No Nice Girl (11 page)

“Why, you—” Phyllis strangled with fury.

Anice was on her feet.

“Save your oaths and your blasphemy for someone who will appreciate them, Cousin Phyllis,” she said sharply. “I've had about all I can take from you. I've always been a nice girl, decent and respectable. I've never had to refuse to look people in the face; I've never slept with a man in my life.”

“Perhaps it might improve your disposition if you did, Anice—you sound a bit neurotic,” said Phyllis gently.

As though that had been a blow that sent her reeling and that left her speechless, Anice stared at Phyllis while every drop of color left her face. And suddenly she looked pinched and ill.

“That's the vilest thing you've ever said to me, Cousin Phyllis,” she said at last, huskily. “I know now what you would do if I stayed. Instead of my helping you to reform, you'd pull me down to your own level. You're wicked. You can't bear to see anybody nice without trying to destroy them.”

Phyllis said, disgusted with Anice's melodrama, “Oh, for heaven's sake, Anice, try to behave like a sane human being, just once.”

“Don't you mean like a cheap little trollop—like you, in other words? Thanks, I'd rather be myself,” said Anice, her voice shaking, and turned toward the bedroom. “I'm leaving—now, tonight. As soon as I can change. I'll come back tomorrow, after you've gone, for my things.”

The bedroom door banged behind her and Phyllis put her face in her hands, feeling weak and a little sick.

She looked up a little later as the bedroom door
opened and Anice emerged, dressed and hatted, and carrying a small overnight bag.

Phyllis said wryly, “I'm sorry there isn't any snow, Anice—it would add a nice touch to your departure.”

“Go on being cheap and cynical, Cousin Phyllis; it doesn't bother me in the least,” snapped Anice.

She looked so young and childish that in spite of herself Phyllis was touched with compunction.

“Have you enough money, Anice?” she asked quickly. “I can let you have some until payday.”

“Money men have paid for the privilege of sleeping with you?” Anice's venom, too long held back in the interests of settling herself solidly in the apartment, spilled over. “Thanks, no. I'd rather starve—only fortunately I don't have to. I've got plenty of money—a lot more than you've got. I've got more than four thousand dollars in the bank.”

Phyllis' eyes widened a little.

“Congratulations,” she said dryly. “You've done much better than I expected, on a salary of twenty-five dollars a week.”

Anice sneered, “Oh, I didn't save it. I got it for the house—remember, Grannie's house? The one you felt sure you were going to get?”

Phyllis shook her head. “I never wanted the house, and you couldn't possibly have gotten so much for it.”

“Oh, no? I got five thousand for the house,” said Anice boastfully, flinging the fact in Phyllis' face now that she reasoned Phyllis wouldn't dare ask for any of the money.

“Five thousand. Anice, either you're lying or it was blackmail,” said Phyllis firmly—and was startled at the look that sped over Anice's face, before Anice dropped her eyelids above her betraying blue eyes.

“I'm not lying,” she said briefly. “And anyway, it's none of your business, is it?”

“No,” said Phyllis with frank relief. “From now on, nothing that concerns you is any business of mine, and I hope you will remember to return the compliment.”

“Oh, you needn't worry,” said Anice icily. “I have every intention of forgetting I ever knew you. I've been mortified to death at the office because people knew we were related. All of them knew about you working ‘after hours' with Mr. Rutledge. Oh, don't think they don't gossip about you—they all despise you as much as I do!”

Phyllis set her teeth hard for a moment.

“If you feel that way, I wonder you have stayed so long here—” she began. Anice once more threw the answer at her.

“I felt it was my duty, as long as there was the slightest chance of getting you to reform,” she said haughtily.

“Well, there isn't. If you are an example of a nice girl, Anice, I prefer to be a bad one,” Phyllis told her curtly. “You're mean-minded, malicious, spiteful, narrow, bigoted—”

“Of course it would seem like that to you, now that you've thrown away your own decency,” sneered Anice.

“I hate to seem melodramatic, but after all, why not?” said Phyllis, and walked to the door and held it open and nodded toward the hall. “Goodbye, Anice, and good luck—all of it that you deserve, which I'm afraid is precious little.”

“Oh, don't worry about me, Cousin Phyllis.”

“I shan't. I'm quite sure you will fall on your feet, like a kitten,” said Phyllis dryly.

Anice tossed her head, her eyes blazing.

“Well, at least I won't end up in the gutter, like a streetwalker,” she said, and walked out.

Phyllis all but banged the door behind her, and then went about opening all the windows and drawing the curtains back, with the feeling that the apartment needed ventilating badly. The whole place seemed impregnated with Anice's hatred and malice and Phyllis was a little sickened at the thought that the girl had been there all summer, nursing such evil, ugly thoughts.

