“You should have seen it before D-Day. There were twice as many then. Maybe three times.”
The doorman opened the hotel’s big plate-glass door for them, and they made their way through the luxurious lobby. At the registration desk, a tall brunette girl with a harried look in her pale blue eyes tried to talk to three groups of officers at once. She shook her head regretfully and spread her hands. The R.P. hadn’t had a room available for weeks, and wouldn’t have, in fact, until sometime in January or February. Disappointed, most of the officers turned away. Only a few attempted to bribe their way inside with charm or money, neither of which seemed to work. Hal’s opinion of O’Reilly went up a few points.
They found O’Reilly in his room shaving while Fox, wearing only his shorts, was stretched out full length on O’Reilly’s messed-up bed, looking at a lady’s high-heel shoe he was holding with loving care. “That is the prettiest damn little shoe I have ever set these tired ol’ eyes on,” he was saying.
Hal took off his trench coat and laid it across the back of a chair. Fox handed him the shoe. “Look at that,” he said. “I’ll bet that ain’t over a size two, or maybe three.”
Hal sat on the edge of the bed and examined the shoe carefully. It was an exquisitely fashioned black velvet evening slipper, small and petite with a four-inch heel. It radiated money and good taste. “I’d say about size three,” he said.
“You’re both wrong,” O’Reilly said, sticking his head out of the bathroom door. “It’s a size four. And watch out you don’t scuff it up.”
“Where’s the other one?” Hal asked.
“I lost it in St. Louis,” O’Reilly said with a grin. “But it was worth it.”
“St. Louis? You mean you carry this shoe around with you?” Hal asked, but O’Reilly had already stepped into the shower.
“That’s his party-hunting shoe,” Cossel explained. “Here, let me look at it again.”
“Party-hunting?” Hal asked. “I don’t get it.”
Fox chuckled. “Best damn gimmick I ever heard of. You stick around. Watch O’Reilly go to work.”
“It never fails,” Cossel added. “At least not that I can remember.”
“I can hardly wait,” Hal murmured.
While Fox and O’Reilly were dressing, Cossel and Hal borrowed shaving equipment and scraped off their day’s growth of whiskers. Hal was knotting his necktie when O’Reilly picked up the shoe and burnished it carefully to a dark luster. “You can tell more about a woman’s character by her shoes than any other way,” he said. “Give me one look at a girl’s feet, and I can tell you whether she’s clean or dirty, rich or poor, class or trash, smart or dumb, and whether she’ll lay or not.”
“You can get all that from shoes?” Hal asked incredulously.
“I can. It took years of arduous research.”
“But . . . how?”
“Well, consider. Fox, ol’ buddy, what do you look at first when you see a woman?”
Fox thought a moment, his handsome face drawn into a studious frown. “Goin’ or comin’?”
“Oh, come on,” O’Reilly said, “Just answer the question.”
Fox suddenly grinned. “I was thinking it had to be her ass. But I guess it’s her knockers. You give me a . . .”
“Okay. So, she’s got a good ass and great knockers. How do you know if she’ll put out?”
Fox shrugged. “I ask her?”
“You ask her?”
“Sure. First chance I get; I ask if she puts out. She say no; I look for another one.”
“That’s no fun. Where the hell is the game?”
“What game? I’m serious.”
“Christ,” O’Reilly snorted in disgust. “I’ve seen the tramps you get. I’m talking about women with class, intelligence.”
“When they’re on their backs, they’re all brilliant.”
“Good point. Okay. For anybody but Fox, you look at her shoes first. Then you look at her body. Not just the knockers, or the ass or the legs; the entire body.”
“As a whole?” Cossel added softly.
“Yeah,” O’Reilly said. “In toto. Then you check the hair. That also tells you a lot. And last . . . last you look at her face. Let me tell you this: you can’t tell a damn thing from a girl’s face. You’ve got to look at them and talk to them and analyze them. You give me five minutes talking with a woman, and I’ll tell you if she’ll put out or not.”
