The Last Drive

by Rex Stout

  He turned to his desk in a manner which indicated that the interview was ended; and Billy, properly ignoring the implication in the prayer for Allen, left the room and proceeded down the hall and stairs to the office of the city editor.

  “Hello,” said Allen, cordially, as Billy entered without knocking. “On the job, eh?”

  Billy nodded and seated himself on a rickety cane chair, while Allen fumbled among a pile of little yellow slips, with an amused smile.

  Billy saw the smile, and resented it—inwardly. But no hostile feeling could long survive in the cheerful and optimistic breast of Billy Du Mont, and when Allen looked up from his desk he met a smile even broader than his own.

  “Allen,” said Billy, “you’ve been listening to the voice of the siren—in this case my revered parent. Go on and have your fun. But give me a chance, and I’ll show you all up.”

  Allen laughed—a privilege he had earned by dandling Billy on his knee on several occasions some eighteen years before.

  “I hope so, Billy,” said he. “We need it. For a starter, here’s a run up Riverside Drive to see a beautiful heiress and make some casual inquiries concerning the whereabouts of her heart.”

  Billy frowned. “Must I go where you tell me to?” he demanded.

  “Of course.”

  The frown deepened. “All right. Go on.”

  “It’s this,” said Allen. “There’s a rumor that the Count de Luni has come to America solely for the purpose of marrying Cecily Lyndon, daughter of the banker. He landed yesterday on the Morania. It’s said that it’s a love match, only old man Lyndon has interposed a firm and gentle nix. The Count is staying at the Ritz-Ritz, and I want you to see both him and Miss Lyndon, and get a story out of it. If there’s any—”

  He stopped abruptly. Billy’s face had during this brief recital undergone a series of remarkable changes. It had gone from pale to red, from red to splotched, from splotched to rosy pink, shaming his moustache. He had risen from his chair and advanced toward Allen threateningly.

  “Who told you that?” he demanded.

  Then, realizing that he was making a fool of himself, he sank back into his chair, embarrassed.

  Allen regarded him with surprise. “You’d make a fine chameleon,” he observed. “What’s the row?”

  Billy recovered quickly. “Nothing,” he said, calmly, rising to go, “only the Count is an old friend of mine. I’ll get the story, all right.”

  Allen was curious, but time was precious, and Billy gave him no time to answer.

  “Good luck!” Allen called, as Billy was closing the door.

  “Thanks!” said Billy.

  Five minutes later he was seated in an uptown subway express, his forehead puckered into a frown, his lips compressed in a thin line, his hands clenched tightly. Clearly, he was thinking—a most unusual occurrence in the life of Billy, his friends would have told you.

  Billy was richer in friends than in anything else. A year previous he had graduated at Harvard—barely; he had then tried the brokerage business, thereby adding to his own amusement and subtracting more from his father’s bank account; and when his distracted parent had sent him on a sixty days’ tour of the Mediterranean he had calmly altered the carefully arranged program into a six months’ visit to Paris.

  He had been the most popular man of his class at Harvard; he had won the good will of every broker on the street in five months; and there was a certain crowd of students in Paris who loved him well, and drank to his health whenever they thought of it—or had anything to drink. But these are acquisitions which are hardly calculated to gain the commendation of a father; which fact was impressed upon Billy in terms more forcible than elegant on the day that he arrived home from Paris.

  Du Mont, Senior, owner and editor of the New York Clarion, had been unwilling that his son should become a journalist; but with Billy’s­ insistence and his mother’s tears he had been forced to acquiesce. For Billy had written from Paris that nothing else would bring him home; and when the elder Du Mont received a letter informing him that his only son was about to become a waiter at the Café Sigognac, and soliciting his patronage in the event of his coming to Paris, he cabled two hundred dollars and an uncomfortable surrender at once.

