By the time he checked his watch, it was getting late. Connie would be back at the hotel. He phoned her room and got no answer. He phoned Bigelow Warren’s suite and got no answer there, either. He phoned the concierge and was informed that Mr. Warren and Miss Lockwood had left the hotel after requesting that he, the concierge, make reservations for them at the Tour d’Argent.
Well, that was all right. The night before had been a drain on Shell’s meager resources and he couldn’t afford to take Connie to another expensive restaurant. And he certainly didn’t mind her being in Biggy’s company. He rather liked the idea of the cartoonist and Connie getting to know each other. His girl and his best friend.
He had about decided to return to the George Fifth for something to eat — he could put his meal on the tab — but he decided that since he’d been dashing around like crazy all day, he could use an apéritif at the Deux Magots.
By luck his favorite table was empty, a rare occasion these days, especially now that the tourist season had fully opened up. He called for Maurice to bring him a Berger.
Sissy Patterson came striding by — for once without Mike Brett-James — clutching a piece of paper in one hand. She looked as though she had something worrisome on her mind.
The sight of her drove all thoughts of Connie, the party, Biggy and the guests from his mind. He realized suddenly and definitely that he’d never met a woman so capable of projecting her personality upon him. There was something she had for him — possibly for him alone, he didn’t know — that other women simply hadn’t and could never have. It wasn’t just the rapport they found physically. No, not just that.
Hold it, Shell Halliday, he told himself. The bridges have been burned. She isn’t for you. You’re already up to your neck in complications. And even if there was no Connie, Sissy isn’t for you. Play it light and flippant, Shell Halliday, that’s what she expects.
“Hi, there,” he called, waving nonchalantly.
She came over. “Shell,” she exclaimed. “You’re just the one I need.”
He got to his feet, held a chair for her. “That has a sinister ring to it,” he said. “Who do you need worked over?”
“Worse than that,” she said.
“Great. Have a drink. On me, for a change.”
“No time. We can have one over there. She probably has a bar. We have to hurry. It’s getting dark and the lights are out.”
He looked at her sadly. “Poor thing. You’ve obviously slipped your clutch.”
“Good Heavens,” she said, “do come alive, Shell. I don’t know anything about Paris and I’ve got to find this address.” She handed the paper to him.
He looked at it. “Rue de la Colombe. Sure, it’s over on the Ile de La Cité, near Notre Dame. Little street, only about a block long. Has a cute little restaurant on it, the La Colombe, where Bemelman hangs out a lot. Nice place.”
“Well, hail a cab or something and take me there.”
Shell shrugged, escorted her to the curb and began searching the traffic stream for a taxi. “Do you mind telling me why?”
“Oh, a supposed friend of mine, a nasty witch who’s always talking behind my back, has a studio there. Wants me to check it for her. I made the mistake of sending her a post card and when she found out I was in Paris she gave me this chore to take care of.”
A cab swerved in, almost banging the curb. Another Parisian cowboy behind the wheel, Shell thought grimly. He held the door open for Sissy, climbed in after her, and hardly had time to get the door closed before they ripped back into the traffic. The driver’s head turned completely away from the street ahead and he looked questioningly at Shell, ignoring cars, trucks and pedestrians.
“A la Rue de la Colambe!” Shell said in hurried anguish. “Et regardez la circulation, s’il vous plaît.”
The driver made with a Gallic shrug. “Très bien, très bien, Monsieur.”
Shell looked back at Sissy. “What chore?”
“Oh, she leased the place and the tenant has evidently taken off somewhere or other and Maggie is afraid he might have lifted some of her treasures.” She fished a letter from her purse. “She wants me to check on a Modigliani painting, whatever that is.”
Shell pursed his mouth. “If she has a Modigliani, it’s worth swiping.”
“And she has some ceramic things, and some pre-Colombian statuary from Central America.”
They slammed down St. Germain to Rue Dante, swung left across traffic, miraculously getting through, and crossed the Seine on the Pont au Double. Notre Dame Cathedral was immediately to their right. The cab began twisting and turning down tiny side streets.
