Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) (23 page)

Oh, she told herself angrily, don’t blame it on Scott! You are as much to blame as he is. You’re in love, and you’re a fool like all women in love. Then she stared at her white face and reddened eyes in the mirror over the mantelpiece.

No, Rona, she thought, there’s more to this quarrel than Paul Haydn or anyone else. That’s what is really worrying you. And you can’t find any answer. Do you love Scott Ettley? Or have you been spending three years of your life imagining yourself as a woman in love? Did you want a love affair as badly as all that? Her unhappy eyes, filling with tears, and her trembling lips answered her. She loved Scott. That was all and everything.

She turned away from the mirror, and went to search for her hat and her bag. She was going to be late this morning. She was going to be very late.

She had to take a taxi. She would cut down on lunch today. And she began persuading herself that the quarrel would straighten itself out. It was all too silly, too childish, to be taken seriously.

* * *

In the
Trend
building, the early morning rush was now flagging. Rona had the express elevator to herself. She was glad that Joe, with his sharp eyes and quick tongue, was off duty (Monday was his day for the horses at Jamaica). The relief operator was a stranger with troubles of his own.

She walked quickly, past the receptionist, down the long corridor, until she reached her small office. It was more of a cubicle than a room, but at least it was her own and its window gave plenty of light. She squeezed round the desk that filled most of its space, jammed her hat and gloves into a small closet, dropped her handbag on her chair, caught up a note-book and pencil, and went into Mr. Burnett’s office next door.

He had already begun to detail work for the October issue of
Trend
to the small group that formed his department. Harry Jimson was taking notes as usual. Phil Arnim was lounging on the window sill, a sure sign that he was memorising hard. Burnett looked up as Rona entered. “Had a good week-end? Found an apartment?” he asked, and then—after a quick glance at Rona’s face—he looked down at the mass of material scattered in front of him. He went on explaining, suggesting, and drew the attention of the others back to the desk and his pointing pencil. The idea now under consideration was a comparison between present-day architecture, with its emphasis on bringing the outdoors inside, and the treatment of gardens in ancient Rome and modern Japan.

“Rona,” Burnett said finally, “you’ll be responsible for the classical methods. Find the details of the way the Romans placed their gardens in the centre of their houses, open to the sky, a kind of courtyard around which the rooms were built. It will take some research, but it will make a nice spread. We’ll use colour plates where possible. Keep checking with Harry, here. He’s doing the modern American use of terrace and window gardens. You’ll be surprised how your two subjects will dovetail.” He waved his pencil to tell them that was all, meanwhile. “Oh, by the way. I’ve some examples here of Roman mosaics, Rona. You might find them interesting.” He began to search for the book.

“There’s a guy in California,” Harry Jimson said as he picked up his notes and began to leave, “who brought his terrace and pool right into his living-room. All he needs is some lampreys and a few slave girls to toss to them.”

“And a hole in his roof,” Phil Arnim added, following him slowly. “He ought to buy my place. I’ve been patching the darned roof all week-end. Now, if I had known, I’d have knocked out a few more shingles, planted the zinnias in the hall, and started wearing a toga around the house.” He gave Rona a smile and closed the door of Burnett’s office behind him. His face became serious as he turned to Jimson. “Say, Rona isn’t looking too good this morning.”

“Monday,” Harry Jimson suggested.

“Wonder if she’s heard that damn rumour?”

“It can hardly miss her.”

“How does a thing like that get started, anyway?” It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. They parted gloomily. They had known Rona ever since they had come to work at
Trend
after the war. “It doesn’t make sense,” Phil said angrily over his shoulder.

Rona came out of Burnett’s room. “Then you’ll knock some sense into it, Phil,” she said. “Did you draw the Japanese approach to nature?”

“Yes. On account of I was over Tokyo twice in a bomber.”

“I’ve always liked the idea of a room with three walls. Provided you’ve a piece of scenery to fill up the non-existent fourth.”

“Provided you’ve the climate to keep you from getting head colds.” They went into the art reference shelves together, and began choosing the books they might need. Phil Arnim talked on. He even got her to laugh before he left her.

