  “If they expect to be at Paula’s by ten,” Peggy said as she and Amy left the restaurant, “we’d better hurry. We have a lot of shopping to do, and food to prepare. And I’d like to decorate Paula’s apartment in some way, too. It’s a nice enough place, but I couldn’t help noticing how cold and unlived-in it looks. Maybe we can find some way to make it cheerful, even if it’s just for an evening.” “If we hurry, we can do that part of the shopping before the stores on Twenty-third Street close,” Amy said. “I remember seeing a sort of party shop there that sells things like crepe paper and candles and silly decorations and things. I think they’re open till seven or seven-thirty.” “I remember the place,” Peggy said. “If we go there first, we can put off the food shopping until later. The bakeries and the delicatessens always stay open till late.” The girls hurried uptown the few blocks to Twenty-third Street, where they found the proprietor of the little party shop getting ready to close for the night. With a resigned sigh, he agreed to stay open a few minutes more in order to let the two friends buy the few things they needed for their surprise party. Trying to make their decisions in a hurry, so as not to further exasperate the shopkeeper, they quickly settled on some paper napkins with a festive rosebud design, and some sugar rosebud-shaped candle-holders for the cake. Peggy also bought some pink crepe-paper sheets and strips. “I think I can make these into some nice paper roses—if I remember how they taught us to do it in kindergarten,” she said. “That ought to brighten the place up!” Amy found some white paper plates with rosebuds to match the napkins, but as the girls started to search for more things to make the party, the owner of the shop began to turn off the lights, throw dust-covers over fixtures, and generally make it clear that his patience was at an end. “I guess that’s really all we’ll need, Amy,” Peggy said nervously. “I think that we’d better get going.” Thanking the shopkeeper for staying open for them, they paid for their purchases and left. The owner left with them, turned the lock in the door, and with a curt nod briskly strode down the street. “Gee, we just made it,” Peggy said with a grin. “If we had taken ten seconds more, I think he would have locked us in the store for the night!” Farther down the street, a delicatessen store shed a bright glow on the nearly deserted sidewalk. Peggy and Amy made their way to it as if it were a beacon marking the way to a friendly port. Nothing in the world is more delightfully confusing than an old-fashioned delicatessen in New York. There is a special quality to the very smell of the place; it is a compound of every good thing to eat, and so complex a perfume that it is almost impossible to isolate the elements that make it up. One can detect clearly the briny smell of pickles, and on second sniff, the rich harmonies of imported cheeses, but beyond that, it would take the most sensitive nose in the world to analyze the atmosphere. And as you walk through the store from front to back, the odor changes, becomes alternately richer, lighter, sharper, sweeter, spicier or more pungent. The store was so narrow, and the man behind the counter so wide, that Peggy had to suppress a little giggle, wondering how on earth he managed to squeeze himself in. With a broad grin and a welcoming gesture that threatened to sweep the counter clean of its load of little jars, boxes, and tins, he said, “Good evening, ladies! What can I do for you?” “I don’t know.” Peggy smiled. “You’ve got so much here that I scarcely know where to begin.” “Tell me your problem,” the man said in a confidential, professional manner. “We specialize in catering for all kinds of events. Just tell me what you have in mind, and let me do the selecting.” “It’s not really an event,” Amy began. “We’re just planning a little surprise party for a friend, and there are only going to be four of us....” “And you say it’s not an event!” the delicatessen owner said reproachfully. “When you buy here, every meal is an event! Just tell me how much you want to spend, and I’ll make you a menu for a party you’ll never forget!” His enthusiasm flagged a little when Peggy hesitantly told him that they hadn’t figured on spending more than five dollars, but he made a fast recovery. “Even for four dollars,” he said, “I could make you a party for the gods!” Seemingly from nowhere, he produced a beautifully roasted turkey with a few slices already removed. Skillfully, he cut several long, thin slices of white meat. Swiss cheese followed, and after that, moist, lean slices of pink ham. Moving deftly and surely from counter to bin to shelf to refrigerator to cabinet, the owner piled up containers of potato salad, cole slaw, bottles of soft drinks, a sliced loaf of rye bread with caraway seeds and a small jar of mustard. “There!” he said. “That’s an event!” “How much is