“Good Heavens, she wouldn’t have a studio in a part of town like this. Maggie is a terrible snob,” Sissy mused.
“It’s the latest thing,” Shell told her. “Rent a rundown hole in some horrible side street, then spend a fortune fixing it up inside. Cost you more before you’re through than getting a place in a good Right Bank neighborhood.”
The cab drew up in a squealing of brakes and the driver turned and beamed on Shell. See! he seemed to be saying, We’ve made it safely.
While Sissy paid the taxi off, Shell spent a few moments ferreting out the address. It turned out to be a stairway, leading shakily up into darkness. Shell went first, just for luck.
“You have a key?” he called back to her.
“Yes, she mailed me a spare. She said I could stay here for the balance of my Paris sojourn if I wanted.” Sissy grunted something Shell couldn’t make out, other than that it ended in Good Heavens.
They reached a door in a dimly lit hall and she gave him the key. He fumbled at the lock. “This probably has to be it,” he growled. “The stairs seem to go up another flight, but they look blocked off. What a joint. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a placard reading François Villon Slept Here.”
“Who was he?” Sissy said. “Something like a French George Washington?”
The door swung open. “Not exactly,” Shell said. “He was more like me — a bum and free-loader.”
Before entering the studio apartment, she shot a glance at him. “Stop beating yourself,” she said. “You’re not as bad an egg as you seem to think you are.”
“If I knew how to curtsy, I would,” Shell said sourly. “However, this particular egg shouldn’t be served to a Chinaman.”
They were in the studio apartment. Shell had been correct. Rent on this building was probably infinitesimal, but the owner had lavished a small fortune on the interior-decorating, upon the furniture and art objects it contained.
“I don’t get the connection,” Sissy said. “Good Heavens, Maggie certainly did herself proud here. Look at that Javanese, or whatever it is, bar.”
Shell was standing before the fireplace, staring up at the startling Modigliani above it. “What connection?” he said. Then he went on to comment, “Indonesian, and it’s made of carved teak but otherwise is a phony. Indonesians are mostly Moslem.”
“What’s serving bad eggs got to do with Chinamen?” She looked at him critically. “And what’s the fact that Indonesians are Moslems got to do with the bar being phony?”
He said in explanation, “It was supposed to be funny, but it didn’t come off. Chinese are supposed to eat hundred-year-old eggs as a delicacy. How bad could an egg get? Moslems don’t drink, so they don’t make bars. This one was probably made here in Paris to your friend’s order. No wonder she wanted you to check. That painting’s worth at least twenty-five thousand.”
Sissy said, “Let’s start all over again. We’re talking about at least three different things at once.” She stared up at the painting. “That’s worth twenty-five thousand dollars? Why — ” She came over and stood beside him, and put her hands on her hips. “ — she looks as though she’s got three breasts.”
Her stance had emphasized her own magnificent breasts and, inadvertently, Shell’s eyes went down to them.
His mouth seemed suddenly to go dry.
He collected himself and
redirected his gaze, meeting her eyes. They were open, clear, bright and gold-flecked. But Sissy had caught his momentary arousal at the realization of her body and its nearness and the memories it brought back. Sissy Patterson possessed the most desirable body Shell had ever experienced.
Her eyes seemed to go cloudy and her usually animated face went beautifully sensuous. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she swayed a fraction of an inch toward him.
He grasped her roughly and pulled her toward him. In the back of his mind something said once, twice, Connie, but then it was gone, and as though from the floor, an ebbing of passion swept up and over both of them.
Her mouth went slack, as it always did in the grip of desire. She was the ideal love instrument. Played upon, she responded completely, to the utmost of her capabilities — and they were considerable.
Her tongue, undirected, darted about the inner surfaces of his lips, commanding him to readiness for her. Her breasts, nipples so hard as to be felt through her clothing and his, seemed to swell in response to his masculinity and its needs.
