The Silver Leopard

by Helen Reilly

“Oh, he’ll make money eventually. He’s clever and he has a way with people. Tom says he can sell anything. He could sell you the Zoo or the Public Library.” Catherine didn’t say anything. Sometimes Nicky’s accent on financial success bothered her a little.

  “In the meantime,” Angela continued, “let me help. I have more money than I know what to do with, and John would have wished it.”

  Catherine was by no means sure of that. Her Uncle John had been a firm believer in people standing on their own feet, no matter how uncomfortable the position might eventually become.

  “Look, darling,” she said, “let’s leave it at this, shall we? If I go broke, if we can’t pay the rent and the man with a wrench comes to turn off the gas and electricity, I’ll come to you.”

  Angela was far from satisfied. There was nothing she could do about it. “Perhaps I’ll be able to make you change your mind later.”

  At that point two of the reasons among many why she would never be able to change Catherine’s mind were presented by old Mrs. Bettinger, the caretaker. She knocked at the door and said that Mr. and Mrs. Tom had arrived.

  Catherine liked both her cousin Tom and his wife Francine. She realized without censure that they belonged to the acquisitive people of the world. Not brashly or unfairly or greedily, but what was theirs, or what they thought was theirs, they wanted. John had left everything to Angela. Tom was like a son to her—and Hat, a daughter. She herself had no intention of poaching on what they, and Francine, justly considered their preserves. Leaving Angela to finish dressing, she went downstairs.

  Tom and Francine were in the living-room at the front of the house. She could hear their voices as she walked along the corridor, her footsteps soundless on the heavy carpeting. Francine was saying. “He was in Uncle’s confidence. It wouldn’t be that Uncle gave them to Stephen Darrell and that after Uncle died Stephen forgot?”

  “Stephen”—“them”—What was Francine talking about? Catherine stood still in gloom.

  Tom answered Francine testily. “Don’t be an idiot, my pet. Steve wouldn’t do a thing like that.” Francine laughed. It wasn’t her usual bright social laughter. “Dear old pal of mine—Always the idealist, aren’t you, Thomas?”

  Francine never called Tom Thomas unless she was rebuking him or in raillery. Catherine frowned and jumped slightly at the mention of her own name.

  Francine was saying musingly, “Well, what about Catherine Lister? That letter on Uncle’s desk—couldn’t he have sent them to her? She mightn’t have wanted to mention it, she’s so hard up, poor sweet.”

  “Nonsense,” Tom said. “Uncle sent her that jaguar or whatever it was that used to be on his desk, that he used as a paperweight. Besides, if he did send them to her, they’d be hers, wouldn’t they? You—eh—wouldn’t know anything about them yourself?”

  “I might ask you the same thing.”

  Catherine looked through the banister railings at the squares of black-and-white marble paving in the lower hall, at the swing of the staircase, also of marble, with cruel cutting edges to the shallow steps down which her uncle had plunged to his death, and averted her eyes. She was puzzled, uncomfortable, and uneasy. Stephen, herself, something being sent, something missing—What were Francine and Tom discussing? She couldn’t stand there, listening.

  She retreated a few feet, gave what she hoped was a convincing cough, and continued on along the hall. A few seconds earlier, Francine and Tom had been quarreling, their voices edged. When she entered the room, there was no sign of dissension between them.

  The dust covers had been removed, and the long room, like the rest of the house, was imposing. The very best butter and lots of it. John had gone in for grandeur in an unobtrusive way. Except for half a dozen overstuffed chairs and sofas, the rugs, cabinets, paintings, and paneling were museum stuff. Angela’s retrieving hand showed in the colors, soft greens and blues and yellows with here and there a flicker of scarlet. She had excellent taste. John’s portrait looked down from over the

  Florentine mantel at the far end. It wasn’t, for Catherine’s taste, a felicitous presentation of her uncle. He was at his most pontifical and austere, seated at his desk, one hand on the silver leopard which he had used as a paperweight, the other extended, palm down, on a large open book. His eyes, which in life had sometimes been puzzled and almost wistful, were cold, and his small mouth with the jutting lower lip was pursed.

