“Decided about what?”
She just looked for a moment, as though the whole world had been waiting for me to reach a decision, and I was the only one callous enough to forget about it.
“About the family vault Mother wants in Lawndale Home.” I simply nodded, and she went on, “Arthur says Mother thinks marble, but he thinks limestone. Anyway, there’s a difference in price, and you promised to decide.”
It came back to me now, there had been a discussion about this new mausoleum my mother-in-law had been urging for the last couple of years, and at some critical family moment I had favored it. Arthur’s original objections had been overborne, and now there was the matter of financing the actual construction.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll be right out.”
After she had gone I finished the cognac still in the glass, then poured again, this time carefully filling the tumbler to within a quarter of an inch of the top. I lifted it and drank to the stuffed sea-bass, one of the most easygoing companions a man ever had. Taciturn, but full of sound, warmhearted wisdom, too. Compared to the boa, almost jovial, and a philosopher.
When I came out and said hello to Arthur, Mae, Ruth and Robert, and to Lucille’s friend Theodora Wales, and to another couple I knew very well but couldn’t exactly place, I sat down next to Arthur and we quickly reached a decision about the vault. Marble. Then we had a few highballs, and looked at the television. And talked.
And then, almost suddenly, it was morning again.
The stack of mail looked familiar, but this was a different set of bills, and anyway, there was something else,, completely different, in the back of my mind.
“What did you and Mr. Loman decide?” asked Lucille.
I echoed her, automatically, knowing it was a mistake.
“Decide?”
“About the outboard motor. The new one you wanted if you could get a good trade-in. That’s his line, and the way you talked, I thought it was all settled. But I never know.”
I muttered there was plenty of time, applied myself to the second cup of coffee, considered the outboard idea, but gave up the thought. Besides, reaching a decision, even about the old outboard motor, could hardly be the different and oppressive thing I knew waited for me, too close and too heavy.
It came to me when I was downstairs, walking to the corner to pick up a cab. That messy, stupefying accident. Just before I stepped into the cab, I picked up a paper.
It was not on the front page, but it got some solid headlines inside. Stephen Barna had been a minor fixture in the theatrical world, cast for secondary roles in a long succession of plays, many of them hits, the last of these closing only a few months ago. In the vibrating taxi I didn’t try to read any more, but I did get that.
And I also gathered with no trouble that the car had not been identified, the driver was still unknown. It was hard to believe.
It was impossible to believe.
Stanley was all right. I had known him, casually at first, and only intermittently, since the time I first went to work for the firm, before I became one of the minority partners, and before Stanley went into the army. Then after his discharge he had gone into public relations, and we had heard plenty about him from Millard, though nothing spectacular from any other source.
Three years ago he had started to break into the firm, as assistant outside director in a lot of drives, then he began to manage a few himself, small colleges and communities at first, but after a while Millard put him in charge of some of the biggest campaigns in the metropolitan area, though always with the help of an experienced staff. Finally, when Millard had his cerebral hemorrhage, Stanley had been brought into the office itself to take as much of the traffic as he could handle, as fast as he could handle it.
Stanley was no Millard Thornhill or Jay Ravoc, when it came to pulling an institution into shape and getting something out of all its potential resources, from the name sponsors, including the deadwood, down to the last volunteer and all her boy friends. He was not even in my class, and by mutual, unspoken agreement, my administrative talents were no longer in demand, or even in fact permitted, at anything above the level of a report luncheon for the deserving, aged, female poor of upper Mt. Vernon. Wherever I went, and whatever I did, it was strictly publicity and interpretation. Still, I do know organization when I see it, and about Stanley, it was as yet impossible to say whether he ever would or would not show the temperament necessary for it. He seemed a little dim, much of the time, and yet there were other moments when he really lit up with all kinds of fancy lights, some of them not always right for the particular time or place.
But Stanley as a person had nothing to do with Stanley as a new cog shifting around for a smooth connection in an established but free-wheeling organization. As a human being, he had always seemed a little too responsible, if anything, too serious, too sober, and too concerned for general comfort. This hit-and-run thing with Talcott, where Stanley actually seemed involved, simply did not make sense. The whole accident must be somebody’s bad dream.
But when I walked into the building, proceeding straight from my office to Jay’s, it was clear there had been a nightmare, all right, and that it was still on.
Jay’s large, calm features, ruddy under the talcum, almost majestic if you didn’t happen to know him, remained impassive only as long as it took him to recognize me, and to see that no one else stood in the hall outside.
As soon as I closed the door his heavy blue eyes, fixed and serene as a pair of round glass buttons, blinked and came to fierce attention. Everything else disappeared from his face, everything except a somber frown.
“He isn’t down yet,” he stated. “I told Lillian to let me know when he comes in. I suppose you’ve seen the papers?”
“Just a quick glance.”
There were open newspapers all over the top of Jay’s desk, nothing unusual, in itself. Forty or fifty were distributed every day to the various offices. Jay probed around in the pile with blunt, hairy hands, found a tabloid he was looking for and flipped it across the desk.
“It made them all. Including this two-column cut on page three.”
