Too Many Cooks/Champagne for One (31 page)

Miss Tuttle had said something that I wanted to go into, tactfully, but she was talking with Edwin Laidlaw, on her left, and I gave Ethel Varr, on my right, a look. Her face was by no means out of surprises. In profile, close up, it was again different, and when it turned and we were eye to eye, once more it was new.

“I hope,” I said, “you won’t mind a personal remark.”

“I’ll try not to,” she said. “I can’t promise until I hear it.”

“I’ll take a chance. In case you have caught me staring at you I want to explain why.”

“I don’t know.” She was smiling. “Maybe you’d better not. Maybe it would let me down. Maybe I’d rather think you stared just because you wanted to.”

“You can think that too. If I hadn’t wanted to I wouldn’t have stared. But the idea is, I was trying to catch you looking the same way twice. If you turn your head only a little one way or the other it’s a different face. I know there are people with faces that do that, but I’ve never seen one that changes as much as yours. Hasn’t anyone ever mentioned it to you?”

She parted her lips, closed them, and turned right away from me. All I could do was turn back to my plate, and I did so, but in a moment she was facing me again. “You know,” she said, “I’m only nineteen years old.”

“I was nineteen once,” I assured her. “Some ways I liked it, and some ways it was terrible.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “I haven’t learned how to take things yet, but I suppose I will. I was silly—just because you said that. I should have just told you yes, someone did mention that to me once. About my face. More than once.”

So I had put my foot in it. How the hell are you going to be tactful when you don’t know what is out of bounds and what isn’t? Merely having a face that changes isn’t going to get a girl a baby. I flopped around. “Well,” I said, “I know it was a personal remark, and I only wanted to explain why I had stared at you. I wouldn’t have brought it up if I had known there was anything touchy about it. I think you ought
to get even. I’m touchy about horses because once I caught my foot in the stirrup when I was getting off, so you might try that. Ask me something about horses and
my
face will change.”

“I suppose you ride in Central Park. Was it in the park?”

“No, it was out West one summer. Go ahead. You’re getting warm.”

We stayed on horses until Paul Schuster, on her right, horned in. I couldn’t blame him, since he had Mrs. Robilotti on his other side. But Edwin Laidlaw still had Rose Tuttle, and it wasn’t until the dessert came, cherry pudding topped with whipped cream, that I had a chance to ask her about the remark she had made.

“Something you said,” I told her. “Maybe I didn’t hear it right.”

She swallowed pudding. “Maybe I didn’t say it right. I often don’t.” She leaned to me and lowered her voice. “Is this Mr. Laidlaw a friend of yours?”

I shook my head. “Never saw him before.”

“You haven’t missed anything. He publishes books. To look at me, would you think I was dying to know how many books were published last year in America and England and a lot of other countries?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I would think you could make out all right without it.”

“I always have. What was it I said wrong?”

“I didn’t say you said it wrong. I understood you to say something about the society men that were here the other time, and I wasn’t sure I got it. I didn’t know whether you meant another party like this one.”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s what I meant. Three years ago. She throws one every year, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“This is my second one. This friend of mine I mentioned, she says the only reason I had another baby was to get invited here for some more champagne, but believe me, if I liked champagne so much I could get it a lot quicker and oftener than that, and anyway, I didn’t have the faintest idea I would be invited again. How old do you think I am?”

I studied her. “Oh—twenty-one.”

She was pleased. “Of course you took off five years to be polite, so you guessed it exactly. I’m twenty-six. So it isn’t true that having babies makes a girl look older. Of course, if you had a lot of them, eight or ten, but by that time you would
be
older. I just don’t believe I would look younger if I hadn’t had two babies. Do you?”

I was on a spot. I had accepted the invitation with my eyes and ears open. I had told my hostess that I was acquainted with the nature and significance of the affair and she could count on me. I had on my shoulders the responsibility of the moral and social position of the community, some of it anyhow, and here this cheerful unmarried mother was resting the whole problem on the single question, had it aged her any? If I merely said no, it hadn’t, which would have been both true and tactful, it would imply that I agreed that the one objection to her career was a phony. To say no and then proceed to list other objections that were not phonies would have been fine if I had been ordained, but I hadn’t, and anyway she had certainly heard of them and hadn’t been impressed. I worked it out in three seconds, on the basis that while it was none of my business if she kept on having babies, I
absolutely wasn’t going to encourage her. So I lied to her.

