Francie Comes Home (24 page)

She spoke timidly, having learned to be wary of his fits of anger, and she recalled that he had already been touchy on the subject of the desk. But he was amicable, explaining lightly and easily that she must have misunderstood. The rule was for big, important purchases, he said. The occasional single piece didn't matter. “Really, Francie, if everybody was as particular as all that!” he said, laughing, and tweaked her nose.

So they left it at that, though Francie still had misgivings.

There wasn't much more she felt she could say. She was not happy about it, but it was a relief to be on good terms with him again, after what had felt like an estrangement. And it seemed to her in the course of the week, even after Chadbourne and her mother were back in town, that Lucky was being more attentive than he had ever been before. Mrs. Fredericks had decided to have a twenty-foot mural in the main ballroom of the country club as part of her re-decoration, and one day had mentioned this to Francie. “I'm going to have designs submitted for it in Chicago, of course, but before I do, if you'd like to tinker.… I do like your little designs. They're so
clever.”
Even this ungracious invitation had been enough, and Francie went in the shop oftener than before to discuss it. Quite openly Bruce paid her attention, not only outside the shop of Fredericks & Worpels but when she went in on business affairs. Once he leaned over and kissed her when she entered, in a nice natural manner; if you can say a kiss is just friendly, it was a friendly kiss. It seemed to Francie that Chadbourne looked puzzled when he did it. But kissing isn't so significant nowadays, and Chadbourne evidently decided not to think anything of it. Her manner to Francie remained the same.

It was nearly a month later that the real trouble started. Francie had been sent out on an errand by Mrs. Ryan and she came back in the middle of the afternoon to find a visitor in the Birthday Box. Florence Ryan, looking rather worried, was talking in the office to a tall, elegant, gray-haired woman. Through the open door the woman looked familiar to Francie, but at first she couldn't recall just why. Florence nodded to her over the woman's shoulder and went on conversing. They talked so quietly that Francie caught only the occasional phrase as she moved around doing odd jobs. Once she heard Mrs. Ryan say, “There
must
be some misunderstanding.”

All of a sudden Francie remembered who the gray-haired woman was. Mrs. Redfern, of course, from the Merchandise Mart. Whatever was she doing here? Francie caught her breath as a wave of guilty feeling swept over her. She told herself she had no reason to feel guilty. It was none of her doing that Lucky Munson had insisted on buying that desk, she told herself. But he had used her name, she remembered, and she'd done nothing to stop him, or to let Mrs. Redfern know that the transaction was not quite what it was supposed to be. It was no use thinking of that now, however. Probably nothing would be said. A woman of Mrs. Redfern's standing wouldn't recall one little sale like that one. Of course not. She might not even recognize Francie herself.… Francie went on with her work, her hands like ice.

It felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes before Mrs. Ryan put an end to suspense. “We can settle it right now,” she said in a cheerful, slightly raised tone. “Francie, can you you come over here a minute?”

Francie approached, and met Mrs. Redfern's eyes. Mrs. Redfern smiled and said, “Yes, here's the young lady.
NOW,
my dear, perhaps you can clear this matter up.”

“What
have
you been doing, Francie?” asked Mrs. Ryan, preplexed. “Mrs. Redfern says you've been buying furniture from her. I know you didn't buy anything when we were in Chicago together, but she insists that you did. You can see for yourself,” she went on, turning to her visitor, “that Francie's not exactly a veteran buyer. She's only been with me a few months at the outside, and in any case what would I be doing with a reproduction desk of that size? There's no room in the shop for big stuff.”

“Well, that's what I asked her myself,” said Mrs. Redfern. “I knew your premises were limited, but she said … Tell her yourself, my dear,” she said to Francie.

Francie, her face scarlet, was tongue-tied. Mrs. Redfern looked at her curiously. “Surely you haven't forgotten. You said you needed it for your private use,” she prompted. “I don't remember the details, but you were with Bruce Munson; he introduced you, and as I understood it, you were going to be props manager for a play and would have the desk afterwards, or something of the sort. I made the customary arrangement—on the strength of
your
name, Mrs. Ryan.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Ryan. “It was quite in order. Don't look so upset, Francie. But I do wish you had thought to mention it; you might have saved Mrs. Redfern a little trouble. Me, too.”

