Irish proverb, “be ever bold, but be not too bold.”
He phoned the hotel and asked for Mrs. Joyce. She answered as though she expected his call.
“Mrs. Joyce, excuse me disturbing you at this hour, but this is Tom Hennessy. Do you know who I am?”
“Mr. Jarvis’ man?”
“Aye. Well, it’s a long story, but I’m in trouble,” he started, and then added hastily, “not on my own account. I wouldn’t call you for that, but on account of the boss.”
“What’s happened?”
“Well, I don’t know rightly. I started out to look for him when the challenge came from your French friend. Now mind, I’m not saying you are to blame … Oh, Lord, I’m not saying anything right. I’m not saying anything at all.”
“On the contrary,” Mrs. Joyce said, “Continue. You’re saying quite a lot.”
“Look, ma’am, it’s this way: Mrs. Norris and me started out to look for the boss. Then we thought maybe the Frenchman would lead us to him …”
“Dr. d’Inde?”
“What?”
“Tom, in just what way are you in trouble?”
“I’m trying to tell you! After the Frenchman brought you home—I can’t say his name so don’t make me—but after he brought you home from the ball, he started to act queer, cutting into the house and out of it, hiding things, and then taking off and me trying to follow him. To make a long story short, I just lost him a few minutes ago.”
“Where?”
Tom drew a deep breath. He never thought the boss would take up with a stupid woman. “Sure, if I knew that, ma’am, I wouldn’t be calling you at all.”
“Tom, do you have a car where you are?”
“I do.”
“Come right up to the hotel now. I’ll leave word you’re to be sent up.”
And with that she hung up on him. A command performance, no less.
17
J IMMIE MOVED CLOSER TO the orchestra by several tables so that he could see the faces of the club’s patrons. Dolores might not sing well, but she sang on and on.
What a strange group of people sat as though in a torpor. Middle-aged malcontents, he thought. They were people who did not lack for a certain success in life, for there was the look of prosperity about them, if not of wellbeing: but their success was not enough, or perhaps they had paid too high a price. Something had turned it to ashes. He was reminded curiously of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Suicide Club: the bond of the damned.
Jimmie’s pulse quickened: he recognized one and then another of Chatterton’s dinner guests. Joshua Katz was here, a visitor … a guest of a regular? Maria Candido, of course. Jimmie searched his memory for what he knew of Katz: he had been a boy prodigy; that would have been twenty-five years ago, and Jimmie seemed to remember having heard that he was once the spoiled darling of the last royal courts of Europe. He must be a very special catch for this crowd. Candido seemed to be his patroness: perhaps she had been then, too.
Jimmie became aware that he was the object of attention of another lady at that table. She was batting her eyes at him like a mechanized canary—familiar to him but not quite recognizable, as though some vital attribute were missing, a notable husband, perhaps—Latin, attached to some embassy, he decided. He consulted the Chatterton guest list. Of course, Madame and Ambassador Cru. Where was the ambassador?
And where was Father? Gone off with Miss Blues in the night? It was a wise son who knew, Jimmie thought grimly. He bowed slightly to Madame Cru, and ever so gently pulled the chair next to him out from the table by way of invitation.
Madame Cru gathered her purse and gloves. Jimmie wondered if she knew him, or if she was always indiscreet.
“I know you, don’t I?” she said, coming up. “Aren’t you Ransom Jarvis’ son?”
“I am. Madame Cru, I believe?” Jimmie held the chair for her and then sat down beside her.
“We had so counted on your father’s joining us here. He’s the life of the party, as they say in America.”
“They
He phoned the hotel and asked for Mrs. Joyce. She answered as though she expected his call.
“Mrs. Joyce, excuse me disturbing you at this hour, but this is Tom Hennessy. Do you know who I am?”
“Mr. Jarvis’ man?”
“Aye. Well, it’s a long story, but I’m in trouble,” he started, and then added hastily, “not on my own account. I wouldn’t call you for that, but on account of the boss.”
“What’s happened?”
“Well, I don’t know rightly. I started out to look for him when the challenge came from your French friend. Now mind, I’m not saying you are to blame … Oh, Lord, I’m not saying anything right. I’m not saying anything at all.”
“On the contrary,” Mrs. Joyce said, “Continue. You’re saying quite a lot.”
“Look, ma’am, it’s this way: Mrs. Norris and me started out to look for the boss. Then we thought maybe the Frenchman would lead us to him …”
“Dr. d’Inde?”
“What?”
“Tom, in just what way are you in trouble?”
“I’m trying to tell you! After the Frenchman brought you home—I can’t say his name so don’t make me—but after he brought you home from the ball, he started to act queer, cutting into the house and out of it, hiding things, and then taking off and me trying to follow him. To make a long story short, I just lost him a few minutes ago.”
“Where?”
Tom drew a deep breath. He never thought the boss would take up with a stupid woman. “Sure, if I knew that, ma’am, I wouldn’t be calling you at all.”
“Tom, do you have a car where you are?”
“I do.”
“Come right up to the hotel now. I’ll leave word you’re to be sent up.”
And with that she hung up on him. A command performance, no less.
17
J IMMIE MOVED CLOSER TO the orchestra by several tables so that he could see the faces of the club’s patrons. Dolores might not sing well, but she sang on and on.
What a strange group of people sat as though in a torpor. Middle-aged malcontents, he thought. They were people who did not lack for a certain success in life, for there was the look of prosperity about them, if not of wellbeing: but their success was not enough, or perhaps they had paid too high a price. Something had turned it to ashes. He was reminded curiously of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Suicide Club: the bond of the damned.
Jimmie’s pulse quickened: he recognized one and then another of Chatterton’s dinner guests. Joshua Katz was here, a visitor … a guest of a regular? Maria Candido, of course. Jimmie searched his memory for what he knew of Katz: he had been a boy prodigy; that would have been twenty-five years ago, and Jimmie seemed to remember having heard that he was once the spoiled darling of the last royal courts of Europe. He must be a very special catch for this crowd. Candido seemed to be his patroness: perhaps she had been then, too.
Jimmie became aware that he was the object of attention of another lady at that table. She was batting her eyes at him like a mechanized canary—familiar to him but not quite recognizable, as though some vital attribute were missing, a notable husband, perhaps—Latin, attached to some embassy, he decided. He consulted the Chatterton guest list. Of course, Madame and Ambassador Cru. Where was the ambassador?
And where was Father? Gone off with Miss Blues in the night? It was a wise son who knew, Jimmie thought grimly. He bowed slightly to Madame Cru, and ever so gently pulled the chair next to him out from the table by way of invitation.
Madame Cru gathered her purse and gloves. Jimmie wondered if she knew him, or if she was always indiscreet.
“I know you, don’t I?” she said, coming up. “Aren’t you Ransom Jarvis’ son?”
“I am. Madame Cru, I believe?” Jimmie held the chair for her and then sat down beside her.
“We had so counted on your father’s joining us here. He’s the life of the party, as they say in America.”
“They
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