by Emily Hahn
“Lucky,” she said, “about our being married. Remember? Well, do we announce?”
“Good Lord no, honey!” He sounded scandalized, as if such a thing had never been heard of before. “Of course we don’t; whatever are you thinking of? You know how I’m fixed. Just wait a little until I give you the go-ahead, and then we can hire a hall if you like.”
So there it was; she was engaged, but it didn’t seem to make any difference at all. She still had to behave like a free, unspoken-for woman. Bruce still acted like an eligible bachelor. It was impossible not to resent this. For instance, there was that matter of the J.D.S. party. Bruce was giving it in his apartment to celebrate the gratifying and unusual fact that the society hadn’t come out of their production in debt. Of course, they hadn’t made a fortune either, but they’d managed rather nicely. Mrs. Fredericks had been generous and so had a lot of other people who contributed the props and the costumes. Even if you discounted public bias on the ground of town spirit, they’d had good reviews, so all in all a celebration was certainly indicated. And as Francie admitted, even when she felt most cross about it, Chadbourne had worked terribly hard and so it was only right that she should be asked to receive guests at the party, as hostess. Yet if Francie really had what was coming to her as Lucky Munson’s intended, she would have presided, and the consciousness of this was boung to nag her.
Now that the party had been announced, Cousin Biddy was already speculating wildly on the probable announcement soon of Brace’s and Chadbourne’s engagement, still insisting, moreover, that Lottie Fredericks was mad to permit such a thing. It was irritating: even Marty had stopped worrying about Francie’s welfare regarding the tricky Lucky Munson: she and Jinx often dropped in to the shop and talked and joked happily as if matters were back to the old norm. And this too failed to please. Francie, though she had been distressed by the youngsters’ temporary estrangement. All in all, a secret engagement was not really fun; definitely not. Not when your fiancé still ran like a hare whenever a Fredericks cracked a whip.
Oh, for the innocent high-school days when an engagement was really an engagement (even though it seldom came to anything) and a girl could wear a fraternity pin proudly over her heart where everybody could see it!
However, there was the party to get through. Francie determined to be good-natured and nonpossessive that evening.
When she got there, she couldn’t make out what the trouble was at first. Something had been in the back of her mind when she went up the steps to the apartment. She had expected to see somebody, or something, there, and she didn’t. What with all the greetings and laughter and congratulations and general happy atmosphere of get-together, she didn’t have time to think it out until late in the evening when the buffet supper, had been eaten, the dishes washed and put away, and everybody was ready to dance. The boys tried to roll up the carpet, but it was discovered that heavy pieces of furniture were holding it down. They set to work shoving them back, off into the corners. Lucky supervised the work but didn’t actually do any of it. He said he was too busy, picking out and stacking records for the record player. Then at last Francie realized what was missing. She peered around looking for it: she went to the bedroom and looked there. No, it wasn’t anywhere. So she went back to Bruce where he stood at the record player.
“Where’s the Mystery Desk?” she asked.
Bruce grunted absently and stooped down to search the lowest shelf in his cabinet for a special record.
“Where is it, Bruce?” she asked again.
“Huh? What’s on your mind?” asked Bruce, standing up again. “Want something, honey?”
“I don’t want it,” said Francie. “I just wondered where it was.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your desk,” said Francie a little querulously. “Are you deaf or something? The William and Mary desk you bought in Chicago, for goodness’ sake. I don’t see why you should look so blank. Where is it?”
“Ohhh, now I know. The desk. Sure. Well, it isn’t here at the moment.”
“So I see,” said Francie. She didn’t know why, but she was beginning to feel worried. It was because of a strange look in Lucky’s eyes, a shifty look. “Where is it, then?” she asked.
“What’s the matter with you, keed? What’s the idea, cross-examining me?” he said. “Since you’re so interested, I don’t mind telling you I’ve lent it to a friend.”
“Why, Lucky,” said Francie. “That just doesn’t make sense. People don’t go around lending great big desks. It’s crazy!”