I looked at a shapeless figure lying on the roadway, not vivid here as it had been last night, and at a small group of bystanders included in the picture. There was a fellow holding a small black and white dog that seemed familiar, though not the man himself.
“Yes,” I said. “It really happened.”
I glanced up at Jay, who reared back and slowly nodded, meaning that he understood and felt about the same way.
“We, personally, made a couple of the papers, too,” he said, in a wintry voice. “Did you see that?”
“No.”
He found one, and read it to me. It was only a line, to the effect that the hit-and-run death had been witnessed by the occupants of another car near the scene, Jay Ravoc and Vincent Beechwood, of Campaign Consultants, Mrs. Shana Hepworth, of the Francoine Studio. When I looked up again he appeared to wait, grave and quite concerned, for me to say something. But I was merely puzzled. Presently, he said:
“Has it occurred to you, we’ve gone way out on a limb for Stanley, to say nothing of Talcott? Farther than we realized?”
“How so?”
“This is public notice we were there. It says we didn’t know who was in that car. Now, when it develops our friend and business partner was in it, and that’s also published, no explanation anyone can give will look very good.”
“It was pure chance we happened to be there,” I said.
“We know that, but who else does? We’re in the same firm, we came from the same hotel, we were right there on the same spot. That won’t look like pure chance. Anything but.”
“Hell, Jay, we didn’t do anything. Actually, we didn’t even see anything.”
A vein on his forehead stood out, his mouth twisted, he had the rigid, ugly look of something on a totem pole.
“We saw the accident,” he said. “And you’re damn right we didn’
t do anything, we didn’t report that car. Or rather, we did do something, we stated we knew nothing about the car or its occupants. The cop took that, the papers have it, that’s known. And then we went right out still farther on the same limb by giving Stanley more time to square himself, by himself. Which he hasn’t done even yet.” He broke off and looked at his watch. “It’s ten-fifteen now.”
“Well, that was my idea, Jay. You wanted to call him last night, remember? I may have been mistaken, though I still don’t think so. But if it was a mistake, chalk it off as mine.”
Jay yanked the phone toward him, grasped the handset and, holding it, for a moment glared at me without actually seeing me.
“To hell with that stuff,” he said. “It was no mistake, and anyway, forget about last night. What Fin thinking about is right now.” He lifted the phone and presently said into the receiver, “Lillian, Mr. Thornhill hasn’t come in yet, has he? Well, I want to reach him. If he’s not at home, ask where he can be located, and try there. It’s important.”
When he cradled the phone I waited for a few quiet seconds, hoping he’d simmer down, before I casually remarked:
“Don’t worry about Stanley. There’ll be a perfectly simple, reasonable explanation for the whole thing, when we find out what it is. No use blowing a fuse in advance.”
Jay spoke with an assurance that was too mechanical.
“Well, I’m not really worried about Stanley. That Talcott, though what do we know about him?” He stopped abruptly, looked around among the papers on his desk and found a package of cigarettes, lit one. “But I don’t want to blow any fuse at all. Not about anybody.”
The door opened and Haley Robbins walked in, scrubbed, brisk, matter-of-fact, antiseptic and correct.
“Am I interrupting anything important?” he asked.
Jay had his usual calm, impersonal, slightly omniscient business face back in its normal position, and in a hurry.
“No,” he said, pleasantly. “What’s on your mind?”
“Why, nothing.” But it was plain there was. “Just thought you’d like to know the final figure on the dinner last night. Sixty-two thousand.”
“Great,” said Jay.
Haley’s eyes took in the array of newspapers spread out on Jay’s desk. His light, sandy eyelashes, his transparent mustache, the wisps of invisible hair still left him, all appeared to vibrate like feelers.
“Say, I just read about that accident you fellows happened to see. I guess you already found the story.” There was a tiny wait. “A hell of a thing. Killed instantly, it said.”
“Yes,” Jay told him. “So we were told.”
I kept staring at Jay, and Jay finally returned the look. I was wondering what Haley would say next, he was certain to say something too close for comfort, and I had no idea whether or not he ought to be told. He was all right, he was in the firm, if there should be any backfire he would catch some of it, along with us, and he ought to be braced for it now. But on the other hand, we had already gone ahead on our own responsibility, the situation was so involved he might not grasp it at all, and probably it would all blow over anyway. Why make ourselves appear hyper-suspicious, and stupid if not plain silly besides?
“What’s the matter with you fellows?” asked Haley. “Was it that bad?”
“It was pretty bad,” said Jay.
“Did that other car just drive off? Didn’t it even slow down for a few seconds?”
Haley’s gaze turned from Jay to myself. We weren’t looking at each other now. Jay stubbed out the cigarette he held, pressing it strongly into the ashtray. Then he looked up at Haley with easy indifference, and I saw he had made up his mind.
“We weren’t looking at the car. We were looking at the fellow who was struck.”
“What kind of a vicious, criminal, psychopathic thug would kill a man like that, and just drive on?” Haley speculated, out loud. It was like him, to pontificate, but for once it did not make him sound merely ridiculous. And neither of us helped him find an answer. He went on, after a moment. “You must have driven up there right after leaving the Inner Light dinner.”
