someone to talk to.”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Jean’s my best girl Friday. And this, of course, is still Friday.”

  Harry could be such a silly ass. Jean said aloud, without having known she was going to say it, “Would you like to take my seat for a while?”

  “That’s very, very sweet of you,” Dorinda said to her. “And you must take my perfectly good seat, back there. Oh, thank you.”

  So Jean found herself inserted into another window seat, beside a little man who was reading a nondescript grayish magazine. He had let her past him without any fuss. His no-colored hair was thin on the top of his hatless head, combed in the usual parallel strands to cover the usual bald spot. Jean paid no attention to him.

  She was thoughtful. She’d had a moment of truth, a kind of sinking down. She was here by a regrettable necessity. Harry Fairchild hadn’t known what else to do with her. That was the truth of the matter. She would not, she felt sure, act like a happy puppy dog anymore.

  She sighed and thought of the map she had in her handbag. It was a large-scale map of the British Isles. Jean wasn’t going to sleep, that was for sure. She was feeling too upset, or to use a better word, downcast. She might as well see whether she could be useful. It would serve him right if she earned her salary. So she unfolded the huge thing and, struggling, finally managed to fold it so as to reveal Ireland as conveniently as could be, and she settled down and began to run her eyes very carefully over all the place-names, beginning at the top, or north, and going on down. There were hundreds of places beginning with Bally. Maybe thousands. She studied diligently. She felt it had been very thoughtless of her to have enjoyed herself so much.

  Dorinda said, “How nice for me to have somebody to talk to! I didn’t mean to put her out.”

  “She doesn’t mind,” said Harry carelessly. “You know, it comes over me, Dorinda, that I was rudely interrupted the other evening. I never did finish telling you—”

  “Oh, yes, what was that all about?” she said lazily.

  “You don’t remember? And here I thought you were fascinated. All right. Never mind.” Harry prepared to rise above hurt feelings.

  “But I remember every word you said, darling. I meant the interruption. Your friend—wasn’t he?—at the airport?”

  “Oh, that. Well never know. Poor chap passed away.” “Gone and forgotten” his tone implied. (He hoped.) He was not going to let any more young women in on the act. He had enough trouble.

  “And how is your daddy?” said Dorinda softly.

  “Fine” Harry blinked.

  “And your brother, the doctor? And your brother, the—oh, yes—the governor?”

  “Fine. Fine.”

  “And the little girl?”

  “Fine,” he said automatically, and then he said, “Uh—what little girl is this, in particular, Dorinda?”

  “Why, Bernie’s girl.”

  “Oh. OH!” said Harry. “Oh, she’s fine. Heartbroken, naturally. What—uh—threw me off—Bernie’s girl happens to stand five-nine in her socks.” Harry checked himself. Better not toss these inventions around so carelessly. The day came when you had to remember what lies you had told to whom. And he had enough troubles already. Hah! He’d fix Dorinda. He’d talk about her.

  He leaned back and said, “Dorinda Bowie. Any relation to the knife of the same name?”

  A funny thing happened to her face. It was gone in an instant. “What was that?” he said. “Was there a flash of light, or something?”

  Dorinda was smiling in her dainty way. “I don’t think so.” She snuggled down. “Now, you must tell me more.”

  Harry, snuggling down, said, “Why sure enough. Where was I? Now Linear B, you see, turned out to be syllabic.”

  Jean finished the map of Ireland, having found no such place-name as Ballycoo. So she sighed and refolded the map in its original creases. The man in the next seat stirred slightly and she thought he sighed.

  She looked up and realized that the whole planeload seemed to have gone, in some sophistication, very early to sleep—except for herself and her seatmate. She gave him an exasperated glance, got up, and wormed out into the aisle. It had suddenly annoyed her to imagine that, while she had conscientiously not gone to sleep in somebody else’s chair, that Dorinda whatever-her-name-was had.

  But when she came to where Harry was still talking, this annoyed her very much, too. “It’s getting late,” Jean said. “May I have my own seat, please?”

