V
“Yes, I see,” said Guy, clearing his throat, looking with concern at the piece of sweet biscuit in his hand, “... certainly. Why don’t you ... well, you know, find out how much they need, make out a check, and....”
Aunt Esther covertly twittered again, her eyes bright above the very white hand that hid her mouth, and Agnes turned her own face sharply away in mock exasperation with the boy.
“Notgivethem the money, Guy!” Agnes exclaimed.“They wouldn’thearof it, of course—the young man,Sol, especially. Surely you know howproudthose people are ... a defensive-mechanism, I suppose; but there you are, even so!No—what I had in mind was to tell them of astockto buy, you see.”
“Right,” said Guy crisply, “then they would take one of the trips later, that the idea? But, hold on—if they spend all their money on the one trip, how can they buy into the stock in question?”
“Guy!” said his aunt in a voice of ice and pain.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Grand with perfect candor.
Aunt Esther took refuge behind her kerchief, into her ceaseless giggling.
“I mean make it go up and down!” cried Agnes crossly. “Or ratherdownfirst, thenup.”
She regarded him narrowly for a moment, her thinness stretching upwards like an angry swan, suspecting perhaps that he was being deliberately obtuse.
“A perfect babe in the woods!” she said. “How you manage to hold your own at conference table I’m sure I couldn’t imagine!”
“Sorry,” said Grand, unsmiling, following through with the youthful gesture of slightly ducking his head for a sip of tea.
Of course it was all largely an act between them.
“Name one good stock in which you hold ten thousand shares,” said Agnes sharply.
“One good stock ...” repeated Guy Grand, his great brow clouding.
“... that begins with an ‘A’,” said Aunt Esther.
“That begins with an ‘A’?” said Grand, almost incredulous, yet as willing as a good-natured child at play.
“Esther!” cried Agnes.
“Well, do you meanexactlyten thousand, orat leastten thousand?” asked Guy.
“At least ten thousand,” said Agnes. “And itneedn’t,” she added, with a straight look to her sister, “begin with an ‘A’!”
“Hmm. Well, how about ‘Abercrombie and Adams’?” said Grand tentatively, “there’s a fairly sound—”
“Good,” said Aunt Agnes. “Now then, what if you sold all your shares of that? What would happen to the price of it?”
“Take a nasty drop,” said Grand, with a scowl at the thought of it. “Might cause a run.”
“There you are then!” cried Agnes. “And Clemence’s young manbuys—when the price is down,he buys, you see—then thenextday, you buy back what you sold! I should think it would go up again when you buy back what you sold, wouldn’t it?”
“Might and might not,” said Grand, somewhat coldly.
“Well,” said Agnes, with a terrible hauteur, “you can justkeepbuying until it does!” Then she continued, in softer tones, to show her ultimate reasonableness: “Surely you can, Guy. And then, you see, when it’s up again, Clemence and her young man willsell.”
“Yes,” said Grand with a certain quiet dignity, “but you know, it might not look good, that sort of thing, with the Federal Securities Commission.”
Agnes’s lips were so closely compressed now that they resembled a turtle’s mouth.
“Might notlook,” she repeated, making it hollow, her eyes widening as though she had lifted a desert rock and seen what was beneath it. “Well,” she said with unnerving softness, taking a sip of tea to brace herself and even turning to draw on her sister with a look of dark significance, “... if all you’re concerned with isappearance—then perhaps you aren’t the person I thought you were, after all.” And she poured herself another cup.
Grand was stricken with a mild fit of coughing. “Yes,” he was able to say at last, “... yes, I see your point, of course. Does bear some thinking through though, I must say.”
His aunt, momentarily aghast, had just started tospeak again, when the maid stepped inside the door to announce the arrival of Miss Ginger Horton—an extremely fat lady, who entered the room then, wearing an immense trapeze sunsuit and carrying her Pekinese.
“Guy!” she cried, extending her hand, as he, rising, came forward. “Howtoogood to see you!
“Say hello toGuy, my Bitsy!” she shrieked gaily to the dog, pointing him at Guy and the others. “Say hello to everybody! There’s Agnes and Esther,seethem, Bitsy?”
The dog yapped crossly instead, and ran at the nose.
“IsBitsy-witsy sicky?” cooed Miss Horton, pouting now as she allowed Guy to slowly escort her towards a chair near the others, he maneuvering her across the room like a gigantic river scow. “Hmm? Is my Bitsy sicky-wicky?”
“Nothing too serious, I hope,” said Grand with a solicitous frown.
“Just nerves I expect,” said Miss Horton, haughty now, and fairly snapping. “The weather is just so ...really abominable, and then all the nasty little people about.... Now here’s your Agnes and Esther, Bitsy.”
“How very nice to see you, my dear,” said the two elderly women, each laying thin fingers on her enormoushand. “What an adorable little sunsuit! Itwaskind of you to bring your Bitsy—wasn’t it, Guy?”
“It was extremely kind,” said Guy, beaming as he retreated to his own great chair near the window.