Even as she cleared the table and put the place to rights, Phyllis' spirits rose. It had been as nasty a scene as she had contemplated, but it was over. And her apartment was her home once more and she was blessedly alone. As though the place had been new, and she had been seeing it for the first time, Phyllis went through it, touching her possessions, wrinkling her nose a little at the sight of Anice's things which the girl had not had time to remove.

Phyllis had a sudden urge to telephone Terry and tell him the news; to ask him to come over. But when her hand was on the telephone, common sense swept over her, and her spirits were dampened. Terry would come, she knew, and Terry would stay. He would feel she expected it. Her face burned at the thought, for always heretofore Terry had been the one who had wanted to stay; the one who had pleaded, and held her tightly until her blood sang in response to the demand in his own. But that had been before Terry had met Eleanor Adams. If she called Terry now, he would be embarrassed; he would feel she was making a claim on him, based on the past. Being in love with Eleanor, he would want to break with her, but he was gentle and kind and he would hate to hurt her. The affair might linger, if she seemed to want it to. Even after he was married, Terry would have a fondness for her—well, not fondness, maybe, but a sort of sense of obligation that would make him respond to her call. She shivered at the thought.

Terry knew that she had been a virgin when first he had loved her; he knew that no other man had had her. Terry had wanted to marry her, and like the silly fool she had been, she hadn't realized that the feeling she had for Terry was love, and that the feeling she had had for Kenyon had been a purely physical attraction….

Yes, Terry would always answer her summons out of a feeling that he “owed” it to her. Gradually, they would quarrel and something cheap and sordid would develop and Terry's happiness with the lovely Eleanor would be ruined.

Even with her hand on the telephone, over which she knew she could summon Terry to her without delay, she stood rigid while all these thoughts flashed through her mind. And she knew that never again could she turn to Terry, never again know the exquisite delight of his lovemaking, never again have the happiness of his arms about her, his mouth on hers.

When Terry had belonged to her utterly, when Terry had wanted nothing in the world so much as to marry her, she had thought herself in love with Kenyon, and she had accepted Terry's love to assuage her need for Kenyon. But now that Terry was lost to her forever, she knew the bitter truth: that all along it had been Terry, that it would be Terry for always. And the thought brought a bitterness of desolation, and she was wracked by heartbroken sobbing.

I
T WAS LATE
F
RIDAY AFTERNOON
and the day had been terribly hot. The office was closed on Saturday and everyone who dared was hurrying away even before the clock hands pointed to five. Gradually quiet settled over the big outer offices, as the last typewriter was covered and the last desk drawer banged shut.

Kenyon had gone a little before five, and as Phyllis followed her invariable custom of seeing to it that everything was in order in the big, handsomely furnished room, she looked forward bleakly to a lonely, hot weekend. She lacked the energy to battle the crowds she would encounter if she tried to go out of town, and she would not telephone Terry lest he have an engagement with his cherished Eleanor. And even if he hadn't she did not want to call him, for she knew what would happen. She would not be able to stop it, for she ached with hunger for him and was bitterly ashamed of the fact. She couldn't help it, but she could help letting Terry know about it—by not seeing him at all.

Kenyon's office was luxuriously furnished in modernistic style: cream-colored leather, a good deal of chromium, a small but well-equipped private bath, even a tiny kitchenette, with a two-burner gas plate built into a closet where sometimes in winter, when the weather
was very bad, Phyllis prepared hot soup for Kenyon's lunch, or made coffee.

She tried the doors. The kitchenette was not locked, and she glanced over the supply of canned things on the shelves, puzzled. Surely there were far more supplies there than were needed! There was even a fresh loaf of bread! She wondered why Kenyon had restocked the closet—that was usually her job and she had checked on it just a week before. But of course, if Kenyon wished to add to the stock, it was no affair of hers. So she merely shrugged, closed the door and tried the bathroom door. She was not too surprised that it should be locked; Kenyon usually kept it locked when he was away. So she went on out of the office, closed and locked the door behind her.

Some little time after she had gone and silence had settled over the offices, the knob of the bathroom door turned very cautiously and the door was pushed open. Anice looked out, held her breath for a moment and then tiptoed cautiously out of the bathroom and across to the door opening into the general office. This she opened an inch at a time, and put her head through the opening and listened intently. When there was no sound to disturb the silence, she grinned to herself, nodded in satisfaction and closed the door again, turning the little knob above the spring lock.