Bruce took this badly: his handsome face flushed. “So I’m crazy. And what if I am? What if I feel like doing what everybody doesn’t?”
“You don’t have to be nasty about it.” Francie’s voice rose slightly and Bruce became alarmed.
“Shhh,” he said. “I’ll tell you all later. Be a good kid now and hand around the Cokes or something.” He smiled charmingly, his flash of ill temper evidently forgotten. She went off obediently, but it was disturbing: there would have to be a showdown soon. And Bruce was oddly evasive during the next few days. He didn’t come into the Birthday Box even when he must have known Francie was on duty alone; every time she made an excuse to go to Fredericks & Worpels in the hope of finding him, Chadbourne was there too, and Francie didn’t want to bring up the question of the desk in front of a third party. As for telephoning, Lucky just never was at home when she tried. Admittedly she didn’t try very often because she seldom had a chance without Aunt Norah’s being able to overhear.
Pop was getting a shower of letters from New York, and sometimes he put through long-distance telephone calls. Francie had long since stopped paying attention to these developments: she was concentrated on her own affairs, but one day at breakfast when the morning mail arrived, she realized something important had happened.
“Good!” said Pop, reading a letter. He looked so cheerful that she asked what was up.
“It’s the case,” he said. “My office case; we’re getting ready for the final hearing and it’s going well.”
“That’s nice,” said Francie, and Aunt Norah added with more enthusiasm, “Oh Fred, how wonderful!”
“It can’t be long now before we’re cleared up and ready to start with a clean slate,” said Pop. “Well, Francie, you’d better try out your wings and make sure they still work. Is there time for you to clinch that deal with Penny about her new apartment?” He was referring to vague plans Francie had made with her friend for the next term in New York, if it was at all possible for her to come back. “I think I can swing it, if so,” said Pop. He was beaming.
Francie thought hard. She had forgotten all about New York and this possibility, and of course she wasn’t interested now. But how could she explain to Pop about her sudden change of heart? What was it based on anyway? Bruce? Or the sparkle of her life these days? She said vaguely, “I shouldn’t think she’s waited for me; I told her not to, last time I wrote. We’d better wait, don’t you think?”
“That would be wiser,” said Pop. “There’s many a slip, after all, and I can’t guarantee my affairs will start going like clockwork from the very start. Still, I’d like to make sure you have what you want.”
Francie said, “Don’t you worry. I’m perfectly happy where I am; I’m getting used to Jefferson.”
Aunt Norah looked gratified, and Francie felt like smiling. She felt that she had got the idea across very delicately that she had no intention of hanging on indefinitely to Pop, getting in the way of his private plans. It was queer, but since her own life had become so interesting, the thought of her father’s possible marriage had ceased to disturb her. She only wondered sometimes when they might see fit to let her know officially what everyone in town was now taking as settled. It wasn’t anything she could bring up herself, she felt, with Aunt Norah.
At last one Saturday Bruce ceased to be evasive: he telephoned and asked Francie out to dinner, naming a restaurant out in the country where they had once been.
She had a momentary twinge of irritation because he never, never, never took her anywhere in town, but she suppressed it. It was nice that he should ask her to go out, and it may not have had anything to do with the fact that both Fredericks women were away for the weekend. She got ready happily, and was waiting practically on the doorstep when he arrived. Bruce looked delighted to see her, too. As soon as they had reached a wooded spot on the road he stopped the car and kissed her until she complained that he’d taken off all her lipstick.
“Well, it’s been a long time,” he said, “and that’s worth a little lipstick. I’ll buy you a whole new one if you insist.” He started the car again. Francie could not resist saying, “It hasn’t been my fault it was such a long time.”
“Don’t be that way, Baby.”
“All right, I won’t,” she said amiably.
They had such a good time that evening that she even forgot about the Mystery Desk until they were on the way home. “Oh, Lucky, what was all that nonsense about the desk?” she asked. “Remember?”
