We made our way out of the dining-room. Eyes followed us. It was nice to get into the lobby. The captain of waiters had Clair’s wrap ready. He dropped it over her shoulders, said he was sorry our evening was spoilt. He sounded as if he was really sorry.
The cigarette girl was standing on a chair, trying to see into the dining-room. Her nakedness had lost its charm for me. She eyed me curiously.
Clair was white and silent. She stood waiting while the check girl found my hat. The peachbloom pyjamas seemed tawdry, out of place in the tense atmosphere. I cursed Patrolman O’Brien. I decided I must have been crazy to have taken a recommendation from a cop.
“Just a second, sweetheart,” I said to Clair, took her chiffon scarf, put it around her head, fixed it so it all but hid her face.
She regarded me with scared eyes. “I don’t—”
“Yes, you do,” I said. “The press are lurking outside.”
I took her arm and we went down the stairs. It was only days after that I remembered I’d forgotten to ask for a check. The captain of waiters either forgot too or else he felt he couldn’t ask payment for such an unsatisfactory evening.
As we stepped into the street, four men came hurrying towards us. I grabbed Clair’s arm, rushed her to the alley.
The men hesitated, stopped, stared after us.
“Get in,” I said, jerking open the Buick door.