He had planned — how confused can you get? — to go through with his farce with Connie. Announce the engagement, and then hustle her back to the States as per Biggy’s scheme. Once home again, she would be under control — if only, please God, she wasn’t pregnant — and the fake engagement could be broken in as gentle a manner as possible. Meanwhile, he would be laying the foundations for his new life with Sissy.
It was complicated, too complicated, but it might have worked, except that Sissy was now on the scene !
She handed over her bag as well as her coat and grinned at him. “Looks like we’re late, Shell. In fact, we’re lucky we made it at all. Somebody fouled up on the invitations and it was just sheer luck we heard a couple of the guests talking about the party at the Deux Magots.”
Was she teasing him? Shell didn’t know. When they’d invited her to the party, the other night at Harry’s, she’d been told only that it was for an old girl friend of Shell’s from Ohio. Now, perhaps, in view of their newly discovered relationship, she’d be amused to see him with an old girl friend.
Shell muttered something, which probably didn’t make sense, and tried to get control of his thinking. He had to come up with something.
Mike looked about the room, taken aback. “This is your suite, Halliady?” The Britisher seemed to have a thick enough hide, he showed no embarrassment before Shell over their men’s-room altercation.
Shell said evenly, “It belongs to the George Fifth, but I’m temporarily occupying it.”
Connie had come up, smiling, and Shell took a deep breath and said, “Connie, let me present you to two of my more recent … friends. Felicity Patterson and Michael Brett-James.” He tried to lighten things. “Mike is one of those stuffy Englishmen you always see portrayed in the movies, Connie.”
“Oh, I say,” Mike protested stuffily.
Connie laughed and shook hands. “I never expected Shell to meet so many people,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t remember your names right away. Let’s see now, Felicity and Mike.”
Mike Brett-James winced at the Americanism, but Sissy smiled openly. “Oh, you’ll remember me,” she said. “I’m the only honest one here …”
Shell darted a startled look at her.
“… all the rest are foreigners, or artists, or something,” Sissy concluded.
Connie laughed and said to Mike, “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like David Niven?” she said.
Mike was obviously flustered. “Like who?”
“David Niven, the movie star.”
Mike was blank. “I don’t believe I know any of the cinema chaps,” he said.
Sissy laughed. “Good Heavens, look pleased, Mike. That was a compliment. Niven will probably sue her.”
Shell had been glancing back and forth at Sissy and Connie. What he’d have to do, someway, somehow, would be to get Sissy out of the place before making the announcement. He’d simply have to figure someway of getting her to go home.
Oh Lord, Biggy was bearing down on them. To Shell, it had become increasingly obvious that the big man had developed a crush on Connie, continually eyeing her like a love-lorn giant panda.
Bigelow Warren came up, two glasses in hand. “Champagne anybody, everybody?”
Mike and Sissy both took glasses.
Sissy said, after a preliminary sip, “What is it Buchwald says? ‘I like champagne because it tastes like my foot has gone to sleep.’”
Biggy was keeping himself remarkably sober, much to his own surprise. He didn’t particularly know why. It was just working out that way. In the back of his mind, he was worrying about Connie and Shell — and particularly Connie, by this stage, had he known it. There should be something he could do to bring a fairy-story ending to this, a happy ending involving a return to Ohio, perhaps, and a cozy cottage where Connie and Shell could live ever after and Bigelow could go and visit from time to time, bringing presents to the kids and being called Uncle Biggy —
He tried to give it the light touch, saying to Sissy, “Somewhere, I’ve seen you before.”
“Hmmm. So you don’t remember. I’ll give you a hint. You said I had, and I quote, ‘a lotta figure’.” She looked down at her Dior-sheathed figure, then up at Connie and raised her eyebrows.
Connie laughed. She liked this girl. “Some nerve,” she said.
Félix came up with a tray of petits chaussons d’anchois and served the newcomers, and Shell excused himself to check on the other guests. Actually, he wanted a breather in which to think.
