Keepers of the Faith, page 6
“What makes you so sure he is the guy we took to the hospital? Did he tell you he’d been there?”
“No. He asked if I were a nurse. Said my voice reminded him of someone, thought he had seen eyelashes like mine before, admitted he wasn’t sure whether the impressions came from reality or from a feverish dream. When he said that, I knew that like the Northwest Mountie, in Major William Jerrold—Bill Jerrold for short—I had my man.”
“Bill Jerrold! Bill Jerrold! Gosh, the human mind is a cockeyed thing. Major William Jerrold meant nothing to me, but Bill Jerrold crashed my memory. Now I know how he came to be in our pool. He’s the brother for whom Betty Sutton, next door, was giving the buffet supper. He’s a Devil Dog Marine. Judging from his sister’s raves about him—I’ve heard it from others too—he’s a hot pilot, a daring combat leader, a straight shooter and as fine a fella as they come.”
“But her brother was a Captain. She didn’t mention his surname. This man is a Major.”
“Since then, probably, he’s had a promotion as well as a medal for extraordinary valor. Leatherneck pilots and planes covered landings and stood off overwhelming Jap forces which were diving toward the beach to break up the attack on the islands. He wasn’t at the supper. Mrs. Sutton got off a lot of stuff about a party in honor of a hero who hadn’t arrived.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that night that the guest of honor was missing?”
“Forgot it. Had a lot on my mind. I’d been burning up the wires getting you this job. Kept wondering if you would take it. All the way home Di was in one of her fighting moods. By the time I had put up the car and walked off my mad I stumbled on you in the living room with the man you’d fished from the pool. You know what followed. I remember now that at the supper I wondered if the hero really hadn’t come, or if for some military reason he didn’t want his presence in town known and had neglected to get that fact across to his sister. Apparently neither guess was right. He was in bed shaking with chills and burning with fever. Poor devil. I’ve had malaria. I know.”
“He must have stolen out of the house and wandered about half delirious until he found our pool. I can’t understand why the hospital was so mysterious about his name and why he was whisked away.”
“Probably I was right when I had a hunch that his presence at the Suttons’ should have been kept a military secret. The brass hats doubtless did the whisking. Did you get a line on the reason he called you Red? Is he married?”
“I don’t know. I wish you could have seen Suzanne Dupree’s face when he and she met in the corridor of the Tavern last evening. Her eyes bulged like green glasses in her white face. ‘Bill! Bill, where d-did you c-come from?’ she stammered. You could hear ice tinkle in his answer, ‘From the South Pacific. Surprised to see me here, Red?’ ”
Sam Mitchell whistled.
“Red! Remember how he stood up Di? ‘It’s a ticklish business to come between husband and wife, Madam. Ask Bill, he knows.’ Perhaps he came between this Suzanne and her husband or she’s his wife and another leatherneck butted in. The situation offers as many dramatic possibilities as a soap opry. What happened after that?”
“I don’t know. They walked along the corridor together. Perhaps he left early. I didn’t see him again. I was dancing every moment.”
“Did the dashing Suzanne disappear?”
“No. Each time I looked in her direction her unfriendly eyes were following me.”
“Did Amy Trask witness her meeting with Bill Jerrold?”
“I think not. She was greeting a late arrival. Why?”
“Here’s something to keep under your hat: although the families are friends, Amy is a trifle disturbed about her. It would be queer if her doubts led into an answer to the reason of Bill Jerrold’s delirious muttering. Did he try to date you?”
“No. He hates red hair.”
“So what! Did he tell you that?”
“He did. Sammy, do you think I’m encased in a shell of reserve?”
“Grandma, what big eyes you’ve got.” Gravity succeeded laughter. “Did the Major have the nerve to tell you that, too?”
“No. It wasn’t he. It was a girl. What’s the matter with me, Sam, that I can’t warm up more when I meet a person?”
“There’s nothing the matter with you, Nancy B. We can’t all be extroverts. You’re a grand kid.” He cleared his husky voice and laughed. “Have you taken on a heartbeat who has set you wondering if you’re chilly? I can tell there is something on your mind.”
