A Kiss Before Loving Page 8

  Actually, he know he should be out looking for Bigelow Warren, but the girl had a more than ordinary interest for him. Somehow or other she wasn’t just another quick roll in the hay, of the type he enjoyed all too often in his way of life.

  He said cautiously, “What’s with this Mike Brett-James, Sissy?”

  “How do you mean?” She’d been listening to the pianist who was softly playing the tunes of the Twenties, and running over Me and My Shadow at this point.

  “I don’t know. He seems to have a sort of proprietory air.”

  She shifted shapely shoulders. “He wants to marry me.”

  “Wants to marry you?” he blurted.

  She frowned in quick irritation. “What’s wrong with that?”

  He turned cautious again. “Nothing, of course. You haven’t known each other very long though, have you?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Then it’s his idea, not yours?”

  She looked at him for a moment as though she were going to make a tart reply to that, but then evidently changed her mind. “I think there’s a rather good chance of my taking him up, Shell,” she said simply.

  It was none of his business. None at all, Shell told himself. Damn it, why didn’t he take off and go looking for Bigelow? Everything was going to be in the soup if he didn’t find the burly cartoonist before the other could get into a pot of trouble.

  But he said, “Well, I mean, after last night and this morning …” His voice was hesitant. “… well, you can’t be very much in love with him.”

  She scowled now and, in a half angry motion, poured some Scotch into her glass and didn’t bother to add soda before drinking down half of it. “Love,” she said bitterly.

  He looked at her, scowling himself.

  “Love,” she repeated. “Listen, Shell, I thought I loved both of my husbands, and it took me a long time to get over it — even after the marriages broke up.”

  She put down her glass abruptly, and he caught the suggestion of a choke in her voice.

  “What has love got to do with it? This time there can’t be any slip-ups. This time, I go into marriage with my eyes wide open. No star dust — see?” She set her mouth in determination. “This time the usually scatterbrained Sissy Patterson is being cold-blooded and sane.”

  “But why Mike?”

  “He’s in love with me. He represents security, Shell.”

  He said doggedly, “Look, this isn’t any of my business, but you were telling me this morning what a rough go you had with your first two husbands. How do you know this Mike Brett-James isn’t out for your money, too?”

  She laughed suddenly and openly. “Shell, if I didn’t know you better, didn’t know how little I meant to you, I’d think you were jealous,”

  “What’s so funny?”

  She smiled at him in ridicule. “Shell, you don’t know who Mike is, do you?”

  “Frankly, I’ve never heard of him. Should I have?”

  “It was a nasty thing to do, in a way,” Sissy went on, “but as soon as Mike began making noises that indicated a more than passing interest, I checked back on him. This was while we were both still in Torremolinos. A cable to the London branch of my legal advisers brought a quick rundown on Michael Brett-James.

  “He happens to have nearly a full page in Burke’s Peerage, Shell. He’s got so many titles he probably can’t remember them all. Why, if the Plantagenets were still the ruling family of England, Mike’s uncle would be king. Mike out for my money? Did you notice that ruby on his finger? It was given to a direct ancestor by the first Queen Elizabeth for gallantry against the Spanish Armada. Mike out for my money — my ridiculously small amount of money? Why Mike has a castle in Scotland that you could fit Grand Central Station into. He has a country estate in Ireland the size of a Texas cattle ranch. Mike marry me for any other reason other than that he loved me? Why, Shell, Mike’s ancestors landed in England with William the Conqueror. You simply can’t have a bigger name than Brett-James.”

  Shell Halliday had sat through all this blankly. He just didn’t get it. Sissy Patterson was a superbly attractive woman, particularly sexually. He could see any man being strongly attracted to her.

  But Mike Brett-James? The man was as queer as they came.

  Shell’s puzzlement must have shown in his face.

  “What’s the matter?” Sissy said impatiently.

  He shook his head. “Nothing, I suppose. But look, you’ve admitted you don’t really love him. What’s in it for you, Sissy?”

