1958 - Hit and Run Read online

She was standing before a full-length mirror, looking at herself, her hands lifting her long, chestnut-coloured hair off her shoulders, her head a little on one side. She had on one of those fancy things called shorties that reached only to within four inches of her knees. Her legs and feet were bare.

  She was the loveliest thing I have ever seen in my life. Maybe she was twenty-two, but I doubted it, twenty would be nearer it. She was young and beautiful and fresh, and everything about her was exciting from her thick, long glossy hair to her small bare feet.

  The sight of her touched off a spark inside me that had been waiting to be touched off ever since I had become what is technically known as a man, and which no woman had up to now succeeded in touching off.

  The spark ignited with a flash that knocked me mentally backwards and sent a flame through me that dried my mouth, made my heart pound and left me breathless.

  I stood motionless in the semi-darkness looking at her, aware that my blood was racing, my heart was thumping and aware that I had never seen a woman I wanted so badly as this one.

  Maybe she had an instinctive feeling that she was being watched or maybe she had finished admiring herself in the mirror; anyway, she suddenly stepped back out of my sight, and the door was pushed to.

  For perhaps ten seconds I stood motionless, staring at the half-closed door, then I went on down the stairs, down the next flight to the hall. It was only when I reached the hall that I paused to take out my handkerchief and wipe my sweating face.

  Watkins came out of the lounge.

  ‘A warm night, sir,’ he said and his old shrewd eyes peered at me. ‘You had no hat?’

  I put my handkerchief back into my pocket.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have a car, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I made a move to the front door. He opened it for me.

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  I said good night and walked out into the warm, silent darkness. I was glad to get into the car and sit behind the driving wheel.

  Although she must have been thirty-five years younger than Aitken, I was sure she wasn’t his daughter nor his mistress. I felt in my bones she was his wife, and that knowledge turned me sick to my stomach.

  II

  I didn’t sleep much that night.

  I had a lot on my mind. There was this business of the New York partnership which I knew was a chance in a lifetime. There was tomorrow’s board meeting that could be tricky.

  There were five directors of the International and Pacific Agency. Four of them were bankers and they were cooperative and admirers of Aitken. The fifth member was an attorney, Selwyn Templeman, a know-all and a nuisance and the thought I had to handle him bothered me.

  Then there was the Wasserman account. Joe Wasserman was the biggest manufacturer of TV sets on the Pacific coast. He was one of our most important clients and our biggest spender, and he knew it. Every so often he’d threaten to take the account away and give it to some other agency, but so far we had managed to hold on to him. Aitken always dealt direct with him: one of the very few accounts Aitken handled himself. Now I had it in my lap and that bothered me too.

  Then there was the thought that from tomorrow for a possible four weeks I would be boss of the International with a hundred and fifteen men and women working under me, and two hundred and three clients who were liable to write or telephone about their problems any hour of the working day and expect me to have the answers at my fingertips. Up to now this thought hadn’t bothered me because I knew if the going got tough I could always go to R .A. and drop the sticky end into his lap. I could still do that, of course, but if I did, I knew he wouldn’t think much of me. A man with a broken leg doesn’t want to deal with anything except an emergency, so that bothered me too.

  As I lay in bed with the moonlight coming through the window and hearing the sound of the sea breaking on the shore, all these problems seemed pretty overpowering until I took a look at them. It was then that I realized the real reason why I was sweating it out in the semi-darkness was because my mind was obsessed with the picture of Roger Aitken’s wife as I had seen her standing before the mirror.

  That was the thing that kept me from sleeping: the picture of her lifting her thick, chestnut-coloured hair off her white shoulders, the shape of her breasts under the frilly shortie, the young, fresh beauty of her, and the realization that she was Aitken’s wife and the burning need I felt for her. It was that picture that kept my mind feverish and stopped me from sleeping. Why had Aitken married her: a girl young enough to be his daughter? I kept asking myself. More important still: why had she married him? Surely no young girl could fall in love with a man like R.A.?