“Five minutes?” Fox said. “Hell, I can do it in five seconds.”
“Did you ever find any who wouldn’t?” Cossel asked, and O’Reilly looked sad.
“Women are inherently selfish. It’s in the genes. There are, unfortunately, a hundred who won’t to one who will. That’s what makes the game, finding that one.”
“A hundred?” Fox said. “You’re nuts. Every one of ’em can be had by somebody.”
“Granted. Provided you don’t mind the conditions. And conditions can really kill a romance.” Abruptly he turned and headed for the door. “Come on, Bailey. You’re about to be educated.”
“What about us?” Fox asked. “Aren’t we in on it?”
“We’ll call you when we locate something. That hot-eyed look of yours would drive any normal girl out the window!”
O’Reilly and Hal went into the hall and closed the door behind them.
“Here’s the deal,” O’Reilly said. “We prowl the corridors until we hear a party going on. You take that side. If the party’s any good, you’ll hear it.”
“Okay,” Hal said, and they began walking softly along the carpeted hallway. At the end of the hall, they doubled back to the nearest stairs, went up a flight, and tried the next floor. From time to time, they passed other people who looked at the two fliers without curiosity.
At room 847, they paused. From behind the thick door came the distinct sounds of laughter and the tinny beat of a record player.
O’Reilly breathed on the magic shoe and brushed it on his sleeve. “You stand behind me,” he told Hal. “I need talking room.”
Hal moved into place behind O’Reilly, who rapped sharply on the door. In a moment, it was opened by a short chubby Air Corps major wearing ordnance insignia on his jacket lapels and the shoulder patch of Combined Bomber Command Headquarters. He was holding a drink in one hand, and he had his arm around a trim blonde. They were both laughing until they focused their eyes on O’Reilly.
“What do you want, son?” the major said rather thickly.
“Excuse me, sir,” O’Reilly said pleasantly. He held the shoe up so that it caught the light. “I found this shoe in the hall, and I was wondering if it belonged to one of your guests.”
“Cooooo, look!” the blonde girl squealed. “What a lovely slipper!” Her voice was beginning to blur around the edges.
“Yes,” O’Reilly agreed. “Whoever owns this shoe must be quite a woman. Are you sure it isn’t yours?”
“Of course, I’m sure,” she said. She picked up the hem of her thin silk dress and pulled it almost up to her hips. She looked down at her feet, which were encased in worn brown leather shoes. She lifted one leg and held it out for O’Reilly’s inspection. “See. I’ve got mine.”
Before she dropped her skirt, Hal noticed she was wearing nylon hose, which was unusual. Probably a little gift from the major who now said, “I’ll buy ’em for you, honey.” He patted the girl affectionately on the rump. “How much you want for both of ’em, boy?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” O’Reilly said hastily, “but I only have this one which I found in the hall. Perhaps if I were to try it on some of the ladies, we could find out who it belongs to.”
By this time, the conversation had attracted a few men and girls who had gathered behind the major and the blonde. The major did not like O’Reilly’s suggestion, but the others did; they almost dragged O’Re
illy and his shoe through the door. Hal managed to crowd in behind O’Reilly before the glowering major banged the door shut.
The room was part of a suite. Doors opened into separate bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a bath. About twenty people crowded the large sitting room; there appeared to be more women than men. All the men were in uniform, including two U.S. Navy officers and a few British airmen. The women were all young and attractive. Judging by their clothing and appearance, Hal thought they were a cut above the laboring class who had attended the Saturday-night party at Thorpewood.
O’Reilly held the shoe up for inspection. “I found this shoe in the hall,” he said. “Perhaps it belongs to one of you Cinderellas.”
At the prospect of a new game, the girls quickly kicked off their shoes and forced O’Reilly into a corner. “It’s mine! It’s mine!” they shrieked like a group of harridans at a rummage sale. O’Reilly held the shoe above his head with one hand and fended off the squealing women with the other.
