A Kiss Before Loving Read online

  It wasn’t that Bigelow was a fighting drunk, or even a particularly objectionable one in the usual sense. He was an easygoing, friendly, rumpled bear of a man even when so staggeringly stoned that all sense of location, time or anything else had disappeared. It was just that things happened to him.

  If there was a pickpocket within half a mile, he made a beeline for Biggy Warren. If there was a B-girl or a drunk-rolling tart anywhere in the vicinity, she zeroed in on Biggy. But that wasn’t the worst.

  The oversized cartoonist, even though keeping a friendly surface, had no ability to stifle his acrid-cynical viewpoints, given alcoholic lubrication. And while it was one thing for cute little Bobby in the comic strip to make snide comments upon politics, religion, racial questions, sex, Communism and war, it was another for a king-size drunk to do it.

  It wasn’t deliberate. Biggy just couldn’t help himself. If he managed to get into a bar conversation with a rock-bound Fundamentalist, he’d take off with some biting comment upon the inconsistencies in the Old Testament. He’d want to know where Cain’s wife came from if Adam and Eve were the first two persons on the whole Earth.

  If he got into a conversation with a one hundred and one per cent American of the McCarthy school, he’d start off by stating that he thought democracy was a good idea and that we ought to give it a try in the United States one of these days. Or if he was talking with an avowed Commie, he’d innocently ask when the State was going to wither away in Russia as Marx had declared was necessary before true socialism could be established.

  He was in the soup, sooner or later, and usually sooner.

  Shell Halliday took in the collection of bottles on the sideboard and closed his eyes in pain. By the looks of things, Bigelow had, since morning, put away almost two bottles of hard liquor.

  Shell thought desperately. If the other got into any serious trouble, something that might wind him up in the jug for a time, then the whole scheme involving Connie would be clobbered. He had to find Bigelow before the cartoonist could pull some gargantuan boner.

  Shell rubbed his hand over his face in quick irritation. It was still early. Where would Biggy head? He’d just started on his binge today, so it was unlikely the man would be looking for feminine companionship as yet. That usually came after a week or more of fairly steady drinking. So he probaby couldn’t be found in the Pigalle section where his favorite bar was Fred Payne’s.

  And it was too early in the game for him to get on a sentimental jag and want to go listen to Gordon Payant sing tear jerkers. No, he wouldn’t be at Gordon’s.

  Shell poured himself a quick Scotch and tossed it back. Confound it, he had to think. There were some eight thousand bistros in Paris, and countless bars, caves, cafés, and terrasses. Biggy could be at any of them.

  The Ritz Bar! Shell snapped his fingers. The favorite hangout of the well-heeled American in Paris. And Bigelow — but no, now that he thought about it — Bigelow Warren wasn’t welcome in the Ritz any more. The last time he and Shell had gone there, Shell had left him only long enough to go to the men’s room, but when he’d returned, Biggy had managed to get into a noisy scrap with two Georgians on the merits of segregation, and such supposedly closely related subjects as whether or not you’d want your sister to marry a Negro.

  Shell started for the door. He’d simply have to start making the rounds. It was too early for the Crazy Horse Saloon, just down the street from the hotel. And you could rule out the queer clubs, such as Le Monocle, Madame Arthur’s and Carroll’s. A few drinks and Bigelow was intolerant of queers; not belligerently so, but he just didn’t want to be bothered with the third sex.

  Given luck, Biggy might have got no further than the George Fifth Bar downstairs. But no, Shell looked in briefly and drew a zero.

  At the ornate entrance, he stopped long enough to speak to the doorman. “Nicolas, have you seen Mr. Warren?”

  The tall, gaunt, liveried Russian pursed his lips. A Mischa Auer type, Shell had always cast him. “Ah, Mr. Warren. He wished to know where he could purchase some cashew nuts. Perhaps twenty minutes ago.”

  Shell groaned. Biggy was on one of his expeditions. He’d stick to it until he met with success — or disaster. The trouble was, he’d seek his desires in the most unlikely places. Cashew nuts? He’d probably make a round of women’s hairdressers, or Turkish baths, in search of them.

