by Ralph Dennis
Voice lessons and dance classes didn’t help. She moved from chorus line to chorus line. And then she met Johnny Whitman. He was in town staying with an old frat brother who had a seat on the Exchange. He moved in the money world as if he belonged there.
So it was, one night on a balcony overlooking Riverside Drive, that she decided it might be nice to be married to a wealthy man. And Johnny Whitman seemed to be that man.
Tom threw back the shot of bourbon and felt the raw jolt of it. He tapped the glass on the table. He adjusted his cavalry hat at just the proper angle. “Back in a few minutes, no matter what color he is.”
He passed the bar where George Marsh was buying a round for three junior officers from Company A. Marsh tipped a mock salute at him. Tom waved and smiled. The bastard. Spending his money on those shavetails.
His gray 1938 coupe, a Chevy, was parked on the street. He drove the four blocks to the Main Gate. He parked on the side of the road inside the military reservation. The sentry came out of the gate box and saluted and said, “He’s over there, sir.”
Tom followed the wave of the soldier’s hand and saw him. A tall man with a ramrod back and a gray tweed suit that wasn’t right for the weather had his back to Tom. He was paying a cab-driver for the ride and the wait.
He turned as the cab pulled away. Tom had a look at the ruddy face and the close-clipped mustache. The long horse face twisted into a grin. “Tom, how the bloody hell are you?”
A skip step, a long stride, and Major Robert Withers stuck out his hand. Tom took the hand, and, up close, he could smell the Scotch on Robert’s breath.
“What a bloody awful posting,” Robert said before he lurched away to find his travel bag.
Tom watched him stagger, and he thought, wryly, what the hell is the Crown Prince of Sloane Square, London, doing in East Jesus, North Carolina?
At Security Division, the Bank of England, Colonel Haggard’s secretary, Polly, opened the door to the airless closet that was MacTaggart’s office. Her plain face relaxed. “Thank God, Mac.”
“Am I late?”
He knew he was. He’d rung in from the call box down the hall and said he’d be in by twelve or half-twelve. It was far beyond that time. Perhaps half-one.
The closet-office still retained the pegs they’d hung the dust mops on, a row of them all down one wall. The single narrow window was sooted over and it couldn’t be opened. His scar-topped desk wasn’t much wider than two children’s school desks wedged together. One day, he promised himself often, he was going to trace that desk through the requisition paperwork and discover where they’d found it. He had a hunch it had been especially constructed for some twelve-year-old student whose thyroid had gone wild.
“He’s been asking for you for hours,” Polly said.
“Who?” MacTaggart tugged his hunter’s-case watch from the small pocket below his belt. He ignored Polly while he flipped the cover and checked the watch face. It was 1:43. He closed the cover, keeping the catch open until the top was in place. He released the catch and heard the click. It was the only useful information his father had ever given him: how to close a hunter’s case without wearing out the catch.
“You know who.” Polly stepped through the doorway, pulled the door behind her, and leaned back against it. “I told him I thought I’d seen you in the hallway at half-twelve, going somewhere in a hurry.”
“I think you did,” MacTaggart said. “Tell the colonel you’ve found me and I’ll be there as soon as I finish what I’m on.”
“He said now, Duncan.”
“Five minutes from now.”
“Promise?” She didn’t sound sure. But she opened the door and backed out.
MacTaggart nodded solemnly.
As soon as she was out of sight down the hall he went back to what he had been doing all the way across London, all the way from Shepherd’s Bush on the underground. He was making a survey. He was trying to find out if he had any broken bones or torn muscles.
Poking and prodding at himself with his fingers. There. That was new. A soreness in his stomach muscles. Pelvic muscles. It was probably last night’s exercises, the ones he had trouble remembering at all.
That Peggy-girl. She had the energy of a Morris dancer and the lungs of a Highland piper. She’d rattled the headboard of the bed against the wall until he thought the whole house shook, and she’d screamed until he was afraid somebody would come to see if Jack the Ripper was cutting up Marie Kelly all over again. Thank God everybody was off at work or minding their own business.
“Mr. MacTaggart.”
It was the tone of displeased command. Though MacTaggart hadn’t been in the Army since 1918, he reacted as if he were still on active duty. He rammed the chair against the wall with a shove and stood at attention. The sudden, abrupt movement set his stomach muscles screaming at him. He grabbed at the pain and doubled over.
Colonel Haggard said, “It would appear that you have some difficulty—” He broke off and stared at MacTaggart. “Are you ill, Mac?”
“I pulled something.”
The bully-soldier evaporated from the colonel. He didn’t handle command well. The peacetime Army in India must have been a casual affair. Nothing but sticking pigs with lances from horseback and drinking gin and tonic water.
Colonel Haggard’s skin was the color of old leather. All the moisture must have cooked away. The wide, bushy mustache was red with streaks of gray.
MacTaggart, one hand clutching his stomach, backed away a few paces until his legs touched the chair. He eased himself into the seat. “I’ll be fine in a moment.”
“You certain, Mac?”
“I was storing some of my kit. One box must have been heavier than I thought.” He gritted his teeth and let his breath hiss out.
“Storing …?”