Francie found her tongue. “I didn't intend to deceive you, Mrs. Ryan. I guess I just didn't think about it one way or the other. It seemed a little matter.”

“So it did at first,” said Mrs. Redfern, “but since then I've heard something that perplexes me. Miss Nelson, what did you do with the desk after the play? According to Mrs. Ryan, it wasn't here; did you take it home?”

“No,” said Francie. “No, I didn't take it home.” She stopped, the women watching her, puzzled.

They waited, and at last Mrs. Ryan said, “You see, Francie, Mrs. Redfern has seen that same desk under the most unexpected circumstances. It's now in the Chicago home of a Mr. Morris, who claims that he bought it here in Jefferson, and that he was under the impression that it was genuine.”

“Oh no,” said Francie. “That's impossible!”

“Unfortunately it was not only possible, but it seems to have happened,” said Mrs. Redfern severely. “I would know that desk anywhere, but to somebody who doesn't understand the subject, it could easily be passed off as genuine, and Mr. Morris has been cheated.”

“Who sold it?” asked Francie, but her heart was already heavy with the knowledge.

Mrs. Redfern said, “Mr. Morris won't tell me. He's determined to settle the matter himself. So I've been trying to find out here. I was in Jefferson and I thought I'd look you up for myself. I think you could help me figure it out. Can't you?” she persisted.

Francie shook her head and stared at the floor.

“You didn't do it, did you?” asked Florence Ryan.

“No, of course I didn't.”

“Then who
was
it?” Again there was a pause. “Francie,” said Florence Ryan in distress, “I'll never till my dying day believe that you would, cheat anyone. She really couldn't have, Mrs. Redfern. Something very queer has happened, that's plain, and I have my own ideas as to what has happened, but I promise you Francie isn't responsible. The desk was on the stage during the play. I saw it there. I'm awfully sorry about the whole thing, but it isn't your fault, and nobody will blame you if the desk has been masquerading.”

“No. Still, one doesn't like being taken advantage of,” said Mrs. Redfern.

“I didn't take advantage,” said Francie.

“I'll leave it in your hands, Mrs. Ryan,” said Mrs. Redfern. “You know where I'm staying. Good-by.”

She nodded coldly and walked out.

“Now, Francie,” said Florence, “you can talk to me.”

“But I can't,” said Francie. She was crying, quietly wiping away tears and holding back her sobs. Her brain was numb. All she could think of was that it was urgently necessary to get hold of Bruce Munson, so that he could talk it out with the woman. It was his business, not hers: she simply had to hold out until he assumed the burden.

Mrs. Ryan was talking, saying she had never been so shocked and embarrassed in her entire business career. Francie didn't reply. At last Florence said, “If you don't want to talk, I'm sure I don't know how to force you to do it. I think I know what's happened, but I can only find out if you help me.”

Francie said, “I'd better go home.”

“Yes, go on,” said Mrs. Ryan sadly. “My dear, do think it over. Is he really worth protecting?”

Francie walked past Fredericks & Worpels without looking in. When next she saw Bruce Munson she wanted it to be within four solid walls.

CHAPTER 17

“What I just can't make out is how you could have done it,” said Francie.

Bruce shrugged and didn't try to reply. He walked across the room and stared out at the street. They were in his living room; Francie had insisted on seeing him that very afternoon in private, and though he had tried to put her off, she won out.

The silence became too painful to bear, and she tried again. “If you didn't know the rules—” she began, and waited for him to claim ignorance so that she could excuse him. But would ignorance have excused him, even then? The ugly facts were that he had sold the desk as an antique; he must have. He had introduced her to Mr. Morris, and certainly Bruce knew the desk wasn't genuine when he sold it.

He turned away from the window and came back to where she sat on the sofa. “You know, you're making a hell of a fuss over nothing at all,” he said. “Anybody would think to look at you that the end of the world had come. Whereas actually they can't even take me to court over this.”

