"I paint profiles with words," he said. "You may have run across some
of my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,
of course."
"How interesting." She pronounced it "anteresting."
"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my
fancy." He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a
dainty sip. "You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss--"
"Smith. Kay Smith." She set the cup back on the counter and turned and
faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied
his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly
clear--and suddenly cold--blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished
when she said, "Would you really consider word-painting _my_ profile,
Mr. Quidley?"
_Would_ he! "When can I call?"
She hesitated for a moment. Then: "I think it will be better if I call
on you. There are quite a number of people living in our--our house.
I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like
yourself to concentrate."
Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a
week, to reach the apartment phase. "Fine," he said. "When can I expect
you?"
She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller
than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,
she'd have been taller than he was. "I'll be in town night after next,"
she said. "Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?"
"Perfectly."
"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley."
He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually
did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his
custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in
his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as
usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, _Self
Profile_, nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better
Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid
array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,
occupying a two-page spread.
It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the
first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of
paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an
advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he
went to bed.
* * * * *
In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had
unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages
until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the
library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment
for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table
post and took up _The Zeitgeist_ once again.
He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.
And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed and
graceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophy
section now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into the
literature aisle and toward the T's....
The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:
_fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;
Cai: Gind en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid
jestig snoll doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers
ensing!--Gorka. fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;_
Judging from the repeated use of the words, _snoll dopers_ were the
topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the
book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.
He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what
a _snoll doper_ was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur
secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.
It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,
they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be
quixotic enough to employ Taine's _History of English Literature_ as a
communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and
a mailbox on every corner?
Somehow the words "what on earth foreign organization" got turned
around in his mind and became "what foreign organization on earth" and
before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced
a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his
normal self again.
He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his
shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and
looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything
was--the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,
with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books
stacked imposingly nearby; _Harper's_, _The Atlantic_ and _The Saturday
Review_ showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened
bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the
small table set cozily for two--
* * * * *
The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.
She walked in with a demure, "Hello." He took her wrap. When he saw
what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes
wouldn't fall out of their sockets.
Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which her
long hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as though
she had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breasts
before catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sitting
position, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;
arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.
He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She
followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the
bottle. "Say when." "When!" "I admire your dress--never saw anything
quite like it." "Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it."
"It's--it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?" "Thanks.... Is
something wrong, Mr. Quidley?" "No, of course not. Why?" "Your hands
are trembling." "Oh. I'm--I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss
Smith." "Call me Kay."
They touched glasses: "Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,
Herbert. I shall have to come here more often." "I hope you will, Kay."
"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet
Earth." "Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely." "Thank
you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too
far away.... There!" "It's--it's as lovely as your hair, Kay." "Um,
kiss me again." "I--I never figured--I mean, I engaged a caterer to
serve us dinner at 9:30." "Call him up. Make it 10:30."
* * * * *
The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The _snoll-doper_
mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next
message transfer took place.
He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he
intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted
mentally, of course--notes were for the hacks and the other commercial
non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,
he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure
flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:
the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful
characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque
heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever
done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the
bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was
on display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... _Cut
to interior._ FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there any
more copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. You
don't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ran
out. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure that
my children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOK
CLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell
me quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of--