“And Harry?”
“Oh, Harry. Harry never looked back after that; must have made a dozen deals in the club that night. Within a year he was on top again and even found himself another cute little blonde.”
“What does Edward say about the result now, thirty years later?”
“Do you know, that remains a mystery to this day. I have never heard him mention the game once in all that time.”
Eric’s cigar had come to the end of its working life and he stubbed the remains out in an ashless ashtray. It obviously acted as a signal to remind him that it was time to go home. He rose a little unsteadily and I walked down with him to the front door.
“Goodbye, my boy,” he said, “do give Edward my best wishes when you have lunch with him tomorrow. And remember not to play him at backgammon. He’d still kill you.”
The next day I arrived in the front hall a few minutes before our appointed time, not sure if Edward Shrimpton would fall into the category of early or late Americans. As the clock struck one, he walked through the door: there has to be an exception to every rule. We agreed to go straight up to lunch since he had to be back on Wall Street for a two-thirty appointment. We stepped into the packed lift. The doors closed like a tired concertina and the slowest lift in America made its way toward the second floor.
As we entered the dining room, I was amused to see that Harry Newman was already there, attacking another steak, while the little blond lady was nibbling a salad. He waved expansively at Edward Shrimpton, who returned the gesture with a friendly nod. We sat down at a table in the center of the room and studied the menu. Steak and kidney pie was the dish of the day, which was probably the case in half the men’s clubs in the world. Edward wrote down our orders in a neat and legible hand on the little white slip provided by the waiter.
Edward asked me about the author I was chasing and made some penetrating comments about her earlier work, to which I responded as best I could while trying to think of a plot to make him discuss the pre-war backgammon championship, which I thought would make a far better story than anything she had ever written. But he never talked about himself once during the meal, so I despaired. Finally, staring up at the plaque on the wall, I said clumsily:
“I see you were runner-up in the club backgammon championship just before the war. You must have been a fine player.”
“No, not really,” he replied. “Not many people bothered about the game in those days. There is a different attitude today with all the youngsters taking it so seriously.”
“What about the champion?” I said, pushing my luck.
“Harry Newman? He was an outstanding player, and particularly good under pressure. He’s the gentleman who greeted us when we came in. That’s him sitting over there in the corner with his wife.”
I looked obediently toward Mr. Newman’s table but my host added nothing more, so I gave up. We ordered coffee and that would have been the end of Edward’s story if Harry Newman and his wife had not headed straight for us after they had finished their lunch. Edward was on his feet long before I was, despite my twenty-year advantage. Harry Newman looked even bigger standing up, and his little blond wife looked more like the dessert than his spouse.
“Ed,” he boomed, “how are you?”
“I’m well, thank you, Harry,” Edward replied. “May I introduce my guest?”
“Nice to know you,” he said. “Rusty, I’ve always wanted you to meet Ed Shrimpton because I’ve talked to you about him so often in the past.”
“Have you, Harry?” she squeaked.
“Of course. You remember, honey. Ed is up there on the backgammon honors board,” he said, pointing a stubby finger toward the plaque. “With only one name in front of him and that’s mine. And Ed was the world champion at the time. Isn’t that right, Ed?”
“That’s right, Harry.”
“So I suppose I really should have been the world champion that year, wouldn’t you say?”
“I couldn’t quarrel with that conclusion,” replied Edward.
“On the big day, Rusty, when it really mattered, and the pressure was on, I beat him fair and square.”
I stood in silent disbelief as Edward Shrimpton still volunteered no disagreement.
“We must play again for old times’ sake, Ed,” the fat man continued. “It would be fun to see if you could beat me now. Mind you, I’m a bit rusty nowadays, Rusty.” He laughed loudly at his own joke but his spouse’s face remained blank. I wondered how long it would be before there was a fifth Mrs. Newman.
“It’s been great to see you again, Ed. Take care of yourself.”
“Thank you, Harry,” said Edward.
We both sat down again as Newman and his wife left the dining room. Our coffee was now cold, so we ordered a fresh pot. The room was almost empty and when I had poured two cups for us Edward leaned over to me conspiratorially and whispered:
“Now there’s a hell of a story for a publisher like you. I mean the real truth about Harry Newman.”
My ears pricked up as I anticipated his version of the story of what had actually happened on the night of that pre-war backgammon championship more than thirty years before.
“Really?” I said, innocently.
“Oh, yes,” said Edward. “It was not as simple as you might think. Just before the war Harry was let down very badly by his business partner, who not only stole his money, but for good measure his wife as well. The very week that he was at his lowest he won the club backgammon championship, put all his troubles behind him and, against the odds, made a brilliant comeback. You know, he’s worth a fortune today. Now, wouldn’t you agree that that would make one hell of a story?”
One-Night Stand
The two men had first met at the age of five when they were placed side by side at school, for no more compelling reason than that their names, Thompson and Townsend, came one after the other on the class register. They soon became best friends, a tie which at that age is more binding than any marriage. Having passed their eleven-plus examination they proceeded to the local grammar school with no Timpsons, Tooleys or Tomlinsons to divide them and, after completing seven years in that academic institution, reached an age when one has to go either to work or to university. They opted for the latter on the grounds that work should be put off until the last possible moment. Happily, they both possessed enough brains and native wit to earn themselves places at Durham University to read English.
Undergraduate life turned out to be as sociable as primary school. They both enjoyed English, tennis, cricket, good food and girls. Luckily, in the last of these predilections they differed only on points of detail. Michael, who was six feet two, willowy with dark curly hair, preferred tall, bosomy blondes with blue eyes and long legs. Adrian, a stocky man of five feet ten, with straight, sandy hair, always fell for small, slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed girls. So whenever Adrian came across a girl that Michael took an interest in or vice versa, whether she was an undergraduate or a barmaid, the one would happily exaggerate his friend’s virtues. Thus they spent three idyllic years in unison at Durham, gaining considerably more than a Bachelor of Arts degree. As neither of them had impressed the examiners enough to waste a further two years expounding their theories for a Ph.D., they could no longer avoid the real world.
Twin Dick Whittingtons, they set off for London, where Michael joined the BBC as a trainee while Adrian was signed up by Benton and Bowles, the international advertising agency, as an accounts assistant. They acquired a small flat in the Earl’s Court Road which they painted orange and brown, and proceeded to live the life of two young blades, for that is undoubtedly how they saw themselves.