it?” Peggy asked, looking fearfully at what seemed to her to be a mountain of food. “I was aiming for five dollars,” the owner said, “as specified. However, let me do the addition and see....” He rapidly penciled figures on a brown paper bag and added them in a flash. When he looked up, it was with a crestfallen expression. “The first time in years I went over the budget,” he said mournfully. “Usually I can pick things out right to the penny. Ah, well....” He sighed. “To err is human. Even for a delicatessen owner.” “How much is it?” Peggy asked again. “Five dollars and thirteen cents,” came the sorrowful answer. “But for you, and because we had a bargain, four dollars and ninety-nine cents!” “Oh, no!” Peggy said. “We’ll be glad to pay it all! It’s such a little——” “Not in my delicatessen!” the owner said, drawing himself up proudly. “To Schwartz, a contract is a contract! Four ninety-nine, and not a penny more!” Not knowing if Mr. Schwartz was serious or joking, Peggy decided not to take the chance of hurting his feelings. She gave him a five-dollar bill, and dutifully accepted the penny change. By the time the girls had picked up their packages, Mr. Schwartz had recovered his normal high spirits. He hastened to the door to open it for them, gave them the full benefit of his smile and said, “Remember—make every meal an event! That’s philosophy! Good night and come again!” The next stop, a small Viennese bakery a few doors west, proved uneventful except for finding the perfect cake for the occasion. It was a small layer cake covered with snowy white icing and a decorative trim of pink sugar rosebuds around the edge. It made the ideal match for the napkins and the crepe paper they had bought. Loaded down with their purchases, they took a bus uptown to Paula’s street, and by eight o’clock they found themselves standing before the green lacquered street door of her apartment house. “I certainly hope that the superintendent’s in tonight,” Peggy said as she pushed the buzzer. “It would be awful to have bought all this good food, and then have him be out!” “We could always camp here on the doorstep and wait for Paula and Greta to come home,” Amy said. “But, frankly, the idea of a two-hour wait in the night air isn’t exactly guaranteed to put me in a party mood!” Their fears were groundless, however. The superintendent, a polite old man, answered the door after only a few minutes’ delay. He greeted Peggy with a smile of recognition and apologized for keeping them waiting. Peggy explained the purpose of their visit, and the old man’s eyes lighted up with pleasure when he heard of the surprise party. “I sure am glad to see Miss Andrews making some friends,” he said. “She’s such a nice young lady, and my wife and I often worry about her, sitting up there all day alone. It doesn’t seem natural for such a fine girl to have to be by herself so much. I think a thing like this’ll do her a world of good!” Upstairs, the superintendent let them into Paula’s apartment with his master passkey. “If I see them coming in,” he said with a conspiratorial smile, “I won’t let on a thing. I don’t know of anything worse than a surprise party where there’s no surprise to it!” The girls thanked him, and a moment later found themselves alone in Paula’s little apartment. It had been straightened up since Peggy’s last visit at lunchtime, and the few clothes and other objects that had been visible had all been put neatly out of sight. This made the room look even more barren and impersonal than Peggy had remembered it—as polite and impersonal as Paula’s manner whenever Peggy had tried to break the wall of mystery that surrounded her new friend. Amy looked around her with a sigh. “It’s about as homey as a hotel room, isn’t it?” she said. “I hope that we brought enough crepe paper to brighten it up a little!” “It’s going to take more than crepe paper,” Peggy said sadly. “It’s going to take some real show of friendship. She must be a really lonely girl for even the superintendent and his wife to have noticed it and to be concerned about it. I hope that this little party of ours is some help.” “It’s bound to be,” Amy said. “It will certainly take the curse off the business of just handing her money. That could be downright awkward, you know, even though she has agreed to accept it.” “I hope you’re right,” Peggy said. “I’m sure that if there ever was a girl who needed friends to tell things to—and who had things to tell them—it’s Paula Andrews!” They unloaded their purchases in the little kitchenette, and while Amy was unwrapping the sliced meat and cheese, Peggy busied herself with setting up the gate-leg table that stood folded against the wall. Going back to the kitchenette, she rummaged about in the bag that held the napkins, candles, and crepe paper. