Bob Shaw - A Full Member of the Club

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A Full Member of the Club

Bob Shaw

It was a trivial thing—a cigarette lighter—which finally wrecked Philip Connor's peace of mind.

Angela and he had been sitting at the edge of her pool for more than an hour. She had said very little

during that time, but every word, every impatient gesture of her slim hands, had conveyed the message

that it was all over between them.

Connor was sitting upright on a canvas chair, manifestly ill at ease, trying to understand what had brought

about the change in their relationship. He studied Angela carefully, but her face was rendered inscrutable,

inhuman, by the huge insect eyes of her sunglasses. His gaze strayed to a lone white butterfly as it made a

hazardous flight across the pool and passed, twinkling like a star, into the shade of the birches.

He touched his forehead and found it buttery with sweat. "This heat is murderous."

"It suits me," Angela said, another reminder that they were no longer as one. She moved slightly on the

lounger, altering the brown curvatures of her semi-nakedness.

Connor stared nostalgically at the miniature landscape of flesh, the territory from which he was being

evicted, and reviewed the situation. The death of an uncle had made Angela rich, very rich, but he was

unable to accept that as sufficient reason for her change in attitude. His own business interests brought

him more than two hundred thousand a year, so she knew he wasn't a fortune hunter.

"I have an appointment in a little while," Angela said with a patently insincere little smile.

Connor decided to try making her feel guilty. "You want me to leave?"

He was rewarded by a look of concern, but it was quickly gone, leaving the beautiful face as calm and

immobile as before.

Angela sat up, took a cigarette from a pack on the low table, opened her purse, and brought out the gold

cigarette lighter. It slipped from her fingers, whirred across the tiles, and went into the shallow end of the

pool. With a little cry of concern, she reached down into the water and retrieved the lighter, wetting her

face and tawny hair in the process. She clicked the dripping lighter once, and it lit. Angela gave Connor a

strangely wary glance, dropped the lighter back into her purse, and stood up.

"I'm sorry, Phil," she said. "I have to go now."

It was an abrupt dismissal, but Connor, emotionally bruised as he was, scarcely noticed. He was a gypsy

entrepreneur, a wheeler-dealer, one of the very best—and his professional instincts were aroused. The

lighter had ignited the first time while soaking wet, which meant it was the best he had ever seen, and yet

its superb styling was unfamiliar to him. This fact bothered Connor. It was his business to know all there

was to know about the world's supply of sleek, shiny, expensive goodies, and obviously he had let

something important slip through his net.

"All right, Angie." He got to his feet. "That's a nice lighter—mind if I have a look?"

She clutched her purse as though he had moved to snatch it. "Why don't you leave me alone? Go away,

Phil." She turned and strode off toward the house.

"I'll stop by for a while tomorrow."

"Do that," she called without looking back. "I won't be here."

Connor walked back to his Lincoln, lowered himself gingerly onto the baking upholstery, and drove into

Long Beach. It was late in the afternoon, but he went back to his office and began telephoning various

trade contacts, making sure they too were unaware of something new and radical in cigarette lighters.

Both his secretary and telephonist were on vacation, so he did all the work himself. The activity helped to

ease the throbbing hurt of having lost Angela, and—in a way he was unable to explain—gave him a

comforting sense that he was doing something toward getting her back or at least finding out what had

gone wrong between them.

He had an illogical conviction that the little gold artifact was somehow connected with their breaking up.

The idea was utterly ridiculous, of course, but in thinking back over the interlude by the pool with Angela,

it struck him that, amazingly for her, she had gone without smoking. Although it probably meant she was

cutting down, another possibility was that she had not wanted to produce the lighter in his presence.

Realizing his inquiries were getting him nowhere, he closed up the office and drove across town to his

apartment. The evening was well advanced yet seemingly hotter than ever—the sun had descended to a

vantage point from which it could attack more efficiently, slanting its rays through the car windows. He let

himself into his apartment, showered, changed his clothes, and prowled unhappily through the spacious

rooms, wishing Angela was with him. A lack of appetite robbed him of even the solace of food. At

midnight he brewed coffee with his most expensive Kenyan blend, deriving a spare satisfaction from the

aroma, but took only a few disappointed sips. If only, he thought for the thousandth time, they could

make it taste the way it smells.

