“Last night you thought I was frigid,” she said. “Today do you think I’m a nympho?”
“Somewhere in between,” I said. “Are you worried about it?”
“Not about my condition. Just about what you think of me.”
Afterward, they always want to know what you think of them. They all want to be assured they’re no different from other women. They wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a dress similar to another woman’s, but if they vary a single degree from what they consider normal feminine passion, they’re afraid you’ll think they are freaks.
As it happens, there probably aren’t two women in the world who behave exactly alike in bed. At least I’ve never found them.
I said what I always say. “You’re a normally passionate woman. Are you ashamed of it?”
“Of course not. I’d just hate it if you thought I was a tramp.”
“I think you’re a doll,” I said, giving her a kiss on the nose.
She clung to me for a minute. “You’ll be back sometime, then?”
“Tonight,” I told her. “Seven as usual.”
“All right,” she said with a relieved little sigh. “I’ll be ready.”
I drove back home and went to bed for a couple of hours.
That evening I had a single Gibson before dinner and Esther didn’t drink at all. After dinner, when I suggested the Cellar Club, she shook her head.
“I think I still have a bit of a hangover from last night, Tom.”
“Oh?” I said. “With the usual effect?”
She colored a little and looked away from me. “I guess,” she said in a low voice.
I took her to my apartment for a cure.
I don’t think she had the remains of a hangover. I don’t think there was any truth in her story that hangovers had an aphrodisiac effect on her. Maybe drinking put her out of the mood, but I think the rest of it was just an excuse to justify her passion. I think she had dreamed up the odd effect hangovers had on her and had deliberately let me know her mother wouldn’t be home that morning in the hope that I would do exactly what I did. I was supposed to think I had taken unfair advantage of her peculiar weakness and thereby shoulder the full blame for our behavior.
I didn’t mind. I had broad shoulders.
6
MY OPPORTUNITY TO CATCH HELEN MATHEWS AT HOME alone came on Monday night. The morning paper announced that there was to be a United Fund banquet that evening and that George Mathews was to be the main speaker. The banquet was scheduled for eight o’clock, so I timed my arrival at the Mathews’ home for eight thirty.
The Mathewses lived in a large rose-granite home on Sheridan Drive, one of the most exclusive residential streets in town. With Mrs. Mathews’ money, I imagine they had servants, but they must have been gone for the evening because Helen Mathews answered the door herself.
On the single occasion I had seen her at the plant, I had been sufficiently impressed to wonder why George Mathews chased other women when he had something so nice at home. It had occurred to me that possibly his wife was frigid, for though she was a beautiful woman, her beauty was of a cool, regal sort, not the warm, animal beauty of Gertie Drake or the pert, lively beauty of Esther Simmons.
The day she had visited her husband’s office, I had gotten only a quick glimpse of her from a distance of several yards. Close up she was even lovelier. There wasn’t an imperfection in her flawlessly sculptured face and her complexion had the smooth, transluscent quality of Haviland china. Her figure was slim, but full busted, and her hips were rounded just enough to make her slimness extremely feminine instead of boyish. She wore a simple, light-green summer dress with a high neck but no sleeves, exposing shoulders and arms a sculptor would have drooled over.
She looked at me inquiringly.
“I’m Tom Cavanaugh, Mrs. Mathews,” I said. “One of Schyler Tool’s district sales managers. May I speak to you for a minute?”
“Of course,” she said, moving aside to let me enter.
She led me into a large front room expensively equipped with Louis XIV furniture, indicated a handsome chair with claw feet and seated herself on a sofa with similar feet. When we were both seated, she gave me a second inquiring look.
I said, “This is a rather delicate matter, Mrs. Mathews. I’m risking my job by coming here.”
Her fine eyebrows raised, but she made no comment.
“As it happens, I would have been risking my job by not coming, too. I’ve been sort of between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
She merely waited expectantly.
“It concerns your husband, Mrs. Mathews.”
A wary expression flitted across her face, and then her features became expressionless. “Before you go on, Mr. Cavanaugh, maybe you should know that I love my husband very much.”
“I’m aware of it. Which is why I hesitated so long to do anything that might hurt your relationship. But it’s reached the point where it’s inevitable that you’re going to hear what I have to say from some source. I’d rather you hear it from me.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband thinks I’m the only one who knows. The minute he discovers you’ve learned of it, he’s going to assume I told you. And he’ll fire me on the spot.”
She said coolly, “Won’t his assumption be right?”
“It wouldn’t be if I waited a few more days. The matter’s become common gossip. Practically every person in the plant knows. You couldn’t possibly escape hearing it.
“I see. And you hope by telling me first to enlist my aid in keeping your job.”
“Is that wrong?” I asked. “Consider my position, Mrs. Mathews. I happen to have some knowledge I didn’t want to have. It’s not my fault that the knowledge has become widespread because until this moment I’ve never even hinted about it to a soul. Of course, I hope to enlist your aid. It’s my only chance out of an impossible situation. If I waited for someone else to tell you, I’d be sure to lose my job. Without your support I’ll lose it anyway, but that’s the calculated risk I have to take.”
