Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) (28 page)

“No, it’s safe,” Rona said. She had boxed and wrapped it this morning, ready for mailing. Now it lay in her handbag, waiting to be registered at lunch-time.

“Anything wrong?” Miss Guttman asked half-anxiously, half-eagerly.

Rona couldn’t resist saying, “He wants us to get married next month.”

“June?” Miss Guttman looked at her blankly. “Why, that will be two of us leaving to get married in June.” Her voice became primly polite. “How nice,” she said, and she turned to leave the office, the chartreuse dining-room now of little interest. “How early in June?” she asked from the doorway.

“I don’t know,” Rona said.

“And you’ve nothing ready! Isn’t that just like a man?”

“That’s the least of it,” Rona said, and went on writing.

Miss Guttman shrugged her disagreement. “It’s too big a rush,” she said warningly. But her advice went unheard, seemingly.

Miss Guttman returned moodily to her own office. In the corridor, she met Paul Haydn with some manuscript under his arm. He gave her his usual smile and greeting.

“Did you hear the latest?” she asked him. “Miss Metford’s getting married early in June.”

“Is she?” he said, and went on his way to Weidler’s office.

Now why did I have to go and blurt that out? Miss Guttman wondered miserably. It came so quickly to my tongue that I couldn’t stop it. Well, he’s probably glad to hear it, an end to those nasty rumours anyway. Miss Guttman comforted herself with that thought, and went to tell Mrs. Hershey what a wonderful man Scott Ettley was. “He saw it was the only way,” she insisted. “But poor Rona Metford! I wouldn’t like to think I was forcing a man to rush my wedding.”

“We don’t have to be so sorry for Rona Metford,” Mrs. Hershey said with a smile. “I don’t think it would take much forcing to get a man to marry her.”

Miss Guttman looked down at her pretty hands. “Yes,” she said slowly, “she’s got everything, hasn’t she?” She sighed, then. “I suppose she’ll get her photographs in all the papers. She’ll make a beautiful bride.”

“Oh, there’s more to marriage than good looks,” Mrs. Hershey said encouragingly, thinking of her own daughter-in-law.

Miss Guttman looked at her sharply. Then she clicked two sheets of paper and carbon into her typewriter, and began to type furiously.

* * *

“I’ve got mixed news for you,” Weidler said to Paul Haydn when he arrived. “It’s good for you, bad for poor Crowell. His wife just ’phoned me.”

“He’s got to stay in hospital?”

“He’ll never leave it.” Weidler stared at his desk moodily. Crowell was just his age. Crowell had been with
Trend
ever since it began with a skeleton staff and two rooms... Then Weidler rose quickly and stood by the window. “Well, that’s the way it is,” he said. “You’re the editor, now. Who’s the man for your assistant? Anyone in the office? Or do we bring in someone new?” He had his own ideas already formed, but it was his way to ask for advice. And there were occasions too, when he even took it. Now, thinking of Crowell, he felt that it wasn’t wise to centralise authority. Better delegate it around; then, if anything happened to himself,
Trend
would go on without big changes. Once he had prided himself that he was the magazine. But now—well, the magazine itself was the important thing. It could live, long after he was dead. “Tough on Crowell,” he said suddenly. “He was always so damned energetic that none of us ever took this illness of his very seriously. He was the best editor in the business.”

“And a generous one,” Paul Haydn said slowly. “He taught me all I know about the job.”

“Yes,” Weidler said, “yes.” He turned away from the window. “How is it coining along?” The remark was made to take Haydn’s mind off Crowell. Weidler knew well enough how the job was going. Haydn would be as good an editor as Crowell in another few years. It took time to build your staff, your magazine.

“All right.” Paul laid a thin pile of manuscript on the desk. “I thought you’d be interested in this.”

Weidler began examining it, but his thoughts were still on the new changes in staff, now made urgent. “We don’t want to hire any more Blackworths,” he said. “I suppose they’ll keep trying. At least that’s what your colonel told me.”

Paul suddenly remembered Weidler’s luncheon engagement yesterday with Roger Brownlee. “How did you get on?” he asked.

“He seems a pretty sound guy.” Weidler was impressed.

“He would have to be.”

“Yes, it’s quite a job he’s tackled.” Weidler looked up from the manuscript. “Do you want me to read this? It seems well written. Controversial, but interesting subject.”

