He heard the operator trace the number through New York Information, then there was a ringing tone and a click. A voice said, “This’s Mrs. Quantz’s apartment.”
“I have a long-distance call for Mrs. Denise Quantz,” the Burlington operator said.
“Mrs. Quantz’s not here now.”
“Do you know where she can be reached?” The telephone company’s ritual was in motion.
“Mrs. Quantz’s in Burlington, Pennsylvania. Do you wish the number there?”
“If you please.” It was the Burlington operator again.
“The number is Hunter 6-5735.”
“Thank you, New York.” There was a click, then the operator said, “Did you get that number, caller?”
“Yes, thank you,” O’Donnell said, and hung up.
With his other hand he had already reached for the Burlington phone directory. He thumbed through it until he came to “Swayne, Eustace R.” As he had expected, the number listed was the one he had just been given.
Lifting the phone, he dialed again.
A male voice said, “Mr. Eustace Swayne’s residence.”
“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Quantz.”
“One moment, please.”
There was a pause. Then, “This is Mrs. Quantz.”
Until this moment O’Donnell had forgotten how much her voice had attracted him before. It had a soft huskiness, seeming to lend grace to the simplest words.
“I wonder if you remember,” he said. “This is Kent O’Donnell.”
“Of course! Dr. O’Donnell, how nice to hear from you!”
He had a sudden vision of her beside the telephone, the soft dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. Then he said, “I just called you in New York. They gave me the number here.”
“I flew down last night,” Denise Quantz said. “Father had a touch of bronchitis. I thought I’d stay with him for a day or two.”
He asked courteously, “It’s not too serious, I hope?”
“Not really.” She laughed. “My father has the constitution of a mule—as well as the obstinacy.”
He thought: I can believe that. Aloud he said, “I was going to ask you to have dinner with me in New York. I expect to be there next week.”
“You can still ask me.” The reply was prompt and definite. “I’ll be back by then.”
On impulse he said, “Possibly I could anticipate. Do you have a free evening in Burlington?”
After a moment’s pause she said, “Tonight would be the only time.”
O’Donnell calculated quickly. His office appointments would go on until seven. But if nothing else came up . . .
His thoughts were interrupted. “Oh, wait!” It was Denise Quantz again. “I’d forgotten. Dr. Pearson is having dinner with my father; I think I ought to stay.” She added, “Unless you’d care to join us?”
Mentally he chuckled. Joe Pearson might be surprised to find him there. Instinct, though, told him it was not a good idea. He said, “Thank you, but I think perhaps we’d better postpone it.”
“Oh dear.” Her voice sounded disappointed; then she brightened. “I could meet you after dinner if you like. Father and Dr. Pearson are sure to get into one of their chess games, and when they do that anyone else might just as well not be there.”
He found himself suddenly delighted. “That would be wonderful. What time will you be free?”
“About nine-thirty, I imagine.”
“Shall I call for you?”
“It would probably save time if we met downtown. You tell me where.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “The Regency Room?”
“All right; at half-past nine. Good-by now.”
As O’Donnell replaced the phone he had a pleasant sense of anticipation. Then he glanced at the clock again. He would have to hurry if he were to be in the O.R. on time.
The after-dinner chess game between Eustace Swayne and Dr. Joseph Pearson had been in progress for forty minutes. The two old men faced each other across a low rosewood games table in the same paneled library where, three weeks earlier, O’Donnell and Swayne had had their verbal joust. Only two lights were burning in the room—one from a single pendant shade immediately above the table, the other a dimly glowing rococo lamp by the hallway door.
Both men’s faces were in shadow, the light between them playing directly on the inlaid chessboard in the table’s center. Only when one or the other leaned forward to make a move in the game were their features defined momentarily by the lamplight’s outer edges.
At this moment both were still, the room’s deep silence hovering like a padded mantle over the pair of Louis XV beechwood wing chairs in which they sat. Eustace Swayne had leaned back. Holding a brandy glass of ruby crystal lightly between his fingers, he surveyed the game as it had progressed so far.
The previous move had been Dr. Joseph Pearson’s. A minute or two ago, gently cradling the white queen from the exquisitely carved Indian-ivory chess set, he had moved the piece a single square ahead.
Now, putting down the brandy glass, Eustace Swayne selected a pawn from his far right wing and transferred it two squares forward. Then gruffly, breaking the silence, he said, “There have been changes at the hospital, I hear.”
Beyond the lamplight, Joe Pearson studied the chessboard. When he was ready he leaned forward and moved a pawn on his left wing one square forward, countering the other’s advance. Only then did he grunt the one word, “Some.”
Again the silence, peace, the sense of time halted. Then the old tycoon stirred in his chair. “Do you approve these changes?” He reached forward and slid his bishop diagonally two squares to the right. Half humorously he glanced across the table in the semi-darkness. His expression said: Beat that line-up if you can.
This time Joe Pearson answered before he made his move. “Not entirely.” He remained in shadow, studying the other’s gambit, pondering the alternatives ahead. Then, slowly, still handling the pieces tenderly, he moved his rook one square to the left, dominating an open line.
Eustace Swayne waited. A minute passed, two minutes, then three. Finally his hand reached out for his rook and made a similar move to the same open line, meeting his opponent’s challenge. Then he said, “You have a means of veto for the future if you choose to exercise it.”
“Oh? What kind of veto?” The question was casual but the action which accompanied it swift. Pearson picked up his queen’s knight and swung it over the pieces, lodging it on a central square.
Studying the board, assessing the strength of his own position, Swayne said, “I’ve told Orden Brown—and your chief of surgery—I’m willing to give a quarter million dollars to the building fund.” With the last word he made a corresponding move to Pearson’s, sending his king’s knight forward until it reached the square beside the strongly lodged knight of his opponent.
A long silence this time. At the end of it the pathologist took his bishop and, swooping down the board, removed an opposing pawn. He said quietly, “Check.” Then, “That’s a lot of money.”
“I’ve attached a condition.” Swayne, on the defensive now, moved his king one square to the right. “The money will only be given if you remain free to run your own department in the hospital the way you want for as long as you choose.”
This time Joe Pearson made no move. He seemed to be musing, looking away into the darkness over the other man’s head. Then he said simply, “I’m touched.” His eyes returned to the chessboard. After a while he lifted his knight to a square so that the piece attacked Swayne’s now cramped king.
Eustace Swayne had watched the action carefully. But before making his own move he reached for a brandy decanter, filled Pearson’s glass and then his own. Putting the decanter down, “It’s a young man’s world,” he said, “and I suppose it always has been. Except that sometimes old men still have power . . . and the sense to use it.” Then, his eyes glinting, he reached down, picked up the pawn in front of his king, and with it captured the troublesome knight.
Thoughtfully Pearson stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger. Then he selected his queen, moved it six squares down the open file, and captured the black king’s pawn. “You say . . . Orden Brown, O’Donnell . . . they know this?”