Free Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) by Helen MacInnes Page B

have to leave all that appalling mess in the living-room. I’ll get up early and clear it away in the morning. That would be a grim way to start a new day. The joys of being a career girl, she thought dejectedly.
    He put his arm around her waist as they reached her house. “You’re home, darling. Wake up, Rona. You can’t go to sleep until you are in bed. Shall I come up and search for any burglar?”
    She found herself smiling, too. That was Scott’s oldest joke. “Not tonight, darling,” she said. “See you soon.” She kissed him, and hurried upstairs.
    “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he was saying.

5
    On Friday, just before eleven o’clock in the morning, Paul Haydn walked into the building on Fifth Avenue where Trend had its offices.
    “Hello, Joe,” he said, as he entered the express elevator, “and how’s Jamaica this season?”
    Joe stared. “Mr. Haydn!” He grinned. “I heard you was back in town. But my eyes ain’t what they used to be. Took me a minute to recognise you.”
    “To tell you the truth, Joe, I barely recognised myself.” He looked into the mirror above the elevator door. The grey flannel suit, the white shirt, still looked as odd as they felt. And he had lost his taste in ties: the blue polka dot that he had bought so enthusiastically seemed a bit intense to him now.
    “You’ll get used to it,” Joe said sympathetically. “Just like me. Been married thirty-five years. Today’s our anniversary. I woke up and looked at the wife, and I said ‘Guess I’m married all right.’ Well, it’s good to see you, Mr. Haydn. Hope we’ll be seeing more of you around here.” He brought the elevator to a smooth halt and opened its door.
    “I don’t know, yet,” Paul said. The elevator door closed behind him. He was left looking at a receptionist sitting very impressively behind a desk. Impressively, because once this landing had been a linoleum-covered place without any pretty girl waiting to receive visitors as they came out of the elevator.
    “Yes?” She was proud of the effect she caused.
    “I’m Paul Haydn. I have an appointment with Mr. Crowell, the Feature Editor.”
    “Just a minute please.” She slowly lifted a telephone. “Won’t you take a seat?”
    Paul repressed a smile. He chose an armchair in white leather, looked at the light grey rug and then at the prints framed in red against a dark grey wall. “Snazzy,” he said, but the girl only gave him a pitying look. Where I come from, she seemed to say, we use this kind of place for an outhouse. He retired into silence, smiling broadly now.
    She reported, “Mr. Crowell is not in today. But his secretary says Mr. Weidler wants to see you as soon as you arrive.”
    Paul’s eyebrows gave away his surprise.
    “Mr. Crowell’s secretary will show you—”
    “Tell her it’s all right, I know the way.” He rose and went toward a door. “Straight ahead and then to my left?” She didn’t answer, but began telephoning more urgently this time. She stared after him worriedly. She looked much prettier when she was being human, he thought.
    He entered a long corridor, with offices leading off on either side. Some of the doors were closed: conferences going on. Others stood open, showing business-like interiors. The waiting-room’s luxury was replaced by efficiency. He felt slightly better: Trend was a good magazine, a good place to work, except for its name and its waiting-room.
    Two or three people walked past him, glancing quickly at him, paying little attention. From the largest office, a grey-haired, pleasant-faced woman hurried out. “Why,” she said, stopping in surprise, waving a sheaf of papers at him, “if it isn’t—”
    “And just imagine, it is!” In spite of his teasing words, he shook hands with her enthusiastically. He had always liked Mrs. Hershey. “It’s good to see someone I know, around here.”
    “You’re coming back?” she asked eagerly. My, she was thinking, and doesn’t he look as nice