She whirled from the stove. “You tell me nothing, Duffer Bogan! All the aprons were dirty and I was too darn tired to change!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sure, you’re sorry! So am I sorry! I’m sorry my kid sister is probably giggling with some pimply boy in a schoolyard somewhere! I’m sorry you had to work late and Harry’s feeling rotten! I’m sorry we can’t afford a cook, or to eat out once in a while, or even own enough aprons to keep neat! I’m sorry we’re so mouse-poor, and right now I’m even sorry I’ve got what people think are good looks — except that maybe I can use ’em, somehow, to get this family out of a lousy mess that goes on forever!”
It wasn’t like Eleanor. It was nothing like her, Duff thought glumly. She had even called him by the derogatory form of his nickname. He felt pity but he thought it was no time to show it. Perhaps, too, he felt in a deep recess of his personality, where his aware mind couldn’t look, the blaze of resentment.
“All you have to do,” he said stonily, “is to say ‘yes’ to Scotty Smythe. I’m sure he’d manage things fine for everybody. You wouldn’t need boarders, so I’d be delighted to hunt up some other place—” It was childish.
He had never heard her shout in anger. She did now. She raised her fork and stabbed it in his direction and yelled, “Get out of this kitchen!”
As he went through the living room, Mrs. Yates called nervously, “What’s wrong, Duff?”
He answered, “Nothing,” and began to set the table. She didn’t offer to make up, so he didn’t.
The day after that, Harry Ellings announced he was going to take a week of his annual two weeks’ vacation to go up to Baltimore to see some doctors about his condition.
When Duff learned that, he wanted, once again, to let the FBI know. But Higgins, the G-man, had been very final in his last talk at the hospital. The FBI wouldn’t be interested in Harry’s trip, and though Duff ached with anxiety over the potential danger of it, he felt he could do nothing.
When Harry returned, he didn’t seem improved. His color had become a grayish yellow. His appetite was bad. His hands shook constantly. His neatly parted gray hair seemed to be getting thinner almost day by day. He talked little and spent most of his time, when he wasn’t at work, lying on his bed.
Nobody gave him much attention — the Yates family was demoralized. Dinners were hurriedly prepared. Every night, afterward, Eleanor either drove to Miami to her job or went to a meeting or had a date, leaving the dishes and most of the housework to Marian, Charles and Duff. With Eleanor absent, and while he worked with the youngsters, Duff could revive the old feeling of cheerfulness, but when Eleanor was at home a jittery gloom prevailed.
In early December there was a cold spell. It was the sort that Florida chambers of commerce would like to keep hushed up. Frost crept over the Everglades. The power company put every generator in service to meet the load of electric heaters glowing in tens of thousands of homes. People with fireplaces stoked them, so that all Dade County was spiced with pine-wood smoke.
During the night, millions of dollars’ worth of winter vegetables stiffened, took on frosty carapaces and perished ignominiously. Duff chopped wood and the younger Yateses did their homework around a fire while a kerosene heater burned odoriferiously in their mother’s room. In the morning, which was sunny, but, to natives, shockingly cold, public schools stayed closed and many business firms failed to open, owing to the absence of employees who had no overcoats to wear to their jobs. Duff went to his classes, however.
He was chilled through by midafternoon and stopped in the Student Club cafeteria for a cup of coffee before taking the bus. There he spotted Scotty Smythe, sitting alone, looking morose. Duff carried his cup over to Scotty’s table.
“Coming for your lesson tomorrow, Sir Isaac?”
Smythe looked up. “Hi, Einstein! Guess so.”
“Haven’t seen you around lately. What gives?”
Scotty stared thoughtfully at Duff. His lips drew out in a somber line, but his eyes flickered. “You observe here,” he presently replied, a young man, five foot ten and a quarter, one hundred and fifty-eight pounds. Hair, muddy black; eyes, putty gray; occupation, college senior. He is carrying the torch.”
“Fight?” Scotty contemplated the question. “No. Brush.”
“Meaning what?”
“You notice any change in Eleanor lately?”
“She’s tired. Nervous. On edge.”
The younger man turned over those words in his mind. “Minimally,” he said in the end. “She is also suddenly interested in a laddy-boy named Tony who owns half the hardware stores in Florida, or will, when his pappy kicks off or retires. This chump is pretty to look at; he went to Princeton, and he has a convertible too. Chartreuse.”
“I’ve seen it. And him.” Scotty went on musingly, “Now, Eleanor never did okay my proposition exactly. But I felt she was interested in me. Seems not. No time for Smythes these days. She’s also taken to going places with that large charge of human barge known as Avalanche Billings.”
“A wholesome boy,” Duff said, not enthusiastically.
“In a nutshell, man, you’ve said it all! It’s not enough that his pappy is a brewer. His boy had to be an athlete too. Nearly All-American, you may have noticed. Avalanche is a clown — makes the girls laugh. Outside of rugged good looks— destined to become bloated as the years pass—”
“Very little,” Duff agreed.
“A cipher. A zero. A zed. What she sees in him—”
“Not even a convertible,” Duff murmured.
“Touché, pal!” Scotty chuckled dolefully. “You don’t sound so doggoned elated yourself.”
“Things are melancholy,” Duff agreed.
Scotty was silent. He finished his coffee. He eyed Duff for a while. “Speaking of beer and such,” he said, “and I was, by inference, a while back, are you a drinking man?”
“No,” Duff replied. “Not a matter of scruples. Purse. And lack of experience.”
“I was sitting here,” Scotty continued, “considering the poor condition of my soul. I was thinking of ringing up a babe and buying same a drink or two. Only a lack of companionship prevented me from recourse to the anodyne. But it runs through my mind, now, that if you’d consent to the measure, I might ring up two babes.”
Duff grinned. “You forget my devoirs, chores, duties.”
“On the contrary. I know your routine. I know the kids could manage things one evening without you. You could meet me at the Palm Paradise Café at eight o’clock, and I would bring the ladies. It would be my party. Celebration for an A in a math test.”
“You know,” Duff answered after a moment, “I think I will! I feel in a mood to do damned near anything!”
“I’ll pick a dame accordingly,” Scotty grinned.
When Duff had gone, Prescott Smythe took from a pocket a small black notebook and began earnestly to con its pages. Listed in them were the names and phone numbers of several scores of young ladies who would gladly consent to help lift any shadow from the Smythe soul. The problem was to find one who would serve Duff in the same way. Duff was not, Scotty reflected, the kind of collegian, or post-collegian, who impressed young women.
His small talk was unreliable. He had said once that he didn’t dance much. As far as Scotty knew, he had never been seen to take a cocktail or even a beer. He had dated no coeds, so there was no grapevine information available on him.
Scotty turned pages all the way to the S’s before he halted for any length of time. His finger rested on the name of Indigo Stacey. “Indigo Stacey,” the entry read, “99-7663.” And under that “bru— vgl — s—tt — cw — wfi.” That, in Scotty’s code, meant, “Brunette, very good-looking, sexy, too tall, college widow, worth further investigation.” He remembered.