Rona carried the volumes she had selected into her office, and spread them over her desk. She had a good deal of work ahead of her. That, she decided, was what she needed—a stiff job of work. First, she would get some broad ideas gathered together. Then, she’d narrow down the field and dig more deeply. Later, she would have to visit the Frick Library and the Metropolitan Museum. But that stage would only come when she knew exactly what she needed.

She sat down at the desk, pulled the most interesting of the books in front of her.

“Busy?” a bright voice asked. It was Miss Guttman, looking coyly round the door. Her sharp face had softened, her whole manner was positively girlish, since she had become engaged. Her left hand was very much in view as it held the edge of the door. She glanced down at the square-cut diamond and said, “I won’t take a moment. The mail got mixed up this morning, and Mr. Haydn got this by mistake. He asked me to bring it to you.” She relinquished the hold on the door slowly, and came into the room, handing out an envelope. “Looks like a billey doo,” she said. “Plenty of it, too.”

“Probably some incensed Southerner disagreeing with our ideas on porticos. Thanks, Miss Guttman.”

“Did you hear about Mr. Crowell? He’s in the hospital. Serious.”

“That’s bad news.”

“Isn’t it?” Miss Guttman still didn’t leave. “I’ve a problem, it’s awful,” she said. “I’ve been worrying about it all week-end. You know, Hubert’s having an extra bathroom built beside the guest-room. He’s just got back from St. Louis; he says the house is going to look gorgeous. Well, this new bathroom, it’s tiled of course. In a kind of mauve, a very delicate shade. And I’m worrying whether the towels and curtains should be just a little darker, with more blue in them. Or would you have them more pink? Not too deep—just a hint. It’s a problem, isn’t it?”

Yes, Rona said, that was quite a problem.

“Of course, orchid would look stunning.”

Yes, indeed it would.

“Only I’ve got orchid in the powder-room—you know the big closet at the hall entrance, well, we’re making it a powder-room. What do you think? Or burgundy would look good. I like dark towels. Burgundy with a pink monogram?”

“Perhaps you ought to see what the stores have to offer. It’s easier to decide that way,” Rona said, trying to be polite. Miss Guttman’s pleasure was something you couldn’t destroy.

“Perhaps,” Miss Guttman said reluctantly. “Well, I’ll have to run along. Did you get an apartment yesterday?”

“No.”

“Looks as if you got a cold instead.”

“I’m all right. Didn’t sleep very well. That’s all.” Rona turned over a few pages of the book in front of her.

Suddenly, Miss Guttman looked worried. “Oh!” she exclaimed, backing away. At the door she turned to say, “Don’t let that gossip trouble you. None of us here believe a word of it.” And she left, very suddenly for Miss Guttman.

Rona stared after her. And then she picked up the letter which had brought Miss Guttman here. Paul Haydn, she thought with a smile, was determined to avoid her. Yesterday, at Thelma’s, he had only come over to talk to her because she had looked so much alone. If only Scott could see how Paul kept out of her way here, in the office, perhaps he wouldn’t... She frowned, cut off that direction of thought, and opened the large envelope, addressed in neat, thin handwriting. The postmark was New York. And the word urgent was printed carefully up in the envelope’s left-hand corner. Inside, there was a sheet of paper, well filled with the same thin careful handwriting. And there was also a second envelope, sealed, bulky, unaddressed. Across its front was written: “To be opened only as directed.”

She picked up the letter, looked with amazement at its Park Avenue heading, turned the sheet quickly to see the signature. It was, simply,
Charles.

The letter was as simple and direct as its signature. It was dated precisely: Sunday evening, April 30th, eight o’clock.

The party is still going on. I am left in peace, meanwhile, in my room. Later, along with some departing guests, I shall slip out. And mail this to you. Why? Because I feel that I can trust you. I also feel that no one will expect me to get in touch with you. So I am not endangering you.

I know now what I must do. The problem, still unsolved, is
how
to do it. I am unwilling to hurt Thelma. That is the whole trouble. It always has been the trouble. But if anything happens—and I think, now, that it is likely to happen—then the problem is solved for me. It will be at that moment, when I shall be morally free but perhaps not physically free to speak, that I shall need your help.

