“That's it,” she said!
“Or it isn't. What if it is?” She came close enough to take hold of my lapels with both hands, and her eyes were certainly big. “Listen, you born hero,” she said earnestly. “No matter what I might feel coming back or what I don't, you be careful where you head it on anything about my sister. She's twenty-two. When I was her age I was already pretty well messed up, and she's still as clean as a rose-my God, I don't mean a rose, you know what I mean. I agree with my dad about Louis Rony, but it all depends on how it's done. Maybe the only way not to hurt her too much is to shoot him. I don't really know what he is to her. I'm just telling you that what matters isn't Dad or Mother or me or Rony, but it's my sister, and you'd better believe me.” It was the combination of circumstances. She was so close, and the smell of roses was so strong, and she was so damned earnest after dallying around with me all afternoon, that it was really automatic. When, after a minute or two, she pushed at me, I let her go, reached for the portfolio and closed it, and took it to a tier of shelves and put it on the lowest one. When I got back to her she looked a little flushed but not too overcome to speak.
“You darned fool,” she said, and had to clear her throat. “Look at my dress now!” She ran her fingers down through the folds. “We'd better go down.” As I went with her down the wide stairs to the reception hall it occurred to me that I was getting my wires crossed. I seemed to have a fair start on establishing a personal relationship, but not with the right person.
We ate on the west terrace, where the setting sun, coming over the tops of the trees beyond the lawn, was hitting the side of the house just above our heads as we sat down. By that time Mrs Sperling was the only one who was calling me Mr Goodwm. She had me at her right, probably to emphasize my importance as the son of a business associate of the Chairman of the Board, and I still didn't know whether she knew I was in disguise. It was her that Junior resembled, especially the wide mouth, though she had filled in a little. She seemed to have her department fairly under control, and the looks and manners of the helps indicated that they had been around quite a while and intended to stay.
After dinner we loafed around the terrace until it was about dark and then went inside, all but Gwenn and Rony, who wandered off across the lawn. Webster Kane and Mrs Sperling said they wanted to listen to a broadcast, or maybe it was video. I was invited to partake of bridge, but said I had a date with Sperling to discuss photography plans for tomorrow, which was true He led me to a part of the house I hadn't seen yet, into a big high-ceilinged room with four thousand books around the walls, a stock ticker, and a desk with five phones on it among other things, gave me a fourth or fifth chance to refuse a cigar, invited me to sit, and asked what I wanted. His tone was not that of a host to a guest, but of a senior executive to one not yet a junior executive by a long shot. I arranged my tone to fit.
“Your daughter Madeline knows who I am. She saw a picture of me once and seems to have a good memory.” He nodded. “She has. Does it matter?” “Not if she keeps it to herself, and I think she will, but I thought you ought to know. You can decide whether you had better mention it to her.” “I don't think so. I'll see.” He was frowning, but not at me. “How is it with Rony?” “Oh, we're on speaking terms. He's been pretty busy. The reason I asked to see you is something else. I notice there are keys for the guest-room doors, and I approve of it, but I got careless and dropped mine in the swimming pool, and I haven't got an assortment with me. When I go to bed I'll want to lock my door because I'm nervous, so if you have a master key will you kindly lend it to me?”
There was nothing slow about him. He was already smiling before I finished. Then he shook his head. “I don't think so. There are certain standards-oh, to hell with standards. But he is here as my daughter's guest, with my permission, and I think I would prefer not to open his door for you. What reason have you-” “I was speaking of my door, not someone else's. I resent your insinuation, and I'm going to tell my father, who owns stock in the corporation, and he'll resent it too. Can I help it if I'm nervous?” He started to smile, then thought it deserved better than that, and his head went back for a roar of laughter. I waited patiently. When he had done me justice he got up and went to the door of a big wall safe, twirled the knob back and forth, and swung the door open, pulled a drawer out and figured its contents, and crossed to me with a tagged key in his hand.
“You can also shove your bed against the door,” he suggested.
I took the key. “Yes, sir, thank you, I will,” I told him and departed.
When I returned to the living-room, which was about the size of a tennis court, I found that the bridge game had not got started. Gwenn and Rony had rejoined the party. With a radio going, they were dancing in a space by the doors leading to the terrace, and Jimmy Sperling was dancing with Connie Emerson. Madeline was at the piano, concentrating on trying to accom- pany the radio, and Paul Emerson was standing by, looking down at her flying fingers with his face sourer than ever. At the end of dinner he had taken three kinds of pills, and perhaps had picked the wrong ones. I went and asked Madeline to dance, and it took only a dozen steps to know how good she was. Still more relationship.
A little later Mrs Sperling came in, and she was soon followed by Sperling and Webster Kane. Before long the dancing stopped, and someone mentioned bed, and it began to look as if there would be no chance to dispose of the little brown capsule I had got from my medicine case. Some of them had patronized the well-furnished bar on wheels which had been placed near a long table back of a couch, but not Rony, and I had about decided that I was out of luck when Webster Kane got enthusiastic about nightcaps and started a selling campaign. I made mine bourbon and water because that was what Rony had shown a preference for during the afternoon, and the prospect brightened when I saw Rony let Jimmy Sperling hand him one. It went as smooth as if I had written the script. Rony took a swallow and then put his glass on the table when Connie Emerson wanted both his hands to show him a rumba step. I took a swallow from mine to make it the same level as his, got the capsule from my pocket and dropped it in, made my way casually to the table, put my glass down by Rony's in order to have my hands for getting out a cigarette and lighting it, and picked the glass up again, but the wrong one-or I should say the right one. There wasn't a chance the manoeuvre had been observed, and it couldn't have been neater.
But there my luck ended. When Connie let him go Rony went to the table and retrieved his glass, but the damn fool didn't drink. He just held on to it.
After a while I tried to prime him by sauntering over to where he was talking with Gwenn and Connie, joining in, taking healthy swallows from my glass, and even making a comment on the bourbon, but he didn't lift, it for a sip. The damn camel. I wanted to ask Connie to get a knee lock on him so I could pour it down his throat. Two or three of them were saying good night and leaving, and I turned around to be polite. When I turned back again Rony had stepped to the bar to put his glass down, and when he moved away there were no glasses there but empty ones. Had he suddenly gulped it down? He hadn't. I went to put my glass down, reached across for a pretzel, and lowered my head enough to get a good whiff of the contents of the ice bucket. He had dumped it in there.