Then she wondered what Countess Maggie Alexandroff was going to buy David. Probably the very watch Mary had in mind. The only difference was that all Mary could do was dream about the watch. She supposed that the Countess could march right into the Palm Beach branch of Cartier and say, “Charge it. In fact give me half a dozen; one for each day of the week and then just run one up in iridium for Sundays.” Damn her anyway! So David and his bleached countess were such dear friends that they were already exchanging Christmas gifts, eh? And not a word out of him about Countess Alexandroff. Not a mumbling word.
“I suppose he just kisses the Countess’ hand and then takes the little typist to bed,” Mary said crossly. Then she got herself under control. “I mustn’t pay any attention to what that horrid old Mr. Wenton said. He’s a liar. A terrible liar. I know he is. I ought to. I have to take his dirty lies down in shorthand and type them up and mail them out. I have to repeat his lies over the telephone to Mrs. Wenton and to the bank and to—”
“Here’s your stop, sister,” the driver said.
Executive Suite
It was after eleven before Purcell could decently escape the crowd at the Trianon Club des Bains, peel off his wet trunks, shower and dress. His little sojourn at the pool meant that he’d be busy as a bitch in the Klondike for the rest of the day, not to mention the two or three hours he’d have to spend at the Old Man’s luncheon and putting in an appearance at the Westbury party. All in all he hadn’t had a bad time. Maggie Alexandroff was a good Indian, frank, profane and, in her own unorthodox way, a lady. Hell, compared to most of the old bags J. Arthur fancied, the Countess came over like Elsie Dinsmore. But Purcell’s mind wasn’t on countesses. It was on Mary. He’d have to see her now. Get things straightened out. Then off to the Old Man’s fête champetre. Hi ho and away!
He got into the elevator and said “Two, please.” Stepping out of the cab he handed the operator a dollar. “Here, Whitey, is one whole buck out of my slender earnings. Buy yourself a station wagon or something. And Merry Christmas.”
Very neat. He’d better stop being a big sport with a buck and start saving dimes. “Mary, baby,” he said under his breath. “My lovely girl. Sorry, darling, I’ll make it up to you,” but just now he had to see the Old Man, finish merchandising Christmas.
A red stocking for every guest. Full of oranges, of course. With a little star-shaped box full of real, old-fashioned Christmas-tree-treat candy, and a little shell-shaped box full of real Florida sand. Garnished with sprays of kumquats and Florida holly.
Cantrill was coming out of the Executive Suite and being courteous and wellborn as all hell. Barring the very phony blond streak in his hair, Cantrill seemed to be okay. There was probably nothing wrong with him that ten days at the Desk wouldn’t fix.
He went on in. Might as well get it over with. “Howdy, Dave,” the Old Man said. He seemed to be feeling quite peckish.
“Hello, sir. Morning, Miss Street,” Purcell addressed the typewriter desk, but Mary wasn’t there.
“Sick?” he asked, with an awkward, painful tightening in his throat.
“Certainly not,” the Old Man said coldly. “Strong as an ox and just about as smart. You ever notice the almost complete lack of intelligence in those big, unwondering eyes? Sent her up toward Palm Beach. Getting some real Florida holly. Fellow I know. Little unfortunate.”
The Old Man touched a languid brow. “Stuff in the market’s no good. Picked over. Have a little peace. Know what I caught her doing yesterday? Crying. About Ernie. H-hau-ghh!” the Old Man said. “Be telling me how to run the place next. Have to do everything myself, anyhow. No executive thought. Take this real, old-fashioned Merry Christmas. Life Saver. Damned good thing I thought of it.”
“What about those letters of confirmation for the 29th?” Purcell asked. “What about the New Year’s Ball? Don’t forget the St. Cyr Society and the Daughters of the Federation.”
“Plenty of time,” the Old Man said easily. “Get the letters out myself, if necessary. Longhand. Personal touch. Send them Air Mail. No problem at all. Do it in five minutes.”
Purcell gave the Old Man his money’s worth, but he was thinking about Mary. He’d make it up to her, he told himself again.
“The personal touch,” the Old Man was saying, fingering the thin spot on top of his head. “The personal touch will be our keynote for the future.”
