Читать книгу Damned - E. S. Dorrance - Страница 6

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There was no mistaking him. None less than the owner of the shop would enter with that assured step, and glance among them with that odd mixture of aesthetic distaste, yet business interest. His manner announced that they were “goods” to him.

Seff was a man of certain attractions, somewhere in the later thirties. Clothed in semi-belted homespun, his lines were so defined as to suggest stays beneath. He was of medium height, clean-shaved and almost pallid of face. His brown hair he wore somewhat tousled, probably to hide its scantiness over the crown.

By the time he had reached the center of the room, the girls had straightened and begun to smile and chatter—all, perhaps, except Dolores Trent. She watched him with the detached interest of her dead hope.

Halting, he threw up his delicate hands in an affectation of bewilderment.

“Oh, my dears!” he exclaimed, but in a voice lacking animation. “I shouldn’t have believed there was so much innocence in Gotham. Really, I am all but overcome.”

Despite the assertion, his eyes swept this corner and that.

“Would that I needed an army of innocents instead of the one superlative!” He stepped to the open door on the right. “Mrs. Hutton!” There was a click in his voice.

“Kindly be my board of elimination, Mary,” he instructed the handsome, white-haired woman who responded. “This galaxy of guilelessness is too much for little Vin. My alleged discrimination is blinded, my business shrewdness reels, my senses—— Yes, yes, I know that the lord of lingerie shouldn’t have ’em, senses. But what can a mere man do?” He laid one arm about her shoulders and leaned against her, as if for support.

“Merer than man,” she said and, as though from dislike, shrugged him off.

“Jealous again, dear heart?”

Although he had smiled with the question, her answer made him flush.

“A sensible woman isn’t jealous of a thought.”

“Be good enough, by processes of detection best known to your sex,” he instructed her more briskly, “to reduce this bevy to five of the most natural. I’ll see them in the studio.”

Something additional he murmured into her ear.

She returned him a strange look.

“In twenty minutes I’ll show in the five,” said she competently.

The shop-man addressed the array of applicants. “You will understand, young and pretty creatures, that refusal implies no aspersion, either upon your looks or, shall I say, your artful effect of artlessness. Unfortunately the house of Seff can utilize but one of you and stern business commands the selection of her best suited to our particular needs. Thanks for the sight of each and all.”

With a winning smile, generally distributed, he bowed low, backed to the chintz-curtained doorway through which he had entered and disappeared into what, evidently, was the studio.

Not once had his glance paused in the vicinity of Dolores Trent. She, in complete reversal of last night’s concept of a Fate especially interested in herself, lingered only to watch proceedings.

The softer lines which had made Mrs. Hutton’s face attractive disappeared with her employer. Sentiment evidently was to have no place in these “processes of detection best known to her sex.” She formed the seventy-odd applicants in lines, before which she walked, looking each closely in the face.

“Girls wearing rouge to this side of the room.”

No one moved. With women’s headiest hope, each evidently relied upon the artistry of her make-up.

Mary Hutton again started along the lines. Authoritatively she tapped this rose-blush blond and that brilliant brunette.

To one who protested that she would not know how to rouge: “You don’t need to tell me, my dear, anything self-evident. You shouldn’t put so much in the center of your cheeks. Natural color spreads. That’s the first lesson I give our sales-girls. Start with a dab on the chin, next a suggestion on your forehead between the eyes, then quite a bit on the lobes of the ears, where all color starts. Only with these high spots tinted to guide you can you hope for a natural effect. When you’re going out, ask for my booklet, ‘If You Must Rouge, Rouge Right.’ They’ll give you a copy free. Now, please, girls over twenty, fall out!”

Again hesitation, reproaches and complaints were met with uncompromising firmness.

Dolores never understood how it happened, for long since she had given up. She made no plea to Mrs. Hutton, nor did Mrs. Hutton say anything in particular to her. In fact, if the forewoman showed any notice of her other than of an automaton, it looked to be dislike, not approval. Yet, at the last, after the most impersonal of appraisals, she found herself among the fittest five. As one, they were waved between the curtains of gray and lavender chintz.

The “studio” might have been milady’s boudoir. Of violet velvet were the carpets and hangings. The spindly Hepplewhite furniture wore modulated tapestry. There was bric-a-brac scattered about. On the walls hung etchings.

Vincent Seff had removed his homespun coat for a smoking jacket of embroidered lavender silk, with which the more delicate tone of his shirt and tie blended satisfyingly. He did not rise as they entered; indeed, did not glance up for several minutes afterward. He was lolling upon a chaise lounge, at work over a drawing—some garment design, presumedly, as he kept glancing at a rack beside him over which hung several strips of sheer, vari-tinted fabrics.

With a sigh of reluctance he laid down the drawing-board, selected a cigarette from a gold cigarette case and leisurely lighted it. Only after several deep inhalations did he yield his attention to the nervous bevy ranged before him. Pleasure covered the regret on his face as he surveyed them. He sat straight; studied them one by one.

