Читать книгу Stranger at the Door - Victor J. Banis - Страница 3

CHAPTER ONE

Loneliness had come as a guest in the house. She hovered near the faded velvet of the draperies, peering through dust-streaked glass. She paused among Victorian ornaments and misplaced Chippendale, her fingers trailing over yellowed keys on the ancient Steinway.

She had come, Roger Caldwell thought sadly, as a guest. She would remain as mistress. He stood from the desk, his attention stubbornly refusing to remain focused on the monthly accounts, and crossed to the window, peering out without seeing anything beyond.

“I should be packing,” he reminded himself, but he did not want to resume his task. The truth was, he did not want to go, to leave this house. He preferred to stand here at the draperies, nor did he mind the presence of Loneliness beside him, for he found even her company familiar and comfortable.

“Time,” he said aloud, pulling himself resolutely away from the window, “Is passing.” It had been passing all along, of course, swiftly, irrevocably.

Like the house, he was growing old. He felt the weight of his sixty plus years perhaps more heavily than did the house her full century. He could not even wish to be young again, for he scarcely believed that he had ever been young. That, he had finally come to realize, was the misfortune of good fortune, of being reared to wealth and position and the attendant responsibilities that had been drilled into him from childhood.

He had not been merely young Roger, but young Roger Caldwell, and he had never been allowed to overlook that difference, any more than the house had been allowed to fancy, even for a moment, that she was merely a pleasant little cottage.

He sat again at his desk, running a hand through his gray, thinning hair and frowned as he once more directed his attention to his work. He studied the bill from the market, the grocery account.

He was certain that Mr. Schaffer was overcharging him. Hadn’t he quoted the steaks at a dollar twenty-nine a pound, and there they were on the bill, at a dollar forty. Another penalty for being a Caldwell.

“They can afford it,” he could hear Mr. Schaffer justifying the deception to his wife.

With a resigned sigh, Roger signed his name to the check he had written and tucked it into the return envelope along with the bill. In the long run, the amount couldn’t involve more than a dollar or two, and the Caldwells undoubtedly could still afford that, although Mr. Schaffer might have been shocked to discover the increasing limitations on what the Caldwells could afford.

There had been a time when there had been no limitations, a time when they had reigned in this house as Cincinnati’s first family—and to Mama, they were still that, but Roger did not need his monthly struggle with the accounts to tell him that their reign was over, ten years over, that they had been replaced by families of newer and more genuine wealth—young, dynamic, often tasteless people, but people with large fortunes nonetheless.

The monthly bills taken care of, Roger carried the envelopes to the console in the hall, near the front door, where he would be sure to take them with him when he went out. He half rang for Mrs. Bruce before he remembered that the housekeeper was no longer there, that he had dismissed her days before.

Just as well, he assured himself as he moved along the dim hall toward the kitchen, going to prepare his own tea. Mrs. Bruce had been rather a bossy sort, and he himself too willing to give in, with the result that he had been very nearly a servant to her whims and moods rather than the reverse. If he had been smart, he would have let her go weeks ago, but dismissing people was a chore he had always managed to put off as long as possible. It was bad enough when you had a legitimate reason, such as closing up the house. Even so, Mrs. Bruce had managed to imply that the house was only an excuse to conceal more unreasonable motives.

He set the tea kettle atop the antiquated stove, stooping to blow on the gas jet before it would come to life, and wondered if after all it wouldn’t have been wiser to keep the housekeeper on until the house actually was closed. It meant only another month, and there was still so much to be done. Probably he would never get to some of it. There were the back stairs, now locked off from the rest of the house because they were flagrantly unsafe, a withered limb no longer able to play its role, and they really ought to be repaired, but they led nowhere, only to the top attic, which was empty now, so there was no reason for anyone to use them. In any case, unless you knew to look for it, the door—concealed at the back of a broom closet—was not likely even to be discovered, so no one would be tempted, though he couldn’t think who that someone might be.

The furniture would all have to be covered, of course, and a few things put into storage. The morning paper carried the advertisement for the car, the last item he intended to sell before departing. After that would come his trip to Europe and his first reunion with his sister, Emily, since she had taken up residence in Paris some ten years earlier, and when he returned, it would be to another home, to the small apartment that was already prepared for him.