For an instant she was tempted to tell him of mistaking Captain François Bouvoir for Carl Brouner. Why waste the short time he was here talking about a boy of whom he never had heard? She had told Major Jerrold, perhaps it would have been wiser if she hadn’t confided in him.
“I hope I have something on my mind,” she parried gaily. “If I haven’t, I’ll lose my job. I was thinking that the mistakes of my life have been many.”
“My life has been reasonably full of them and that’s a masterpiece of understatement. I know you well enough to know you’re up against a problem. Wasn’t that what set you thinking of mistakes? If at any time you need my help you’ll find me at the same old stand. To return to Bill Jerrold. He asked if you were a nurse. Any other questions?”
“If I lived in Washington. I side-stepped that. Sam, if you see Mrs. Sutton don’t tell her I have met her brother.”
“What’s the big idea?”
“It would be fun to keep him wondering if I’m a dream-girl or a reality. I’ll ask Mrs. Trask not to reveal from which part of the country I hail. Perhaps I’ll never see him again. With Suzanne Dupree living at Mrs. Amy’s he won’t come there if his voice when he spoke to her is an indication of his feelings.”
“If it’s a showdown between a friend of Tom’s coming and Suzanne’s staying, Amy will give the Dupree girl the gate.”
He tamped out a cigarette and stood up.
“I’ll shove along. Hope I haven’t been bumped off this plane. Dianne misses you, Nancy B., though she’d die before she would admit it. Send her a line occasionally. You’ll be coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m a working woman now, remember. We still have our Sundays free, but the President has suspended all holidays for Federal workers except Christmas and we are asked not to travel then. Space is needed for the service men going home. That’s little enough to do for them.”
“Right. I’ll be seeing you. Good-by.”
“I know you well enough to know you’re up against a problem.” The words recurred to Nan the next morning as she rested her arms in their forest green cardigan sleeves on the iron railing of the balcony outside her bedroom and looked down into the garden in its winter garb. It was this balcony so like hers at Di’s that made her feel at home at Amy Trask’s.
She drew a deep breath of the crisp air. Sunday. Buffet breakfast. The one morning in the week she didn’t have to rush for a bus.
“Onward Christian Soldiers,” chimed a distant carillon. Skeleton branches of trees swayed as if in time to the martial music of the bells drifting by on a faint box-scented breeze. Little whirls of dust danced along the graveled paths. Heavenly day. The sky was robin’s-egg blue between sailing fluffs of cloud with golden edges. The pink dogwoods in a corner of the garden below were a deep, mellow wine color. The sun was lavishly gilding everything visible as if to make up for the blackout Jack Frost had laid over the world last night.
She thrust her hands hard into the pockets of her cardigan. Sam thought she was up against a problem. Problem was too important a word to describe the haunting sense that somewhere she had seen François Bouvoir before. He wasn’t Carl Brouner, that was settled, Carl had been blond. She could wipe him off the slate. Perhaps she had met the Count in France during one of the summers she had spent there. He knew they had met before, she was sure of it. What possible reason could he have for not admitting it?
He may have been the subject of a whispered scandal—perhaps political, maybe social—at the time they met and was afraid she might remember it. Could be. He was devoting himself to Patricia now and Patricia would inherit a fortune. There was something wrong or he wouldn’t stick in her mind like a splinter. Could her distrust be “one of those fragmentary things which may change the course of a life or career tragically”?
Fragmentary! It might be a huge thing. She was bound to meet him again with Pat. Perhaps, though, if he had a scandalous past, as she suspected, he would avoid her. He might even try to put her out of the way if the scandal had been political. Cheering thought. Where had that come from? Something queer happened to the muscles of her stomach. Could it be fear? She unclenched her hands which had gone slightly clammy.
“You’re hungry, goon, that’s what’s the matter with your stomach,” she jeered at herself. “It’s two hours later than your usual breakfast time. Scram!”
As she entered the mahogany-walled dining room the Admiral, retired, ensconced in a deep chair in the sunny, plant-filled bay, scowled at her above a newspaper and rose.