“This is cruel—the most exquisite cruelty!” Aloud came exclamation at last.

He reconsidered the stuffs on the rack. Leaning over, he touched them.

“Beautiful, aren’t they? Surely the possession and feel of such things should be enough—enough.”

His gaze, again shifting, fixed upon the pansy eyes of a silver blonde whom, from the first, Dolores had admired most.

“Come closer, Dresden shepardess,” he invited.

It was all over, settled, Dolores thought. Those defeated should be the last to deny the petite creature’s claim to election, so soft were the curves of her figure, so alluring her tints of white, pink, blue and palest gold.

“Sorry to seem to disparage you, who deserve a kinder fate,” Seff was saying. “You can see at a glance that your complexion and hair are too indefinite to make for contrast with these crêpes. Perhaps one day, for some other purpose——”

His voice ebbed as does an outgoing tide. His attention veered to the girl next in line, the most striking of the natural brunettes from the outer room.

“My, my, but you are a luscious thing—a lovely, luscious thing!” Seff’s delicate finger-tips touched together sensitively. “I wish you to understand that, personally, I like you red-blooded, dark ones—prefer you, in fact. But you are too colorful for our present need. You’d make this flesh pink look ashen. Awfully sorry, my dear. A thousand thanks for the look at you. As for you, lithe gazelle——”

The manner of his preface somehow foretold the fate of the tall, willowy girl with nut-brown hair, fleeting flushes and eyes like limpid pools, whom he next considered.

Dolores’ heart ached for the three thus gently dismissed. She knew just how they felt. She would be the fourth to go. Certainly, if they could not qualify, she should not feel disappointment or offense. Except that her situation was so desperate——

“Go over to my friend Feldtbaum,” Seff continued. “See if he can’t find a place for you in one of his roof shows. He wants just the effect of spotless virtue which you give out—likes it for punch. Somehow, for my purpose, you overlook the part. And the next girl—she won’t do at all.”

His voice had sharpened.

Dolores almost leapt from the group, both hands hard pressed against her heart to still its beat.

“Not you,” said the artist-merchant. “I’m speaking to the fourth of you. Pretty face, young, innocent enough, but too much bust—more like a matron. What I want to-day is—how shall I express it?—the spirit of modest allurement. You understand, each of you four, why you won’t do? I am so sorry. I sincerely thank you. Good morning.”

Dazed was she who watched them go. Her one definite thought was of the gas meter. How had it known when to click off last night—how been even more sure than she that the advertisement had been written for her?

“What am I to call you?” asked Vincent Seff when they were alone.

“Dolores Trent is my name, sir.”

“Dolores? A sad little name. And you look to be a sad little dame, sad and mysterious. That’s what gets me and all the rest—mystery. Tell me—” his eyes lifted quizzically—“was it your own idea to carry that symbol?”

“You mean this—this nectarine? An old friend gave it to me as I was leaving home.”

Dolores realized with negligent surprise that the fruiterer’s good-by gift was still clasped in one of her hands.

“A real nectarine, is it? I supposed it was artificial—meant to be sort of emblematic—smooth, cool, not overly ripe, yet with suggestions of pungency like, for instance, yourself. That was too much to expect, eh?”

“Yes, sir, it was,” she admitted.

He continued to look at her. “Since you don’t claim subtlety, perhaps I’d better confess that you were selected before I went into the outer room. I looked over the flock through the curtain.”

“You—you did?”

“Yes, and advised Mrs. Hutton not to overlook you.”

“Then why——”

“Why didn’t I put the rest out of their misery at once? Because I am said to be kind-hearted. The name of being kind-hearted saves me money in getting employees. Then, too, my business has taught me to flatter all women, rather than offend them. Do you mind taking off your jacket, Dolores?”

She answered by compliance.

Seff arose and stood a moment, stooping to peer into her face. One hand he clasped around her right forearm and slid it up to her shoulder, evidently measuring its proportions. Then he tried the firmness of her busts.

Dolores did not like this, although she did not say so. She swallowed against a pressure in her throat and longed for her father as she had not longed hitherto. For the first time she lifted her eyes to his.

He flushed; in another moment removed his hands. He showed, however, to be pleased, that, from the eyes of the applicant, had looked the attribute which was the chief stipulation of his advertisement.

“You are not developed as you might be, but you may do better on that very account,” he said, his manner professional. “There’s a reason. I am sure we shall be good friends.”

“I hope that I’ll be able to suit you.”

“No doubt of that.”

“I—I mean that I shall be able to do the work.”

“No doubt of that,” he repeated.

After helping her back into the serge coat, he stood off in general contemplation of her, a pucker between his brows.

