Scalpel, page 8
“One of my favorites, too,” she said. “I sang a duet with Margaret there one night.”
“Well, for God’s sake,” I said. “I’ll be there just about this time the day after tomorrow night opening the place up.”
“Give them my best,” she said.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “We’ll drag out a jeroboam of Pommery, Forty-three, and get you on the phone and let you hear us pop the cork.” I drank the rest of the vodka. We laughed, our heads close together. And all of a sudden I had the ghastly feeling that we were getting much too fraternal. This could be bad. This could be very bad: in an adventure like this there was such a thing as having too much in common; it had been my experience that this was a disastrous technique because it gave to the affair an overtone of incestuousness that discriminating women (and an artist in these matters is a fool to waste his time with any other) always found revolting. This mutual enthusiasm for the two charming bonifaces of the Chesterfield Gardens undoubtedly would lead to other mutual enthusiasms, so, much as I loved them, I realized I had to veer the conversation away from them and get back to the business at hand, she and I. “...I think I’d like another drink,” I said.
“So would I—” she said.
I made a small move with my hand. Pierre skidded over and I indicated that we wanted refills, and he made the gesture to Emil, almost across the room; and there was the sudden cooing of a woman in my ear and Pierre bowed out of the way; and she came in and stood at the table, followed by a man. They were thirty or thirty-five, well-groomed, rather handsome. “Hello, hello—” the woman said, and I shoved myself up out of the seat.
“Hello, Dodie, Paul—” Helen said. “The Truesdales—Colonel Owen.”
I nodded to Mrs. Truesdale and shook hands with Mr. Truesdale. “How are you...” I said. “Won’t you join us?”
“Just one for the road,” Mrs. Truesdale said, sliding into the seat. “I’ve got a million things to do before the party.” I inclined my head for Mr. Truesdale to sit down too, which he did, but his manner was reluctant. I sat down and looked up to summon Pierre and there, beside me, of course, was Pierre.
Mr. Truesdale was hesitant. He had sat down against his will but he thought this was carrying it too far. His expression and his manner made it evident that they were horning in and that he felt awkward about it. I spread my hands in a mild gesture that told him I understood his predicament, and he smiled gratefully. “...martinis,” he said, and Pierre moved away.
The national anthem having been sung, Mrs. Truesdale kicked off. “You’re new, aren’t you?” she said to me and without giving me a chance to say yes, she said to Helen: “Isn’t he new?”
“Right off the boat,” Helen said.
“Strato-Clipper,” I said. I leaned in front of Helen and said in a very confidential tone: “And not too new, either.”
Mrs. Truesdale laughed that cooing laugh again. She bubbled. “He’s darling,” she said to Helen. “He’s darling,” she said, turning to Mr. Truesdale.
Helen was grinning. This is something very difficult for a woman to do, grin. It makes them look just plain silly. Most women know that and won’t ever try it. But Helen Curtis grinned: a happy heartening grin, not fastidious but healthy and daring. I grinned too: and looked at Mrs. Truesdale, and said in my most charming manner, “May I call you Dodie?”
“Why, of course!” she said with great ebullience. To Helen she said: “He’s simply darling!”
Mr. Truesdale said: “We’ve been married ten years and it took me nine years to fall in love with her,” but he smiled when he said it.
“I love her now,” I said.
All Mrs. Truesdale could do was wag her head feebly, saying to Helen: “I don’t know where you found this wonderful man or where he’s going or anything about him, but you’ve simply got to bring him along to the party. Do you like parties?—what is your first name?” she said.
“You can just call me Colonel,” I said.
Mr. Truesdale laughed a belly laugh and Mrs. Truesdale laughed too: and Emil placed the drinks and handed linen napkins to the Truesdales. Mr. Truesdale lifted his martini. “My compliments, sir,” he said. “For years I’ve been waiting to see Dodie overmatch herself—”
“To Gunga Din—” Dodie said, and we drank. “Don’t you like parties?” she said to me, and without waiting, she said to Helen: “You must bring him. Janet won’t mind. She’ll be delighted. Shall I call her?”