  Her voice went suddenly soft. “For me, Shell? Can’t you see? The wife of Michael Brett-James. Why, when little Bunny is old enough to make her debut she’ll … she’ll meet the Queen, Shell. The daughter of Bootlegger Sam Patterson might not have been welcome in the better circles of Palm Beach, she might not have been eligible to attend the better finishing schools in Baltimore, but, Shell, his granddaughter will be a lady, in title as well as fact, after Mike legally adopts her.”

  Shell stared at her numbly. He shook his head again in incomprehension. He didn’t have her viewpoint. Couldn’t have. The things that had happened to Felicity Patterson had never, could never, have touched him. He realized that there was a bead of tear in her left eye.

  Possibly he’d been wrong about Mike Brett-James. But no, that wasn’t it. He’d had enough fag passes made at him to know the genuine article.

  Possibly the guy was bisexual. One of these ambisexual types, whatever you called them, that liked both men and women. Or, for all Shell knew, possibly the guy was out for the same thing as Sissy — married respectability. And since Sissy wasn’t looking for a love match, the two of them might make a go of it. She gaining her security by becoming a respected member of British society, complete with titles, he gaining his by being married and hence not suspect of his homosexual leanings.

  Shell had been caught up in the conversation with the girl to the point of being unconscious of his surroundings, but now something began to intrude. A voice in the background, further down the room.

  It was saying, acridly, “I have to laugh at this attitude you British have about the Anglo-American alliance. This feeling that we ought to let you have more of a say in our mutual foreign policy.”

  A British voice intruded then, saying something about experience and men of the caliber of Churchill.

  And then the first voice bulled through again. “Churchill. He’s as good an example as any. The greatest statesman of our era. Ha! Remember that speech he made once where he said belligerently that he hadn’t been appointed Prime Minister to preside at the dismemberment of the British Empire? Well, that’s exactly what he did. In the same half century that Churchill was a first-string leader of England, the British Empire expired. England dropped from the position of the world’s first power, to being a third-rater and a stooge for Uncle Sam — a satellite. No thanks, we don’t need men of Churchill’s caliber.”

  The Englishman’s voice was higher and more indignant now. “You can’t say that, you bloody Yank!”

  Shell Halliday was on his feet and pushing his chair back. He muttered to Sissy, who was looking at him wide-eyed, “Just a minute. Time I went into action.”

  He hurried to the other end of the room, his eyes seeking out and immediately locating his not inconspicuous goal.

  The big cartoonist was smilingly regarding the red-faced man seated across from him. The other was wearing an RAF type mustache, arrogantly curved up on the ends, and right now he looked as though he was all set to launch into the Second Battle of Britain.

  “Biggy!” Shell called. “How long have you been here?”

  Bigelow Warren beamed at him drunkenly. “Shell. Where you been? I’ve got something for you.”

  Shell got him by the arm and wrestled the big man to his feet. “Pardon me,” he said to the Britisher who grunted something indignantly, but who otherwise seemed to be glad to get rid of his erstwhile companion.

  Shell started the cartoonist back to Sissy’
s table, saying, soothingly, “What’ve you got for me, Biggy?”

  “Cashew nuts, Shell old pal. Pockets bulging with them. Very scarce in Paris.”

  “Great,” Shell said. They’d reached Sissy. Shell said, “Biggy, here’s a great admirer of yours, Miss Sissy Patterson. She’s a Bobby fan.”

  “Good Heavens,” Sissy said. “When Shell said he was a friend of yours, I thought he was sort of exaggerating.”

  Biggy leered at her and sank into a chair. “Shouldn’t drink Scotch,” he said. “Drink cognac.”

  “Why?” Sissy said.

  “I forget,” Bigelow told her. He fished into a pocket and brought forth a handful of cashew nuts. “Have a nut. Don’t eat ’em too fast, they’re hard to come by in this town.” He looked at Shell accusingly. “I knew this must be Paris the minute I saw you. What day is it?”

  “It’s Tuesday.”

  Bigelow looked at him unbelievingly. “Tuesday? That’s the day I arrived. It can’t be Tuesday. You mean I’ve been here a whole week? It doesn’t seem like more than two or three days.”

