Chapter three
Bertha Cool dropped me within a block of Ashbury’s place at ten twenty-five. It was drizzling a bit. I walked the block with my suitcase banging against my legs. It was a big place out in millionaire row with a gravel driveway, ornamental trees, roomy architecture, and servants.
The butler hadn’t heard any taxicab drive up. He looked at the rain which had fallen on the brim of my hat and asked if I was Mr. Lam. I told him I was.
He said he’d take my suitcase up to my room, that Mr. Ashbury wanted to see me right away in the library.
I went in. Ashbury shook hands and started performing introductions. Mrs. Ashbury was considerably younger than her husband. She had the big-breasted, big-hipped, voluptuous type of beauty. She was carrying about fifteen pounds too much weight to make the curves smooth and voluptuous. Here and there the contours broke into bulges. Apparently she couldn’t keep still. Her body was always in motion, little undulations, swayings and swingings. Her eyes sparkled with animal vitality. She looked me over, and I felt as though she’d rubbed her hands over me. She gave me her hand and started pouring out words. “I think it’s the most wonderful idea Henry has ever had. I suppose I should do something like that, too. I’ve really been putting on far too much weight the last two years. I wasn’t like that until this high blood pressure came along, spells of dizziness, and a pain over my heart. The doctor told me I shouldn’t exercise. But if the doctors can ever get this condition cleared up, I’ll exercise, and I lose weight very rapidly. You seem to be in marvelous shape, Mr. Lam. You don’t have any weight at all.”
She stopped talking long enough to let Ashbury introduce a man named Bernard Carter. He was a fat, jovial chap in the middle forties. He had fish eyes which were badly filmed, fat, pudgy hands, and a back-slapping manner. He was nicely tailored and was the sort of salesman who would show a customer a sample, tell him a smutty story, show him another sample, tell him another story, and get the order. Keep them laughing was his motto. He had three chins, and when he laughed they all quivered with mirth. The fat on his cheeks would push up under his eyes so that you could only see narrow slits when he was laughing, but if you watched those slits closely, you saw that the eyes behind them hadn’t changed expression a bit. They were filmed and watchful and fishy. Mrs. Ashbury watched him with beaming approval. He was very attentive to her.
I gathered Carter must be related to Mrs. Ashbury in some way. They seemed to have a lot in common — a pair who liked the good things in life, who lived to enjoy themselves.
Mrs. Ashbury couldn’t seem to take her eyes off me. She said, “You don’t seem to have an ounce of fat on you. You’re little, but you must have a wonderful body.”
“I try to keep in shape,” I said.
Carter said thoughtfully, “Henry, I guess I’ll have to become one of your first clients. I weighed myself the other day — wouldn’t believe how much weight I’d put on.”
Mrs. Ashbury said, “You’re all right, Bernard. Of course, a little exercise would tone you up a bit. Yes, it’s a splendid idea, and as soon as my blood pressure goes down, I’m going to exercise. It must be wonderful to be slim and hard like Mr. Lam — only you’re rather light for a professional wrestler, aren’t you?”
“Instructor,” I corrected.
“I know, but you must be good. Henry tells me you took on a Japanese jujitsu wrestler and made him look like thirty cents.”
Henry Ashbury stared steadily at me.
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be modest for me to comment,” I said.
Her throat, shoulders, and diaphragm rippled as she gave a high-pitched, delighted laugh. “Oh, I think that’s priceless. That’s just absolutely priceless! Bob would get an awful kick out of that. Bob’s modest, too. Did Mr. Ashbury tell you about Robert?”
“Your son?” I asked.
“Yes. He’s a wonderful boy. I’m so proud of him. He started in right at the bottom, and through diligent application and hard work, he’s been made president of the corporation.”
I said, “That certainly is remarkable!” Ashbury’s eyes stared at me over the tops of his glasses.
Bernard Carter said, “I’m not just throwing any bouquets when I say that Bob’s a business genius. I’ve never seen a man who could grasp things as quickly.”
“Doing all right, is he?” Henry Ashbury asked noncommittally.
“All right!” Carter exclaimed. “My God, he’s—” He looked across at Mrs. Ashbury, became silent, spread his palms in a little gesture, as much as to say, “Oh, what’s the use,” and exhaled his breath slowly.
“Glad to hear it,” Ashbury said without any show of enthusiasm.
Mrs. Ashbury had a low-pitched, throaty, seductive voice, but when she became excited, it jumped up an octave and bounced off the roof of her mouth as easily as hail off a tin roof.
“I think it’s absolutely marvelous, and, with it all, he’s just as modest as he can be. He hardly ever talks about his work. He feels that Henry isn’t interested in it. I’ll bet you don’t even know about their latest strike, Henry, or what Bob—”
“I have enough business at the office,” Henry interrupted.
“But you should get together more with Bob. You know, after all, in his position as president of the Foreclosed Farms Underwriters Company, Bob has opportunities to learn a lot of what’s going on in the business world. Some of that knowledge might prove very valuable to you, Henry.”
“Yes, my love, but I’m too tired when I get home to talk business.”
She sighed. “Oh, you businessmen! Bob is the same way. You just can’t get a word out of him.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“Down in the billiard room with his sales manager, Parker Stold.”
Ashbury nodded to me. “Come on, Lam. We’ll go meet Bob and Stold.”
I said conventional things to Mrs. Ashbury, and she took my hand and held it for a minute. When I got away, Henry Ashbury led the way down a long corridor, down a flight of stairs, and into another corridor. I could see a playroom on one side, with a long Ping-pong table. On the other side was a room from which came the click of balls and a mumble of conversation.
Ashbury opened the door. A man who had been getting ready to make a shot, with one hip on the table, climbed down and said “Hello, Governor,” to Ashbury.
This was Robert Tindle, a chap with a sloping forehead, long, straight nose, and eyes the color of cheap glass marbles — a watery green, covered with a film that was like scum. You felt that if you looked at those eyes closely, you’d see lots of little air bubbles. His face didn’t have any particular expression, and all I could think of when I looked at him was the ad for the contented cows.
He wore a dinner jacket and shook hands without enthusiasm.
Parker Stold evidently had something on his mind. He regarded our visit as an interruption, and acknowledged the introduction to me with a quick “Please’-t’-meetcha” and didn’t offer to shake hands. His eyes were a little too close together, but his hair was wavy, and he had a nice mouth. I figured he was a little older than Bob.
The butler got me up at seven o’clock the next morning. I shaved, dressed, and went down to the gymnasium. It was a big, bare room on the basement floor just back of the billiard room. It had the smell of never having been used. There were a punching bag, horizontal bars, Indian clubs, dumbbells, weight-lifting machines, a canvas wrestling mat, and, at the far end, a squared ring for boxing. There were boxing gloves hanging on a rack. I went over and looked at them. The price tags, which had turned yellow with age, were still tied by a faded-green string to the laces.