  On the morning after his arrival, accordingly, Billy had reported at the Clarion office for duty. He had informed his father that he had decided to begin with editorials and special articles. Any one else would have been disconcerted by the torrent of sarcasm which this statement elicited; but not Billy. He smiled cheerfully at the assertion that the only articles he could write were the advertisements of haberdashers, and agreed willingly to the course of reportorial work proposed by his father.

  As the subway express roared into Grand Central Station and out again, Billy’s look of gloom changed into the dreamy smile of one who was recalling sweet memories. A certain afternoon on the Seine, and a fair laughing face that had looked out at him from the cabin of a luxurious motor launch, as he lay stretched on the bank while a student friend belabored him for going to sleep over de Musset; the subsequent meeting at the Club House at Argenteuil, when he certainly had not appeared to the best advantage; the round of drives and theatres during the remaining week of her stay in Paris, necessitating a hurried amalgamation of funds among his friends at Lampourde’s; these things flitted across his mind with a distinctness that spoke highly of their importance.

  As for the Count de Luni— But before Billy could decide on the particularly horrible fate to be reserved for that gentleman, the train reached Ninety-sixth Street, and he found himself again in the open air, with an April breeze coming caressingly up the hill from the Hudson, directly in his face. He sniffed it with the air of a dilettante and with an evident appreciation.

  As he entered the imposing marble hall of the Elemara, on Riverside Drive, a feeling of timidity assailed him. With Billy timidity was so rare a visitor that he paused for a moment to enjoy the novelty of this strange sensation. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders and a reflection that what was worth getting was worth going after, he sent up his card.

  Seated in the reception room in the Lyndon apartment, Billy felt an apathy and indifference steal over him which he strove vainly to drive away. This, after all, was not Paris. The sunny Seine of Argenteuil was very different from the sullen Hudson, obscured by the smoke of a thousand chimneys. The glaring magnificence of the decorations and hangings of this commercial castle were in unpleasing contrast to the genuinely artistic tawdriness of Lampourde’s and the Café Fracasse. Billy hated show.

  He was stopped in the midst of these reflections by the appearance of Miss Cecily Lyndon, about whose slender form the velvet curtains seemed to cling lovingly as she passed through them. Billy rose at her entrance, and as she crossed the room to where he stood, regarded her with frank approval.

  This was not the Cecily whose frank friendliness had been so thoroughly charming, but she was as fair. That look of detached politeness could not hide the witchery that lurked in the blue of her eyes and the curve of her lips.

  “Good morning, Mr. Du Mont,” said Miss Lyndon, with some dignity.

  Billy extended his hand, smiling, refusing to be impressed. Miss Lyndon took it languidly, let it drop almost meaningly, and remained standing, politely attentive.

  Billy regarded this studied ceremony with mild amusement, and was stubbornly silent. Finally, when she felt that another second would make her ridiculous, Miss Lyndon asked coldly:

  “Have you been in New York long?”

  “Not long enough to find my way around,” said Billy, exasperated. “I started out this morning to call on a friend—a dear friend—and I find that I have somehow made a mistake and intruded on someone I don’t know.”

  Miss Lyndon started to answer, then bit her lip and remained silent.

  “I beg your pardon for annoying you,” continued Billy, rising t
o go. “As an excuse I can only plead an invitation which I thought sincere.”

  “That was the night before,” said Cecily, without thinking.

  “Before what?” demanded Billy.

  Miss Lyndon was silent.

  “Before what?” Billy repeated

  “Before—before you annoyed me by not coming,” said Cecily, because she couldn’t help it.

  Billy stared at her for a moment, not understanding.

  “Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, and dropped back into his chair. He had forgotten all about his promise to go to her train in Paris, and his failure to keep the promise because of the financial impossibility of a sufficiently glorious parting gift.

  “I was sorry,” he said, “sorrier than you would believe. Really, I had the best excuse in the world.”

  “It’s of no consequence,” said Cecily, with elaborate indifference. “One always has excuses.”

  “It isn’t an excuse. It’s a reason. And it is of consequence—to me.”

  “It’s hardly worth discussing, is it?” asked Cecily, dryly.