Keep the sealed envelope
safely
until Saturday. Keep this letter with it, for the two explain each other.

If you have not heard from me
by that time, take the letter to someone in a responsible position, someone whom you can trust, and let him open it. Tell him what you know about me, and he will understand what to do. Perhaps Weidler, the editor of
Trend
? He has had a little experience, recently, that will make him listen. There are many people whom you can trust, but few of them will listen. That has been part of my trouble, too.

Meanwhile, as you wait for me to get in touch with you, keep the envelope and letter safe. Safe. Say nothing to anyone, nothing at all. Please.

I beg you to be careful, to do only as I ask you. Why should I ask
you
? You were the only face in that room, tonight, that looked as if you were troubled by what I did. The others were angry or amused. You were troubled. Speak about me to no one. Forget you read this. Do only as I beg of you. Please. Until Saturday, one way or the other.

Charles

P.S. I am writing this in longhand.

(1) The typewriter would be heard by Martin.

(2)
Am
I drunk?

Rona read the letter twice over. First, she was incredulous, almost annoyed. Then, its desperation reached out and touched her. It was the postscript that finally decided her. No one who wrote such a neat hand as Charles was anywhere near being drunk. Had he only made a pretence of drinking too much? And why? Then she thought of the small quiet man, with his smooth white face and his thin red hair, his pathetically comic voice, his watchful eyes masked by his round glasses into a vacuous stare. He had sat in his room, the door locked, listening to the distant sounds of music and laughter; and he had written this letter not even daring to use a typewriter as if he had been a conspirator. And who, she wondered, was Martin?

Charles made such a pathetic little conspirator. Even his seriousness seemed, as you remembered Charles, mostly comic. Then, as she half-smiled, she read again, “There are many people whom you can trust, but few of them will listen. That has been part of my trouble, too.” And she stopped smiling.

She placed the envelope and letter together again, and slipped it all into her handbag.
Say nothing to anyone
,
nothing at all.
Not even to Scott? Not to Peggy or Jon? And where was she going to keep the letter and the enclosed envelope safely? When Charles got in touch with her, she had better tell him quite clearly that he wasn’t to try anything like this again with her. As if, she thought bitterly, I haven’t plenty of troubles all of my own. But where to keep the envelope? She had only a filing cabinet and a closet in her office—nothing was locked. Burnett’s safe was always open—he was careless about shutting things away. Mr. Weidler’s safe? But how could she ask him, what excuse could be given? You just didn’t approach the Boss and ask him to keep this please. One of those deposit boxes in Grand Central Station? That would mean a special journey for her...a nuisance, whatever way you looked at it. A hat box or the medicine cabinet in her apartment? Yet Charles had sent his letter to her at the office, as if he hadn’t wanted it to lie around her apartment. He could easily have got her home address from a telephone book.

Why, she thought in sudden amazement, I’m taking the little man seriously. She opened the reference books, angrily and began reading determinedly about Roman courtyards.

* * *

Miss Guttman waited until Mrs. Hershey had come back with a collection of notes from the Monday morning conference in Mr. Weidler’s office. Then, her voice low so that the other girls in the main office couldn’t listen, Miss Guttman said, “I think Rona Metford has heard.”

“Heard what?” Mrs. Hershey’s round placid face looked blank.

“The rumour...
You
know.”

Mrs. Hershey frowned. “It hasn’t reached the office, has it?” It had been wandering around the restaurants at lunchtime last week. On Friday, Mrs. Hershey had had a few sharp words to say to Miss Blenton, who worked over at
Modern
, when they had been having their weekly lunch date and gossip together. As if anyone who knew Rona Metford would ever believe that she chased a married man and then did him out of his job just in time for an old beau to get it. Mrs. Hershey’s face coloured with anger at the thought. Any attack on Rona Metford was an attack on
Trend.
That’s how she saw it. Besides, it was all ridiculous. She and Miss Guttman had decided that on Friday afternoon.