Soapy Molloy was devouring her with adoring eyes. Few more loving husbands than he had ever cracked rocks in Sing Sing.
'Honey! I didn't see you come in.'
'I was back there, hiding behind a pillar. There was a guy having a cocktail I didn't want to see me. Nobody you know. Fellow of the name of Prosser.'
'Not the one they call Oofy?'
'I don't know what his first name is.'
'Guy with pimples?'
'That's right. Why, do you know him?'
'Must be the same. Young Widgeon next door to Castle-wood introduced me to him. I've something to tell you about Prosser.'
'Me, too, you, but it can wait. Let's eat, Soapy, I'm starving.'
'I'll bet you are.'
'They don't over-feed you in the coop.'
'That's what I found last time I was up the river, and I guess it's much the same over on this side. Too bad they got you, baby. What happened?'
'I didn't let my fingers flicker quick enough. And I didn't know the store dick was standing right behind me. Oh well, that's the way the cookie crumbles. You can't win 'em all.'
'No, you can't win 'em all. That's what I told Chimp.’
Dolly started.
'Chimp?'
'I ran into him the other day.'
'And told him about me?'
'He'd already heard. These things get around.'
'What did he say?'
'He laughed.'
'Laughed?'
'Laughed his head off.'
Dolly bit her lip.
'He did, did he?' she said, and an ingrained dislike of their old associate Chimp Twist became accentuated. Circumstances had made it necessary for them to take this dubious character into partnership from time to time, but her relations with him had never been anything but strained, and it comforted her a good deal to remember that at their last meeting she had hit him on the head with the butt end of a pistol. She would willingly have done the same at this moment.
'The little potato bug!' she said, her fine eyes clouding as that unsympathetic laughter at her expense seemed to ring in her ears. 'Is he still running that private-eye racket of his?'
The question surprised Mr. Molloy.
'Why, of course he is, sweetie. Why wouldn't he be? It's only a month since you've been away.'
'Well, a month seems a long time for Chimp Twist to stay out of the coop. How's he doing?'
'He didn't say, but I guess he doesn't bother much about clients. The J. Sheringham Adair Private Investigation Agency's just a front.'
Dolly laughed bitterly.
'J. Sheringham Adair! What a name to call himself.'
'Had to call himself something.'
'Well, why not Heels Incorporated or Doublecrossers Limited or sump'n'? I tell you. Soapy, whenever I think of that undersized boll weevil, I go hot all over, clear down to the soles of my shoes.'
'Oh, Chimp's not so bad.'
'Not so bad as what?'
Mr. Molloy, though trying to be tolerant, found this question difficult to answer. He changed the subject. 'Swell place, this.'
'Yeah.'
'Makes one sort of sad, though.'
'Why's that?'
'Well, seeing all these rich guys that Nature intended I should sell 'em oil stock, and I can't because I don't know them. Sitting waiting for you and watching them come in through the swing doors, I felt like a big game hunter with a stream of giraffes, gnus and hippopotamuses passing by him and he can't do nothing because he came out without his gun.'
'I know what you mean. It's tough.'
'But no use worrying about it, I guess. Let's go eat.'
'You can't make it too soon for me. But somewheres else, not here.'
'Why, what's wrong with Barribault's? Best joint in London.'
'So I've heard. But I don't like the company. Prosser's in there.'
'I don't dig this Prosser stuff. What's he got on you?' 'Oh, this and that.'
Soapy forbore to press his questioning. A solution of the mystery had occurred to him. It was, he knew, his consort's practice, when not collecting knick-knacks at the department stores, to swoon in the arms of rich-looking strangers in the public streets and pick their pockets as they bent to offer her assistance, and no doubt Oofy Prosser had been one of the parties of the second part in some such business deal. This would, of course, account for a sensitive woman's reluctance to resume their acquaintance.
'Let's go to the Ivy,' he said. 'More onteem there, and I've lots to tell you, honey.'