  “What did you tell him?” Shell demanded.

  The former Cossack shrugged hugely. “That the concierge here at the hotel would undoubtedly be able to procure these cashew nuts for him.”

  “And he said?”

  “He didn’t seem to believe me, sir. He headed that way.” The doorman pointed toward the Champs Elysées.

  Shell slipped him a franc, muttured his thanks and took off. If Biggy was heading in this direction, then the whole Left Bank could probably be eliminated for the time being. The big cartoonist was probably at a sidewalk café along the fashionable main tourist stem of Paris, which stretched from the Arc de Triumphe at the Place de L’Etoile, to the Place de La Concorde just before the Tuileries gardens.

  Given luck, the other would settle down soon for a drink, then he’d amble along, enquiring of flower shops or jewelry stores for his cashew nuts, until the next sidewalk café.

  However, it didn’t work out that way. Bigelow wasn’t at Fouquet’s on the corner of Geroge Fifth and the Champs Elysées, at Le Deauville a hundred yards down the boulevard, nor at the Pam Pam, another fifty feet along. Shell doubted the big man would come further without a drink.

  He snapped his fingers. Harry’s New York Bar wasn’t too far from here, at 5 Rue Daunou, near the Opéra.

  • • •

  Harry’s New York Bar could happen only in New York — or Paris. Fifty years ago, before the dry era in the States, it had been established on the working theory that since there was every other type of bar and restaurant in the world in Paris, there should be a New York saloon. The bar itself was imported from famous old Clancey’s when that Manhattan establishment closed its doors in anticipation of Prohibition.

  Complete with swinging doors, dark mahogany paneling and dim lighting, as well as hot dogs for sale at the bar, there is no question of authenticity. Behind the bar an extensive collection of paper currency is pasted to the wall, and from the ceiling hangs a picturesque conglomeration consisting of a horseshoe off Man-O-War, a pair of Primo Carnera’s boxing gloves and a baseball autographed by the White Sox and Giant teams.

  Harry’s reached its peaks during Prohibition and during the period when Harry McElhone presided. The lost generation made it their center; Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, O. O. McIntyre, Jack Dempsey and such adopted it as their home away from home.

  Bigelow Warren was an enthusiastic member of the International Bar Flies, of which Harry’s was Trap Number One, and invariably got out his Bar-Fly tie and the fly glued to a lump of sugar buttonhole pin, whenever embarking on a Paris binge. Shell had high hopes of locating him at “Sank-Roo-Doe-Noo” as Harry’s ads in the Paris edition of the Herald-Tribune always read.

  But he drew another blank. There were a dozen or so Americans at the regular bar, possibly the same number at the tables in the back. They’d come far to accomplish putting their foot on a brass rail and ordering one of the forty-eight varieties of American whiskey which Harry’s boasted.

  Shell cast his eyes around quickly. No signs of Bigelow. However, he might be down below.

  In the intimate basement rooms at the foot of the erratically winding stairs, nothing but champagne had been served in the old days and it had become a fashionable after-theatre rendezvous. Now, in the Sixties, it wasn’t quite so exclusive, but still a favorite, with Charlie Lewis playing a gentle piano, and various old-timers usually present to cry into their drinks in memory of the allegedly glorious past.

  Bigelow wasn’t here either, but others were.

  Somebody was waving from the far end. “Shell! Shell, over here!”

  It was Sissy Patters
on and, yes, Mike Brett-James was with her. Neither of them looked much the worse for their debauchery, after last night’s night-club crawl.

  He felt an unaccountable lift at just seeing her and, briefly, he could feel again her hand stroking his head, and her voice asking — of all things — if he wanted his back scratched. He hadn’t had the time, as yet, to consider all the ramifications of Sissy Paterson and the strange impact she’d made on his way of life, and he hadn’t even thought in terms of ever seeing her again. Doing so gave him a warm feeling in his … well, his belly. Almost like the impact of a shot of hard liquor when you’re completely bushed and need a drink badly.

  As he made his way toward their table, Shell wondered uncomfortably if the girl had told her companion about Shell Halliday’s means of livelihood — if you could call it that. Inwardly, he shrugged. A bum couldn’t afford a thin skin. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had caught on to Shell’s steering and touting, and indicated their contempt at his way of life.

