And when Winni Moon came to live at the Spaeth house as Solly’s “protégée,” with her beastly beribboned chimp and a rawboned Swedish chaperon who was supposed to be her aunt — you would have thought a self-respecting moralist would move out then. But no, Walter hung on; and Valerie even suspected the impossible Winni of having designs on her benefactor’s son, from certain signs invisible to the Spaeths but quite clear to the unprejudiced female eye.
Sometimes, in the sacred privacy of her own rooms, Valerie would confide in little Roxie, her Chinese maid.
“Do you know what?” she would say furiously.
“Yisss,” Roxie would say, combing out Val’s hair.
“It’s fantastic. I’m in love with the beast, damn him!”
Walter leaned on his horn until Frank, the day man, unlocked the gate. The crowd in the road was silent with a rather unpleasant silence. Five State troopers stood beside their motorcycles before Sans Souci, looking unhappy. One little man with the aura of a tradesman leaned glassy-eyed on the shaft of a homemade sign which said: “Pity The small Invester.”
The crowd was composed of tradespeople, white-collar workers, laborers, small-business men. That, thought Walter grimly, accounted for the inactivity of the troopers; these solid citizens weren’t the usual agitating mob. Walter wondered how many of the five troopers had also lost money in Ohippi.
Driving through the gate and hearing Frank quickly clang it shut, Walter felt a little sick. These people knew him by now, and the name he bore. He did not blame them for glaring at him. He would not have blamed them if they had tossed the troopers aside and broken down the fence.
He ran his six-cylinder coupé around to the Jardin house. More than a dozen cars were parked in the Jardin drive — sporty cars of the same breed as their owners, Walter thought bitterly. Valerie must be fiddling again — while Rome burned.
He found her in the front gardens radiantly holding off all the sad young men and their ladies with one hand and offering them delicatessen with the other. At first Walter blinked, for it seemed as though Val was plucking salami and sausages from the rose bushes; and he had never heard of bologna sandwiches and one-drink cocktail bottles growing on palm boles before. But then he saw that the refreshments had been artfully tied to the arboreal landscape.
“Oh, it’s Walter,” said Val, the radiance dimming. Then she stuck out her chin. “Walter Spaeth, if you mention one word about the starving coal-miners I’ll scream!”
“Look out,” giggled a young lady, “here’s Amos again.”
“Wasn’t he the prophet who flapped his arms so much?”
“Goodbye, Val,” said Tommy. “I’ll see you in the first tumbril.”
“Val,” said Walter, “I want to talk to you.”
“Why not?” said Val sweetly, and excused herself.
She maintained the sweet smile only until they were behind a cluster of palms. “Walter, don’t you dare spoil my party. It’s a brand-new idea, and I’ve got Tess and Nora and Wanda simply tearing their permanents—” She looked a little more closely at his face. “Walter, what’s the matter?”
Walter flung himself on the grass and kicked the nearest palm. “Plenty, my feminine Nero.”
“Tell me!”
“Bottom’s dropped out. Hell’s loose. River topped the levees last night — out of control. The whole Ohio Valley and part of the Mississippi Valley are under water. So there, may they rest in peace, go the Ohippi plants.”
Valerie felt a sudden chill. It didn’t seem fair that the floods in a place half a continent away should creep into her garden and spoil everything.
She leaned against the palm. “How bad is it?” she asked in a croupy little voice.
“The plants are a total loss.”
“First the stock-market drop, and now— Poor pop.” Val took off her floppy sunhat and began to punch it. Walter squinted up at her. It was going to be tough on the kid, at that. Well, maybe it would do her good. All this criminal nonsense—
“It’s your father’s fault!” cried Val, hurling the hat at him.
“Ain’t it the truth?” said Walter.
Val bit her lip. “I’m sorry, darling. I know how much you hate what he stands for.” She sank down and laid her head on his chest. “Oh, Walter, what are we going to do?”
“Hey, you’re wetting my tie,” said Walter. He kissed her curls gently.
Val jumped up, dried her eyes, and ran away. Walter heard her call out in a marvelously bright voice: “Court’s adjourned, people!” and a chorus of groans.
Just then it began to drizzle, with that dreary persistence only the California clouds can achieve during the rainy season.
It’s like a movie, thought Walter gloomily, or a novel by Thomas Hardy. He got to his feet and followed her.
They found Rhys Jardin patrolling the flags of his terrace at the rear of the house. Pink, in sweat-shirt and sneakers, was staring at his employer with troubled eyes.
“Oh, there you are,” said her father. He immediately sat down in the porch swing. “Come here, puss. The rain’s spoiled your party, hasn’t it?”
“Oh, pop!” said Val, and she ran to him and put her arms about his neck.
The rain pattered on the awning.
“Well, Walter,” smiled Rhys, “as a prophet you’re pretty good. But not even you foresaw the floods.”
Walter sat down. Pink heaved out of his deck-chair and went to the iron table and poured himself a drink of water. Then he said: “Nuts!” and sat down again.
“Is anything left?” asked Val quietly.
“Don’t look so tragic, Val!”
“Is there?”
“Well, now that you ask,” smiled Rhys, “not a thing. Our negotiable assets are cleaned out.”
“Then why did you let me run this party today?” she cried. “All that money going to waste!”
“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” said Pink lightly, “when Val Jardin would start squeezing the buffalo.”
“Do we have to give up the Malibu place, the house in Santa Monica?” asked Val with difficulty.
“Now don’t worry, puss—”
“This... this house, too?”
“You never liked it, anyway.”
Val cradled her father’s head in her arms. “Darling, you’ll have to give up your yachting and golf clubs and things and go to work. How will you like that?”
The big man made a face. “We can realize a lot of money from the real estate and the furnishings—”
“And we’ll get rid of Mrs. Thomson and the housemaids and Roxie—”
“No, Val!”
“Yes. And of course Pink will have to go—”
“Nuts,” said Pink again.
Val became quiet and sat back in the swing, sucking her lower lip. After a while Walter said uncomfortably: “I know my anti-holding-company cartoons didn’t help Ohippi, Mr. Jardin. But you understand — Newspapermen can’t—”
Jardin laughed. “If I listened to your advice rather than your father’s we’d all be a lot better off.”
“The lousy part of it is,” grunted Pink, “that your old man could still save Ohippi. Only he won’t. There ought to be a law!”
“What do you mean?” asked Walter slowly.
Pink waved his arms. “Well, he cleaned up, didn’t he? Why shouldn’t he—”
“My father cleaned up?”
“Keep quiet, Pink,” said Rhys.
“Just a moment. I’ve a right to know!”
“It’s not important any more, Walter,” said Rhys mildly. “Forget it.”