6
IT was not till they were settled at a corner table that Soapy touched on any subject other than his loneliness in his mate's absence and the ecstasy he felt in having her with him once more. The glass partition that separated them from the driver of their taxi was closed, but one never knew that a rich, rolling voice like his might not penetrate glass, and what he had to relate was not for the ears of taxi drivers.
'And now,' he said, as the shrimps on his beloved one's plate vanished like nylon stockings from the counter of a department store, 'lemme tell you what I've been doing since you went away.'
'Not been idle?'
'Busy as a one-armed paper-hanger with the hives.'
'That's my boy. Shrimps,' said Dolly, finishing the last one and regarding her empty plate hungrily, 'are all right as a starter, but they don't have what you'd call authority.'
'Just scratch the surface?'
'That's right. What's coming?'
'Sole mornay, and some sort of chicken after that.'
'That's what I like to hear. You're doing me well, baby.'
'It's a celebration, and I can afford to. How would you feel about a month or so in the south of France?'
'As good as that, is it?'
'Just as good as that. I've cleaned up.'
'Tell me.'
Soapy Molloy's substantial form seemed to expand. He new he was going to be impressive.
'Well, to start with, I unloaded a thousand pounds worth of Silver River on young Widgeon at Peacehaven.'
'You didn't!'
'That's what I did.'
'I wouldn't have thought he had a thousand pounds.'
'He hasn't now.'
'Well, that's swell. I don't wonder you're feeling pleased with yourself. A thousand's nice sugar.'
'Ah, but wait. You ain't heard nothing yet. I then took another thousand off his uncle, guy of the name of Blicester.'
'You're kidding!'
'And,' said Soapy, delivering the punch line, 'two thousand off your friend Prosser.'
Dolly choked on her sole mornay, as any loving wife would have done in similar circumstances. Her look of admiration warmed his heart.
'Soapy, you're a marvel!'
'I'm not so bad. What I always say is give me a nice smooth-working sucker and plenty of room to swing my arms around, and I could sell the Brooklyn Bridge.'
'Why, we're rich!'
'Rich enough to have a vacation in the south of France. Or would you prefer Le Touquet? Just the right time for Le Touquet now, and I haven't been there in three years. I did well when I was there last. That was before we were married. There was a woman I met at the Casino I sold quite a block of Silver River to.'
'I'm not surprised. You're so fascinating, my great big wonderful man!'
'Just so long as I fascinate you, baby,' said Mr. Molloy. That's all I ask.'
The meal proceeded on its delightful course. Coffee arrived. Soapy lit a large cigar, and it was only after he had sat smoking it for some little time that it was borne in upon him that his wife, usually an energetic talker, had fallen into a thoughtful silence. He looked across the table, somewhat concerned.
'What's the matter, honey?'
'Matter?'
'You're kind of quiet.'
‘I was thinking.'
'What about?'
She seemed to brood for a moment, as if debating within herself whether silence would not be best. Then she made up her mind to speak.
'Soapy, there's something I want to tell you.'
‘I’m listening.'
'I hadn't meant to tell you till your birthday.'
'What is it?'
'It's something you'll like. You'll turn hand-springs.'
Soapy stared, not precisely aghast but definitely uneasy. He had never been a great reader, but he liked occasionally to dip into the cheaper type of novelette, and in all the novelettes he had come across words like these on wifely lips could mean only one thing. In a low, quivering voice, quite unlike his customary fruity utterance, he said:
'Tiny garments?'
'Eh?'
He choked on his cigar.
'You heard. Are you knitting tiny garments?'
'You mean?'
'That's what I mean.' Dolly broke into a peal of happy laughter. 'For Pete's sake! Of course I'm not.' '
You aren't…? We aren't…?'
'Going to have little feet pattering about the home? Not a patter.'
Soapy breathed deeply. He was not a philoprogenitive man, and a considerable weight had been lifted from his mind.
'Gosh, you had me scared for a minute!' he said, dabbing a handkerchief on his fine forehead. Dolly was now all sparkle.
'No, nothing of that kind. Not but what later on…’
'Yes, later on,' agreed Soapy. 'A good deal later on. Then what's on your mind?'
