It already had, though Fritzi fought to hide it. Miss Vole hovered. “Whatever will you do if the stain won’t come out?”
Fritzi smiled sweetly. “Oh, just put the suit in the ashcan, I have many more.” She wanted to break something. Like Miss Vole’s neck. Seated in the front row, Miss Murphy gave her a solicitous smile.
The doorkeeper appeared between dusty tormentor curtains. “Sir? It’s Mrs. Van Sant. On the telephone. She don’t like her room at the Astor.”
“For God’s sake—she demanded to be put there.”
“She says the room’s smaller’n a loo. What’s that?”
“I shall not answer that question in the presence of ladies.”
“Well, she wants to talk to you.”
“Impossible. Inform the lady she may contact me later this afternoon at the Players Club.”
“She won’t like that,” the old man muttered as he shuffled away.
Manchester passed out sides to the other three actresses. He pointed at the orchestra and said to Fritzi, “You may wait down there.”
He auditioned the first three hopefuls using the third scene of act one—the witches meeting Macbeth on the blasted heath. Manchester read both the title role and Banquo, pitching his voice differently for each. He really was remarkable when he projected. Composed and confident, Miss Vole nearly matched him with her memorable huskiness.
Manchester sent Miss Whittemeyer down and called Fritzi. The stout lady gave her a good-natured pat as they passed on the steps, but Fritzi was confused about looking at the right eye or the left. She couldn’t remember being so nervous.
Manchester gave her a side. “Second witch.”
They read the scene, then did it a second time with Fritzi as first witch, Miss Murphy as second, Miss Vole as third. Miss Vole had a little trick of retiring a few steps upstage, forcing the other two actresses to turn awkwardly. Positioned down right of them, Manchester noticed but said nothing. The upstaging made Fritzi read more passionately.
After ten minutes Manchester called a halt and produced new sides.
“Now for something completely different. This is act five. I would like each of you to read Lady Macbeth, as the doctor of physic discovers her madness. Miss Murphy? If you would join me. You ladies kindly take seats and await your turn.”
Fritzi was all nerves again, hot one moment, chilled the next. She’d never played Lady Macbeth. She knew the part, though not well.
Miss Murphy read competently, Miss Whittemeyer too. Manchester played the Gentlewoman as well as the doctor.
“Miss Crown, please.”
She nearly tripped as she started up the steps. Behind her in the auditorium, someone laughed. If she had Macbeth’s dagger, she’d know what to do with it.
As the doctor, Manchester read, “Hark! She speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.”
“Out, damned spot!” Fritzi read. “Out, I say! One, two: why, then—”
“Pardon me, excuse me.” The unmistakable voice came out of the dark. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but I’m seated way back here and I can’t hear Miss—what is her name? I want to hear her, she’s excellent.”
“Thank you, Miss Vole,” Manchester said. “We appreciate your constructive interest, but kindly don’t speak again. It tends to unnerve the artists.” He whispered, “A little louder, can you?”
Completely thrown by the interruption, she struggled to the end. “What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed…”
And to hell with it. Disgusted with herself, she flung the side on the table. Manchester patted her arm and thanked her.
Of course, Miss Vole read magnificently, with volume that probably rattled the doors all the way up in the gallery. Manchester took the stage for a final word.
“As you leave, please write down your correct address. I will send a note to the three chosen, in tomorrow afternoon’s mail. To one and all, however, my sincerest thanks.”
He made a point of intercepting Fritzi in the wings. “I do hope the damage to your dress can be remedied.” He gave her a little bow and crinkled his eyes. She felt he liked her. In the end, though, that would count for nothing.
Back in her room, she shed a few tears. Then she wiped her eyes and worked on the ink stain. She couldn’t remove it. And she couldn’t afford a new suit. The more she thought of Cynthia Vole’s sneaky tactics, the angrier she became.
“I’m not going to be beaten by that witch.” When she realized what she’d said, she laughed. Just like that, a beautiful idea popped into her head.