  Catherine didn’t know whether or not her cousin and his wife exchanged a quick look when she walked in. Francine was smoking a cigarette near one of the windows and Tom was flipping over the pages of a New Yorker. They greeted her with the informality of people who know each other well, although, as a matter of fact, they didn’t meet often nowadays. Francine said, “Darling, I love your hat. It’s adorable.”

  Tom said, “How are you, Catherine? What’s new? How’s Nicky?”

  Catherine answered in kind. Tom was putting on weight, she reflected, but he was as good-looking as ever, big and bronzed and beautifully turned out. He was a gynecologist with a large, fashionable, and growing practice. It was a perfect profession for him. He had been born with a bedside manner. He was amiable, sweet-tempered and with the expressed conviction that everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds—and that if it wasn’t he was going to make it so. Women fell for him in droves. The only woman he was interested in was his wife.

  Francine was tall, not pretty, but with a pleasant open face, curly brown hair, a clear olive skin, and a lot of style. A mink coat that had been a present from Angela swung from her shoulders over an expertly tailored gray suit. As usual, she gave an overall impression of efficiency. Francine invariably knew what she wanted, and her looks and manner served warning on you, without rancor, that she intended to go alter it. She didn’t ask you to agree with her objectives; she simply laughed a crisp laugh when you didn’t, and went blithely on her way.

  Ordinarily, Francine’s directness amused Catherine, and she was genuinely fond of Tom. That day she was uncomfortable with them and she was glad when Angela came down, which was almost directly.

  “Darling, back at last.”

  “Let’s have a look, Angel.” They kissed her affectionately and held her off and studied her and said she was looking wonderful. There were questions about mutual friends, when she’d made up her mind to come on to New York, why she hadn’t given them more warning. The talk flowed easily.

  There were no outward shadows, nothing ostensible to strike a chill. Nevertheless, Catherine was aware of undercurrents. For one thing, Angela herself wasn’t at ease. Instead of sitting down tranquilly, she moved about touching various objects, straightening a bronze, shifting the fold of a curtain. For another, Tom and Francine had somewhat the air of bright-eyed children asked there for a birthday treat and wondering, and firmly concealing their wonder, as to what it was.

  Angela must have prepared them for something in a letter. She finally told them, but not before Hat appeared. She had evidently been waiting for the girl who, next to Tom, was the apple of her eye.

  Hat paused in the doorway and Catherine looked at her curiously. Slight, fair, with small chiseled features, a rose-leaf skin, and large childlike brown eyes, she was enchantingly pretty. There was nothing childlike about the curves of her full sinuous red mouth, or the way she carried herself.

  “Narcissus complex,” Tom said of her, with one of his rare flashes of penetration. “Loves to look at herself in the mirror. Always did. Never sees anything half as good out of it. Oh, well, she’ll grow up some day.”

  Hat came in negligently, hands thrust into the pockets of her black velvet lounging suit, the pale flame of her hair bright. “Hello, everybody. How are you, Francine?”

  She drifted, with an effect of being on rollers, to a green-satin chair beside a coffee table, curled herself up in the chair, feet tucked under her.

  Her “Hello, everybody” included Catherine. She gave her no special greeting. She gave her a special look. It was a
scrutiny almost. Among other things, there was surprise in it.

  It’s my suit, Catherine thought. She doesn’t know what I’m doing in a Carnegie model.

  “Well, darling,” Hat said to Angela, “now that were all gathered here together in the sight of—She made me get up at twelve, Tom, which I consider cruel and inhuman treatment, as I didn’t get in until four.” Her glance wandered over Catherine again. “What momentous news have you got for us? I hope it’s nice.”

  “I hope you’ll think so.” Angela was standing in the curve of the grand piano, tall and impressive in gray wool, an elbow propped on the shining wood. Pearls glimmered at her throat. She said quietly, “I’m going to be married again,”

  Silence. It reverberated. Shock. Francine and Tom and Hat looked as stunned as though the ceiling had come down and showered them abruptly with bricks and mortar.

  It wasn’t Catherine’s show, but she couldn’t help observing and recording. Why should they be so taken aback by the thought of Angela’s remarriage? She was a comparatively young woman and John had been dead almost two years. If she wanted to marry again, surely it was her own affair. Tom was married himself, Hat was almost never at home, and she must often be lonely.

