Look to the Stars, page 1
LOOK TO
THE STARS
Emilie Loring
First published in 1957 by Bantam Books, Inc.
Copyright © Emilie Loring 1957
This edition published in 2021 by Lume Books
30 Great Guildford Street,
Borough, SE1 0HS
The right of Emilie Loring to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
I
Scott Pelham strode briskly into the offices of Conrad & Hapgood, Attorneys at Law, and frowned at the deserted desk of their receptionist. Had he not been anxious to conclude his business in New York and catch the five o’clock train for Boston, he might have waited for the girl to return and announce him. But his friend Hapgood’s call had been definite; the legal papers were ready, so come right up and sign them. Impatiently Scott pushed through the swinging gate and started down the hall toward the private offices.
A woman’s voice, throbbing with restrained fury, stopped him in mid-stride. It came through the open transom of the conference room beside him—
“How can you face me with such a demand? You, my mother and father, who have made me the prey of reporters, legitimate game for every cameraman in the city, a spicy item for the gossip columns! I don’t dare go on the street without dark glasses—and now you ask me to stand in court and testify!”
A man spoke, so low that the words were indistinguishable, but Scott Pelham had no ears for him. The first voice held him motionless, as in a spell. Passion. Heartbreak. Contempt. Was there a touch of fear as well? A woman’s voice—or a girl’s?
It came again, now icy with scorn. “The judge? The judge ruled that I must testify before he will grant your divorce? Nothing could make me! Take oath in court, and tell what I know of my father’s philandering and my mother’s orgies of anger? I’d die first! You’ll have to win your freedom without your daughter’s help!”
The masculine voice protested, soothed, explained, and Scott suddenly came to himself, felt his cheeks burn. He was listening unseen, to a closed-door conference between lawyers and their clients. Eavesdropping! Like one of those gossipmongers the girl despised. Hastily he retreated to the reception room.
The daughter’s denunciation reached him even there. “Lock me up for contempt of court? Is that the penalty for refusing to testify? They’ll have to catch me first—and they won’t! I have no intention of adding to my present notoriety by landing in jail! Haven’t you two done enough to me? Torn my home up by the roots, ruined my life—”
This time there was a muted chorus of protest. The girl silenced it with flaming scorn.
“You have! You and your ‘incompatibilities’—that’s what you call them in court, isn’t it? There’s a shorter word—but it isn’t polite, is it! Would a man, the kind of man I could love, marry a girl whose parents had been carrion meat for the tabloids—as you have? Whose father has been notoriously unfaithful—whose mother was a shrew? What a heritage! If any man did marry me his family ought to lock him up in an asylum! But I’m through! I’m walking out, and even when you’re a hated old woman, Mother, and Father is a shaky old man whose conquering days are over, you won’t get me back!”
Another interruption, but she overrode it. “Help you? If you haven’t self-respect enough—love enough—for your daughter, to stand together behind her, what can you expect from her? I’m going to Aunt Jane, the one person in the world who loves me, and shows it. We’ll disappear together!”
The door to the conference room was wrenched open and a girl appeared. From the room came a woman’s pleading, “Faith! Wait—wait—!”
“Good-by!” The door banged an exclamation point and the girl came hurrying along the hall.
A slender figure, with dark glasses, low-pulled felt hat and upturned coat collar masking her face. As she entered the reception room and saw Scott she gasped and clutched the collar higher. For an instant she stared at him where he stood by the window, the late October sun streaming in on his bronzed face and broad shoulders. His gray eyes burned, his forehead wrinkled in involuntary sympathy.
Already overwrought, the girl read frightening determination in that look. “I refuse to be interviewed!” she exclaimed in a voice hoarse from emotion. She pulled open the door to the corridor and disappeared.
“Good Lord!” Scott muttered. “She took me for a reporter!” Controlling an impulse to overtake her and explain, he turned to the window and its panorama of crazy-quilt colored roofs and shadowed street canyons. As an architect he never tired of studying the yearly changes in the skyline, the constantly amazing innovations in design which lifted story after story toward the hazy sky.
But today none of these aspects of the world’s most stimulating city could penetrate his somber thoughts. The passionate protest he had overheard still beat in dull echoes through his mind. What a mess some people could make of their lives, he brooded. But not only their own lives; that was the tragedy of it. How much more bitterly the innocent had to pay.
Fred Hapgood, the junior partner, banged into the room, banged shut the door leading to the offices. His nickname of “Happy” would be misplaced now; the usually debonair face was colorless, his short, plump figure sagged as with the world’s weight. He dropped into a chair and ran a nervous hand over his red crew cut. Sighing, he looked up at Scott.
“I’m too soft to be practicing law,” he announced gloomily. “That girl just about squeezed my heart to a pulp! Did you see her?”
“For an instant, as she flashed through here. She mistook me, a humdrum architect, for a dashing and fearless reporter. Seemed to think I was lying in wait for an exclusive firsthand scoop.” Scott Pelham hesitated, and then decided to confess. “Not only saw her; I heard her laying down the law in there. Afraid I owe you an apology, Happy; there was no one here, so I walked in to look for you. Then I couldn’t get away from that voice! I know what you man about your heart being squeezed; I had all I could do to keep from barging in with drawn sword to slay the dragons that menaced her!” He smiled self-consciously, knowing that even the light words betrayed his deep feeling.