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “I knew we forgot something! We didn’t buy a paper tablecloth!” “Oh, Paula must have a plain white tablecloth here that we can use,” Amy said. “I’ll take a look,” Peggy said. “I hate to see a bare table, unless there are place mats, and we don’t even have enough napkins to use as mats. Where do you suppose she’d keep her tablecloths?” Looking around the room, Amy pointed to a low chest with three shallow drawers that stood near the kitchenette door. “If I had any cloths I’d keep them in there,” she said. Peggy opened the top drawer. “No tablecloths,” she said, “but we’re on the right track. There are bed linens and some towels in here.” She went to the second drawer. There were no linens here, but simply a large, flat, leather box of highly polished calfskin. It took up most of the drawer. Peggy was about to shut the drawer when something caught her attention. She gave a low whistle. “Amy, come here,” she said. “Tablecloths?” Amy said. “Look.” Peggy pointed to a small silver plate fixed to the lower right-hand corner of the leather box. It was engraved: “For Paula’s first part—and her future career. With love from Mother and Dad.” “I guess you were right, Peggy,” Amy said. “About the shoes, and Paula not being a salesgirl, and not being poor....” “And not being an orphan, either,” Peggy added. “Well ... this certainly shows that she wasn’t raised as an orphan,” Amy said, “but this could have been given to her before—before she became an orphan, couldn’t it?” “No,” Peggy said flatly. “For one thing, this is pretty new. And, besides, even if Paula’s parents did ... die ... after giving her this, the rest of her story couldn’t possibly be true. People who can give gifts like this don’t leave a daughter penniless.” “I suppose not,” Amy admitted. “But, in that case, what do you think the real story is?” “It seems pretty clear that Paula has run away from home for some reason of her own,” Peggy answered. “Her parents certainly don’t know where she is, or what kind of circumstances she’s in, or they surely would have done something to help her. They’re obviously not the sort of people to hold back on giving things to their daughter. And this inscription tells us that they didn’t try to keep her from pursuing a career as an actress. In fact, unless I miss my guess, this is a professional make-up kit.” A quick glance inside confirmed Peggy’s guess. It was a theatrical make-up box, beautifully fitted with tiny jars of creams and colors, each with a silver lid engraved with Paula’s initials. There were special compartments for brushes, pencils, and cotton pads. “Well, you certainly seem to be right,” Amy admitted, “but now that we know about it, what do you think we should do? Should we do anything? Isn’t it Paula’s business if she chooses to leave home?” “It’s certainly her business if she chooses to live away from home,” Peggy said firmly, “but running away and hiding is something else again. Her parents are probably worried sick about her! I don’t think we can afford to wait for Paula to warm up to us on the chance that she’ll tell us about it. I think she’s acting thoughtlessly and unreasonably, and much as I like her, that doesn’t change my opinion of what she’s doing. We have to stop it, or at least look into it to find out who Paula’s parents are and why she left home. Unless she has a darn good reason for not letting them know where she is, we’ll have to tell them. It’s the only decent thing to do!” “If we do,” Amy said, “they might take her out of the play.” “They might,” Peggy agreed, “but people are more important than plays. And anyway, I don’t think they would. They’re obviously people who are in sympathy with Paula’s wanting to be an actress.” “That seems like a good guess,” Amy said with a smile, glancing at the extravagant make-up kit. “But how do we find out who they are? And once we find out, do we just call them? Shouldn’t we give Paula a chance first?” “We certainly should,” Peggy said. “All I want to do is find out who her parents are, and tell her we know. Then we’ll give her the choice of calling them, or having us do it. This is not just a question of sticking my nose into someone else’s business; it’s a question of doing what’s right.” “You still haven’t told me how you expect to find out who her parents are,” Amy said. “Maybe if I look around, I’ll find something with an address on it. Maybe a letter or something—” “But—” Amy objected. “I know,” Peggy interrupted, “but it has to be done. Why don’t you get the table set up as best you can, and I’ll look around a little.” She glanced at her watch. “We haven’t too much time, you know. They ought to be here in about an hour.” “What about the crepe-paper roses?” Amy asked. “I don’t know how to make them!” “I’m in no mood to make roses,” Peggy answered sadly and a little grimly. “Use the crepe paper for a tablecloth. I’ll let you know if I find anything.” As she started looking through Paula’s bureau, Peggy reflected that it was strange how a person could do something completely against