  Don’t imagine I didn’t try to snap out of this mood. I did my best to stop thinking about her. I told myself she was R.A.’s wife and therefore sacrosanct. She wasn’t for me. She couldn’t possibly be for me. I was crazy to think of her the way I was thinking of her, but it didn’t help. I didn’t sleep much that night. I just couldn’t get her out of my mind.

  I got to the office after nine o’clock the following morning. I arrived as Pat was entering the express elevator and I joined her. We were huddled against the wall, surrounded by other workers, and we smiled at each other, but we didn’t speak because there were ears all around us.

  It wasn’t until we were in my office that I told her about the New York project.

  ‘Oh, Ches, how wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve always wondered why he didn’t set up on his own and in New York. To think you’ll be in charge!’

  ‘It’s not certain. I could make a hash here, and then I’m out.’

  ‘You won’t make a hash here. You’ll handle it. You mustn’t even think you could make a hash of it.’

  ‘I’ll want you in New York, Pat. I couldn’t handle the job without you.’

  Her eyes sparkled as she said, ‘You couldn’t keep me away from New York. I’ve always wanted to work there.’

  It was while I was going through the mail that Joe Fellowes wandered in.

  ‘Hey, boss,’ he said, grinning at me. ‘How was the old man?’

  ‘The only difference was he was lying in bed and not pacing up and down,’ I said. ‘Look Joe, I’m busy. I’ve got this board meeting in a few minutes. What do you want?’

  Joe sat on the corner of my desk.

  ‘Relax, boy. That board meeting isn’t anything. I just want to be told the old man is writhing in pain. I like to think of him suffering. I bet he was screaming the roof off.’

  ‘He wasn’t. He’s the original stoic. Sorry to disappoint you, Joe, and now if you’ll beat it, I’ll get on with the mail.’

  Joe didn’t move. He stared at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘You look bothered. What’s biting you?’

  I had worked with him now for two years, and I liked him. He was the best layout artist in the racket. He had often said he wished I were his boss, rather than Aitken, and if ever I thought of opening up on my own, he would like to join me.

  So I told him about the New York project.

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ he said when I was through. ‘You, Pat and me could make a world-beating team. If you don’t land this job, Ches, I’ll strangle you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best if it’s like that,’ I said and grinned at him.

  He slid off the desk.

  ‘Did you see R. A.’s wife when you were at the house?’

  I felt myself turn hot. I was collecting some papers together so I didn’t have to look at him otherwise I think I might have given myself away.

  ‘His wife?’ I tried to make my voice sound casual. ‘No, I didn’t see her.’

  ‘Then you’ve missed something. Phew! What a dish! I’ve only set eyes on her once, but she’s been haunting my dreams ever since.’

  By now I had enough control over myself to look up and meet his eyes.

  ‘What’s so special about her, then?’

  ‘Wait until you see her, then you will realize
you’ve asked the silliest question of the year. What’s special about her? For one thing she has more sex appeal in her little finger than any other girl I’ve seen. She can’t be more than twenty, and what a beaut! It kills me to think she’s married to that whisky-pickled, flint-hearted old sourpuss.’

  ‘How do you know she isn’t happy with him?’

  ‘If you were young and beautiful, would you be happy married to R.A.?’ Joe asked and grinned. ‘It’s the old, old story, of course. The only reason why she could possibly have married him is she was after his chequebook. So now she lives in a twelve-bedroom house. So now she can hang a diamond necklace around her pretty neck. So now she can have R.A. all to herself. But I bet she’s not happy.’

  ‘You know it’s funny, but I don’t remember hearing he had a wife. Where did she come from?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. The front row of some snappy chorus, I’d imagine. He married her about a year before you joined us,’ Joe said. ‘That would make her scarcely seventeen when he hooked her – talk about cradle-snatching. Anyway, you look out for her. She’s really worth seeing.’

  ‘Suppose you stop gossiping and get out of here?’ I said. ‘I’ve only ten more minutes before the board.’

