The Specialty of the House Read online

  To their jobs they brought the qualifications of Family and School and the capacity for looking politely eager when a superior addressed them. Actually, they were as casual about their jobs as they were about everything else, because they were cushioned with money. And for all this Arthur hated them, and would have sold his soul to be one of them.

  Physically he might have passed muster. He was a tall, extremely good-looking young man – when he walked by, few women could resist giving him that quick little sidelong glance which means they are interested, even if unavailable – and he had a sober poise which was largely the product of shrewd observation and good self-control. But he came from no impressive Family, no impressive School – and he had no money outside of his moderate salary. His parents were dead (their legacy had barely paid their funeral expenses), he had left high school before graduation to go to work, and uneasily shifted jobs until he had recently come to port in Horton & Son, and he could, at any moment he was asked, have stated his net worth to the penny: the total of bank account, wallet, and change pocket. Obviously, he could not afford to be casual, as a fine young man should.

  That phrase, fine young man, crystallized his hatred of the type. He had been standing outside Mr Horton’s door one morning when the two sons of a client had been ushered out. Their eyes flicked over Arthur in the fraction of a second, instantly marked that he was not one of them, and turned blankly indifferent. Nothing was said, nothing done, but he was put neatly in his place in that moment and left to stand there with the hate and anger boiling in him. And he couldn’t hit back, that was the worst of it; there was no way of touching them. Their homes, their clubs, their lives were inaccessible.

  When the elevator door closed behind them Mr Horton seemed to notice Arthur for the first time. ‘Fine young men,’ he observed, almost wistfully, gesturing toward the elevator door, and the phrase had been planted. Not only planted, but fertilized on the spot by Mr Horton’s tone which, to Arthur’s inflamed mind, appeared to add: They belong to my world, but you do not.

  And to make it worse, of course, there was Ann. Ann Horton.

  It is the traditional right of every enterprising young man to apply himself as diligently to romance as to business, and to combine the highest degree of success in both by marrying the boss’s daughter. And if the daughter happened to be as beautiful and desirable, and, to use the admiring expression of those who knew her, unspoiled, as Ann Horton, so much the better.

  But what Arthur knew instinctively was that there are different degrees of being unspoiled. Thus, if a girl who desperately yearns for a forty-foot cabin cruiser and finally settles for a twenty-foot speedboat is unspoiled, Ann Horton was unspoiled. It is not quite sufficient to approach someone like this bringing only a burning passion and an eagerness to slay dragons. It is also necessary to come riding in golden armor, mounted on a blooded horse, and bearing orchestra seats to the best musical comedy in town. And, if the suitor is to make his point explicit, not on rare occasions, but frequently.

  All this and more Arthur brooded over as he lay on his bed in Mrs Marsh’s rooming house night after night and studied the ceiling. His thoughts were maddening, whirling around on themselves like the apocryphal snake seizing its own tail and then devouring itself. Ann Horton had looked at him more than once the way all women looked at him. If he could only meet her, offer her the image of himself that she required, was marriage out of the question? But to meet her on her terms took money, and, ironically, the only chance he ever had of getting money was to marry her! Good Lord, he thought, if he ever could do that he’d have enough money to throw into the face of every fine young man he’d ever hated.

  So the thoughts slowly reshaped themselves, and without his quite knowing it Ann Horton became the means, not the end. The end would be the glory that comes to those who, without counting their money, can afford the best of everything. The best of everything, Arthur would say dreamily to himself, and his eyes would see beautiful, expensive pictures like clouds moving across the ceiling.

  Charlie Prince was a young man who obviously had known the best of everything. He made his entrance into Arthur’s life one lunch hour as Arthur sat finishing his coffee, his eyes on a Horton & Son prospectus spread on the table before him, his thoughts in a twenty-foot speedboat with Ann Horton.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind my asking,’ said Charlie Prince, ‘but do you work for old Horton?’

