"Are you enjoying your Chicken à la King, Mr. Peachman?" said Mrs. Lovechild.
Harry's mouth was full, and so he chewed as quickly as he could.
"I should think he is," said Ralston.
"I love to see a man eat with gusto," said Gwendolyn.
Harry swallowed, trying not to choke, and then he dabbed his lips with the damask napkin he had been supplied with.
"Yes, Mrs. Lovechild, very much so," he finally managed to say.
"Would you care for seconds?" said Mrs. Lovechild.
"I think you mean thirds, Mother," said Ralston.
"Ralston, don't be such a cunt," said Gwendolyn.
"Gwendolyn, dear," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Language."
"Here, Mr. Peachum," said Gwendolyn, rising up from her seat, "let me help you with that last bit of chicken and noodles."
"Waste not want not," said Ralston, putting a cigarette into his black holder.
"Oh, thank you," said Harry, "but, really, I couldn't –"
"Of course you could," said Gwendolyn, "now here," and she lifted the serving dish with one hand and with the other she spooned the last of the chicken and noodles and cream sauce onto Harry's plate, spilling only a small amount onto the table cloth.
"There you are, old chap, now eat up."
To tell the truth, Harry still had an appetite.
"Thank you," he said. "If you insist."
"You must be simply famished after dragging Livingston home through this frightful blizzard," said Gwendolyn, putting down the dish and sitting back down.
"Well, we took a cab part of the way," said Harry, forking some more of the delicious food into his mouth.
"Be that as it may," said Gwendolyn. "We owe Livingston's life to you. I'm sure he should never have made it home alive otherwise."
"Peachman," said Ralston, exhaling a great cloud of smoke, the sort of cloud Harry would have described as "thoughtful" in one of his detective stories. "Where have I heard that name."
"Mm," said Harry, if one could be said to "say" the sound "mm".
"What's that?" said Ralston.
"He's got his mouth full," said Gwendolyn. "Let him finish chewing, brother."
"Mea culpa," said Ralston. "Chew away, old man."
"Yes," said Mrs. Lovechild, "let Mr. Peachings swallow his food before answering. You know I hate the way you bolt your food, Ralston."
"Yes, Mother," said Ralston, "as you have told me at the very least one million times."
"Then why do you persist in doing it," said Mrs. Lovechild.
"Because it's the way I like to eat," said Ralston. "Dive right in, that's my motto. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes."
"Language, Ralston," said Mrs. Lovechild. "We have a guest at table."
Harry dabbed his lips again with the napkin, and said, "Actually my name is Beachcroft."
"What was that?" said Ralston.
"Beachcroft," said Harry. "My name is actually Beachcroft, Harry Beachcroft."
"Harry Beachcroft?" said Ralston.
"Beachcroft?" said Mrs. Lovechild.
"Harry?" said Gwendolyn.
"Yes," said Harry.
"And here I've been calling you Mr. Peachams," said Gwendolyn.
"You must forgive us," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Mister – what was it? Peachcroft?"
"Beachcroft," said Harry. "With a B, not a P."
"Please forgive us, Mr. Peachcroft, I mean – what was it again?"
"Beachcroft," said Harry.
"Yes, that," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Please forgive us."
"I feel I've seen that name somewhere," said Ralston.
"Me too, I think," said Gwendolyn. "Harry Peachcroft. Are you by any chance on the stage, Mr. Peachcrab?"
"No, I'm afraid not," said Harry.
"You remind me of a fellow I saw in a play," she said. "What was it. The Benighted Heart? The Abandoned Hearth?
Anyway, it had Hyacinth Wilde in it, and it was about how Hyacinth's dead fiancé came back from the war, because he wasn't dead, only a prisoner, and he'd lost his memory, and you played her older brother. His name was Terence, I remember it now, except he had a moustache."
"I'm afraid it wasn't me," said Harry.
"You're quite sure."
"Yes," said Harry.
"Harry Peachcraft, you say," said Ralston.
"Not Peachcraft," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Peachcroft." She was also smoking a cigarette now, but without a holder.
"Well, Beachcroft," said Harry.
"What?" said Mrs. Lovechild.
"It's Beachcroft," he said. "With an initial B. I mean, it doesn't really matter, but –"
"Of course it matters," said Mrs. Lovechild, "Mister, uh –"
"Beachcroft," said Harry.
"Now I've got it," said Ralston. "Harry Beachcroft. I've seen that name on these paperback novels Livingston's always reading, lying on the divan where even now he reclines, snoring contentedly. Are we to understand that your are that Harry Beachcroft?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Harry.
"There you are," said Ralston. "We have a celebrated author in our midst."
"Well –" said Harry, in vague modesty.
"You write books?" said Gwendolyn.
"Yes, I'm afraid so," said Harry.
"I adore books," said Mrs. Lovechild. "What books have you written?"
"Oh, uh," said Harry.
"I want to read your books," said Gwendolyn.
"Livingston's got loads of them in his room," said Ralston. "Stacks of them."
"I, uh," said Harry.
"What should I read first?" said Mrs. Lovechild.
"Well, um," said Harry.
"Do you write mysteries?" said Mrs. Lovechild.
"I have written mysteries, yes," said Harry.
"What about romances?" said Gwendolyn.
"Well, yes, I've written some of those," said Harry, "but mostly under the pen name of Lucille de la Strange."
"I want to read them," said Gwendolyn.
"You know what I like to read," said Ralston, "I like books about small-town girls who come to Hollywood to make it in pictures. But they keep meeting rotters who take advantage of their good nature. Got anything in that line?"
"He does in fact," said a familiar voice, and Harry turned to see that Livingston had entered the room. He was in his stockinged feet, and wore a plaid flannel shirt of the kind that lumberjacks presumably wore. "Harry has written a delightful novel called The Girl on the Greyhound Bus, and it is about a lass who comes to Hollywood to make it big in pictures, but gets caught up in a web of passion and betrayal, and, yes, murder."
"The sleeper awakes," said Ralston.
"Just needed to rest my eyes for a minute," said Livingston. "Is there any Chicken à la King left?"
Harry stared guiltily at his empty plate.
"I'm afraid it's all gone, dear," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Sit down and you may join us for coffee and dessert."
There was a little tarnished brass bell on the table, and she picked it up by its wooden handle and rang it.
"Oh, well," said Livingston, pulling out the empty chair to Harry's left and seating himself. "You know what they say."
"What do they say, dear?" said Mrs. Lovechild.
"When you snooze you lose," said Livingston. He reached over the table and picked up one of the three wine bottles there. "Chambertin," he said, looking at the faded label. "Excellent."
There was an empty wine glass at his place, and he filled it with ruby red dark wine.
He turned to Harry.
"Top you off, Harry?"
"I really shouldn't," said Harry, for no honest reason.
"Nonsense," said Livingston, and he refilled Harry's glass.
Putting down the bottle he raised his glass.
"Up the long ladder," he said, "and down the short rope. To hell with King Billy and God bless the Pope."
And he drank, and so did Harry.
What did it matter?
How would he get home tonight?
Would he even get home tonight?
Did it matter if he got home tonight?
Outside the tall front windows the snow continued to fall heavily over Bleecker Street, illuminated by a street lamp, pattering against the glass panes, the wind deeply whistling, but inside this house all was warm and smelling of the burning wood in the fireplace and of wine and women's perfume.
Gwendolyn looked at him through her large blue eyes over her wine glass.
Perhaps Harry would never leave here. .<
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