fifties perhaps, with a perfectly groomed matted moustache. He appeared to
be the sort of man Janet Scarlett might know. It struck Canfield that the
man had been waiting-as he had been waiting-for Janet Scarlett.
Suddenly the man stopped the car, threw his door open, and quickly got out
onto the street. He rapidly walked around the car toward the girl.
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“Here, Mrs. Scarlett. Get in.”
Janet Scarlett bent down to hold her injured knee. She looked up,
bewildered, at the approaching man with the matted moustache. Canfield
stopped. He stood in the shadows by a doorway.
“What? You’re not a taxi. . . . No. I don’t know you. . . .”
“Get inl I’ll. drive you home. Quickly, nowl” The man spoke peremptorily.
A disturbed voice. He grabbed Janet Scarlett’s arm.
“Nol No, I won’tl” She tried to pull her arm away.
Canfield came out of the shadows. “Hello, Mrs. Scarlett. I thought it was
you. Can I be of help?”
The well-groomed man released the girl and stared at Canfield. He seemed
confused as well as angry. Instead of speaking, however, he suddenly ran
back into the street and climbed into the car.
“Hey, wait a minute, misterl” The field accountant rushed to the curb and
put his hand on the door handle. “We’ll take you up on the ride. . . .”
The engine accelerated and the roadster sped off down the street throwing
Canfield to the ground, his hand lacerated by the door handle wrenched from
his ri
gnp.
He got up painfully and spoke to Janet Scarlett.
“Your friend’s pretty damned chintzy.”
Janet Scarlett looked at the field accountant with gratitude.
“I never saw him before. . . . At least, I don’t think so. . . . Maybe. .
. . I’m sorry to say, I don’t remember your name. I am sorry and I do thank
you.”
. “No apologies necessary. We’ve only met once. Oyster Bay club a couple of
weeks ago.”
“Ohl” The &I seemed not to want to recall the evening.
“Chris Newland introduced us. The name’s Canfield.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Matthew Canfield. I’m the one from Chicago.”
“Yes, I remember now.”
“Come on. I’ll get us a taxi.”
“Your hand is bleeding.”
“So’s your knee.”
“Mine’s only a scratch.”
“So’s mine. Just scraped. Looks worse than it is.”
“Perhaps you should see a doctor.”
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“All I need is a handkerchief and some ice. Handkerchief for the hand, ice
for a Scotch.” They reached Fifth Avenue and Canfield hailed a taxL “That’s
all the doctoring I need, Mrs. Scarlett.”
Janet Scarlett smiled hesitantly as they got into the cab. “That doctoring
I can provide.”
The entrance hall of the Scarlett home on Fifty-fourth Street was about
what Canfield had imagined it would be. The ceilings were high, the main
doors thick, and the staircase facing the entrance rose an imposing two
stories. There were antique mirrors on either side of the hallway, double
french doors beside each mirror facing each other across the foyer. The
doors on the right were open and Canfield could see the furniture of a
formal dining room. The doors on the left were closed and he presumed they
led into a living room. Expensive oriental throw rugs were placed on the
parquet floors. . . . This was all as it should be. However, what shocked
the field accountant was the color scheme of the hallway itself. The wall-
paper was a rich-too rich-red damask, and the drapes covering the french
doors were black–a heavy black velvet that was out of character with the
ornate delicacy of the French furniture.
Janet Scarlett noticed his reaction to the colors and before Canfield could
disguise it, said, “Rather hits you in the eye, doesn’t it?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said politely.
“My husband insisted on, that hideous red and then replaced all my pink
silks with those awful black drapes. He made a terrible scene about it when
I objected.” She parted the double doors and moved into the darkness to
turn on a table lamp.
Canfield followed her into the extraordinarily ornate living room. It was
the size of five squash courts, and the number of settees, sofas, and
armchairs was staggering. Fringed lamps were silhouetted atop numerous
tables placed conveniently by the seating places. The arrangement of the
furniture was unrelated except for a semicircle of divans facing an
enormous fireplace. In the dim light of the single lamp, Canfield’s eyes
were immediately drawn to a panoply of dull reflections abQve the
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mantel. They were photographs. Dozens of photographs of varying sizes placed
in thin black frames. They were arranged as a floral spray, the focal point
being a scroll encased in gold borders at the center of the mantel.