He stared, almost glared, into her eyes as their mouths twisted upon each other, and her own eyes narrowed, then rolled upward. Air went out of her lungs and her knees weakened and she felt close to complete faint.
They stumbled toward the studio couch, not knowing nor caring if or how they made it. Had they not made it, the floor would have done just as well.
They fumbled with buttons, zippers and belt buckle, working together, getting in each other’s way in their frantic haste.
“No, it goes like this,” she muttered. “Oh … quick.”
There, in each of their minds, was the memory of the last time, and each knew it had been the best time. In all their two lives of sex play and passion, of casual affairs and longer affairs, in their dealings with sex-sophisticates or amateurs, with whoever — it had never been so perfect for Sissy as with Shell, never been so perfect for Shell as with Sissy.
He had never met a woman so spontaneous to arousal. Nor one who aroused him so quickly. He was already rampant.
He bent over her expertly, bit one of the cosmetic-coral tips of her full breasts, amazed that even in repose, upon her back, the perfect mounds lost none of their shape. He bit gently. Too gently. She seized his head in her hands and pressed him down on it.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Bite me, Shell.”
He played a few moments’ homage to her breasts, knowing that she was already fully ready for him, and he for her, but prolonging it, torturing them both.
His lips circled the hard softness and he marveled at the fact that she had borne a child. Her skin was that of an untouched fourteen-year-old.
She threw her arms back over her head and closed her eyes. His face was flushed, and she could feel its heat, even as tongue and lips caressed her intimately.
She muttered in agony, “Do … do those things you did before … Shell. Oh, do everything to me. Everything you can think of.”
His response was unintelligible.
• • •
They lay nude on the studio couch and stared at each other in growing comprehension.
“Good Heavens, this is it, isn’t it?” she said finally, in wonder.
He nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. Never happened to me before.”
“Me either. How come we didn’t know sooner?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe I did. Underneath.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Her eyes were wide and wondering.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t figure out any way to make it go. I’m still not sure, but there must be a way.” There was puzzlement in his voice.
“How to make what go?”
“You and me. A permanent deal. First, I’ve got to get out of this situation I’m in.”
She frowned gently, her eyes still wondering.
He worried at it. “I’ll have to get a job — ”
“Money doesn’t make — ”
He interrupted her quickly. “I’m not going to be Number Three, Sissy — your third kept man.”
She flushed.
“I’m going to be Number One. Your first real huband, and your last one. It’ll take more time, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Of course.”
Connie came back to him, and he wondered about her fear of pregnancy. He closed his eyes in mental anguish. “I’ve got some things I have to work out, Sissy.”
She smiled at him lazily, the after effects of their exertions making her sleepy now.
“They’ll take some time,” he said unhappily. Connie couldn’t really be pregnant. He was sure she couldn’t. Possibly he could go through the motions though, go through an act with her. Pretend to make the engagement, to ease her mind, then, when she found out it was a false alarm, he could, by mail, break the engagement.
But suppose she was pregnant? It was unlikely but, nevertheless, it was possible. Damnably possible.
“You’ll have to bear with me, Sissy. Somehow, I’ll work it out. We’re a team, you and me — Sissy and Shell, and that’s the way it’s going to have to be. Forget about this Mike Brett-James — ”
“Already have,” she murmured sleepily.
“ — and bear with me for just a while.”
Chapter Seven
THE PARTY got off to a bang of a start. The physical elements, of course, were impeccable. The junior chef who presided in the kitchen was supplemented by a bartender and a waiter. The hors d’oeuvres were unending and superb. Bigelow Warren was capable of going as overboard on his food as on his drink and his conception of tidbits at a party went far and beyond the usual caviar, cheese-dips and stamp-sized sandwiches. In fact, he leaned heavily on such items as Swedish sil, poached oysters, paprika beif-nets, lobster barquettes, and miniature shish kebabs served Indo-Chinese style in a peanut sauce. And he kept it coming. Champagne was the order of the day, but anything else, anything at all, was immediately at hand. Biggy was going to make Connie’s party a success if anything he could do, including expenditure of any amount, could make it so.