When his tea was brewed, Roger carried it with him into the parlor and settled himself with a book of poetry, but the poetry was no more successful at holding his attention than his other diversions had been. He was restless, strangely so, and the house was too quiet, with first Mama and now the housekeeper gone.

He made a mental note to call and see how Mama was getting along. For some peculiar reason, which he could not quite understand himself, it gave him a vague sense of annoyance to know that she was as comfortable as she seemed to be with Aunt Sarah.

Of course, Aunt Sarah and Mama were both widowed now, and Aunt Sarah’s neat, modern apartment was obviously easier for both of them—no steps to climb, a modern heating system free of the drafts that plagued this old house, everything that would make life simpler for two ladies of advancing years and bad hearts.

The front door knocker banged loudly, interrupting his train of thought. Roger sat for a moment before he remembered again that there was no Mrs. Bruce to answer it, and jumped up to get it himself.

* * * *

The young man at the door was a stranger, and rather a handsome one in a crude, unpolished way. His dark hair, only half combed, framed a faced that in repose was strikingly cherubic. When he smiled, however, an oddly one-sided smile, the eyebrows arched and the dark eyes narrowed, giving him a look not at all angelic, but rather Mephistophelean.

Roger stared at him curiously, momentarily puzzled that such a perversely attractive young man should be calling on him. There had been young men, of course, sweaty cock-teasers in the darkness, in the past, but not here, never at the house. He had often wondered if someday one of those heavy-hung hustlers might not come to this very door. Faint images of the past darted through his mind—but, no, this was certainly a stranger, no one he had seen before. Not until his caller spoke did he recall the advertisement in the morning paper.

“You’re the one with the car for sale?” he asked. His voice was low and the sort that seemed always to be saying something more than the actual words spoken.

The images of hustlers vanished, and Roger smiled with slight embarrassment. “Oh, yes, the car,” he said. “Would you like to buy it?”

The visitor gave him another of his peculiar smiles. “I’d like to see it,” he said.

“Well, that’s understandable.” An attractive creature, Roger thought, exciting, even. Again, memories played across Roger’s consciousness. Beneath a battered corduroy jacket, the young man’s shirt and trousers were unnecessarily tight fitting, but they served to reveal a well-developed physique—and a well-proportioned bulge at his crotch. “It’s in the garage, back this way.”

He pulled the door closed after himself and led the way around the house. The visitor walked beside him, glancing around at the grounds as they went. Roger found himself wishing that things were in better repair. The grounds were looking shabby, and they were so lovely when they were kept up.

“Nice place you have here,” the young man said, seemingly unperturbed by the evidence of neglect.

“Yes. I’m fond of it, but I’m afraid it’s rather too much for one person to keep up.”

“You live here by yourself?” The visitor threw him a glance.

“Only for another month or so,” Roger confessed, opening the gate into the back yard. “I plan to go abroad for a while, and then I suppose I’ll have to think about selling the place. It’s been in the family for years, but there’s no one left now to keep it up. My sister lives in Paris and my mother’s just too old to get around in a house like this.”

“Sure seems a shame.” The young man stopped by the pool, long empty, and stared down at the layer of debris and dirt at the bottom. “Must have been quite a place in its day.”

They went to the garage. Roger opened the door, trying to conceal the effort necessary to lift the considerable weight, and flicked on the naked bulb that hung inside.

“It’s the Packard I’m selling, the town car. I’ll keep the Ford to use when I get back, although to tell you the truth, I don’t really use either of them much.”

The stranger walked slowly about the Packard, looking it over. It was an older model, dating back to a period of tall rooflines and sweeping fenders. At the moment it was plainly in need of cleaning and waxing, but otherwise it was sound.

“How does it run?”

“Oh, quite smoothly. The key is in the ignition, if you’d like to start it up.”

He waited as the young man slid inside the car and started up the engine. He let it run for a moment or two, listening with a cocked ear.

“Not bad,” he said, switching off the engine and climbing out again. Once more he circled the car to examine the exterior.

