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

“I’m moving to Park Avenue,” she said. “I don’t know the exact location yet, but it’ll be somewhere along there, don’t worry!” Skip hadn’t left any note for her but that didn’t matter; she knew where to find him. It didn’t even occur to her that there was anything strange about it. He’d gone home to change his clothes, that was all; you couldn’t expect a rich man’s son like him to stay in the same rumpled clothes after being out all night.

She reached the main Robbins & Rogers restaurant, a few blocks from where she had formerly lived, just a little after the breakfast-rush was over. She marched in, suitcase in hand. She was being very tactful about this; it wouldn’t have been ladylike to march right up to where he lived — at least not that early in the morning. Besides, for all she knew he mightn’t be exactly anxious to have his people know anything about her; she’d been around enough to know how those things worked. Also she wanted to give him time enough to make the arrangements for the penthouse; he would have to sign the lease for it and so forth. The rest of the shopping — for the car, mink coat, furniture, et cetera — they could do together later on. So she had lots of time. Meanwhile she would tie on the feed-bag at his old man’s expense, here in this place. He didn’t know it yet, but she was practically his daughter-in-law already.

She set her suitcase down beside an empty table in spite of the sign that warned Not Responsible for Personal Property. Then she stalked, swaggered you might say, over to the steam counter and ran a contemplative eye along its display of dishes as though she already owned it. “Fry two, sunny side up,” she commanded across the counter. “Two, bottoms up,” echoed the counterman to the short-order cook. “You can bring them to me,” she added haughtily, “over to that table, there.” If she was going to have a penthouse and a dinge to manicure her dogs, she might as well get used to being waited on right now. Huh! The owner’s son’s sweetie should carry her own food to the table? Not by a long sight!

“Sorry, lady, gotta pick ’em up yourself, this is self-service—” the counterman started to remonstrate. She didn’t stand there arguing about it. He didn’t know who she was, that was all.

“See that you don’t keep me waiting!” was all she said, and she turned, went back to her table, sat down, and began to fan herself indolently with a paper napkin.

“These yours?” At the sound of his voice she whirled around on her chair as though she had been bitten.

“Skip!” she started to exclaim joyously, and then stopped short. Her mouth dropped open and stayed that way. She just sat and stared up at him. He was holding her platter of eggs all right, and he was wearing a soiled, crummy white jacket — the same service-jacket all the helpers and bus-boys wore in the Robbins & Rogers restaurants.

“I saw you come in,” he said. “I’m not supposed to do this. If they catch me at it, they’ll fire me, but you wanted table-service and it’s table-service you’re getting.”

“Wha — what’re you doing — dressed up like a hash-slinger?” she gulped. She just slumped down in her chair and stared up at him like a fish gasping for air.

“Funny,” he observed, “but that was what you wanted me to tell them last night, wasn’t it? Well, it so happens that I am. They wouldn’t have believed you, but it would have been the truth. I was dressed up in somebody else’s clothes and was shooting a whole month’s wages on a one-night spree. Is it my fault I look like a million bucks every time I put on a clean shirt?”

Her voice rose hysterically. “But you told me—” she shrieked furiously. “You made me believe — you promised me—!”

He looked at her sorrowfully but with an undertone of humor. “Is that all you cared about — what I promised you, what you thought you could get out of me? Or was it me, myself, you liked? Because I haven’t changed. I’m the same guy who whispered in your ear last night. But I’m glad I found out if that’s the kind you are.”

She was nearly choking on her rage. “Why, you small-time, petty-larceny, no-account— Do you think I’d waste five minutes of my time—”

He sighed, but whether with regret or relief is problematical. “Well,” he assured her, “I can’t treat you to a mink coat or a penthouse on my wages but I can do this much for you — have these on me; it’s my treat!” He put down the platter of eggs at an angle and the yolks splashed out in all directions.

“Show this lady out,” he remarked to the other employees who came running up, “and don’t spare the shoving.”

When she had gone, howling imprecations, and her suitcase had been sent flying after her, Skip Rogers started to unbutton his white service-jacket. He turned to the manager, standing beside him wringing his hands, and said:

“Here you are; give this back to whoever I borrowed it from. And whatever you do, don’t mention this little masquerade to Dad. He might think I really want to go to work here!”

Larry didn’t even know his father was in the house until he met him coming down the stairs. It was a little after five and he’d just come in from the beach. “Hello, Dad,” he said, and held his hand out in welcome. “You didn’t tell us you were coming down from New York tonight!” Then he said: “Gee, you look white! Been working too hard?”

Larry idolized his father and worried continually about the way he kept slaving to provide for and indulge his family. Not that they weren’t comfortably well off now — but the doctor had told the elder Weeks that with that heart of his — It was only a matter of months now.

Mr. Weeks didn’t answer, nor did he take his son’s outstretched hand. Instead he sat down suddenly in the middle of the staircase and hid his face behind his own hands. “Don’t go upstairs, kid!” he groaned hollowly. “Keep away from there!”

Larry did just the opposite. His own face grown white in dread premonition, he leaped past his father and ran on up. He turned down the cottage’s short upper hallway and threw open the door at the end of it and looked in. It was the first room he’d come to. The right room.

She lay partly across the bed with her head hanging down above the floor and her light brown hair sweeping the carpet. One arm was twisted behind her back; the other one flailed out stiff and straight, reaching desperately for the help that had never come. She was his father’s wife, Larry’s stepmother. The dread he had felt on the stairs became a certainty now as he looked in. He had expected something like this sooner or later.

He turned her over, lifted her up, tried to rouse her by shaking her, by working her lower jaw back and forth with his hand. It was too late. Her eyes stared at him unblinkingly, her head rolled around like a rubber ball. Her neck had been broken. There were livid purple marks on her throat where fingers had pressed inward.

Larry let her drop back again like a rag doll, left the room and closed the door behind him. He stumbled down the hall to the head of the stairs. His father was still sitting there halfway down, his head bowed low over his knees. Larry slumped down beside him. After a while he put one hand on his father’s shoulder, then let it slip off again. “I’m with you,” he said.

His father lifted his head. “She gone?”

Larry nodded.

“I knew she must be,” his father said. “I heard it crack.” He shuddered and covered his ears, as though he were afraid of hearing it over again.