The day dragged. She typed until the small round keys seemed to weigh a pound apiece under her fingers, and still the reports piled up.
Laura sat hunched over her machine for a long time after the others had left for the day. She meant to work, but she never did any. She wanted to cry and she couldn’t. She wanted to move, to talk to someone, to explode, and she just sat there until the cramps in her back made her groan. She got up stiffly and put her jacket on and stood for a moment, aimless and lost. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. Marcie wouldn’t be home yet.
She rummaged idly in her pockets, pulling out some change and a shopping list. The list was from the week before and she started to drop it in the wastebasket, when she noticed something on the other side. A phone number—Watkins 9-1313. And the initials B. B. Laura crumpled it in her hand, seized with an uncontrollably pleasant shudder. Then she threw it indignantly into the wastebasket, wondering when Beebo had scribbled it out. And then she leaned over slowly and took it out of the wastebasket and shoved it furtively back into her pocket, without looking at it. She sat down abruptly in her chair and put her head down on her arms and wept.
“Father…” she whispered. “Why did we have to hate each other? We’re all we have…Father…”
She got up fifteen minutes later, turned out the light, and stole out, quiet as a thief.
She walked over to the McAlton Hotel. She had no idea what she expected to find or to do. But she went into the big softly carpeted lobby and walked, almost as if she were sleepwalking, toward the desk. It was crowded and noisy, with that ineffable air of excitement that big hotels seem to generate.
Laura felt gooseflesh start up all over her. Many of these people must be conventioneers. If Merrill Landon didn’t see her one of his Chicago friends might, and the secret would be out. He would run her down if it took the whole New York City police force.
She leaned apprehensively on the marble-topped counter of the desk, waiting until a clerk could serve her. He came up after a couple of minutes, looking enormously efficient and busy. “May I help you, Miss?” he demanded.
“Is a Mr. Merrill Landon staying here?” she asked.
“Just a minute, please.” He disappeared briefly and Laura looked around the lobby, her hand partially covering her face.
He might see me. I must be out of my mind to come here. But she waited nonetheless.
“He’s in 1402,” the clerk said loudly in her ear.
Laura jumped.
“Shall I call him?” asked the clerk.
“Yes, please.” She had no idea why she was doing this. She felt as if she were two people, one acting, the other watching; one compelled to act, the other shocked by the action.
“Who wants to see him, please?”
“His daughter.” She almost whispered it, and he made her repeat it. Then he buzzed off. She watched him, perhaps ten feet from her but impossible to hear, as he lifted the receiver, gave the number, waited. Then his face lighted into a business-type smile, and she saw his lips form the words, “Mr. Landon?” He went on, and she watched him, feeling almost sick with anticipation.
The clerk came back after a brief conversation. “Well, Miss—” he began, eyeing her closely.
“What did he say?” Laura looked at him with her stark blue eyes. Her chin trembled.
“He says he has no daughter, Miss,” the clerk drawled. He grinned. “Tough luck. Want to try someone else?”
Laura’s mouth dropped open. Her face twitched. She couldn’t answer him. She turned and ran, bumping into people, stumbling, until she found a phone booth empty in a row of booths along a far wall and she took refuge there. She buried her face in her hands and wept. “Merrill Landon, go to hell, go to hell,” she said fiercely, under her breath. “I hate you. Oh, God, how I hate you!” And she sobbed until somebody rapped on the door of the booth. She wiped her eyes hastily, knowing they were red and swollen, and turned to glare at the impatient rapper. He glared back.
Defiantly she put a dime in the phone and lifted the receiver. She called Jack.
A voice answered almost at once. A strange masculine voice.
“Hello?” it said.
“Jack?” Her voice trembled.
“Just a minute.” He called, “Jack, it’s for you.”
A few seconds later Jack answered.
“Jack, it’s Laura.”
“Are you all right?”
“I have absolutely nothing to say,” she said. “I’m only calling because—because I’m in a phone booth and some fool wants to use the phone. He’s rapping on the door.”
“Mother,” he said slowly, “you have a screw loose. Now listen carefully and do what I tell you. Just go along quietly and don’t tell them anything. I’ll send my analyst over right away.”
“My father’s in town.” Her breath caught while she spoke.
“Oh! No wonder. Did you tell him to go to hell?”
“The desk clerk called his room and said his daughter wanted to see him.” She stopped to swallow the fury in her throat.
“And he told you to go to hell?”
“He said he had no daughter.” Her voice trembled with the immensity of it
Jack, for once, was momentarily speechless. Finally he said, “He is a bastard, Laura. By God, he is. Don’t mess with him. Come on over, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Thanks, Jack.” She broke into tears again.
“Don’t cry, Laura. Just think what satisfaction that would give the old s.o.b.”
“You’re right!” she said sharply, pulling herself up. “I won’t. I’ll be right over.”
Jack was waiting for her on the front stoop, sitting on one of the cement railings and looking up at what few stars were available between the roofs. Without a word he got
