Fascinated, Cynthia watched him.
For the space of some seven or eight seconds he sat there. Then he said slowly, “No, they mustn’t find that other portrait. It would raise the devil.” He crossed over to the sideboard, returned with the whisky bottles.
“Now that,” she observed, “is a swell idea!”
Terry poured whisky into her glass. She regarded the amount of amber fluid with speculative eyes.
“Owl, are you trying to get me tight?” she asked.
Pouring ginger ale on top of the whisky, he asked, “Why should I try to get you tight?”
She giggled. “Don’t you ever read the tabloids, Terry Clane? Think of the headlines: GIRL LURED TO MAN’S APARTMENT AND PLIED WITH DRINK, SHE EXPLAINS TO ARRESTING OFFICERS.”
“Officers?” he inquired.
“You know, the ones the neighbors call in when the party gets rough. And the tabloid story runs something like this: ‘Really, I had no idea where we were,’ pretty Miss Smith, nineteen and blonde, said when interviewed by a Whosis reporter to-day. ‘I thought we were going to the library to look at some etchings. He produced a flask of amber liquid and told me it was cold tea. My mother never lets me drink coffee, but tea is all right, she says. So I drank it. I thought it had a peculiar taste, but I drank it all, and the next I remembered was when the officers broke down the door of the apartment.’ ”
She held the glass up to the light and said, “When it’s this color, Owl, it’s plenty potent. But here goes, down the hatch.”
She gulped down the drink, gravely pushed the empty glass across the table to him.
“You know, Terry, I’m inclined to co-operate... Tell me, Owl, why are you trying to load me up?”
She stretched out a shapely leg, looked at the wriggling toes thoughtfully and then surveyed the graceful curves. “Terry, I believe it’s time to call a halt. Every time I wiggle my toes it seems to wiggle something in my mind and make me feel like laughing.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Babies wiggle their toes and laugh.”
“Oooh, Owl, you’re so good to me! I thought perhaps you’d get sore. Honestly, Owl, I really am going to get a teeny-weeny bit tight. I intended to stop after the second drink, but now you’ve started to ply me with liquor I’m going to trail along and see if you are going to take advantage of me... I’m afraid you’re not.”
She slipped from her chair, got to her feet, held out her hands in front of her, extended rigid forefingers, and went through a burlesque of trying to put them together, executing elaborate maneuvers.
He came to her, slid his arm round her waist and said, “Cut the comedy, Cynthia.”
“Why should I? I get pleasure out of it. I’m in a serious-minded world. People are all too damned serious. Man is supposed to suffer with a long face and keep his mind in a lather of worry. Because I won’t do it, people think I’m cuckoo.
“You’ve heard about the fox who had his tail cut off. He wanted all the other foxes to be the same way. Honestly, Owl, that’s the way with the world. Here we have a glorious life to live, and people shut themselves up in stuffy offices and worry about the interest on the national debt or the high price of gasoline, or which political party is going to have the spending of the tax money. Wouldn’t it be funny, Owl, if some day the playboys should get sufficiently in the majority to take over control of the government and the banks and everyone had to be cheerful. They could amend the constitution to provide that everyone would have to drink at least one cocktail before dinner.”
She was still making elaborate efforts to get her finger-tips together.
“Now,” she went on, “I’m going to hold the left one still and the right one is going to sneak up on it like a man hunting a deer. Tell me, Owl, when you were in China, did you...”
His arm tightened about her. The stray tendrils of her unruly hair tickled his cheek and chin. He felt the warmth of her body through the thin dress, sensed the vibrant vitality, the spirit which refused to take life seriously. His other hand grasped her shoulder, swung her round to face him.
As she looked up, he bent his lips to hers.
With a little satisfied exclamation, she snuggled her body close to his. Her right hand slid up the back of his neck, until the fingers entwined themselves in his hair. His arm, suddenly tightening, lifted her shoeless feet from the floor.
Their lips were clinging in a quivering embrace when a latchkey clicked in the door.
Cynthia dropped her arms, placed her hands against Terry’s shoulder and pushed back until she was free, then turned to face the door.
Yat T’oy stood on the threshold.
“Yat T’oy,” she assured him, with mock solemnity, “there are twenty-four hours in the day, seven days in the week, fifty-two weeks in the year, yet, with all that time to choose from, you had to pick this particular time to open that door.”
There were times when Yat T’oy was able to comprehend virtually everything which was said to him in English, and there was no time when he could not comprehend a situation but now he chose to understand neither.
“No savvy,” he said blandly.
“You heap savvy Tom Collins.”
“Heap savvy Tom Collins,” he admitted, and his eyes, watching for an opportunity, moved significantly to Terry.
“It would be well,” Yat T’oy said in Cantonese, “that the master should hear that which the servant would speak.”
“Don’t do that, Yat T’oy,” Cynthia remonstrated. “It’s as bad as whispering. You mustn’t speak Chinese to your master when I’m here. Now if you hadn’t come in just when you did... Oh, skip it!”
Terry moved towards the far end of the room. Cynthia regarded him with thoughtful scrutiny.
Terry stepped over more closely to Yat T’oy.
“The detectives,” Yat T’oy said in Chinese, “inquire much about sleeve guns. They also wished to know the names of those who called upon the master during the past few days.”
“What did you tell them?” Terry inquired.
“I am an old man. My eyesight is dim and my memory is poor. You are the Beneficent One who sees not the infirmities of age, but keeps me employed as a servant when I am fit for nothing save to sit in a chair and wait the moment of joining my ancestors. Of course,” Yat T’oy went on, “I was able to remember the man with the pale eyes because the detectives had followed him here, and I knew of this sister of the painter woman who is here now because they also had been aware of her, but as to other matters, my memory was very dim.
“But that of which you should be warned is that they are seeking to find the Chinese girl with whom you are friendly. The police have wide ears and they listen to the babble of many tongues. Does the Honored One wish that I shall bring more ice?”
“Yes,” Terry said. “And, Yat T’oy, I have something which I must do, and of which this sister of the painter woman must know nothing. It would be well if she should sleep.”
Yat T’oy’s eyes were utterly without expression. “How long should she sleep?”
“Not for long. An hour, perhaps, then awake. Perhaps a little of the herb you used...” Terry let his voice trail into silence, and Yat T’oy said smoothly, “It is as nothing. A very small matter.”
He turned and shuffled from the room. Cynthia called after him, “Don’t forget my Tom Collins, Yat T’oy!”
“Tom Collins,” Yat T’oy assured her, in his broken English, “come right now, plenty soon. Heap quick. Can do!”
Terry returned to his chair. Cynthia stared across at him and said, “Listen, Owl, one more is my limit. You know me. I like to get just a little bit tight, and then I stop.”