  Shell shook his head and said to Sissy, “What a guy. Some people black out when they’re swacked. Some just conveniently forget anything that happens to them. But Biggy is different. He loses all sense of time.”

  Bigelow closed one eye and inspected Sissy with more care and with obvious approval. “You Shell’s girl from Ohio?”

  Sissy poured herself another drink and one for Bigelow, using Mike Brett-James’ glass.

  “No,” she said. “I guess I’m his Florida girl.”

  “Boy gets around,” Biggy said admiringly. “You’re invited to the big party.”

  “What big party?” Sissy said.

  “Shell and me are giving a big party for his Ohio girl when she comes. You can be a model,” Bigelow leered, “gotta lotta figure.”

  “A lot of figure isn’t exactly a flattering way of putting it,” Sissy laughed. “But what’s this model bit?”

  “Giving old Shell a big party for this Ohio girl friend. Lots of artists. Lots of celebrities. You can be a popular model.”

  Her eyes went from Biggy to Shell.

  “My,” she said, and there was a faint hint of something beyond the mischievous in her voice. “Our laddy seems to go to considerably more trouble for his Ohio girls than for his Floridian ones.”

  Shell rolled his eyes upward. “Good grief,” he commented.

  Sissy took the hint of jealousy out of her words by laughing suddenly and saying, “Mike and I will be glad to come. He can be a titled Englishman. He can play the part fine. When is it?”

  Bigelow looked at Shell accusingly. “Yeah. When is it, Shell?”

  Shell said, “Don’t know yet. We’re not sure when she’ll arrive. We’ll let you know.”

  She looked at him obliquely and the sides of her mouth turned down. “You be sure and do that,” she said. “I have an idea I’m going to like this party. It sounds interesting.”

  Chapter Five

  DURING THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Shell Halliday had his work cut out for him. Cut out in such a way as for him to have suspicion at times that he was working on paper dolls. Keeping Bigelow Warren in line was strictly a job that led to the nut factory.

  But it increasingly brought home to Shell just how much he loved the big, lost man.

  Something, he knew, was gone out of the cartoonist’s life. Something was missing. What was there that led him to compulsive drinking on a scale that sooner or later meant complete collapse? No man could stand this sort of pace. And it was accelerating. When Shell had first known Biggy, the other would throw a wingding about twice a year and it would last four or five days. But now each binge continued for as long as a month, and Bigelow was running them closer together. He’d last been in Paris less than three months ago.

  He had money, Shell told himself, and he had prestige. What’s more, his success was built on a stronger foundation than many these days. Bigelow Warren had a place in American satirical humor that would earn him a position ranking with such as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain and Thurber.

  On top of that, everybody who met Biggy seemed to like the guy except, of course, the strangers who ran into his acid cynicism when the bear of a man was stoned. And even they, given time, would be won around by the easygoing warmth he radiated.

  Shell had moved into the hotel suite as planned. The desk had been informed that the new registration was to be in the name of Shelley Halliday, and Shell’s room service and other orders were to be honored as Bigelow’s own. All that awaited now was the coming of Connie Lockwood. Shell figured that at soonest she’d turn up in another week or so. Meanwhile, he earned his keep as companion of Bigelow.

  This evening he was having a needed but nervous holiday. Bigelow had been invited to address a banquet thrown by a club consisting of literary celebrities, members of the press corps and English-speaking diplomatic representatives. Shell knew of the Four Flushers Club, a tight-knit outfit of gourmets, wits and celebrities who met twice a month to enjoy each other’s company, to eat, drink, listen to some speaker of world renown and — Shell suspected — to escape temporarily from wives and other opponents of convivial evenings.

  It had taken the better part of the day to sober Biggy up to the point where he could be sent off to the banquet, in spite of the fact that the big man had a wonderful aptitude for throwing off a hangover.

  But now, beyond checking his watch from time to time, Shell could relax. Earlier he had phoned the club, found that Bigelow had arrived safely, then settled back with a book and to have a few drinks on his own. He had to watch his consumption when supervising Biggy. It wouldn’t do for both of them to get tight at the same time.