Fifty-eight should be great, Purcell thought. Very neat. “Let’s get personal as hell. Do you think I’ll ever make a living wage” he asked with the slow smile he kept for older women. That was when they said that he was just a big, overgrown boy, after all.
“We’ll see, Dave. We’ll see. Let me think about it,” the Old Man said benignly. “You understand me, Dave,” he repeated. A lesser man might have winked. “We’ll see about it. And now, Dave, I expect it’s about time for our little, uh, luncheon.”
Mary, baby. My lovely girl, Purcell thought unhappily, arm in arm with the Old Man. Having a rotten time, sweetheart. Wish you were here—
The Office
Things kept happening, and Purcell was busy as hell. Fauntleroy Charles arrived to claim the body of the second Mrs. Fauntleroy Charles, and the two of them had gone into a huddle with the Old Man and the Coroner. The verdict had been accidental death and very hush-hush. Purcell had sold 1414 almost at once to a pimply pair of newly-weds from Jersey who didn’t look as though they could afford it.
There was a small trash fire by the service stairway. Eugenia Clupp had had an attack of some sort, and a startled coconut tree on the terrace dropped twenty-four successive coconuts on the head of a somnolent guest. Chiang was reported missing again—not that it was any loss to society—and was discovered finally in the elevator with George, mee-owing like a son-of-a-bitch.
George had had Chiang in his arms, stroking him fiercely, and George’s eyes seemed to be set straight ahead even more than usual. He’d have fired George then and there if Furman hadn’t grabbed him to go to a cocktail party the Westburys were giving in the DuBarry Suite. A command performance. The Old Man was tied up, and according to Furman, there was nobody there but the Westburys themselves and T. J. Sturt, III.
Purcell had checked with the Room Service Captain, and then he had gathered up all the people in the bar who would drink for free. “Fight furiously, Ashtabula! Grosse Pointe, here we come!”
He had rounded up Countess Alexandroff. She had a bad, bad hangover from the vin rose- at lunch, but she said that if Dave could positively guarantee that Mr. Wenton would not be there she was game. There was an Arctic explorer whose name was composed of Scandinavian consonants, and who smelled a little like a husky. There was the starlet who started to undress every time she heard music. And there was that old star of stage and screen, the original Matinee Idol wearing a rug, Lawrence Mendes In Person. Mendes, of course, was living on his alimony. The W.P.A.F.L.A. with the long hair was collecting data for his thesis, and the great Irish poet, Ian O’Flaughnessy, had been born and bred in Bridgeport, Connecticut.
There was a Buddhist nun, and a stoplight from Judge Rutherford’s Watch tower, and a lot of people who came in because the door was open. Young Mr. Cantrill appeared briefly, his most urbane self, kissing the hands of the ladies and complimenting his hostess.
“So you’re from Cleveland. Nicest couple I ever knew came from there. Shaker Heights. Named Snodgrass or something.”
“You don’t happen to know Mimi Steef, do you?”
“My dear, did you hear what he asked me? Do I know Mimi Steef? My dear, since infancy. I mean we both went to Miss Murdock’s . . .”
The party grew in noise and numbers. People who had been drinking Gibsons and Daiquiris switched unexpectedly to beer and frozen ryes. Mary, my lovely girl!
Executive Suite
Mary was very tired when she got back to the hotel. She had a blister on her heel. Her back ached. And she hadn’t had lunch. She’d had to go to wherever it was she’d been by bus and come back by truck. And
the Baldwins probably had better holly in their back yard. It had been an awful day, especially after last night.
Mary got down at the Service Entrance and advanced upon the white and gold Executive Suite with a sample spray. Mr. Wenton, dressed to kill, his lids luminously blue and reeking of Chypre, was just about to leave.
“Oh, here you are,” he said coldly. “How like you to dawdle the whole day away.”
“Is—is this all right?” Mary asked breathlessly. “S-sorry I’m late. I hurried as fast as I. . .” She looked to the big yellow chair where David usually sat. “Where’s Mr. Purcell?” she asked abruptly and knew she’d made a mistake.
“At a cocktail party with Countess Alexandroff, I believe. Charming woman. Delightful. Very rich. Although it’s very nearly seven. They may have gone out to dine. That’s Maggie’s yacht out there in the basin. The big one.”
“Is it?” Mary said dully.
