“Redhead?” said Magruder, looking. “I don’t see any redhead.”
“I’m afraid she’s imaginary,” said Tim. “Strictly a dream girl.”
Magruder, still looking across the big room, started to laugh, then the laugh died on his lips. They tightened and his blue eyes turned hard and glittery.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sybil. She and Tim both turned in the direction of his gaze and saw a group of men coming through the red-curtained entrance. They were in dinner jackets, but they kept their hats on. The hats looked more natural than the dinner jackets.
“Coppers?” asked Sybil.
“No,” said Magruder. For another second or two, he remained immobile, as if fascinated by a cobra’s eye, then swiftly, without rising, he slipped from his chair and moved in a crouching run toward the wail just beyond the table. Tim saw now that there was a door there, painted like the wall, and Magruder pushed it a little way open. “Better come with me,” he whispered. “That’s what your father’d have wanted. Both of you. And keep down.”
“Come on,” said Sybil to Tim. She slithered from the table to the door, which Magruder pushed farther open for her. Tim followed, and Magruder followed him, pulling the door shut.
Even as the latch clicked, a sharp, dry crack sounded in the room behind them, then another and another, each followed instantly by a splintering thud against the door.
“My God,” said Tim, “those were shots.”
“Isn’t it exciting?” said Sybil. “I’m crazy about New York.”
They were standing in a narrow stone passageway, dimly lit and damp. “Better let me go first,” said Magruder. “And don’t dawdle.” He slid past them and they followed him through the gloom.
Three more shots crackled distantly beyond the stone walls and somebody screamed; it might have been a man or a woman.
“Watch it,” called Magruder over his shoulder. “Flight of steps ahead.”
They could see his head and shoulders descending. Tim took Sybil’s arm and said, “Careful, honey.”
“I’m all right,” said Sybil. “Having a lovely time, in fact.”
The steps were steep and uneven and the dampness sweated more freely from the stones on either side. Below, a patch of light appeared, then fresh and wet and malodorous came the smell of the East River.
They emerged onto a ledge a few feet above the water, darkly visible through the mists of breaking dawn. Beside them, a smooth wall rose endlessly into the lightening sky.
“This way,” called Magruder, moving along the ledge with easy caution. “Don’t be alarmed by this stuff around you. It’s only daylight.” He sounded exhilarated, almost gay.
“Reminds me of the sewers of Paris,” said Sybil.
“Reminds me of a double feature,” said Tim.
Sybil risked her balance to turn and frown at him. “How stuffy, darling!” she exclaimed. “I’ll leave you if you say things like that. I’ll leave you for this lovely man.”
The lovely man had halted a little distance ahead of them. As they caught up, they saw that he was standing at the foot of another flight of steps, cut into the wall. “These’ll take you up to the street,” he said. “There’s a cab stand a block north. Forgive me if I don’t accompany you, but it’s a bit of a climb for a chap of my age and habits.”
“But what are you going to do?” asked Sybil anxiously.
“Watch the sunrise.” He smiled and patted her shoulder. “There’ll probably be a commotion in the street,” he went on, “but don’t you get mixed up in it. You go straight home. And don’t lose my number. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
He made them a courtly little bow and a careless salute, then he turned and stepped off the ledge. Sybil gasped and clutched at Tim. Neither had seen, in the mist, the small motorboat bumping gently alongside. Magruder stood up in it, waving, then he hunched down almost out of sight, and the boat itself vanished in the chill grayness.
“It reminds me of the Morte d’Arthur,” said Sybil. “And if you say anything about double features, I’ll push you into the river.”
“Honey,” said Tim, “you’re crying.”
“I know I am,” said Sybil. “He was a friend of Daddy’s.”
As they started up the steps, the dawn was shattered over their heads by the shrieking of a multitude of sirens.
Chapter Four
War Brides Improved
Sybil opened one eye upon the soupy light of blinds drawn against a gray afternoon. For a moment she wasn’t quite sure where she was. Her gaze moved slowly around the square, impersonal bedroom, then landed on Tim’s face, more boyish than ever in rumpled sleep. She smiled and brushed his cheek with her lips, then she sat up and looked at her wrist watch on the bedside table. It was one o’clock, presumably post-meridian. She swung her feet out of bed, feeling for her slippers. When her toes had found them and wiggled into them, she got up and padded into the sitting-room, closing the door carefully behind her.
Her handbag was lying where she had left it on the pink sofa. She opened it and fumbled for the folded slip of paper Sam Magruder had given her the night before. Standing in the middle of the room in pale blue pajamas, she unfolded it and read it. It said:
Imperative I see you alone as soon as possible. Strictly alone. Call me at MU8-1239. Don’t worry about a place to stay. I’m taking care of it. Watch your step.
Sybil folded it again and slipped it into the monogrammed pocket of her pajama coat. She opened the bedroom door softly, listened a moment, then closed it. She picked up the phone and dialed Magruder’s number.
A gruff voice answered. “Yeah?” said the voice.
“Is Mr. Magruder there?”
“Wait a minute.” Apparently the voice consulted somebody else because it returned and asked, “Who wants to know?”
She hesitated. “Tell him it’s Sybil.”
There was another pause for consultation, and Sybil thought she heard somebody laugh. The voice came back and said, “He ain’t here. He’s moved away.”
The receiver clicked in her ear. “Hullo,” she said. “Are you there?” Only the insulting cackle of the dial tone answered her. “Damn,” she said and put down the phone. She bit her lip and looked out of the window, frowning worriedly.
Almost immediately the phone rang. Sybil jumped, then reached for it eagerly. A hearty feminine voice, with a hint of a Lancashire accent, boomed out of it. “Would this be Mrs. Timothy Ludlow?”
“It would.”
“The former Lady Sybil Hastings?”
“None other.”
The bedroom door opened and Tim poked his head through it, blinking sleepily. “Thought I heard the phone,” he said. “Who is it?”
“Don’t know yet,” said Sybil.
“This,” went on the hearty voice, “is the British-American War Bride Improvement Association. BAWBIA, for short. My name is Mrs. Lemuel Barrelforth, president of the New Jersey Chapter. Welcome to the United States.”
“Thank you,” said Sybil.
“Who is it?” asked Tim. Sybil shushed him.
“It has been called to our attention,” the voice of Mrs. Lemuel Barrelforth boomed on, “that you and your veteran husband are without a place to live. In other words, you need improvement. That’s what the Association’s for.”