“I’ll be able to sit for her now,” the General said. “She’s been wanting to do me, you know. Admires my head. Viewing it from the outside, that is. Let me know when she comes to Washington.”
Jimmie said, “I think I might put through a call to Mrs. Norris now.”
The General gave a great bark of laughter, and that made him realize that his humour had much improved. “I’ll go along then, Jimmie, and start to pack.”
“I’ve got an extra pair of pyjamas,” Jimmie said dryly.
His father chose to take the words at their literal value. “Thank you, my boy, but I want to get used to the idea gradually. I’ve not had the offer of such hospitality since the Russians in Berlin.”
Jimmie went to the door with him. “I wouldn’t tell that story as much abroad as I used to if I were you, Father.”
“Eh? What story’s that?”
“About how well you got on with the Russians.”
“Don’t tell me I’m getting to be a bore with it?”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
The old gentleman shaped his soft hat and put it on carefully. “Curious, how often we can stand hearing ourselves tell the same story, and go stark mad at the repetition of someone else. I promise I’ll watch myself, boy.”
“We’ll devise a set of signals,” Jimmie said. “Good-night, Father.”
The General turned around at the door. “I don’t think we should start off being too damned congenial. Let’s leave a bit of open ground between us, so we can improve our positions, shall we?”
It was amazing, Jimmie thought, contemplating his affairs in the wake of his father’s visit, how complicated a man’s life could become despite his best efforts to keep it simple. One would suppose, for example, that his remaining a bachelor would ensure no household entanglements. But here he was, having suddenly to reorganize a whole ménage. He had no business bringing Mrs. Norris to Washington at all; so much of his time would have to be spent among his constituents, at home she quite belonged there. But without her, frankly, he did not think he could cope with his father, especially in this hour of the old man’s discontent.
How, he wondered, was Mrs. Norris going to take to Tom Hennessy? Hennessy was a young man no farther from Ireland than his first citizenship papers, a natural-born politician, a lad with good looks and talent and far more political ambition than the man who had hired him. He was in the kitchen now, studying the finer points of parliamentarianism in case Jimmie had occasion to consult him. He was, if Jimmie had to give a name to his position, a sort of chauffeur-valet, although Jimmie had overheard him once (on the telephone) identify himself as “the congressman’s press secretary”.
Jimmie decided to speak to him now about Mrs. Norris.
“Sure, we’ll get along fine, sir, as long as she’s older than me. If it was a young one you were bringing in now …”
“God forbid,” Jimmie said.
“It’ll be simple,” Tom said. “I’ll do for you and she’ll do for me.”
“It’s the General we shall all have to look out for,” Jimmie said, knowing very well that Mrs. Norris would soon teach young Tom who was going to do for whom.
“He’s a bit lively for his age, is he?”
“Yes,” Jimmie said quietly, “I guess that’s as good a word for it as any.”
2
TWO DAYS AFTER JIMMIE’S call, Mrs. Norris managed to reach Washington. The General had already moved in. It was a day that all of them expected would be busy. And the night promised to be busy also, and very gay, for it was the occasion of the Beaux Arts Ball. But no one had any notion at all of just how busy their next twenty-four hours was to be.
Mrs. Norris arrived by early train. There was nothing she liked better than to be sent for. She was, therefore, slightly put out that Mr. James was not able to meet her himself. He had always managed it, no matter how busy, on other occasions. She looked up at the tall young man who gathered both her bags from her scarcely a moment after she stepped from the carriage.
“I’m Tom Hennessy, ma’am,” he said with a smile that opened his face on a beautiful set of teeth. “I’m Mr. Jarvis’ personal.”
“His personal what?”
“He’ll have to tell you that himself, Mrs. Norris, for he hasn’t made up his mind yet.”
Mrs. Norris allowed herself to be led into and through the station and out to the car. Mr. James had sent that for her anyway. “How did you know me?”
“Mr. Jarvis described you—pert and perky,” the young man said with more tact than she’d ordinarily have credited the Irish.
“I’ll give odds it was my hat he described.”
“He might have mentioned it,” the young man said, throwing open the back door of the car to her. “But we’re awful glad, all of us here, to see it tossed into the ring.”
“I’ll ride in the front seat with you,” Mrs. Norris said, giving an authoritative nod of her head, and unsmiling. She had no intention of committing herself on first acquaintance to any man, be he squire or servant, youth or dotard.
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About the Author
Dorothy Salisbury Davis is a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America, and a recipient of lifetime achievement awards from Bouchercon and Malice Domestic. The author of seventeen crime novels, including the Mrs. Norris Series and the Julie Hayes Series; three historical novels; and numerous short stories; she has served as president of the Mystery Writers of America and is a founder of Sisters in Crime.
Born in Chicago in 1916, she grew up on farms in Wisconsin and Illinois and graduated from college into the Great Depression. She found employment as a magic-show promoter, which took her to small towns all over the country, and subsequently worked on the WPA Writers Project in advertising and industrial relations. During World War II, she directed the benefits program of a major meatpacking company for its more than eighty thousand employees in military service. She was married for forty-seven years to the late Harry Davis, an actor, with whom she traveled abroad extensively. She currently lives in Palisades, New York.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1958 by Dorothy Salisbury Davis
Cover design by Tracey Dunham
978-1-4804-6033-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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