  Billy regarded her for a moment in angry silence. But then, she had a right to be offended.

  “Miss Lyndon,” he said, “I am sorry. I—if you knew my reason—but I can’t tell you. Will you forgive me?”

  This was more than Cecily had bargained for. She looked uncomfortable.

  “Will you forgive me?” repeated Billy, humbly.

  It puts a girl in a sad dilemma to ask her forgiveness. It is sweet to forgive—but it is also sweet to refuse. If she could only have both pleasures at once!

  “You don’t deserve it,” declared Cecily, holding out her hand.

  “Of course not,” agreed Billy, holding the hand tightly.

  “I don’t believe you’re a bit sorry.”

  “Not now.”

  “Haven’t you held my hand quite long enough?” sarcastically.

  “Not quite,” calmly.

  Cecily withdrew her hand abruptly and walked to the window.

  “I’m going for a drive,” she announced, after a brief silence. And as Billy looked at her inquiringly she added, “with my mother.”

  “Oh!” said Billy, thoughtfully. “Is your mother very—er—fond of driving?”

  “Why?”

  “Because—if she isn’t—I thought we might bring her back some violets or something, and she wouldn’t need to go.”

  “You’re a silly goose,” declared Cecily.

  “We could go to Larchmont, for instance,” continued Billy, ignoring the compliment, “and pick some goldenrod and stuff.”

  “Goldenrod! In April!”

  “Why not, in April?” demanded Billy.

  Cecily laughed. “You are very ignorant,” said she, pityingly.

  “You are trying to make me vain,” Billy asserted. “First, silly goose; second, ignoramus. I can’t possibly live up to it. Besides, I didn’t mean goldenrod, really. I was merely referring to your hair.”

  Cecily greeted this assertion with contemptuous silence.

  “How soon are we going?” asked Billy, presently.

  Cecily gasped at his impudence.

  “I shall never forget,” continued Billy, “that wonderful evening at Argenteuil, the cool garden, the—everything. And how surprised I was when you called me ‘Billy’ without my even suggesting it! And on the way back to Paris you—your—”

  “Please stop,” Cecily implored.

  “Well,” said Billy, magnanimously, “we’ll forget that. Beside, the night was cold. But on Monday afternoon you broke two engagements to visit the quarter with me. On Tuesday evening at the Opera Comique you admitted that I was more interesting than the play. On Wednesday afternoon at the Louvre when Lord Hailes insisted on carrying your scarf you handed it to me. On Thursday evening you put three lumps of sugar in my coffee without tongs. On Friday morning, in a retired spot in the Luxembourg Gardens, while your mother had gone ahead to feed the swans, you put—”

  “Stop!” commanded Cecily, her hands to her ears.

  “Well?” demanded Billy, sternly.

  “I hate you,” declared Cecily. “We shall start at once. The sooner it’s over the better.”

  “Do we pick goldenrod for your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And go for a sail on the Sound?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Then I forgive you,” said Billy, generously.

  “I have decided,” said Billy, as the touring car sped up Seventh Avenue, “to tell you my reason for not going to the train.”

  “It’s of no importance,” said Cecily.

  “At that time,” continued Billy, ignoring the remark, “I was living on a monthly allowance from my father. When I met you the month had nearly ended. That last dinner at the Sigognac was contributed to by no less than fourteen of my devoted friends. I was, in short, completely strapped.”

  “You could have walked,” said Cecily, trying not to smile.

  “Certainly,” agreed Billy, “and I did. I am shameless enough to admit that I watched you board the train from behind the friendly shelter of a protecting post. But nothing less than the most beautiful flowers in Paris would have suited you, and that was—impracticable.”

  There was a short silence.

  “I had the bouquet made up,” said Billy, reminiscently, “by Vidalinc of the Haussamn. It was most gorgeous. My friends admired it immensely. It was wonderful.”

  “But I thought you—I thought it was impracticable,” said Cecily.

