Chapter 3

Late in the morning Frank Tucker sat in Longchamps nursing a hangover that he hadn't quite chased away yet. He had no idea why he was in Longchamps. He remembered coming out of his hotel about an hour ago with the idea of getting some fresh air. He'd walked south on Fifth Avenue until he thought it might be a good thing to eat something, and now here he was in Longchamps of all places.

Then a slight twinge in his head reminded him that he'd be better off not thinking so much about where he was sitting. What difference did it make if he was in Longchamps or some other place? Longchamps was perfectly respectable, wasn't it? He'd had some scrambled eggs and bacon and now he was drinking his coffee. This was maybe the fifth cup of coffee he'd had this morning and he wondered if the coffee did him any good.

He thought of the night before. The memory of the night before came back slowly. He'd started remembering earlier that morning, but when he first awakened after a night on the town his memory was always dim. Now he could remember more. He'd fallen in with a party of Yale boys and two floozies from Jersey City. They sang songs in the street. They had a drink in a speakeasy, sang a song in the street, then ducked into another speakeasy and had another drink. The Yale boys called him Old Man and they made him tell them stories about his days in New Haven before the war. Well what could you say about Yale before the war? Yale before the war was just about the same as Yale after the war. Of course he'd never finished at Yale, but he didn't tell them that. He knew as much about the damn college as they did anyway. He told them stories about the war and his days in Paris. Oo la la Gay Paree. After the war he never returned to Yale.

Jesus Christ his head was hurting again. It's a punishment, Frank thought. He was being punished once again for the mess he'd made of his life. The country was in the middle of a great boom and everyone he knew was making loads of money, but all he had to show for it was a nearly empty account at one broker and a sizeable debt to another broker. The fact was he was almost broke. Not quite but almost. The only consolation was that he was certain in a short time the boom would go bust and some of his rich friends would be in the same position he was in. He had the distinction of arriving early, that's all. Too much margin at the brokers, too many bloated bonds, too much faith in the German steel industry, too much interest in all the hot tips being batted around town. Three years ago he'd had nearly a hundred thousand dollars in cash and now his assets amounted to little more than a wardrobe of decent clothes and a broken down Lincoln limousine that needed a chauffeur he couldn't afford.

The bust will come, Frank thought. All the Yale boys would be crying. The men like Charlie Desmond that he'd known at Yale would be crying along with the boys. Or maybe Charlie was one of the clever ones. Yes, Charlie was one of the clever ones and he'd manage to avoid catastrophe. Then Frank shuddered as it occurred to him that if a bust did come he'd be worse off than he was now. Well maybe he'd go to live with his old aunt in Albany. He had no one else. Maybe he ought to visit her one of these days just to make sure there was an open door there for him if he ever needed it. Albany wasn't that bad. Oh hell, he hadn't seen his aunt since he'd said goodby to her before he left for France. He couldn't live in Albany anyway. How can anyone live in Albany? No one in the world can live in Albany since living in Albany is impossible. He looked around the room, this large room in Longchamps, and he wondered if anyone was here from Albany.

He did see one person he knew, a woman sitting with another woman at a table near a window. He'd thought she was in London. Her name was Mrs. Reginald Wingrave and he thought she'd moved to London after the death of her husband a year ago. Was it really Mrs. Wingrave? He stared at her as she sat talking to the other woman. He could see only part of her face, but he was certain it was Charlotte Wingrave. She might be living in London and only visiting New York. People do get homesick, don't they? No doubt Mrs. Wingrave had returned to New York to visit some of her friends. Yes, that was Mrs. Wingrave all right. She had the same hairdo, the same brown hair streaked with grey, the same aging pink face. He had no idea how old she was, but she had to be past fifty. She was a handsome woman and before the war she'd had some success as an actress.

Well what of it? Frank thought. He felt a twinge in his head again. He stared at Mrs. Wingrave because there seemed nothing else worth looking at. He didn't know her that well. In fact Mrs. Wingrave would probably say that she didn't know him at all. But he did know her. He'd met her at more than one party in the Desmond house and he did know something about her. What he did know was that she'd inherited a small fortune from her dead British husband.

You won't succeed, he thought.

But he continued to stare at her and before long it was clear to him that he'd make the attempt. He'd make the attempt because he was at the end of his rope and he had no idea that seemed better than this one.

That evening Frank went to the Rendezvous Club on West Fifty- second Street. He found Tony Provo, the man who ran the club, at his usual table near the bar.

"Well look who's here," Tony said. "It's my friend Mr. Tucker."

"Hello Tony."

"Hello yourself, Mr. Tucker. Why don't you sit down and have one on me? Hey Mike, bring us a double Scotch for Mr. Tucker. Sit down, sit down."

"Nice to see you again, Tony."

