The Crimson Tide: A Novel. Chambers Robert William
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that particular job–clients liked his good manners and his engaging ways.
The average client buys a freshly painted house in preference to a well-built one, but otherwise clamours always for a bargain. The richer the client the louder the clamour. And to such demands Shotwell was always sympathetic–always willing to inquire whether or not the outrageous price asked for a dwelling might possibly be “shaded” a little.
It always could be shaded; but few clients knew that; and the majority, much flattered at their own business acumen, entertained kind feelings toward Sharrow & Co. and sentiments almost cordial toward young Shotwell when the “shading” process had proved to be successful.
But the black-eye dealt the residential district long ago had not yet cleared up. Real property of that sort was still dull and inactive except for a flare-up now and then along Park Avenue and Fifth.
War, naturally, had not improved matters; and, as far as the residential part of their business was concerned, Sharrow & Co. transacted the bulk of it in leasing apartments and, now and then, a private house, usually on the West Side.
That morning, in the offices of Sharrow & Co., a few clients sat beside the desks of the various men who specialised in the particular brand of real estate desired: several neat young girls performed diligently upon typewriters; old man Sharrow stood at the door of his private office twirling his eyeglasses by the gold chain and urbanely getting rid of an undesirable visitor–one Angelo Puma, who wanted some land for a moving picture studio, but was persuasively unwilling to pay for it.
He was a big man, too heavy, youngish, with plump olive skin, black hair, lips too full and too red under a silky moustache, and eyes that would have been magnificent in a woman–a Spanish dancer, for example–rich, dark eyes, softly brilliant under curling lashes.
He seemed to covet the land and the ramshackle stables on it, but he wanted somebody to take back a staggering mortgage on the property. And Mr. Sharrow shook his head gently, and twirled his eyeglasses.
“For me,” insisted Puma, “I do not care. It is good property. I would pay cash if I had it. But I have not. No. My capital at the moment is tied up in production; my daily expenses, at present, require what cash I have. If your client is at all reasonable–”
“He isn’t,” said Sharrow. “He’s a Connecticut Yankee.”
For a moment Angelo Puma seemed crestfallen, then his brilliant smile flashed from every perfect tooth:
“That is very bad for me,” he said, buttoning-his showy overcoat. “Pardon me; I waste your time–” pulling on his gloves. “However, if your client should ever care to change his mind–”
“One moment,” said Sharrow, whose time Mr. Puma had indeed wasted at intervals during the past year, and who heartily desired to be rid of property and client: “Suppose you deal directly with the owner. We are not particularly anxious to carry the property; it’s a little out of our sphere. Suppose I put you in direct communication with the owner.”
“Delighted,” said Puma, flashing his smile and bowing from the waist; and perfectly aware that his badgering had bored this gentleman to the limit.
“I’ll write out his address for you,” said Sharrow, “–one moment, please–”
Angelo Puma waited, his glossy hat in one hand, his silver-headed stick and folded suede gloves in the other.
Like darkly brilliant searchlights his magnificent eyes swept the offices of Sharrow & Co.; at a glance he appraised the self-conscious typists, surmised possibilities in a blond one; then, as a woman entered from the street, he rested his gaze upon her. And he kept it there.
Even when Sharrow came out of his private office with the slip of paper, Angelo Puma’s eyes still remained fastened upon the young girl who had spoken to a clerk and then seated herself in a chair beside the desk of James Shotwell, Jr.
“The man’s name,” repeated Sharrow patiently, “is Elmer Skidder. His address is Shadow Hill, Connecticut.”
Puma turned to him as though confused, thanked him effusively, took the slip of paper, pulled on his gloves in a preoccupied way, and very slowly walked toward the street door, his eyes fixed on the girl who was now in animated conversation with young Shotwell.
As he passed her she was laughing at something the young man had just said, and Puma deliberately turned and looked at her again–looked her full in the face.
She was aware of him and of his bold scrutiny, of course–noticed his brilliant eyes, no doubt–but paid no heed to him–was otherwise preoccupied with this young man beside her, whom she had neither seen nor thought about since the day she had landed in New York from the rusty little Danish steamer Elsinore.
And now, although he had meant nothing at all to her except an episode already forgotten, to meet him again had instantly meant something to her.
For this man now represented to her a link with the exciting past–this young soldier who had been fresh from the furnace when she had met him on deck as the Elsinore passed in between the forts in the grey of early morning.
The encounter was exciting her a little, too, over-emphasising its importance.
“Fancy!” she repeated, “my encountering you here and in civilian dress! Were you dreadfully disappointed by the armistice?”
“I’m ashamed to say I took it hard,” he admitted.
“So did I. I had hoped so to go to France. And you–oh, I am sorry for you. You were so disgusted at being detailed from the fighting line to Camp Upton! And now the war is over. What a void!”
“You’re very frank,” he said. “We’re supposed to rejoice, you know.”
“Oh, of course. I really do rejoice–”
They both laughed.
“I mean it,” she insisted. “In my sober senses I am glad the war is over. I’d be a monster if I were not glad. But–what is going to take its place? Because we must have something, you know. One can’t endure a perfect void, can one?”
Again they laughed.
“It was such a tremendous thing,” she explained. “I did want to be part of it before it ended. But of course peace is a tremendous thing, too–”
And they both laughed once more.
“Anybody overhearing us,” she confided to him, “would think us mere beasts. Of course you are glad the war is ended: that’s why you fought. And I’m glad, too. And I’m going to rent a house in New York and find something to occupy this void I speak of. But isn’t it nice that I should come to you about it?”
“Jolly,” he said. “And now at last I’m going to learn your name.”
“Oh. Don’t you know it?”
“I wanted to ask you, but there seemed to be no proper opportunity–”
“Of course. I remember. There seemed to be no reason.”
“I was sorry afterward,” he ventured.
That amused her. “You weren’t really sorry, were you?”
“I really was. I thought of you–”
“Do you mean to say you remembered me after the ship docked?”
“Yes. But I’m very sure you instantly forgot me.”
“I certainly did!” she admitted, still much amused at the idea. “One doesn’t remember everybody one sees, you know,” she went on frankly,“–particularly after a horrid voyage and when one’s head is full of exciting plans. Alas! those wonderful plans of mine!–the stuff that dreams are made of. And here I am asking you kindly to find me a modest house with a modest rental… And by the way,” she added demurely, “my name is Palla Dumont.”
“Thank you,” he said smilingly. “Do you care to know mine?”
“I know it. When I came in and told