Cobra

by Martin Brown; Russell Holman

CHAPTER VII

When Rodrigo reached his office the next morning, his exasperatingly efficient spinster secretary had long since opened his mail and had the letters, neatly denuded of their envelopes, upon his desk. That is, all but one. She had evidently decided that this one was of too private a nature for her to tamper with. The envelope was pale pink and exuded a faint feminine scent. It was addressed in the scrawly, infantile hand of Sophie Binner and was postmarked Montreal. Rodrigo fished it out of the pile of business communications, among which it stood out like a chorus girl at a Quaker meeting, and, breaking the seal, read it:

Dearest Rod,

Why the elusiveness, dear boy? I called you up three times. I hope it was accidental that I couldn't reach you, though it looks bad for poor Sophie, since you never tried to get in touch with me as you promised. Or did you?

Well, I'm here with the show in Montreal. They decided to get us ready up here among our own land before springing us upon the Yankees. But it's so lonesome. Christy is such a bore.

We open in New York a week from to-night. Times Square Theatre. How about a party after the show? I can get some of the other girls if you like. But would prefer just us two. You know—like the good old days in London. I miss you dreadfully, dear boy. Do drive my blues away as soon as I get back to the U.S.A. Be nice to me. And write.

Your loving
SOPHIE.

Rodrigo smiled wryly as he folded up the letter and slipped it into his pocket. He had received scores of such communications from Sophie. He had been used to replying to them in kind. He had seldom been temperate in his letters to her. He rather prided himself upon the amount of nonsense he was able to inject into plain black ink. That had been the trouble in the case of his billets doux to Rosa Minardi.

But he was not thinking of Rosa at the present moment. It had occurred to him that some use might be made of the invitation in the pink letter in connection with the promise he had made to Henry Dorning to broaden John's horizon. By Jove, he would take up Sophie's suggestion for a party on the night of the New York opening of the Christy Revue. He would invite John and another of Sophie's kind to accompany them. Pretty, thrill-seeking Sophie—she was certainly a great little horizon-broadener. And he would leave it to her to pick from the Christy company another coryphee of similar lightsomeness.

He resolved to set the ball rolling at once and, the rest of his mail unread, rose and started into the neighboring office. Opening the door of John's sanctum, he stopped for a moment to view the tableau inside.

Two blond heads were bent absorbedly over a letter on John's desk, a man's and a woman's. They were talking in low voices, and Mary Drake's pencil was rapidly underscoring certain lines in the letter. She was advancing an argument in her soft, rapid voice, evidently as to how the letter should be answered. John was frowning and shaking his head.

Rodrigo, standing watching them, wondered why they were not in love with each other. Here was the sort of woman John needed for a wife. Though he could not catch her exact words, he gathered that she was trying to influence him to answer this letter in much more decided fashion than he had intended. That was Mary Drake all over. Thoroughly business-like, aggressive, looking after John's interests, bucking him up at every turn. That was the trouble as far as love was concerned. John regarded her as a very efficient cog in the office machinery rather than as a woman. And yet she was very much of a woman. Underneath the veneer of almost brusqueness, there was a tender stratum, as Rodrigo thought he had discovered in her unguarded moments. Love could be awakened in Mary Drake by the right man, and it would be a very wonderful sort of love.

Rodrigo asked himself if he really wanted John Dorning to be the awakener. Something in his own heart seemed to protest. Watching her, a feeling of tenderness for her swept over him. He had never again sought jauntily to flirt with her as he had attempted to do that first day he met her. A deeper feeling for her, such as he had never experienced before for any woman, was being slowly kindled within him. And this feeling was steadily growing deeper as she began admitting him to her friendship on much the same status that John Dorning enjoyed.

She glanced up and saw Rodrigo. Smiling good-morning to him and quickly gathering up John's letters, including the one under debate, and her stenographic notebook, she made a movement to retire to her own office.

"Don't let me drive you away, Mary," Rodrigo said in a genial voice.

"You're not. I was just going anyway." She turned to Dorning. "Then I'll write Mr. Cunningham we cannot take care of him until he pays for the other consignment?"

John hesitated, then he nodded affirmatively. "You're absolutely ruthless, Mary," he protested ruefully, "and you may lose us a good customer, as well as the money he owes us. But perhaps you know best. Go ahead—write him as you like."

She enjoyed her little triumph. "Don't worry, John. I know Mr. Cunningham, and he's no person to be treated with silk gloves on." And she hurried into her office and closed the door behind her. In an instant they heard the hurried clack of her typewriter.

"John, I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that little visit with your folks," Rodrigo began sincerely.

John beamed. "That's fine. And I can tell you they liked you too."

Rodrigo continued, "Maybe I'm to have the chance soon to repay you in some small measure. Do you remember Sophie Binner, the English actress we met on the ship coming over? The pretty blonde we walked around the deck with?" After a slight pause, John concluded he did.

Rodrigo produced the little pink missive from his pocket and flourished it. "Well, Sophie has invited you and me to a party the night her show opens here in town. A week from to-night. It will be a nice, lively time. You'll like it. Shall I answer her it's a date?"

