He pulled out a heavily stuffed wallet and laid it on the desk while he fished in his vest pocket for a pen.
The wallet lay on the desk, almost touching Ann’s open purse. Nastee looked at the two objects for an instant with contemplative eyes. Then he chuckled mischievously. A golden opportunity!
Ann thanked the clerk for his kindness and walked away, trying desperately to hold back the tears.
She was half way across the lobby when she heard an angry bellow behind her. Turning she saw a fat, important looking man striding toward her, waving his arms excitedly.
The man caught her arm and dragged her forcibly back to the desk.
“I saw you,” he shouted. “You can’t pull your tricks on me, sister.”
“Please,” Ann said, “what is the meaning of this?”
“Don’t gimme that stuff,” the fat man cried. “You stole my wallet. Somebody call the police.”
“I did no such thing!” Ann said hotly.
The desk clerk looked his pained embarrassment.
“Please,” he said. “We can settle this matter quietly. Mrs. Hardwicke, I know you didn’t take this gentleman’s wallet, but if you would let us look through your purse it would prove your innocence.”
“Why, certainly,” Ann said.
She opened her purse and her knees began to tremble. A man’s wallet was lying among her make-up and letters and change.
“Oh!” she said faintly. She was too terrified to do anything but stare at the incriminating wallet.
“You see?” the fat man cried triumphantly. He snatched his wallet from the purse.
“It’s — some mistake,” Ann said helplessly.
“I’ll say it was, sister,” he snapped. “You’ll have time to regret it, too. The cops are always happy to catch one of you hotel thiefs.”
“I’m not a thief,” Ann said, starting to cry. “I live here with my husband.”
“That’s a hot one, sister,” the man said. “Wouldn’t care to take me up to your husband, would you?”
Ann sniffled miserably.
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said in a muffled voice. She couldn’t crawl to Peter now that she was in trouble. She started crying harder.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” the man snapped. “You’re lying from the start to finish. And don’t think those crocodile tears are going to help.”
“They’re not c — croc — odile tears,” Ann said, between sobs.
“Mrs. Hardwicke,” the desk clerk said, “I think it would be wise to take this man up to see your husband.”
“Your darn tootin’,” the man said. “If you’ve got a husband I want to see him. Come on.”
He dragged Ann to the elevator and the desk clerk followed, distraught.
Nastee lay on the desk blotter, weak with laughter. It had been the funniest thing he had seen in years...
Peter Hardwicke jerked open the closet door of the bedroom and was almost hit on the head by the heavy knitting bag which fell from the top shelf. He picked it up slowly. One string of yarn had been tied to the inside doorknob, so that when he opened the door it had pulled the bag from the shelf.
With fingers that suddenly trembled he opened the bag and lifted out several half-finished tiny garments. Under a ball of bright blue wool he saw a pair of knitted boots, about two inches long.
He stared dazedly at the knitted baby clothes, his face whitening. Remorse flooded over him.
“The poor kid,” he choked. “And I drove her away.”
Feverishly he stuffed the garments back into the knitting bag and grabbed his coat from the closet. He banged out of the room like a madman.
Tink smiled contentedly. Things would straighten out now. Whistling merrily he jumped to the bed and bounced to the floor.
Peter Hardwicke was striding toward the living room door when an imperative, angry knock sounded. He jerked open the door. Ann was standing there, between an angry looking fat man and the desk clerk. Her eyes were red from crying.
The fat man stepped forward importantly.
“Look here, mister,” he began, but he got no farther.
Peter shoved him out of the way and grabbed his wife by the shoulders.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said roughly.
Ann started crying again as Peter’s arms went around her hungrily.
“Just a minute,” the fat man broke in angrily. “Your wife tried to steal my wallet. What are you going to do about it?”
It took several seconds for the import of this remark to sink into Peter’s mind. When it did he took Ann by the shoulders and gently moved her out of the way. Then he stared thoughtfully at the heavy set, red-faced man.
“What am I going to do about it?” he repeated softly. “Just this. If you aren’t out of my sight in three seconds I will turn your life insurance policy into a claim. Do you follow me?”
The fat man got the general drift.
“Now, listen Buddy,” he said uneasily, “I—”
“One!” Peter said firmly.
“But—”
“Two!”
The fat man turned and ran. When Peter said ‘three’ his padded posterior was disappearing around the corner of the corridor.
Peter put his arm about Ann’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he said gaily. “I’ve got an overture to write. Now that there are three people interested in it I can’t fail.”
Ann squealed as Peter swung her up in his arms and strode into the apartment.
Tink and Jing had watched this scene with shining eyes.
“Oh, Tink,” Jing said, “you’re wonderful.”
Nastee appeared in the doorway, an unpleasant scowl on his face.
“Bah!” he said. “Everything I do turns out wrong.”
Tink looked at him thoughtfully.
“Maybe this will be a lesson to you,” he said.
“Bah!” said Nastee.
Jing was humming softly to herself.
“I think,” she said sweetly, “that Nastee needs a more forceful kind of lesson. Don’t you agree, Tink?”
Tink looked at her and nodded.
Orchestral Hall was crowded to capacity with smartly dressed men and women. From their vantage point on the edge of the conductor’s podium, Tink and Jing breathlessly regarded the glittering scene.
The orchestra was tuning up in the pit and the sound of the experimental scrapings drifted through the air, as exciting as sparks in a breeze.
In the expectant audience Jing picked out the young composer, Peter Hardwicke, and his wife. They were sitting together, hand-in-hand, occasionally looking happily at each other.
“I hope the overture is good,” Tink said.
“It is,” Jing said, “I know.”
Nastee was present also, sullen and ungracious, sitting glumly by himself a few inches from Tink and Jing. His little face was screwed up unpleasantly and Tink realized uneasily that more devilment was being plotted behind those surly features.
“Remember, Nastee,” he said worriedly, “you’ve promised not to start any trouble here.”
“Bah!” Nastee said.
“Nastee,” Jing said suddenly, “you must stay on this side of the podium with us. If you cross to the other you may cause trouble.”
Nastee leered at her, then stood up and walked defiantly to the opposite side of the podium.
“I’ll do what I like,” he called back nastily.
“Jing,” Tink sighed, “that’s not the way to handle Nastee. When you tell him not to do anything, that’s the first thing he’ll do.”
Jing smiled to herself.
“That’s what I thought,” she said.
A thunder of applause broke from the audience then as the conductor, a stocky, flowing haired genius, made his appearance and marched to the podium. He acknowledged the ovation with a brief bow. Turning, he faced the orchestra and drew himself up to his full height.