Roger stood in awkward silence. He hated the bother of selling things and hoped that the young man wouldn’t want to haggle. Perhaps if he did not want to buy the car, Roger would simply call a dealer and let him take it away.

The young man finished his inspection, but he still had not offered any decision. Roger cleared his throat nervously.

“Perhaps you’d like to come inside,” he suggested timidly. “We could discuss the matter over a glass of sherry.” It was probably not an orthodox way to settle these things, he was thinking, but somehow it seemed to him a far more refined way of doing business.

No, there was something more than that, he admitted. Suddenly he was lonely, and did not want to re-enter the silent, empty house alone. He did not really care if his visitor bought the car or not. He could always dispose of that somehow, but something about the young man had stirred long dormant feelings within him. He had been called back to the past, to the other young men with whom he had shared a few brief moments of fleshly pleasures. Of course, this interlude would not be the same as those others had been, but at least he could talk for a while, over some sherry, and perhaps he could enjoy vicariously a few moments of youth.

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” the young man said. “By the way, I’m Lenny.” He offered a hand and a grip that was almost painfully strong.

“Roger Caldwell. We can go through the back way.”

He led the way into the house, annoyed with himself for the tingle of excitement he had felt at Lenny’s handshake. After all, this young man was here on business, he reminded himself—and anyway, Roger could not allow, had never allowed himself to contemplate such indiscretions here in Cincinnati, where he was known and where the family name was still of some, albeit diminishing, importance.

They moved through the house slowly, pausing often as Lenny admired a room or a particular piece of furniture. Roger smiled and was pleased that the house should receive the flattering attention of this pleasant young man.

In the parlor, Roger reached for a decanter of sherry, and paused. This man was of a different sphere, he reminded himself, and probably different tastes. “Perhaps you’d prefer something else?” he suggested.

“Do you have any beer?”

Roger shook his head regretfully. “Scotch?”

“Fine.”

That settled, they seated themselves in the tall chairs that flanked the window, facing one another. Lenny had removed his jacket and Roger found it increasingly difficult not to let his eyes fix themselves on his bulging crotch, or wander up and down the length of the sculptured young body.

“You’re a native of Cincinnati?” Roger asked.

Lenny shook his head almost apologetically. “No, I come from the West Coast. I was on my way to New York, but somebody told me Cincinnati was the Queen City, so I decided to check it out.” He laughed, revealing slightly uneven teeth. Roger laughed with him, a bit uncertain as to the reason for his mirth.

Lenny grew quickly serious again, his moods passing like light and shadow over his face. “To tell the truth, I was broke,” he said. “My money ran out, so I stopped here to pick up some work. That was seven months ago, and I’m still here.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“You name it. I was working on a construction job out of town a ways, but that ended last week. Right now I’m looking around for something else to do.”

It struck Roger as odd that a young man without a job and admittedly short on money would be shopping for a car, but that was hardly his concern, so long as he was paid for the car.

As though reading his thoughts, Lenny said, “I have a friend, a woman. I think she may loan me the money to buy a car.”

Roger said nothing, but he did not have to question how Lenny intended to repay such a load. He had known such men, gigolos who screwed anything for cash. They were more common in New York, where he had often visited in the past, but they were not unknown here in Cincinnati either.

“That’s about the situation,” Lenny said aloud, with a rueful grin.

Roger jumped, startled. “What’s that?”

“What you were thinking, about my woman friend.”

Roger wondered if the young man were indeed reading his mind. It was certainly unnerving, to have his thoughts put into words.

Lenny shifted his position in the chair. “I was broke when I arrived in town, totally broke. I met—this woman. She has money, so I let her spend some of it on me.” He spoke defensively, almost defying Roger to offer some objection.

“I hadn’t intended to pry,” Roger apologized, not quite sure why he should find it necessary to do so. “I’m sure you’re not normally the sort who enjoys being, well, dependent upon other people.”

Lenny relaxed slightly at that. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I was trying to pick a fight over it. Some people think it’s wrong of me.”

Roger’s discomfort was increasing. He disliked conversations of this intimacy, particularly with a virtual stranger. Yet there was something about his companion that was too direct for conventional barriers, something that created its own aura of intimacy.

