Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 212
“Wouldn’t that be a better advertisement to run about someone else’s store?” Mr. Dinner suggested, blinking thoughtfully. “About some competitor, for instance.”
“Sure thing,” chimed in the gentleman in tweeds enthusiastically. “If we ran a whole series of them we might ruin their business.”
“No go,” replied the suave gentleman. “We can only do that by spreading rumors. If we print advertisements about our competitors we might get into trouble. You see, it’s all very well to print lies about our own store, but if we print them about our competitors, they might sue us for libel.”
“Be just like ’em, too, the dirty crooks,” said the tweedy giant. “Well, here we all stand waiting.”
At the mention of waiting Mr. Owen experienced an uneasy feeling that the past was creeping silently up to surround him and carry him off. When had he last been waiting and where? To escape the memory, dim as it was, he turned to his three companions almost eagerly. He would cling to them and go mad in their own peculiar way. Anything would be preferable to that dull, anxious depression lying somewhere behind him in the shadows. He did not feel low any more and for so many months he had felt low — low, spiritless, and disillusioned. Here was no sadness, and certainly it seemed almost impossible to keep these men depressed for more than the lengths of an inane sentence. And surely for their own sakes as well as for the public’s, some sober mind should stay with them. For a moment Mr. Owen was seized with the fear that they might forget all about him in their charming way, and walk off, leaving him alone. They needed a sympathetic companion no less than he needed their companionship — someone like himself to see that they did injury neither to themselves nor to anyone else. That idea about shooting customers — now, that was all wrong. It was not a right idea. Although he realized they were not quite sane, Mr. Owen found something insidiously appealing about their special brand of insanity. They seemed to be so perfectly happy in their madness, so contented and busy about it, so full of daft ideas and unhelpful suggestions. Perhaps, after all, they were sane and he had been mad all his life. What did it matter? However, as the deliberations progressed he found it difficult to entertain this idea. These men were mental cases, or else they possessed an altogether new type of mind. Of that there could be no doubt. Mr. Owen became aware that the blond gentleman was asking questions.
“But look here,” the man was saying, “isn’t this a bit of a hitch? If we print an advertisement saying that we have a lot of bum jewelry, won’t that keep customers away as well as burglars?”
“Not necessarily,” Mr. Larkin replied. “I thought that out, too. We can station attendants at the doorways to tell customers not to pay any attention to the advertisement because we were only fooling.”
This answer apparently satisfied the objections of the tweeds. Mr. Dinner, however, was stubborn about it.
“But suppose one of the attendants tells a burglar?” he inquired. “We can’t very well ask our customers as they come in if they are burglars or not.”
“Not very well,” Mr. Larkin replied slowly. “That wouldn’t put them in the proper mood to buy. Maybe no burglars will come in on those days.”
“On what days?” asked the gentleman with the eyebrows.
“On the days when we have to tell our customers who are not burglars,” patiently replied Mr. Larkin.
“From the way things keep disappearing in this store,” the blond man moodily commented, “I suspect all our customers of being burglars.”
“Of course,” observed Mr. Larkin, “we steal some of the things ourselves and then pawn them when we’re short of cash.”
“And we make presents, too,” added the blond man. “Fur coats and such like to women.”
“I know,” Mr. Larkin agreed, “but in one way that saves us a lot of money. I think we’re very fortunate to have a nice department store. There’s hardly a woman in town who will say no for long with a whole department store to choose from.”
“In all the world,” supplied the meek Mr. Dinner.
“Then I guess we’ll have to let this burglar escape?” said the large man.
“We don’t have to let him escape,” replied Horace Larkin. “He will take care of his own escape. In fact, I suspect he already has.” He broke off and concentrated his gaze on one of the broad aisles. “But what new diversion have we here?” he asked. “You know, running a store like this keeps us dreadfully on the dash. I’ll be glad when lunch times comes, and then again, I won’t.”