“Yes. Interesting altogether. It’s just as Brownlee said: they keep trying.”

“Oh?” Weidler was suddenly alert. He looked at the author’s name again. “Never heard of him. You know him?”

“It’s another pen name for Nicholas Orpen.”

Weidler stared down at the title page. “Of all the damned impudence! Are you sure?”

“Positive. I got Brownlee’s office to check on it. Orpen used that pen name several times in 1945. He did rather well with it; so well, in fact, that he admitted it. Pride of authorship breaking out, I suppose. And perhaps he was confident in 1945 that everything was going his way. But he hasn’t used it during the last five years.”

“Why use it now?”

“Who would remember? If Brownlee’s file on Orpen didn’t exist, who would know? Only someone here or there with a long memory, someone who probably wasn’t in any position to do anything about Orpen.”

“But the fool—why didn’t he invent another name?”

“John Smith?” Haydn grinned. “He’s got enough pride to want some credit from his dear comrades. Or perhaps he enjoys the feeling that we’re stupid and he’s bright. Anyway, he used the name.”

“Of all the damned impudence,” Weidler repeated.

“They’ve plenty of that,” Paul agreed. “Actually they got their wires crossed. Murray was softening me up, you know; until yesterday that is, when he obviously got the word to score me off his useful-list. And this manuscript arrived last Friday. Too bad, wasn’t it?”

“How did you recognise the pen name?”

“I didn’t. I just felt uneasy when I read the article. It’s very persuasive. All about the Philippines. It seems that the Huks have nothing to do with Communism. They are just honest, patriotic agrarian reformers.”

Weidler flung the manuscript across the desk. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’d like to publish it.”

“What?”

“Yes, just as it stands. And this is what I’d like to have printed at its head.” Paul handed over a typed sheet of paper.

Weidler began reading. “‘Wallace York, the author of the following article, is one of the pen names used by Nicholas Orpen. We thought our readers would find this presentation of Mr. Orpen’s Communist point of view an interesting one. We have invited other articles on this subject from two other writers, one a Republican and one a Democrat. They are men who have recently spent some months in the Philippines, and their points of view will be published in our next two issues. We thank Mr. Orpen for giving us this chance to show our readers so clearly the present Communist line on the Philippine question.’”

Weidler looked up with a smile. “Can we get away with it?”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“But have you proof? Proof to back it up before twelve men on a jury?”

“Proof, too.”

“Okay!” Weidler began to laugh. “And once I thought I could keep politics out of
Trend
. A magazine devoted to the arts!”

“It still is. Politics is an art we are just discovering again.”

“I’ll read Orpen’s article,” Weidler said. “Of all the damned—”

Haydn nodded and left.

His telephone was ringing as he got back to Crowell’s office. His office now? He’d go up and see Crowell in the hospital tomorrow. Tonight, he had to see Roger Brownlee. He picked up the ’phone. “Haydn speaking.” I know what’s wrong with me, he was thinking, too much damned duty and work. I’ve been running to catch up ever since I got home. It’s about time I relaxed for a night or two. “Who is it?” he asked sharply. He turned his eyes away irritably from the calendar in front of him. May—June, the page read. June...to hell with June. “Who is speaking? Sorry. I can’t hear you.”

“You
do
sound angry,” the woman’s voice said delightedly, coming through more clearly now. “It’s Mary. Now, Paul, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” She laughed as if that were a charming little joke just waiting to be shared.

“No,” he said slowly, trying to remember who Mary was. Mary... Mary Bartlett was SHAEF, Paris, winter of 1944?... “Of course not. How are you? It’s been a long time.”

“I’m glad to know it has been a long time.” You could hear the smile in her voice.

“What on earth are you doing in New York?”

“Not very much at the moment. I’m free for lunch if you find that interesting.”

“Look,” he said, suddenly doubting, “is this Mary Bartlett?”

“As in pear? No. Wrong.” She wasn’t laughing now. “This is Mary Fyne. Still mad with me?”

“No,” he said, puzzling it out. Then he remembered the red-haired girl at Rona’s party, the one who liked them angry. He glanced down at his hand and the smile left his face.

“And I’ve stopped being mad with you, too,” she said softly.

“That’s a relief. I’m sorry about lunch today. Just can’t make it.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Yes. Well, thanks for—”

“I’m giving a party tomorrow. My address is—”

“Yes, I remember it,” he cut in.