“If I’m going to Canada …”
The colonel pulled the door closed. He did a step-step and he was against the desk front. He looked over his shoulder. “That is still secret, Mac. And I hadn’t realized the decision had been made which one …”
“You can drop that pretense, Colonel. You know as well as I do that you’ve already decided.” He ticked them off, each with a short nod of his head. “Troop’s married. So’s Billings. So’s Matthews. I’m the one without the excess baggage.” He sighed. “I’m not one to complain when a dirty job comes my way. Not even when I’ve no taste for seeing Canada. Still, I know how command decisions are made. And even when I think I’ve got the worst of it I’m not one to refuse a lawful order.”
“I have to say that you’re taking this well, Mac.”
“It’s my military background, Colonel. The same as yours.” MacTaggart didn’t mention that his highest rank had been lance-corporal. And the colonel, if he remembered MacTaggart’s file, was too polite to remind him.
“The fact is … it’s not for certain yet. We should know in two days, by Friday. The preparations are being made. The boys in the bullion yard … well, they’ve been busy. Now it’s up to the big boys to give the final go.”
MacTaggart forgot the pain from his pelvic muscles. A sour nausea floated in the pit of his stomach. “I’d understood, Colonel …”
“I think it’s a go,” Colonel Haggard said. “I don’t think the War Cabinet would let it go this far and then pull it up short. It’s not likely.”
MacTaggart wanted to believe him. Either it was Canada or some awkward scenes at the boardinghouse. The Peggy-girl was nice enough, nicer than he thought she’d be, but he didn’t think she’d turn him loose without a war.
The colonel backed to the door. MacTaggart, sucking in his stomach, eased from the chair and followed him.
“You’ll be the first to know, Mac.” The colonel winked. “I wouldn’t unpack my kit if I were you.”
“I won’t.”
“And you’ve been a real soldier about this. I can’t slip anything past you. I can see that now.”
“That’s right, sir.”
Colonel Haggard
marched stiff-backed down the hall toward his office. All the talk of the military had infected him. He’d probably be that way the rest of the week without a letup.
MacTaggart circled his desk and slumped into his chair. He didn’t accomplish a single thing the rest of the day.
Peggy waited for him in her doorway. She wore a white dress with lace around the neck and the sleeves. MacTaggart said, “Hello, girl,” and her arm locked on his elbow and he was drawn into her room.
“Mackie, where have you been?”
“Working late.”
She released him and did a model’s twirl for him. “Like it?”
“Is it new?”
“The shoes are. I bought them on the way back from the factory.” Peggy worked in a shop that made uniforms. Like him, she’d been late for work today. The shop foreman had given her a stern lecture on the importance of the war effort.
Then the dress wasn’t new. MacTaggart wondered how long she’d had it packed away, waiting for the proper time. Like a summer wedding.
“Like it, Mackie?”
“Beautiful,” he said.
“I’m glad.” She leaned against him and reached past him to give the door a push. It closed with a smack.
He looked over her shoulder and saw that she had a proper setting at her table, a cloth to cover it and plates and even glasses. One plate held a little mound of cold meat pies and there was a bowl of salad and a Stilton the size of the palm of his hand. In the center of the table, next to the four-inch remainder of a candle, there was a whole bottle of plonk. A burgundy, he thought, from the shape of the bottle.
“Are you hungry, Mackie?”
He nodded. She stepped away and gave him a playful shove toward the table. “See how I think about you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Major Robert Anthony Withers gave his tweed jacket a good shake and draped it over a chair back. He was dressed in silk underwear, and now the whole room smelled of some kind of herbal soap he’d brought with him.
While Major Withers showered in the bathroom down the hall Tom had signed him into a guest room at BOQ as a fellow officer, British Army. There was a space in the book for his current unit, but Tom hadn’t known what it was. When Tom had known him in London, during some long gaming and drinking sessions, Robert had been waiting for assignment, having recently left the Horseguards.
The bottle Withers had dragged from his travel bag was half empty. He tipped a long stream into his glass and carried the bottle to Tom. He touched Tom’s glass, a courtesy pour, before he backed away. “Still don’t fancy the peat, huh?”
“You finish dressing and I’ll introduce you to some excellent bourbon.”
“It’s a well-meant offer, I know.” Robert tipped his head toward the ceiling and took a long swallow. “When in Rome, you know. And I might have to cultivate the taste. I understand there is a shortage of Scotch here.”
“Your war,” Tom said.
“It’ll be yours soon enough, chap.”
Tom had a sip of the Scotch. “You didn’t say what you’re doing here in the States.”
“Didn’t I?” Withers pinched his lips between a thumb and forefinger and mumbled, “I’m not about to say, either.”
“Something secret?”
Withers dropped his hand from his mouth. “Mum’s the word.”
“You can do better than that,” Tom said.
“You force me to change the subject,” Withers said. “Bill Templar said to remind you that you still owe him two hundred quid.”
“Lucky him.”
“He said he would be happy to accept American dollars.”
“No doubt he would.”
Withers placed his glass on the dresser top and reached both hands into his large bag. He brought out a slightly wrinkled Class-A summer uniform. “You think this will dazzle the ladies at your Club?”