The girl noticed Canfield’s stare but did not acknowledge it.
.There!re drinks and ice over there,” she said, pointing to a dry bar.
“Just help yourself. Will you pardon me for a minute? I’ll change my
stockings.” She disappeared into the main hall.”
Canfield crossed to the glass-topped wheel cart and poured two small
tumblers of Scotch. He withdrew a clean handkerchief from his trousers,
doused it in ice water, and wrapped it around his slightly bleeding hand.
Then he turned on another lamp to illuminate the display above the mantel.
For the briefest of moments, he was shocked.
It was incredible. Over the mantel was a photographic presentation of
Ulster Stewart Scarlett’s army career. From officer’s candidate school to
embarkation; from his arrival in France to his assignments to the trenches.
‘In some frames there were maps with heavy red and blue lines indicating
positions. In a score of pictures Ulster was the energetic center of
attraction.
He had seen photographs of Scarlett before, but they were generally
snapshots taken at society parties or single shots of the socialite in his
various athletic endeavors -polo, tennis, sailing-and he had looked
precisely the way Brooks Brothers expected their clients to look. However,
here he was among soldiers, and it annoyed Canfield to see that he was
nearly a half a head taller than the largest soldier near him. And there
were soldiers everywhere, of every rank and every degree of military
bearing. Awkward citizen corporals having their weapons inspected, weary
sergeants lining up wearier men, experienced-looking field officers
listening intently-all were doing what they were doing for the benefit of
the vigorous, lean lieutenant who somehow commanded their attention. In
many pictures the young officer had his arms slung around half-smiling
companions as ff assuring them that happy days would soon be here again.
Judging by the expressions of those around him, Scarlett was not notably
successful. However, his own countenance radiated optimism itself. Cool,
and intensely self-
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satisfied as well, thought Canfield. The centerpiece was, indeed, a scroll.
It was the Silver Star citation for gallantry at the Mouse-Argonne. To judge
from the exhibition, Ulster Scarlett was the best-adjusted hero ever to have
the good fortune to go -to war. The disturbing aspect was the spectacle
itself. It was grotesquely out of place. It belonged in the study of some
celebrated warrior whose campaigns spanned half a century, not here on
Fifty-fourth Street in the ornate living room of a pleasure-seeker.
“Interesting, aren’t theyr’ Janet had reentered the room.
“Impressive, to say the least He’s quite a guy.”
“You have no argument there. If anyone forgot, he just had to walk into
this room to be reminded.”
“I gather that this . . . this pictorial history of how the war was won
wasn’t your idea.” He handed Janet her drink, which, he noted, she firmly
clasped and brought immediately to her lips.
“It most certainly was not” She nearly finished the short, straight Scotch.
“Sit down, won’t you?”
Canfield quickly downed most of his own drink. “First let me freshen
these.” He took her glass. She sat on the large sofa facing the mantel
while he crossed to the bar.
“I never thought your husband was subject to this kind of”-he paused and
nodded to the fireplace—-~’hangover.”
“rbat’s an accurate analogy. Aftermath of a big binge. You’re a
philosopher.”
‘~Don’t mean to be. Just never -thought of him as the type.” He brought
over the two drinks, handed one to her, and remained standing.
“Didn’t you read his accounts of what happened? I thought the newspapers
did a splendid job of making it perfectly clear who was really responsible
for the Kaiser’s defeat.” She drank again.
“Oh, bell, that’s the publishing boys. They have to sell papers. I read
thom but I didn’t take them seriously. Never thought he did either.”
“You talk as if you knew my husband.”
Canfield purposely looked startled and took his glass away from his lips.
“Didn’t you know?”
“What?”
“Well, of course, I knew him. I knew him quite well. I just took it for
granted that you knew. I’m sorry.”
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Janet concealed her surprise. “rhere’s nothing to be sorry about. Ulster
had a large circle of -friends. I couldn’t possibly know them all. Were you