Leonard looked at the painting, and Basil looked at Leonard. His only response seemed to be the same mild, quizzical amusement he had shown as they discussed Wanda.
“The draughtsmanship is sound, but I’m afraid the subject is a little over my head. Is it supposed to inspire pity or cruelty? My chief feeling is disgust. I suppose that’s because I don’t like monkeys. And I do like canaries!”
WHEN BASIL set out for the theater the evening was young, and he decided to walk. He turned into 44th Street from Fifth Avenue, the east wind at his back, pushing him along with surprising force. With the reluctance of a busy man, he had obeyed Pauline’s injunction to “dress.” Now the pavement felt hard under the thin soles of patent leather shoes, and white doeskin gloves impeded his efforts to dig loose change from a hip pocket when he stopped at a newsstand for an evening paper. He amused himself with the thought that this unaccustomed splendor was almost as good as a disguise. No one was likely to recognize Dr. Willing, the active member of the District Attorney’s staff, or Dr. Willing, the studious psychiatrist, in this drone’s livery.
As he came to the Royalty Theatre, he stepped back to the curb and looked up with a certain curiosity. It was one of New York’s older theaters. A gloomy façade of plum-colored stone with white trim suggested a wedge of fruit cake with vanilla icing. The marquee blazed with electric bulbs:
Light flooded two great posters at either side of the box-office door—fleeting impressions of Wanda caught on paper with a few slashing brush strokes in sepia and red. Her head was a small, dark ovoid poised on a long, sinuous, white column of neck. Her tilted eyes were half shut in a provocative side glance over a shrugging shoulder. The wide mouth with its thin, scarlet lips curled in a sardonic smile. It might not be art, but it was Wanda. One sketch showed her against a Muscovite skyline of onion-shaped domes; the other, against a summery background of oleander and mimosa. Nothing in either suggested that anyone else appeared in the play. But apparently Wanda was what the public wanted. Already a long queue besieged the box office and an extra traffic policeman was telling a pair of autograph seekers to move on.
Basil glanced at his watch. It was only eight, and the curtain would not rise until eight-forty. He looked about for a place where he could read his evening paper.
To the left of the theater stood a gaudy, Broadway hotel; to the right, one of the low buildings called “taxpayers” because their rentals just cover the landlord’s tax bill. This one housed a row of small shops and restaurants, and the first of these was a cocktail bar.
The moment Basil entered the place he knew it was expensive. There seems to be an unwritten law in New York that the more expensive a drinking place, the dimmer the light; and this place was so dim that he could hardly see across the room. Night gathering in the street outside turned the plate glass window into a huge mirror. Behind the bar, another mirror doubled the reflection of amber bottles with golden highlights. Wherever there wasn’t a window or a mirror, there was a highly polished surface of wood or metal, so the whole place shimmered like a faceted jewel in the half-light. The air was close and spicy with an aroma of mixed drinks. Soft music came from a radio turned low. A solitary bartender mixed his highball and inquired if there were any news about the opening next door in the evening paper?
Basil turned to the theatrical page.
OPENINGS TONIGHT
At the Royalty Theatre this evening, Sam Milhau is reviving Sardou’s
“That all?” The bartender was disappointed.
“There’s something under
They read it together.