“Now, I don’t wish to hurt your feelings, Dolores, but you’ll have to dress better right from the start. You don’t care if I get down to business? Your salary will be twenty-five dollars a week for the present. Later, if you fulfill my expectations and don’t dun me, I’ll probably raise it. I am going to pay you a week in advance and make you an expense allowance of one hundred dollars. I of course pay for extra clothes I order. I want you to go out and make two purchases—first, one full-sized lunch, of which you look in need; second, a new outfit. I shall not dictate that your suit be gray, the color we affect in the store. But I advise that it be quite plain, something along the lines of what you have on, only of better material. Don’t scrimp in the quality, will you?”

“I won’t,” she promised.

Drawing a leather folder from his breast pocket, Seff sorted out six twenties and one five-dollar bill and handed them to her.

Dolores took them, not knowing what to say. One hundred and twenty-five dollars!

“You see that I trust you. Take the rest of to-day and the early part of to-morrow to get yourself togged out,” he further advised. “You may report to me here around noon-time. I’ll explain then what your duties will be. Everything satisfactory?”

“I wish I could thank you,” Dolores murmured, as she stood waiting for him to turn the knob of the door.

“You can,” he said in his crisp way. “Give me the symbol.”

“The—this nectarine?”

“Yes. I want to sip it.”

She glanced up to see if he could be joking. But evidently he was not. His eyes met hers, blue and serious as a child’s. Yet she felt vaguely disturbed to notice that, as he looked, the tip of his tongue appeared from between his teeth and wiped both lips.

At once she gave him the nectarine. She was glad—so very glad—that she had something he wanted to give him. She told him so.

“You are, eh?”

He said no more to her by way of thanks. But she caught several words of what he added, as if to himself:

“Sight, touch, the thought of taste. All—that is all.”

He did not answer when she told him good-by. With an absorbed look he was turning the nectarine about in his finger-tips. He seemed in no hurry to bite into it.

To the best of her judgment, Dolores followed the instructions of her first employer. She changed the five-dollar bill in the purchase of luncheon, for she was, indeed, very hungry. Even the reminder that she now must eat all her meals alone, did not dull the edge of her appetite. It did, however, decide that the color of her new suit should be black—the only sign she might make of the desolation in her heart. Mr. Seff might not like it. Still he had said that he was “kind-hearted.” He would condone when he understood. It should have the “quality” which had been his one proviso—all the quality she could pay for after she had deducted a week’s room-rent in advance and a sufficient sum for food and incidentals.

The room she sought first as the less particular purchase and found easily—a clean hall bedroom in the “refined adult” district of the middle West Forties. The lesser details of her “outfit”—a small hat, gloves, stockings and shoes—she acquired one by one. The suit she did not decide upon until ten o’clock the next morning when, conscious of the clock hands and the obligations of good taste thrust upon her, she exchanged her full residue for a tailor-made Duvetyn, reduced, according to hearsay in the sample shop, because of its “trying simplicity.” Holding her own opinion superior to the many other ambitious things which the sales-woman said about it, Dolores honestly felt that it was a suit whose distinction of cut might offset, in Mr. Seff’s opinion, its somber hue.

Attired in its unpretentious luxury, her hair done low on her neck, as her father had liked it best, beneath her new toque, she reported at eleven o’clock in the studio.

At this point in the girl-shade’s recital, it was that she tore her eyes from the expectant smile of Satan the First and Last; covered her face from the hot gaze of others of her demon audience; allowed her sprightly utterance to lapse into shuddered lament.

“Oh, if I had known, if I had dreamed what I had been paid-in-advance to do! If I could have understood in time the stare of the floor-walker or the clerk’s reference to ‘the Juke’s slaughter of innocents’! But the hundred dollars was spent and he showed only surprise at my dismay. I begged him to let me work out the money in some other department of the store. But he said that even scrubbing required experience. He had nothing else for a girl without references to do.”

The King scowled. “You really have diverted me so far, but your narrative style has slumped. It is an old trick, fair fiend, that of pricking up the interest with exclamation points.”

“Hasn’t even a damned woman a right to some sacred feelings?” Sin interposed.

“Even so, this is no confessional and I am no priest. Queer my attention never was called to this lingerie lord. He seems to be one of my own sort.”

As Dolores forced herself again to look at His Majesty, she appreciated why his habit of wiping both lips with the tip of his tongue had seemed odiously familiar.

“Have we no film in the Picture Storage Houses of the machinations of one Vincent Seff?” With a threat in his voice, Satan turned on the prime minister.

Sin met the implication with bravado. “Seff is only a shopkeeper, Your Highness, a corking bad fellow, I know, but not of especial importance. Our storage space is overcrowded now with films of far worse than he.”

Satan’s frown blackened. “He sounds promising to me. Should our Old Original be found guilty of another crime of omission—— However, we are to hear more of Seff and your maiden effort, are we not, sweet Grief? Pray proceed, cutting out those alack-and-alas passages. We shall assume that you were as innocent as your employer’s requirement at high noon of that fatal day. It is a reasonable assumption that everybody is innocent in life’s A. M., eh? At times I take to pitying even myself for my state of innocuous naughtiness before that little set-to with the Great-I-Am. Come now, the tale—and see you give us the worst of it!”