  I hadn’t time then to think about what Joe had said, but later I did think about it. It made me feel pretty bad to think she had thrown herself away for the sake of R.A.’s money. I felt sure Joe was right. There couldn’t be any other reason why she had married him.

  Around three o’clock in the afternoon, I called Aitken. I was feeling as if I had been fed through a wringer. The board meeting had been tougher than I had thought possible, and Templeman, finding Aitken wasn’t there to keep him under control, had come out with his ten-inch guns blazing. But I had handled him, and I had handled the rest of the board. I had finally got them to agree to the items R.A. was anxious about, and that in itself was a major triumph.

  So I called R.A.’s house without even waiting to get back to my own office, and the ringing tone had scarcely started up, when I heard a click and a girl’s voice said, ‘Hello? Who is that?’

  I knew it was her, and the sound of her voice made me short of breath. For a moment I couldn’t speak, and I sat there motionless, with the receiver against my ear, listening to her gentle breathing.

  ‘Hello? Who is that?’ she asked again.

  ‘This is Chester Scott,’ managed to get out. ‘Can I speak to Mr. Aitken?’

  ‘Mr. Scott?’ she said. ‘Why, yes, of course. Will you hold on, please? He is expecting you.’

  ‘How is he?’ I said because I wanted to go on listening to this soft, exciting voice.

  ‘He’s getting along very well.’ Was I imagining that her tone lacked enthusiasm? ‘The doctor is very pleased with him,’ then she pulled the plug out, and after a moment or so, R.A. came on the line.

  chapter two

  I

  I got to the Gables just after eight o’clock.

  While I drove to the house I wondered if I would see her again. The thought of her gave me a sick, dry feeling in my mouth and made my heart thump hard and unevenly.

  When I reached the house I saw someone had turned off the floodlighting in the garden and the swimming pool, but the place still looked pretty impressive in the hard, white light of the moon.

  I left the car before the front entrance, climbed the steps and rang the bell. After the usual delay, Watkins opened the door.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘A fine night.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and moved past him into the hall. ‘How is Mr. Aitken?’

  ‘Fairly well, I would say. Perhaps he is a little nervous tonight. If I may suggest, I wouldn’t stay longer than necessary.’

  ‘I’ll cut it as short as I can.’

  ‘That would be good of you, sir.’

  We rode up in the elevator. The old boy breathed heavily and I could hear the starched front of his shirr creaking every time he dragged down a breath.

  Aitken was propped up in bed, a cigar gripped between his teeth. Across his knees lay a couple of financial papers, and a pencil and scratch pad lay by his side. He looked a little flushed, and the light from the bedside lamp showed up the sweat beads on his forehead. His mouth turned down at the corners and his eyes looked heavy. He didn’t look as good as he had done the previous night.

  ‘Come in, Scott,’ he said, and the growl in his voice warned me he could be irritable.

  I came over to the bed and sat down in the easy chair.

  ‘How’s the leg?’ I asked, not looking at him, but concentrating on opening the briefcase I had brought with me.

  ‘It’s all right.’ He swept the financial papers off the bed on to the floor. ‘Hamilton called me. He said you did a good job at the meeting.’

  ‘I’m glad he thinks so. I didn’t handle Templeman too well,’ I said. ‘He gave me a rough ride.’

  Aitken’s mouth twisted into a smile.

  ‘You handled him all right. Hamilton told me. The old fool went away with a flea in his ear. Got the minutes?’

  I handed them to him.

  ‘While I’m reading them, have a drink, and give me one too.’ He waved to where a collection of bottles and glasses stood on a table against the wall. ‘Give me a whisky, and I mean, put some whisky in the glass.’

  The note in his voice warned me not to argue with him, so I went over to the table and made two drinks. I came back and offered him one of the glasses. He stared at it and his brows came down. He looked a real bad-tempered hellion at that moment.

  ‘I said put some whisky in it! Didn’t you hear me?’