“What’s the idea dashing into the room as if you were bursting through a paper hoop, Miss Nan? What you scared of?” he demanded in a voice which set the pair of green love-birds in a gilded cage above his head fluttering wildly.
The presence of the crusty Admiral and love-birds in the same bay was an incongruity that tickled her sense of humor. She picked up a plate from the buffet.
“I suddenly remembered that this was popover morning and dashed in to make sure I wouldn’t be too late to get one. That radio man, Nolly Stiles, and Patricia are gluttons for popovers. Loud cheers. There are six on the plate.”
From a crystal pitcher she filled a glass with orange juice, peeked under the silver covers of two chafing-dishes, helped herself to creamy scrambled eggs and crisp bacon, poured steaming, fragrant coffee into a cup and carried her tray to the large table. Seated, she smiled at the man who, settled back in his chair again, was regarding her from beneath white eyebrows heavy as able-bodied mustaches.
“What’s wrong with the world this morning, Admiral Howe?” I shouldn’t have said that, she told herself contritely, his heart is raw because he can’t get into the fight and he eases the ache by finding fault with everyone who is in it. “Or is it with me?” she demanded in the hope of diverting his mind from her first question. “Don’t you like me in green?”
“I wasn’t thinking of you, Miss Nan. I was thinking that at last—” he chirruped at the birds and scowled at his paper—“they’ve done it.”
Nan savored the crisp perfection of a popover liberally spread with orange marmalade.
“Who have done what, Admiral?”
“Those chaps in Moscow have come out with what, on the surface, looks like a sane plan for real unity of the United Nations. Big Four Pledged to World Order. Please God it works.” He hr-rumped the emotion from his voice and whistled to the love-birds.
“Oh, there you are, Amy,” he growled as Mrs. Trask entered. “What you got your hat on for? Where you going?”
His niece glanced into one of the pair of bronze-framed mirrors that flanked the buffet before she filled a glass with orange juice.
“To church later, Uncle Zeb. Has Pat been down for breakfast?”
“Not yet. You spoil that girl, Amy, allowing her to stay out all hours.”
“Only Friday and Saturday evenings, Uncle Zeb. I’ll admit I’m troubled about Captain Bouvoir. She had him or he had her in tow at the officers’ dance. He’s too old to be playing round with a youngster like Pat. Do you like this purple turban, Nancy B.?”
“High Style, I calls it. It is perfect with your gray suit. I’ll change and go to church with you, if you don’t mind.”
“I’d love it. Tom’s friend is coming for breakfast.” She flung a challenging glance at the man in the bay who countered with his characteristic snort.
“That’s just like a woman, sentiment. Sentiment and no sense. He talked with you for half an hour yesterday morning, showed you pictures and letters and you invite him to breakfast. Surprised you didn’t ask him to live here.”
“That’s an idea, Uncle Zeb. He could have Tom’s rooms.”
“How do you know he isn’t a damfake, Amy? What proof have you he didn’t steal that stuff from the real friend of Tom’s, perhaps knocked him off to get it?”
“You wouldn’t doubt him if you had met him, Uncle Zeb.” Mrs. Trask appeared unperturbed by his grisly suggestions. “Your arthritis must be very bad this morning. I saw you crunching a chocolate bar after dinner last night. You know you shouldn’t eat it. Oh, well, boys will be boys.”
“I’m allowed one a day,” the Admiral growled. He returned to his grievance. “When are you going to produce that new crush of yours? What’s your confounded Captain’s name?”
“His name?” Amy Trask cocked her head at the angle of a bird listening. “Here he is now.” She went to the door. “Come in and have breakfast and meet the family, those that are here,” she added as Major Bill Jerrold stepped into the room.
“You don’t know a damthing about the Service, do you, Amy? That gold leaf on your new guest’s shoulder means a Major, not a Captain,” scolded the Admiral.
“Mrs. Trask knew me from Tom’s letters as a Captain, sir. I didn’t get the gold leaf until a few days ago. My hostess suggested breakfast and am I starving!”