“Hold it, hold it!” O’Reilly shouted. “One at a time, girls. One at a time. Sit down, and we’ll try it for size. If it fits, it’s yours.”
He moved to a heavy overstuffed chair where one of the girls, a cute little brunette, sat down and thrust out her bare foot. “I’m first,” she chirped. “I’m first.”
O’Reilly knelt and grasped her ankle with loving care. As he gently eased the shoe partially over her slender foot with his right hand, his left slid easily up over the rounded firmness of her ankle and calf, and the girl shivered. Watching her face, O’Reilly moved his hand higher. The girl flushed, but she did not pull away. O’Reilly regretfully smiled and removed the shoe, but he kept his hand on her leg. “I’m sorry . . . ah . . . Miss . . . ?”
“Taylor, Ruth Taylor.”
“Sorry, Ruth,” O’Reilly smiled ruefully, making it sound as though he really was sorry.
“Here!” another girl shouted. “Let me try.” She had a mass of dark hair and wore large loop earrings that made her look like a Gypsy.
O’Reilly let go of the little brunette’s ankle, and she winked at him as she got to her feet as though to let him know that his ploy did not fool her.
The Gypsy plopped into the chair and kicked out a bare foot that was obviously several sizes too large for the tiny shoe. O’Reilly went through his routine, and when the Gypsy was dismissed, the other girls began to squeal. “Me! Try me!”
They knew O’Reilly was putting on a show, but they loved it. Most of the men watched with amusement. Two American fliers began making bets on who the shoe would fit. However, a couple of S-2 Army officers were developing a fit of slow anger. Finding attractive women was not that easy, and they were building a deep resentment toward O’Reilly. But, at the moment, there wasn’t much they could do about it.
After O’Reilly had tried the shoe on each girl without the shoe fitting any of them, they began to push and shove for the privilege of trying it on again. The major’s blonde and the first little brunette were in the thick of it, laughing and shrieking, their faces flushed, each with a hand on the shoe, refusing to let go. In the struggle, the straps of the blonde’s silk dress had slipped from her shoulders, and the brunette’s skirt was high above her knees, but neither of them appeared to notice or care. The men stood on the sidelines, cheering the combatants.
Hal caught a glimpse of a slender girl with red hair standing with her back braced against the bar. She was watching O’Reilly’s show with an amused smile. It was Betty Axley. Hal wondered if she was here on business. It seemed like a good place to work if she didn’t mind fraternizing with lowly lieutenants and captains.
Then he saw the major who had been with the blonde bring a drink to her, and he felt both irritation and a bitter satisfaction. He had been right. No lowly lieutenants for her. Except that he didn’t want to be right.
His attention was drawn to O’Reilly, who was shouting, “Hold it! Hold it!” He managed to wrest the shoe away from clutching hands, and he leaped on the chair to hold it high over his head. “Hold it!” he shouted again, and the girls subsided to giggles and chirps. “Man alive!” O’Reilly exclaimed with a grin. “You girls are worse’n a school of sharks.”
“That’s right,” one of the girls said. “Come on down, and we’ll eat you up.” It was the petite brunette.
O’Reilly looked at her and winked. “You’re not a shark,” he said, and the other girls squealed. “You’re a barracuda. And doll, you can eat me up any time.”
The brunette suddenly realized what she had said. She reddened, but she did not take her eyes off O’Reilly.
“What’s wrong with barracuda?” she asked. O’Reilly stopped smiling, and it was as though an electric current flashed between them. The others fell silent. O’Reilly stared at her, his eyes naked, but she held her ground, not moving, not blinking.
O’Reilly stepped off the chair. “Nothing,” he said softly. “Me, I like barracuda.” He led her toward the bar in the corner and, as he did so, tossed the shoe over the heads of the silent girls to Hal.
“Here, tiger,” he called. “Guard this with your life.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Hal heard the major say. His voice was reverent, and Hal had the impression he had been holding his breath. The major took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He stared in open-mouthed wonder at O’Reilly, who was sitting in a chair with the little brunette in his lap. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said again. He turned to Betty Axley and put his arm around her waist in a gesture of familiarity as he added, “Did you see that?”