  The voice was the voice of someone from a Family and a School; even the use of the word ‘old’ was a natural part of it, since the word was now in vogue among them, and could be applied to anything, no matter what its age might be. Arthur looked up from shoes, to suit, to shirt, to necktie, to hat, his mind mechanically tabbing them Oliver Moore, Brooks, Sulka, Bronzini, Cavanaugh, and then stopped short at the face. True, it was tanned, marked by regular features, and capped by the inevitable crew haircut, but there was something else about it. Some small lines about the eyes, some twist of the lips …

  ‘That’s right,’ Arthur said warily, ‘I work for Horton’s.’

  ‘Is it all right if I sit down here? My name’s Charlie Prince.’

  It turned out that Charlie Prince had seen the prospectus on the table, had once worked for Horton’s himself, and couldn’t resist stopping to ask how the old place was coming along.

  ‘All right, I guess,’ said Arthur, and then remarked, ‘I don’t remember seeing you around.’

  ‘Oh, that was before your time, I suppose, and I’m sure the office is hardly encouraged to talk about me. You see, I’m sort of a blot on its escutcheon. I left under rather a cloud, if you get what I mean.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Arthur, and felt a quick, bitter envy for anyone who could afford to be incompetent, insubordinate even, and could leave a firm like Horton’s so casually.

  Charlie Prince, it appeared, read his thoughts quite accurately. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t have anything to do with my not being able to hold down the job, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was a bit of dishonesty, really. Some checks I forged – stuff like that.’

  Arthur’s jaw dropped.

  ‘I know,’ observed Charlie Prince cheerfully. ‘You figure that when someone gets caught in a business like that he ought to be all tears and remorse, all sackcloth and ashes, and such. But I’m not. Oh, of course, I was all remorse at getting caught by that idiot, meddling accountant, but you can hardly blame me for that.’

  ‘But why did you do it?’

  Charlie Prince frowned. ‘I don’t look like one of those silly psychopaths who just steals to get a thrill from it, do I? It was for the money, of course. It’s always for money.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Oh, I worked in other places besides Horton’s, and I was always leaving under a cloud. Matter of fact, it wasn’t until I was in Horton’s that I learned the biggest lesson of my life.’ He leaned forward and tapped his forefinger on the table significantly. ‘That business of tracing someone’s signature is the bunk. Absolute bunk. If you’re going to forge a name you just have to practice writing it freehand, and keep on practicing until you can set it down slapdash, like that. It’s the only way.’

  ‘But you got caught there, too.’

  ‘That was carelessness. I was cashing the checks, but I didn’t bother to make entries about them in the books. And you know what an accountant can be if his books don’t balance.’

  Arthur found himself fascinated, but also found himself unable to frame the question he wanted to ask and yet remain within the bounds of politeness. ‘Then what happened? Did they – did you …?’

  ‘You mean, arrested, sent to jail, stuff like that?’ Charlie Prince looked at Arthur pityingly. ‘Of course not. You know how these companies are about publicity like that, and when my father made the money good that’s all there was to it.’

  ‘And nothing at all happened to you?’ Arthur said, awestruck.

  ‘Well,’ Charlie Prince admitted, ‘something had to happen, of course, especially after tha
t last performance when my father boiled up like an old steam kettle about it. But it wasn’t too bad, really. It was just that I became a sort of local remittance man.’

  ‘A what?’ said Arthur blankly.

  ‘A sort of local remittance man. You know how those old families in England would ship their black-sheep offspring off to Australia or somewhere just to keep them off the scene, then send them an allowance and tell them it would show up regularly as long as sonny stayed out of sight? Well, that’s what happened to me. At first the old man was just going to heave me out into the cold and darkness without even a penny, but the women in my family have soft hearts, and he was convinced otherwise. I would get a monthly allowance – about half of what I needed to live on, as it turned out – but for the rest of my life I had to steer clear of my family and its whole circle. And I can tell you, it’s a mighty big circle.’

  ‘Then you’re not supposed to be in New York, are you?’

  ‘I said I was a local remittance man. Meaning, I can be anywhere I please as long as I am not heard or seen by any of my family or its three million acquaintances. In which case I merely drop a note to the family lawyer stating my address, and on the first of each month I receive my allowance.’