  The other three sat completely still. They didn’t move or speak. The silence went on and on. It came to an end. It was Francine who broke it, in rather an ugly way. She laughed. Her laugh was a small brittle splinter striking against sheet metal. “But—how amazing!” she exclaimed in too high a voice. “Who is the fortunate man, darling, may we know?”

  Angela had evidently been prepared for the reception her announcement had received. There was a braced air to her. She gave Francine a level glance. “Of course. It’s Michael.”

  Another pause. More stares, at nothing. Catherine said, and meant it, “Oh, Angela, I’m so glad.”

  But she was surprised. Somehow or other she had never thought of Mike Nye as marrying. The cat who walked alone—he was sufficient unto himself. Work was his ruling passion. He was a painter first, last, and all the time. Moreover, he was an inveterate wanderer, over the face of his own and every other country in the world, while Angela was essentially domestic and liked roots. Perhaps Mike was tired of roaming and Angela wanted a little adventure. They would probably be very happy together.

  Shame enveloped her at Tom’s and Hat’s complete lack of response. It was horrid. They made her sick. They weren’t Angela’s children, they were her sister’s, and she had been a mother to them without a mother’s obligation, had given them a second father, because that was what John had been to them both. Was it because of John that they were showing this motionless and implacable opposition? For it was there—and then all at once it was gone.

  Angela said, “Thank you, Catherine, I knew you’d be glad,” and Tom sprang up, crossed the floor, went to Angela, took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Good luck, old girl, and all the best.” Francine followed suit. She was her crisp, assured self again, had regained her aplomb. “It—it takes my breath away, but I think it’s wonderful. I know you’re going to be happy. Mike’s a swell guy.”

  Hat didn’t rise, but she added her tribute. “I’m glad it’s Mike,” she said in her slightly hoarse voice, the result of an injury to her vocal chords when she was a child. “You’re much too attractive to be wandering around the world alone. Where is Mike? When are we going to see him?”

  The tension had gone out of Angela. She was quietly happy. “He left Santa Fe for Washington the day before yesterday. He ought to be through there by the end of next week. We’ll be married as soon as he gets back. Mike has to go to South America to paint someone and he wants me to go with him.”

  “South America? What’s going to happen to poor little me?” Hat was doleful.

  “We thought, dear, that you might join us, in a month or two.”

  Hat gave a small scream. “All that distance, and the water, and earthquakes, and insects that breed under your skin—”

  “Good-neighbor policy,” Tom said with a grin.

  The amend honorable. All’s well that ends well. But had it? Catherine wondered. Talk, questions and answers, plans, Angela was as pleased as a large grave child at their interest, response. Underneath, in all three of them, there were distinct signs of excitement and strain. Her lip curled. Were they worrying about money? John had left everything to Angela and until now what had been hers had been theirs automatically, without question. Perhaps she was misjudging them, she thought, and knew at the end of another twenty minutes that she wasn’t.

  The front door bell rang and someone came in. It was Mike Nye. Angela was wrong. He wasn’t in Washington.

  He was here in New York. They heard his voice first, shouting at Mrs. Bettinger in the lower hall. She was as deaf as a post. His arrival was as complete a surprise to Angela as to everyone else. She said, startled, “Why, it’s Mike,” and went quickly to the door. Behind her back, for an instant, the masks dropped.

  The interchange was swift, wordless. Francine and Tom looked at each other and Hat looked at Tom, gave a small shrug, and looked away. Her faint smile wasn’t pleasant. It said, as clearly as though she had shouted aloud, “So here we are, in the soup.”

  Then Mike was in the room, an arm through Angela’s, and they were all crowding around him and wishing him well. Very tall and wide-shouldered and spare, his rugged quizzical face highlighted by thick-tented black brows above small twinkling gray-green eyes, he received their congratulations smilingly. In the background, Catherine gave an involuntary exclamation. She couldn’t help it. She hadn’t seen Mike in more than a year. During that time, his black hair, a heavy cap of it touched lightly with gray at the temples, had turned completely white.

