found the house the cop had described and he bared his teeth in sudden rage. It was a trap, a goddam trap. The cop was a lousy sadist having a little sport with a helpless drunk. No one living in a house like that would even speak to a drunk. It was a broad, gray mansion of granite that looked as if it had grown on the side of the hill. It looked more like a public library than anyone’s home. He looked around and saw only other mansions and expensive new apartment buildings. Pacific Heights was undoubtedly one of the wealthiest districts in the city, obviously because of the spectacular view embracing the Golden Gate, San Francisco Bay, the Marin hills to the north and most of the East Bay shore.
Morgan’s shoulders sagged. If he could make it back downtown—walking—he might get a collect call through to his agent in New York for enough money to buy his way into a private sanitarium. It was the only alternative, but two things were vitally wrong with it. He was too exhausted to walk another block. And even if he did make it to a telephone, he knew it would be hopeless. Earl was a good man and even sympathetic, but he had had enough of Morgan’s binges and would no longer advance him a dollar unless drawn against definite royalties. There were no more royalties due at the moment, or in the near future.
He looked again at the mansion, teetering back and forth on his heels. It was a trap, he knew that, he was positive of it. But maybe— Anyway, there was nothing else to try, and he could go no farther. The boys in the white jackets could pick him up here as well as elsewhere. What difference would it make?
He shuffled up the half-dozen granite steps of the square portico and punched the bell by the side of a huge oak door edged with bronze. Perhaps half a minute passed and then the door swung ponderously, smoothly, silently open. A butler in dark trousers, black bow tie and white linen jacket, faced him without expression. He was a short, stocky, rather powerful looking man with iron-gray hair, mild blue eyes and the smooth skin of a Scandinavian. He was not at all surprised by Morgan’s appearance.
He said simply, “It is Mrs. Wilson you want?”
A faint hope crept back into Morgan’s weary mind. He nodded. “Yes. A cop downtown—he told me—if I came up here—maybe—”
“Come in, please. And wait.”
The door closed behind him as Morgan stepped into a long hallway. The butler disappeared through an open doorway straight ahead. Morgan was not especially conscious of his surroundings. He was only just aware of an atmosphere of wealth and good taste. He told himself over and over again that he had to hold on—just a little longer.
When the woman came into the hallway he noticed first the cobwebby sandals she was wearing. Then his eyes raised slowly to take in the white linen dress, the black bolero jacket draped over her shoulders, and the tiny white straw hat on the back of her head. Apparently she had just come in, or was just going out. She was not at all what he had imagined. She had good, slim legs with long thighs, a narrow waist and breasts that were either naturally full or well padded—it was always difficult to be sure—narrow hands with long, tapered fingers, a smooth throat and a face that gave the impression of being full and round and yet, oddly enough, was not. There was a certain hollowness about her cheeks and a thinness along the line of her jaws that seemed not to belong there. He noticed, too, the faint shadows under her eyes, that were either dark brown or black, and the tiny, bitter lines at her mouth.
Her thick, glossy hair was coal-black and caught loosely in a bun at the nape of her neck, and either she was deeply tanned or her complexion was naturally olive, or perhaps both. Somewhere in her early thirties, he guessed, and probably lousy in bed. Too reserved, too cool, too much the lady to be the giving kind.
She glanced at the butler standing a few paces behind and to her side, then swung her eyes levelly to Morgan. “A policeman told you to come here?” she asked.
He swallowed and nodded. “Downtown. I was in the tank last night. The judge let me go this morning. This cop told me you might be willing to help.”
“How long—”
“Ten days. I’d just come up from Lotus Land, Los Angeles. I had some money, but after a ten-day binge I’m clean and I have no place to go.”
“Do you know what shape you’re in?”
“I’m afraid I know only too well. It’s bad.”
She chewed at her lower lip for a moment, staring at him, appraising him. Then she said, “I could give you a little money—”
He sucked in air sharply, let it out and shook his head. “That wouldn’t do any good. I’d just use it to get drunk. Right now I’m sick, damned sick. I know what I’m facing. Tonight I’ll have the d.t.’s. I’ve had them before, you see. I know what I can take and what I can’t take. I need someone to help me get through it.” He paused. “Maybe if you’re so goddam big-hearted you could send me to a sanitarium.”
She ignored the sarcasm and again appraised him silently. He was certainly different from any other alcoholic she had ever known. He was also better dressed, in spite of the wear and tear of his binge. And his language was not that of Skid Row.
She hesitated a moment longer, then sighed and said, “I’ll help you get through it. There is an apartment you can occupy here on the ground floor. Carl will take care of you and you’ll also get the best medical attention.”
He tilted his head on one side, squinted at her and said bluntly, “Why?”
She ignored him again and told the butler, “Show him to the apartment, Carl. See that he has a bath and gets shaved and put him to bed. I’ll call Dr. Rigsby.”
She glanced at Morgan as if to say something, thought better of it, and walked away. But at the door leading into what Morgan guessed was the study, she paused and looked back at him. Morgan thought he must be wrong, but her expression was obviously one of resentment. A do-gooder resenting the helpless target of her goodness? What goes on here? he wondered.
Carl jerked his head and Morgan turned to the right to follow the butler to the end of the hallway. Carl opened a door and led the way inside. The apartment was a large corner room that at one time must have been the library. The walls were paneled and covered with shelves stacked with books. There was a large fireplace at one side, an enormous flat desk and a deep leather sofa and chair. In one corner, by the tall windows, was an oversize studio couch. There were other chairs and hassocks and small end tables and a wide variety of lamps, good paintings on the walls, current magazines in a rack and an enormous Oriental rug on the parquet floor. A small but complete Pullman-type kitchen had been built into the end wall and alongside was a door leading into a large dressing room and a bathroom with walls and floor of Italian tiles. Morgan managed a smile, in spite of his condition. It was the sort of apartment he had dreamed of designing for himself one day.
Carl helped him off with his clothes and assisted him into the bathroom. Morgan was able to take a shower. He was beginning to realize that he was safe, and relaxation crept in, and along with it the shakes. He was not able to hold a razor in his hand, let alone use it. Carl sat him on the edge of the tub, steadied him with a hand on his bare shoulder and shaved him. Carl also found and helped him into a pair of pajamas, turned back the sheets of the studio couch and tucked Morgan in.
Morgan was now beginning to shake violently and said to Carl through chattering teeth, “I need—a drink. Stiff one. Plenty stiff.”
Carl nodded, still without expression. “I know.”
“Good. You know everything. A stiff one, then.”
The
