miles. We could get in to the city now and again. We’ll have the car, and there’s a town with a railroad station about five miles away. So we won’t be completely cut off.”
“I should think we could stick it,” said Sybil. “What about the house itself?”
“The house, apparently, is very comfortable. One of these big old-fashioned summer places, with the added advantage of an oil burner.”
“Furnished?”
“Yep. Everything provided.”
“Is it awfully dear?”
“No. It seems this war bride outfit stakes out claims to these houses and then rents ’em on a pay-what-you-can basis.”
“Blimey,” said Sybil. “We’d better jump at it.”
“That’s what I think,” said Tim. He said as much, gratefully, into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece again. “We can have a look at the place this afternoon,” he told Sybil. “And if we like it, we can move right in. Everything’ll be ready. Seems there’s a handy man who looks after the house and he’ll have the lights and water turned on and a few supplies laid in.”
“Things are moving a little bit fast for me,” said Sybil, “but I suppose we’d better do it. Ah, you Americans.”
“This is pretty darned fast even for, ah, us Americans,” said Tim. “It’s also pretty darned lucky. Shall I tell her okay?”
Sybil nodded. For a moment, Tim thought he saw a faint shadow of disappointment in her face, but it passed so quickly that he couldn’t be sure. He told Mrs. Barrelforth okay.
“What’s next on the agenda?” asked Sybil. “Breakfast, I hope.”
“I knew there was something I wanted,” said Tim. “Breakfast, by all means. I’ll phone down.”
“And the afternoon papers,” said Sybil. “I’m dying to read about the shooting.”
“The shooting?” repeated Tim vaguely. Then he sat up straight in his chair beside the phone. “Good God,” he exclaimed, “I’d forgotten!”
“About the shooting?”
“Shooting, my eye. About you being Lady Sybil.”
“Oh,” said Sybil, “that.” She wrinkled her nose. “I wish you had forgotten that.”
“I’ll try to,” said Tim. “Otherwise, I won’t dare kiss you without tugging at my forelock.”
“Let’s see if you won’t,” said Sybil.
* * * *
Breakfast appeared, eventually, under gleaming dish covers among white napery along with the newspapers, neatly folded. Sybil spread one out beside her on the sofa. “Tim!” she exclaimed. “Look.”
Tim was concentrating on tomato juice. “Something about the shooting?” he asked.
“Something about it! It’s in headlines a mile high. Red ones, too. Listen: Two Die As Gaming War Flares. Socialites Terrorized As Mobsters Invade Breeze Club.”
“Gosh,” said Tim. Then he chuckled. “I suppose you’ll always be convinced now that gangsters roam the city streets.”
“Don’t they?”
“Man and boy, I never saw one. And you walk into a mob war your first night.”
“And loved it,” said Sybil. “Shall I read you some more?”
“Go ahead,” said Tim. “It sounds less sordid with your accent.”
“Sordid? With everybody in evening clothes? It was a very dressy affair.” She cleared her throat and read aloud: “Notables of the social and theatrical worlds scattered in panic early this morning when a band of gunmen forced their way into the notorious Breeze Club and staged a gun battle that left two of the participants dead on the red-carpeted floor.
“Police were convinced that the fray was connected with the efforts of Frank L. (Frankie) Heinkel, a big-time gambling operator of pre-war days, to obtain domination of the reviving underworld. Heinkel, whose career dates back to the Prohibition era, kept out of the public eye during the war, but there have been recent reports that he was trying to rebuild his organization.
“One of the slain men was identified as Louis Something I Can’t Pronounce, who was definitely linked by police to the Heinkel outfit. The other was Charles Something, a Breeze Club employee. The rest of the reputed Heinkel henchmen had made their escape by the time police reached the scene, and no arrests were made in connection with the actual shooting.
“However, police took into custody Jacob Burlick, manager of the Breeze Club—” Sybil looked up. “Why, that must be our friend, Jake,” she said.
“No friend of mine,” said Tim.
“… and chargcd him,” Sybil read on, “with operating an illicit gambling establishment. The club itself, which has long enjoyed a certain amount of immunity largely due to its inclusion of leading political figures among its patrons, was padlocked.”
“Then,” said Sybil, “there’s a long list of all the important people who were on hand. Very impressive. No mention of us, though.”
“Just as well,” said Tim. “Hardly the sort of thing an aspiring professor wants bruited about.”
“Mmm,” said Sybil, “it would have been nice to send back to England.”
“Is there anything about What’s-His-Name? Magruder?”
“Not so far.” She ran her eye down the column. “Oh,” she said suddenly.
“Find something?”
She didn’t answer for a moment. Then she handed him the paper and pointed to a paragraph well down in the story. “Read it yourself,” she said. “I don’t feel like it.” Tim read the paragraph:
“Police refused to confirm the report that a well-known figure in gambling circles was the target of the Heinkel invasion, nor would they answer questions speculating as to the identity of such a person. However, it was reliably learned that Samuel H. Magruder, so-called gentleman gambler of pre-war days, slipped out of the Breeze Club just before the shooting started. Magruder, known among gamesters as Silky Sam, was never in the toils of the law, but he is definitely known to have had dealings with Heinkel before the war. There have also been reports of subsequent bad blood between them. An unidentified couple was said to have ducked out of the club with Magruder.”
“Well,” said Tim.
Sybil was silent, and he noticed, then, that her lips were white and trembling.
“Don’t let it upset you, honey,” he said.
“I’m trying not to,” said Sybil.
He patted her hand. “I know it must be a shock to learn that
