gray-haired man held up a restraining hand. “I quite agree,” he said, “that the occasion calls for champagne, but let there be no misunderstanding as to whose treat it shall be. Jake, send a bottle of Cordon Rouge to my table. Preferably the twenty-eight.”
“What about my door?” demanded a querulous little voice.
“Imagine forgetting that one’s holding a door,” said Sybil merrily. “Here it is, duck.”
The woman accepted it and said, “Yes, but—”
“Pother,” interrupted the gray-haired man sharply. “Get thee back to your nunnery. This way, good people.”
He led them through the crowd, like Moses passing through the Red Sea, to a low balcony that extended along one side of the room. There was a vacant table at one end, toward which their host bowed them. It was comparatively cool and tranquil on the balcony, and one could look down upon the kaleidoscopic crowd with Olympian detachment.
“Reminds me of the Cafe Royal balcony on extension night,” said Sybil.
“Just so,” said the gray-haired man. “Much the same sort of people, too. Stage folk, artists, a dash of society, journalists, and the like. What you might call the moneyed Bohemia.”
“If I’m not being personal,” said Tim, “are you the owner?”
The other shook his head with rueful amusement. “I’ve paid for it several times over,” he said. “I’m just a very, very good customer. Incidentally, I haven’t introduced myself properly, have I? My name is Magruder. Sam Magruder.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Sybil. “It’s all coming back to me now. I’ve often heard Daddy speak of you.”
Magruder smiled reminiscently. “You and I must have a long talk one of these days. I’m sure Mr. Ludlow won’t mind—although, of course, he’s more than welcome to join us.”
“I never butt in on old home weeks,” said Tim.
Magruder felt in his pockets. “Afraid I haven’t a card,” he apologized. “I’ll scribble my number down for you.” He brought out a black notebook and started to write in it. “By the way,” he said, “you’d better give me your address, too.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t one,” said Sybil. “Except for a frightfully temporary hotel.”
“What!” exclaimed Magruder, looking up from the notebook. “You mean you’ve no place to live?”
“That’s how it looks,” said Tim.
Magruder laid down his fountain pen and stared at both of them with genuine concern. “By George,” he said, “this is terrible. Is this the sort of hospitality America gives its English visitors? Is this the thanks our veterans get? By George, something’s going to be done about this.”
“I wish it were,” sighed Tim.
“Damn it, young man, I’m serious. Something will be done. As sure as my name’s Sam Magruder.” He gave his head a firm little shake. Then he wrote some more in the notebook, ripped the page out, and handed it to Sybil. She tucked it into her bag.
It struck Tim that their host must have written a good deal more than his telephone number, a thought which Magruder apparently read because he chuckled and said, I’ve added a few protestations of undying love. D’you mind?”
“Not a bit,” said Tim, immediately ashamed of any unworthy suspicion. “Me, I’ve got my eye on that redhead over there.”
“Redhead?” said Magruder, looking. “I don’t see any redhead.”
“I’m afraid she’s imaginary,” said Tim. “Strictly a dream girl.”
Magruder, still looking across the big room, started to laugh, then the laugh died on his lips. They tightened and his blue eyes turned hard and glittery.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sybil. She and Tim both turned in the direction of his gaze and saw a group of men coming through the red-curtained entrance. They were in dinner jackets, but they kept their hats on. The hats looked more natural than the dinner jackets.
“Coppers?” asked Sybil.
“No,” said Magruder. For another second or two, he remained immobile, as if fascinated by a cobra’s eye, then swiftly, without rising, he slipped from his chair and moved in a crouching run toward the wail just beyond the table. Tim saw now that there was a door there, painted like the wall, and Magruder pushed it a little way open. “Better come with me,” he whispered. “That’s what your father’d have wanted. Both of you. And keep down.”
“Come on,” said Sybil to Tim. She slithered from the table to the door, which Magruder pushed farther open for her. Tim followed, and Magruder followed him, pulling the door shut.
Even as the latch clicked, a sharp, dry crack sounded in the room behind them, then another and another, each followed instantly by a splintering thud against the door.
“My God,” said Tim, “those were shots.”
“Isn’t it exciting?” said Sybil. “I’m crazy about New York.”
They were standing in a narrow stone passageway, dimly lit and damp. “Better let me go first,” said Magruder. “And don’t dawdle.” He slid past them and they followed him through the gloom.
Three more shots crackled distantly beyond the stone walls and somebody screamed; it might have been a man or a woman.
“Watch it,” called Magruder over his shoulder. “Flight of steps ahead.”
They could see his head and shoulders descending. Tim took Sybil’s arm and said, “Careful, honey.”
“I’m all right,” said Sybil. “Having a lovely time, in fact.”
The steps were steep and uneven and the dampness sweated more freely from the stones on either side. Below, a patch of light appeared, then fresh and wet and malodorous came the smell of the East River.
They emerged onto a ledge a few feet above the water, darkly visible through the mists of breaking dawn. Beside them, a smooth wall rose endlessly into the lightening sky.
“This way,” called Magruder, moving along the ledge with easy caution. “Don’t be alarmed by this stuff around you. It’s only daylight.” He sounded exhilarated, almost gay.
“Reminds me of the sewers of Paris,” said Sybil.
“Reminds me of a double feature,” said Tim.
Sybil risked her balance to turn and frown at him. “How stuffy, darling!” she exclaimed. “I’ll leave you if you say things like that. I’ll leave you for this lovely man.”
The lovely man had halted a little distance ahead of them. As they caught up, they saw that he was standing at the foot of another flight of steps, cut into the wall. “These’ll take you up to the street,” he said. “There’s a cab stand a block north. Forgive me if I don’t accompany you, but it’s a bit of a