  He was coming toward her. She said, “Mike, your hair,” and he said, “Getting old, getting old, Kate,” and took her two hands in his. “What’s this I hear about you and Nick Bray? Well, well, if Angela hadn’t taken me, I was going to marry you myself.”

  Mike at least wasn’t disapproving. He seemed pleased. He said he had come back to New York on business, was going on to Washington tomorrow. He insisted on their all lunching with him, wouldn’t take no.

  Hat and Angela had gone upstairs and Catherine was standing at one of the windows listening to Mike talk about New Mexico to Tom and Francine and looking idly down into the street when her glance suddenly sharpened.

  There he was almost as he had been when she last saw him, like a forgotten figure on a stage set, the small shabbily smart gray-haired man into whom she had bumped late yesterday afternoon. He was leaning against an iron railing across the street, hat brim low over his eyes, one shoulder higher than the other, hands in the pockets of the brown chesterfield, gazing at nothing, at a car going past, at—the facade of the Wardwell house?

  It could be. If so, it was decidedly queer. Catherine frowned. She was about to call the attention of the others to the small man across the street when, behind her, Hat said, “I can’t, Mike. I’d love to go with you, but I’m meeting Steve Darrell at Finlay’s at one.”

  Mike said shortly, “Steve Darrell? Oh. Too bad.” Angela intervened. “That’s all right, Hat, we’ll go to Finlay’s too, and you and Stephen can join us.”

  Catherine forgot about the little man across the street. She didn’t want to meet Stephen Darrell again, didn’t want to talk to him, or be near him. To back out now would look suspicious. Pride stiffened her spine. She turned, refused Mike’s exploring glance, picked up her gloves and purse, and went with the others out of the room and down the stairs.

  Stephen Darrell was waiting for Hat in the restaurant, smoking a cigarette and sipping a Martini in the little rose-lit mirror-lined lounge bar. Her apprehension as to how Mike would treat him was stilled. They saluted each other with cool pleasantry. Catherine didn’t say anything to Stephen but hello. It wasn’t necessary. He remained behind with Hat when they went to the table Mike immediately procured. When the two of them came in five minutes later, it was evi
dent that they had been quarreling. Hat’s eyes were narrow and overbright between lashes brushed expertly with mascara, and she kept biting her lower lip, and Stephen Darrell wore a remote look, as though he were somewhere else.

  Francine, who never missed anything, murmured to Catherine with interest, “Now, what’s up?” and Angela, always observant, glanced at Hat anxiously. But she was too good a hostess to let anything interfere with a social occasion.

  Flowers, fragile glassware, the soft crash of voices surrounding their own, the cocktails were warming, the food was excellent, the luncheon was not a success. Angela worked hard but unavailing. What conversation there was, was forced. There were long pauses and the air of constraint steadily grew.

  Catherine thought the meal would never end. It was an endurance test. Hat and Stephen Darrell—was there a definite understanding between them? No matter, Nicky and herself—They were going riding in the Park later; she was to pick Nicky up at his hotel at three. It was twenty of three and coffee had been served when the ax descended, crashingly.

  The blow was utterly unexpected. It was more than that, it was confounding. Tom and Stephen were exchanging reminiscences, talking of men they had known and what had happened to them in the war, when Tom said, twirling the stem of his liquor glass, “—and Blanchard. You remember Sandy Blanchard? Poor old Sandy. He got his in a train wreck in the South last week, after going safely through that madhouse. Queer, isn’t it? I got a notice of a memorial service for him this morning.”

  Catherine’s coffee cup was halfway to her lips. She made herself raise it, sipped once, twice, put the cup down. Blanchard was dead. Nicky couldn’t have been going to meet him last night. He had lied to her. And Stephen Darrell knew it. He must have been laughing up his sleeve at her histrionics of the evening before. She didn’t look toward him. She sat on, enclosed in a fog of humiliation and pain.

  Five minutes later, skimping her good-bys, “I’ve got to fly. I’m meeting Nicky and I’m late now,” she was on her way to the door. Mike called something after her as she went, but she didn’t turn. She got a cab and drove straight to Nicky’s hotel, the Warfield, on East Fifty-second Street. Nicky wasn’t in. In spite of the fact that they had a definite engagement made a week in advance, his room didn’t answer and he hadn’t left any message.