“Yes,” I said.

“What?” She was indignant. “You do?”

I was firm. “I do. You admitted that I took you for twenty-six and deducted five years to be polite. If you had had only one baby I might have taken you for twenty-three, and if you had had none I might have taken you for twenty. I can’t prove it, but I might. We’d better get on with the pudding. Some of them have finished.”

She turned to it, cheerfully.

Apparently the guests of honor had been briefed on procedure, for when Hackett, on signal, pulled back Mrs. Robilotti’s chair as she arose, and we chevaliers did likewise for our partners, they joined the hostess as she headed for the door. When they were out we sat down again.

Cecil Grantham blew a breath, a noisy gust, and said, “The last two hours are the hardest.”

Robilotti said, “Brandy, Hackett.”

Hackett stopped pouring coffee to look at him. “The cabinet is locked, sir.”

“I know it is, but you have a key.”

“No, sir, Mrs. Robilotti has it.”

It seemed to me that that called for an embarrassed silence, but Cecil Grantham laughed and said, “Get a hatchet.”

Hackett poured coffee.

Beverly Kent, the one with a long narrow face and big ears, cleared his throat. “A little deprivation will be good for us, Mr. Robilotti. After all, we understood the protocol when we accepted the invitation.”

“Not protocol,” Paul Schuster objected. “That’s
not what protocol means. I’m surprised at you, Bev. You’ll never be an ambassador if you don’t know what protocol is.”

“I never will anyway,” Kent declared. “I’m thirty years old, eight years out of college, and what am I? An errand boy in the Mission to the United Nations. So I’m a diplomat? But I ought to know what protocol is better than a promising young corporation lawyer. What do you know about it?”

“Not much.” Schuster was sipping coffee. “Not much
about
it, but I know what it is, and you used it wrong. And you’re wrong about me being a promising young corporation lawyer. Lawyers never promise anything. That’s about as far as I’ve got, but I’m a year younger than you, so there’s hope.”

“Hope for who?” Cecil Grantham demanded. “You or the corporations?”

“About that word ‘protocol,’ ” Edwin Laidlaw said, “I can settle that for you. Now that I’m a publisher I’m the last word on words. It comes from two Greek words,
protos
, meaning ‘first,’ and
kolla
, meaning ‘glue.’ Now why glue? Because in ancient Greece a
protokollon
was the first leaf, containing an account of the manuscript, glued to a roll of papyrus. Today a protocol may be any one of various kinds of documents—an original draft of something, or an account of some proceeding, or a record of an agreement. That seems to support you, Paul, but Bev has a point, because a protocol can also be a set of rules of etiquette. So you’re both right. This affair this evening does require a special etiquette.”

“I’m for Paul,” Cecil Grantham declared. “Locking up the booze doesn’t come under etiquette. It comes under tyranny.”

Kent turned to me. “What about you, Goodwin? I understand you’re a detective, so maybe you can detect the answer.”

I put my coffee cup down. “I’m a little hazy,” I said, “as to what you’re after. If you just want to decide whether you used the word ‘protocol’ right, the best plan would be to get the dictionary. There’s one upstairs in the library. But if what you want is brandy, and the cabinet is locked, the best plan would be for one of us to go to a liquor store. There’s one at the corner of Eighty-second and Madison. We could toss up.”

“The practical man,” Laidlaw said. “The man of action.”

“You notice,” Cecil told them, “that he knows where the dictionary is and where the liquor store is. Detectives know everything.” He turned to me. “By the way, speaking of detectives, are you here professionally?”

Not caring much for his tone, I raised my brows. “If I were, what would I say?”

“Why—I suppose you’d say you weren’t.”

“And if I weren’t what would I say?”

Robert Robilotti let out a snort. “
Touché
, Cece. Try another one.” He pronounced it “Seese.” Cecil’s mother called him “Sessel,” and his sister called him “Sesse.”

