Chapter 25

The grill in the Governor Baldwin was not crowded and we had no trouble getting a pleasant table in the corner, while four colored men blew into metal objects, hit things and delivered themselves of various rhythmic noises. From time to time they paused, in order to allow the perspiring couples who jiggled and writhed on the dancefloor time to cool off. While waiting for Emily Post to appear, Arthurjean was very subordinate, calling me “Mr. Tompkins” and acting, quite as the boss’s secretary should act when out for dinner with the boss. Merry Vail was in high spirits and insisted on having the deputy who had helped serve the writ join us for a drink. But the deputy was a pallid young man with--he told us--a heart-murmur that kept him out of the armed forces and he never touched anything strong.

So we shed him ahead of the time when the nurse from “The Sanctuary” showed up in a slick dancing-dress that seemed painted on her torso and a make-up that was a tribute to the skill of the advertisers of cosmetics. Vail took one look at her and his face lit up like Broadway.

“Spring is in the air,” he remarked to the world at large. “Will you dance, Miss Post?”

She flashed a smile that promised some and hinted at more, and said, “You bet!”

I watched them as they took the dance floor and the music took them. I turned back to my secretary.

“What gives, angel?” I asked.

She beamed at me. “Winnie,” she observed, “you’re it. Perhaps the most famous man in Wall Street, in a quiet way. You caught the market just right. Mr. Wasson and Mr. Cone pulled out just right, before the big operators decided they must be patriotic and support quotations before you made too much money. We’ve cleaned up nearly three million dollars and Mr. Cone’s so happy about it he’s got him a brand-new girl-friend.”

“How about Wasson?” I asked. “Has success gone to his head?”

“Oh, he’s just the same as ever. He didn’t bat an eyelash except to say that you were one wise so-and-so to figure the break.”

“And how about yourself, Arthurjean?”

She grinned at me. “I guess a girl can tell when she’s washed up with a swell guy. But you’re not Winnie--not the Winnie I knew--and there aren’t going to be any fun and games from now on, I guess.”

She took a hearty pull at her highball.

“So we’re friends,” she announced. “You’ve got a swell wife waiting for you. If you ever need me, I’ll be around. If you don’t, that’s okay too. But Gawd, honeychile, we did have us some fun--Winnie and I. He had a theory that monogamy was a kind of hardwood that grows in the tropics, and that made him kind of nice to play with. What gives with you?”

I gave her a fill-in on the Washington trip and the events that had brought me to The Sanctuary, and she listened with a growing smile.

“Why--” she began, but the music stopped, and Vail and Miss Post returned to the table.

“Winnie,” Vail announced, “spring hath come to Hartford, Conn., and I’ve decided to take a room at this hotel. This is a mighty fine little city, isn’t it? Clean, vital, New England honesty and all that, not to mention insurance. And--” His eyes strayed fondly in the direction of the nurse who sat with eyes demurely downcast.

“Okay,” I told him. “This is the official opening of spring. Just give me those papers I wanted to sign. The money for Dr. Rutherford, I mean.”

He stared at me.

“You don’t mean to say you were serious about that!” he exclaimed. “I thought it was a gag to tip me off that you were being railroaded to the asylum. Hell, I’ll have the stuff drawn up and you can sign it on Monday. There’s nothing doing in town over the week-end and Rutherford can wait. If you like, I’ll try to beat him down. For my money, he’ll settle for five thousand and to hell with his family honor.”

I shook my head. “No dice, Merry. It’s fifteen thousand--a gentleman’s agreement.”

“Hell! no gentleman has any business making agreements. That’s what lawyers are for.”

The music started up with a rather miscegenated attempt to marry Mendelssohn’s Spring Song to “Pistol-Packing Momma.” He grabbed Emily Post by the arm. “Come on,” he urged. “Got to dance. I’ll show you some steps that aren’t in the book of etiquette.”

“Why, Mr. Vail!” she agreed, and they were off again.

I resumed my talk with Arthurjean. “You’d better stay here, too,” I told her. “It’s getting late and they lock up the trains on the New Haven road along with the cows.”

She looked the question at me.

“Nope!” I replied sturdily. “I’m going to drive back and see whether spring has come to Bedford Hills. Even commuters have children now and then,” I added. “They used to blame it on sunspots or Roosevelt but now I guess they’ll have nobody to blame but themselves.”

In return for a five-spot the hotel door-man told me how to find the nearest Black Market gas-station, so I tanked up the Packard and worked myself across country until I hit the Parkway.

The night was clear and cool but there was a hint of blossoms in the air.

Vail was right. Spring had come to the commuters and I thought sardonically of what could be expected at every country club the next night--Saturday. I missed the turn-off for Bedford Hills and wasted a couple of hours wandering amiss through the maze of Westchester roads, but finally I found myself on a familiar road and soon eased the Packard to a slow stop on the crackling gravel of the entrance of Pook’s Hill.