  “Why, of course.” Dorinda agreed at once. Harry rose to let her out and, standing there in the aisle, he kissed her a gentle goodnight.

  Jean crawled into her own seat, which was disgustingly warm. Harry sat down and said with gusty relish, “Well, that was nice and rude!”

  “Would you mind very much not talking, Mr. Fairchild?”

  “Delighted,” said Harry, with heartfelt sincerity.

  Chapter Nine

  “If,” said Jean between tearing yawns, “you care to remark that you … oh—ah … told me so, pray do.”

  “Brace up,” said Harry. “It is your duty to pick up firsthand impressions, and write a book.”

  “Um.” She couldn’t prop her eyelids up. “But a hotel is a hotel is a hotel …”

  “I’d better get you a room with a bed in it,” said Harry crossly.

  “No, don’ … They mi’ …”

  “A fat lot of good you’ll be.”

  “Just pinch me,” she said, “when ti’ … come …” and off she went to sleep, where she sat.

  He had told her so, damn it! Here it was almost 1 P.M. in Amsterdam, but Jean, at 5 A.M. Los Angeles time, was conking out. He’d pinch her, all right, when the time came. And violently. They were both going to have to look sharp. Harry was foreseeing problems.

  Once on the plane from Copenhagen, Harry had cast the past aside and contemplated the future. Dorinda had bade him a gay hasta la vista in Copenhagen and gone off to parts unknown. She’d be back in Southern California before him, she had threatened. And there went the last link. Now they were just travelers, strange among strangers. And now what?

  They were in the right hotel, but the American tour had gone off to “take in” the diamond cutters. It was scheduled to return briefly for “freshening up” and then in the afternoon it would “take in” Volendam. American tourists don’t kid around. The only thing to do was catch them during this brief but scheduled recess. So here they sat, where Harry (provided that he could keep awake) could watch the entrance.

  But he was brooding. Having caught the tour, having recognized the pink-pig little girl, then what? He had called a discreet and low-voiced conference on the second plane, when the future had begun to puzzle him. Jean was all for a direct approach. Deviosity was not call
ed for. Surely he wasn’t planning to steal the hippopotamus? He was rich. So buy the mountain lion. She wasn’t worrying. They needn’t tell the whole truth, she’d said.

  He wasn’t worrying about telling the whole truth—which was impossible, since they didn’t know it. But Harry was wondering what part of any truth would serve. Oh, definitely, this sort of thing was not his forte. He had not done what he ought to have done, and so on. He fidgeted.

  And she didn’t have the decency to stay awake and worry with him. She was real gone. Well, poor kid. Harry felt a not unpleasant, almost fatherly, pluming up of a protective instinct. In fact, he had been a little troubled when she had stopped bouncing. She had been almost merely patient in Copenhagen. Of course, an airport was an airport was an airport. Yet, flying into Amsterdam, Harry had even tried to poke up her enthusiasm, pointing out the waterways, the half-a-spider-web the city made. She had been very polite. He’d felt a bit of a sense of loss.

  He had been touched, too, by her report of her faithful and minute study of the map of Ireland. But, in view of the results, he wondered what the devil they were going to do if they did get their clutches on the pink pig and it turned out not to be the right pig. He would then phone home, he decided. Bernie’s partner had gone—no doubt fuming—off on Bernie’s tracks. Perhaps he had found them. Perhaps the message in the pig was no longer of any importance. If it ever had been.

  When a little man in a felt hat came into the hotel, looked vaguely around, and settled down unobtrusively to wait, Harry paid no attention.

  At the next arrival, however, Harry Fairchild sat up with a violent shock.

  She came in, attended only by the porter with her bag, yet also by an invisible retinue, as she walked, in the arrogance of her beauty, her taste, and the money on her back. Dorinda Bowie!

  Here! Of all—! Here?

  Harry took the flesh of Jean Cunliffe’s upper arm between his thumb and finger, held his breath while Dorinda walked, placing her pretty feet just so, calmly across his cone of vision and disappeared, having not so much as turned her elegant head.