A Kiss Before Loving

by Mack Reynolds

  A KISS BEFORE LOVING

  Mack Reynolds

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  SHELL HALLIDAY sprawled comfortably in his favorite chair, at his favorite table, at his favorite sidewalk café, the Deux-Magots, on his favorite boulevard, Saint-Germain. His long legs, encased in paint bespattered corduroys, were idly crossed at the ankles and from time to time he got up the energy to do a quick line or two on the sketch pad he held in his lap.

  He identified the couple who took the table next to him in a system he had worked out years before. Shirley MacLaine and David Niven. David Niven, say, fifteen years ago. The girl was open of face, animated and friendly. Yes, definitely a Shirley MacLaine type. Probably a Californian. Her escort was undoubtedly British. David Niven playing a stuffy Englishman.

  Shell made a quick caricature of him, a line here, a line there, bringing out the stuffiness. A strait-laced British tourist, complete with a somewhat inadequate mustache.

  The girl said brightly, “Well, it’s Paris. I suppose champagne would be the thing.”

  Not California, Shell decided. Maybe Florida. Someplace where there was lots of sun and beaches and things like riding water skis behind motorboats. And lots of young people in bathing suits, doing a lot of laughing.

  “At this time of day, my dear?” the Englishman said.

  Oh, he was stuffy all right.

  Shell tightened his lips and shook his head, ever so slightly, at the girl.

  She blinked and looked at him, a bit startled.

  Using Shell’s own system of typing people, she could have thought, Henry Fonda. Hank Fonda back when he was about twenty-eight or thirty, playing the part of a slow, easygoing artist.

  Shell shifted slightly in his chair and said, “Not champagne here. Maurice will never forgive me for saying so, but not champagne.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the Britisher said, exactly the way, with exactly the inflection, Shell could have predicted.

  Shell chose to interpret it as meaning that the other hadn’t understood him and wanted a repeat. So Shell said, “I wouldn’t order champagne here. It’s atrocious.”

  “Why, you’re an American,” the girl said.

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t look like an American,” she said, evidently before thinking.

  Shell grinned. “What does an American look like?”

  She took in his paint-daubed pants, the beret on his head, the faded corduroy sport jacket. Then she flushed.

  Shell laughed and said, “Try the Alsatian Riesling. A bottle of Riesling de Ribeauvillé. Um-m-m, say about nineteen fifty-five. And have them chill it nicely. The Riesling here is excellent.”

  He returned his attention to his sketching, as though having dismissed them from his mind. The waiter came up and Shell could hear a muttered exchange between the girl and her escort and then the Englishman, in passable French, ordered a bottle of chilled Riesling de Ribeauvillé 1955. By the way he sounded, you could tell he disapproved the selection.

  Shell grinned inwardly and made a point of paying them no more attention. He finished the sketch, deciding he’d caught the Britisher rather well.

  The wine came, was duly opened and poured into the long-stemmed, tulip-shaped Riesling glasses.

  The girl exclaimed, “Why this is wonderful!” and then called over to Shell, “Thank you!”

  He looked up. “Eh? Oh, the wine. Is it good?”

  “Wonderful. So clean tasting.”

  “Glad you like it,” Shell told her and turned back to his sketch pad.

  “Could we offer you a glass?” the girl asked.

  Shell frowned, shrugged, came to his feet and, bringing his sketch pad along, made his way to their table. He realized that the girl probably hadn’t meant the invitation quite that way, that she could have sent the waiter over with a glass of the wine for him, but Shell chose to interpret her words as an invitation to join them.

  The Englishman came to his feet stiffly and made a gesture at one of the two unoccupied chairs.

  Shell said, “Thanks,” and sat down. He looked at the girl and smiled his easygoing smile. “Shell Halliday,” he said.

  She smiled in return and said, “Felicity Patterson. Sissy.”

  He stared at her, his eyes widening.

