The Loved One Read Free

chimneypiece. A low trolley of steel and white enamel alone distinguished the place from a hundred thousand modern American reception rooms; that and the clinical smell. A bowl of roses stood beside the telephone; their scent contended with the carbolic, but did not prevail.
    Dennis sat in one of the armchairs, put his feet on the trolley and settled himself to read. Life in the Air Force had converted him from an amateur to a mere addict. There were certain trite passages of poetry which from a diverse multitude of associations never failed to yield the sensations he craved; he never experimented; these were the branded drug, the sure specific, big magic. He opened the anthology as a woman opens her familiar pack of cigarettes.
    Outside the windows the cars swept past continuously, out of town, into town, lights ablaze, radios at full throttle.
    “I wither slowly in thine arms,”
he read.
“Here at the quiet limit of the world,”
and repeated to himself: “Here at the quiet limit of the world. Here at the quiet limit of the world”… as a monk will repeat a single pregnant text, over and over again in prayer.
    Presently the telephone rang.
    “The Happier Hunting Ground,” he said.
    A woman’s voice came to him, hoarse, it seemed, with emotion; in other circumstances he might have thought her drunk. “This is Theodora Heinkel. Mrs. Walter Heinkel, of 207 Via Dolorosa, Bel Air. You must come at once. I can’t tell you over the phone. My little Arthur—they’ve just brought him in. He went out first thing and never came back. I didn’t worry because he’s sometimes been away like that before. I said to Mr. Heinkel, ‘But, Walter, I can’t go out to dine when I don’t know where Arthur is’ and Mr. Heinkel said, ‘What the heck? You can’t walk out on Mrs. Leicester Scrunch at the last minute,’ so I went and there I was at the table on Mr. Leicester Scrunch’s right hand when they brought me the news… Hullo, hullo, are you there?”
    Dennis picked up the instrument which he had laid on the blotting-pad. “I will come at once, Mrs. Heinkel. 207 Via Dolorosa I think you said.”
    “I said I was sitting at Mr. Leicester Scrunch’s right hand when they brought me the news. He and Mr. Heinkel had to help me to the automobile.”
    “I am coming at once.”
    “I shall never forgive myself as long as I live. To think of his being brought home alone. The maid was out and the city wagon-driver had to telephone from the drugstore… Hullo, hullo, are you there? I said the city scavenger had to telephone from the drugstore.”
    “I am on my way, Mrs. Heinkel.”
    Dennis locked the office and backed the car from the garage; not his own, but the plain black van which was used for official business. Half an hour later he was at the house of mourning. A corpulent man came down the garden path to greet him. He was formally dressed for the evening in the high fashion of the place—Donegal tweeds, sandals, a grass-green silk shirt, open at the neck with an embroidered monogram covering half his torso. “Am I pleased to see you,” he said.
    “Mr. W. H., all happiness,” said Dennis involuntarily.
    “Pardon me?”
    “I am the Happier Hunting Ground,” said Dennis.
    “Yes, come along in.”
    Dennis opened the back of the wagon and took out an aluminum container. “Will this be large enough?”
    “Plenty.”
    They entered the house. A lady, also dressed for the evening in a long, low gown and a diamond tiara, sat in the hall with a glass in her hand.
    “This has been a terrible experience for Mrs. Heinkel.”
    “I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to speak of it,” said the lady.
    “The Happier Hunting Ground assumes all responsibility,” said Dennis.
    “This way,” said Mr. Heinkel. “In the pantry.”
    The Sealyham lay on the draining-board beside the sink. Dennis lifted it into the container.
    “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a hand?”
    Together he and Mr. Heinkel carried their load to