He went to bed, consciously lonely, and yearned for Angela until he fell asleep.

Next morning Connor awoke feeling hungry and, while eating a substantial breakfast, was relieved to find

he had regained his usual buoyant outlook on life. It was perfectly natural for Angela to be affected by the

sudden change in her circumstances, but when the novelty of being rich, instead of merely well off, had

faded, he would win her back. And in the meanwhile he—the man who had been first in the country with

Japanese liquid display watches—was not going to give up on a simple thing like a new type of cigarette

lighter.

Deciding against going to his office, he got on the phone and set up further chains of business inquiries,

spreading his net as far as Europe and the Far East. By midmorning the urge to see Angela again had

become very strong. He ordered his car to be brought round to the main entrance of the building, and he

drove south on the coast road to Asbury Park. It looked like another day of unrelieved sunshine, but a

fresh breeze from the Atlantic was fluttering in the car windows and further elevating his spirits.

When he got to Angela's house there was an unfamiliar car in the U-shaped driveway. A middle-aged

man wearing a tan suit and steel-rimmed glasses was on the steps, ostentatiously locking the front door.

Connor parked close to the steps and got out.

The stranger turned to face him, jingling a set of keys. "Can I help you?"

"I don't think so," Connor said, resenting the unexpected presence. "I called to see Miss Lomond."

"Was it a business matter? I'm Millett of Millett and Fiesler."

"No—I'm a friend." Connor moved impatiently toward the doorbell.

"Then you should know Miss Lomond doesn't live here any more. The house is going up for sale."

Connor froze, remembering Angela had said she wouldn't be around, and shocked that she had not told

him about selling out. "She did tell me, but I hadn't realized she was leaving so soon," he improvised.

"When's her furniture being collected?"

"It isn't. The property is being sold fully furnished."

"She's taking nothing?"

"Not a stick. I guess Miss Lomond can afford new furniture without too much difficulty," Millett said

drily, walking toward his car. "Good morning."

"Wait a minute." Connor ran down the steps. "Where can I get in touch with Angela?"

Millett ran a speculative eye over Connor's car and clothing before he answered. "Miss Lomond has

bought Avalon—but I don't know if she has moved in yet."

"Avalon? You mean …?" Lost for words, Connor pointed south in the direction of Point Pleasant.

"That's right." Millett nodded and drove away. Connor got into his own car, lit his pipe, and tried to enjoy

a smoke while he absorbed the impact of what he had heard. Angela and he had never discussed

finance—she simply had no interest in the subject—and it was only through oblique references that he

guesstimated the size of her inheritance as in the region of a million, perhaps two. But Avalon was a rich

man's folly in the old Randolph Hearst tradition. Surrounded by a dozen square miles of the choicest land

in Philadelphia, it was the nearest thing to a royal palace that existed outside Europe.

Real estate was not one of Connor's specialties, but he knew that anybody buying Avalon would have

had to open the bidding at ten million or more. In other words, Angela was not merely rich—she had

graduated into the millionaires' super-league, and it was hardly surprising that her emotional life had been

affected.

Connor was puzzled, nevertheless, over the fact that she was selling all her furniture. There was, among

several cherished pieces, a Gaudreau writing desk for which she had always shown an exaggerated

possessiveness. Suddenly aware that he could neither taste nor smell the imported tobacco which had

seemed so good in his pouch, Connor extinguished his pipe and drove out onto the highway.

He had traveled south for some five miles before admitting to himself that he was going to Avalon.

The house itself was invisible, screened from the road by a high redbrick wall. Age had mellowed the

brickwork, but the coping stones on top had a fresh appearance and were surmounted by a climb-proof

wire fence. Connor drove along beside the wall until it curved inwards to a set of massive gates which

were closed. At the sound of his horn, a thickset man with a gun on his hip, wearing a uniform of

café-au-lait gabardine, emerged from a lodge. He looked out through the gate without speaking.

Connor lowered a car window and put his head out. "Is Miss Lomond at home?"

"What's your name?" the guard said.

"I'm Philip Connor."

"Your name isn't on my list."

"Look, I only asked if Miss Lomond was at home."

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Bob Shaw - A Full Member of the Club

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