But then Byron reached over and slid open the right-hand door of the bookcase. “Ah! Glad to see you still file the bourbon in the same place. Join me?”
“Here, let me. I’m sorry, I should have offered—” Yes, he should have. It disturbed the balance, to have Byron pouring out the drinks as if he owned the place. It put Tenny at a subtle disadvantage. Why hadn’t he thought of it! Inwardly fuming, he sipped and listened, with half an ear, to Byron’s account of his hairbreadth escape. He was rather flippant about it. Trust Byron.-
Of course he was not dead. It seemed to Tenny that — without ever admitting it, least of all to himself — he had known it all along. For the past six months he had been waiting for some such moment as this; tonight when Byron fell into step beside him he had felt not so much the throb of astonishment as the thud of suspense ended.
He straightened his glasses and cleared his throat. “I’d like to query you on your plans,” Tenny announced. “Is it your intention to pick up where you left off here at the office?”
“I haven’t thought much about it. You seem to be doing okay.”
“I like to think so. It hasn’t been easy, let me assure you.” He let that sink in, and wound up significantly, “Under the circumstances.”
“Which circumstances would those be? I suppose I did leave a loose end or two, if that’s what you mean—”
“I mean that Carol — Miss York — found it impossible to continue covering up your little manipulations. And I’d like to go on record right here and now, Byron. You may be able to rationalize the fund juggling to your own satisfaction. But not to mine. Let me assure you. Not to mine. With Miss York’s assistance I was able to adjust the matter without its becoming common knowledge, and as far as I’m concerned there’s no necessity for ever mentioning it again. I simply wanted to go on record. One more point. If you have any idea of penalizing Carol — Miss York — for exposing what not even she, loyal as she was, could no longer hide, if you have any idea— Well. You will have me to deal with.” He leaned back, flushed with triumph.
“I see,” Byron said at last. No denial or defense. Just the mild, thoughtful statement, followed — as might have been expected — by the irrepressible grin. “How is Carol, anyway? Miss York?”
“Very well, thank you. As you may already have heard, Miss York has consented to be my wife.”
“You’re kidding. Carol and you?” Byron exploded into laughter.
And Tenny, having carried everything off so well (except for the drink business), with such dignity and force, now Tenny had to spoil it all by squeaking, “What’s so funny?” No other word for it. Squeaking. He couldn’t stop, either. “I fail to see — funny, is it? You think just because — shut up!”
He was on his feet, gripping the desk that was no longer a bulwark, quivering with rage and despair at this foolish, flustered, familiar fellow who was his old self — the self he had presumed was gone forever but of course was no more dead than Byron. They were inseparable, this old self and Byron — like Siamese twins; there was no getting rid of the one as long as the other lived.
“Sorry, Tenny.” Byron swallowed another guffaw. “I’m sorry — I think it’s very nice. Congratulations.”
“Thank you for nothing. I know what you’re thinking.”
It was the basic, galling thing between them, the root that had produced silly old Tenny in the first place. And why? What was there about Byron that drew women to him? Oh, he didn’t always come out ahead — Mary Ethel, for instance — but there had to be an exception to prove the rule.
All his life Tenny had bitterly watched the rule in operation: Byron could pick and choose, while he himself must scramble and scrabble for nothing better than a wallflower. If that. Why? It wasn’t as if Byron were tall, dark, and handsome. Far from it. He had never bothered much about clothes or the little gestures — corsages, jewelry, et cetera — that were supposed to be so important. Tenny had spent more lavishly, had sweat through dancing lessons, had observed all the fine points of etiquette — and it didn’t make a bit of difference; if he got a girl to date him it meant she was really from hunger.
Except Carol. No shortage of men in Carol’s life; and if that fact now and then cost Tenny an uneasy pang — well, that was the price you paid for winning such an attractive girl. But his heart contracted in sudden pain. Would he have won her, even as a secretary, if Byron had stayed on the scene? The gossip about her and Byron was only gossip, according to her; surely Tenny knew her better than to believe she would take up with a married man! He most assuredly did. And yet, and yet—
He could not help remembering that she had never so much as glanced his way while Byron was around, any more than he could suppress the thought of what she might do now that Byron was back. The thought that flared up, intolerable and uncontrollable as fire: one wave of Byron’s hand was all it would take to bring her running, one flick of his finger could flatten Tenny’s house of cards.
No wonder Byron had laughed. No wonder he sat there now, with that unconcerned air, as much as to say, There it is, Tenny my boy. What are you going to do about it?
Kill him. It clicked into Tenny’s mind, precise as a shot. He was supposed to be dead. Carol thought he was dead. Let her go on thinking so. Kill him and along with him his Siamese twin, the old silly Tenny.
For one dazzling moment it was that uncomplicated — no qualms, no fear of consequences to hold him back. With his hands planted on the desk, he leaned forward giddily, staring down at his brother’s bent head. Then he remembered the others. Mother. Mary Ethel. Even if by some fluke Byron had come here first and they still thought he was dead — even then, there was the elevator starter who had seen them come back together; there were all the little potential slip-ups gathering now in a gnatlike pestering swarm.
And there was Byron himself. He was looking straight up at Tenny now, no longer smiling or unconcerned. His eyes were inexpressibly sad and knowing, like a monkey’s. “Relax, Tenny. I’m not out to grab anything away from you. I don’t know why it is, we always wind up in some kind of a hassle. Well, time I shoved off.”
“Where are you — I suppose you’ve already seen Mary Ethel and Mother. You’d go to them first, I suppose.”
“Do you?” Byron cocked his head, grinning a little in the old way. “Why don’t you check with them, Tenny? You can’t take my word for anything. You know that. I’m dishonest.”
“It’s Carol, then. Isn’t it? I’m warning you, Byron, if you try to—”
“I just want to thank her for her loyalty, that’s all. And naturally wish her happiness. So long, Tenny. See you at Mother’s reunion.”
The door sighed shut behind him. Tenny’s knees buckled; but though he sagged in his chair, inert as a sack of flour, inside he still spluttered and raged. Every rankling word came back to him, every gesture, and always in the background was the contemptible squeak of his own voice. Except for that one exalted moment when he hadn’t cared who knew of what slip-ups he made. That one moment — lost forever, he had let it go by — when he could have done it, should have done it.
But Mother. Mary Ethel. The elevator starter.
He made a strangled sound and put his head down on the desk.
“Now wait a minute,” Carol said into the cream-colored telephone in her bedroom. “Sure you sound like him, but Byron Hawley’s dead. D-e-a-d. So you can’t be him. Or if you are you’ve got to do more than sound like him to prove it to me.”
“Okay. Remember last Decoration Day in Atlantic City? It rained so hard there wasn’t anything to do but—” He elaborated, in vivid detail.