Sweet Smell of Success

by Ernest Lehman

  “I’m at Scanlon’s. Meet me. I’ll wait here.”

  “Now? Darling, you’re mad.”

  “Please, Mary, please.”

  “But I’m all undressed. My hair is in curlers. I can’t, really.”

  “Baby, I want to see you. I want to talk to you. I’ve got to talk. It’s—”

  “What’s the matter?” she asked quickly. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No,” I blurted out, “nothing’s wrong. But … but …”

  “What, darling, what?”

  “Can’t you get dressed and come out? I want to sit and talk. This weather. I don’t know. I just don’t feel like being alone. …”

  “Oh, darling, why didn’t you call earlier? We could have had dinner together. We could have been together all evening. Why didn’t you, Sidney? Why do you call now, when it’s too late?”

  “Is it … is it really too late?”

  “Of course it is, dear.” She sighed reluctantly.

  “I suppose it is,” I said slowly. The day was over. The night had ended. This day, this night, could never be undone. There was really no going back now and changing it.

  “Sidney …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m so glad you called. It was sweet and nice. I’ll sleep now and have pleasant dreams. I was worried about today. About what happened.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary,” I said.

  “No, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have said—”

  “I’m sorry. Good night, Mary. I’m sorry about every thing.”

  “Don’t talk that way, darling,” she said. “We’ll make up for it. We’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” I mumbled, “tomorrow.”

  “Good night, darling.”

  I hung up slowly. Tomorrow. Everything tomorrow …

  One of the captains was rapping on the door of the booth. I let him rap. I just sat there without looking at him. Finally, he pushed open the door.

  “There’s a call for you, Mr. Falco.”

  I followed him inside to the reservation desk and picked up the phone. It was the switchboard operator at the Panamanian.

  “Oh, Mr. Falco, I’ve been looking for you all over town.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, Mr. Hunsecker called a while ago. He wants you to meet him at two o’clock.”

  “At Twenty-One?”

  “No. His home.”

  The faint odor of caution. “What for?”

  “He didn’t say, Mr. Falco.”

  Couldn’t he wait? This was no time for taking bows, for the delicate staking of claims. Couldn’t he wait until tomorrow?

  “And Mr. Robard is terribly upset about something, and he said if I reached you he wanted to speak to you.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said.

  “But he said specifically—”

  “I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”

  “And a Mr. Spahn called several times. He sounded very peculiar. As though he was—”

  “Tell me about it tomorrow!” I hung up and went out to look for a cab.

  Driving through the park toward Hunsecker’s apartment, I gazed out of the window at the dimly seen figures sprawled on the grass in search of air to sleep in. Here and there, on the benches near the road, lovers were locked in sweaty embrace.

  I was tired, and I closed my eyes.

  But I still kept seeing the lovers on the benches, and they were all Steve Dallas and Susan Hunsecker.

  “Let’s get out of the park,” I said to the driver. “Go up Fifth.”

  “Much nicer this way.”

  “I said let’s get out of the park.”

  “Sure, if you’re in a hurry, mister. I didn’t know—”

  But there was no hurry, really. There’d never be any real hurry again. The days of hurry were over. I had graduated, tonight. From now on, all I’d be doing was collecting the diploma over and over again, seven days a week, all editions with an advance look at the proofs. And I should have been feeling damned good about it, but I wasn’t. That was going to have to wait until tomorrow, too.

  VI

  As I went up in the elevator to the nineteenth floor, old fears began to gnaw at my insides, prodded by bitter memories.

  Nikko opened the door, blinking sleepy eyes.

  “Which room?” I asked, as I went in.

  “Mr. Falco expected?”

  “Of course I’m expected.”

  And please note, I come bearing no column copy, no apple for the teacher.

  “Not home yet. Mr. Falco wait? In the living room, please?” It was more of a command than an invitation.