“If our Davey has an ounce of brains—and I think he has—he’ll marry her. Now I must go down and make an appearance. Break poor Nona Westbury’s heart if I didn’t. Meanwhile, here’s what I want you to do.”
Mary’s mouth opened slowly. She wanted to tell Mr. Wenton that her working day was over. That she was tired. That she hadn’t had any lunch. But she didn’t understand Mr. Wenton and she was always a little frightened of anything she didn’t understand.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Here’s the room rack,” he began smoothly, pushing a box of note-sized envelopes and hotel stationery toward her.
“You know these people—most of them, anyhow. Fake it where you have to. Write a little note to each one. Personal. Longhand. You know the sort of thing I mean—’And how is Aunt Euphemia and little Eugene and Prince?’ You hope their ageratums are doing well and you wish them a real old-fashioned Merry Christmas.”
Mary’s heart sank.
“The personal touch,” Mr. Wenton said softly. “Sign them J. Arthur Wenton. Wait a minute. I’ve a better idea,” he articulated slowly. “Art Wenton!” he said at last as one who sees God. “’. . .and a real old-fashioned Merry Christmas. Sincerely, Art Wenton.’ The simplicity of it,” J. Arthur breathed. For a little while, he was plain old Art Wenton, and Sincerely at that.
“Take you five minutes,” J. Arthur said jerkily. “Do it myself if I didn’t have to go to this defecating party.” Art Wenton. Sincerely. The Personal Touch. “Oh, I know it’s after hours, you hulking peasant. Don’t worry. The Treasurer’ll take care of you.”
Mary wanted to see Dave. She’d thought about him all day, and he hadn’t even waited for her. Mr. Wenton said that he’d taken Maggie Alexandroff to the Westbury’s cocktail party. Mr. Wenton was crazy, she supposed, but he was almost always right.
The DuBarry Suite
“But, darling, it’s the most fantastic thing I ever heard of in my life. I meet this perfectly strange man from—my dear, where are you from?—from Crafton and he asks me if I know Mimi Steef. I mean she looks more like Mamie, if you know what I mean. Excuse me, darling. Good evening. Please come in. I’m Mrs. Westbury and this is—what did you say your name was, darling?”
Nona Westbury—flushed with triumph, with heat, with Scotch sours—stood radiantly at the door of the Du Barry Suite offering charm, small talk and free liquor to anyone who happened in. This room, this hotel, this party—all too perfectly perfect. Mom—Maume, that is—would have died of pride had she but been here tonight and had she not died of dropsy in ‘49. Everyone who was anyone had turned up at the E. J. Westbury party.
Oh, it had looked pretty grim at first, with only that drunken T. J. Sturt, III drinking all the liquor, not that he needed it, and Mrs. Westbury had had a terrible moment or two, not knowing what to do. But it hadn’t been long before that refined, ladylike Mrs. Conyngham had arrived with the McCannons and Ann McCannon’s mother, Mts. Paget Wynne. And then that adorable Southern girl, the Social Hostess, had brought that nice Mr. Purcell and Maggie Alexandroff! A Mr. Cantrill—whoever he was; oh, but terribly attractive—had brought none other than Lawrence Mendes.
“Why, my dear, I mean I thought he was dead!” And soon the place had been teeming with the most divine people. “Waiter! Right here!” T. J. Sturt, III shouted. “Now Tommy Jeff, you stop it. You y-heah? I s’pose you want li’l ole me to get tiddly and pay-uss out cold, honeh!”
“Waiter!”
Men’s voices were suddenly strident with command, vibrant with hearty fellowship. And little groups of people, flatulent with good humor, were drawn together briefly but fatefully, to their common malaise. “Waiter!” The waiters, poor devils, were never quite able to keep up.
“You mean to say you didn’t know that Maggie Alexandroff and I were old friends?” Mrs. Westbury cawed brightly to Mrs. Browne-Smythe. “Why, my dear, ‘friends’ is scarcely the word. I mean I wouldn’t be here tonight, standing and talking to you at my own party, if it weren’t for Maggie. I mean, my dear, Maggie saved my life. I mean it! Lit’rully saved my life!”
New ties were forged and old memories treasured unreasonably. Antagonism smoldered discreetly and the seed of fresh ill-will was sown.
“My dear, if Gee-Gee left Joe I’d never believe in anything again. But Joe was so wonderful. I mean Joe was so wonder-ful!”