John shot a questioning glance at Rodrigo. The latter wondered uneasily if his friend was interpreting the invitation as a sign Rodrigo was back-sliding a bit. "She particularly wants to see you," Rodrigo hastened to lie. Then, impulsively, "Oh, let's go, John. We both need a change, a little tonic. I know you don't care for Sophie's kind of people or entertainment usually. Neither do I—any more. But, for one night, I think it would be a lot of fun. We could go to some night club, see the sights, dance around a little, leave them at their hotels, and go on home. What do you say?"

Perhaps John agreed with him. Perhaps it was merely the eagerness in Rodrigo's voice that swung him. At least he finally concluded, "You're right. We have been sticking pretty close. I'll be glad to come along, though the girls will probably find me a bit slow."

"Nonsense," cried Rodrigo, and slapped his friend lustily on the back. "That's fine," he added. "I'll write Sophie directly."

Falling into an old habit, he started the letter "Dearest Sophie" almost subconsciously and he used rather intimate language, without paying much heed to what he was doing. He would rather like to see Sophie again and bask in her effulgence for a few hours. But as she would be merely the means of carrying out his and Henry Dorning's purpose, he excused himself. There would be none of the old thrill in flattering her in ink, he feared, as he sat down to write her. Yet he surprised himself with the warmth he worked up in the letter to her.

"COME ON OUTSIDE AND I'LL SHOW YOU HOW MUCH OF A SHEIK YOU ARE," SNARLED HIS ANTAGONIST.

He received an immediate reply from her. She was tickled as pink as her note-paper, he gathered. He wrote her two more notes, even more affectionate than the first—one had to pretend to be mad over Sophie or she would lose interest at once—and was rewarded with many long, scrawled pages telling of joy over their coming meeting, the selection of one Betty Brewster as "a great sport and a neat little trick" as the fourth member of the party, complaints about Christy and the neutral reception the show had received in Canada.

John Dorning's coming-out party was assuming the proportions of a festive affair.

John himself made no further mention of it. Rodrigo did not remind him, having a feeling that his friend might shy off if he gave the matter much thought. Then, on the morning of the Christy Revue opening, Rodrigo as off-handedly as possible spoke of their engagement that evening. And John, looking blankly, and then confusedly, said, "Why, Rodrigo, I thought I told you. I'm leaving for Philadelphia this afternoon to attend the dinner of the Rand Library trustees. You knew we'd put in a bid to furnish the fresco work for the new building."

Rodrigo's face fell. But his first feeling of irritation and disappointment passed quickly. John was so frankly mortified. He had so completely forgotten all about Sophie. It was almost funny. Rodrigo said, "Can't you put off your trip? Sophie will be very much disappointed."

"You know I can't postpone it," John faltered. "The dinner at Philadelphia was arranged especially for me. I'll have to go."

Rodrigo shrugged. "Well, I dare say I can patch it up with Sophie. We'll make it some other time. I'll give her a ring later and call it off for to-night."

"Rodrigo, I hope I haven't caused you any inconvenience. I'll be glad to go out with your friends any other time you say," John pleaded.

"Oh, don't worry, old boy. I'll fix it up. You just go right ahead down to Philadelphia, and bring home that contract. Business before pleasure, you know."

But, around six o'clock, Rodrigo wondered if that were such an excellent motto after all. He had been too busy all day to call Sophie. Dorning and Son closed at five o'clock, and he was all alone there now in the deserted quasi-mausoleum. Mary Drake, who was usually a late worker, had left in the middle of the afternoon, because her mother was not feeling well. Now that the party with Sophie was definitely off and he had nothing but a long lonesome evening to look forward to, Rodrigo had a feeling of disappointment. He had been working hard and faithfully for three months, and he had been looking forward to this evening of pleasure. He deserved it, by Jove.

On an impulse, he located Bill Terhune's telephone number and picked up the instrument. Waiting while the bell buzzed, he told himself that Terhune had probably long since left his office. He half guiltily hoped the former Oxonian had. But Terhune's familiar voice smote his ear with a bull-like "Hullo!"

This was followed by a roar of joyous surprise as Rodrigo identified himself. Agitated questions and replies. Rodrigo broached the proposition of appointing his delighted listener a substitute for John Dorning on the Sophie Binner junket.

"Fine! Great!" fairly shouted Terhune. "I'll call my wife up and tell her I've dropped dead or something."

"Bill—you're married?" questioned Rodrigo.

"Sure. All architects have to get married. It gives them the necessary standing of respectability that gets the business. I even live in Jersey. Think of that, eh? Don't worry about my wife. I can fix it up. She's used to having me stay in town over-night, and has gotten tired of asking questions. I'll bring the liquor, too. What's that? Oh, sure—we need liquor. This Binner baby's a regular blotter, if I remember her rightly. I've got a stock right here in the office. Good stuff too. I'll meet you in the lobby of the Envoy. I'll take a room there for the night. What's that? Oh, no—couldn't think of staying at your place. You know me, Rod—what would your cultured neighbors say, eh? Don't forget now—lobby of the Envoy at six-thirty. I'll dash right around there now and book a room."