  I walked into the huge, thickly carpeted show place that Hunsecker called a living room, past the statuettes and golfing trophies that stood on the table in silent tribute to the man’s self-love, and I sank exhausted into the green club chair. The lights were dim. The Capehart in the corner was playing softly, and as I sat there gazing at the portrait of Hunsecker on the wall, my eyes slowly closed, and I allowed the soothing music and the muted sounds of the city and the rich, sweet smell of success that permeated the room to lull my senses. I breathed the smell deeply, memorizing the scent, and then all at once I became aware of other sounds, other perfumes, and I turned, startled, as I heard her saying quietly, “You’re early, Sidney.”

  “Susan!” I struggled to my feet. The fool! Why hadn’t he made it at Twenty-One?

  “That’s right … Susan,” she said, curling up on the sofa and watching me carefully. She had on pink lounging pajamas, and she looked older, much older than when I had seen her in the office earlier in the day.

  “You—you’re up late.” I looked around nervously. Why the hell hadn’t he made it at Twenty-One?

  “J. J. said you’d be here,” she said, eyeing me closely. “He said I should try to be up when he got home.”

  I swallowed.

  “He said he wanted to have a little chat with me, Sidney. He wouldn’t tell me what about.” She paused. “Do you have any idea what it might be about?”

  So it wasn’t to be a victory council, after all. It was to be something far worse. …

  “How should I know?” I said thickly, sinking back into the chair where I would not have to look at her face if I didn’t want to.

  “I just thought you might.”

  I loosened my tie and opened my collar.

  In the half light, it seemed as though she had too much powder on her face, and her eyes looked strange, as though she might have been crying, or drinking, and I had the feeling suddenly that she was watching me too intently.

  I took off my jacket and folded it on the arm of the chair. “Can Nikko fix me a drink?”

  “Nikko’s gone to bed. What would you like?”

  “Never mind. It isn’t—”

  “What would you like?”

  “Bourbon and soda.”

  She uncurled herself from the sofa and walked past me to the kitchen.

  “Not too much soda,” I called after her.

  I looked at my watch. Quarter to two. Much too early. I had been too eager, that was the trouble. Without meaning to, I had already started to press. I had arrived early, and the minutes were going to be knives of torment. I looked up, staring at the face on the wall. It had been captured on canvas by an artist who had managed to see only the strength and none of the weakness. It was the face of the man who had won power and fortune, not of the man who had summoned me to this room tonight because he felt unable to face his sister alone.

  She came in noiselessly. “Here you are.”

  I jumped, taking the drink from her with a shaking hand.

  “What’s the matter, Sidney?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not nervous, are you?”

  “Why should I be nervous?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  I noticed the glass in her hand as she sat down on that sofa.

  “Since when do you …?” I nodded at the glass.

  “Why n
ot? I’m a big girl now. I’m even big enough to get married. Don’t you remember? It’s tomorrow.” Her voice did funny things. She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” I said, gulping down the whisky gratefully.

  “Why don’t you look at me, Sidney?”

  I turned to her. “Okay,” I said, “I’m looking at you.” I held her gaze for a moment, and then I had to drop my eyes. “You look cool,” I said.

  “And you look nervous.”

  I finished the drink.

  “What are you nervous about? You’re not getting married. It’s me. Look at me, Sidney.” Her voice rose. “Tell me, do I look nervous? Do I look like a girl who is going to get married tomorrow? Am I all dewy-eyed and flushed and breathless with excitement? Look at me.”

  I glanced hastily at my watch. Where the hell was he?

  “I know why you won’t look at me,” she said. “You’re angry because I haven’t thanked you yet.”

  I stared at her. “Thanked me?”

  “Yes. For being so nice to Steve, for getting him that wonderful engagement at the Panamanian. He did get it, didn’t he?”

  “I—” My voice stuck in my throat.