“You must be lonely,” Lenny said unexpectedly. It was a direct statement, rather than a question, delivered with a bold stare.

“Lonely?”

“Living here all by yourself, in this big house.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Some sixth sense warned Roger that he should employ discretion, yet the conversation seemed to be drifting quite beyond his control. The sherry, and the bluntness of his guest, had weakened his usual caution. “I used to travel. Once a month or so, I’d go into New York City.”

“Used to?”

Roger hesitated, but his reserve was no longer sufficient to hold back his words. “I had some difficulty on one visit, a few years ago. I stopped going.”

“A guy?”

Roger jumped again, genuinely embarrassed. Had his admiration for the young man’s good looks been so obvious? “Why do you ask that?” he stammered, knowing that his embarrassment could only serve as a confirmation of Lenny’s guess.

Lenny grinned, seemingly unperturbed by this turn of the conversation. “They say it takes one to know one,” he said.

“I see.” Roger was at a loss exactly what he should say. Deny it, he thought impulsively, though that seemed a futile gesture. And, if his guest were truly of the same caste....

“What sort of trouble?” By now the conversation was Lenny’s, steered deftly into whatever channel he chose.

“A young man, I met him at a cocktail party....” As he spoke, Roger found himself reliving the experience. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to his companion, his voice going on almost in a monotone....

* * * *

It was, unquestionably, a successful party. The guests had overflowed into the hall, the chatter and babble of cocktail conversation audible even in the elevator as it ascended from the lobby. Roger paused outside the apartment for a moment, never quite comfortable facing such large crowds, although it was hardly a new experience for him. He became aware of a pair of young men standing nearby in the hall and looking him over. He glanced briefly in their direction: effeminate, flamboyant types with made-up eyes and cheap, flashy clothes.

“Hello, dear,” one of them greeted him with a broad smile, mistaking Roger’s glance for flirtation.

Roger did not need to be told that it was something other than his looks, which had never been spectacular, which interested them. At least he could give them credit for recognizing good taste when they saw it, and expensive clothes. Of course, these young men were like many others in that respect: such knowledge was their stock in trade. As far as that went, he was rather accustomed to being sized up in terms of his probable financial worth rather than his worth as an individual.

He knew that his success on his visits to New York depended to a large extent upon the fact that he exuded wealth and breeding. The clearly expensive suits he wore, the diamond on his finger, the brilliance of the emerald links, the car and driver he rented for his visits, the tower suite at the Waldorf—these were the elements that made up his appeal.

He minded, of course, as one always minds, but he had long since abandoned any illusions to the contrary. In his quiet way, he used these accoutrements to gain his objectives. It was the way the game was played, and he had learned to use the young men who were drawn to him as selfishly as they attempted to use him.

So he had not taken offense at the interest these two young men had taken in him. He had, however, learned through experience that he could do better, and just as he sought the best in his clothing, his jewelry, his drinks, he had made it a point to purchase with his wealth the best young men available.

Someday, of course, that would not be possible. His wealth was diminishing, he was altogether too aware of that fact. At home, in Cincinnati, he had begun to learn the niceties of economizing, but here in New York, he could still maintain the front of elegance and limitless finances. No one here need know that this trip, for the first time, he had traveled coach class.

He gave the two young men a nod, not coldly, but sufficiently distant to dash any hopes they might be entertaining, and made his way into the apartment. He steered his way deftly about elbows and trays, eventually finding himself a martini and a place by one wall where he could stand relatively safe from splashed drinks or clumsy feet.

There was simply no point in trying to find his host. He had been to Rudy’s parties before. Somewhere in this crush of people, Rudy would be holding court, as was his way, fancying himself as something slightly more regal than what he truly was.

“The truth is,” Roger thought ruefully, staring about at a room furnished with considerable expense and very little taste, “He’s got more money than I.” He could gain some satisfaction, however, from the fact that he was probably the only one aware of this. Rudy’s money was “new,” and considerable, and he spent it lavishly, particularly on just such entertaining as this, but those people who knew them both would invariably single out Roger as representative of the aristocratic class. He was listed in social registers and Who’s Who, he maintained an aura of elegance that made Rudy’s flashy spending seem shabby and vulgar.

