Stranger at the Door. Victor J. Banis
so obvious? “Why do you ask that?” he stammered, knowing that his embarrassment could only serve as a confirmation of Lenny’s guess.
Lenny grinned, seemingly unperturbed by this turn of the conversation. “They say it takes one to know one,” he said.
“I see.” Roger was at a loss exactly what he should say. Deny it, he thought impulsively, though that seemed a futile gesture. And, if his guest were truly of the same caste....
“What sort of trouble?” By now the conversation was Lenny’s, steered deftly into whatever channel he chose.
“A young man, I met him at a cocktail party....” As he spoke, Roger found himself reliving the experience. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to his companion, his voice going on almost in a monotone....
* * * *
It was, unquestionably, a successful party. The guests had overflowed into the hall, the chatter and babble of cocktail conversation audible even in the elevator as it ascended from the lobby. Roger paused outside the apartment for a moment, never quite comfortable facing such large crowds, although it was hardly a new experience for him. He became aware of a pair of young men standing nearby in the hall and looking him over. He glanced briefly in their direction: effeminate, flamboyant types with made-up eyes and cheap, flashy clothes.
“Hello, dear,” one of them greeted him with a broad smile, mistaking Roger’s glance for flirtation.
Roger did not need to be told that it was something other than his looks, which had never been spectacular, which interested them. At least he could give them credit for recognizing good taste when they saw it, and expensive clothes. Of course, these young men were like many others in that respect: such knowledge was their stock in trade. As far as that went, he was rather accustomed to being sized up in terms of his probable financial worth rather than his worth as an individual.
He knew that his success on his visits to New York depended to a large extent upon the fact that he exuded wealth and breeding. The clearly expensive suits he wore, the diamond on his finger, the brilliance of the emerald links, the car and driver he rented for his visits, the tower suite at the Waldorf—these were the elements that made up his appeal.
He minded, of course, as one always minds, but he had long since abandoned any illusions to the contrary. In his quiet way, he used these accoutrements to gain his objectives. It was the way the game was played, and he had learned to use the young men who were drawn to him as selfishly as they attempted to use him.
So he had not taken offense at the interest these two young men had taken in him. He had, however, learned through experience that he could do better, and just as he sought the best in his clothing, his jewelry, his drinks, he had made it a point to purchase with his wealth the best young men available.
Someday, of course, that would not be possible. His wealth was diminishing, he was altogether too aware of that fact. At home, in Cincinnati, he had begun to learn the niceties of economizing, but here in New York, he could still maintain the front of elegance and limitless finances. No one here need know that this trip, for the first time, he had traveled coach class.
He gave the two young men a nod, not coldly, but sufficiently distant to dash any hopes they might be entertaining, and made his way into the apartment. He steered his way deftly about elbows and trays, eventually finding himself a martini and a place by one wall where he could stand relatively safe from splashed drinks or clumsy feet.
There was simply no point in trying to find his host. He had been to Rudy’s parties before. Somewhere in this crush of people, Rudy would be holding court, as was his way, fancying himself as something slightly more regal than what he truly was.
“The truth is,” Roger thought ruefully, staring about at a room furnished with considerable expense and very little taste, “He’s got more money than I.” He could gain some satisfaction, however, from the fact that he was probably the only one aware of this. Rudy’s money was “new,” and considerable, and he spent it lavishly, particularly on just such entertaining as this, but those people who knew them both would invariably single out Roger as representative of the aristocratic class. He was listed in social registers and Who’s Who, he maintained an aura of elegance that made Rudy’s flashy spending seem shabby and vulgar.
Ordinarily, Roger would find a party of Rudy’s amusing. In his position, Roger had learned at an early age that he must be careful and discreet. New York was an outlet for him, yet he could scarcely stand about on street corners. Thus when he had met Rudy through family acquaintances, and they had discerned their mutual inclinations, Roger had welcomed the friendship. Rudy had been invaluable in providing him ways and places for meeting people, especially the handsome young men who were always in evidence here at this apartment, and always available for someone of apparent means.
Today, however, Roger found himself largely unamused. He was out of sorts and impatient with the people who occasionally bumped or shoved against him in passing. Like cattle, he found himself thinking, boisterous people who drank too much and talked too much.
He raised his arm to glance at his watch, wondering if he should stay. As he did so, his arm bumped someone and the drink in his hand spilled.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he exclaimed. The man whose jacket had received the wet offering looked pointedly at him. Roger blushed, feeling as much an oaf as the people he had been so contemptuous of a moment before. Where had the man come from anyway? He was sure there had been so one standing there earlier.
“That’s all right.” The stranger glanced over his shoulder, trying to survey the damage. “I shouldn’t have been standing on top of you. It’s just that there’s so damned many people here.”
“Yes, I was thinking that too. But look, I’ve stained your jacket. Let me see if I can do anything with it.” He took his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the spot, without much success.
“It’s all right, really,” the man insisted. He turned toward Roger, turning the wet spot from view. “You’re Roger Caldwell, aren’t you?”
Roger felt even more flustered now. It was silly, standing here with his handkerchief wadded in his hand, like a headwaiter or some such. For the first time, he looked the stranger in the face. It was a handsome face—no, not so much handsome as pretty, he decided on second glance. Blond hair, pale eyes, pale skin—the slightest trace of affectation would have sufficed to make him appear effeminate, but fortunately there was none.
“Yes. Have we met?” He could not place the stranger, although he was certain he would remember him if they had met before.
“Not really. I’ve seen you here before, at one of Rudy’s parties. I’d hoped to meet you then, but I prefer an introduction, and by the time I’d managed that, you had gone. Later, I asked around about you, and found out you were from out of town. So I never really expected to meet you.”
“I’m afraid this wasn’t a very pleasant introduction,” Roger said, indicating the drink in his hand. “But I’m flattered that you remembered me. And I’m afraid you have the advantage.”
“I’m sorry. I’m Andrew Best,” he said, smiling warmly and showing just the faintest of dimples.
They shook hands. “Best? Not the Vermont Bests, by any chance?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” he answered with a small laugh and an almost apologetic tone.
A pleasant young man, Roger was thinking. Yes, this was why he came to Rudy’s parties, why he had come today, to meet young men such as Andrew Best—handsome, polished, masculine. Whatever criticism one might direct at Rudy’s vulgar show of wealth, it did attract some interesting people.
“But, I say,” he said aloud, “I’ve spoiled your jacket. You must let me make it up to you.”
“That’s not necessary.” He again stretched to peer over his shoulder, frowning as he did so. “But I do suppose it looks conspicuous. I ought to leave.”
“There,