For a time she studied me without expression. Presently she said, “Having gone this far, you may as well tell me the rest of the story, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
I took a deep breath. “Your husband has a mistress.”
What she expected—news that Mathews was dipping into the company till, perhaps—I don’t know. But it obviously wasn’t this. Her face didn’t change an iota, but the suddenly pinched look about her eyes indicated shock more definitely than if she had screamed.
“Who?” she asked with unnatural quietness.
“A file clerk named Gertrude Drake. A girl about twenty-three years old.”
She winced a little. I judged Mrs. Mathews to be about my age, thirty, and it is always a blow to a woman to learn that a rival is several years younger.
“It isn’t just office gossip?” she asked. “Perhaps because he’s been overly friendly to the girl?”
I shook my head. “They practically flaunt it in front of the whole plant. She does, anyway. Apparently he’s unaware of the gossip. Besides, I know it’s an affair. The reason Mr. Mathews thinks I’m the only one who knows about it is that I accidentally walked in on them at a crucial moment a few weeks back.”
She winced again. “It has been going on that long, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“I would guess at least two months. But the gossip has been circulating only a couple of weeks. Before that they made some effort at discretion.”
“This occasion on which you discovered them together. Was that in his office?”
“In the little room off of it The place he calls his siesta room.”
“I see. Where the bar is. Where they—” she paused, changed her mind about what she was going to ask and said, “Were they just having a drink together?”
“No,” I said. “It was a little more than that.”
“How much more?”
“I’d rather not hurt you and embarrass myself, Mrs. Mathews. You may ta
ke my word for it that they are carrying on a love affair.”
She said quietly, “I want to know exactly what they were doing, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
I frowned at her. “You insist?”
“I insist.”
“All right,” I said. “They were lying together on the sofa stark naked.”
Her face didn’t change expression, but it turned appreciably paler. For a few moments she merely stared at me.
Then she said, “Do you think it’s just philandering, Mr. Cavanaugh? Or is he serious about this girl?”
I shrugged. “She’s serious. She’s been heard to say that she hopes for eventual marriage. How he feels, I can’t say.”
“She expects to marry him!”
Her voice was so sharp it startled me. I said, “I didn’t say, ‘expects.’ I said, ‘hopes.’ There’s a considerable difference.”
She stared at me for a long time, then moved her gaze to the empty fireplace and stared at it for a longer time.
Eventually, without looking at me, she said, “I love George enough to forgive physical infidelity, Mr. Cavanaugh. Providing he ended the affair. But I’d never stay with a man I thought loved another woman. I have to know.”
Silence built between us until she turned to give me a level look. “Are you willing to do me a favor in order to win my support, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“What kind of favor?”
“Find out for me exactly how much this woman means to my husband.”
“How?” I asked. “I can’t read his mind. And I certainly have no intention of asking him.”
“There are other ways. Learn how much time they spend together. Where they go and what they do. How he treats her. At the office he would naturally have his guard up. But if you can manage to observe them together other places, you should be able to form an opinion about his real feelings for her.”
“You mean you want me to follow them?”
She made an impatient gesture. “That’s up to you. I don’t care what method you use. But I have to know how he feels. It’s important enough to me so that I’ll guarantee your job if you find out what I want to know.”
I rose from my chair. “All right, Mrs. Mathews. I’ll try to find out.”
She followed me to the front door. As I turned to say good-night, she laid a hand on my sleeve and looked into my face.
“Tell me, Mr. Cavanaugh, was protecting your job the sole reason you came to me?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Are you a married man?”
I shook my head. “A bachelor.”
“How well do you know this Gertrude Drake?”
I hesitated a moment, then said reservedly, “We used to go out together some.”
She smiled a little bitterly. “I suspected as much. It seemed you might just have suggested more discretion to my husband if you hadn’t had a personal interest. That makes us closer allies, doesn’t it?”
I didn’t deny the charge that I had a personal interest in Gertie. If Helen Mathews was sharp enough to pick a hole in my story that I hadn’t even considered, I was glad that her woman’s intuition had so neatly patched it up.
7
IT WAS ONLY A QUARTER OF TEN WHEN I GOT HOME. THE phone was ringing as I walked in the door. I caught it just in time to hear a click and then the dial tone. Whoever was calling had given up just a second too soon.
It rang again at ten. This time I got to it before the caller grew discouraged.
“Hello,” I said.
“Oh, you finally got home,” Esther’s voice said with relief. “I tried you a couple of times earlier.”
“I know,” I said. “The phone was ringing when I walked in about fifteen minutes ago. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I’m just acting like a jealous woman. Checking up.”
“You don’t have to worry when I’m out,” I told her. “I do all my dirty work at home. This is where I bring my lewd women.”
“Ouch,” she said. “That was a little below the belt.”