  She laughed. “I wasn’t calling you names. I meant, my nickname is Sissy. Everybody calls me Sissy. Felicity just doesn’t seem to apply.” The corners of her mouth turned down.

  Shell laughed, too. “I thought that possibly you were commenting on my wearing a beret. Americans never wear berets, but they’re the most comfortable headgear I’ve come up against.” He turned his eyes to the Englishman.

  “Brett-James,” he volunteered, then hesitated, finally adding, “Michael Brett-James.” He had a somewhat high voice.

  Shell held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mike.”

  Brett-James winced imperceptibly but shook the proffered hand.

  “Shell?” the girl commented. “That’s almost as offbeat as my name.”

  Shell said, “Short for Shelley. Mother has a culture complex. At the time I was born she was going through her poetry period. Later on she was sorry she hadn’t named me Rubens or Rembrandt. By that time she was in her painting period.”

  Sissy Patterson laughed and even Mike Brett-James managed a sour smile.

  “Your first trip to Paris, Sissy?” Shell wanted to know. He made a point of first names right off the bat.

  “First trip to Europe,” she said enthusiastically. “I think it’s wonderful. We got to Paris last night. Have you been here long?”

  Shell cast his eyes upward in consideration. “I suppose I’m running over four years now.”

  “Good heavens, haven’t you been back to the States at all?”

  “Nope. I like it here,” Shell said. “Besides, I have the feeling that my work is just getting under way.” He added, with a tone of self-deprecation, “I mean that I’m just beginning to find myself, sort of reaching a breakthrough period, you might call it.”

  She was fascinated. The waiter had brought another glass. She filled it herself. “You know,” she said. “I believe you’re the first real artist I’ve ever talked to. I mean a real artist.”

  Shell said, “No different from anybody else.”

  “No, I mean really. Bohemian and everything. An artist living and working in Paris. I’d just love to see some of your work.”

  “Sissy, we should be running along, you know,” Brett-James cut in. “We’ve got to dress for dinner.” He was obviously unhappy about the manner in which Shell had moved in upon them.

  Sissy ignored him. She said to Shell, “Four years. Good Heavens, you must know Paris like a book.”

  He shrugged. “As a matter of fact, I guess I have seen quite a bit of the real Paris.” He pursed his lips. “Discovering the real Paris, the inner Paris, you might call it, takes a bit of doing.” He turned his eyes to Brett-James. “Where were you figuring on eating, Mike?”

  From the Englishman’s expression, Shell might have just asked him whether or not his sister was a virgin. He sputtered a moment before saying, “Why, we have reservations at Maxim’s.”

  Shell said nothing to that.

  Sissy filled his glass again, looked around for the waiter and, American style, made a circular
motion with her hand to indicate the desire for another bottle of the Riesling. She turned back to Shell and asked, “What’s the matter with Maxim’s? It’s the most famous restaurant in the world, isn’t it? I even saw it in a movie once.”

  “It’s famous, all right,” Shell said. “Three stars in Michelin. You can’t get a higher restaurant rating than that. Maxim’s, Tour d’Argent, Grand Vefour, Lapérouse, Escargot-Montorgueil — the best restaurants in the world. You should give them a try.” He made a gesture with his right hand, rocking it back and forth as though in negation. “However …”

  Sissy was listening, wide-eyed, fascinated.

  “Well … what?” she prodded.

  “I don’t know. We were talking about the real Paris a moment ago. Not the tourist Paris. Not the ultra-expensive Paris.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Not even the Frenchman’s Paris, because Paris isn’t just a French city. It’s the city of light, the city of art — it’s the city of every man, every nationality that loves art.”

  “Good Heavens,” Sissy Patterson said, meaninglessly. She poured more wine.

  Brett-James looked at his watch impatiently.

  Sissy ignored him. “Look here, Shell,” she said. “Now don’t say no before I finish.” She slapped the table with the flat of her palm, definitely. “I want you to take Mike and me to dinner.” She added quickly, “On me, of course. I insist on paying for everything.”