Cecil ignored his father-in-law. “I was just asking,” he told me. “I shouldn’t ask?”

“Sure, why not? I was just answering.” I moved my head right and left. “Since the question has been asked, it may be in all your minds. If I were here professionally I would let it stand on my answer to Grantham, but since I’m not, you might as well know
it. Austin Byne phoned this morning and asked me to take his place. If any of you are bothered enough you can check with him.”

“I think,” Robilotti said, “that it is none of our business. I know it is none of my business.”

“Nor mine,” Schuster agreed.

“Oh, forget it,” Cecil snapped. “What the hell, I was just curious. Shall we join the mothers?”

Robilotti darted a glance at him, not friendly. After all, who was the host? “I was about to ask,” he said, “if anyone wants more coffee. No?” He left his chair. “We will join them in the music room and escort them downstairs and it is understood that each of us will dance first with his dinner partner. If you please, gentlemen?”

I got up and shook my pants legs down.

I’ll be darned if there wasn’t a live band in the alcove—piano, sax, two violins, clarinet, and traps. A record player and speaker might have been expected, but for the mothers, spare no expense. Of course, in the matter of expense, the fee for the band was about balanced by the saving on liquids—the soda water in the cocktails, the pink stuff passing for wine at the dinner table, and the brandy ban—so it wasn’t too extravagant. The one all-out splurge on liquids came after we had been dancing an hour or so, when Hackett appeared at the bar and began opening champagne, Cordon Rouge, and poured it straight, no dilution or adulteration. With only an hour to go, apparently Mrs. Robilotti had decided to take a calculated risk.

As a dancing partner Rose Tuttle was not a bargain. She was equipped for it physically and she had some idea of rhythm, that wasn’t it; it was her basic attitude. She danced cheerfully, and of course that was no good. You can’t dance cheerfully. Dancing is too important. It can be wild or solemn or gay or lewd or art for art’s sake, but it can’t be cheerful. For one
thing, if you’re cheerful you talk too much. Helen Yarmis was better, or would have been if she hadn’t been too
damn
solemn. We would work into the rhythm together and get going fine, when all of a sudden she would stiffen up and was just a dummy making motions. She was a good size for me, too, with the top of her head level with my nose, and the closer you get to her wide, curved mouth the better you liked it—when the corners were up.

Robilotti took her for the next one, and a look around showed me that all the guests of honor were taken, and Celia Grantham was heading for me. I stayed put and let her come, and she stopped at arm’s length and tilted her head back.

“Well?” she said.

The tact, I figured, was for the mothers, and there was no point in wasting it on the daughter. So I said, “But is it any better?”

“No,” she said, “and it never will be. But how are you going to avoid dancing with me?”

“Easy. Say my feet hurt, and take my shoes off.”

She nodded. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“I could.”

“You really would. Just let me suffer. Will I never be in your arms again? Must I carry my heartache to the grave?”

But I am probably giving a false impression, though I am reporting accurately. I had seen the girl—I say “girl” in spite of the fact that she was perhaps a couple of years older than Rose Tuttle, who was twice a mother—I had seen her just four times. Three of them had been in that house during the jewelry hunt, and on the third occasion, when I had been alone with her briefly, the conversation had somehow
resulted in our making a date to dine and dance at the Flamingo, and we had kept it. It had not turned out well. She was a good dancer, very good, but she was also a good drinker, and along toward midnight she had raised an issue with another lady, and had developed it to a point where we got tossed out. In the next few months she had phoned me off and on, say twenty times, to suggest a rerun, and I had been too busy. For me the Flamingo has the best band in town and I didn’t want to get the cold stare for good. As for her persisting, I would like to think that, once she had tasted me, no other flavor would do, but I’m afraid she was just too pigheaded to drop it. I had supposed that she had long since forgotten all about it but here she was again.

“It’s not your heart,” I said. “It’s your head. You’re too loyal to yourself. We’re having a clash of wills, that’s all. Besides, I have a hunch that if I took you in my arms and started off with you, after one or two turns you would break loose and take a swing at me and make remarks, and that would spoil the party. I see the look in your eye.”