"Oh? He didn't mention that. He did say you were an extremely handsome
young woman, and I must remark his judgment was excellent. And he
thought you might be receptive to an offer from me. I'm--ah--in a form
of the entertainment world myself. Mr. McCarten told me where I could
reach you, and I phoned the Y, only to learn that you were out. When
I called again the next day, they informed me you had moved, but they
didn't know your address." Spinelli shrugged. "I was ready to write you
off as a lost cause, until your telephone call. I'm delighted you were
able to get in touch with me at last."
Laura sat back, sipping her drink. She found it hard to believe that
this handsome, cultured young man could be the overlord of high-priced
vice in New York City. But it was easy to read between the lines
of what he was saying, to know that McCarten was one of Spinelli's
talent scouts and had recommended her. It was strange that McCarten
should think that a girl who had been raped of her virginity would be
interested in becoming a call-girl--but perhaps McCarten was so shrewd
a psychologist that he knew exactly what the effect of his act would
be. Certainly it had led her in a straight line toward Spinelli.
The limousine pulled up in front of an East Side hotel. The chauffeur
ran around to the side to open the door; Spinelli got out, helping
Laura, and they entered the hotel together, she on his arm. The
restaurant was at the rear of the hotel; the moment Spinelli entered,
a dignified-looking man in black came racing up, bowed, and gave him an
effusive welcome.
"Your table is ready for you, Mr. Spinelli. If you and Mamselle will
come this way, s'il-vous-plait?"
He led them the length of the lavishly-upholstered restaurant to a dim
alcove at the very rear, where a table for two nestled in intimate
darkness, separated somewhat from the rest of the dining room.
Spinelli helped Laura off with her jacket, and, in turning, she made a
half-bow, revealing her bosom to him. She noticed that his eyes flicked
appreciatively to her breasts for an instant before returning to their
usual blasé expression.
"I have a permanent lunchtime reservation for this table," Spinelli
explained softly, as they took their seats. "Sometimes, when the place
is full and I am not here, they will telephone me for permission to
give it to someone else. But normally it waits for me at all times.
They are very kind to me here."
He gestured to a waiter, who glided over at once. There was no menu.
Laura, having no idea what to order, smiled warmly and asked Spinelli
to order for her.
Spinelli nodded. Speaking in smooth French, he said, "We'll begin with
_escargot_ today. Onion soup for the lady, _petite marmite_ for me, and
the baked pheasant for two. With a bottle of the '47 Tavel, Pierre."
The waiter moved away. Laura asked Spinelli for a translation, which he
supplied.
While waiting for the snails, he said, "McCarten told me you had just
arrived from Kansas. I don't suppose you have many restaurants of the
grand cuisine out there, do you?"
"Not very many," Laura said.
"You don't have to pretend with me," Spinelli said gently. "I know you
want to seem sophisticated, Laura, but you don't have to be afraid to
admit things. You're a very beautiful girl. The sophistication can come
later. You've never eaten in a French restaurant, have you?"