As Time Goes By by Michael Walsh

doorman nodded his head in Rick's direction as he and Sam approached. Rick looked pre sentable, even if he was obviously an American. Gen tlemen were becoming scarce in these parlous times; someday they might even have to be rationed.
    "Meet me back at the hotel in two hours," said Rick, "and try to stay out of trouble."
    "I don't see much trouble for me to get into," said Sam. "I think maybe I'll go look for our kind of club. Somewhere nice and smoky for me to play the piano in. Think they got any of those joints around here?"
    "If they do, I'm sure you'll find them. Try Soho."
    "Okay, boss," said Sam. "One of us better start makin' some money, and I guess it might as well be me."
    "Some things never change, Sam."      
    Inside, the club was damp and cold, but Rick was already getting used to the peculiar English notions of central heating.
    "Good afternoon, sir," said the club steward. "My name is Blackwell. How may I be of assistance?"
    "The name is Blaine," Rick said. "Richard Blaine. To see Mr. Lumley, if he's in. Please tell him it's ur gent." He fumbled for one of his business cards, scrib bled something on the back, and proffered it to Blackwell.
    Blackwell studied the face of the card for a moment; whatever was written on the reverse was none of his business. "Mr. Blaine of the Horowitz Agency in New York." Like most Englishmen, Blackwell accented the "New" and the "York" equally—as if anyone were likely to confuse the greatest city in the world with old York. "I shall see if the gentleman is in, sir," he said. "I shan't be a moment."
    The Garrick, named after the great actor, was a splendid old pile—not much to look at from the outside, but within well appointed and comfortable. The walls were adorned with portraits of great figures of the English stage. Rick's taste ran more to Abie's Irish Rose than Shakespeare, but he decided not to let on.
    True to his word, Blackwell was back in a few min utes. "Mr. Lumley is pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blaine, and begs your indulgence for a few minutes while he attends to some pressing business." Blackwell's mien was apologetic. "This dreadful war, you know. Please follow me, sir."
    Rick followed Blackwell up a grand staircase and into one of the most magnificent club rooms he had ever seen. The walls were hung with oil portraits and medieval tapestries, the furniture was plush, the teak-wood tables polished to a fare-thee-well. This wasn't a club as he understood the term; this was the Grand Central Station of clubs.
    Blackwell indicated an empty wing chair near a roar ing fireplace. A companion chair stood empty across the hearth. "If you wouldn't mind, sir," he said, and departed.
    Rick sank into the chair and looked around. He'd never thought he would ever be in a place like this. When he was a kid, the notion of his even stepping across the threshold of the Players Club at Gramercy Park was inconceivable.
    The honorable members were scattered throughout the big room in conversational groups of twos or threes. They were spaced far enough away from each other that no conversation could be overheard easily— not that any gentleman would ever knowingly eaves drop on another. Most of the men were either middle- aged or, more likely, getting on in years. Nobody looked to be under forty. Rick remembered why—they were all in the military.
    He thumbed through a copy of the Times. The stories were almost uniformly depressing. German advances here and there. British ineffectuality everywhere. The Russians rolling back and, it seemed, rolling over. Meanwhile, in America, the attack at Pearl Harbor still rankled. How hard could it have been for the United States to have seen that one coming? Unfortunately, warning signs, as he knew from bitter experience, were not always heeded.
    He decided to amuse himself with his surroundings instead. He studied the portraits on the walls carefully and at once realized that what he had assumed were pictures of men in