Ordinarily, Roger would find a party of Rudy’s amusing. In his position, Roger had learned at an early age that he must be careful and discreet. New York was an outlet for him, yet he could scarcely stand about on street corners. Thus when he had met Rudy through family acquaintances, and they had discerned their mutual inclinations, Roger had welcomed the friendship. Rudy had been invaluable in providing him ways and places for meeting people, especially the handsome young men who were always in evidence here at this apartment, and always available for someone of apparent means.

Today, however, Roger found himself largely unamused. He was out of sorts and impatient with the people who occasionally bumped or shoved against him in passing. Like cattle, he found himself thinking, boisterous people who drank too much and talked too much.

He raised his arm to glance at his watch, wondering if he should stay. As he did so, his arm bumped someone and the drink in his hand spilled.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he exclaimed. The man whose jacket had received the wet offering looked pointedly at him. Roger blushed, feeling as much an oaf as the people he had been so contemptuous of a moment before. Where had the man come from anyway? He was sure there had been so one standing there earlier.

“That’s all right.” The stranger glanced over his shoulder, trying to survey the damage. “I shouldn’t have been standing on top of you. It’s just that there’s so damned many people here.”

“Yes, I was thinking that too. But look, I’ve stained your jacket. Let me see if I can do anything with it.” He took his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the spot, without much success.

“It’s all right, really,” the man insisted. He turned toward Roger, turning the wet spot from view. “You’re Roger Caldwell, aren’t you?”

Roger felt even more flustered now. It was silly, standing here with his handkerchief wadded in his hand, like a headwaiter or some such. For the first time, he looked the stranger in the face. It was a handsome face—no, not so much handsome as pretty, he decided on second glance. Blond hair, pale eyes, pale skin—the slightest trace of affectation would have sufficed to make him appear effeminate, but fortunately there was none.

“Yes. Have we met?” He could not place the stranger, although he was certain he would remember him if they had met before.

“Not really. I’ve seen you here before, at one of Rudy’s parties. I’d hoped to meet you then, but I prefer an introduction, and by the time I’d managed that, you had gone. Later, I asked around about you, and found out you were from out of town. So I never really expected to meet you.”

“I’m afraid this wasn’t a very pleasant introduction,” Roger said, indicating the drink in his hand. “But I’m flattered that you remembered me. And I’m afraid you have the advantage.”

“I’m sorry. I’m Andrew Best,” he said, smiling warmly and showing just the faintest of dimples.

They shook hands. “Best? Not the Vermont Bests, by any chance?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he answered with a small laugh and an almost apologetic tone.

A pleasant young man, Roger was thinking. Yes, this was why he came to Rudy’s parties, why he had come today, to meet young men such as Andrew Best—handsome, polished, masculine. Whatever criticism one might direct at Rudy’s vulgar show of wealth, it did attract some interesting people.

“But, I say,” he said aloud, “I’ve spoiled your jacket. You must let me make it up to you.”

“That’s not necessary.” He again stretched to peer over his shoulder, frowning as he did so. “But I do suppose it looks conspicuous. I ought to leave.”

“There, you see, I’ve spoiled the party for you as well.”

Andrew gave him another of those dazzling smiles. “To be frank, I was thinking of leaving anyway, so you haven’t really spoiled anything for me.”

There was an awkward pause, as though both of them were contemplating carrying the matter further.

“Then perhaps you’ll let me give you a lift,” Roger suggested finally. Ordinarily he was not so abrupt. He would wait until much had been established through conversation, and often he would even wait for a second meeting. But he liked this young man, and if Andrew was leaving now, there might not be a second meeting.

“That would be nice, thank you,” Andrew said.

It was at this point that Roger invariably grew nervous. In all that happened before an actual advance took place, this might have been any ordinary social meeting, and he could handle it with the inbred finesse that came from being a Caldwell.