Following the direction of Mr. Larkin’s gaze, Mr. Owen watched the new diversion approach with increasing interest. Four beautifully formed girls clad in the sheerest underwear were speeding down the aisle. Behind them sped four decidedly determined gentlemen almost, but not quite, draped in towels. As unprepared as he was for this sort of thing, Mr. Owen was even less prepared for what followed. One of the girls, when about three feet off, flung herself upon him and as far as he was able to establish began to climb up to his shoulders. He had a confused picture of bare arms and legs busily doing things with his body, and even at that moment he could not help wondering if the young woman thought he had a pair of stirrups strapped round his waist. Ducking his head momentarily beneath an energetically upraised knee he caught a glimpse of his companions and discovered with some satisfaction that they were similarly occupied. Mr. Owen’s profession had made him more or less familiar with the various physical indications of assault. He found these distressingly present with the difference that the tables were now turned. Even while he was struggling, his legal mind was engaged with problems of what chance a man had for a successful verdict when suing a lady for rape. In a criminal action the man, he decided, would have no standing at all. A man could be so assaulted almost repeatedly without altering greatly either his social or physical status whereas with a woman it might make a lot of difference. On the other hand, no woman would want a husband who was going to be raped all the time. There might be something in that. He did not know. He was much too busy. To steady himself, he involuntarily thrust up an arm and laid a hand on the young lady who was by this time somewhere in the neighborhood of his neck. He could hear the deep breathing of his companions who were laboring with their respective burdens. No sooner, however, had he seized his fair rider than his hand was smartly slapped.
“Don’t grab me so careless-like,” she told him.
Mr. Owen was upset.
“How shall I grab you?” he faltered.
“Do you have to be told how to grab me?” she demanded. “Where would you grab a lady?”
“I never grabbed a lady,” replied Mr. Owen. “That is, not one in your condition.”
“Well, brother, you’ve missed a lot,” said the girl pityingly.
“If you’d stop shoving down on my belt,” Mr. Owen complained, “I might barely be able to keep my trousers up.”
“I can’t,” gasped the girl. “If by shoving myself up I happen to shove your trousers down, it’s just too bad.”
“It’s more than too bad,” Mr. Owen told her. “It’s far more serious than you think. The trousers are not all. In some strange manner you seem to have got your toes locked in my shorts.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” the girl admonished. “I don’t want to fall off now that I’ve got myself comfortably up.”
“Ruthlessly up, I’d say,” muttered Mr. Owen.
To save his trousers he placed his hands on his hips and stood swaying in front of a number of spectators, many of whom received the impression they were witnessing an act put on by a slightly out of practice acrobat and his partner for their special edification. Strange things were always taking place in this store. Those four men in towels — what were they doing there and why were they being restrained by so many attendants?
“It’s all right, girls,” Mr. Owen heard Horace Larkin saying reassuringly. “You may come down when you like. The gentlemen are being held. What is it all about, anyway?”
Fortunately for Mr. Owen’s trousers his burden was the first to hit the floor.
“Those four would-be cave men wouldn’t believe we were working,” she exclaimed furiously. “They insisted on playing with us, and they began to take it too seriously. We got frightened and ran. Besides, it’s office hours.”
“A most commendable attitude to take,” replied Mr. Owen, “especially during office hours. Perhaps, only in office hours. Where did this action take place, may I ask?”
“In the swimming pool,” said another young lady, springing lightly up from the small body of the prostrate Dinner. “We came in to give our review and found them swimming about without a stitch. They wouldn’t believe we were models. Started in right there and then. Would you believe it, Mr. Larkin?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Larkin. “From my point of view, it seems almost inevitable, under the circumstances. You know how easily one thing suggests another. May I ask why you were staging your delightful review in the swimming pool?”
“Major Britt-Britt told us to do it,” chimed in a third young lady in scanty attire. “Last night he told us. He said that our department would be closed for redecorating and that until further notice we should hold our fashion reviews in the swimming pool, didn’t you, Maj?”