'I don't know but what I still ought to save it up for your birthday, but…Oh, well, here it comes. Soapy, do you remember when I told you a couple of months ago I was going to spend a week or two visiting friends in the country?'
'Sure.'
'Well, I didn't spend any week or two visiting friends in the country. Do you know what I actually done?'
'What?'
'I got a job as maid to a dame. Name of Prosser.'
Soapy leaped in his chair, and sat staring. Enlightenment had come to him like a levin flash. In addition to dipping into novelettes, he read the daily papers regularly, and the front page story of Mrs. Prosser's bereavement had not escaped his eye. Beads of excitement stood out on his Shakespearian brow, and he upset a coffee cup in his emotion.
'Baby! You aren't telling me…You don't mean…You didn't…?'
'Yay, that's what I did. I got away with her ice.'
There was nothing small about Soapy Molloy. He experienced no trace of chagrin at the thought that the triumphs of which he had been boasting so proudly a short while before had been demoted to the chickenfeed class by his wife's stupendous feat. Wholehearted admiration was all he felt. He gazed at her worshippingly, wondering what he could ever have done to deserve such a helpmeet.
'All those jools?' he gasped.
'Every last one.'
'They must be worth the earth.'
'They're not hay. Well, now you're hep to why I didn't want to meet Prosser.'
'But why didn't you say anything about it before?' '
I told you. I was saving it up for your birthday.'
Mr. Molloy breathed devoutly.
'Honey, there's no one like you.'
'I thought you'd be pleased.'
'I feel like dancing a skirt dance. Where are they?'
'Oh, they're tucked away somewhere quite safe.' Dolly looked about her. 'Everyone seems to have gone. We'd better be moving before they throw us out.'
'What do you feel like doing now?'
'I thought I might look in at Selfridge's.'
'I wouldn't, baby.'
'I need some new stockings awful bad.'
'But not this afternoon. Look, what I suggest is we go to Barribault's and…well, sort of loll around. We'll think of something to do.'
'Where? In the lobby?'
'In my suite.'
'In your what?’
'I've taken a suite there. You'll like it. It's got…What's the matter, honey? Why are you looking like that?'
He spoke anxiously, for into his wife's face there had come a look of horror and dismay, suggesting to him for a moment that the shrimps, the sole, the chicken and the French pastry which had followed them had been too much for an interior enfeebled by prison fare. But this diagnosis was erroneous. It was not Dolly's internal mechanism that was troubling her.
'Soapy! You're not telling me you've left Castlewood?'
'Sure. I'm not saying the way I've cleaned up is anything like the way you've cleaned up, but I have cleaned up pretty good, and when you've cleaned up pretty good, you don't want to be horsing around down in the suburbs. You feel like splurging.'
'Oh, my Gawd!'
'Why, what is it, sweetie?'
Dolly's face had a twisted look, as if she had swallowed something acid.
‘I’ll tell you what it is,' she said, seeming to experience some difficulty in articulating. 'The Prosser ice is at Castlewood.'
'What!'
'On top of the wardrobe in our bedroom, that's what.’
Soapy could understand now why his honey was looking like that, as he had expressed it. He was looking like that himself.
'On top of the wardrobe?' he gurgled weakly.
'Seemed to me the safest place to put it, Yessir, there it is, and not a chance of getting at it, because by this time some-body'll have moved in.'
'Not already.'
'I shouldn't wonder. That fellow Cornelius, the guy with the full set of white whiskers, was telling me that houses like Castlewood never stay vacant for more than a day or two. Say, listen, go call him up.'
'Cornelius?'
'Yay. Ask him what the score is."
Mr. Molloy rose as if a bradawl had pierced the seat of his chair. He hurried out.
'You're right,' he said lugubriously, returning some minutes later. 'The joint's been rented.'
'I thought as much.'
'To Leila Yorke, the novelist. She clocked in this morning,' said Soapy, and beckoning a waiter ordered double brandies for two. They both felt they needed them.