For a long time she paced the room. One moment she told herself the scheme was too wicked. The next moment she started for the door, only to stop. She had been raised to play fair. Must she therefore lose to someone who didn’t?
No!
She rehearsed aloud for half an hour, saying lines over and over to get the huskiness just right. She’d always thought it a silly talent, useful only to amuse.
Maybe not this time…
Downstairs, she knocked on Mrs. Perella’s door to make sure the landlady was out for her regular late-afternoon pushcart shopping. At the wall telephone, she called the Novelty and asked for Manchester.
“His lordship’s gone. Try the Players down in Gramercy Park,” the doorkeeper said.
“Thank you, I shall, it’s urgent.”
“Is that Miss Vole?”
Fritzi clicked the receiver on the hook and sank against the wall, eyes shut, hands trembling. Any minute a copper would march in and arrest her.
Another tenant came off the street and tipped his derby. Fritzi gave him a wiggly little wave and a queasy grin. As soon as he went upstairs she telephoned the actors’ club. She was in luck:
“Manchester here.”
“It’s Miss Vole, sir”—every syllable of the impersonation was a fight for control. “I regret to tell you I’ve been offered another role, which I’ve accepted.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. For the sake of my production, I mean to say. To you I offer congratulations. May I ask the vehicle in which you’ll be appearing?”
Oh, my God, she hadn’t thought of that.
“Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, it’s a bad hookup.”
“Who is the producer? What is the play?”
Fritzi turned away from the brass carbon-cup receiver, covered her mouth, and said, “I can’t hear you, Mr. Manchester, I’m very sorry, goodbye.”
She rang off. Suddenly her eyes focused on a figure in the street doorway. Mrs. Perella, a string bag full of onions in hand.
“Why you talk in that crazy voice, Fritzi? You sick?”
“No, no, I feel wonderful,” Fritzi cried. She seized Mrs. Perella by the shoulders and danced her around, onions and all.
Next afternoon’s delivery brought a note on stationery of the Novelty Theater. Mr. Hobart Manchester begged to inform Miss Crown that he desired her to play Second Witch in his forthcoming production, and would she please arrange to be at the theater at ten tomorrow morning to discuss salary?
16. Grosse Pointe Games
The Rapid Interurban carried Carl and a box of chocolates out to Grosse Pointe, a journey of almost ten miles. He got off by a two-story brick waiting room across the street from one of the most photographed landmarks in Wayne County, the large and brightly lit Country Club of Detroit. Music and laughter drifted from Dobson’s Road House opposite.
Nearly every big, imposing house that he passed was brightly lit. Windows were open, sending animated voices, the cries of children, the music of a piano roll, into the soft darkness. The village of Grosse Pointe was essentially still a summer resort, and the season was in full swing.
As he turned the corner from Grosse Pointe Drive onto Lakeland, he smelled a warm wind redolent of fish blowing off Lake St. Clair. At the end of the street, by the water, the windows of a two-story house laid yellow rectangles on the manicured lawn. The house was done in the rustic shingle style. A pier ex
tended from the side yard into the lake. A small lacquered sign on the fence said this was VILLA CLYMER. If a place this fancy served as a summer cottage, what must their home be like? he wondered.
A long black Clymer touring car parked in front reflected the lights in the curved brass of its enormous headlights. The top was folded down, showing off the gray leather seats. Perhaps the most telling sign of the car’s cost was the hand-painted decorative pinstripe on each wheel spoke. Who owned the car? Wouldn’t Lorenzo Clymer park his in a garage?
He’d taken great care to be presentable. Taken a bath after work, even washed his hair. He wore a new fifty-cent necktie and his coat sweater, black ribbed wool—a bit too warm for the evening. He wished he hadn’t given his Princeton sweater to Fritzi.
A voice from the porch startled him. “Carl? Is that you? Do come in.”
The sweet sound of it banished his anxiety. He charged up the walk, swept off his cap. Tess stepped into the light from the open front door.
“You found us with no trouble?”
“Oh, yes, easy. Here, these are for you.”
“Why, thank you. Chocolate creams are my favorite.”