Sissy looked after him, her eyes strange. She said to Connie, “A very nice guy.”
Connie cocked her head infinitesimally to the side, as though catching something unexpected. She said evenly, “Yes. Yes, he is.”
Biggy said, “So am I, girls. How about another drink?”
“Good Heavens, yes,” Sissy said. “We’re way behind. Biggy, do you remember where we met?”
He closed one eye and squinted at her with the other. “Nope.”
“In the basement of Harry’s Bar. You looked like a drunken grizzly bear.”
He raised an arm as though to defend himself, but said manfully, “It wouldn’t have been me. I never touch the stuff.”
“Come to think of it, it couldn’t have been me, either,” Sissy said. “I never go into bars. It isn’t ladylike.”
Biggy shook his head and finished the old wheeze. “Must have been two other people.”
Mike was looking back and forth at them, uncomprehending.
“Where’s that other drink you were promising?” she asked.
Bigelow bowed sweepingly, “Madam, right this way. Whilst Connie greets the new guests I shall do you the honors.”
Mike was descended upon by Dave Shepherd who flowed over him so gushingly that the Englshman was unable to escape. Sissy winked at her escort and went off with Bigelow who got a fresh bottle of wine from the bartender, along with two glasses, and they exchanged amusing banter to one side of the room while they had a drink.
She dropped it suddenly and said, her voice even, “Shell planned to marry that girl, didn’t he?”
“How did you know?” the big cartoonist asked uneasily.
There was a sudden chunk of ice in her stomach. She fought for control. “They’re going to announce their engagement tonight?”
“It was supposed to be a secret.”
But this couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be. When she’d asked the question, she’d thought that Connie was an old flame, that Shell had planned to marry her in the old days — possibly back in Ohio. But now now. Not any more. Not her Shell.
She held out her glass shakily for more wine. “She’s … she’s the girl from back home? The girl from Ohio?”
“That’s right.” He sensed something wrong, but couldn’t put his finger on it.
Her eyes went around the room vaguely, and for a moment Biggy wondered if she was already stoned. But she said, her voice empty, “This is your suite, isn’t it?”
“I’m staying with Shell. The suite’s in his name, not mine,” Bigelow said truthfully.
She looked at him appraisingly. “But you’re paying the bills. Shell couldn’t afford to rent a closet in this hotel.”
He felt obligated to defend his friend and said sourly, “Shell’s having a hard time, right now. I’m sorry as hell for him. There doesn’t seem to be an immediate answer.”
She looked out over the party, the drinking, chattering, shrilling, occasional laughter, to where Connie stood talking to an existentionalist philosopher whose sweeping air of erudition camouflaged the fact that he was supported by two streetwalkers.
“I wonder if it shouldn’t be Miss Lockwood that we’re sorry for,” Sissy said.
Bigelow ran his ham of a hand back through his already rumpled hair. “Both of them,” he said unhappily. “Both of them. Here, have some more champagne.”
“Twisted my arm,” Sissy said, presenting her glass. The sparkling wine was beginning to take e
ffect and she wanted still more. She didn’t want to think. She couldn’t allow herself to think.
Bigelow let his eyes go around the room to check developments and just in time. “I’d better get back to the guests,” he told Sissy. “The grand duke is getting to the point where he usually wants to toast the emperor and then break the glasses by tossing them into the fireplace.”
“That I’d like to see,” Sissy said, fighting to keep it light.
“Only there’s no fireplace,” Biggy growled. “See you later.”
• • •
Mike Brett-James finally shook Dave Shepherd by pleading a necessity to visit the bathroom.
The bath lay beyond the room in which Félix had left the guests’ wraps. Mike closed the bedroom door behind him and started toward the bathroom. He hesitated.
On the bed lay Sissy’s conspicuously expensive evening wrap, with bag to match. Mike Brett-James darted a look back at the door through which he had just come. For a moment or so, surely, nobody would be coming through. When he’d entered this room, he hadn’t noticed anyone heading in this direction.