For the first couple of hours, and while the guests were still dribbling in, Gordon Payant occupied a corner with his guitar, seemingly oblivious to the group gathered around him. He strummed softly, sang largely Mexican mariacha pieces. His little club didn’t open until later, and he was able to put in an hour or so for Shell. Connie had been impressed; she had once seen the Negro folk singer in a minor part he’d played in a British film.
Inviting Dave Shepherd had been an inspiration. The effeminate, gushing expatriate had taken over the task of impressing Connie with the names of those present. Snob though he was, it never occurred to Dave to mention the fact that the Grand Duke Manfred was currently a waiter. Instead, he bent Connies’s ear for ten minutes describing how the man’s title went back to the Holy Roman Empire.
Dave, in fact, was one of the few guests who hadn’t been let in on the secret of the party. He was safe. Town crier he might be, and the most insidious tattle in Paris, but he never did his gossiping on the spot. In any gathering, Dave Shepherd enthusiastically gushed over and about everyone present. The next day would be different and the bouncing extrovert could be depended upon to tell anyone within earshot about how Bigelow Warren’s party was overflowing with has-beens or never-weres.
But now he was in his glory. “My dear,” he whispered to Connie, “you absolutely must get to know this couple who just came in.”
“Oh?” Connie said. She was somewhat impressed by Dave’s hushed voice, but was beginning to weary of the fluttery man’s company. “Who are they?”
“Well now, my dear, he is the Viscount Brett-James and, oh, ever so many other titles. The Brett-James family, of course, you’ve read about.” He giggled deprecation. “Anyone who has ever read any history of England . .
“Of course,” Connie said vaguely.
“Back to William the Conqueror. Oh, so many dukes and princes, earls and viscounts in
the family tree. Ever so many. Scads.”
“Who’s she?” Connie asked interestedly. Sissy Patterson, who had a tendency toward shyness in new waters, particularly if she hadn’t had a few drinks, was, in a way, conspicuous in this company — by her lack of conspicuousness. She looked what she was; a friendly, open American girl.
“The girl with Michael?” Dave Shepherd said. “Well now, my dear, I understand she is one of the Florida Pattersons, you know. Just piles of money. You know the type.”
“I’ll have to go over and meet them,” Connie said, by way of escaping him.
Shell had been deep in an argument with Jan Luchtvaart over Utrillo’s Montparnasse scenes. The Dutch painter, as usual, was in corduroys and wore, even here at the party, a velvet beret. Shell wonderd vaguely how he’d ever got past Nicolas, down at the door. The rest of the guests were in their finery, ranging from the near-shabby to the fantastic dress uniform of the Grand Duke Manfred von Nauheim und zur Lüneburg. Shell himself couldn’t help but be impressed. Most of the evening wear, he realized, was probably rented, but you had to give this gang credit; has-beens and international bums they might be, but the greater percentage of them had, in their time, been on the top one way or the other and they knew the graces and amenities.
To see the grand duke help pass a tray of Celery Victor to former Prima Donna Carla Pezzoli, it would never have occurred to anyone that this same day he very possibly had brought the aging voice teacher her morning wallop of cognac at the Flore café, which was immediately around the corner from the third floor music studio in which she attempted to make a living.
Shell saw Sissy and Mike Brett-James at the door, excused himself to Jan Luchtvaart, and made his way toward them, patting a back here, urging food and drink on the guests there, as he progressed. Thus far it was a great party.
“Sissy!” he greeted her. He turned to her companion, who seemed to be riding his high horse tonight. “Hello, Mike, welcome to the party. Let me take your things.” He called to the waiter, supplied by the George Fifth, “Here, Félix, put these in the other room.”
He was trying to play it smooth but inwardly Shell Halliday was churning. He hadn’t expected Sissy to attend the party. He’d made a point of not notifying her of the date. He had a desperate feeling of things closing in; it had been complicated enough before, but this was chaos. He was playing with too many cards in his hand, and the Gods held the joker.
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