  The bell tinkled and he yawned, put down the book and glass and made his way to the door, wondering vaguely who it could be. It was much too early for Bigelow’s return.

  He opened the door and frowned his lack of recognition, and then gaped. Good grief, there couldn’t be this much change in just four years. No, this couldn’t be Connie.

  Not slightly plumpish Connie of the simple skirts and blouses, of the cotton prints, of the mere touch of lipstick in the way of make-up. Not this knockout. He had once thought her as a more rounded version of Debbie Reynolds, but this was more nearly a blond Gina Lollobrigida.

  She stood for a moment, expressionless, one eyebrow raised in simulated superciliousness.

  “May I come in … dahling?”

  “Connie!”

  “Shelley!”

  They did the obviously correct thing. And even during that first, excited, hurried, inadequate kiss, Shell was conscious of the thrusting of her young breasts. Connie had evidently lost weight everywhere except there.

  They found their way back into the living room and stood, staring and laughing, both talking at once, and then stood there and kissed some more.

  “Wow, but you’ve changed. You’re — ” Shell stuttered.

  “How in the world did you ever get this marvelous suite?”

  “ — for one thing, those clothes — ” Shell tried to continue.

  “Your mother wanted to come so badly — oh, look out, you’re messing my hat — ”

  “I wasn’t expecting you until — ”

  “I wanted to surprise you. Oh, Shell — ”

  “Hey, easy — what’s the matter, Connie honey?”

  “You look so different,” she said. “You’re messing my lipstick. You look so much older, and thinner — ”

  “So do you, for that matter. Wow! Little Connie has grown up.”

  They took time out to sit on the couch where they held hands and stared at each other, grinning inanely.

  “Look,” he said. “Have you got around to learning to drink?”

  “Oh, I’d love one. I didn’t expect you to live in Paris for years without getting beyond that occasional beer we used to have together. So, well, I took it up a little, too.”

  He regarded her suspiciously. “Hmmm. You sound like a f
allen woman.” He made his way toward Biggy’s improvised bar. “What’ll you have?”

  “How about a rum coke?” She took her hat off and fluffed her hair. “Gosh, that Economy Class flying is a tight squeeze. I’m a rag. I suppose there’s a bath with this monstrous suite.”

  “Two of them,” Shell told her over his shoulder. He motioned with his head. “One that way, one that.”

  She came to her feet, her forehead worried. “Shell …?” Her voice had a new, timid quality, out of character considering her sophisticated appearance.

  “I think there’s Coca-Cola or Pepsi around here,” he growled. “What?”

  “You’ve got two bedrooms?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Here’s the coke. I’ll just get some more ice out of the pantry.”

  “Pantry? Do you have a kitchen with this? Right in a hotel?”

  “For parties and things,” Shell said. She was being impressed by the layout, and Shell played it nonchalant. He had to put this over, he felt, for the sake of the people back home. He’d figure out the sequel later; there’d be someway.

  Her voice was lower. “Shell. Two bedrooms. You didn’t … you didn’t think, just because I was coming … Shell, my parents would — ”

  He turned with the drink and laughed. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’ll phone the desk and get you another room. Meanwhile, an old friend, Bigelow Warren, is in town and I’m putting him up. He uses the other bedroom.”

  “Oh.” She was flustered. “Well, my bags are down in the lobby.” Her neck turned pink, and she turned and went into the bedroom and beyond to the bath.

  Shell put her drink down on the cocktail table near the couch and poured himself a double whiskey. He thought quickly. Connie had turned up sooner than he had figured. Was everything set for her? Bigelow, of course, was completely checked out. Shell didn’t have to worry about him. It was a break that the other would be comparatively sober for his first meeting with Connie. Of course, he and Biggy hadn’t got around as yet to inviting guests to the big party they’d planned for her, but that wouldn’t take long. To round up a sufficient number for a party out of the crowd Shell hung around with, all you had to do was stand up at the Deux Magots or the Flore and call out, “Come on, everybody, a party at my place.” Of course, for this one they’d have to be more discriminating.