  “It’s been so many hours since I’ve heard from him. He never called me back, as he said he would. I guess he was so excited he forgot all about it. Isn’t that terrible? Sleeping Beauty, who can’t sleep because of the heat, and Prince Charming, who hasn’t even called about rescuing her. He did get the job, didn’t he, Sidney?”

  I swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? That’s very strange. Didn’t you arrange it? If you don’t know, who would know? Of course, Steve would know, but he doesn’t seem to be talking, does he?”

  “I … I left him at the club.” I squirmed in the chair. “I … I had to leave.”

  “Oh, you had to leave? Then you weren’t there when he talked with Mr. Robard.”

  “No.” I wiped my forehead with a handkerchief.

  “And you weren’t there when he left?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s too bad,” she said.

  “What do you mean, too bad?” I cried out.

  “Well, if you hadn’t left when you did, you would have known whether Steve got the job. You would have known everything there is to know, and we wouldn’t have to be sitting here playing guessing games. Let’s play another guessing game, Sidney. Or don’t you like guessing games? Let’s try to figure out where Steve might be right now, shall we?”

  “Look,” I pleaded, “can’t we just sit here and wait for J. J.? I’m hot and tired.”

  “Maybe you work too hard, Sidney.” She got up and came toward me. “Maybe you’re cursed with too much ambition.”

  I twisted away, groaning, “Give me another drink.”

  “Maybe you’re too intent on finishing whatever you set out to do.”

  “Please. I’m tired.” I struggled to my feet and went to the window to escape the sound of her voice.

  “What do you think of Bermuda for a honeymoon? Or don’t you know about such things?”

  The lights of Long Island twinkled across the river.

  “Steve loves to swim and go sailing. He loves the hot sun and clear blue skies. Isn’t it wonderful when two people who love each other turn out to like the same things, too?” Her voice was winding up too tightly. “It even turns out that we both always wanted nothing but a very small wedding. We always wanted—oh, God, all the things we wanted!”

  An airport beacon flared and swung away in the distance.

  “Did you ever want something too desperately, Sidney?”

  I clung to the window.

  “The worst thing in the world,” she choked, “wanting something so terribly, awfully much—” She broke off.

  And in the silence I was aware, suddenly, of a change in the room behind me. The music had stopped. A voice was talking now. The announcer was saying something about five minutes of the latest news.

  The latest news!

  I turned and went for the radio.

  “Wait a minute!” Her voice stopped me. “What are you doing?”

  “You don’t want to hear this,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll get some music.”

  “What’s wrong with the news?”

  “No!”

  “What’s wrong with the news, Sidney?”

  “ I don’t want to hear it,” I said thickly.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss something important?”

  “I’ll read about it tomorrow.”

  “Sidney!” she cried out in a terrible voice. “Do you really think that I don’t know!”

  I stared at the crumbling face.

  “Don’t you know there was a one-o’clock news and a twelve-o’clock news?” she cried harshly, coming towards me. “Don’t you know Steve is important enough to make all the news? Didn’t I tell you that he’s the most important man in the world? Didn’t I, Sidney?”

  I backed away, knowing there was something to say, but I was too tired. I needed sleep. Eight hours of forgetfulness. Tomorrow would be different. Where the hell was J. J.?

  “Listen to the news!” she was screaming. “Stand there and let me look at you while you listen to it!”

  “Don’t, Susan!” I held up a hand weakly.

  I just want to see your face! Listen to the news!”

  Her face was close to mine. The voice of the announcer was forcing the words on my protesting ears, the whole story, the details. …

  “Listen!”

  Her eyes were bloodshot. She had been crying. She looked old. Just like I felt. Old and tired. Too much to drink. It didn’t make you forget. Just made you tired.

  “It makes you tired,” I mumbled brokenly. “You shouldn’t drink, Susan. It makes you say things.”

  The voice on the radio had gone on to other news. But the face wouldn’t go away.

  “Thank you,” it shrieked, “for saving me! You saved me from marrying a dope fiend! Thank you!”

  “Please, don’t!”