Dubiously, Helen looked at me, passing the buck. I wanted no party; I wanted to be alone with her. I searched her eyes, hoping to find in them a twinge of disappointment at the thought of sharing me with Dodie and a lot of other people—and I did. It was there. I rejoiced a little. She was a hell of a woman. “I’m afraid not,” I said. “I’ve got to get back home.”
Dodie made a small moue and Mr. Truesdale opened his mouth to say something to her, and from the stern look on his face it probably was to inform her that I knew what I had to do much better than she; but just then three people arrived at the table, two men and a woman, and again I pushed myself up.
They were Ada and Nicky Nicoletti, also in their thirties, also well-bred and attractive; and a man named Coolie Alford, whom I disliked at once: he was forty, ramrodesque, too impeccably mannered, too immaculately dressed. He wore a single-breasted blue worsted suit of fine material and a blue rep tie over a white piqué shirt that had the small rounded collars pinned tightly with a gold safety pin; the kind of ensemble that seems to be a sort of international uniform for this high-class type of sycophant, for that is what he was and I knew it. Around the Place Pigalle and Montmartre they have a word for this kind of character, and argot though it is, it is very precise. The word is enculeur. It developed, for my information, naturally, that he had a date with Helen for Janet’s party, whoever Janet was, and I gathered, from the interest the party was generating, that it was going to be something of a ball...
...and around six-thirty they all pulled out, and there I sat with Helen Curtis, exactly where an hour and a half ago I had started. I had a lovely glow from the vodka, and I told myself that charming as À Bientôt was and comfortable as was the cushion and adulated as I had been by the issuance of four more linen napkins, this was a hell of a place to waste such a glow, which I would characterize as perfect. “...you hold court here every afternoon?” I asked.
She said: “Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“What happens on the other days? You move it from saloon to saloon?”
A spark flashed. Her lips tightened, curled a little. “Do I detect a slight antisocial flavor in your attitude?” she asked.
I said: “I couldn’t be more impressed if I were at Buckingham Palace. Really.”
“You were very rude to Coolie,” she said.
“Coolie was very rude to me,” I said.
“I thought he was very polite.”
“Coolie insulted me,” I said.
“How?” she asked blankly.
“The jacket he wore. It had peak lapels.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she slowly asked.
“Peak lapels,” I said. “Peak lapels on a single-breasted jacket. Much as I like you, I wouldn’t like you if you wore peak lapels on a single-breasted jacket. Happens to be one of my more obscure neuroses. And on Coolie? Ugh,” I said. “Any man who’d wear peak lapels on a single-breasted suit ought to be hit in the head with a baseball bat and any tailor who’d let a man talk him into putting peak lapels on a single-breasted suit ought to be hit in the head with two baseball bats, and now I’ll show you how very versatile I am,” and I put my elbow on the table and let my forearm stick up in the air while she watched in confusion and some amazement. I twitched my fingers and there beside me stood Pierre. “See?” I said. “I studied with Blackstone. Another drink, Pierre,” I said.
Pierre moved away.
She lighted her own cigarette, regarding me reflectively. “May I pay you a small compliment?” she asked.
“If it’s not too small—”
“I think you’re the best drinker I’ve ever seen,” she said.
“Magna cum laude, Third Army,” I said.
“What I would like to know—does it work?”
“Does what work?”
“Trying to drown your unhappiness with vodka.”
“Unhappiness is like a cork. It cannot be drowned.”
“Then why try?” She exhaled the cigarette smoke and said in a tranquilizing tone: “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous or impertinent, but I brought you here for a definite reason. I thought that all this chi-chi and giddy frivolity might amuse you and temporarily, at least, get your mind off the shock caused by Lloyd. I see now how completely shallow my reasoning was. Please don’t be offended. I apologize—”
She meant it, genuinely. “I’m not offended,” I said. “Truly, I’m not.”
“Then don’t feel remorseful. Lloyd wasn’t worth it. He was a louse. It’s not often Dan is wrong about people, but he was about him.” Her face was sober and serious. “He was about him. He was a vile and horrible man.”
“You make it sound authoritative,” I said.