He took a quick step to the bed, took up the bag, unsnapped it and brought forth an untidy roll of various currencies — francs dollars, pounds and pesetas. He returned the bag to its former position on the bed and went on to the bath.
• • •
The party was well on its way. Under the influence of food and drink in monstrous quantities, the guests were unlimbering, each in his individual way. The two models, respectively redhead and brunette, who had got into the quarrel about their chest measurements and wanted to demonstrate, were talked into taking a tape measure and going off on their own into one of the baths to procure the evidence. Carla Pezzoli, who had got away with enough Mumm’s Cordon Rosé to float a small yacht, was moved to tears over her past glories at La Scala. Shell led her off to the small balcony where he got her seated with an ice bucket and a fresh bottle, and listened for a few moments to her opinion that Callas knew a bank note better than a musical one.
He got back inside and took a deep breath. He had to talk to both Biggy and Sissy. Somehow he had to head off disaster. He spotted Biggy in a group and headed over in that direction.
The big cartoonist was telling one of his jokes.
“So this American private — just landed in Laos, see — comes up to the captain and says, ‘Sir, there’s just one thing that bothers me. How do I tell the difference between a Laotian on our side and one on the Pathet Lao’s? They all look the same to me and I’m afraid I’ll shoot the wrong one.’ ‘Well,’ the captain says, ‘it’s simple. Suppose you’re walking along a jungle path and you come face to face with a Laotian and you don’t know what kind he is. You up with your gun and say, “Khrushchev is a sonovabitch,” and then, according to how he reacts, you’ll know whether or not to shoot.’ So the private goes off and the next day the captain is walking through one of the field hopitals and there’s this private stretched out on a cot all bandaged up to hell-and-gone and taking plasma and everything. So the captain says, ‘Good grief, man, what happened?’ And the private says, ‘Well, sir, it’s because of that advice you gave me. Just like you said, I was walking along this jungle path and all of a sudden I was confronted by this Laotian and I didn’t know if he was one of ours or a Pathet Lao, so I upped with my gun and I said, “Khrushchev is a sonovabitch,” and he upped with his gun and said, “Kennedy is a sonovabitch,” and while we were shaking hands on it, a Jeep came along and hit both of us.’”
While most of them were laughing, one Shell knew as a former foreign correspondent now turned expatriate alcoholic, said, “You can’t say things like that.”
Biggy looked at him quizzically. “Why not?”
“Why, damn it, you just can’t. No American is going to put up with that kind of story. It’s not funny.”
Bigelow said gently, “You’re out of time, Steve. Humor goes in cycles. Back in the Twenties and Thirties old Will Rogers made himself the humorist of his time with gags based on political connotations. Twenty years later, in the McCarthy era, it was bad taste, if not outright dangerous, to say practically anything amusing about political policies and top politicians. Now the pendulum is swinging again. That’s why guys like Mort Sahl become so popular. That’s why my Bobby strip has made a hit.”
“Never liked it myself,” Steve grunted. “Surprised you aren’t investigated by the Un-American Activities Committee.”
Biggy shrugged hugely. “You’ve been out of the country too long, Steve. Time marches on. Did it ever occur to you that when a country gets to the point where you can’t make cracks about the politicians, it’s lost an element of democracy?”
Shell moved in, looking at Bigelow worriedly. The burly cartoonist didn’t seem to be drunk, but all they needed was for him to get into one of his hassles.
He muttered into the big man’s ear, “Hey, pal, save it for the next Bobby strip. Let’s not go annoying the guests.”
Biggy grinned at him. “I’m okay, Shell. In fact, the way I feel, I’m beginning to suspect I’m over my toot. I think I’ll probably be going back to the States in a few days. By the way, that Connie is one fine girl. I think you’re crazy not to go on back to Ohio and marry her before it’s too late.”
