The Fumbling Phantom

VIII

The train-ride back to Los Angeles was a dismal business; the Sunday papers picked up at San Francisco on the way down disspelled none of the gloom.

Stallions Stave Off Defeat was the Times head. Huskies Come From Behind To Tie said the Examiner.

Tim Murfree started off his column in the News:

Bill slit the papers disgustedly, stuck the clippings in his pocket. There was scarcely a mention of him in any of the stories, — merely a reference to Cady’s blocking the try for conversion.

Nobody’d dished out any blame to him, not even Jersey Joslin. But there was no ducking it; — an end who let a punt receiver get around him, to go for a score, was no bargain.

When he got back to his room and found the note from Lou Ann slipped under his door, he would have sold out very cheaply indeed. It was just addressed: Bill.

He started to tear the note up and chuck it in the wastebasket as something which was just what might have been expected from a dizzy dame. But the more he mulled it over, the sorer he got.

She was trying to put hint in the wrong. Not a line about how she’d said goodbye for half an hour one night and treated him like a stranger the next morning and from then on! Never a word about taking up with Zomby!

He’d set her straight on a few things.

It took him a while to corner Zomby, over at the Beta Psi house. Zomby was down cellar at the ping pong table. “Where’s Lou Ann live?”

Zomby’s lips tightened. “Somewhere in Westwood. Why?”

“Do I have to clout it out of you?”

“Think you can?”

For a few seconds they stood toe to toe, glaring. A couple of Zomby’s fraternity brothers made elaborate pretense of not noticing anything.

Bill said: “I’m going to have a try at it, unless you tell me first.”

“What you want to see her for?”

“I’ve got something I want to tell her. After I get it off my chest, that’ll be all I want to see of her, don’t worry.”

Zomby shrugged. “Up to you, I guess, if that’s how you feel. She lives at 29 Marview Terrace. You want her phone? It’s not in the book.”

“No. I want to see her.”

“You might get a surprise.”

Bill’s forehead puckered. “Such as for instance?”

Zomby went to the ping pong table, picked up his paddle. “Skip it. Just ribbing. Have fun.”

“Thanks. I’ll leave that to you.”

He went away, asked directions at the drugstore, walked the two miles to Marview Terrace.

The houses here seemed to be bigger than those near the University, fancier, too. Set further apart, further back from the street. Bigger lawns. More elaborate shrubbery. High iron fences.

Queer place for a working girl to be living. Number 27 was a mansion of Moorish stucco that appeared to cover half a block; Number 29 wasn’t quite as large, but it was solid gray stone with huge picture windows looking out over a rolling lawn that might have been part of a golf links.

Must be some mistake. Zomby’d given him a bum steer.

A couple of bobby-soxers strolled past.

“Hey,” he called, “who lives in the stone shanty?”

The girls chorused: “That’s Mister Walch’s place...”

“Walch?” he had to find out.

“Harrison Walch. Feller who owns all those snauzy Savile stores... whole chain of ’em... New York, Palm Beach. You know.”

“Yeah,” Bill nodded. He knew, all right.

The Savile Store in Beverly Hills was where Lou Ann was supposed to have been ‘working’ when he first met her! Where she’d pretended to ‘quit’ her job!

For Pete’s sake, her old man really must be rolling in it. Bill took a long, slow burn at the recollection of telling her how he meant to get rich. No wonder money didn’t mean so much to her; she’d probably never known what it was not to have all she wanted.

His first impulse was to walk on past. Why humiliate himself by going in there and letting her laugh at him? Then he realized that if she wanted to be amused, she’d had plenty of occasion long before this.

Zomby’d known all about this, obviously. Probably she’d invited Zomby over here. Well, Bill hadn’t been invited, but he was going in, anyhow.

He marched up the winding walk, crossed a porch as wide as a street, used the bronze knocker.

A stout, moon-faced man in a monkey jacket opened the door.

“Miss Walch?”

“She’s not at home, sir,” the servant cocked his head on one side. “May I ask if she was expecting you?”

“No,” Bill said. “Some other time...”

A tall, spare man with silver-white hair and a long, leathery face came out into the hall.

“Hello.”

Bill backed away. “Howdy.”

“You’re Bill Cady, aren’t you?”

Bill nodded.

“I’m Lou Ann’s father.”

“Glad to know you, sir.” Bill felt his face getting red; he wished to hell he’d never come.

“Not quite sure whether I can say the same or not.” Harrison Walch wasn’t holding out his hand to take Bill’s. He was indicating a chair on the porch. “My acquaintance with you began under fairly unpleasant circumstances.”

Bill didn’t know what to say. “Yeah? How was that?”

“I had the dubious pleasure of quashing a complaint against you over in the Culver City hoosegow, a week or so ago.”

“Oh... it was you! I’m much obliged.”

“No reason to be. I didn’t do it on your account, I assure you. Purely to keep Lou Ann out of a mess.” The tycoon sat on the stone ledge of the porch, examining Bill with sharp, bright eyes. “I know very little about you, Mister Cady, — except what I’ve seen on the football field.”

“Oh!” Bill felt stupid, repeating that ‘Oh!’ every half minute, “You come to the games.”

“As an interested alumus,” the eyes puckered at the corners, “and since I was honored with an apointment to the Alumni Council a few years ago, I haven’t missed a game.”

So her father was on the council which had awarded Bill his athletic scholarship!

Walch went on: “I’ve seen you in our home games, — and I’m frank to say I think you’re outstanding... outstanding is the only word for it.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell me.” The magnate leaned forward earnestly. “What do you think of our Head Coach? You may speak candidly. Whatever you tell me will go no further, I assure you.”

“Snub? Mister Garret? He’s great. He’s strictly tops.”

“Do you genuinely believe that?” Walch watched him narrowly. “I’ve heard there’s a certain dissatisfaction among members of the squad. Been some talk of bringing in new blood, hasn’t there...?”

Why, the old buzzard! Bill raged inwardly. He’s one of these alumni big-shots who’re always gunning for the Coach whenever the team doesn’t wind up with a win? The snipers!

“Listen, Mister Walch,” he forgot completely he was talking to Lou Ann’s father, “far’s I’m concerned Snub is the greatest coach in the game. Never was any better. Never will be. Just because we drop a game we should have won, some people blame him, when they should know better. I happen to know better, about that Washington game Saturday. Snub would have come back with a win, instead of a tie, if it hadn’t been for a dumb lineman... named Cady.”

Walch raised one eyebrow, delicately. “Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed!” Bill stuck his head forward, belligerently. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, or even if you do, I think it’s a hell of a thing for Alumni Council members to go stirring up trouble for Snub behind his back! He has enough on his hands, without bucking you, too!” Bill turned away.

Walch called after him: “I’ll tell Lou Ann you called.”

Bill said: “Never mind,” without turning his head.

He didn’t have to have any weegee board to figure out what Lou Ann’s father would tell her about him.