  Mike wove to his feet and murmured, as though embarrassed, “How are you this evening, Shell, old man? Afraid I made a bit of an ass of myself last night.”

  Shell grinned and shook the proffered hand. The British always seemed to want to shake hands. He said, “As I recall, when I was putting you to bed you wanted me to kiss you good night.”

  “Good Heavens,” Sissy laughed. “Pull up a chair, Shell. We’ve just got around to killing the hangover.”

  Shell looked at her. Fresh as a daisy, as the expression went. Vivacious, healthy, full of life, and, by the looks of her, about six or eight drinks already under her belt. “Just for a minute or so,” Shell said, pulling up a chair. “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “I’m a friend,” Sissy quipped. “Wouldn’t I do? What’ll you have, Shell?” Her voice changed only infinitesimally as she added, “The drinks are on me.”

  He darted a questioning look at her, but she hadn’t meant to rub things in. Sissy wasn’t the type.

  “Beer,” Shell said. “They’ve got good beer here at Harry’s — draught from Munich. I’ve got to stay sober if I’m ever going to find Biggy?”

  “Biggy?” Mike said. He, too, evidently, had had half a dozen, but hadn’t the capacity of the Floridian girl. His high voice was already slurring.

  “Bigelow Warren,” Shell said. He added, almost defensively, as though to erect himself a small barrier of prestige after tearing himself down so far in Sissy’s eyes this morning, “The cartoonist. He’s a friend of mine.”

  Mike Brett-James was blank but Sissy said, “You mean the one who does Bobby? Oh, good Heavens, I’d love to meet him. Did you see that one where the politician is giving this big speech in the United Nations and telling about how peace-loving we are and how America has never started a war and how we’ve never defaulted on a treaty, and then little Bobby pipes up and says he ought to tell that to the Indians?”

  Shell laughed. “Yeah, I remember that one. A howl went up from the D.A.R. and the Legion and some senator or other even brought it up in Congress. Wanted Biggy investigated as a subversive.”

  “Well … isn’t he kind of a pinko or something?”

  Shell’s beer had come. He took a quick gulp before scoffing, “Bigelow? No. He isn’t anything. Just down on all sorts of pomposity and humbug, particularly when it applies to politics, international affairs, that sort of thing.”

  Mike had finished his drink and poured another from the half empty bottle of Johnny Walker which stood on the table. He was further along than Shell had first thought. He closed one eye and looked unsteadily at Shell. “You know, my dear chap, you look considerably nicer than you did in those corduroys yesterday.”

  “Well, thanks,” Shell said. “Those were my working clothes.”

  Sissy giggled and winked at him. Obviously, she hadn’t discussed Shell with Mike Brett-James and just as obviously, she was still as philosophical about Shell’s manner of making a living as she had been that morning when they were in bed together.

  Mike waggled a finger at him. “You look … well … younger. And … very good-looking.”

  Shell laughed. “Thanks, Mike. I’ll have to wash my face and wear a clean shirt more often. You look very natty yourself.”

  “Good Heavens, let’s all have another drink and stop throwing compliments back and forth — that is, of course, unless you want to throw them at me,” Sissy said. She signaled the waiter for another mug of beer for Shell.

  “Look,” Shell protested, “I’ve got to take it easy.”

  “You can’t get anywhere on beer,” Sissy said. “Listen, Shell, now that Mike has evidently decided that you aren’t trying to woo me away from him, and that you’re more acceptable in tweeds than corduroys — ”

  “Oh now, my dear — ” Mike began.

  “ — why don’t you come along with us to dinner? We’ve made reservations again at Maxim’s.”

  “Sorry,” Shell said. “I really do have to find Bigelow Warren. It’s very important.”

  She made a moue but didn’t press the point.

  While Shell finished his second beer, they rehashed the evening before, laughing at his highlights. Sissy insisted again that she’d never had such fun.

  Shell said, finally, “Look, pardon me for a moment. I’ve got to visit the little boys’ room. Munich beer isn’t any better than any other when it comes to this problem.”

