he went on, “but don’t you get mixed up in it. You go straight home. And don’t lose my number. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
He made them a courtly little bow and a careless salute, then he turned and stepped off the ledge. Sybil gasped and clutched at Tim. Neither had seen, in the mist, the small motorboat bumping gently alongside. Magruder stood up in it, waving, then he hunched down almost out of sight, and the boat itself vanished in the chill grayness.
“It reminds me of the Morte d’Arthur,” said Sybil. “And if you say anything about double features, I’ll push you into the river.”
“Honey,” said Tim, “you’re crying.”
“I know I am,” said Sybil. “He was a friend of Daddy’s.”
As they started up the steps, the dawn was shattered over their heads by the shrieking of a multitude of sirens.
Chapter Four
War Brides Improved
Sybil opened one eye upon the soupy light of blinds drawn against a gray afternoon. For a moment she wasn’t quite sure where she was. Her gaze moved slowly around the square, impersonal bedroom, then landed on Tim’s face, more boyish than ever in rumpled sleep. She smiled and brushed his cheek with her lips, then she sat up and looked at her wrist watch on the bedside table. It was one o’clock, presumably post-meridian. She swung her feet out of bed, feeling for her slippers. When her toes had found them and wiggled into them, she got up and padded into the sitting-room, closing the door carefully behind her.
Her handbag was lying where she had left it on the pink sofa. She opened it and fumbled for the folded slip of paper Sam Magruder had given her the night before. Standing in the middle of the room in pale blue pajamas, she unfolded it and read it. It said:
Imperative I see you alone as soon as possible. Strictly alone. Call me at MU8-1239. Don’t worry about a place to stay. I’m taking care of it. Watch your step.
Sybil folded it again and slipped it into the monogrammed pocket of her pajama coat. She opened the bedroom door softly, listened a moment, then closed it. She picked up the phone and dialed Magruder’s number.
A gruff voice answered. “Yeah?” said the voice.
“Is Mr. Magruder there?”
“Wait a minute.” Apparently the voice consulted somebody else because it returned and asked, “Who wants to know?”
She hesitated. “Tell him it’s Sybil.”
There was another pause for consultation, and Sybil thought she heard somebody laugh. The voice came back and said, “He ain’t here. He’s moved away.”
The receiver clicked in her ear. “Hullo,” she said. “Are you there?” Only the insulting cackle of the dial tone answered her. “Damn,” she said and put down the phone. She bit her lip and looked out of the window, frowning worriedly.
Almost immediately the phone rang. Sybil jumped, then reached for it eagerly. A hearty feminine voice, with a hint of a Lancashire accent, boomed out of it. “Would this be Mrs. Timothy Ludlow?”
“It would.”
“The former Lady Sybil Hastings?”
“None other.”
The bedroom door opened and Tim poked his head through it, blinking sleepily. “Thought I heard the phone,” he said. “Who is it?”
“Don’t know yet,” said Sybil.
“This,” went on the hearty voice, “is the British-American War Bride Improvement Association. BAWBIA, for short. My name is Mrs. Lemuel Barrelforth, president of the New Jersey Chapter. Welcome to the United States.”
“Thank you,” said Sybil.
“Who is it?” asked Tim. Sybil shushed him.
“It has been called to our attention,” the voice of Mrs. Lemuel Barrelforth boomed on, “that you and your veteran husband are without a place to live. In other words, you need improvement. That’s what the Association’s for.”
“You mean you’ll help us find a place?”
“I certainly do. And I’m pretty sure we can.”
“But how marvelous!” cried Sybil. “And how kind!”
She paused a moment. “Was it, by any chance,” she asked, “a Mr. Magruder who brought us to your attention?”
“The matter was taken up with the Central Welcoming Committee,” replied Mrs. Barrelforth, “and turned over by them to the New Jersey Chapter. New Jersey, you know, is the Garden State, and where there are gardens, there are houses. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does,” said Sybil.
“What the heck’s this all about?” asked Tim. “Something about a house?” Sybil nodded.
“To get down to cases,” Mrs. Barrelforth went briskly on, “we’ve already got a house lined up for you. It’s got its drawbacks, but it’s also got a roof and four walls. Shall I describe it more fully?”
“I think you’d better speak to my husband,” said Sybil. “Right-o,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Put him on.”
Sybil put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s something called the British-American War Brides Improvement Association,” she said to Tim. “And apparently, they’ve found us a house.”
“It must be a gag,” said Tim. “Things like this don’t happen.”
“Let’s not look it in the mouth,” said Sybil, handing him the phone.
She lit a cigarette and perched on the arm of the sofa while Tim talked. Or rather, while Tim listened. He said “Uh-uh” and “I see” several times while a pleased incredulity gathered in his face. “Gosh,” he said finally, “it certainly sounds good to me. Can I call you back?… Oh. Right away, eh? Do you mind hanging on a minute?”
He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Sybil, looking dazed but delighted. “It seems to be on the level,” he said. “The house is in a place called Merry Point, which is a seaside resort on the Jersey coast. That’s the big drawback.”
“Why?” asked Sybil. “What’s wrong with a seaside resort?”
“Because in winter a Jersey seaside resort is just about as jolly as Wuthering Heights. It’ll be bleak, windswept, cold, and lonelier than Mount Everest.”
“We’ll have each other,” said Sybil.
“I’ll do my best to be entertaining,” said Tim. “Card tricks and so on.”
“Will there be four for bridge?”
“I don’t know. From what I gather, the only inhabitants outside of us will be what the summer people call natives.”
“Natives?
