Skyscraper (29 page)

Surely he would come, would telephone? Surely he would come crashing into the little apartment, looking much too big for it, take her in his arms, kiss her eyes and her mouth and tell her, “Darling, you're mad. Of course I didn't do it. How could you think so for a moment?”

She might believe him, in his arms, close to his heart.

Apart from him, she could not believe him. She tried to think it out. If he had done this, what had he done? Committed a breach of ethics, of loyalty? That was all, was it not? He'd not stolen or—

But he had promised. He had given her his word.

Tom, up in the tower from whose slender pinnacle the invisible cords stretched around the world, was working furiously, inaccessible even to his friends. He and Hank saw little of each other, their free time not coinciding as it happened. Slim, leaner
than ever, chewing upon an unlit pipe, had trouble of his own to occupy him. He said one evening, “Women are the devil,” and Tom nodded, for once in perfect agreement.

What right had she to condemn him, practically unheard? Of course he couldn't prove anything to her. Other people besides himself had known of the proposed reorganization. Rawlson for one. Rawlson, now confidential secretary to Norton and much, much more confidential than Tom had ever been, dressing the part, speaking the part, being the part. Others, besides Rawlson, too. Why should she pin it on him, just because for a little while he had dallied with the rather exciting idea of making a little money, with safety? A fat lot she loved him if she could send him out of her apartment, dismiss him for her life because of some imagined misdemeanor! He couldn't prove her wrong, could he, short of dragging Rawlson down there and facing her with him? And he couldn't do that. He wouldn't. If she loved him, if she wanted him, she could say so.

They were both very young.

Sarah said, when two weeks had passed and she was making plans for Christmas, “And Tom, of course.”

“Not Tom,” Lynn looked down at her slim ringless hands.

“Not Tom?” Sarah's face would have been comic had Lynn been in a mood for comedy.

She said, “He'll work Christmas Day.”

“Surely, not all day?”

“No, I suppose not. But don't count on him, Sarah.”

Sarah thought a moment. She had not seen Tom lately. She asked shrewdly, “Have you—quarreled?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Oh, don't ask me,” cried Lynn, and flung out both hands. “It's
over
, that's all!”

Sarah said nothing. She had heard people say, it's over, before. But she was worried. She tried to reassure herself, They'll make it up, silly infants, they're always bickering about something.

She thought, Dwight's away, I haven't heard from him—I
hope he's away.

As long as Tom were in the picture—according to Lynn, he was in the picture no longer. But if David didn't learn it?

It was Tom himself who gave Dwight the first hint of how matters stood, the suggestion for which he had been waiting. Dwight, making an appeal for the Community Fund over the UBC facilities spoke, after his broadcast, to the program director.

“I've a young friend here,” he said; “at least, I heard recently he was here. One of the engineers. His name is Shepard.”

Tom was sent for, and was able at the moment to appear in the reception room. As a matter of fact, had Dwight known it, Tom had been at the controls of the studio control room, battling successfully with his temptation to do violence and distortion to Dwight's smooth, low voice.

By the time Tom, ready to go off duty after Dwight's broadcast, had been summoned to the reception room by a page the program manager had explained matters to Dwight, and Dwight held out his hand to Tom smiling. “I understand you put me over,” he said. “Funny coincidence, isn't it?”

Tom grinned sheepishly and said something intended to be pleasant. “You went over fine, Mr. Dwight,” he said.

“That's good. Haven't seen anything of you for a long time. How's Lynn?” asked Dwight casually.

His eyes were veiled and very keen. Tom answered, looking away, “She's all right, I guess.” And then defiantly, “Sure, she's fine.”

They parted, Dwight went on downstairs, smiling faintly. He stopped in to see Sarah, studiously avoiding the other, more attractive room; more attractive, that is, to him.

She might as well know now. She'd know, soon enough. He sat down by her desk and presently cast a challenge; one looked to see the glove fallen dramatically between them upon its smooth and polished top.

“Where did you come from?” she wanted to know.

“From the tower. I've been broadcasting, pity you didn't hear me,” he said lightly. “I had all the stops pulled out.”

“Community Fund?”

He nodded.

“I ran into young Shepard there,” he said. “I had heard he'd left the bank.” He refrained from mentioning the source of his information. “I understand that he and Lynn are—well,
aren't
, let us say.”

Sarah said hastily, “How ridiculous! They're always quarreling—about—nothing.”

“Are you sure it's nothing, this time?”

“Why?” She looked at him, looked away again.

“Just for the sake of argument. Only, last summer, when we were all together Lynn honored me with her confidence. That is, she mentioned no names, but being a normally astute soul I guessed. I am not at liberty to repeat what she told me, but I will say this much. She and Tom disagreed upon a matter of, shall we say, business ethics. If Tom followed his inclination in the matter, she was through with him. I take it, he has followed his inclination,” said Dwight, and rose.

“David.” Sarah rose also. She stared into his eyes, being almost as tall as he, and held them, regardless of the people moving about the room, the people at near-by desks, “David—what are you going to do? You promised—”

“I think,” he said. “I have been absolved of my promise.”

“No—no—”

But he had gone, stopping in at Norton's room a moment, greeting young Rawlson with a casual nod, to wish Norton the usual holiday greeting.

Sarah stood where he had left her, looking after him.

Many things were not as yet clear to her. But a nebulous theory was forming in her mind. That night she went to Lynn's apartment, and found her consuming bread and milk and cocoa, before rushing off to a class.

“Sit down,” invited Lynn. “I'm almost through.”

“No. Lynn, please tell me the truth this time. Did—did Tom know about this merger proposition, a long time ago, and speak to you about it? Did you disapprove of his attitude?”