The end of the world
had
come, Francie wanted to say. She felt the room rocking. But Bruce went on calmly, “This Redfern female hasn't any kind of a case: what's she making a fuss about, anyway? She hasn't lost anything.”

“She can tell—”

Bruce interrupted. “So she gives me a bad name in the trade. So what? I'll survive. I've survived worse.”

“But … And anyway you've cheated Mr. Morris, haven't you?”

“I'll handle Morris,” said Bruce. “There may be a little sticky business there, but if I give him his money back he'll have no kick coming. Bad luck, their knowing each other,” he added regretfully. “It was one chance in a thousand.”

Francie didn't know where to begin. She said, “You don't seem to mind in the least that you were dishonest.”

“Dishonest!” He sniffed. “You talk like a kindergarten kid sometimes. You really do. And after all, Francie, you haven't got much call to be so high and mighty. You might feel a little gratitude. After all, I did it for you.”

“Bruce Munson, what do you mean?” she cried.

“Well, isn't it the truth?” demanded Lucky. “Think it over a minute. What am I supposed to use for money when I take you out? Gasoline has a way of running into cash figures at the end of the month, and so do dinners in restaurants. Do you think I was doing it on my salary?”

Francie snapped, “You didn't spend so much on me that I had any reason to wonder where it came from. Now if my name had been Fredericks …”

“They always pay their own way,” said Bruce absently.

“I don't think that's anything for you to boast about.… Oh darling, this is so terrible,” said Francie. “I've thought and thought about it. I can't understand your attitude at all. And there's another thing, the most important of all: you let me get into trouble. You used my name. I'm the one Mrs. Redfern blamed for the whole thing. Can't you see what you did to me? How can you say you love me and want to marry me and then do a thing like that?”

“I'm sorry,” said Bruce. “I'm sorry. Of course I never thought you'd get into trouble: I didn't do it on purpose. I can't say more than that.”

“But didn't you even give it a thought?”

“I didn't expect to be caught, I tell you!”

Francie had come in to the apartment with every intention of remaining calm. The last thing in the world that she wanted was to burst into tears, but it happened nevertheless. Bruce put his arms around her and for a minute she left her head on his shoulder as she sobbed. For a minute she pretended it was all a very nasty nightmare. Her good-looking Bruce was nice, really; he loved her and was taking care of her. The rest was just a ghastly mistake. Then she pulled away and went to the door, fumbled for the knob, and got out before he could persuade her to wait a little.

She had said she was ill and wouldn't come down to dinner. She wouldn't be waiting to see anybody or talk to anyone on the phone, she said, and locked her door. In the course of the evening she heard the telephone several times, but her wishes were respected; nobody disturbed her.

But quite late in the evening, there came a soft knock on the door.

“It's Anne Clark. I may come in, mayn't I?”

Francie put on a robe and unlocked the door, and Mrs. Clark walked in as if everything were perfectly normal. There was no hint of excitement or worry in the way she said, “Thank you, dear. I've just been to see Florence Ryan, and I promised I would do my best to fix up this misunderstanding.”

Francie said in a voice that came out very choked, “It can't be fixed up. Not ever.”

“
Never's
a long time. As a matter of fact, I think it's practically fixed up already,” said Mrs. Clark. She sat down at the desk chair, facing Francie, who crouched on her bed. “My dear,” she said gently, “I'm very, very sorry, believe me. So is Florence. She doesn't blame you in the slightest.”

“But I did it!” cried Francie. “I did it!”

“You did what? You surely hadn't any intention of doing anything. I realize you can't very well whimper and say it wasn't your fault, but you can let someone else say it for you. What are the facts? No, I'm not really asking you to tell me; that was a rhetorical question. I can tell you, I think, exactly what happened. Bruce Munson used your name because the Birthday Box was a good guarantee, and he didn't want to commit himself, or the Fredericks firm. Wasn't that the way it was?”

Francie nodded reluctantly. “Just about. But I didn't catch on to why he did it. I remember I asked, and he was vague. Oh, Mrs. Clark, I've been so stupid.”