One Lonely Night

them to Com. Henry Gladow.'

'Yeah. Suppose I go with you?'

'If you think it's all right I'm sure no one will object.'

'Why me?' That was one of the questions I wanted an answer to.

She didn't tell me. 'Come now,' she said. 'Supposing I meet you in the Oboe Club at seven. Will that do?'

'Fine, Ethel. I'll save a table so we can eat.'

She said so-long with a pleasant laugh and waited for me to hang up. I did, then sat there with a cigarette in my fingers trying to think. The light hitting the wall broke around something on the desk making two little bright spots against the pale green.

Like two berries on a bush. The judge's eyes. They looked at me.

Something happened to the light and the eyes disappeared. I picked the phone up again and called the Globe. Marty was just going out on a story but had time to talk to me. I asked him, 'Remember the Brighton family? Park Avenue stuff.'

'Sure, Mike. That's social, but I know a little about them. Why?'

'Ethel Brighton's on the outs with her father. Did it ever make the papers?'

I heard him chuckle a second. 'Getting toney, aren't you, kid? Well, part of the story was in the papers some time ago. It seems that Ethel Brighton publicly announced her engagement to a certain young man. Shortly afterwards the engagement was broken.'

'Is that all?'

'Nope,' he grunted, 'the best is yet to come. A little prying by our diligent Miss Carpenter who writes the social chatter uncovered an interesting phase that was handled just as interestingly. The young man in question was a down-and-out artist who made speeches for the Communist Party and was quite willing to become a capitalist by marriage. He was a conscientious objector during the war though he probably could have made 4-F without trouble. The old man raised the roof but there was nothing he could do. When he threatened to cut Ethel off without a cent she said she'd marry him anyway.

'So the old man connived. He worked it so that he'd give his blessing so long as the guy enlisted in the army. They needed men bad so they took him and as soon as he was out of training camp he was shipped overseas. He was killed in action, though the truth was that he went AWOL during a battle and deserved what he got. Later Ethel found out that her father was responsible for everything but the guy's getting knocked off and he had hoped for that too. She had a couple of rows with him in public, then it died down to where they just never spoke.'

'Nice girl,' I mused.

'Lovely to look at anyway.'

'You'll never know. Well, thanks, pal.'

He stopped me before I could hang up. 'Is this part of what you were driving at the other day . . . something to do with Lee Deamer?' His voice had a rasp.

'Not this,' I said. 'It's personal.'

'Oh, well call me any time, Mike.' He sounded relieved.

And so the saga of one Ethel Brighton. Nice girl turned dimwit because her old man did her out of a marriage. She was lucky and didn't know it.

I looked at my watch, remembered that I had meant to buy Velda lunch and forgot, then went downstairs and ate by myself. When I finished the dessert I sat back with a cigarette and tried to think of what it was that fought like the hammers of hell to come through my mind. Something was eating its way out and I couldn't help it. I gave up finally and paid my check. There was a movie poster behind the register advertising the latest show at the house a block over, so I ambled over and plunked in a seat before the show started. It wasn't good enough to keep me awake. I was on the second time around when I glanced at the time and hustled into the street.

The Oboe Club had been just another second-rate saloon on a side street until a wandering reporter happened in an mentioned it in his column as a good place to relax if you liked solitude and quiet. The next day it became a first-rate nightclub where you could find anything but solitude and quiet. Advertising helped plenty.

I knew the headwaiter to nod to and it was still early enough to get a table without any green passing between handshakes. The bar was lined with the usual after-office crowd having one for the road. There wasn't anyone to speak to, so I sat at the table and ordered a highball. I was on my fourth when Ethel Brighton came in, preceded by the headwaiter and a few lesser luminaries.

He bowed her into her seat, then bowed himself out. The other one helped her adjust her coat over the back of the chair. 'Eat?' I asked.

'I'll have a highball first. Like yours.' I signaled the waiter and called for a couple more.

'How'd the donations come?'

'Fine,' she said, 'even better than I expected. The best part is, there's more where that came from.'

'The party will be proud of you.' She looked up from her drink with a nervous little smile. 'I . . . hope so.'

'They should. You've brought in a lot of mazuma.'

'One must do all one can.' Her voice was a flat drone, almost machine-like. She picked up her glass and took a long pull. The waiter came and took our orders, leaving another highball with us.

I caught her attention and got back on the subject. 'Do you ever wonder where it all goes to?'

'You mean . . . the money?' I nodded between bites. 'Why . . . no. It isn't for me to think about those things. I only do as I'm told.' She licked her lips nervously and went back to her plate.

I prodded her again. 'I'd be curious if I were in your shoes. Give a guess, anyway.'

This time there was nothing but fear in her face. It tugged at her eyes and mouth, and made her fork rattle against the china. 'Please . . .'

'You don't have to be afraid of me, Ethel. I'm not entirely like the others. You should know that.'

The fear was still there, but something else overshadowed it. 'I can't understand you . . . you're different. It's well . . .'

'About the money, give a guess. Nobody should be entirely ignorant of party affairs. After all, isn't that the principle of the thing . . . everybody for everybody? Then you'd have to know everything about everybody to be able to really do the party justice.'

'That's true.' She squinted and a smile parted her lips. 'I see what you mean. Well, I'd guess that most of the money goes to foster the schools we operate . . . and for propaganda, of course. Then there are a lot of small things that come up like office expenses here and there.'

'Pretty good so far. Anything else?'

'I'm not too well informed on the business side of it so that's about as far as I can go.'

'What does Gladow do for a living?'

'Isn't he a clerk in a department store?'

I nodded as if I had known all along. 'Ever see his car?'

Ethel frowned again. 'Yes. He has a new Packard, why?'

'Ever see his house?'

'I've been there twice,' she said. 'It's a big place up in Yonkers.'

'And all that on a department store clerk's salary.'

Her face went positively white. She had to swallow hard to get her drink down and refused to meet my eyes until I told her to look at me. She did, but hesitantly. Ethel Brighton was scared silly . . . of me. I grinned but it was lost. I talked and it went over her head. She gave all the right answers and even a laugh at one of my jokes, but Ethel was scared and she wasn't coming out of it too quickly.

She took the cigarette I offered her. The tip shook when she bent into the flame of my lighter. 'What time do you have to be there?' I asked.

'Nine o'clock. There's . . . a meeting.'

'We'd better go then. It'll take time getting over to Brooklyn.'

'All right.'

The waiter came over and took away a ten spot for his trouble while the headboy saw us to the door. Half the bar turned around to look at Ethel as she brushed by. I got a couple of glances that said I was a lucky guy to have all that mink on my arm. Real lucky.