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Authors: Irwin Shaw
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package,” Hazen said. “I wasn’t sure just how tight she would like it strung. All she has to do is take it into the tennis shop at Saks and they’ll do it for her.”
“You’ve had a busy morning, Mr. Hazen,” Strand said. “It’s not yet eleven o’clock and you’ve already been to Saks and the florist’s.”
“I’m an early riser,” Hazen said. “Another thing I inherited from my father.”
“I know something about your father,” Strand said.
“Oh, you do,” said Hazen, flatly. “I’m not surprised.”
“My daughter, Eleanor, just called. She looked you up in Who’s Who .”
“Oh, she did? I didn’t think she was that interested in me.”
“She said there wasn’t anything in it about your bicycle riding.”
Hazen smiled. “We’ll keep that part of my biography to ourselves, shall we? I’m not particularly proud of last night.”
“I don’t see anything much that you could have done about it,” Strand said.
“I could have stayed home,” Hazen said. “I was foolish, considering the lateness of the hour. Still…” His face brightened. “It gave me the opportunity of meeting you and your charming family. I really am taking too much of your time. I had just planned to leave the racquet and the flowers here in the hall and pick up my bicycle. But the superintendent’s door didn’t answer and I…”
“He’s away,” Strand said. “If you wait here for a moment I’ll ask Mrs. Curtis where the key for the cellar is.”
“Thank you,” Hazen said, “if it’s not too much trouble.”
Mrs. Curtis was putting the bouquet into a big vase in the kitchen.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” Strand said. He had only the vaguest notion about flowers. He was sure about roses and chrysanthemums but after that he was usually at a loss for floral identification.
“For what they cost,” Mrs. Curtis said, jabbing harshly at the blossoms, “you could feed your family for a week.”
“Mr. Hazen would like to get his bicycle out of the cellar,” Strand said, ignoring Mrs. Curtis’s comment on the household’s economic situation. “Do you know where Alexander keeps the key?”
“You go into the boiler room,” Mrs. Curtis said, “it’s open and there’s a shelf on the right-hand side, high up. At the near corner you’ll find the key. That man going to ride his machine through the park in his state?”
“I imagine so.”
“He’ll scare the animals in the zoo right out of their cages.” Mrs. Curtis jabbed again at the flowers. “Mind, put the key back when you’re finished with it.”
“I will,” Strand said. He went back into the foyer, where Hazen was still standing, a small frown on his face as he listened to a scale that was being played with considerable inaccuracy in the living room. Strand smiled. “Usually, it’s better than that,” he said. “That obviously is not one of Leslie’s star pupils.”
“Still, it must be rewarding,” Hazen said, correcting his frown. “All those young people…” His voice trailed off.
“I know where the key is in the cellar,” Strand said. “I’ll take you down…”
“No need,” Hazen said. “I’ve bothered you enough. I have my man downstairs. If you’ll just tell me where the key is…”
“I was just going down to take a little walk, anyway,” Strand said, although the idea hadn’t occurred to him until that moment. He opened the door and followed Hazen to the elevator. On the ground floor, there was a tall man of about thirty-five dressed in corduroy pants and a sweater. Hazen introduced him as one of his secretaries, Mr. Conroy. He was an unathletic-looking man, with a gray complexion, the color, Strand thought, of ashes leeched by years of acid rain. The clothes he was wearing seemed incongruously informal on him. Strand wondered what Hazen’s other secretaries looked like and how many he had and whether they made up in beauty and charm for Conroy’s depressing appearance.
They went down the steps
“You’ve had a busy morning, Mr. Hazen,” Strand said. “It’s not yet eleven o’clock and you’ve already been to Saks and the florist’s.”
“I’m an early riser,” Hazen said. “Another thing I inherited from my father.”
“I know something about your father,” Strand said.
“Oh, you do,” said Hazen, flatly. “I’m not surprised.”
“My daughter, Eleanor, just called. She looked you up in Who’s Who .”
“Oh, she did? I didn’t think she was that interested in me.”
“She said there wasn’t anything in it about your bicycle riding.”
Hazen smiled. “We’ll keep that part of my biography to ourselves, shall we? I’m not particularly proud of last night.”
“I don’t see anything much that you could have done about it,” Strand said.
“I could have stayed home,” Hazen said. “I was foolish, considering the lateness of the hour. Still…” His face brightened. “It gave me the opportunity of meeting you and your charming family. I really am taking too much of your time. I had just planned to leave the racquet and the flowers here in the hall and pick up my bicycle. But the superintendent’s door didn’t answer and I…”
“He’s away,” Strand said. “If you wait here for a moment I’ll ask Mrs. Curtis where the key for the cellar is.”
“Thank you,” Hazen said, “if it’s not too much trouble.”
Mrs. Curtis was putting the bouquet into a big vase in the kitchen.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” Strand said. He had only the vaguest notion about flowers. He was sure about roses and chrysanthemums but after that he was usually at a loss for floral identification.
“For what they cost,” Mrs. Curtis said, jabbing harshly at the blossoms, “you could feed your family for a week.”
“Mr. Hazen would like to get his bicycle out of the cellar,” Strand said, ignoring Mrs. Curtis’s comment on the household’s economic situation. “Do you know where Alexander keeps the key?”
“You go into the boiler room,” Mrs. Curtis said, “it’s open and there’s a shelf on the right-hand side, high up. At the near corner you’ll find the key. That man going to ride his machine through the park in his state?”
“I imagine so.”
“He’ll scare the animals in the zoo right out of their cages.” Mrs. Curtis jabbed again at the flowers. “Mind, put the key back when you’re finished with it.”
“I will,” Strand said. He went back into the foyer, where Hazen was still standing, a small frown on his face as he listened to a scale that was being played with considerable inaccuracy in the living room. Strand smiled. “Usually, it’s better than that,” he said. “That obviously is not one of Leslie’s star pupils.”
“Still, it must be rewarding,” Hazen said, correcting his frown. “All those young people…” His voice trailed off.
“I know where the key is in the cellar,” Strand said. “I’ll take you down…”
“No need,” Hazen said. “I’ve bothered you enough. I have my man downstairs. If you’ll just tell me where the key is…”
“I was just going down to take a little walk, anyway,” Strand said, although the idea hadn’t occurred to him until that moment. He opened the door and followed Hazen to the elevator. On the ground floor, there was a tall man of about thirty-five dressed in corduroy pants and a sweater. Hazen introduced him as one of his secretaries, Mr. Conroy. He was an unathletic-looking man, with a gray complexion, the color, Strand thought, of ashes leeched by years of acid rain. The clothes he was wearing seemed incongruously informal on him. Strand wondered what Hazen’s other secretaries looked like and how many he had and whether they made up in beauty and charm for Conroy’s depressing appearance.
They went down the steps
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