“All you had?” repeated Tim. “In that case, I’m afraid—”
“Hey, what the hell’s going on here?” snapped a voice behind him. Tim turned and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tightly stretched dinner jacket, a man with blue-black jowls and no forehead to speak of.
Sybil said coldly, “Careful of your language, fellow.”
The big man blinked as if she had struck him on the chin with a fan. His thick lips curled slightly. “I said what the hell’s going on, and that’s what I mean.”
The small woman started to explain. “Okay, pay the ten bucks,” said the big man, “and then get your fanny the hell out of here.”
He could hardly have known that fanny is considered much more offensive in England than in America, but even if he had he could hardly have expected the stinging slap that Sybil planted on his blue-black cheek. He took a dazed step backward, then hunched toward her like an enraged great ape. Tim grabbed at his arm. Under the soft sleeve it felt like an iron bar.
Another voice, to Tim’s frank relief, joined the colloquy. “Easy, Jake,” said the new voice. It belonged to a short, cheerful man in his fifties, with smooth gray hair, a clipped gray mustache, and alert blue eyes. Unlike Jake, he wore his evening clothes as if he was used to them and liked them.
Jake didn’t turn immediately. He looked as if he might be counting ten, then he looked around with a petulant expression. “Okay,” he said, “but you know the powder room’s a concession and I can’t afford no trouble over it.”
“The difficulty with Jake,” the gray-haired man said pleasantly to Tim and Sybil, “is that he can’t get it through his Neanderthal skull that his clientele includes ladies and gentlemen.”
“Ladies!” said Jake. “Did you see her sock me?”
“Ladies can be quite as high-spirited, Jake, as the trulls you associate with. This particular lady, unless I’m much mistaken, spells it with a capital L.” He smiled at Sybil and said, “You are the Lady Sybil Hastings, are you not?”
Tim blinked at the gray-haired man and then at Sybil. Sybil was blinking, too, then a slow, almost sheepish smile crossed her face. “Well, yes,” she said, “but I’ve tried awfully hard to live it down. The Lady part, I mean.”
Tim gaped. “For Pete’s sake,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me?”
Sybil shrugged. “Nonessential,” she said. “And a lot of rot, into the bargain. In any event,” she went on, turning back to the gray-haired man, “I’m Mrs. Tim Ludlow now. This is Mr. Tim Ludlow.”
“Charmed,” said the gray-haired man.
“But how in the world did you know?” asked Sybil. “Do you read the Tatler?”
“Occasionally. It so happens, however, that I had the pleasure of meeting you a good many years ago. When you hadn’t been long out of pigtails. It was on a Mediterranean cruise. Remember?”
“Of course I remember,” cried Sybil excitedly. “And now I remember you. You were the jolly American who used to play bridge with Daddy.”
“Quite so. I might add that I was extremely fond of—of the late Earl.” He lowered his voice a trifle. “His death was a severe blow to me.”
He and Sybil were both silent for a moment, while Tim stared from one to the other.
Then the gray-haired man, speaking more cheerfully, as if to indicate that the solemnities had been duly observed, said, “I must confess that I had the advantage of you. There was a bit in this morning’s paper about you and your fellow brides’ arrival. Or should I say sister-brides?”
“Sisters under the skin,” said Sybil.
The gray-haired man smiled. “It occurred to me,” he went on, “that you might possibly appear in this checkered establishment. Your father was a great one for the old Four Hundred Club, and this is its nearest New York equivalent.”
“Tim, darling,” said Sybil, “this is something wonderful. More wonderful than you dream. I propose we observe the occasion with a bottle of bubbly.”
Tim coughed. “There’s a slight technical hitch,” he said, looking embarrassed.
“I’m sure this kind chap will cash a check for you,” said Sybil, waving airily toward Jake. The latter’s eyebrows rose into his hair’s oily gloss.
The gray-haired man held up a restraining hand. “I quite agree,” he said, “that the occasion calls for champagne, but let there be no misunderstanding as to whose treat it shall be. Jake, send a bottle of Cordon Rouge to my table. Preferably the twenty-eight.”
“What about my door?” demanded a querulous little voice.
“Imagine forgetting that one’s holding a door,” said Sybil merrily. “Here it is, duck.”
The woman accepted it and said, “Yes, but—”
“Pother,” interrupted the gray-haired man sharply. “Get thee back to your nunnery. This way, good people.”
He led them through the crowd, like Moses passing through the Red Sea, to a low balcony that extended along one side of the room. There was a vacant table at one end, toward which their host bowed them. It was comparatively cool and tranquil on the balcony, and one could look down upon the kaleidoscopic crowd with Olympian detachment.
“Reminds me of the Cafe Royal balcony on extension night,” said Sybil.
“Just so,” said the gray-haired man. “Much the same sort of people, too. Stage folk, artists, a dash of society, journalists, and the like. What you might call the moneyed Bohemia.”
“If I’m not being personal,” said Tim, “are you the owner?”
The other shook his head with rueful amusement. “I’ve paid for it several times over,” he said. “I’m just a very, very good customer. Incidentally, I haven’t introduced myself properly, have I? My name is Magruder. Sam Magruder.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Sybil. “It’s all coming back to me now. I’ve often heard Daddy speak of you.”
Magruder smiled reminiscently. “You and I must have a long talk one of these days. I’m sure Mr. Ludlow won’t mind—although, of course, he’s more than welcome to join us.”
“I never butt in on old home weeks,” said Tim.
Magruder felt in his pockets. “Afraid I haven’t a card,” he apologized. “I’ll scribble my number down for you.” He brought out a black notebook and started to write in it. “By the way,” he said, “you’d better give me your address, too.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t one,” said Sybil. “Except for a frightfully temporary hotel.”
“What!” exclaimed Magruder, looking up from the notebook. “You mean you’ve no place to live?”
“That’s how it looks,” said Tim.
Magruder laid down his fountain pen and stared at both of them with genuine concern. “By George,” he said, “this is terrible. Is this the sort of hospitality America gives its English visitors? Is this the thanks our veterans get? By George, something’s going to be done about this.”
“I wish it were,” sighed Tim.
“Damn it, young man, I’m serious. Something will be done. As sure as my name’s Sam Magruder.” He gave his head a firm little shake. Then he wrote some more in the notebook, ripped the page out, and handed it to Sybil. She tucked it into her bag.
It struck Tim that their host must have written a good deal more than