  “Thanks, Sidney!” She broke into a hopeless wail, and fell on the sofa. “Thanks, thanks, thanks, Sidney. You’re so good to me. You and J. J. were always so good to me. How can I ever thank you?” Her voice cried out in torture, “Steve … Steve … they were so good to us, Steve. …”

  “Stop it, Susan,” I groaned, sinking down heavily be side her. She was sobbing into the cushions, staining them with her tears.

  “It won’t be so bad,” I said to her softly. “You can go away, take a trip somewhere, forget about all this.”

  Her body shook convulsively.

  “You’ll go away on a trip, see new faces. It won’t mean a thing in a couple of weeks. Come now, stop crying. You’ll go away on a trip with J. J.—”

  She looked up at me slowly, still sobbing.

  “—on the Queen Mary. Next week. He’s got the tickets.”

  “No.” Her tear-stained face was turned to me, and she was moaning weakly. “No. No—”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Next week. To Europe. On the Queen Mary. I saw the tickets.”

  “My God.” she whispered softly. “No.”

  “Stop crying now. Just you and J. J. You’ll forget everything. That’s a good girl. No crying.”

  She was suddenly quiet, just staring at me.

  “Good girl, now.” I patted her. “I’ll get you a drink. You’ll feel better. I’ll get us both a drink.” I got up from the sofa, and her eyes followed me as though she were hypnotized.

  “Wish I was going on a trip myself,” I said. “Away from this city. Be right back. No crying, now.”

  I made my way to the kitchen and fumbled for the light. Hell of a place to keep his liquor, the kitchen. Surprised he didn’t keep it in the safe. She’d have to drink nothing but Cokes until she learned the combination. Good brother, J. J. Best brother a girl ever had. Not like me. Lousy brother. Mike was right.

  The stu
ff burned going down. Not enough soda. No soda at all.

  I went back to the living room with her drink. Nice and quiet now. Soft dance music. No sobbing. No Susan.

  “Susan?”

  The room was too damned big. No Susan. Only the stains on the sofa.

  I fell back in the club chair and drained her drink. If that’s the way she wanted it, it was okay with me. Let her stay in her own room where I couldn’t hear her. Let her go jump in a lake of tears. Let her go jump—

  I sat up as it came to me suddenly, compounded of small, unrelated things: the look last seen on the crumpled face; the whispered words; the silence of this room; the noise heard from down the hall; the scraping, squeaking sound—like—like what? Like a window—

  Yes, like a window!

  “Susan!” I was out of the chair and fighting my way across the endless stretch of living-room carpet to the hall, crying wildly, “Susan! Susan!”

  I was moving too slowly, like a man in a dream. The fog was enveloping my brain. “Susan, wait!”

  Her bedroom was dark. The window was open. “Susan! No!” I rushed to the sill.

  “What is it?”

  I wheeled around gasping, “Susan!”

  Dimly, I saw her there on the bed.

  “Thank God!” I closed the window and went to her.

  “What’s the matter, Sidney?”

  Her voice was under control now. She’d be all right. But that open window—

  “What are you doing there?” I struggled for breath.

  “Thinking,” she said quietly. “I’ve been lying here thinking.”

  “Well, come on,” I said in a shaking voice. “Get your drink.”

  She sat up on the bed slowly, her eyes boring at me through the darkness. “So you thought I would kill my self, Sidney. Is that what’s expected of me?” She got up and switched on the lights and stood there staring at me. “You don’t know me any better than that?”

  Her eyes were dry now, and the last drop of heartbreak had been wrung from her voice, leaving it cold.

  “I was afraid for you, Susan. You’re upset.”

  “Afraid all your plans were going out the ‘window?’”

  “Don’t even say such a terrible thing.”

  As she stood there looking at me, a strange, cold light stole into her eyes.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, softly, “a terrible thing.” Her eyes gleamed. “Wouldn’t it be a terrible thing if every thing were to go out the window?”