*****
It was, as a matter of fact, Guy Grand who, working through his attorneys, had bought controlling interest in the three largest kennel clubs on the eastern seaboard last season; and in this way he had gained virtual dominance over, and responsibility for, the Dog Show that year at Madison Square Garden. His number-onegérant, or front man, for this operation was a Señor Hernandez Gonzales, a huge Mexican, who had long been known in dog-fancier circles as a breeder of blue-ribbon Chihuahuas. With Grand’s backing however, and over a quick six months, Gonzales became the celebrated owner of one of the finest kennels in the world, known now not simply for Chihuahuas, but for Pekinese, Pomeranians and many rare and strange breeds of the Orient.
It was evident that this season’s show at the Garden was to be a gala one—a wealth of new honors had been posted, the prize-money packets substantially fattened, and competition was keener than ever. Bright young men and wealthy dowagers fromall over were bringing forward their best and favorite pedigrees. Gonzales himself had promised a prize specimen of a fine old breed. A national picture magazine devoted its cover to the affair and a lengthy editorial in praise of this great American benignity, this love of animals—“... in bright and telling contrast,” the editorial said, “to certain naïve barbarities,e.g., the Spanish bullfight.”
Thus, when the day arrived, all was as it should be. The Garden was festively decked, the spectators in holiday reverence, the lights burning, the big cameras booming, and the participants dressed as for a Papal audience—though slightly ambivalent, between not wishing to get mussed or hairy, and yet wanting to pamper and coo over their animals.
Except for the notable absence of Señor Gonzales, things went smoothly, until the final competition began, that between “Best of Breed” for the coveted “Best in Show.” And at this point, Gonzales did appear; he joined the throng of owners and beasts who mingled in the center of the Garden, where it was soon apparent his boast had not been idle—at the end of the big man’s leash was an extraordinary dog; he was jet-black and almost the size of a full-grown Dane, with the most striking coat and carriage yet seen at the Garden show that season. The head was dressed somewhat in the manner of a circus-cutpoodle, though much exaggerated, so that half the face of the animal was truly obscured.
Gonzales joined the crowd with a jaunty smile and flourish not inappropriate to one of his eminence. He hadn’t been there a moment though before he and the dog were spotted by Mrs. Winthrop-Garde and her angry little spitz.
She came forward, herself not too unlike her charge, waddling aggressively, and she was immediately followed by several other women of similar stamp, along with Pekineses, Pomeranians, and ill-tempered miniature chows.
Gonzales bowed with winning old-world grace and caressed the ladies’ hands.
“What aperfectlove he is!” shrieked Mrs. Winthrop-Garde of the animal on Gonzales’s leash, and turning to her own, “Isn’the, my darling?Hmm? Hmm?Isn’t he, my precious sweet? And whateveris hisname?” she cried to Gonzales when her own animal failed to respond, but yapped crossly instead.
“He is called ...Claw,” said Gonzales with a certain soft drama which may have escaped Mrs. Winthrop-Garde, for she rushed on, heedless as ever.
“Claude!It’stoodelicious—the perfect darling! Sayhelloto Claude, Angelica! Sayhelloto Claude, my fur-flower!”
And as she pulled the angry little spitz forward,while it snapped and snorted and ran at the nose, an extraordinary thing happened—for what this Grand and Gonzales had somehow contrived, and for reasons never fathomed by the press, was to introduce in disguise to the Garden show that season not a dog at all, but some kind of terrible black panther or dyed jaguar—hungry he was too, and cross as a pickle—so that before the day was out, he had not only brought chaos into the formal proceedings, but had actually destroyed about half the “Best of Breed.”
During the first hour or so, Gonzales, because of his respected position in that circle, was above reproach, and all of the incidents were considered as being accidental, though, of course, extremely unfortunate.
“Too much spirit,” he kept explaining, frowning and shaking his head; and, as he and the beast stalked slowly about in the midst of the group, he would chide the monster-cat:
“Overtired from the trip, I suppose. Isn’t that it, boy?Hmm? Hmm?”
So now occasionally above the yapping and whining, the crowd would hear a strangeswish!andswat!as Gonzales and the fantastic beast moved on, flushing them one by one.
Finally one woman, new to the circle, who did notknow how important Gonzales was, came back with an automatic pistol and tried to shoot the big cat. But she was so beside herself with righteous fury that she missed and was swiftly arrested.
Gonzales, though, apparently no fool himself, was quick to take this as a cue that his work was done, and he gradually retired, so that “Best in Show” was settled at last, between those not already eliminated.
Grand later penned a series of scathing articles about the affair: “Scandal of the Dog Show!” “Can This Happen Here?” “Is It Someone’s Idea of a Joke?” etc., etc.
The bereft owners were wealthy and influential people, more than eager to go along with the demand for an inquiry. As quickly as witnesses were uncovered, however, they were bought off by Grand or his representatives, so that nothing really ever came of it in the end—though, granted, it did cost him a good bit to keep his own name clear.