her nature and as unpleasant as searching a friend’s room, when a matter of conscience and principle was involved. It was not always easy to do the right thing. Conquering her qualms with the assurance that she was acting in the best interests of both Paula and her parents, Peggy went carefully about her search. It took her nearly twenty minutes to go through the bureau and closet in a thorough manner. She carefully took down each dress and coat, looked at the labels and went through the pockets. She examined the many shoes and boots, as well as the sports equipment neatly stored on the shelves and the luggage on the floor in back. She put each thing back exactly as she had found it. When she closed the door behind her, she knew that she had found something, but not as yet what she had been looking for. “What did you learn?” asked Amy, who was putting the finishing touches on the table setting. “I didn’t learn Paula’s home address,” Peggy said, “which is what I was hoping to find, but I did learn a few other things. For one thing, Paula does come from California, as she said. The store labels are all from Los Angeles shops. And for another thing, I learned that her name is really Paula Andrews and her parents do have an awful lot of money.” “How did the clothes tell you that?” Amy asked, puzzled. “Well, some of the clothes are custom-made, and they all have labels that read, ‘Designed for Paula Andrews by Helen de Mayne.’” “Whew!” Amy whistled. “Isn’t Helen de Mayne that famous Hollywood designer who does costumes for the stars?” “Right,” Peggy said. “And that’s all I’ve learned from the clothing.” “I wonder if we need to know any more,” Amy said thoughtfully. “If we want to find out anything now, can’t we just check with Helen de Mayne? She could certainly tell us who Paula’s parents are, if she designs Paula’s clothes.” “I thought of that,” Peggy said, “but I’d rather not unless we have no other way. I don’t want to stir up anything, and if we start asking questions about Paula, we’re going to have to give some answers about why we’re asking. I would want to know what the situation is before I started to do anything like that.” “I guess that makes sense,” Amy said, “but where are you going to look next for more answers?” Peggy glanced despairingly about the barren, impersonal room. It didn’t seem possible that it had any more information to yield, and she was already exhausted with the psychological strain of searching. She sat down on the daybed with a sigh of resignation. “There is no place else to look,” she said. “There isn’t even a rug to hide anything under. Besides, I don’t think that Paula’s actually hiding anything. If she were, she wouldn’t have left that make-up kit around, and all those dresses with the special Helen de Mayne labels.” “Why don’t we look in a Los Angeles phone book?” Amy suggested. “Doesn’t make sense,” Peggy replied. “Paula probably didn’t have a phone listed under her own name anyway. And even if she did, we don’t know where she lived. It doesn’t have to be Los Angeles, just because she had her clothes made there. You’d have to get a hundred California phone books and then start to trace every Andrews listed. And even then you might never learn anything, because wealthy people often have phone numbers that aren’t listed in the directory.” After a few more ideas were considered and rejected, Peggy said, “I’m afraid the only thing we can do now is confront Paula with what we know, and see if we can’t persuade her to tell us the rest, and to call her parents and let them know where she is.” It was now nine-thirty, and they had done all they could do. It would be at least another half-hour before Greta brought Paula home for her surprise party. Time dragged slowly, with neither Amy nor Peggy able to find even the shadow of an idea of what to say or do. Amy went back to the table to fuss with the arrangement of turkey, ham and cheese and to nervously try artistic little experiments with the potato salad. Idly, Peggy looked over the small shelf of books to see if there was something that would help her pass the time until the party—a party that she now no longer looked forward to in the least. She selected a well-worn, leather-bound volume of the Complete Plays of Shakespeare, hoping that the old, familiar comic world of Twelfth Night would take her mind away from Paula’s problems. She leaned back and opened the book, then sat bolt upright. “This is it!” she almost shouted. “Amy! Here’s exactly what we’ve been looking for!” “Shakespeare?” puzzled Amy. “Paula’s address!” Peggy said. “Now we have something to go on—we have a way to find out who Paula’s parents are!” She thrust the book at Amy. “Here—look inside the front cover.” In the round, neat, somewhat childish handwriting of a girl of perhaps eleven was written: Paula Andrews “And that’s that,” said Peggy triumphantly. |
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