It was some time after before either of them spoke. Then Dolly emerged from the fog of silent gloom which had been enveloping her. Women are more resilient than men.
'You'll have to go down there and see this dame and make a spiel.'
'How do you mean, honey?'
'Why, tell her some story that'll make her let us have the house back.'
'You think she would?'
'She might, if you're as good as you always were. Everyone says there's no one can pull a line of talk the way you can.’ Mr. Molloy, though still far from being his usual hearty self, became a little more cheerful. On the horizon of his mind there was shining a tiny spark of hope, like a lighted match seen at the end of a tunnel. 'Worth trying,' he agreed.
'Sure it is. We're not licked. Because don't forget that this dame writes books, and there never was an author yet who had enough sense to cross the street with. All these novelists are half-way around the bend.'
Mr. Molloy nodded. There was, he knew, much in what she said.
7
LEILA YORKE was breakfasting in bed. Sally had boiled the eggs and toasted the toast and taken them up to her, still a good deal dazed by the swiftness with which she had been uprooted and transferred from the old home to this new environment. On Friday her employer had told her to pack, on Saturday they had driven off in the car with the Claines Hall butler staring after them like a butler who is at a loss to understand, and here it was only Sunday morning and they had been established at Castlewood some twenty-four hours. Leila Yorke was a woman who believed in doing it now, and though Sally was extremely fond of her, there were moments when she found herself wishing that she would less often model her behaviour on that of those American hurricanes which become so impulsive on arriving at Cape Hatteras.
As she sat trying to relax, the front door bell rang. She went to answer it, and found on the step a venerable figure almost completely concealed behind a long white beard. He was carrying a large suitcase and a bundle of papers, and she wondered for a moment if he had come to stay.
'Good morning,' said this bearde
d pard.
'Good morning,' said Sally.
'My name is Cornelius. Can I see Miss Yorke?'
'She's in bed.'
'Not ill?' said Mr. Cornelius, blenching.
'Oh, no, just having breakfast.'
'And thinking lovely thoughts,' said Mr. Cornelius, reassured. 'Does she keep a pad and pencil by her bedside?'
'Not that I know of.'
'She should. The lightest of her meditations ought to be preserved. I have thirty-two of her books here,' said Mr. Cornelius, indicating the suitcase. 'I was hoping that she would autograph them.'
'I'm sure she will. If you will leave them…'
Thank you, Miss - '
'Foster. I'm Miss Yorke's secretary.'
'What a privilege!'
'Yes.'
'She must be a delightful woman.'
'Yes, very.'
'Her books have always been an inspiration to me, and not only to me but to the little literary society we have here which meets every second Thursday. I was wondering if Miss Yorke could be persuaded to come and talk to us this week.'
'I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think she would be able to manage it. She's just planning out a new novel, and of course that takes up all her time.'
'I quite understand. Then I will just leave the Sunday papers for her. I thought she might care to see them.'
'How awfully kind of you, Mr. Cornelius. I know she'll want the Sunday papers.'
'They are rather difficult to obtain in Valley Fields. They are not delivered, and one has to go to a tobacconist's near the station. I always get Mr. Widgeon's for him. He lives at Peacehaven next door, and one likes to be neighbourly. Good-bye, Miss Foster,' said Mr. Cornelius, and with a courtly waggle of his beard melted away.
His parting words had made Sally jump. For an instant she had thought she had heard him say 'Mr. Widgeon'. Then she knew that she must have been mistaken. Coincidences are all very well - in her novels Leila Yorke went in for them rather largely - but there is a limit. It was absurd to suppose that by pure accident she had come to live next door to the man she had resolved never to see again. A simple explanation suggested itself. Owing to his obiter dicta having to be filtered through a zareba of white hair, it was not always easy to catch exactly what Mr. Cornelius said. No doubt the name had been Williams or Wilson or possibly Wigham. It was with restored equanimity that she started to go and see how Miss Yorke was getting on with her breakfast, and met her coming down the stairs in a pink dressing gown.