Girl Meets Body. Jack Iams
“The matter was taken up with the Central Welcoming Committee,” replied Mrs. Barrelforth, “and turned over by them to the New Jersey Chapter. New Jersey, you know, is the Garden State, and where there are gardens, there are houses. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does,” said Sybil.
“What the heck’s this all about?” asked Tim. “Something about a house?” Sybil nodded.
“To get down to cases,” Mrs. Barrelforth went briskly on, “we’ve already got a house lined up for you. It’s got its drawbacks, but it’s also got a roof and four walls. Shall I describe it more fully?”
“I think you’d better speak to my husband,” said Sybil. “Right-o,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Put him on.”
Sybil put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s something called the British-American War Brides Improvement Association,” she said to Tim. “And apparently, they’ve found us a house.”
“It must be a gag,” said Tim. “Things like this don’t happen.”
“Let’s not look it in the mouth,” said Sybil, handing him the phone.
She lit a cigarette and perched on the arm of the sofa while Tim talked. Or rather, while Tim listened. He said “Uh-uh” and “I see” several times while a pleased incredulity gathered in his face. “Gosh,” he said finally, “it certainly sounds good to me. Can I call you back?… Oh. Right away, eh? Do you mind hanging on a minute?”
He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Sybil, looking dazed but delighted. “It seems to be on the level,” he said. “The house is in a place called Merry Point, which is a seaside resort on the Jersey coast. That’s the big drawback.”
“Why?” asked Sybil. “What’s wrong with a seaside resort?”
“Because in winter a Jersey seaside resort is just about as jolly as Wuthering Heights. It’ll be bleak, windswept, cold, and lonelier than Mount Everest.”
“We’ll have each other,” said Sybil.
“I’ll do my best to be entertaining,” said Tim. “Card tricks and so on.”
“Will there be four for bridge?”
“I don’t know. From what I gather, the only inhabitants outside of us will be what the summer people call natives.”
“Natives? You mean redskins?”
“They might as well be, I’m afraid, as far as bridge goes.”
“How far away is it?” asked Sybil.
“About seventy-five miles. We could get in to the city now and again. We’ll have the car, and there’s a town with a railroad station about five miles away. So we won’t be completely cut off.”
“I should think we could stick it,” said Sybil. “What about the house itself?”
“The house, apparently, is very comfortable. One of these big old-fashioned summer places, with the added advantage of an oil burner.”
“Furnished?”
“Yep. Everything provided.”
“Is it awfully dear?”
“No. It seems this war bride outfit stakes out claims to these houses and then rents ’em on a pay-what-you-can basis.”
“Blimey,” said Sybil. “We’d better jump at it.”
“That’s what I think,” said Tim. He said as much, gratefully, into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece again. “We can have a look at the place this afternoon,” he told Sybil. “And if we like it, we can move right in. Everything’ll be ready. Seems there’s a handy man who looks after the house and he’ll have the lights and water turned on and a few supplies laid in.”
“Things are moving a little bit fast for me,” said Sybil, “but I suppose we’d better do it. Ah, you Americans.”
“This is pretty darned fast even for, ah, us Americans,” said Tim. “It’s also pretty darned lucky. Shall I tell her okay?”
Sybil nodded. For a moment, Tim thought he saw a faint shadow of disappointment in her face, but it passed so quickly that he couldn’t be sure. He told Mrs. Barrelforth okay.
“What’s next on the agenda?” asked Sybil. “Breakfast, I hope.”
“I knew there was something I wanted,” said Tim. “Breakfast, by all means. I’ll phone down.”
“And the afternoon papers,” said Sybil. “I’m dying to read about the shooting.”
“The shooting?” repeated Tim vaguely. Then he sat up straight in his chair beside the phone. “Good God,” he exclaimed, “I’d forgotten!”
“About the shooting?”
“Shooting, my eye. About you being Lady Sybil.”
“Oh,” said Sybil, “that.” She wrinkled her nose. “I wish you had forgotten that.”
“I’ll try to,” said Tim. “Otherwise, I won’t dare kiss you without tugging at my forelock.”
“Let’s see if you won’t,” said Sybil.
* * * *
Breakfast appeared, eventually, under gleaming dish covers among white napery along with the newspapers, neatly folded. Sybil spread one out beside her on the sofa. “Tim!” she exclaimed. “Look.”
Tim was concentrating on tomato juice. “Something about the shooting?” he asked.
“Something about it! It’s in headlines a mile high. Red ones, too. Listen: Two Die As Gaming War Flares. Socialites Terrorized As Mobsters Invade Breeze Club.”
“Gosh,” said Tim. Then he chuckled. “I suppose you’ll always be convinced now that gangsters roam the city streets.”
“Don’t they?”
“Man and boy, I never saw one. And you walk into a mob war your first night.”
“And loved it,” said Sybil. “Shall I read you some more?”
“Go ahead,” said Tim. “It sounds less sordid with your accent.”
“Sordid? With everybody in evening clothes? It was a very dressy affair.” She cleared her throat and read aloud: “Notables of the social and theatrical worlds scattered in panic early this morning when a band of gunmen forced their way into the notorious Breeze Club and staged a gun battle that left two of the participants dead on the red-carpeted floor.
“Police were convinced that the fray was connected with the efforts of Frank L. (Frankie) Heinkel, a big-time gambling operator of pre-war days, to obtain domination of the reviving underworld. Heinkel, whose career dates back to the Prohibition era, kept out of the public eye during the war, but there have been recent reports that he was trying to rebuild his organization.
“One of the slain men was identified as Louis Something I Can’t Pronounce, who was definitely linked by police to the Heinkel outfit. The other was Charles Something, a Breeze Club employee. The rest of the reputed Heinkel henchmen had made their escape by the time police reached the scene, and no arrests were made in connection with the actual shooting.
“However, police took into custody Jacob Burlick, manager of the Breeze Club—” Sybil looked up. “Why, that must be our friend, Jake,” she said.
“No friend of mine,” said Tim.
“… and chargcd him,” Sybil read on, “with operating an illicit gambling establishment. The club itself, which has long enjoyed a certain amount of immunity largely due to its inclusion of leading political figures among its patrons, was padlocked.”