“Call him Major, call him Major,” said Mr. Larkin in a low voice. “There’re a lot of customers knocking about.” He turned smilingly to the Major, who was looking a little uncomfortable under his furious mop of blond hair and heavy black eyebrows. “And I fancy, Major,” Mr. Larkin continued, “that from the pressure of business resulting from the universal popularity of this magnificent yet essentially reasonably priced modern mart of merchandise you overlooked the slight detail of notifying the proper authorities that the swimming pool should not be used by our naked customers during the period of the review?”
“It slipped my mind,” muttered the Major.
“You big stiff,” surprisingly observed Mr. Dinner, rising from the floor and instinctively reaching for his hip pocket, an action which Mr. Larkin was prompt in intercepting, “there’s not enough room on that mind of yours for anything to slip off of. That girl nearly tore me to pieces with her great clutching hands. Can’t tell me she was as worried about her confounded honor as all that.”
“Don’t be disagreeable,” Mr. Larkin told the little man. “And don’t talk so lightly about a lady’s honor in public. It may be a confounded nuisance and a terrific social handicap, but some women still cling to it. What are we going to do about these four gentlemen, now? They strike me as being more offended against than offending. Under similar circumstances, I would have made the same mistake myself.”
“You’d have acted worse,” proclaimed one of the girls. “Don’t I know.”
Mr. Larkin coughed loudly.
“Not here,” he said rapidly under his breath. “Not here. These people won’t understand how we run this store. They’re quite, quite narrow, my dear.”
“But we told them to wait,” one of the girls protested. “We kept telling them we were busy and asked them if they wouldn’t wait.”
“And they didn’t want to wait?” Mr. Larkin asked, interested in spite of himself.
“No,” said the girl. “They claimed they couldn’t wait.”
“They must be in a bad way,” Mr. Larkin remarked as if to himself. “We seem to be doing everything in this store this morning except selling goods to customers. Another day like this, and we’ll be in the hands of the receivers.” Producing a notebook he hastily scribbled an address on a leaf, tore the leaf out, and handed it to one of the toweled gentlemen. “Sorry about all this,” he continued easily, “but if you pop off right now I’m sure you won’t have to wait. Better get dressed first, though — at least temporarily.”
Eagerly making plans among themselves, the four gentlemen hurried off. When a safe distance had been put between them and the models Mr. Larkin sent the girls about their business; then, locking arms with Mr. Owen, he walked off down an aisle in the direction of his private office. Mr. Dinner and Major Britt-Britt followed in like fashion. Thus they made an impressive and dignified exit from the eyes of their admiring patrons, who seemed still somewhat puzzled over what it had all been about. As soon as the door to Mr. Horace Larkin’s amazing office closed behind the four backs he turned courteously to Mr. Owen and took one of that gentleman’s hands in his.
“My dear sir, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Larkin. “I’ve been neglecting you terribly. What would you like to sell this morning?”
“What!” gasped Mr. Owen. “Do I have to sell something?”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Larkin gently. “We all have to sell something. You’re a full-fledged partner, you know.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The New Partner
“NO,” SAID MR. Owen vaguely when he had recovered a little. “I didn’t know.”
“Neither did we,” both Mr. Dinner and Major Britt-Britt said in unison. “Is this man our new partner?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Larkin in the manner of one taking a new automobile out for a spin. “Do you like him?”
Mr. Owen would not have been greatly surprised to hear himself referred to as Model A.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
“Well,” began Mr. Horace Larkin, “last night it occurred to me that we could do with a new partner — some congenial chap to share with us our many responsibilities. Do you like my office?”
“What?” gasped Mr. Owen, startled by the abruptness of the question. “Oh, yes. It’s lovely.”
“I rather fancy it myself,” confided Mr. Larkin, gazing appreciatively about him at the huge pillow-heaped divans, the colorful oriental hangings, and the gleaming rug-scattered floor. He even delicately sniffed the scented air. “Isn’t that nude stunning?” he continued. “The one with the man.”
