It was evident from the young man’s face, he decided, that he regretted his actions, but his pride was preventing him from making the overtures that would effect a happy reconciliation. A bad thing, Tink thought gloomily. Finally he stood and climbed up the spread to the top of the bed. From there he leaped to the top of the dresser. A plan was already forming in his head.
Not particularly original, he realized, but still it was worth trying.
He scurried about the dresser top until he found what he was looking for, an ordinary hairpin. Hoisting it to his shoulders he sprang back to the bed and ran along the edge until he was within a foot of where the composer was sitting.
Then, using all his strength, he threw the hairpin into the air. It landed with a faint metallic plink! on the arm of the composer’s chair and bounced to the floor.
Startled, the composer looked around and then glanced down to the floor where the hairpin lay gleaming at his feet. He picked it up and stared at it. Then his fingers tightened on the pin crushing it out of shape. An expression of pain flitted over his features as he stared blankly, unseeingly at the pin in his hand.
Tink watched hopefully. Maybe that reminder of his wife would soften him up and melt away his stubborn pride.
For several seconds Peter Hardwicke tensed in his chair, then he slumped back and the pin fell from his hand to the floor. With that same hand he reached for the Scotch bottle.
Tink shook his head disconsolately. No soap.
He returned to the dresser top and began prowling around.
For several minutes he searched unavailingly. Then, next to a make-up box, he found an atomizer of perfume. He stared at the bulb and hose leading to the bottle and a smile curved his lips.
If anything would do the trick — this was it.
The bulb was taller than he, but after several attempts he managed to crawl onto its round, soft surface and balance himself there. This wasn’t going to be easy, he realized uneasily.
He waited until the jelly-like surface settled under his feet, then he leaped high in the air, jerking his knees under his chin. Descending, he kicked downward with all his might.
But something had happened to his timing. Instead of hitting the bulb flush, he struck its sloping side. The results of this change of procedure were just short of disastrous. Fortunately a jar of soft, filmy powder was next to the atomizer, and Tink’s surprised body bounced from the bulb into this cushioned receptacle.
The powder closed over his body in a billowing, cloying wave, burying him completely. When he struggled up, choking and gasping, he was thoroughly covered with white, persimmon-flavored talcum.
And Tink despised persimmon. In spite of this and his ignominious nosedive, he was not ready to admit defeat. Undaunted he emerged from the powder bowl and climbed to the top of the atomizer bulb.
He was, however, more careful this time. Instead of leaping into the air like a ballet dancer he contented himself with bouncing gently on the rubber surface of the bulb.
The results were less spectacular but more effective.
His light pressure on the bulb sprayed a thin, delicate stream of perfume into the air. The tiny globules of perfume hung in the air like motes on a hot day, then gradually drifted downward.
Peter Hardwicke raised his face suddenly from his hands and there was a wild, tormented look in his eyes. He stared desperately about the room.
“Good God!” he muttered. “I’m losing my mind. I thought she was standing beside me.”
Tink worked harder on the atomizer bulb, pumping the delicate aroma until it thoroughly permeated the room.
He’s weakening, he thought exultantly.
But Tink weakened before Peter Hardwicke did. Panting and limp, he was forced to cease his heroic efforts a few minutes later.
The young composer was still holding out. His hands were clenched before him and the knuckles were straining white, but he made no move to leave.
Tink regarded him disgustedly. Nothing seemed to avail against his steely stubbornness.
He felt a moment of panic as he realized how much was hanging in the balance. Jing was depending on him to straighten this thing out. What Nastee was doing, he had no idea. The thought of Nastee caused him to clench his fists bitterly. If he had known any real swear words he would have used them without hesitation.
But he couldn’t give up now. He tramped moodily about the dresser top until he was forced to the realization that he had exhausted its possibilities.
Then he explored the rest of the room. Finally he came to the closet. The door was slightly ajar and he inspected, without any great enthusiasm, the few miscellaneous garments hanging there.
They didn’t suggest anything to him so he climbed a bath robe rope to the upper regions of the closet where he saw two shelves.
On one shelf was a bottle of Scotch. Tink wrinkled his nose distastefully at it and continued upward. On the second shelf he made an important discovery. A loose cloth bag with wooden handles had been shoved back against the wall of the closet, obviously in an attempt to conceal its presence.
Tink looked inside the bag and he laughed out loud. His tinkling chuckle was, for the first time in an hour, completely carefree and joyous. For he knew his problems were over.
It would take a little manipulating but that was a minor matter. In fact it only took him two minutes to make the necessary preparations inside the closet.
Still, there was one job left that was rather ticklish. He had to discover some way to prompt the young composer to open the closet door.
But now that Tink was on the right track this obstacle seemed a simple matter. His confidence and assurance returned, bringing with them his characteristic ingenuity.
Popping out of the clothes closet he scampered under the bed and climbed quickly to the table top where the Scotch bottle was placed.
How to make the young man walk across the room and open the closet door? Tink thought he had it.
He waited patiently until the composer reached for the Scotch, then with all his strength shoved against the bottle.
The bottle swayed slightly, the composer’s hand missed the neck by a fraction of an inch and, with another shove from Tink, the bottle toppled from the table to the floor with a splintering crash.
“Damn!” Peter Hardwicke said disgustedly.
For a moment he stared broodingly at the bottle without moving a muscle, and Tink’s heart hammered despairingly.
Maybe it wouldn’t work after all!
A sigh of relief escaped his lips when the composer finally stood up and walked to the closet for another bottle of Scotch.
Everything was going to be okay now. Leaning comfortably against the Scotch shot glass, Tink waited happily for developments. A cheerful, expectant smile was on his lips.
Wouldn’t Jing be proud of him!
Nastee felt little enthusiasm for the scene he was witnessing. Mrs. Ann Hardwicke was checking out at the apartment desk and he was finding the whole thing a trifle boring.
“I’ll send someone for my things,” Mrs. Ann Hardwicke was saying to the desk clerk.
The young clerk was discreetly curious.
“Naturally, we’re sorry you’re leaving,” he said. “Has the service been satisfactory?”
“It’s not that,” Ann said. “It’s — something else.”
Her voice was miserable.
Nastee leaned against an ink-well on the desk and yawned. Tink had told him to stop this girl from leaving, but why should he? Tink was getting too high and mighty lately. This would show him he wasn’t so clever.
At that moment a heavy set, florid faced man bustled up to the desk. He was well dressed and had the nervous air of impatience that stamps self-important people.
“Boy!” he snapped to the desk clerk, “I’m in a hurry.”