His training as a Caldwell, however, did not extend to dealing with the fine points of a homosexual pickup. Tawdry as it sounded, he had never been able to think of this sort of thing as anything else. Having managed an introduction and set the stage, he had moved out of his element. If he were fortunate, the person he had met would be a slightly aggressive type, who would now take the initiative. If not, then he was forced to fumble and stammer and hint until he had made his desires plain.

He was rather fortunate with Andrew who, although not really aggressive, seemed to have exactly the same plans in mind. Roger’s shy suggestion that Andrew stop by his suite at the Waldorf for a drink was quickly and warmly accepted, and Roger relaxed, having carried the overtures a step further without mishap, and confident by now that it would not be difficult to carry them to the hoped for conclusion.

* * * *

“Pleasant,” Andrew said approvingly when he saw the suite.

“Yes, I find it comfortable.” Roger ordered champagne sent up, raising an eyebrow silently to ask if that was satisfactory with his guest. A quick nod told him it was.

Conversation was easy with this relaxed stranger, who seemed to be well educated and in fact even knew some of the same people Roger knew, although he insisted he did not know them well. Roger found himself wondering how intimate his guest had been with some of them. Names were mentioned of people he knew to be from the best families, men whom he had not before suspected of being inclined toward homosexual outlets.

He was relieved when Andrew spared him the necessity of broaching the subject of sex. There was little doubt that the subject was on both their minds, but as usual, Roger had been at a loss as to how to bring it up.

“Should we get more comfortable?” Andrew asked, finishing a glass of champagne. He glanced fleetingly in the direction of the bedroom.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Roger said. They stood together. There was a heat in Roger’s crotch and he found himself aroused at contemplating what was to follow. He gazed longingly at the young man before him—tall, slim, sensuous. With a nervous smile, Roger turned and led the way into the bedroom, Andrew following.

Roger was somewhat modest about undressing in the light, but even with the draperies closed, the room was still far from dark. A bit uncomfortably, he removed his clothing, hanging everything neatly in the closet. Andrew, too, was neat with his things, a fact that pleased Roger. The young blond did not seem modest about his nudity. He removed his underthings without hesitation, moving unembarrassed about the room. Roger found himself staring in fascination and desire.

And Andrew was very desirable, even more so than with his clothes on. His sculptured buttocks, the slim waist, the patch of gold at the base of his stomach, fired Roger’s craving. He watched the long, lovely pendulum of flesh swing lazily from side to side as the young man walked.

“Better take them off, hadn’t you?” Andrew suggested with a smile, indicating the shorts that Roger still wore. “No, wait, I’ll do it for you.”

He slid the fabric down over Roger’s hips and legs, and gently grasped the rigid, bobbing evidence of Roger’s desire. Then, slowly; but firmly, he pushed Roger down upon the bed, crouching above him. Roger’s vision was filled with the firm surface of a stomach, hips posed and tensed, the golden jungle of curls around a rigid column of manhood moving closer. His lips parted, to be invaded by firm, warm flesh. His hands lifted to stroke the tensed buttocks.

“Gently, gently,” Andrew crooned above him. His hips moved to and fro, slowly at first, the movements gradually increasing in tempo.

The blond arched his spine, leaning backward, and his hand again clasped Roger’s erection, stroking it tenderly. They moved together, Roger struggling to fill himself with the offering of his beautiful companion. He choked, never very artful in these acts, and would have paused to get his breath, but the youth above him was unrelenting now, caught up in the heat of their sexuality. His hips continued to thrust, driving himself deeper and more forcefully.

Roger’s own desire concentrated itself at his loins, a mounting pressure that demanded release. It grew, becoming almost unbearable. Roger wanted to cry out, but could not. He writhed slightly, thrusting himself upward into the tight-gripping, coaxing hand.

He struggled against the weight of his partner’s loins, wanting to tell him to delay. Not yet, he wanted to cry out, but the young man over him would not retreat and suddenly it was too late. Roger felt the surge of his climax, the upward rushing, and he exploded, droplets of hot liquid spattering across his abdomen.

He wanted to pause, to have a moment to regain his breath. He pushed against his partner’s slim hips, but Andrew brushed his hand roughly away, and Roger realized that Andrew was near the end as well, too near to delay. His hips moved furiously now, driving deeply. Roger felt the swelling, the instant of frozen motion and then he was choking and gasping as the throbbing flesh poured out his tribute into his mouth.