“It might. These ladies don’t get to the circus very often.”
“That’s a joke, I assume?” Withers stepped into the trousers and pulled them on. “A moment ago you had the sound of a man who’s overdrawn at the bank.”
“What bank?”
“Really, old boy, you ought to leave the cards alone. You really don’t have the head for it.”
“You’re telling me that now?”
“There wasn’t any reason to tell you in London. It would have ruined a good thing.” He sat on the edge of the bed and drew his shoes toward him. “It happens I was furnished some American dollars for expenses.”
“The Club will be glad about that.”
Withers straightened the toe on one sock. “Any little birds at this Club of yours?”
“Women?” Tom shook his head. “They’re all married. We’ll have to stop in town for that.”
“I trust you know a couple. I’ve had the most miserable voyage across on one of your destroyers.”
“Which one?”
Withers shook his head.
“You dock at Norfolk, Virginia?”
“It’s a fair guess, Tom.”
“And you’re headed for Washington after this side trip south?”
“You are persistent.” Withers stood and put his back to Tom. “Let’s talk about the birds.”
On the way past the Duty Office where the enlisted man kept the phone watch, Tom touched Major Withers on the shoulder and turned him toward the counter.
“You’d better sign in, Robert.” Tom leaned on the counter top. “Let me have the guest book, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal opened the ledger and placed it on the counter.
Tom turned the book toward him. “This is Major Withers.” He stared at the single entry on the page. “I wasn’t sure about your present unit,” he said.
“Of course you know it, old boy.” Withers took the pen the corporal offered him and scribbled the final part of the entry in the ledger. “Same as it was the last time I saw you in London.”
Tom glanced at the ledger before he closed it and pushed it across the counter toward the corporal. Horseguards, Withers had written in the space on the far right of the line.
“Back with your old outfit?”
“I never left it,” Withers said.
Johnny Whitman had his back to the dance floor and Tom looked past his left shoulder. Lila and Withers were in the center of the mob of dancers. From the last look Tom had had of the major’s face, he knew that Lila was giving him the base welcome, that slightly upward movement of her hips that was probably the next best thing to being in bed with her.
“My Blue Heaven” ended. Withers stood on the edge of the dance floor, talking to Lila, before he stepped away from her and offered her his arm. He returned her to the table.
After they were seated, Johnny Whitman had his slow, long look at Major Withers. “You haven’t said much about the way your war’s going.”
“What war?” Withers sniffed his bourbon and water before he gave it a tentative taste. He swallowed and gave a mock shudder. “It’s not a war. It’s a disaster.”
“The French …” Johnny began.
“The French, as they’ve done in all the wars since the Franco-Prussian one, are about to roll over and play dead dog.”
“How long?” Johnny stared down at his empty glass, but he made no effort to refill it.
“This month. Next month. At the least, a fortnight.’’
Lila leaned forward. “That’s two weeks.”
“Good girl,” Withers said.
Johnny ignored his wife. “And then?”
“Within a month of the French surrender I expect the German Army on the beaches of England.”
“And that’s the end of it.” Johnny looked at Tom.
“Perhaps,” Major Withers said.
“You don’t seem to be convinced by your own facts,” Johnny said.
“The sun never sets on the British Empire,” Major Withers said. “At least we were taught that in school.”
“You’re being cryptic,” Tom said.
&nbs
p; Lila’s lips moved, forming the word. “What does …?”
“That’s your interpretation, old man,” Withers said to Tom.
“Drinks?” Johnny held up his empty glass.
Major Withers pushed back his chair. “I believe it’s my round.” He dug a wad of American money from the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. “I need another lesson in what dollars are worth.”
“I’ll go with you.” Tom picked up Lila’s glass and Withers got Johnny’s.
They headed for the bar, dodging dancers on the way. Withers grinned back at Tom and stuck out his elbows. He knifed his way to the bar. Tom followed him. They lined the glasses on the bar and waited for one of the bartenders to notice them.
Withers tilted his head toward the table where the Whitmans sat. “You ever try that one?”
“What?”
“Lila.”
“No. Not a brother officer’s wife.”
“Ho,” Withers said. “That one’s asking for a pronging.”
“Not from me,” Tom said.
“A bit of a tease, I suspect.”
Tom leaned forward and called out his order to a passing bartender. When he backed away he said, “Let’s just say that nobody wants Johnny Whitman mad at them.”
“He’s quite much, isn’t he?”
“A bit of a roughneck.”
“And an officer and a gentleman?” Withers asked.
“By act of Congress.”
The drinks came. It had been a simple order. Four bourbon and waters. Tom picked up two of the glasses and waited while Major Withers paid with a ten. He stared at his change, bewildered, before he stuffed it in his pocket. He scooped the other two drinks from the bar. They moved away from the crowd. Withers stopped. “You know, I was prepared to leave tomorrow afternoon. I might remain another day.”
“How long were you at sea, Robert?”
“Eight days,” Withers said, “and a bloody awful day on the train getting here.”
“I think I know the cure for your disease.”
“Disease?”
“I think you’re lonely,” Tom said.