  ‘Well,’ said Arthur, ‘considering everything, I’d say your father was being very decent about it.’

  Charlie Prince sighed. ‘Truth to tell, he’s not a bad old sort at all. But he’s cursed by a morbid yearning toward a certain kind of holy young prig which I am not. You know what I mean. The sort of young squirt who’s all bland exterior, bland interior, and not a spark anywhere. If I had turned out like that, everything would have been just dandy. But I didn’t. So here I am, a veritable Ishmael, two weeks before allowance comes due, locked out of his hotel room …’

  Arthur felt an inexplicable stirring of excitement. ‘Locked out?’

  ‘That’s what happens when you can’t pay your rent. It’s a law or a code or something. Anyhow, it’s damn thoughtless whatever it is, and what I’m leading up to is, in return for the story of my life, such as it is, you might see your way clear to making a loan. Not too small a one either; a sort of medium-sized loan. I’ll guarantee to pay you back the first of the month and with fair interest.’ Charlie Prince’s voice now had an openly pleading note. ‘I’ll admit that I have my dishonest side, but I’ve never welshed on a debt in my whole life. Matter of fact,’ he explained, ‘the only reason I got myself into trouble was because I was so anxious to pay my debts.’

  Arthur looked at Charlie Prince’s perfect clothes; he saw Charlie Prince’s easy poise; he heard Charlie Prince’s well-modulated voice sounding pleasantly in his ears, and the stirring of excitement suddenly took meaning.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘where do you live now?’

  ‘Nowhere, of course, not as long as I’m locked out. But I’ll meet you here the first of the month on the minute. I can swear you don’t have to worry about getting the money back. The way I’ve been talking about things ought to prove I’m on the dead level with you.’

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ said Arthur. ‘I mean, would you want to share a room with me? If I lent you enough money to clear up your hotel bill and get your things out of there, would you move in with me? I’ve got a nice room; it’s in an old house but very well kept. Mrs Marsh – that is, the landlady – is the talky kind and very fussy about things, but you can see she’s the sort to keep a place nice. And it’s very cheap; it would save you a lot of money.’

  He stopped short then with the realization that this was turning into a vehement sales talk, and that Charlie Prince was regarding him quizzically.

  ‘What is it?’ said Charlie Prince. ‘Are you broke, too?’

  ‘No, it has nothing to do with money. I have the money to lend you, don’t I?’

  ‘Then why the fever to share the room? Especially with me, that is.’

  Arthur took his courage in both hands. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. You have something I want.’

  Charlie Prince blinked. ‘I do?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Arthur said. ‘I never had any of the things you had, and it shows. Somehow, it shows. I know it does, because you wouldn’t ever talk to any of those young men, the sort your father likes, the way you talk to me. But I don’t care about that. What I care about is finding out exactly what makes you like that, what makes them all like that. It’s some kind of polish that a good family and money can rub on you so that it never comes off. And that’s what I want.’

  Charlie Prince looked at him wonderingly. ‘And you think that if we share a room some of this mysterious polish, this whatever-it-is, will rub off on you?’

  ‘You let me worry about that,’ said Arthur. He drew out his checkbook and a pen, and laid them on the table before him. ‘Well?’ he said.

  Charlie Prince studied the checkbook thoughtfully. ‘I’ll admit I haven’t any idea of what I’m selling,’ he said, ‘but it’s a sale.’

  As it turned out, they made excellent roommates. There is no greater compatability than that between a good talker and a good listener, and since Charlie Prince liked nothing better than to pump amiably from a bottomless well of anecdote and reminiscence, and Arthur made an almost feverishly interested audience, life in the second-floor front at Mrs Marsh’s rooming house was idyllic.