“That’s because I am an authority,” she said. “The last few years he made a career out of trying to marry me. And up to now that doesn’t seem to have been too difficult. Or haven’t you heard?”
“I’ve heard—” I said.
“Lloyd had his mind made up that he was going to be Number Four.”
“Smart lad. Catch him making the same mistake twice.”
Abruptly, she said: “Am I a heel for saying that about Lloyd?”
“I’m afraid,” I said, picking up a cigarette, “that undying loyalty to my late brother is not one of my virtues. I wholly agree with what you say. But I am curious about one thing. How did you know this? Making book on your past performances, I’d say the odds were all against your judgment of men.”
“Maybe three husbands have sharpened my instincts,” she said.
“It’s quite possible,” I said.
Pierre brought the drinks, in person, this round, which, I thought, was the least he could do for a man who already had developed into a star customer in his own right. Helen and I held the glasses up, saying nothing (we had run out of toasts long ago, and toasts are not very chic any more anyway), and she took a swig and I took a swig. I was thinking that this could go on until it was time for her to go home and change for the party, and that if ever I was going to make a move, this was the time. The charm of this thing to begin with was that we had already made up our minds about each other; that there was to be no safari. “...since we seem to be the only two persons hereabouts that Lloyd didn’t fool—which makes us a very select club—why not skip the party and have dinner with just me?”
“I’ve got a better idea than that,” she said. “Why not go to the party with me. They’re having two hundred people.”
“Sounds big as De Beistegui’s,” I said. She had no reaction. I thought: serves me right. This should happen to more name-droppers. “...but you have a date.”
“Coolie’s not a date. He’s an escort.”
“I couldn’t go if I wanted to,” I said.
“I’m sure it would amuse you—”
“No clothes,” I said.
“All the way from Berlin with only one uniform?”
“I’ve another. It’s at home.”
“Coalville?”
“Yes.”
“That’s easy. I’ll have my driver run out and pick it up. We’ve time. You can change at my place.”
My heart bounced a couple of jumps and I looked at her and she was smiling brightly and I thought: well, now, this is a very good offer, very intriguing, and I drank the rest of my vodka, looking at her all the time, and her eyes crinkled, and I said: “I’ll phone Mom,” and started to get up.
She put her hand on my arm, stopping me, and said to Emil, “The phone, Emil.”
Emil took the telephone off the back rest of a booth two booths away and brought it down and plugged it in and handed it to me, but she took the receiver and spoke into it. She said: “This is Mrs. Curtis, Myrtle. Colonel Owen would like a number,” and handed the receiver to me. “I want Coalville four three three one,” I said. “Coalville.” I put my hand over the receiver and said to Helen: “One for the road?” and she nodded, and I pantomimed to Emil for one more round of drinks. In the earpiece of the telephone I heard the Coalville operator come on and she was given the number, 4331, and then came a busy signal. “It’s busy, Pittsburgh,” I heard the Coalville operator say, and then the Pittsburgh operator repeated the report to me. “That’s my mother’s house, operator. I’m her son, Colonel Owen, U. S. Army. It’s urgent that I get through. Please cut in. It’ll be all right.” She got the Coalville operator and the number was rung again. I could hear the busy signal, but this time the Coalville operator said, “The line’s out of order, Pittsburgh.” “Hello, Operator,” I said. “Will you ring Mrs. Dorinka on Hill Street? Mrs. Dor—never mind,” I said, thinking of Mr. Upham. “Will you please ring Upham’s Drugstore, corner Fifth and Hill—Upham. U-p-h-a-m.” I said to Helen: “Mom’s line’s busy. She’s sort of a neighborhood guardian. The drugstore’s just up the street.” “Hello, sir, that number is one-two-one-two. I am ringing—” and I heard the receiver being lifted at the other end and Edna Upham’s voice said: “Hello.” “Hello, Edna. This is Tom Owen. I want you to do me a favor—” “Tom! Where, are you, Tom?” “In Pittsburgh. Will you please have—” “Oh, my God, Tom! Get down here. Get down here right away. Before it’s too late!” There was horror in her voice. “What is it, Edna?” “Oh, God, Tom, it’s terrible trouble! There’s a big mob out in front of your mother’s house! They’re shouting and screaming! Oh, Tom! I’m afraid they’re going to kill her and burn the house down!”