She went back to the bathroom and got her overnight case. She opened it flat on Kenyon's desk, and shook out of it the most exquisite nightgown and negligee she had been able to find in one of Fifth Avenue's small, smart specialty shops. Tenderly she shook the faint wrinkles from the nightdress of apple-blossom pink chiffon, that had a wide, deep yoke of lace so fine it was like cobwebs, intricately woven. The matching negligee
was of the same delicate pink chiffon and had wide floating sleeves, and a narrow satin belt that tied about her slim waist, accentuating the exquisite curves of young, firm, pointed breasts. There were satin mules, with a fluff of rosebuds across the toes.

She spread them out carefully on the cream-colored leather couch. Then she brought from the bathroom a package done up in brown paper, and grinned a little as she opened it. A pair of sheets, a pair of pillowcases and three big fleecy bath towels. She hung the bath towels on the rack in the bathroom, came back to lift the negligee and nightgown tenderly from the couch, and then spread the sheets to make a bed. The couch was deeply cushioned; she tested it. It wasn't too uncomfortable, she decided, and reminded herself with a little grin that she didn't really expect to spend the night there, anyway. A pillow from one of the office chairs would serve, too.

All this attended to, she opened the door of the kitchenette and surveyed its contents happily. She spread one of the towels across the corner of Kenyon's desk, set out a plate, a knife and fork and spoon, as well as a cup and saucer from the rack above the hotplate. She selected various cans and jars that she had managed to secrete there in the last day or two and prepared her supper, eating with a happy appetite. Then with a little housewifely air that was second-nature to her, she cleared away the signs of her meal.

In the bathroom, she had a warm shower and came back out, moist and exquisitely lovely, toweling herself briskly. She got into the pink chiffon nightgown, settling it about herself with loving hands, and drew on the negligee. She thrust her feet into her pink satin slippers and happily regarded as much of herself as she could see in the mirror that hung above a row of bookshelves.

“I look nice,” she told herself happily. “In fact, I look beautiful. I'm so glad I'm beautiful!”

And then she seated herself at the desk, drew the telephone to her and carefully spread a handkerchief over the mouthpiece. She dialed a number, and when someone at the other end said in the tone of an expensively trained servant, “Mr. Kenyon Rutledge's residence,” she held her nose delicately with her fingers and spoke with an air of excited haste.

“I gotta speak to Mr. Rutledge—right away quick. It's important. This is one of the maids that cleans his office and you better get him to the phone or he'll skin you alive,” she said, the handkerchief and her two fingers pinching her nose making her voice sound high and somewhat nasal.

“I do not think Mr. Rutledge cares to be disturbed.” The servant hesitated.

“You better like hell disturb him, 'less you want his office to be robbed, or sompin',” she insisted.

The servant still hesitated, but a moment later Kenyon said sharply, “What's all this about my office being robbed?”

“Well, I dunno 'zackly that it's bein' robbed, Mr. Rutledge—but sompin' awful funny's goin' on in there.” The high, nasal voice was excited and hurried. “The door's locked and we can't get in, but we can smell cookin' and we can see through the keyhole. There's a woman in there. We thought mebbe you'd better come, sir.”

“I think so, too,” snapped Kenyon, and the receiver banged down.

Anice put down the telephone and gurgled a little in delight. When she had first conceived the plan, she had been a little worried lest Kenyon should merely telephone the police, or have one of the building's watchmen attend to the matter. But she had risked it, anyway,
and now Kenyon was on his way. She all but danced in her delight and watched the clock to see how soon she could expect him.

But tensely as she waited, she had not expected him quite as soon as this. She heard the outer door open, and she reached swiftly and flicked out the light. Then she heard footsteps coming swiftly across the office and a hand turning the knob of the door. She gave a little gasping cry, careful that it should be faintly audible outside. The next moment, she heard a key rattle in the lock, the door was flung open, and she cried out again as Kenyon's hand found the light switch and flooded the room with yellow light.

The tableau held for a full moment: Kenyon in the doorway, stunned and incredulous; Anice, in her misty draperies that revealed more than they concealed, her hands clasped above her mouth as though to check the scream that trembled in her white throat, her eyes wide and darkly blue in her white face that was framed by silken golden curls.

“What the devil does this mean?” Kenyon thundered at last.

“Oh,” wailed Anice, in a sound of childish panic. “Oh, Mr. Rutledge.”

Kenyon looked swiftly about his familiar office, now strewn with feminine garments and tumbled sheets on the couch. He banged the door behind him and came a step farther into the room, his brows drawn together in an outraged frown.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” He demanded sharply. Yet somehow in spite of himself he softened a little at the girlish, yet very alluring figure cowering before him, trembling in panic.