This time he didn’t fence; he answered readily enough. “Oh, that,” he said. “Well, I’ll tell you, but I didn’t want to blab about it in front of everybody at the party. I think I’ve managed to do a good turn of business over that little article. I sold it for more than it cost me.”
She was a few minutes taking it in. She was puzzled. “But Lucky, darling, I thought you weren’t allowed to sell things you bought at a discount that way.”
“What do you mean, not allowed?” he asked. “It was mine, wasn’t it? I paid for it. There’s no law that compels a man to keep—”
Francie said, “Of course I shouldn’t have used that word. I meant you aren’t supposed to do it. Are you? If you get a discount because you’re in the trade? I thought it was on the understanding that it was for your personal use that you got it so cheap; you told me that yourself, Bruce.”
She spoke timidly, having learned to be wary of his fits of anger, and she recalled that he had already been touchy on the subject of the desk. But he was amicable, explaining lightly and easily that she must have misunderstood. The rule was for big, important purchases, he said. The occasional single piece didn’t matter. “Really, Francie, if everybody was as particular as all that!” he said, laughing, and tweaked her nose.
So they left it at that, though Francie still had misgivings.
There wasn’t much more she felt she could say. She was not happy about it, but it was a relief to be on good terms with him again, after what had felt like an estrangement. And it seemed to her in the course of the week, even after Chadbourne and her mother were back in town, that Lucky was being more attentive than he had ever been before. Mrs. Fredericks had decided to have a twenty-foot mural in the main ballroom of the country club as part of her re-decoration, and one day had mentioned this to Francie. “I’m going to have designs submitted for it in Chicago, of course, but before I do, if you’d like to tinker.… I do like your little designs. They’re so clever.” Even this ungracious invitation had been enough, and Francie went in the shop oftener than before to discuss it. Quite openly Bruce paid her attention, not only outside the shop of Fredericks & Worpels but when she went in on business affairs. Once he leaned over and kissed her when she entered, in a nice natural manner; if you can say a kiss is just friendly, it was a friendly kiss. It seemed to Francie that Chadbourne looked puzzled when he did it. But kissing isn’t so significant nowadays, and Chadbourne evidently decided not to think anything of it. Her manner to Francie remained the same.
It was nearly a month later that the real trouble started. Francie had been sent out on an errand by Mrs. Ryan and she came back in the middle of the afternoon to find a visitor in the Birthday Box. Florence Ryan, looking rather worried, was talking in the office to a tall, elegant, gray-haired woman. Through the open door the woman looked familiar to Francie, but at first she couldn’t recall just why. Florence nodded to her over the woman’s shoulder and went on conversing. They talked so quietly that Francie caught only the occasional phrase as she moved around doing odd jobs. Once she heard Mrs. Ryan say, “There must be some misunderstanding.”
All of a sudden Francie remembered who the gray-haired woman was. Mrs. Redfern, of course, from the Merchandise Mart. Whatever was she doing here? Francie caught her breath as a wave of guilty feeling swept over her. She told herself she had no reason to feel guilty. It was none of her doing that Lucky Munson had insisted on buying that desk, she told herself. But he had used her name, she remembered, and she’d done nothing to stop him, or to let Mrs. Redfern know that the transaction was not quite what it was supposed to be. It was no use thinking of that now, however. Probably nothing would be said. A woman of Mrs. Redfern’s standing wouldn’t recall one little sale like that one. Of course not. She might not even recognize Francie herself.… Francie went on with her work, her hands like ice.
It felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes before Mrs. Ryan put an end to suspense. “We can settle it right now,” she said in a cheerful, slightly raised tone. “Francie, can you you come over here a minute?”
Francie approached, and met Mrs. Redfern’s eyes. Mrs. Redfern smiled and said, “Yes, here’s the young lady. NOW, my dear, perhaps you can clear this matter up.”
“What have you been doing, Francie?” asked Mrs. Ryan, preplexed. “Mrs. Redfern says you’ve been buying furniture from her. I know you didn’t buy anything when we were in Chicago together, but she insists that you did. You can see for yourself,” she went on, turning to her visitor, “that Francie’s not exactly a veteran buyer. She’s only been with me a few months at the outside, and in any case what would I be doing with a reproduction desk of that size? There’s no room in the shop for big stuff.”