  “Oh now, Sissy — ” Mike started.

  She turned to him. “No, Mike, I mean it. Good Heavens, we can go to that stuffy old Maxim’s any time at all. But this is our chance. Shell here is a real Bohemian. I told you I wanted to meet some real Bohemians, and I’m not going to have you ruin it, Mike Brett-James.”

  Brett-James cast his eyes heavenwards, the first human thing Shell had seen him do thus far.

  Shell laughed uncomfortably. “That word Bohemian is somewhat elastic.”

  She was insistent. “Take us someplace where you … well, suppose you had just sold a painting or something and were going to celebrate and money meant nothing. That’s what I want to do. And later, oh please, could you take us around to … well, you know … some of these places where the real artists go … in cellars and everything.”

  Shell hesitated, as though trying to find words to deny her.

  “Now don’t you say no,” she followed up quickly. “I don’t think it would be too much to take a fellow American around as a favor once in a while. You’ve had the advantage of living here for years and if you ever came to Palm City, I’d be glad to — ”

  She stopped suddenly and flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Possibly you have a date or something.” Her voice turned miserable. “I get so enthusiastic about things and make a jerk of myself every time.”

  Mike Brett-James cleared his throat and came to his feet, looking for the waiter.

  Shell snapped his fingers decisively. “Why not? I’ve been working too hard. I could use a night on the town. We’ll have fun.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Sissy breathed.

  “It’s a deal,” Shell said.

  The waiter came and Shell said idly, “Maurice, just put this on my bill.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Sissy said quickly. “Give me that check. This is my party, and neither of you boys is going to pay a thing.”

  She opened her bag and brought forth a fistful of one hundred denomination francs. “Is this enough?” she said. “I don’t understand this money very well.”

  Maurice grimaced in pain, took up a single bill and went off for change.

  Shell laughed and said, “One of those is about twenty dollars, Sissy.”

  She said hopelessly, “I have no idea of money. I have a hard time keeping track of even American money.”

  • • •

  Shell acquired a cab after no more than the average effort involved in hailing a taxi in Paris, and gave the driver directions. They took off in a stomach-chilling clash of gears and slammed into the traffic.

  “Oh, this is going to be wonderful,” Sissy gushed.

  Mike Brett-James said protestingly, “I say, aren’t we even going to go back to the hotel to change?”

  Shell grinned at him. “Mike, we’re going to one of the best bistros, in Paris, but it’s absolutely undiscovered so far as the tourist hordes are concerned. Here in the Latin Quarter, it’s top secret. You know, classified. However …”

  “Good Heavens,” Sissy said deliciously.

  “… I doubt if there’s ever been a party in dinner dress in the place. I’d hate to set the precedent. The gang would have me out and lined up against the wall at the Invalides.” He dropped the banter. “I hope you like Burgundian food. Robert is from Lyon.”

  “Of course,” Mike said stiffly.

  “Oh, yes,” Sissy breathed.

  Shell said, “Frog legs and snails are particular Burgundian delicacies.”

  Sissy sucked in her breath.

  Shell laughed at her. “I was kidding you,” he said. “As a matter of fact, their snails are tops but you don’t have to try them.”

  Sissy said, “I’ve had frog legs. Goodness, the best frog legs in the world come from out of the Everglades.”

  “You’ll have to try Robert’s,” Shell told her.

  Their careening cab, obviously driven by a suicidal maniac, shot suddenly off to the right and onto a smaller street than Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  “This is Rue Monsieur Le Prince,” Shell told them. “Lots of students at the Sorbonne live in the neighborhood. Back before my paintings began to go fairly well, I used to stay here. You can get a room for as little as a dollar a day.”

  “Must be terrible,” Mike protested.

  “A little on the grim side,” Shell admitted. “But fun.”

  “I can imagine,” Sissy said.

  They went on a little beyond the Rue Casimir DeLavigne and the cab came to a halt in a snarling of brakes. The driver relaxed and settled back for all the world as though he had never really expected to make it.