Even as he was talking, Shell grew wearily impatient of the words. The thing had got far and beyond the complications Biggy knew about. Shell’s eyes went around the room while he waited for his friend to come to the end of his point. He was going to have to tell the other about Sissy.
His supposed friends were all well along by now — the supposed artists, the supposed titled aristocrats, the supposed writers and celebrities. Actually, Bigelow was the only real success in the place. The next nearest thing to it were the three servants; the junior chef, bartender and waiter. At least, they’d worked their way into good jobs in their chosen fields. All the rest present, including himself, were failures.
Something suddenly came to him.
Some of these has-beens and never-weres were not above picking up a dishonest buck, given the opportunity. And if he knew Sissy, she’d presented an open opportunity to all. She was dressed obviously in the top products of Parisian haute couture, which would tip off anyone to the fact that there was probably folding money in her bag. And now that he recalled, her bag had gone into the bedroom to be deposited on an easily available bed.
He knew the George Fifth servants were above supicion, but except for Connie, Biggy, Brett-James and possibly Dave Shepherd, nobody else present was a certainty.
“Look, Biggy,” Shell said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. This engagement announcement. I’ll be back in just a minute.” He headed for the bedroom.
He wasn’t sure just which one was hers and stood for a few moments, staring down at the coats, bags and hats which were strewn on the bed. He vaguely remembered handing her things to Félix. What was it she had worn? Oh, yes. It came back to him. Here was the coat, and here the matching bag. He picked it up and looked about the room. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem to find a safe place. He could put it into a bureau drawer and get it for her when she was about to leave. He could lock the drawer and keep the key.
Bag in hand, he started toward the bureau. There was quite a bit of noise going on in the living room. He’d better hurry this up and get back to Biggy and —
The bedroom door opened and Sissy came in, her face empty, wan beneath her make-up. She closed the door behind her, blocking out the jabber and laughter of the other room.
“Shell,” she said in a strange voice, “up to the last minute I thought you’d have some sort of an explanation for me. But, Shell, your friend Biggy just announced your engagement to … to that girl.”
“Holy Smokes,” Shell groaned. “Listen, Sissy, — ”
Her eyes went to the bag in his hand and she frowned, uncomprehending, and then, unbelievingly.
“Shell,” she said. “What do you have there?”
He
began to say something, stumbled. How could he tell her that all these people, his supposed friends, were such that he couldn’t trust them not to pilfer her belongings?
She took the bag from him, still frowning uncomprehendingly, and opened it. She looked into it for a long moment and then there was a slump to her shoulders.
She said, very softly, “You might have at least left me taxi fare, Shell.”
Suddenly, protecting the good names of his supposed friends was meaningless. “Look, Sissy,” he began with a rush, “I had just picked it up — ”
“Never mind,” she said bluntly, refusing to hear his protests. “It doesn’t make any difference. It’s only money. Only money. Good night, Shell. Mike and I will be leaving. Good luck with Connie.” She hesitated before adding, cruelly, “She’ll need it.”
“Sissy! Damn it, listen to me!”
She looked full into his face. “Why?” she said bluntly.
She grabbed up her coat and was gone.
He stood, gaping after her. What was there he could do to prove his innocence, to prove that the evidence was circumstantial? Go out and demand that all the guests allow themselves to be searched? For that matter, two or three had already left, pleading other engagements. Some had actually had to go to work in night spots or less reputable establishments.
He followed her into the living room.
Sissy was atop a chair, a glass of champagne in her hand, and was shouting for attention.
Attention was difficult to obtain. The servants were bustling about, pouring fresh wine, and the guests were largely clustered around Connie, who stood next to Biggy accepting the congratulations of all. There was a strangely peaked expression on her face, almost as though this wasn’t necessarily the happiest moment of her life.
“Hey, everybody,” Sissy shrilled. “Hey, me, too!”
A Kiss Before Loving Page 13