“They both look nude to me,” observed Mr. Owen, glancing at the painting indicated, then hastily averting his eyes in holy horror.
“Yes,” said Mr. Larkin simply. “That’s what’s stunning about it. They’re both nude together — mother naked. I do a lot of business here, a lot of interviewing. You understand, with my staff, of course.”
“I’m afraid I do,” replied Mr. Owen. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, there’s an unmistakable suggestion in this office of an old-time barroom.”
“Is there, now?” said Mr. Larkin, greatly pleased. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence? Because this room is literally alive with liquor. Let’s all have a drink.”
“Would you mind going on about how I became a partner?” Mr. Owen asked. “I can’t help feeling curious.”
“Yes,” rumbled the monumental Major. “How did you pick him out?”
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Larkin. “Pardon me. My thoughts veer so, I’m surprised I don’t have a stroke. So I just made up my mind that the first likely-looking gentleman to enter the store in the morning should be our partner and have the privilege of sharing with us our many — —”
“We know,” interrupted Mr. Dinner rather cynically. “Heavy responsibilities. That, no doubt, will enable you to devote more of your priceless time to your staff work.”
“How did you guess?” beamed Mr. Larkin. “Exactly what I had in mind.”
“But wasn’t I snatched through a doorway?” pursued Mr. Owen. “Or was I snatched through a doorway?” He was groping desperately in what remained of his memory. “Was it raining when I came in?” he continued. “I’m quite sure I remember the rain — steadily falling rain and a woman with heavy-lidded eyes.”
“There was rain out there,” Mr. Larkin replied, vaguely waving his hand as if in the general direction of some unknown shore. “But I’m sure I saw no woman with heavy-lidded eyes.”
“Lucky for her you didn’t,” observed the Major, “or you’d have snatched her through, too.”
“Is that nice, gentlemen, I ask you?” Mr. Larkin asked in gentle reproach. “I am sorry, however, about this heavy-lidded woman. I am fond of heavy-lidded women. They are born without morals and acquire them very slowly — if ever. Tell me, was she worth while?”
“Seemed like a good sort,” said Mr. Owen. “A lonely sort. She was standing out in the rain. I don’t think she’d have minded if you had snatched her through. She seemed to be looking for a place to go — a cheerful place.”
“We all need cheerful places to go at times,” observed Mr. Dinner in an odd voice. “Someone to snatch us out of the rain.”
This unexpected contribution from Mr. Dinner gave Mr. Owen to feel that he might just possibly be somewhat dead and standing in the presence of the latest thing in angels. He could not, however, quite accept Mr. Larkin as God. That would be painting the lily.
“What door did I happen to come through?” he asked a little uneasily.
“I don’t quite remember which door it was,” replied Mr. Horace Larkin, and this time Mr. Owen was convinced that his vagueness was deliberately assumed. “Some door — one we very rarely use. Saw you standing in it looking rather at loose ends so I took the liberty of dragging you through. The door is not an exit.”
For a few moments no one spoke. Mr. Owen was wondering with mingled emotions about the door that was not an exit. Did he really want an exit? Was there a single thing to which he cared to return — a single person or place? All washed out with the rain. There was a woman. He could not altogether forget Lulu. No one who had been forced to live with her could altogether forget Lulu. But what he remembered was bitter and distressful. To visit Lulu was an event; to live with her a disaster. She was a woman like that — popular only on occasions one had no desire to recall.
“I’m glad,” he said at last, “you did pull me out of the rain. Your intervention was providential.”
“Then everything is quite all right, isn’t it?” cried Mr. Larkin. “But you haven’t told us what you would like to sell. First, however, let me officially introduce you to your partners — our partners.” He turned to the two gentlemen and eyed them with a faintly ironical glitter, then turned hastily back to Mr. Owen. “A thousand and one pardons, your name has entirely escaped me. My thoughts veer so it’s a wonder I don’t have convulsions.”