It went unnoticed by Hapgood, who was still shaken by the interview. “I’m glad you heard her side of the argument,” he said soberly. “It ought to be broadcast on a nationwide hookup! Maybe it would flag some of the couples listening, make them Stop! Look! and Think! before they dragged their squabbles into court.” He rubbed his chin, eying Scott questioningly. “Perhaps you heard enough to know that the girl is the daughter in the Randolph divorce case.”
“Randolph?” Scott went over to sit on the desk near Hapgood. “Not Bill Randolph’s daughter?”
“The same. Know him?”
“Not really. I met him a few times when I was a kid, although I doubt if he’d remember me. Haven’t seen him since.”
“I’ve wished I never heard of him,” growled Hapgood, “since the newspapers have been having a field day with the juicy details of the Randolph split-up. And yet, in spite of his reputation as a Lothario he’s infernally likable. So is his wife, again in spite of a temper which would do credit to the famed Xantippe of old.”
Too disturbed to remain quiet he jumped up and paced the floor. “Randolph has been our client for years, so I know them both well. That makes the mess particularly sickening to me. But everyone is sorry for them. I have a hunch that when the judge ordered their daughter to testify in court he hoped it might shock the Randolphs back to sense and decency.” He tramped another turn around the room. “Then Faith—that’s the daughter’s name—asked me to bring her father and mother together here; said she wanted to talk to them. Talk? You heard her! The Randolphs appeared stunned, completely bewildered by her point of view.”
“Maybe,” Scott suggested dryly, “when the shock wears off they’ll begin to wonder if she might possibly be right.”
Hapgood grunted, drummed restless fingers on the window and scowled out at the city. “Any divorce is bad enough, but the rotten publicity attending this one gives me the creeps.” With a shrug he turned. “Sorry to unload my troubles on you, pal, but I always have since we were roommates. You’re the sympathetic type under that stern and rock-bound New England front.”
“I’m also the business type,” Scott reminded. “That’s why I’m here, so let’s get to work.”
Obediently Hapgood led the way to his office, where Scott settled in a comfortable chair while the lawyer leafed through a pile of folders. “I told you the contracts are ready to sign,” he said, “but that was my optimism. You may have objections to—”
His telephone buzzed discreetly and he answered. “Mr. Hapgood speaking.… You want Miss Randolph? I’m sorry, but she left the office some time ago.… No, I don’t know where you can reach her now.…” The phone crackled feverishly. “Oh, Maureen Tenny! Yes, Miss Tenny, of course I’ve heard Bill—Mr. Randolph—speak of you, but I can’t tell you a thing. His daughter has left. Have you tried their house?” He arched a resigned eyebrow at Scott as he listened patiently. “I’m sorry … no no! I don’t think you’re a reporter, Miss Tenny! I simply can’t give you any help because I have no idea where she was going from here.… Good-by.”
With a whistle of relief he cradled the phone. “Wonder what’s wrong with her. This must be my day for frantic females; that was Maureen Tenny, the girl who has been cataloguing Randolph’s collection of rare books. And she’s howling for the daughter.”
“From the clatter of your phone,” Scott commented, “she must have been hysterical.”
“Too close for comfort. Lovely voice, though, in spite of the tears in it; wonder if she’s as good-looking as she sounds. Says she’s through with the job there. Mmm—” He eyed Scott thoughtfully. “Did she mean finished—or quitting it? I wonder. She’s been living at their house while she did the job; an attractive secretary under the same roof with the irresistible Bill, the Great Lover, and his wife who is jealousy incarnate! Couldn’t that spell trouble?”
“A fascinating field for speculation,” Scott agreed sarcastically. “But you run on so that I’m going to miss my train. Do you suppose the Randolphs et al., as you lawyers say, will now permit us to buckle down to my affairs?”
Grinning, Hapgood opened a folder of papers.
As Scott had prophesied, the business consumed the rest of the afternoon. Not at all reluctantly he accepted Happy’s suggestion that he transfer his reservations to the twelve-thirty train and squander the interval in riotous living.
A spaghetti supper, prepared in his apartment by Happy, who proved notably talented as a chef, was a rousing success. To Scott’s compliments the lawyer responded with the lofty challenge, “When you find a gal who can cook like me, pal, latch on to her. Or have you roped your One and Only since last we met?”
When Scott smilingly denied it Happy pursed his lips in judicial reproof. “You’re not getting any younger, you know. Thirty, aren’t you? But I suppose it is a job to find a girl who measures up to specifications in family and background for Prescott Pelham of the Boston Pelhams.”
“If I thought you meant that,” Scott warned, “I’d dump the spaghetti sauce on your head. And cut out that ‘Prescott’—I’ve ducked that since prep-school days.” He laughed. “Uncle Phil Pepperell insists on it, but as long as I’m architecting for him I suppose he can get away with it. And also get away with chasing me around the country to close his deals with garrulous lawyers.”
