Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

When the taxi-driver got to the end of the hall, the elevator was still up, waiting for him the way it always did at times like these. The operator looked as sleepy as before, only now he was holding out a beige palm as if feeling for rain. The steerer tried to ignore it, but it followed him into the cage, and the car wouldn’t go down.

“Does I git ma usual rake-off or does I start tawking nex’ time you brings one in?” drawled the drowsy African.

“All right, all right!” snarled the steerer and unwillingly fished a fifty-cent piece out of his pocket, holding back the rest of its contents with one hand. The car went down in blissful silence after that.

By this time the companionship-seeking young man who was the innocent cause of all this high finance was already at one of the little tables for two up in 2–, and the gorgeous redhead sitting across from him in the fluffy green dress was looking trustfully up at the waiter and cooing: “—and a very weak one for me, Frank.” A wink went with the words. Then she smiled sweetly at her new acquaintance. “Just for sociability’s sake, you know. I hardly ever drink, you understand. But you go right ahead; don’t let me stop you.”

She took time off to glance appraisingly at the cut of his suit and the careless ease with which he wore it, as one to the manner born. He looked better-groomed than ever now that he held a square of green pasteboard instead of his coat, hat, and scarf. Just how expensive that bit of pasteboard was he didn’t know yet. A cute little brunette in a doll-apron, who could have pulled your teeth and made you like it, had given it to him on his way in just now and then gone off somewhere with his things. He could just as well have said good-by to them. They were already on their way out to a “fence.” The man who had opened the door had tactfully disappeared too after introducing him to “Miss Gordon.” Everything was peaches and cream; it was what you might call the lull before the storm.

He and the redhead were alone in the room except for one other couple, a blonde and her table-companion. The latter had already reached the stage of squashing his esses and dropping his t’s, as well as part of every drink he tried to pick up. The room had originally been intended for the living-room of the apartment, back when it was meant to be lived in and not used for assault, battery, and highway robbery. Some cheaply flamboyant drapes hid the exact location of the windows if there were any. A midget space had been left clear for dancing. The radio droned lullingly on, a mere blur of sound in the background, “—hands across the table, when the lights are lo-ow.” The whole set-up was an aphrodisiac, meant to awaken passion which these vultures fed on. The loose joints that Skip Rogers had so carefully stayed away from tonight were honest and upright compared to this place.

The waiter would come to the door and look in whenever the re-orders of drinks began to slow up; he seemed to give them about five minutes apiece. He didn’t have to do that very often though; the two “hostesses” were there to see to that. He was a six footer like the man who ran the place, and husky as an ape. He brought Skip and “Miss Gordon” their two drinks, the strong one and the weak one, and went away again. The redhead simpered cherubically. Rogers seemed to meet with her approval.

“Here’s looking at you!” she said gayly and picked up her glass. If he had looked closely, he would have seen that the amount that passed her lips was scarcely enough to moisten the rouge that lay on them. His tasted like benzine, only not so smooth.

“Where you from, Miss Gordon?” he asked her suddenly.

“Just call me Rose,” she begged him and moved her chair over a little closer. Before she could commence her life story, however, something going on at the other table had caught Skip’s eye and sent a chill through him. From that point on, although he seemed absorbed in what she was telling him, he actually heard not a single word she was saying. For the rather plastered middle-aged gentleman who was sitting with the blonde seemed to have gotten into difficulties of some kind. The waiter was bending over him. The individual in the tuxedo had also come in from somewhere and was standing menacingly on the other side of him. The stew kept pushing away a small slip of paper, and they kept shoving it back at him. The blonde got up and made the radio a little louder to drown out the angry voices. Rose plucked Rogers by the coat sleeve and dragged his straying attention back to herself.

“Don’t notice what’s going on over there,” she suggested tactfully. “Some people can’t hold their liquor, that’s all.” And she began to talk sweet but fast.

The next time Rogers found time to look over in that direction, there was no longer any middle-aged gentleman in the room at all, and the waiter was softly closing the door he had just passed through. It wasn’t the door by which you came in, either. From somewhere further back in the flat came the crash of a chair being overturned and a muffled cry that sounded something like “Let me out of here!” But Rose kept chattering away for all she was worth so it was hard for Skip to tell.

His face took on a stony, set look as if he was using it for a mask behind which he was doing a lot of quick thinking. The fact she wasn’t getting across penetrated to Rose presently, and she stopped her chatter.

“What’s the matter, honey?” she said caressingly, reaching for one of his hands. “Am I boring you?”

He seemed to make up his mind to something all at once. He leaned toward her across the table.

“I should say not,” he protested. “You’ve got me spellbound.” With one hand he raised her fingers lingeringly to his lips. With the other, hidden by the caress, he switched the two new drinks the waiter had brought in a minute ago. “I could go for a girl like you!” he vowed, star-gazing into her mascaraed eyes. They sipped. But now it was he who was talking fast and sweet and low. “I walked in here tonight never dreaming there’d be a number like you off the hook.” She didn’t have time to notice the shellac she was imbibing and she was only human anyway; they didn’t often come as young and good looking as this — not in her racket. She could feel Mickey Mouses running up and down her spine. “All my life I’ve wanted to meet somebody as lovely as you are—” And the radio: “Speak to me of love, Tell me the things that I’m longing to hear—”

“Oh, go wan,” she protested, but a dreamy look had come into her eyes just the same. Not for nothing was she red-headed; her own blood was double-crossing her. They sipped again. All he was getting was rancid ginger ale; she was getting the works.

“Always had more money than I knew what to do with, always had everything I wanted, but somehow I never met the right girl — until tonight!” he was going on.

She pricked up her ears at that. Money? Everything he wanted?

“On the level, who are you?” A hiccough marred the intensity of her new-found interest in him, but it was there just the same.

“You’ve heard of Robbins & Rogers, haven’t you?”

She nodded owlishly. “Sure, thass those restaurants where you put in a nickel and — plop! Out comes a sandwich.”

“Well, there you are.” He spread his hands.

She pointed an awe-stricken finger and covered her mouth with her other hand. “Then you — you must be the old guy’s son or something! Rogers’ son!”

He dropped his eyes modestly. “Why go into that? All that matters is I’m completely sold on you; nothing would be too good for you, if you’d only let me—”

He leaned entreatingly forward again and began exploring her fingertips with his lips. They tasted of nail-polish, but it was an improvement over the liquor.