“Hello, Sam,” she said absently. “We haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“Working man,” he said, glancing at his watch. “How was the game?”
A bookie named Peterman overheard his question and struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “He asks how the game was,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “We’re on Dartmouth for sentimental reasons, and he asks us how it went!”
“Dartmouth lost, I guess,” Terrell said.
“You guessed yourself right to the head of the class. We pay scalper’s prices for the tickets because Mike didn’t bother to tell us we were going until about noon — then he sends me out for a fistful like it’s tickets for a neighborhood movie he wants.”
A press agent stopped to say hello and Peterman turned back to the bar still complaining about the price of the tickets, the money they had lost, and Dartmouth’s miserable showing. A friend of Jenny’s, a nervous creature with streaked blond hair, moved in beside Terrell, and said, “It’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” She was staring with virtuous anger at the college kids. “Having them here, considering.”
“Considering what?” Terrell said.
“Considering everything. Jenny’s too damn tolerant, if you ask me.”
“I can’t stand ugliness,” Jenny said. “I never could stand it. Scenes give me migraine.”
Terrell got the story by a kind of osmosis, absorbing it through the web of worry that covered all his senses and perceptions. Karsh was the villain — Jenny’s father and mother were in town, and Karsh had promised to take them for a drive to the Civil War battlefields. But he also promised (some weeks before, Jenny admitted reluctantly) to take his son, Philip, to the Dartmouth game. So there had been a fine fuss, ending in an apparent decision for Karsh, since Jenny’s mother and father had been left high and dry in their hotel room.
“Mom and Dad were fine about it,” Jenny said, “but then they would be.”
“They’re sweet,” her friend said, staring with a glassy malevolence at the college crowd. “Sweet, wonderful people. With values.”
“And all they wanted,” Terrell said, “was an afternoon’s tour of the battlefields. Didn’t they want Mike to sing ‘Dixie’ in blackface? Or act out the bayonet charges?”
Jenny looked at him and said quietly, “Knock that off, Sam.”
“Everybody’s always worried about Mike,” Terrell said. “Always grabbing checks away from him, thinking of his own good.”
“I give value,” Jenny said in a tight, controlled voice.
“You give him inflammation of the ulcer,” Terrell said.
Jenny’s friend said, “Well! I’ve been under the impression that I was addressing a gentleman.”
“You’d be more at home undressing one,” Terrell said. “Give Mike peace. Let him enjoy his boy tonight. He can only keep so many balls in the air at one time.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Jenny said. “Sore because you have to work for your share?”
“That’s it,” Terrell said. “I want fringe benefits. I want him to get my mother a job as a copy boy. Then we can all lunch together. Yummy stuff.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business,” Jenny said.
“Why don’t you write? You’ve got a talent for clichés.”
“You sarcastic sonofabitch.”
“Shut up,” Terrell said so sharply that the color left Jenny’s cheeks. He stared at his watch, caught suddenly in a bitter, impotent anger.
“Sam, what’s the matter?” Jenny said uneasily.
“I’m sorry, forget it.” It was now after six: Connie had been gone since ten that morning. Eight full hours. Anything could have happened to her in that time — anything might have been done to her.
The bedroom door opened and Karsh walked out shaking his head from side to side like a groggy fighter. The gesture was burlesque, amusingly exaggerated, but his attempt at lightness was obvious and strained; Karsh was fairly drunk, Terrell guessed, and was trying ineptly to put the room at ease.
He wore a superbly cut gray flannel suit with a Dartmouth pennant in the lapel, and was groomed to glossy perfection, everything about him buffed up to a high elegant tone. Smiling he tried to focus the mood of the party on himself, to fuse the awkwardly separated groups together with the heat of personality.
“Let’s have a drink, for God’s sake,” he said, “and then let’s get with the college songs. But the old ones! Not this upstart American stuff. Anybody know the one from good ole Babylon U? It’s in Latin, I guess.” In an unsteady voice he began to sing: “Babble on for Babylon, on the banks of the old Euphrates.” He shook his head. “Nope, not right. It’s on the slopes of old Mons Veneris, I think.”
Terrell crossed the silent room and took Karsh’s arm. “Mike,” he said, “listen to me. Will you please?”
“Sam, old boy, glad to see you. Did you meet my son? He’s ashamed of me, but he’s a good kid in spite of that — or because of it, I should say.”
“Mike, listen,” Terrell said. “The girl is gone. The witness. Cellars has her.”
But Karsh was lost to him. “Old college songs, Sam, that’s the spirit of the evening. There’s one from the ole U. of Peiping—” He laughed as an ad lib struck him. “The University of Peiping Tom, actually. It goes: On Godiva, on Godiva, on right through ’at town. You got to say ‘ ’at’ town; it shows you is a real ole southern boy.”
Karsh’s son joined them and said easily, “Dad, we’ve got to peel off. I didn’t get a chance to tell you during the game, but we’re driving up to Skyport tonight.” Young Karsh was tall, dark and his manners were impeccably casual.
“Now wait a minute.” Karsh looked puzzled and hurt. “You’re staying in town. All of you. I’ve got suites lined up for you, one for boys, one for girls. We’ll have a champagne breakfast in the morning and then we’ll all drive over to Skyport.”
“I’m sorry, Dad, but the mob has a timetable. We’re late now.” Terrell had the feeling that the boy’s indifferent poise was being severely tried; beneath his negligent manner he was probably sweating like any teen-ager caught in an embarrassing scene before friends. “We’ll all take a raincheck, if we may,” he said, smiling and touching Karsh’s arm. “Thanks for a very gay day.”
“That’s all right,” Karsh said. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Sorry you have to be on your way. I missed a briefing, I guess. I thought this was to be a real holiday. Well, have a nightcap anyway. And a bite of something to eat. Make your friends live it up a bit.”
When Karsh turned back to Terrell his manner had changed; the boozy good fellowship was gone, and his eyes were empty and cold. “I go on kidding myself,” he said. “Thinking there’s something besides work. But there’s nothing.” He shook his head quickly. “The girl is gone, eh? When did this happen?”
“Around ten this morning, I think.”
“How important is she to your story?”
“She’s it. But I can start without her.”
“Are you sure Cellars picked her up? She worked for him, you said. Maybe she’s still working for him.”
“No, she’s on the level. I know, Mike.”
“It’s a question of how far we can trust her. She may have walked out on you — keep that in mind. Scribbled a note and walked out. There’s no proof that Cellars grabbed her. Is there, Sam?”
Terrell hesitated, frowning faintly at Karsh. “How did you know she left a note?” he said.
“Clairvoyance, pure and simple. They all leave notes. Now look. Wait for me in my bedroom while I make another call. I’ll put the call through out here and say good-bye to the boy. Then we’ll go to work. Could you get everything together in two or three hours? For the Night Extra?”