They gazed at each other in awkward silence. Maybe other men wouldn’t find Tess Clymer beautiful, but he did; a certain chemistry had started bubbling the moment she spoke to him at the racetrack.
She knew how to show herself to advantage. She wore a short fitted jacket, navy blue, with a matching skirt, and a filmy blouse that enhanced the billowy curve of her breasts. She’d fixed her hair in a chignon, fastening it with three tortoise-shell combs inset with rubies.
“Would you care to sit, or look at the lake? Supper won’t be served until half past eight.”
“I thought I saw a yacht tied at the end of your pier.”
“You did. It’s my father’s. He commutes to his office in Detroit when we’re living out here. The captain sleeps aboard.”
They strolled down the gently sloping lawn to a concrete sea wall. A bright yellow half-moon the color of butter hung above the lake, tinting the wavelets. The long white yacht bobbed gently. A half mile offshore Carl saw the running lights of another.
“People claim to have seen sea serpents in the lake,” Tess said.
“Drunk or sober?”
“The people, or the sea serpents?” It made him laugh. She said, “We could play croquet if you like.”
“Croquet? It’s dark.”
He felt like a dunce when she said, “Oh, Father’s taken care of that. He installed brand-new lights for the tennis court and the back lawn. Come.” She took his hand.
She stepped inside the four-bay garage behind the house. Bright lights on poles suddenly bathed the croquet court. Handsome pear trees grew in neat rows behind it.
“I should caution you,” Tess said as they walked to the mallet rack. “You mustn’t be upset by Father’s manner. He’s rather blunt with everyone, me especially. He’s ruled me with a strict hand ever since my mother died when I was fifteen. At twenty-one I’m still trying to break him of that. Which color would you like?”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Green.”
He handed her a ball and mallet, took red for himself. They walked to the starting stake. “Is your father in the house?”
“Yes, he’s meeting with his advertising agent, Wayne Sykes. Wayne’s an old friend of the family. A Detroit boy. He handles the Clymer auto account. He’s been waiting since three o’clock, poor man. Father was detained in the city at an emergency board meeting. He’s on the board of two banks. My father works seven days a week and expects everyone else to do the same.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” He regretted the question when her face clouded.
“I did have. Roger, my older brother, died of influenza when I was thirteen. My younger sister, Winona, was killed in a cycling accident a year later. Mother passed away the year after that.”
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up—”
“We live through these things,” she said with a smile meant to reassure him. “It’s been lonely without them, that’s all. You go first.”
The mallet felt small as a toothpick in his big hands. His stroke caromed the ball off the first of the two wickets, shooting it to one side. “Hell,” he said without thinking. “Oh, sorry. I haven’t played for a while.”
“Just take your time. We’re not competing for a prize,” Tess said gently.
Still, she was adept at the game, and competitive—no posturing as the winsome girl outmatched by the big man. She made clean, confident strokes that went where she aimed. Behind from the start, Carl stayed behind, missing wickets and steadily losing ground. He was approaching the stake at the far end when she intercepted him, hit his ball, and whacked him away. As he chased the ball, his shoe caught a wicket and he fell. He jumped up, brushed himself off. Dumb ox. Keep it up, she’ll never want to see you again.
“Are you hurt?” She was solicitous, not scornful. She stood barely two feet away, her dark blue eyes reflecting the moon. He wanted to grab her and kiss her, devil take the consequences.
“No, fine.” He picked up his ball. He returned to the end wickets and went through on his next turn. He missed the stake on both follow-up shots. “Blast.”
By the time he hit the stake and started back, she was already at the other end of the court, in front of the starting wickets, although a foot and a half to one side. She bent over the ball, studied the path, hit. The ball rolled through the first wicket, struck the second, miraculously slid through. She tapped it against the stake.
“Good game. You beat me.”
“Unfair advantage. I play golf. There’s Father, with Wayne.” She turned off the lights. On the porch Carl saw two men, one with a lighted cigar; his voice carried.
“I’m just not sure of the advisability of featuring my portrait as the main illustration.”