“You’re too sensitive. I bring my nice women here, too. What do you want?”
“I told you. I just called to talk. I was feeling a little lonesome.”
I wondered if this was going to become a habit. She had phoned me Sunday night, too. I was quite fond of the girl, but women who phoned all the time gave me a hemmed-in feeling. Like most men, I preferred to do the dialing myself.
I said, “You want to come over for a while?”
“Don’t be silly, Tom. Mother would have a fit if I started out at this time on a week night.”
“All right. What do you want to talk about?”
“Just talk. Where have you been?”
“Out.”
There was silence for a minute. When I didn’t amplify, she said, “I guess it’s none of my business.” Her tone suggested that she thought it was.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Ouch again. My, you’re in a crotchety mood.”
“Not particularly. I just don’t feel obligated to give a blow-by-blow account of my movements to anyone. Even to a lovely little blond whom I like very much.”
There was another period of silence. Then she said in a subdued tone, “I guess I got told.”
“You also got told you were lovely. Doesn’t that lighten the blow?”
“Tremendously,” she said dryly. “The iron hand beneath the velvet glove. I’ll behave in the future. When am I going to see you again? Or aren’t I allowed to ask that either?”
“No, you’re not, but I’ll pass it this time. Tomorrow. I want to take you to lunch.”
“Oh? What’s the occasion?”
“My grandmother’s birthday,” I said. “Stop asking questions and accept your good luck. I’ll come by your desk at the crack of noon.”
“I do love a masterful man,” she said. “Maybe I’ll be ready by noon, or maybe I won’t.”
She hung up on me.
The next morning I laid the groundwork for my surveillance of George Mathews. The biggest problem was going to be covering his movements outside the plant during business hours, since he had a tendency to show up about eleven A.M., take an hour for lunch and leave again about three. Assuming that he probably wouldn’t do anything more interesting mornings than sleep late and drive to the plant, I decided not to worry about his movements prior to the time he arrived at work. It was going to be hard enough to keep track of him when he left the office early.
As a junior executive I was free to come and go pretty much as I pleased. But I had a lot of work to get out, and even though I now knew my job well enough to get by without overtime work, it was going to be difficult to spare a couple of hours every afternoon. And I would have to take Norma Henstedder partially into my confidence in order to get her to cover for me.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to act as a confidential secretary again, Norma,” I told her.
The woman looked pleased. “I’m always glad to help out in any way I can, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair. “This is going to be tougher than merely filling me in on plant gossip. I have a problem that may take me out of the office at unexpected moments all the rest of this week. It’s a company problem, not a personal one, but it has nothing to do with this department. It’s sort of an extra-curricular activity.”
“I see,” she said in a tone indicating that she didn’t see at all, but was willing to accept without question anything I told her.
I said, “The difficulty is that I still have my own job to do also, and I can’t be two places at once. Can you arrange for the pool to assign you exclusively to me for a full eight hours a day all the rest of this week?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll tell Miss Thomilson you have some special work to get out.”
“Fine. I’ll want you in this office all day long. You’ll have to take all phone calls that come in when I’m not here. Any long-distance calls from salesmen in the field, make a not
e of whatever they want to know and tell them I’ll call back in a short while. Periodically I’ll phone in so that you can keep me abreast of what’s going on. Think you can manage that?”
“Oh, certainly, sir,” she said with enthusiasm. She sounded grateful that I was piling additional work and responsibility on her.
“One other thing,” I said. “The company problem I’m working on is strictly confidential. I wouldn’t want you to mention our arrangement to anyone.”
She gave her head a determined shake. “I won’t tell a soul, sir.” I expected her to add that they could twist her arm off first, but she skipped this dramatic touch this time.
The next problem was easier. It wouldn’t have been if my relationship with Esther Simmons hadn’t developed into such an intimate one, but that made it a cinch.
When I arrived at her desk exactly at noon, she gave me a cool greeting. Since she was obviously ready to go and had been waiting for me, her coolness didn’t impress me much.
“Still on your high horse because I bossed you a little, eh?” I said.
“You didn’t have to be so blunt,” she said petulantly.
“Sure I did,” I told her. “I’ll explain why on the way to lunch.”
As we drove away from the parking lot, she said, “Well, I’m waiting for the explanation.”
“I was doing you a favor,” I said. “In every relationship between a man and woman, one or the other dominates. The things you read and hear about happy marriages being fifty-fifty propositions are a lot of bunk. Nature designed things so that in the savage state the male human is the natural one to dominate.”
“We don’t live in a savage state. We’re supposed to be civilized.”
“Sure. But the happiest relationships are still those in which there’s no doubt that the man is boss. Just look around at the couples you know. Where the man dominates, both are content. When he’s henpecked, both are miserable, because the natural arrangement of things is distorted and both are out of their elements.”
“If he’s an understanding boss, maybe,” she admitted. “Not if he’s overbearing. No woman wants to be walked on.”
Body For Sale Page 4