“I'm—oh, Mr. Rutledge—Are you—you're not—
oh,
please
say you're not going to have me arrested,” she wailed, her voice all but dying on the last awful word.

Deeply puzzled, outraged, yet gentle in spite of himself, Kenyon said sharply, “I don't know what I'm going to do yet. How did you get here? What are you doing in my office? Who the devil are you?”

“I'm Anice Mayhew, Mr. Rutledge, a filing clerk. I didn't have any place to go when Cousin Phyllis p-p-put me out.” Sobs shook her slender frame, and she put one hand on the edge of the desk, leaning her weight against it, while her other hand clutched the filmy draperies above her alluring young breasts. And she was entirely aware that the gesture brought the filmy lace and chiffon down until tempting, exquisite curves drew Kenyon's eyes in spite of himself.

“Anice Mayhew?” he repeated, and then, his bewilderment easing just a trifle, “Oh, Miss Gordon's little friend.”

“Not her friend, Mr. Rutledge—her cousin,” stammered Anice pathetically, and two great crystal tears slipped from her wide eyes and bedewed her bewitching face. “You see, Cousin Phyllis—well, she
hates
me, and she put me out of her apartment, and…I couldn't f-f-find a room.”

Kenyon stared at her, his softness vanishing in his sense of outraged incredulity.

“But, my dear girl, you surely haven't any idea of setting up housekeeping in my office!” he expostulated savagely.

“Oh, no, Mr. Rutledge, I—I wouldn't. It's only that I c-c-can't get at room at the YWCA until S-S-Sunday, and I knew you wouldn't be using your office tonight and tomorrow night, and—and I'm
afraid
to spend another n-n-night in the s-s-subway. There are m-m-men. They s-s-seem to k-k-know when a girl's—well, friend
less, and they—they s-s-say terrible things.” Tears swamped her voice and she sobbed, her face hidden in her hands, like a heartbroken child.

Kenyon blinked before the amazing half-disclosures, and pity swallowed some of the sense of outrage that made him so stern. Also, like most men, he was a pushover for a woman's tears. So when he spoke again his tone was milder, almost gentle.

“Here now, pull yourself together,” he ordered her. “I've got to get the straight of this.”

She looked up at him, as though afraid to hope.

“You—you aren't g-g-going to…have me arrested?” she whispered piteously.

“Of course not, dear girl,” said Kenyon almost curtly. “Now pull yourself together, and sit down. Tell me all about it. This—well, this is—er—
most
irregular.”

She settled herself like an obedient puppy in the chair, and modestly drew the frail folds of her shell-pink chiffon and lace about her dimpled knees and looked at him trustingly.

“It's not a very pleasant story, Mr. Rutledge, and I just
hate
having to tell you,” she mourned piteously. “But of course I see that you are entitled to the truth. You must think me just
awful
.” Her voice hesitated, and her eyes were wide and limpid with a child-like innocence that Kenyon found very touching.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Kenyon soothed her gently. “I'm quite sure you couldn't do anything very terrible.”

She was radiant through her tears, and Kenyon realized that she was a most entrancing creature. He tried hard to keep his eyes away from the tantalizing revelations the innocent little thing—in her panic and anxiety—was making without in the least realizing it, of course. Or so it seemed to him.

“Well, you see, Mr. Rutledge, when I came to New York, I quite naturally went to stay for a few days with Cousin Phyllis, while I looked for a job and a place to live,” she told him eagerly. “Cousin Phyllis has such a beautiful, big apartment, and such lovely clothes. You should just
see
some of the pretty things she wears for what she calls ‘going out on the town' with some of her boyfriends. She has just scads of 'em, and of course, that's perfectly natural, because she's really lovely, and so
sophisticated!
”

She paused to let that sink in, her air so gentle and sweet and innocent that Kenyon was entirely unaware of the pause.

“I see,” he said politely. Encouraged, Anice went eagerly on.

“So when I came to town and went to stay with Cousin Phyllis, I was just
ever
so glad to do anything I could to help her,” she went on guilelessly. “With that big apartment and working all day the way she does, well, I adore to cook and keep house and to sew—I make all my own clothes. So I was
glad
when Cousin Phyllis let her maid go, and I could show my appreciation of her kindness by taking care of the apartment and doing the cooking and food shopping, and taking care of her lovely clothes.”

“Very commendable of you,” said Kenyon approvingly.

“Oh, but I
wanted
to,” she told him eagerly. “I felt it was my duty—really, it was a privilege just to live in such a lovely place and to handle such beautiful clothes. And then Cousin Phyllis felt that I should help pay some of the expenses of the apartment.”

“Why the devil
should
you, when you were doing so much work?” demanded Kenyon resentfully.