I started to nod, but checked myself. And Jay took his time before giving a leisurely reply.
“Yes, I think we did. Yes.”
“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time,” Haley told us, moving away. “I’ve just been reading your increase letter for Inner Light, Vince. The Judge Landry letter.” I muttered something appropriate to the reference, a simple appeal that would be signed by Judge Landry and sent to regular contributors, pointing out that greater needs, and greater opportunities for aid to the disfigured meant that the usual contribution to Inner Light should this year be greatly increased. “Very powerful, especially the Judge’s description of the clinic. Has he OK’d the letter?”
“He hasn’t seen it yet. He’ll get it today or tomorrow.”
“By the way, didn’t somebody mention Stanley was at the Commonwealth last night?” the remark came out of nowhere, and had no particular significance, but I wouldn’t touch it, myself, and Jay hesitated for a long moment before brushing it aside with a vague nod. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I have to see him, and he hasn’t come in yet. I thought he might have mentioned when he’d be in, if you saw him. Did he happen to say?”
“I didn’t talk to him at all,” said Jay, smoothly. “Vince thought he might show up.” He turned and told me, directly, “But I don’t think you spoke to him either, did you?”
I shook my head.
“Well, it’s not important,” said Haley. “It can wait.”
He went out. When the door was closed, Jay leaned heavily back in his chair. We stared at each other for several silent seconds.
“He can wait,” Jay muttered finally. “But we can’t. That’s clear enough.”
“Did you have to keep it from Haley?” I asked. “That makes me feel low, for some reason.”
His eyes came to a level, withering glare.
“You were here, too. Did you have to keep your mouth shut?”
“No, but anyway, I mean, well, you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean, and how do you think I feel about Haley? The whole thing?”
There was another pause, and then I said:
“But there must be something we can do, damn it.”
“What?”
“Well, we could get hold of Talcott.”
Jay’s face exploded, his voice was a ragged breath.
“Oh, God, talk sense. Talcott. That counterfeit Confederate three-dollar bill.”
I got the impression his anger had more behind it than the heat and pressure upon us now.
“Jay, did you ever really hear of this fellow before?
Come to think of it, what were he and Stanley doing there at the Commonwealth, last night? They didn’t look in at the dinner. Where were they?”
Jay frowned uncertainly, studying a fresh cigarette.
“I think they were at some function for that Generous Heart Society. You know it, we’ve discussed it, it’s a Social Register relic. Well, when we came out last night,” he paused for the space of a breath, watching me, “I looked in the lobby, and this was listed. I looked because I wondered about it, myself.”
I thought it over and it looked all right, but I said, thinly:
“You might have mentioned this before. Not that it matters, I suppose.”
“It didn’t seem to matter, then,” he argued. “And I don’t think it has any—Hold it.”
He broke off as the phone rang and he answered it. His end of the conversation with Lillian at the switchboard was short but clear. Stanley was reported to have left word he would be at the office of a local drive, a building campaign we were running for the Marietta Cotheal Settlement house, in the west side midtown district. Jay stood up and replaced the phone all in the same movement. He said:
“All right, if he isn’t there now, we’ll wait for him.” He reached for his hat and coat, struggled into the coat, looked i
mpatiently at me and said, “Well, aren’t you coming?”
I got to my feet, but slowly.
“Right now? Well, I don’t know. I did have that volunteer’s manual for Refuge on the fire, for this morning.” He stared hard, weighing this for an uncomfortable moment, so that I pointed out, “Aren’t you kind of rushing things? Now that you know where he is. Anyway, if you must go, you can handle it better than I could. But of course I’ll go, if you think we both should.”
He flipped his hat on his head.
“No, that’ll be all right. Just one of us might be better, at that.”
He went out before I could move, but then I followed him into the lobby and turned to my own office, the next one along the corridor on that side of the building, its door across from Haley’s. I went in and sat down behind the desk, and raked together my notes and material for an interpretation of Refuge, a summer camp to rehabilitate juvenile delinquents, putting its case into simplified examples and appeals their workers would find easy to use when they talked to prospective donors in their coming drive. At the same time that I put together the manual in outline form, for separate printing, I also began to set aside some of the phrases and ideas that could be redesigned and used in the direct mail solicitation that was to be a part of the effort. Hello, with a picture of some adolescents, not too pathetic, but not too robust, either, Would you invite me “for just two weeks of sunshine and good spirits on your own vacation? That could be worked up, with Refuge is inviting them—through the gift you send.
I looked up to see Haley and Stanley come into the office. Haley was beaming, Stanley seemed no different than usual.
“Good news,” said Haley. “I happened to be talking to Judge Landry, and I read him your letter. He liked it fine. We use it as is.”
“All right,” I said. Ordinarily, I would have been relieved that a letter went through Landry with no changes called for. But now I merely watched them, Stanley in particular. “Anything else on your minds?”
My words sounded strained.
“I’m looking for Jay,” said Stanley, cheerfully. “I understand he bolted out of the office, after trying to reach me all morning. Where did he go?”
The Generous Heart Page 4