“Lorenzo, take my word. It’s the right approach. Everyone knows you or has heard of you. The ad speaks not only through the copy but more subtly. It says the Clymer must be a quality car if a man of your stature and reputation puts his name on it. The pictures drives the nail in solidly.” The speaker had an unctuous voice Carl disliked at once.
“All right, but I definitely don’t care for that fancy border on the ad.”
“We’ll change it. Whatever you want. What would you like?”
“I don’t know. Show me a few other ideas.”
“Certainly. You’re the client.”
“Tess, hello. I’ve asked Wayne to stay for supper since I kept him late. This is your guest? Good evening, young man, I’m Lorenzo Clymer.”
Clymer shook Carl’s hand with a firm grip. Wayne Sykes merely nodded. They went inside to a huge dining room, where two serving girls were placing platters of veal and side dishes and pouring water and wine. Clymer’s fine white suit and the trim blazer and gray trousers worn by Wayne Sykes made Carl feel shabby. He stepped toward Tess’s chair to hold it for her, but Sykes was quicker.
Under the glittering electric chandelier he could see the two men clearly. Lorenzo Clymer’s features were unremarkable. He was short and slightly built, with small hands and sleek dark hair. Evidently Tess got her height from her mother. Carl had learned a few things about his host. A self-made millionaire, Clymer had established a successful iron foundry, bought another, plus a heat-treating plant, then expanded into casting wheels for locomotives and railway cars. This business made him rich, then rich a second time when he sold it to the giant Michigan Car Company. He kept his other operations; Jesse worked at Clymer’s first foundry.
Clymer said, “Tell us about yourself, Carl. Where do you hail from?”
“Chicago. My father owns the Crown brewery.”
“Crown Lager? Never tried it,” Sykes said as he helped himself to rice and passed the bowl. “Personally I’m a whiskey man. If not Kentucky bourbon, then French champagne. Eh, Tess?”
He said it as though they shared
a secret Carl couldn’t possibly appreciate. Sykes was a few years older than Carl, auburn-haired, slender, and tan. He had a look of supple strength, as though he rowed or played a lot of tennis. His nose was long, his mouth mobile, his eyes black, with a mean light in them. Or am I just jealous?
“What college did you attend, old man?” Sykes asked.
“Princeton.”
“Graduated when?”
“I didn’t.”
“Really? Um. I’m Harvard ’98 myself.”
“And a bit uppity about it,” Tess teased. “Just like all Harvard men.”
Lorenzo Clymer waved at the serving girl by the sideboard. “Don’t stand there sleeping, Greta. Fill up the water glasses.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Where do you work, Carl? What’s your profession?”
He was prepared for the question. He’d discussed it with Jesse, who counseled him to be truthful, regardless of Clymer’s feelings about Henry Ford. “You got to tell him sometime if you’re as crazy about this girl as you act like” was Jesse’s languid comment.
“I don’t exactly have a profession, sir. I’m a driver for the Ford Motor company.”
“Well.” Sykes tossed his napkin aside and sat back, folding his arms. The single word conveyed a clear meaning: Carl had done himself in. To judge from the look on Lorenzo Clymer’s face, he agreed.
“I don’t expect you to condemn an employer, Carl. In fact, to do so would be base disloyalty. But neither will I hide my personal feelings about Henry Ford. The man’s a bumpkin, with an ego big as a barn.”
“A clown,” Sykes said. “His people were shanty Irish from Cork.”
“Seven years ago, right here in Grosse Pointe, Henry’s 999 race car beat Alex Winton’s Bullet,” Clymer said.
“Yes, I know about that,” Carl said.
“On the strength of that victory,” Clymer said, “the Henry Ford Company was organized. I put a considerable sum of money into it. In six months Henry damned near wrecked the company with his dilatory tinkering. The board got rid of him and put a good old Detroit name on the door, Cadillac. I made money when I sold out my interest, but I’ll tell you, son, Henry’s ideas are all wet. This new Model T won’t amount to a thing after the first flurry of interest. Personally I wouldn’t be seen in the kind of car he wants to build. The top of the market is where a smart auto man aims his product.”