Betty Axley smiled and nodded. “I hope he likes barracuda.”
“How about you?” the major said with a leer. “Are you a barracuda?”
She laughed and ran the fingers of both hands through her hair. “Not I, Cheri. I’m more of a guppy.”
“Close enough.” He tried to pull her close, but she picked up her drink and held it between them in such a way that if he pulled her any closer, it would spill down the front of his uniform.
“Careful,” she said, “this is my only dress.”
The major loosened his grasp. “I’ll buy you another one,” he said. “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”
She leaned away from him and gave him a cool stare. “Do we have a deal?”
The major’s face hardened, and Hal realized he was not as drunk as he appeared. “How much are we talking about?” he asked.
Her answer was lost as someone dropped the needle on the record player, and music blasted through the smoke-fogged room. Hal became aware that Betty Axley was staring at him over the shoulder of the major. When she caught his eye, she gave him a small salute with her glass. He grinned at her and nodded toward the dance floor. She lifted an eyebrow regretfully and gestured toward the major as though to say that’s the way it was.
Hal felt someone slap him on the shoulder, and he turned to see O’Reilly. “Get on the horn and call Fox and Cossel,” he shouted above the racket. “Man, we hit the jackpot.”
Hal nodded. “Okay.”
He pushed through the crowd until he found a house phone near the bedroom door. He asked the operator for O’Reilly’s room, and when Fox answered, he told him where they were. “Sounds like a good one!” said Fox. “We’ll be right up!”
As he placed the phone back in its cradle, Hal felt a cold, wet ice cube on his neck, and he turned to see the blonde girl who had been with the major at the door. “Hi,” she said, “why don’t we dance?”
“Not that jitterbugging they do around here,” Hal answered. “I’m strictly foxtrot.”
“Good,” she said. “So am I?”
She whirled into the center of the floor and began swaying easily to the slow rhythm of the music. Hal held out his arm, and she drifted in without losing a beat. Through her thin dress, Hal could feel the play of
supple muscles under his hands. When the record ended, and the music changed to a wild beat, she pushed Hal away and held out her hand. “Here, lieutenant,” she said. “You just hold on. I’ll do the rest.”
While Hal gripped her hand tightly, she executed a wild jitterbug, leaning back and flailing the air with her free hand, tossing her long hair and shaking her hips while her legs swirled her skirt in wide circles. The other dancers stopped and gathered in a circle to watch, beating their hands in time to the music. Hal saw that Fox had arrived and was watching the girl, his eyes glazed in happy wonder. Fox stepped forward and said, “Hey, Bailey. Let somebody do that who knows how.”
Hal surrendered his place gratefully. At the same time, he felt a tinge of jealousy. Now he would never get her back. She was not the type to stay very long with an introvert.
Left standing alone, Hal became conscious of the milling people and the laughter and the shrill voice of the phonograph, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to run for the door, to escape the savage gaiety. Everyone in the room was aware of why they were here, not here in this room, but here in England, instead of being scattered over the farms and cities of half the world. They were here to kill and be killed. The artificial glitter might be a convenient means of temporary escape, a way to stifle the knowledge of the possibility of death, but suddenly Hal felt it was a mockery to the men who at this moment were out there taking the ultimate risk.
He went to the door, but then he stopped. This place, these people repelled him, but he was also strongly attracted.
As he hesitated, a hand touched his arm, and Betty Axley said, “You’re not leaving?”
He turned. She had slipped away from the major and was beside him, very warm, very intense.
“Have to,” he said. He glanced around the room. “This isn’t for me.”
She nodded with understanding. “I’m inclined to agree. May I come with you?”
Hal stared at her blankly. She had to be joking. She was part of this. She belonged here. Yet he heard himself say, “All right.”
CHAPTER 12
Rush to Glory Page 16