Amy Trask’s eyes were thick with tears as she looked up at him. She tucked her hand under his arm and led him to the buffet.
“I would think Tom was back. He—he was always in a chronic state of star—vation.” She steadied her lips before she added:—
“It—it’s wonderful to have a hungry boy in the house again, Bill.”
The Admiral cleared his throat with a force that set the love-birds a-flutter and rubbed fingers impatiently across his eyes as if they stung.
“It’s wonderful to be here, Mrs. Trask.” Bill Jerrold helped himself to coffee, eggs and bacon and pulled up a chair beside Nan.
“I hope you are pleased too, Miss Barton?”
“Only time can answer that question, Major. Perhaps you’ll prove to be the answer to this gal’s prayer—and perhaps—”
“I won’t.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately I’m allergic to red hair.”
“How thoughtful of you to warn me.” Nan rose. “I’ll take mine out of sight at once,” she said and left the room.
VIII
Major Bill Jerrold certainly had flashed a Keep Off warning yesterday when he had announced he was allergic to red hair, Nan reflected as she rode to work in the bus. Why think of him this glorious day? She felt on top of the world when she wore her Gordon plaid skirt, matching Scotch cap and short beaver jacket. Clothes might not make the man but they were a morale booster for a girl.
Early as it was sailors were paddling canoes on the Potomac and bicyclists by the score pedaled along the avenues. Flower vendors at street corners were doing a thriving business with chrysanthemums, white, yellow, pink, crimson and bronze. The girl seated beside her was humming “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.” It was that kind of a day.
As she hung up her jacket in the office her thoughts returned to Bill Jerrold. Why had she shown him by her hasty departure from the dining room yesterday that she cared what he thought? She wrinkled her nose at the girl looking back at her from the mirror.
“He might fare farther and do worse, my dear, though I say it who shouldn’t,” she told her reflection.
At a window she looked out at the bridge crowded with traffic, at the river sparkling in the sunshine, at the white shaft of the Washington Monument. Beyond another window the Navy’s new Arlington Annex loomed on a rise overlooking the Pentagon. The Marines filled a large section of the sprawling, three-story building. Had Bill Jerrold been assigned to work there? She’d better push him out of her thoughts pronto and settle down at her desk.
The chief’s buzzer. He was commencing early. She picked up her notebook, settled the silver necklace which topped her dark green blouse and crossed to his door humming “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”
The stocky man in olive drab uniform with a silver eagle on his shoulder, his black eyebrows arched by nature in an expression of perpetual surprise, vouchsafed her a gruff “Good morning.”
“Captain Bouvoir is in need of an interpreter and was sent here, Miss Barton,” he explained.
Nan’s heart stood still as she looked at the smiling dark-haired man with a visitor’s badge on his blue tunic, who had risen as she entered.
“I met Mademoiselle Barton the other evening at a dance for officers at Gadsby’s Tavern, Colonel Long. She mistook me for a long-lost boy friend. Couldn’t we pretend I am the lad and start from there, Mademoiselle?”
“Sorry, we can’t because now that I see you for the second time I am wondering how I could have made such a mistake. What does Captain Bouvoir want us to do for him, Colonel Long?”
Her chief tapped a letter open on his desk.
“A translation of this. Don’t you read or speak German, Captain?”
“No, sir. I was educated in England. My family had such an intense hatred of the Germans—our country home was devastated in the last war—that I had no desire to study the language. I wouldn’t have troubled you with this if I hadn’t suspected that it might contain something the authorities should see. Didn’t want to cry ‘Wolf’ until I was sure.”
“How soon can you make the translation, Miss Barton?”
“I haven’t finished work on the two letters you turned over to me late yesterday, Colonel, but, I’ll have this ready before you go to lunch.”
Bouvoir hastened to open the door for her, said over his shoulder:—
“I’ll be back in a few hours, sir,” and followed her into her office.
Now what? Nan thought as she dropped the letter to her desk. Was there anything more than the translation behind this visit?
“How did you happen to come to us, Captain Bouvoir? There are so many other bureaus for this sort of work,” she reminded as he sat on the arm of the chair across the desk from hers.
