A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

“On the level, who are you?” A hiccough marred the intensity of her new-found interest in him, but it was there just the same.

“You’ve heard of Robbins & Rogers, haven’t you?”

She nodded owlishly. “Sure, thass those restaurants where you put in a nickel and — plop! Out comes a sandwich.”

“Well, there you are.” He spread his hands.

She pointed an awe-stricken finger and covered her mouth with her other hand. “Then you — you must be the old guy’s son or something! Rogers’ son!”

He dropped his eyes modestly. “Why go into that? All that matters is I’m completely sold on you; nothing would be too good for you, if you’d only let me—”

He leaned entreatingly forward again and began exploring her fingertips with his lips. They tasted of nail-polish, but it was an improvement over the liquor.

She was doing a lot of quick thinking now on her own account. A millionaire’s son had fallen for her! It was the chance of a lifetime, might never happen again. If she let anything happen to him here tonight, where would she be? He’d be through with her, never look at her again. All she’d get out of it would be a lousy ten per cent commission. On the other hand, if she got him out of this jam, saved him for herself, who could tell what it might lead to? She’d be a fool not to think of herself first, and the hell with her employers!

“Wait a minute — wait a minute. I gotta think!” she said to him, and held his head in her hands.

He smiled a little out of the corner of his mouth, but she didn’t see that. He went right ahead singing his love-song close to her ear: “—diamonds and orchids and a mink coat and a penthouse way up in the air to which nobody but me would have the key. There’d be nothing too good for my baby! And at night — you’d have love!”

She rumpled her blazing hair and smote herself distractedly on the forehead.

“I gotta get you outta here! I gotta think of number one. Sh-h — not so loud, don’t let ’em hear you or we’re sunk!”

“Spoken like a lady,” he agreed humorously. “You’re — you’re just an angel in an evening gown.”

She had sobered up all at once. She glanced furtively around over her shoulder.

“Nurse your drink; make it last,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “You’re in the red enough as it is. I’ve got to think of an out for you — for both of us. You shouldn’ta come here. Do you know what this place is?”

“I knew the minute I came in,” he said calmly, “but it was too late to do anything about it by that time. What could I do?”

“Here’s the set-up,” she hissed, her shoulder touching his. “They’re going to clip you a century apiece for every drink the two of us have had. You say no to them and you get the beating of your life. They hold you in the back of the flat until your check has a chance to go through at the bank in the morning. Then they give you knock-out drops and you come to riding around in a taxi somewhere. It’s no use trying to catch up with them after you’ve come out of the repair shop; we change addresses about once a week.” She clenched her fist and brought it down on the table-top. “They’re not going to make a dent in my baby’s bankroll, not when I’ve got all those fancy trimmings coming to me! Once they find out who you really are, they’ll clip you twice as much. They won’t leave you anything but your shorts—”

“You’ve been peeking,” he observed dryly. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself, but she failed to see any humor in it.

“Tear up any cards or means of identification you’ve got on you, quick! If worse comes to worst, we can say you’re just a poor hash-slinger at one of your father’s restaurants, out on a spree; you haven’t a dime; you borrowed the clothes from a friend. But I can think of a better way still, a way that we won’t have to do any explaining.” She rose from the table. “I’m going inside and get my — my powder-puff.” She gave him a wink. “You sit tight here, keep everything under control until I get back. Don’t get into any argument because you’re no match for them. They carry blackjacks and brass knuckles.” He saluted her with two fingers, and she disappeared out the back way. Skip sat there grinning at his own thoughts, which seemed to afford him considerable amusement. “The old oil,” he remarked to himself. “The same old oil gets all of them.”

The waiter stuck his head in and glanced meaningfully at the two half-empty glasses. Skip gave him no encouragement. He sauntered over and leaned both hands heavily on the table. Skip stared up at him coldly. He may have been amused by the antics of Rose Gordon, but he didn’t seem to find this funny.

“Who sent for you?” he demanded brittlely.

“You drinkin’ any more?” rumbled the waiter.

“Who wants to know?” countered Skip, starting to breathe faster.

“Then suppose you pay off. We’re closing up—”

“Fair enough,” said Skip, dangerously calm. “How much do I owe you?”

The Caliban of a waiter didn’t bother jotting anything down. “Three hundred and fifty dollars,” he announced matter-of-factly, his pig-eyes boring into Skip’s.