I slammed the receiver into the cradle and stood up.
“Is something wrong?” Helen asked.
“There’s a mob demonstrating in front of my mother’s house. Could I borrow your car?”
“Of course.” She started sliding out of the seat. “I’ll go with you.”
Emil arrived with the drinks. “No—” I said, gulping mine.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. She took my arm and we went out.
The customers were still looking...
This was like that. It was the afternoon of the 18th of December, 1944; and wearing a brand-new uniform from Austin Reed, who had somehow managed to stay in business through all the blitzing, I was in Paris for the Christmas holidays. I had looked forward to Paris for a long time: a hitch in the Normandy countryside puts a man in the proper frame of mind to enjoy Paris. On this gossamer afternoon I was sitting in the George V bar with two of Mme. Lanvin’s former mannequins, drinking and listening to them tell of their work in the underground and how much they had contributed to the Normandy invasion. (In those days all reasonably good-looking French girls were former mannequins working with the underground.) I had a room on the fifth floor overlooking the Avenue George V, with one of those wonderful big beds for which the hotel is famous and which I thought the three of us would just comfortably fill; would have already filled, if I had known that right then the M.P.’s were going to barge in and start rounding up all the American soldiers. There were six or seven of us, if I remember rightly; one was Brigadier-General Sterling of the 7th Army: he will remember me much longer than I will remember him. We were told to report at once to the Provost Marshal.
We knew that hell had broken loose somewhere. But where?
On the Belgian-Luxembourg line. In a brilliant, dazzling surprise, Von Rundstedt and the cream of the bloody Wehrmacht had broken through and was racing for the port of Liége and the forest of Ardennes. The situation was desperate. Our whole front was being rolled back. There were fantastic rumors. Liége had fallen. Saint Vith had fallen. Spa had fallen. Six million gallons of gasoline in five-gallon cans had been captured. Marshal Montgomery had been captured...
General Sterling had a staff car, a Buick, and I gave him a ride to Brussels over frozen roads that he said he would remember to his dying day: and I am sure of that.
That was like this. I drove Helen Curtis’ Cadillac the thirty miles to Coalville in less than forty minutes: violating every rule of law and safety with almost suicidal mania. She never murmured; she lighted cigarettes and with a steady hand put them between my lips...
...I swung around the corner of the drugstore, down Hill Street, and I saw it: the mob; two, three hundred people. They were in front of the house, they were making steady and rhythmic throbs of noise, almost chants, like an organized student cheering section. They were waving crude signs:
MURDERER’S MOTHER
HERE WAS BORN A FINK
KILLER LLOYD OWEN
CAVIAR AND DEATH
GOOD BY, MARTHA OWEN
I headed the car straight for them, pushing down on the horn. The horn distracted them a little. I slowed down to about five miles an hour, and now I began to nose into the mob and they melted, but not much. Directly ahead, in the headlights, I saw Ben Ogibene and another miner. They didn’t know who was in the car but they weren’t going to move. I goosed the throttle and lunged the car at them and slapped on the brake quickly, and the radiator and bumper slammed them and knocked them down, and I swung the steering wheel and drove up over the curbing. Then somebody yelled: “Tom Owen!” There was a great growling roar and I felt an arm swoop around my neck and I fought him off and the Cadillac bumped against the front steps. I flipped the door open and took Helen Curtis’ hand and slid out, pulling her behind me. They closed in on me now, but I managed to get my knee into somebody’s groin, swinging Helen around in front of me and practically throwing her onto the front porch, trying to get there myself, trying to fight my way past. “Yayayayayayayaya,” they were shouting, and their faces were murderous and cruel, the women’s too. Head down, trying to protect my face, I barreled my way to the front porch, where Helen was trying to get the door open. “Mom! Mom!” I yelled, and realized that she had barricaded herself and could not hear. I stepped back and hit the door with my shoulder and it flew open and I yanked Helen inside.