Andrew fell away from him, sprawling across the bed, breathing deeply. Roger too remained motionless for a long time, his heart still pounding frantically with the exertion. Finally, Andrew moved, got up and disappeared into the bathroom. While he was gone, Roger remembered his nudity and went to the closet for a robe, slipping it on.

Andrew noticed the robe when he returned and smiled in amusement as he began to dress again. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked as he bent down to lace his shoes.

“Very much,” Roger assured him honestly.

“That’s good,” Andrew said. “I always like my companions to enjoy the experience. That way, they don’t object when I ask for something in the way of a reward.”

A wave of disappointment swept over Roger. Of course, he had expected that this young man had a financial interest in him. That was to be expected. Ordinarily, he offered his companion some money, a few dollars to compensate for their time and the attention they had given him. He knew, after all, that he was no beauty. He did not like them to ask for it, however. Somehow, when he offered the money as a gift, it made the business seem less like prostitution.

“Of course,” he answered, taking his billfold from the dresser. “I had planned on offering you a little something. Will twenty do?”

Andrew straightened up. He was smiling again, but this time his smile was cold and hard, vastly different from the way he had looked at Roger before. “I had a little more than that in mind,” he said bluntly.

“I see.” Roger’s embarrassment deepened. He had never before been in the position of haggling like this. “Fifty, then. It’s steep, but I suppose I can’t really object.”

“I was thinking more in terms of, let’s say, a thousand.” Andrew stood, looking even taller than before. He was no longer pretty and gracious, but formidable and threatening.

Roger stared in astonishment. “You can’t be serious,” he said, “I have no intention of paying you that sort of money.”

“I am serious. And you will pay. I know your type, you see. You’re not the sort who likes a lot of ugly scandal, and scenes in hotels. That’s the alternative you have.”

Roger could scarcely believe his ears. And yet, as he met the hard gaze of the man before him, he knew that Andrew was indeed serious, in both his demands and his threats....

* * * *

“You told the police about it?” Lenny asked, leaning forward in his chair. He seemed angered by the account, and full of sympathy.

“No, I couldn’t, don’t you see?” Roger sighed as he remembered the humiliation and the indignation he had suffered. “I couldn’t afford to. He knew who I was, and it might have gotten back to someone here, and caused such a bother. The family’s well known, for one thing. And my mother’s had a bad heart for several years. If there had been only myself to consider, I might have dealt with it differently, but there’s no telling what a scandal of that sort would do to her in her condition. I had no choice but to pay him the money he demanded, but after that I no longer had any desire to stay in New York, or pay another visit. Once burned, as they say.”

“So now you just stay around here, all by yourself, in this big old house?”

“Yes. Oh, I have my occupations, of course, but not that sort of thing, not since then.”

“That’s too bad.” Lenny seemed quite suddenly to have lost interest in the subject. He finished his drink and stood up. “I guess I’d better be going.”

Roger stood also, disconcerted by the abruptness of the change. “Have you thought about the car?” he asked. It occurred to him that they had, after all, not even touched upon the subject of Lenny’s visit.

“I’d like to think about it. Could I come by again tomorrow after I’ve talked to my friend?”

“But of course. I’ve enjoyed our little visit.”

Lenny was smiling as he again clasped Roger’s hand, this time less forcefully. “So have I,” he said.

Roger stood at the door as his guest made his way down the drive. Now that the conversation was ended, he was suffering regrets at having said so much. He had in fact revealed his most embarrassing secret to this stranger, while he in turn knew little about the young man who was just leaving. He was suddenly frightened and anxious.

Lenny reached the end of the drive and paused, turning back to smile and wave. Roger returned the gesture and his fear vanished as quickly as it had come.

He was foolish to worry, he chided himself. There was scant likelihood that Lenny would be mingling with any of the Caldwell’s friends, and in any event, he was such a nice young man, so open and direct, and yet thoughtful, and...he would not let himself think the other adjective that had attempted to creep into his mind...so attractive.