“Do you?” Her voice was ice-cold, now. “But you can’t make the party either?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve already—”

“You know what, Paul Haydn? I begin to believe you can’t make anything.” She hung up.

Sweet little character, he thought savagely. He pushed away the ’phone. Then he tried to laugh the whole thing off. But today, it couldn’t be laughed away so easily. “If you find that interesting,” her voice had said. Interesting? Nothing was interesting if you weren’t interested. That was the trouble, that was what was wrong with him. You’re getting damned critical in your old age, he told himself angrily. You’re too damned hard to please.

He concentrated on work until lunch-time, clearing off a batch of final proofs. Routine work, he thought as he lifted his hat and walked down the corridor, routine work; nothing like it for deadening the nerves. He’d go over to Carlo’s to eat. He’d meet some of the crowd there. Tom Averil, Harry Meyer, Chuck Johansen. The old crowd... But Tom was now a book reviewer with a comfortable house in Scarsdale and a pretty wife to match. Harry Meyer had settled down in New Jersey, commuted without a murmur, kept bringing the conversation round to tulips and the twins. Chuck Johansen ran his fastest mile, these days, as the Sports Editor of the
Morning Star.
He was married, too, and putting on weight. There would be the usual jokes—now, take Paul, he’s a smart guy, how’s your bachelor apartment, Paul? Yes, they’d make the same old jokes, but it was only a form of politeness. You knew when you were lucky, they’d say. But not one of them would give up the privilege of grumbling about the ills, or the wife’s new haircut, or the kids’ reports from school since television came into the house.

“Hello, Mr. Haydn.” It was the receptionist, now quite unfrozen. “They say it’s a nice day out.” She flashed her warmest smile.

“That’s fine.”

“About time that rain stopped, even if we do need it.”

He nodded and got into the elevator. Joe complained about the weather too. He didn’t hold with that rainmaking: interfering with nature, the track at Jamaica yesterday was a mud puddle.

“A bad day?” Paul asked.

“Cleaned me out. The landlord will have to wait for the rent this week,” Joe said with a grin. “Guess we all have our bad days.”

“Guess we do.” Paul stepped out of the elevator. Scott Ettley was standing in front of the Coffee Shop door, facing him. The two men looked at each other without a sign of recognition. Haydn pulled on his hat and made his way through the crowd towards the revolving door. He needed cigarettes, but he wouldn’t stop to buy them at the newspaper stand. He wasn’t going to join this line, here, and see Rona step out of the elevator into Scott Ettley’s arms.

* * *

As Rona reached the ground floor, Joe was saying, “Guess the landlord will have to wait for the rent this week.” He didn’t expect an answer, she was too busy looking for her young man. She’s got him jumping through hoops, Joe thought as he looked at Scott Ettley: he’s been here for ten minutes and more. Spring is in the air, even if it isn’t in the weather. Nice looking couple they’ll make, too.

“Rona!” Scott took her arm, drawing it tightly through his, leading her toward Fifth Avenue. “We’ve got to celebrate. What about the Sherry-Netherland?”

“I—” She tried to break free.

“Now look, Rona,” he said, his eyes serious, “I’ve been through several kinds of hell since I saw you. But I’ve got it all straightened out, now.” He smiled encouragingly. “We’re going to the Sherry-Netherland.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said. She was trying to keep her determination. But it was difficult. She should never have seen him. Never? Never again? She bit her lip, and turned her face away. He tightened his grip on her arm and led her up Fifth Avenue.

“Or would you rather have the Plaza?” he asked.

“I—I don’t care. I’m not hungry.”

He looked at her worriedly. “What’s wrong, Rona? I’m sorry. If I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry. But I’ve got everything clear now. Everything’s all right.”

“Let’s go into the Park,” she said. “We can talk there.”

“Right,” he said. “We’ll talk.” About the future. At least, that was settled. No more worrying about what lay ahead, no more doubts, no more waiting. It was settled. It might not be his choice, but there was a great relief in putting aside all hesitations, all inaction. Last night, there had been moments of bitterness, of pride in revolt. But he had conquered that. It was a good feeling to know you could master yourself. Now that he had accepted what he had to do, he felt happier. And he had Rona.

“We’ll talk, and then we’ll have something to eat,” he said. “That’s a good idea.”