“Well, that’s what I asked her myself,” said Mrs. Redfern. “I knew your premises were limited, but she said … Tell her yourself, my dear,” she said to Francie.
Francie, her face scarlet, was tongue-tied. Mrs. Redfern looked at her curiously. “Surely you haven’t forgotten. You said you needed it for your private use,” she prompted. “I don’t remember the details, but you were with Bruce Munson; he introduced you, and as I understood it, you were going to be props manager for a play and would have the desk afterwards, or something of the sort. I made the customary arrangement—on the strength of your name, Mrs. Ryan.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Ryan. “It was quite in order. Don’t look so upset, Francie. But I do wish you had thought to mention it; you might have saved Mrs. Redfern a little trouble. Me, too.”
Francie found her tongue. “I didn’t intend to deceive you, Mrs. Ryan. I guess I just didn’t think about it one way or the other. It seemed a little matter.”
“So it did at first,” said Mrs. Redfern, “but since then I’ve heard something that perplexes me. Miss Nelson, what did you do with the desk after the play? According to Mrs. Ryan, it wasn’t here; did you take it home?”
“No,” said Francie. “No, I didn’t take it home.” She stopped, the women watching her, puzzled.
They waited, and at last Mrs. Ryan said, “You see, Francie, Mrs. Redfern has seen that same desk under the most unexpected circumstances. It’s now in the Chicago home of a Mr. Morris, who claims that he bought it here in Jefferson, and that he was under the impression that it was genuine.”
“Oh no,” said Francie. “That’s impossible!”
“Unfortunately it was not only possible, but it seems to have happened,” said Mrs. Redfern severely. “I would know that desk anywhere, but to somebody who doesn’t understand the subject, it could easily be passed off as genuine, and Mr. Morris has been cheated.”
“Who sold it?” asked Francie, but her heart was already heavy with the knowledge.
Mrs. Redfern said, “Mr. Morris won’t tell me. He’s determined to settle the matter himself. So I’ve been trying to find out here. I was in Jefferson and I thought I’d look you up for myself. I think you could help me figure it out. Can’t you?” s
he persisted.
Francie shook her head and stared at the floor.
“You didn’t do it, did you?” asked Florence Ryan.
“No, of course I didn’t.”
“Then who was it?” Again there was a pause. “Francie,” said Florence Ryan in distress, “I’ll never till my dying day believe that you would, cheat anyone. She really couldn’t have, Mrs. Redfern. Something very queer has happened, that’s plain, and I have my own ideas as to what has happened, but I promise you Francie isn’t responsible. The desk was on the stage during the play. I saw it there. I’m awfully sorry about the whole thing, but it isn’t your fault, and nobody will blame you if the desk has been masquerading.”
“No. Still, one doesn’t like being taken advantage of,” said Mrs. Redfern.
“I didn’t take advantage,” said Francie.
“I’ll leave it in your hands, Mrs. Ryan,” said Mrs. Redfern. “You know where I’m staying. Good-by.”
She nodded coldly and walked out.
“Now, Francie,” said Florence, “you can talk to me.”
“But I can’t,” said Francie. She was crying, quietly wiping away tears and holding back her sobs. Her brain was numb. All she could think of was that it was urgently necessary to get hold of Bruce Munson, so that he could talk it out with the woman. It was his business, not hers: she simply had to hold out until he assumed the burden.
Mrs. Ryan was talking, saying she had never been so shocked and embarrassed in her entire business career. Francie didn’t reply. At last Florence said, “If you don’t want to talk, I’m sure I don’t know how to force you to do it. I think I know what’s happened, but I can only find out if you help me.”
Francie said, “I’d better go home.”
“Yes, go on,” said Mrs. Ryan sadly. “My dear, do think it over. Is he really worth protecting?”