Hapgood ignored the jibe; he was smiling reminiscently. “Good old Uncle Pep! How is he?”
“Getting younger every day—and making me sweat to keep up with him. Aunt Patty’s fine, too. They sent their love, Happy, and wanted me to remind you that the Welcome mat is always out at their Christmas Eve parties.”
“A wonderful couple.” The lawyer grunted. “Quite a contrast to the pair we were discussing this afternoon. Remember what a welcome they gave any of your friends you brought from college?”
“They kept it up during the war, but on a wider basis. Had a stream of servicemen dropping in for meals or snacks at all hours, just as we used to do.”
“They would do that.” Hapgood consulted a pocket calendar. “Less than two months to Christmas! You know, this year I just might surprise them. Revive the good old days!” And the conversation resolved itself into a duel of recollections between the two friends.
Hours later, as the Owl prepared to depart for Boston, a redcap hurried Scott with his baggage aboard, his ears still pleasantly ringing with Happy’s chatter. Not until he was stretched as comfortably in the berth as his length would permit did his thoughts recur to the girl in the lawyer’s office.
Again he heard that searing denunciation of the Randolphs—by their own daughter. Deserved, he felt sure; the fire of scornful truth had blazed in that voice.…
The creak and rumble of the speeding train played accompaniment to his memories. Another voice, this one unheard except as an excited vibration of the phone. What was it Happy remarked? “Wonder if she’s as good-looking as she sounds.” … The train whirled on through the night.…
Was that a girl’s voice outside his compartment … vibrantly young? … He must be dreaming.…
Scott sat up with a start. He had been asleep; daylight showed gray at the window and the noises of the train had ceased.
Beyond his door a feminine voice was asking, “Is Park Street in this part of the city, porter? I want Number Ninety. I could take a taxi, but it’s so early I thought of walking—if it isn’t too far.”
An accent from the deepest Deep South gave directions.
“I’m sure I can find it. Thank you so much.” Evidently money changed hands, and evidently a considerable amount, because the man exclaimed, “Hoo boy! Thank you, ma’am! Any time—”
“That’s a little extra, porter, so that you’ll forget about my question—and forget me.”
Scowling, Pelham sat clasping his knees. Ninety Park Street? Philip Pepperell’s offices occupied all of that building. Just what in thunder could a girl—especially a girl who bribed porters to forget her—want of fiery Old Pep?
Questions whirled through his mind until he was wide awake; useless to try and snatch another half hour’s sleep before he would have to leave the train. Shaved and dressed, he went out into the corridor, where a line of people were crowding from the car. The man in front of Scott was leafing through a late New York tabloid. On one page heavy black letters in a headline spelled “Randolph.”
“Ugh!” Scott muttered. “Does he make news every day?” When the man tossed the paper into an empty berth and walked on, Scott picked it up. With growing surprise he read:
TRUSTED SALESMAN GYPS
EDSON & RANDOLPH CO.
$100,000 Securities Stolen
“Well!” he mumbled. “At least this is different.” Rapidly he skimmed the brief story. “Negotiable bonds—long-time employee, Walter Tenny, vanished with loaded briefcase—worked for well-known brokerage house before war—made excellent service record—First Lieutenant, decorated for bravery.… A sister of the missing man, said to have been employed as secretary in home of William Randolph, has also disappeared.… Police seek Miss Tenny for questioning—”
“Tenny!” At last the name clicked. Scott stood glaring at the paper. Tenny was the name of the girl who telephoned Hapgood—Maureen Tenny! Randolph’s secretary—it all fitted! No wonder Hap thought her near hysteria; she must have been trying to reach Randolph’s daughter, hoping she would intercede for the suspected brother.
He read the story again, and when he came to “sister of the missing man has also disappeared” he paused, frowning at the memory of that voice outside his stateroom—her question and her request. Scott shook his head in pity and reproof. “Could be the vanished sister,” he muttered, “but what an amateur! If she expects to hide, bribing that porter was a supercolossal blunder.”
II
On the balcony of his apartment Scott Pelham filled and lighted his pipe, drawing slowly on it while he surveyed the shining expanse of the Charles River Basin. November had slipped away and December, coming in with a rowdy, blustering storm as though to assert its strength, had thereafter subsided into day after day of deceptive summer warmth. The setting sun was veiled by clouds at the moment, but its crimson glow stained half the sky and washed paler rose over the buildings along the shore. With the majestic sweep of a lighthouse looming above jumbled pick coral reefs, a tall office building upheld its daily weather signal, a shaft of lighted windows now bright blue, “Fair Tomorrow.”
Beside the azure Basin a scattering of people moved up and down the Esplanade: workers enjoying a walk homeward before cold weather drove them to refuge in the subways, or the inveterate strollers who pursued their daily exercise in unseasonable comfort.
Nearer, on the twin roadways of Storrow Drive, the myriad headlights and taillights of cars drifted past, shifting like schools of minnows in a tidepool, the golden minnows darting always in one direction, the red in another.