After a moment, Lynn nodded.

“And you think—now—?”

“Sarah—what am I to think?” She flung her hands out. “The rumor—the stock buying—Tom's new job—his new car—he has broken his word,” she said definitely.

“Are you sure?”

“He hasn't,” said Lynn, “been near me since I accused him of it.” Her lips shook. “Sarah, Sarah, don't—you're not planning to go to him, are you? To ask him? I couldn't bear that. You might,” she said, “spare me my pride at least.”

Sarah went back upstairs. Lynn had spoken to David Dwight of this last summer. Dwight knew. Dwight, it was possible, might be in a position to know more, to know definitely that Tom Shepard had broken his word.

But what was more important to Sarah was that Dwight had told her, as definitely, that he was absolved of his own.

Downstairs, in the apartment she had left, Lynn was putting on her hat and coat. How Sarah had come by her information she did not know. Possibly Mr. Norton had been talking to her. The telephone rang. Tom? She did not move. It rang again.
Tom
. She ran to the instrument, lifted it with hands out of all control.

“Lynn? This is David Dwight.”

She said, after a moment, “How on earth did you get my number? It isn't in the book.”

“I saw Sarah today,” he answered truthfully.

That was odd, Sarah had not spoken of him to her, yet she had given Dwight her telephone number. Lynn dismissed it from her mind. As a matter of fact, the telephone number, neatly typed, had been in plain view on a card of numbers lying on Sarah's desk. Dwight remembered numbers. He said now, “I've missed you. Will you have dinner with me—tomorrow night?”

 

 

 

FAREWELL TO JENNIE
THERE IS A CURIOUS LITTLE ROADHOUSE NOT very far from Yonkers. It has an “authentic,” romantic setting, and is perched on a cliff overlooking a deep ravine, from which the spruce trees aspire, very tall, with dark, straight
trunks. The inn itself is bright, of evenings, with Japanese lanterns, and is run by two gentlemen from the Orient. But if you wish it, good American and better French food is served there, and of recent years the Cherry Blossom has found it expedient to stay open at all seasons and to engage one of the best colored orchestras in Manhattan.

For a long time, not so very many people knew about the Cherry Blossom. They serve a cocktail there of that name, a glorious rosy red color, which cherry blossoms are not—but those who did know made use of its varied facilities often, gave large, expensive parties, thus assuring the smooth and smiling owners of a long old age, a gilded twilight, in the Far East on the proceeds. Lately, however, the enterprising UBC always hunting for excellent sustaining programs, placed a semipermanent installation in the roadhouse, and on several nights brought the turgid or violent music made in an oriental setting by the possible descendants of African kings, into the homes of what are optimistically termed millions of listeners.

In this inn the long arm of remote control reached out and touched Lynn, figuratively speaking, on the shoulder. Dwight had taken her there, the evening of their reunion. She loved it, viewing it from an entirely surface angle. He had been very amiable that evening. And Lynn, determined to have a good time whether or not she felt like it, had with the ebullience of youth accused him of vast arrears of attention.

“It wasn't altogether my fault; and not my inclination. Sarah”—he stopped and raised a whimsical eyebrow—“Sarah, poor dear, warned me that I was rushing in where Shepards feared to tread—Nice Christmas metaphor, that,” he concluded in mild astonishment.

Lynn said unsmilingly, “She needn't have bothered. That's—over, you know.”

“No, I didn't know. I'm sorry. No, that's a lie. I'm not sorry personally. But—if you're unhappy, Lynn, then I must be sorry,” he told her.

It's hard,” she said rather simply, gray eyes on his own. “I—please don't talk about it,” she said suddenly, vainly trying to
control her lips. “Let's dance, shall we?”

Later, driving her home, he said, “Christmas won't be so very merry this year, will it? Suppose we celebrate together. I'm lonely too.”

“You lonely!”

“Why not? Acquaintances, friends even, can't make up for—other things.”

She thought he spoke of his broken home, his children; she touched his hand and said, “I do understand.”

She didn't, of course.

After a moment he drew his hand gently away. He had to, or crash to the ground the delicate structure of confidence he was assisting her to build.

“You're rather a darling,” he said lightly. But he had not thought of his flat-footed, flat-chested wife; nor of his ungainly youngsters. At Christmas time he dismissed the latter from his mind by opening his checkbook.

“I have to have Christmas dinner with Sarah. In the middle of the day,” she told him.

“Then give me the evening? We'll be very foolish. We'll do all sorts of absurd and childish things,” he promised her. “is it a bargain?”

It was a bargain. She made her excuses to Sarah not very well. Sarah commented only, “I hoped you would stay with us.”

“I promised—someone,” Lynn told her.

Afterward, she wondered why she had not told her all the truth. But it seemed obvious at the moment that she could not. Sarah wouldn't approve; Sarah moreover had been interfering, just as Jennie had said she would.

Jennie sent perfume for Christmas, a great box of it, tied with holly and red ribbon, crystal bottle, silver-topped, brimming with costly fragrance.
Good luck
, read the card, and
happy holidays. Come see me on Christmas if you can
.

That meant that the mysterious Jake was at home with his people celebrating, after his paradoxical fashion. Lynn took a bus early Christmas morning and went to Jennie's. Jennie, in a negligee, opened the door to her friend, “Gave my maid the day
off,” she explained.

Jennie had trimmed a Christmas tree. She displayed Jake's gifts—“Not that he believes in Santa Claus”—an ermine wrap, stockings by the dozen, a wrist watch, candy, flowers, fruit. “He's a good egg,” admitted Jennie, yawning.