you’ve agreed that it’s quite normal for a man to spend an evening at home with Gibbon.”
“What’s wrong about a man going to a Stadium concert?” Puritan nostrils quivered. “Among a lot of music-lovers and art collectors, that seems a pretty natural way to spend an evening.”
“If you knew the bridegroom, you’d not think a twenty-five-cent seat normal. But he finds it a convenient way of not having been seen by any of his friends.”
“I’m always grateful for information, Mr. Lydecker, but I prefer forming my own opinions.”
“Neat, McPherson. Very neat.”
“How long had you known her, Mr. Lydecker?”
“Seven, eight—yes, it was eight years,” I told him. “We met in thirty-four. Shall I tell you about it?”
Mark puffed at his pipe, the room was filled with its rancid sweet odor. Roberto entered noiselessly to refill the coffee cups. The radio orchestra played a rhumba.
“She rang my doorbell, McPherson, much as you rang it this morning. I was working at my desk, writing, as I remember, a birthday piece about a certain eminent American, the Father of Our Country. I should never have committed such a cliché, but, as my editor had asked for it and as we were in the midst of some rather delicate financial rearrangements, I had decided that I could not but gain by appeasement. Just as I was about to throw away a substantial increase in earning power as indulgence for my boredom, this lovely child entered my life.”
I should have been an actor. Had I been physically better suited to the narcissistic profession, I should probably have been among the greatest of my time. Now, as Mark let the second cup of coffee grow cold, he saw me as I had been eight years before, wrapped in the same style of Persian dressing gown, padding on loose Japanese clogs to answer the doorbell.
“Carlo, who was Roberto’s predecessor, had gone out to do the daily marketing. I think she was surprised to see that I answered my own doorbell. She was a slender thing, timid as a fawn and fawn-like, too, in her young uncertain grace. She had a tiny head, delicate for even that thin body, and the tilt of it along with the bright shyness of her slightly oblique dark eyes further contributed to the sense that Bambi—or Bambi’s doe—had escaped from the forest and galloped up the eighteen flights to this apartment.
“When I asked why she had come, she gave a little clucking sound. Fear had taken her voice. I was certain that she had walked around and around the building before daring to enter, and that she had stood in the corridor hearing her own heart pound before she dared touch a frightened finger to my doorbell.
“‘Well, out with it!’ Unwilling to acknowledge that I had been touched by her pretty shyness, I spoke harshly. My temper was more choleric in those days, Mr. McPherson.
“She spoke softly and very rapidly. I remember it as all one sentence, beginning with a plea that I forgive her for disturbing me and then promising that I should receive huge publicity for reward if I would endorse a fountain pen her employers were advertising. It was called the Byron.
“I exploded. ‘Give me publicity, my good girl! Your reasoning is sadly distorted. It’s my name that will give distinction to your cheap fountain pen. And how dared you take the sacred name of Byron? Who gave you the right? I’ve a good mind to write the manufacturers a stiff letter.’
“I tried not to notice the brightness of her eyes, McPherson. I was not aware at this time that she had named the fountain pen herself and that she was proud of its literary sound. She persisted bravely, telling me about a fifty-thousand-dollar advertising campaign which could not fail to glorify my name.
“I felt it my duty to become apoplectic. ‘Do you know how many dollars’ worth of white space my syndicated columns now occupy? And do you realize that manufacturers of typewriters, toothpaste, and razors with fifty-thousand-dollar checks in their pockets are turned away from this door daily? You talk of giving me publicity!’
“Her embarrassment was painful. I asked if she would stay and have a glass of sherry. Doubtless she would have preferred flight, but she was too shy to refuse. While we drank the sherry, I made her tell me about herself. This was her first job and it represented the apex of her ambitions at the time. She had visited sixty-eight advertising agencies before she got the job. Buried beneath the air of timidity was a magnificent will. Laura knew she was clever, and she was willing to suffer endless rebuffs in order to prove her talents. When she had finished, I said, ‘I suppose you think I’m moved by your story and that I’m supposed to break down and give you that endorsement.’”
“Did you?” Mark inquired.
“McPherson, I am the most mercenary man in America. I never take any action without computing the profit.”
“You gave her the endorsement.”
I bowed my head in shame. “For seven years Waldo Lydecker has enthusiastically acclaimed the Byron Pen. Without it, I am sure that my collected essays would never sell one hundred thousand copies.”
“She must have been a terrific kid,” he remarked.
“Only mildly terrific at that period. I recognized her possibilities, however. The next week I entertained her at dinner. That was the beginning. Under my tutelage she developed from a gauche child to a gracious New Yorker. After a year no one would have suspected that she came from Colorado Springs. And she remained loyal and appreciative, McPherson. Of all my friends she is the only one with whom I was willing to share my prestige. She became as well known at opening nights as Waldo Lydecker’s graying Van Dyke or his gold-banded stick.”
My guest offered no comment. The saturnine mood had returned. Scotch piety and Brooklyn poverty had developed his resistance to chic women. “Was she ever in love with you?”
I recoiled. My answer came in a thick voice. “Laura was always fond of me. She rejected suitor after suitor during those eight years of loyalty.”
The contradiction was named Shelby Carpenter. But explanation would come later. Mark knew the value of silence in dealing with such a voluble creature as myself.
“My love for Laura,” I explained, “was not merely the desire of a mature man for a pretty young thing. There was a deeper basis for affection. Laura had made me a generous man. It’s quite fallacious to believe that we grow fond of those whom we’ve hurt. Remorse cannot compensate. It’s more human to shun those whose presence reminds us of a shoddy past. Generosity, not evil, flourishes like the green bay tree. Laura considered me the kindest man in the universe, hence I had to grow to that stature. For her I was always Jovian, in humanity as well as intelligence.”
I suspected doubt behind his swift glance of appraisal. He rose. “It’s getting late. I’ve got a date with Carpenter.”
“Behold, the bridegroom waits!” As we walked to the door, I added, “I wonder how you’re going to like Shelby.”
“It’s not my business to like or dislike anyone. I’m only interested in her friends . . .”
“As suspects?” I teased.
“For more information. I shall probably call on you again, Mr. Lydecker.”
“Whenever you like. I do indeed hope to aid, if I can, in the apprehension of the vile being—we can’t call him human, can we?—who could have performed such a villainous and uselessly tragic deed. But in the meantime I shall be curious to know your opinion of Shelby.”
“You don’t think much of him yourself, do you?”
“Shelby was Laura’s other life.” I stood with my hand on the doorknob. “To my prejudiced way of thinking, the more commonplace and less distinguished side of her existence. But judge for yourself, young man.”
We shook hands.
“To solve the puzzle of her death, you must first resolve the mystery of Laura’s life. This is no simple task. She had no secret fortune, no hidden rubies. But,