  They climbed out and Shell reached in his pocket for money, saying in a sour voice in English to the driver, “Wow, how many more lessons before you get a license?”

  “Eh, Monsieur?”

  Sissy was laughing. “No, no,” she protested. “You promised. Everything is on me. Otherwise, I’d just never feel right about … well, kidnapping you like this.” She fumbled in her bag for money for the taxi.

  Shell shrugged. “I feel like a kept man,” he said. Then he added as an after thought, “You know, it feels good, for a change.”

  Mike Brett-James didn’t join them in the laughter but they swept together up to the less than imposing door. The Britisher scowled at it. “You’re sure this is the place?”

  “Never judge a Parisian restaurant by its entry,” Shell told him. “For that matter, even your Maxim’s looks like a second-rate American hash house — from outside.”

  They entered, and whether or not Maxim’s exterior looked like a hash house, certainly the interior of Robert’s did. The smells that wafted about the room were exotic, however.

  “I say,” Brett-James protested. “Miss Patterson would hardly — ”

  “Oh, do be quiet, Mike,” Sissy said.

  An aristocratic, high-nosed character came sweeping up. An Eric Blore type, Shell Halliday had decided long ago. Eric Blore in his best role as butler or headwaiter.

  “Monsieur Halliday,” this one gushed. “Bon soir! Comment — ?”

  Shell held up a hand. “Anglais, s’il vous plaît, Robert. My friends speak English.”

  Robert switched without a second’s hesitation. “But you have been avoiding us. We have been desolate. This very afternoon Pierre was saying the saupiquet montbardois was a creation today and that it would be tragic if you did not dine with us.”

  “Good Heavens, what’s that?” Sissy whispered.

  Shell chuckled. “A piquant sauce the chef here is a master at.” He said to Robert, “I’m sorry I di
dn’t make reservations. It was a last-moment decision.”

  The headwaiter made a Gallic gesture with his hands and a toss of his head. “We can always find room for a party of yours, Monsieur Halliday.” He turned his beaming face to Sissy and Mike Brett-James.

  “Robert, this is Miss Patterson and Mister Brett-James,” Shell said. “Mind them well. And do me proud tonight. I have expressed the opinion that Robert’s is currently the outstanding undiscovered restaurant in all Paris.”

  Robert bowed sweepingly and led them to as good a table as was still unoccupied. He swept the reservation sign away and helped them into their chairs.

  He snapped his fingers for a waiter and took their order himself. Evidently, in Robert’s there were no menus. Instead, he and Shell chattered back and forth in French for the next ten or fifteen minutes. From time to time Shell would consult with them.

  “He says that the quenelles de brochet au beurre d’écrevisses are excellent this evening. That’s a sort of pike fishball deal with a sauce of fresh cream and crayfish butter.”

  “I know what it is,” Mike said in irritation. He was on the edge of rebellion at the whole situation.

  “Good Heavens,” Sissy said, “it sounds marvelous. You decide, Shell.”

  “And the pauchouse de la Saône. That’s a kind of stew of freshwater fish seasoned with herbs and onions and Burgundy wine. I can recommend it highly.”

  “You decide,” Sissy repeated.

  Brett-James put in a few comments by way of not allowing himself to be completely eclipsed, but largely the ordering was in Shell’s obviously competent hands. When all was done, he asked Robert to send over the sommelier and once again it was a lengthy matter involving a Chablis of good year for the fish course, a Red Romanée-Conti with the entree, to wind up at last with a champagne for the cheese.

  “No martini while we’re waiting?” Sissy asked.

  Mike Brett-James was able to take over at last. “My dear, they’d drum us from the building if we drank a cocktail before dinner in a French restaurant.”

  “But I had one last night at the Ritz Bar.”

  Mike said distastefully, “The Ritz is more American than the Waldorf in New York. They’d sell you a drink of paraffin there, if you requested it.”