“Damnedest hat I ever saw in my life . . .”
“Only niggers and limeys drink gin and like it. . .”
“Now see heah, my good man . . .”
“But my hair’s always been red, darling.”
“Awfully nice people, Nona. I can’t imagine how you and E. J. ever came to know them,” Mrs. Tewksberry trumpeted.
Sandy Sands made a brief and flamboyant appearance in the stiffest of white starched linen dinner jackets, a black and scarlet cummerbund compressing his girth down to a mere thirty-two. His toupee gleaming, his contact lenses glistening intently, he stayed just long enough to bolt three quick ones, goose the hostess and stun Mrs. Browne-Smythe with one short and extremely unattractive word. Hanging on his arm was Claire de Lune in satin the blue of the Virgin’s robe, her bottom swaying enticingly, breasts barely contained in their nest of whalebone, paillettes and sponge Tubber.
Mrs. Westbury was of two minds about Sandy and Claire, but she was too triumphant, too drunk, really to care. “I mean,” she said to Mrs. Tewksberry, “they’re not—well-awfully nice, but Maume always said that there was no such thing as a True Society without its Artists.”
Mrs. Tewksberry said the same word Sandy had said to Mrs. Browne-Smythe.
The rock-crystal chandelier swayed with the noise, the elaborate dusty hangings bellied with it, the paneled walls rang with it.
“Of course not! She told me herself that he’d simply have nothing to do with a woman. I mean his mother or something. A big double bed and they’re so happy. I promised her I’d never repeat a word of it, but. . .”
“. . . terribly devoted, but so unhealthy—I think—for a brother and sister. Life is complicated enough without. . .”
“How about it? Huh? Just you and me?”
“Why, Thomas Jefferson Stuh-h-h-t! If mah daddeh was alive he’d hoce-whip the may-un who evah asked me such a thiyung. But you-all ay-yusk so kee-yute that. . .”
“Having a good time?” Purcell asked Maggie Alexandroff. He’d be having a better time in hell himself. Let me out of here!
“Oh I’ll never be able to thank you enough for bringing me, Purcell,” Maggie said falsely. “In fact I was wondering if you’d like to come to our leper colony for a long week end. Over Labor Day, say.”
“Bad as all that?”
“It’s pretty grim, isn’t it? Do you have to do this sort of thing every day?”
“It’s our pleasure. ‘Smile at all times. If you render a Guest a small service, say Thank You. Do not say Yes, say Yes, Sir!’ “
“You could render me a great service, Purcell, by fetching me another drink. Then why don’t you scram? You’ve probably got better fish to fry and I can take care of
myself at the Westburys’ party. Hell, I saved her life, didn’t I?”
“So she’s said,” Purcell said, smiling down at her. “More than once tonight.”
“So often, in fact, that I’m sorry I did it.”
“I like you, Countess.”
“I’m usually called Hag Mag the Fag Bag, but you may call me Maggie—Dave. Or are you just being dutiful with a Guest?”
“No. I mean it.”
“All right then. Why don’t you get me a quick Scotch and a long prussic acid for my friend Mrs. Browne-Smythe.”
“Yes, Sir!” Purcell said.
Purcell placed a sweating glass in Maggie’s hand and said, “Excuse me for just a second. I’ll be right back.” Then he slithered crab wise through the shrieking crowd and made his way to a pay telephone. It was after eight. Surely Mary would be home by now. He dialed the Baldwins’ number, allowed it to ring ten times, eleven and then twelve. There was no answer.
On his way back to the Du Barry Suite he was joined by J. Arthur Wenton himself.
“Evening, Dave,” the Old Man said. “Good party?”
“It’s big.”
“Then it’s good. Plenty of names?”
Some names I wouldn’t even call you, Purcell thought. “Plenty,” he said.
“It’s a success then. That’s what I mean, Dave. The Personal Touch. You’re here. I sent young Cantrill in. Even I’m here. Show ‘em we love ‘em.”
“Miss Street back from Palm Beach yet, sir?” Purcell asked.
The Old Man waved him off. “Hours ago. Fellow named Baldwin called for her. Tremendous man. You probably know him. Very attractive in a muscle magazine sort of way. Pure beef cake. Don’t worry about little Street,” he added.
The Pink Hotel Page 20