"And it's nice to see you. How've you been? Everything copacetic? You look good. I wish I could wear clothes like you wear clothes. You wear clothes like a movie star."

Frank chuckled. "I wish I had a movie star's money."

"Like Jolson, huh?"

"Yes, like Jolson."

"Jolson's money and Ruby Keeler and that big car. Did you see that picture in the paper? Hell, I don't like the guy anyway, he don't sing nothing Italian."

"Maybe you ought to ask him."

"Ha ha. That's a good one."

"Speaking of money, Tony, I've come to ask for a favor."

"What do you need? If it's money it's no problem."

"I need five thousand."

"That much? Well okay, why not? How about ten per cent a week?"

"Oh boy."

"All right, you're a gentleman I'll charge you five per cent a week."

"Thanks, Tony."

Then the club hostess, Texas Guinan, came by with two chorus girls. "Well if it isn't tall dark and handsome," Texas said.

"Hello Texas."

Texas Guinan smiled and turned to the two chorus girls behind her. "Girls, I want you to meet Mr. Frank Tucker, the Sheik of Park Avenue."

The girls giggled.

"Hello Mr. Tucker, I'm Carol."

"Hello Mr. Tucker, I'm Sally."

He looked at Sally. She looked back at him and blushed.

"Sally what?" he said.

"Sally Rich."

"I'll remember it."

Texas Guinan laughed. "See, what did I tell you? Introduce him to a girl and she's already in his tent."

Frank had no trouble learning that Mrs. Wingrave was staying at the Plaza. At noon the next day he was in the lobby waiting for her when she came down in the elevator from her suite.

"Why Mrs. Wingrave, how nice to see you again."

She turned and looked at him. "I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

"Don't you remember me?"

"Oh I do know you, don't I?"

"Frank Tucker."

"Yes of course, Mr. Tucker. We met at the Peabody house, didn't we?"

"The Desmond house."

"Oh yes, the Desmond house. Nancy Desmond's house. Yes yes, I do remember you. Will you have some lunch? I was just going inside to have some lunch."

"What a nice idea, Mrs. Wingrave."

In a few minutes they were seated at a table in the hotel grille. They both ordered madrilene and lobster thermidor. After the waiter took the order and left, they talked about the Desmonds, and then about some other people they knew, and then about Mrs. Wingrave's absence from New York. She finally smiled at him and said:

"Well, it's nice to have someone with me at lunch. I don't like eating alone."

"You shouldn't ever. You're too attractive to eat alone."

"Bosh, I'm not that young any more."

"But still attractive. In fact, extremely attractive."

Mrs. Wingrave smiled. "I think you're flirting with me."

"Am I? Please forgive me."

"No I won't, you silly man, I like it. Do you make a habit of flirting with women old enough to be your mother?"

"You're not that old."

"I should think I am."

Then the food arrived and for some time the conversation remained as bland as the soup. It was only after the main course was finished that Frank again played his hand. After a comment or two about some of the new speakeasy clubs that had opened, he boldly invited her to a night on the town with him.

Mrs. Wingrave seemed amused. "Oh dear," she said.

"You've done it before, haven't you?"

"Of course I have. With poor Reggie."

"Well then."

She gave him a long look, her eyes searching his face.

"Come have tea with me tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Upstairs in my suite, of course. I'll expect you at three."

Mrs. Wingrave received Frank with a smile the next afternoon at three o'clock. She had a corner suite, an enormous living room and an adjoining bedroom. A vase filled with red roses sat on a table near one of the windows.

"It's comfortable," she said. "Thank goodness it's high enough to make the traffic in the street bearable."

She wore a pale blue silk negligee with a black velvet collar, the negligee tightly belted in a way that emphasized the ample curves of her bosom and hips. Her figure was more appropriate to the fashion before the war, but she seemed unconcerned by that. The hem of the negligee almost covered her ankles. She wore dark blue slippers and on the front of each slipper was a pale blue pom-pom.

Frank found himself wondering if she was naked under the negligee. Except for the stockings, of course. Her ankles showed the stockings, dark stockings of the finest silk.

He could smell her perfume. Maybe there was too much of it. She chattered at length about some people they knew, but all he could think of was the smell of violets.

"Call me Charlotte, won't you?"

Her eyes were never steady. She looked at him, looked at the room, looked at the windows, looked at him again. She was nervous, of course. He expected she wasn't certain of his interest in her. A woman her age hated to make a fool of herself.

The negligee had no fastenings below the knees, and as she sat beside him on the sofa and shifted her body occasionally, her legs became visible, her ankles and calves, first one leg and then the other, her legs sheathed in the fine dark silk.

He glanced at her legs from time to time as they talked. She had pretty legs and he guessed she enjoyed having them looked at. Then look at them, he thought. He looked at her legs and he looked at the rings on her fingers.

The rings were also something in fashion before the war. He wondered what the largest diamond was worth.