  “So it was,” agreed Billy. “But I wanted to see how it looked. I had thought the thing out so carefully, and I wanted to see if it met my expectations. Vidalinc was most accommodating. Only, of course, I had to—”

  “Do you mean to say,” Cecily interrupted, “that you had that bouquet made up without intending to buy it?”

  “Why not?” asked Billy. “It was for you. I would do anything for you.”

  Cecily laughed. It was a silvery, musical laugh.

  “Billy—,” said she, and stopped short.

  “There!” said Billy, sternly. “You’re at it again. You know what that does to me.”

  “I am sorry,” said Cecily, with averted face. It was positively red. “Mr. Du Mont,” she added.

  “It’s too late,” said Billy, gloomily. “I love you.”

  “Mr. Du Mont!” exclaimed Cecily, as severely as possible.

  “I couldn’t help it,” declared Billy, “but I’ll try.”

  Silence.

  “Not to say it?”

  “Not to love you.”

  “Oh!” said Cecily. “You—you probably won’t find it difficult.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Billy, almost cheerfully.

  Cecily should have been gratified by this sincere effort to obey her wishes, but she wasn’t. She looked out across the swamps toward the Sound without seeing them, and then turned and glanced at Billy curiously. His lips were puckered into a round and unmistakable O.

  “Oh!” cried Cecily.

  “Well?” demanded Billy, surprised.

  “You were going to whistle,” said Cecily, accusingly.

  “Yes. ‘Love Is a Jolly Good Fellow.’ Have you heard it?”

  “I hate you!” declared Cecily.

  “Thank you. I was afraid you pitied me.”

  “Not I,” scornfully.

  “May I whistle?”

  No answer. Billy hesitated for a moment, then began to whistle a lilting, catchy tune that sailed out over the fields and seemed to arouse even the sleepy violets tucked away in their modest beds. They had just passed New Rochelle, and the car had left its rough brick pavements for the long stretch of smooth, oily road that leads to Larchmont. Cottages and bungalows appeared at either side of the road at
frequent intervals. To the right lay low meadows, reaching to the Sound; to the left and north, miniature hills and undulations that gave only an enticing hint of Mother Earth’s great breasts. Over all lay spring’s fragrant mantle, alluring, transparent, a continual reminder of the blazing passion of the summer to come.

  As Billy whistled tune after tune, seemingly unconscious of all the world save his own agreeable self, Cecily was far from comfortable. There was every reason in the world why Billy should be sad, even sullen; instead, witness his heartless mirth. She turned away in vexation.

  Billy, having completed his repertoire of happy tunes, and disdaining the mournful ones, turned to her with the air of one about to divulge an important secret.

  “I forgot to tell you,” said he, “that I have become a journalist.”

  Cecily gazed at a bungalow they were passing, with deep interest.

  “I am beginning at the bottom,” continued Billy, “as a reporter. I began work this morning.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’re working too hard?” Cecily asked, sweetly.

  Billy shifted himself a little to a more comfortable position.

  “Well,” he said, thoughtfully, “to tell the truth, no. I think hard work is good for a fellow. This morning, for instance, I have been successful where any other man on the paper would have failed.”

  A pause.

  “Would you care to hear about it?” Billy asked.

  “No,” said Cecily, shortly.

  “It was this way,” continued Billy; “the papers have all printed reports that the Count de Luni has won the heart of a certain Miss Lyndon, and Allen—that’s our city editor—wanted the rumor confirmed or denied.”

  Cecily caught her breath with indignation, and her eyes flashed dangerously.

  “Am I being interviewed?” she demanded.

  “No. The interview is ended.”

  “Then we may return, I suppose?”

  “As you please.”

  “But I—but you—” Cecily hesitated.

  “That’s the same as ‘but we,’” explained Billy, kindly. “But we what?”

  “Oh!” cried Cecily. “How I hate you!”

  “That’s three times you’ve told me that,” said Billy, “and it’s getting monotonous. Once more, and I’ll believe it. Besides, I am not hateful. If you don’t believe me, ask Cecile—a most charming girl who admired me.”