  Mike weaved to his feet, too. Shell was beginning to suspect that the Englishman had never fully recovered from last night’s drinking and was simply hanging one on atop the last.

  “I’ll go, too,” he insisted.

  “I thought only women couldn’t go to the powder room alone,” Sissy commented.

  “Fear not, we shall return!” Shell announced grandly.

  Mike giggled as though that had been preposterously funny and wended his way after the American who headed for the men’s room next to the basement’s tiny auxiliary bar, and at the foot of the stairs leading up to Harry’s proper.

  There was no misaking the entrance to the men’s room. The sign on the door read: Gents, Messieurs, Herren, Homines, Señores, Signori and one or two more, including the Greek. The room itself was moderately small; a toilet in a separate booth, two urinals, one lavatory before a large mirror and a monstrous red towel on the door. There was plenty of room, without crowding, for two. Shell couldn’t understand the Englishman’s pressing against him.

  He frowned and looked back over his shoulder. “What’s the matter, Mike, you sick?”

  The Englishman gave a half-embarrassed chuckle, his face whitish and strange. He murmured, “Did I really ask you to kiss me good-night, dear boy?”

  Shell scowled at him. “Yeah. Yeah, you did. You were as drunk as a coot. Look, you’re kind of tight right now, aren’t you, Mike?”

  Brett-James giggled. “I wasn’t as drunk as all that, dear boy. Nor am I as gullible as I may seem. I realize that you’re, ah, pardon the expression, dear boy, on the town so to speak …”

  Shell was staring now. He couldn’t quite believe the other was getting through to him correctly.

  The Englishman’s expression went sly and, in a way, fawning. “You obviously were making your percentage last night.” He held up a hand, anticipating Shell. “Oh, not that I care a bit. What I was leading up to … well, if you’re looking for ways to make a few francs …” He giggled foolishly again. “Well, why don’t you pop up to my room tonight?”

  Before he could control himself, moving automatically, Shell had lashed out backhanded across the other’s face, staggering the homosexual back against the lavatory.

  Immediately he was sorry. Shell Halliday wasn’t the kind of pseudo he-man who insisted on proving his claims to masculinity by beating up a type of unfortunate for whom he was actually sorry. He’d never hit a queer before in his life. For that matter, he realized quickly and grimly, he probably had this insult coming to him. He was a self-made tout, a steerer, a percentage man. Possibly Brett-James h
ad a right to suspect that Shell wasn’t above other methods of picking up a quick buck.

  At any rate, he was instantly ashamed. He said gruffly, irritably, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He turned to go.

  Michael Brett-James had cowered back into the corner before the mirror, both hands to his face and his eyes wide with bewilderment, hurt and fear. He took one of his hands away from his nose and looked at it. “You’ve broken my nose,” he whined. It was bleeding.

  “I doubt it,” Shell growled uncomfortably. “You’ve just got a bloody nose. It’ll go away.”

  “Oh … no,” the other wailed. Shell wondered why he hadn’t spotted the other as a homo sooner. He had a certain feminine quality about him, now that you looked for it.

  “No,” Mike wailed. “When I get a bloody nose, it lasts ever so long.”

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it,” Shell snapped. “Here, take my handkerchief. What do you expect, first aid?”

  “Oh, it’s all your fault,” Mike wailed, “and Felicity was going to take me to Maxim’s. I love dining at Maxim’s. I just can’t have her see me like this.”

  Shell said flatly, “Then go on back to your hotel. I’ll tell her that you took suddenly ill of alcoholic poisoning or something.”

  The other looked at him obliquely. “And you won’t tell her . .?”

  “I’ll tell her anything I damn well please,” Shell barked and turned and pushed his way out of the small room, irritated at the whole affair. He had troubles enough of his own without getting involved in this sort of nonsense.

  • • •

  Back at the table, Shell gave a quick, inaccurate description of Mike’s alleged illness and resumed his chair. Sissy seemed only moderately distressed at her escort’s departure, probably too far gone herself, he decided, to care one way or the other. He couldn’t figure out her relationship to the Englishman.