Free Skyscraper by Faith Baldwin Page A

an offer of luncheon, unexpected, a harmless pleasure for Lynn. Having once known David Dwight as something less a man than a force of nature, should she not now be on her guard?
    But twenty years had passed; and she belonged to the women who make a fetish of possession, of the first man, the first love, which is the last. She had forgotten embraces, save the subconscious darkness of her nature, which she never contemplated now she had forgotten days and nights; she had forgotten tears and insanity. But she had not forgotten obedience. How should she know that asking her to luncheon, “you and Miss Harding,” he was asking her for Lynn?
    He knew.

 
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6
    HARMLESS AS A SERPENT
LYNN, RETURNING TO THE OFFICE FROM THE ancient tavern to which Dwight had taken her and Sarah, was late. She flew in, and went at the work on her desk with considerable animation.
    â€œWell,” commented Miss Marple, shutting a file with emphasis, “You look as if someone left you a million and you’d started to spend it!” She glanced carelessly at the clock.
    â€œI had a luncheon engagement,” Lynn told her guiltily.
    â€œTell that to Sarah the Slave Driver!”
    â€œShe was part of it,” Lynn said triumphantly.
    She stayed late at the office that evening, to catch up. When she reached home Jennie was there ahead of her. Opening the door Lynn was greeted by a blast of blue smoke and, rushing into the kitchen, found Jennie shoving some curious-looking pork chops around on a frying-pan.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake! You’ll have the fire department out.”
    â€œI was telephoning,” admitted Jennie. “How did I know the blasted things would go up in smoke? Here.”
    She shoved the frying-pan into Lynn’s hand, removed Lynn’s hat and bore it off to the living-room closet. Returning, she swung herself up on the little kitchen table, flipped her lighter with a thumb, and drew in a long breath of Virginia tobacco. “Thought I’d be domestic for a chance and get some dinner,” she explained. “I didn’t get a break. No one’s asked me out for a week.”
    â€œYou were out last night, silly! Did you set the table?”
    â€œI did. Well, it seems a week ago. What’s new with you? You’re late.”
    â€œPlenty. David Dwight took Sarah and me out to lunch—downtown somewhere, funniest place you ever saw, benches and stalls, sand on the floor and the most divine food.”
    â€œWhat did you eat?” asked Jennie with interest, then she added, “Dwight? You don’t mean the lawyer, do you?”
    â€œI do. We had oysters and game pies and —”
    â€œWait a minute, you’re breaking my heart. Throw the chops out of the window. Dwight?” Jennie rocked on the table, slim hands clasped about slim knees. “He’s some boy. Carla Lang—you know, the dancer, she was in that show I glorified. He was her lawyer. First he got her an annulment and a big settlement from the boy’s family. Then with her next trial trip he got her a Paris divorce and a hunk of alimony. Then she sued Stuart Whitehead for breach of a fountain pen—and what a ready letter writer he was, too!—and dragged down a cool hundred grand. But he wouldn’t give her a tumble. I think he was scared of having to sue himself or something.”
    â€œIsn’t he married?” asked Lynn.
    â€œSure, he’s married. Don’t you ever read the papers? His wife lives in California when she isn’t abroad. I saw her picture once—and took my wrist watch to the jeweler’s. They’ve got some kids, I think. Not that that’s any gray in his hair.”
    â€œWell, he’s terribly interesting,” Lynn said, the chops disposed of on a platter, the potatoes fried deliciously, if beyond the dietician pale.
    He had been. As she and Jennie ate supper she thought over the hour and a half—or was it two