  I returned to the table and sloshed more whisky into the glass and brought it back to him. He took the glass, stared at it, then drank the lot. For a long moment he held the glass while he stared over the top of my head, then he thrust the glass at me.

  ‘Fix me another and come and sit down.’

  I repeated the dose, put the glass on the table at his side and sat down.

  We looked at each other, and he suddenly grinned.

  ‘Don’t mind me, Scott,’ he said. ‘When you break a leg you’re helpless. There’s a plot going on in this house to treat me like a sick man. I’ve been waiting all day for you to come and give me a drink.’

  ‘I should have thought it was the worst thing you could have had.’ I said.

  ‘Think so?’ He laughed. ‘You leave me to judge that.’ He took up the minutes. ‘Smoke if you want to.’

  I lit a cigarette and drank some of the Scotch. It took him about ten minutes to finish reading the minutes, then he dropped the papers on his knees, reached for his glass and took another drink.

  ‘A pretty good beginning,’ he said. ‘More than that: I couldn’t have handled them better myself. You go on like this, and the New York job is yours.’

  This was praise indeed.

  ‘Now let’s see how you’re going to make use of concessions we’ve got from them,’ he went on. ‘Let’s have your ideas.’

  I had thought he might ask this question, and I had discussed it with the heads of the departments before I had left the office so I was ready for him.

  For the next half hour I explained my ideas. He lay still, listening, sipping his whisky, and every now and then nodding his head. I was pretty sure I was saying the right things. When I was through, he said: ‘Not bad; not bad at all. Now I’ll tell you a better way of handling it.’

  It was my turn to listen to him and it was an object lesson. He used all my ideas, but in a slightly different way, and I saw at once where I had gone wrong. My way was just that much more expensive. His way gave us a saving of ten per cent, and made him a better businessman than I was.

  By now it was a little after nine o’clock, and I remembered what Watkins had said about cutting the meeting short.

  ‘Okay, sir,’ I said and began to put the papers back into my briefcase. ‘I’ll take care of it. And now if it’s all right with you, I’ll run along. I have a date at ten.
’

  He grinned at me.

  ‘You’re a liar, Scott. You’ve been listening to that old fool, Watkins. But that’s all right. You get off. Come and see me tomorrow at eight.’ He finished his whisky, and as he set his glass down, he asked, ‘Have you got a girl, Scott?’

  The question startled me. I let some papers slip out of my fingers on to the floor. As I bent to pick them up, I said: ‘No one in particular, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. A man needs a woman every now and then. Don’t get yourself involved with them, but make use of them. That’s what they are here for.’ The cynical note in his voice riled me. ‘I don’t want you to be working all the time. I want you to get in some relaxation. Maybe you have lived long enough to know a woman can be a very satisfactory form of relaxation, providing you don’t let her get her hooks into you. Let her do that, and you’re a goner.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said and stuffed the papers back into the briefcase. I was surprised. I didn’t expect this kind of thing from him, and his cynicism made me angry. ‘I’ll be along tomorrow at eight.’

  He lay back against his pillows, staring at me.

  ‘You’ll take the weekend off. I don’t want to see you on Friday night. Give me a call on Monday morning. What’s today – Tuesday? You make plans for the weekend, Scott. I want you to get some relaxation. Do you play golf?’

  I said I played golf.

  ‘Finest game in the world if you don’t take it seriously. Golf is like a woman. Take either of them seriously, if either of them get a hook into you, and you’re sunk. What do you go around in?’

  I said on my best days I shot 72.

  He stared at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.

  ‘Why, you’re quite a golfer!’

  ‘I should be. I’ve played since I was five. My old man was wild about golf. He even got my mother to play.’

  I started to drift towards the door. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow night at eight.’

  ‘Do that, Scott.’ He was still staring at me, his eyes quizzing. ‘And arrange to play golf over the weekend.’ His hard mouth twisted, into an ugly little smile. ‘Then find yourself a pretty girl for the night: golf and a woman are the two best relaxations in life.’