Bill Terhune had already registered at the plush-lined Hotel Envoy and was waiting at the desk, key in one hand and a suitcase in the other, when Rodrigo walked in. Terhune was bigger, especially around the waistline, and more red-faced than ever, Rodrigo saw at a glance. The waiting man greeting the Italian with a lusty roar, bred on the broad Dakota prairies, that could be heard all around the decorous, palm-decorated lobby.

"Well, well," Bill rumbled, "who would have thought the Count would have come to this, eh? But say, boy, I'm sure glad to see you. Come up and have a drink. Hey, bellboy! Grab that bag, will you, and be very careful with it too. It contains valuable glassware."

Up in the twelfth floor room which Bill had hired for the night at a fabulous stipend, the American at once dispatched the bellboy for ice, glasses, and White Rock. Then he disrobed, sputtered in the shower-bath for a few minutes, rubbed himself a healthy pink and dressed in his dinner clothes, which he had brought along in his bag.

"Always keep them at the office," he chuckled. "I can't tell when I might have an emergency call." He poured bootleg Scotch into the glasses and rocked the ice around with a spoon.

"How do you get away with it, Bill?" Rodrigo asked, smiling. "I thought American wives were regular tyrants."

"That's how much you foreigners know," scoffed Bill. "All women love my type. You can always keep their love by keeping them wondering. That's my system—I keep my wife wondering whether I'm coming home or not." He handed Rodrigo a full glass with a flourish. "To good old Oxford," he toasted with mock reverence. Rodrigo echoed the toast.

The Italian refused another drink a few minutes later, though his action did not discourage Terhune from tossing off another. In fact, the genial Bill had three more before he agreed that they had better eat dinner if they wished to make the Christy Revue by the time the curtain rose. Rodrigo did not fancy Bill's taking on an alcoholic cargo that early in the evening. Bill was a nice fellow, but he was the sort of chronic drinker who, though long habit should have made him almost impervious to the effects of liquor, nevertheless always developed a mad desire to fight the whole world after about the fifth imbibing.

They descended in the elevator, Bill chattering all the while about his pleasure at seeing his old friend again and about the extreme hazards of the architect business in New York. A small concern like his didn't have a chance, according to Bill. The business was all in the hands of large organizations who specialized in specific branches of construction, like hotels, residences, restaurants and churches, and made money by starving their help.

After dinner the two men made jerky, halting taxicab progress through the maelstrom of theatre-bound traffic and reached their seats at the Times Square Theatre over half an hour late. The house was filled with the usual first-night audience of friends of the company, critics, movie stars, society people, chronic first-nighters, men and women about town, and stenographers admitted on complimentary tickets given them by their bosses. It was a well-dressed, lively crowd, and one that was anxious to be very kind to the show. In spite of this, Rodrigo was quite sure by the middle of the first act that the revue wouldn't do. It was doomed to the storehouse, he feared. The girls were of the colorless English type, comparing not at all with the hilariously healthy specimens one found in the American musical comedies. Christy had skimped on the costumes and scenery, both of which items were decidedly second rate. The humor had too Londonish a flavor, and the ideas behind the sketches were banal in the extreme.

However, when Sophie Binner came on quite late in the act, Rodrigo sat up and admitted that the sight of her again gave him decided exhilaration. She was alluring in her costume of pale blue and gold, a costume which exposed the famous Binner legs to full advantage and without the encumbrance of stockings. The audience liked her also. She was the prettiest woman the footlights had revealed thus far, and she had a pleasing, though not robust voice. Coupled with this was an intimate, sprightly personality that caught on at once. She responded to two encores and finally disappeared amid enthusiastic applause.

Rodrigo turned to comment upon her success to Bill Terhune, and discovered that the Dakotan had fallen fast asleep.

During the intermission, Rodrigo left his somnolent seat-mate and, buttonholing an usher, sent him back-stage with his card. In a few minutes, he followed the card to the dressing room of Sophie, where, in contrast to the noisy confusion outside, he was permitted to gaze upon her gold-and-tinsel liveliness at close range. She was sitting at her dressing-table, a filmy wrap thrown carelessly about the costume she has worn in the first act. Her slim, white body looked very girlish. Her wise, laughing blue eyes welcomed him. With a swift look at the closed door, she invited, "Kiss me, Rodrigo, and say you're glad to see me."

He obeyed, not altogether because it is always polite to accommodate a pretty lady who asks to be kissed. He wanted to kiss her. He would have done it without the invitation. He did it very expertly too. Sophie waved her hatchet-faced English maid out of the room. But that gesture was unnecessary. Rodrigo explained that he could only stay a minute. He had left the other male member of their contemplated foursome, sleeping. They laughed merrily over that. Sophie said she would be overjoyed to see Bill Terhune again. "I was afraid you were going to bring that sober-faced business partner of yours," she interjected. Rodrigo stiffened a little, but decided that this was neither the time nor the place to start an impassioned defence of John Dorning. The principal thing, he said, was to be sure Sophie and her companion were set for the festivities after the show. They were, she cried. She and Betty Brewster would meet them at the stage door fifteen minutes after the final curtain.