  There were some very small flies in the ointment, of course. At times, Charlie Prince might have had cause to reflect that he had found too good a listener in Arthur, considering Arthur’s insatiable appetite for detail. It can be quite disconcerting for a raconteur embarked on the story of a yachting experience to find that he must describe the dimensions of the yacht, its structure, its method of operation, and then enter into a lecture on the comparative merits of various small boats, before he can get to the point of the story itself. Or to draw full value from the narrative of an intriguing little episode concerning a young woman met in a certain restaurant, when one is also required to add footnotes on the subject of what to say to a maitre d’hotel, how to order, how to tip, how to dress for every occasion, and so on, ad infinitum.

  It might also have distressed Charlie Prince, who had commendable powers of observation, to note that Arthur was becoming subtly cast in his own image. The inflection of voice, the choice of words and their usage, the manner of sitting, walking, standing, the gestures of the hands, the very shades of expression which Arthur came to adopt, all had the rather uncomfortable quality of showing Charlie Prince to himself in a living mirror.

  For Arthur’s part the one thing that really shocked him in his relationship was the discovery of the childishness of Charlie Prince and his small world. From all he could gather, Arthur decided somberly, Charlie Prince and his like emerged from childhood into adolescence, and stopped short there. Physically, they might grow still larger and more impressive, but mentally and emotionally, they were all they would ever be. They would learn adult catchwords and mannerisms, but underneath? Of course, it was nothing that Arthur ever chose to mention aloud.

  His feeling on the subject was heightened by the matter of Charlie Prince’s allowance. On the first of each month Mrs Marsh would smilingly enter the room bearing an envelope addressed to Charlie Prince. It was an expensive-looking envelope, and if one held it up to the light reflectively, as Charlie Prince always did before opening it, it was possible to make out the outlines of an expensive-looking slip of paper. A check for five hundred dollars signed by James Llewellyn. ‘The family’s personal lawyer,’ Charlie Prince had once explained, and added with some bitterness, ‘It wasn’t hard enough having one father like mine, so old Llewellyn’s been playing second father since I was a kid.’

  To Charlie Prince the amount was a pittance. To Arthur it was the Key. The Key to the enchanted garden just outside Arthur’s reach; the Key to Bluebeard’s chamber which you were forbidden to use; the Key to Ann Horton. It would not pay for what you wanted, but it would open the door.

  Even more tantalizing to Arthur was the fact that for a few h
ours each month it was all his. Charlie Prince would endorse it, and then Arthur would obligingly stop in at the bank where he had his own small account and cash it there. On his return he would carefully deduct the amount of Charlie Prince’s share of the rent, the amount that Charlie Prince had borrowed from him the last week or two of the preceding month, and then turn the rest over to his roommate. It was at Charlie Prince’s insistence that he did this. ‘If you want to make sure that I’m square with my rent and whatever I owe you,’ he had explained, ‘this is the best way. Besides, you can cash it easily, and I seem to have a lot of trouble that way.’

  Thus, for a few hours each month Arthur was another man. Charlie Prince was generous about lending his wardrobe, and Arthur made it a point on check-cashing day especially to wear one of those wondrously cut and textured suits, which looked as if it had been tailored for him. And in the breast pocket of that suit was a wallet containing five hundred dollars in crisp new bills. It was no wonder that it happened to be one of those days on which he made the impression he had dreamed of making.

  He entered his employer’s office, and Ann Horton was seated on a corner of the desk there, talking to her father. She glanced at Arthur as he stood there, and then stopped short in what she was saying to look him up and down with open admiration.

  ‘Well,’ she said to her father, ‘I’ve seen this young man here and there in the office several times. Don’t you think it’s about time you had the manners to introduce us?’

  Her manner of address startled Arthur, who had somehow always visualized Mr Horton as a forbidding figure poised on a mountaintop fingering a thunderbolt. But it was even more startling when Mr Horton, after what seemed to be a moment of uncertain recognition, made the introduction in terms that sounded like music to Arthur’s ears. Arthur, he said warmly, was a fine young man. It would be a pleasure to introduce him.

  That was Arthur’s golden opportunity – and he flubbed it. Flubbed it miserably. What he said was pointless; the way he said it made it sound even more mawkish and clumsy than seemed possible. And even while he was watching the glow fade from Ann Horton’s face he knew what the trouble was, and cursed himself and the whole world for it.