COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1967, 2007 by Victor J. Banis

  Originally published under the pen name, Don Holliday.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Loneliness had come as a guest in the house. She hovered near the faded velvet of the draperies, peering through dust-streaked glass. She paused among Victorian ornaments and misplaced Chippendale, her fingers trailing over yellowed keys on the ancient Steinway.

  She had come, Roger Caldwell thought sadly, as a guest. She would remain as mistress. He stood from the desk, his attention stubbornly refusing to remain focused on the monthly accounts, and crossed to the window, peering out without seeing anything beyond.

  “I should be packing,” he reminded himself, but he did not want to resume his task. The truth was, he did not want to go, to leave this house. He preferred to stand here at the draperies, nor did he mind the presence of Loneliness beside him, for he found even her company familiar and comfortable.

  “Time,” he said aloud, pulling himself resolutely away from the window, “Is passing.” It had been passing all along, of course, swiftly, irrevocably.

  Like the house, he was growing old. He felt the weight of his sixty plus years perhaps more heavily than did the house her full century. He could not even wish to be young again, for he scarcely believed that he had ever been young. That, he had finally come to realize, was the misfortune of good fortune, of being reared to wealth and position and the attendant responsibilities that had been drilled into him from childhood.

  He had not been merely young Roger, but young Roger Caldwell, and he had never been allowed to overlook that difference, any more than the house had been allowed to fancy, even for a moment, that she was merely a pleasant little cottage.

  He sat again at his desk, running a hand through his gray, thinning hair and frowned as he once more directed his attention to his work. He studied the bill from the market, the grocery account.

  He was certain that Mr. Schaffer was overcharging him. Hadn’t he quoted the steaks at a dollar twenty-nine a pound, and there they were on the bill, at a dollar forty. Another penalty for being a Caldwell.

  “They can afford it,” he could hear Mr. Schaffer justifying the deception to his wife.

  With a resigned sigh, Roger signed his name to the check he had written and tucked it into the return envelope along with the bill. In the long run, the amount couldn’t involve more than a dollar or two, and the Caldwells undoubtedly could still afford that, although Mr. Schaffer might have been shocked to discover the increasing limitations on what the Caldwells could afford.

  There had been a time when there had been no limitations, a time when they had reigned in this house as Cincinnati’s first family—and to Mama, they were still that, but Roger did not need his monthly struggle with the accounts to tell him that their reign was over, ten years over, that they had been replaced by families of newer and more genuine wealth—young, dynamic, often tasteless people, but people with large fortunes nonetheless.

  The monthly bills taken care of, Roger carried the envelopes to the console in the hall, near the front door, where he would be sure to take them with him when he went out. He half rang for Mrs. Bruce before he remembered that the housekeeper was no longer there, that he had dismissed her days before.

  Just as well, he assured himself as he moved along the dim hall toward the kitchen, going to prepare his own tea. Mrs. Bruce had been rather a bossy sort, and he himself too willing to give in, with the result that he had been very nearly a servant to her whims and moods rather than the reverse. If he had been smart, he would have let her go weeks ago, but dismissing people was a chore he had always managed to put off as long as possible. It was bad enough when you had a legitimate reason, such as closing up the house. Even so, Mrs. Bruce had managed to imply that the house was only an excuse to conceal more unreasonable motives.

  He set the tea kettle atop the antiquated stove, stooping to blow on the gas jet before it would come to life, and wondered if after all it wouldn’t have been wiser to keep the housekeeper on until the house actually was closed. It meant only another month, and there was still so much to be done. Probably he would never get to some of it. There were the back stairs, now locked off from the rest of the house because they were flagrantly unsafe, a withered limb no longer able to play its role, and they really ought to be repaired, but they led nowhere, only to the top attic, which was empty now, so there was no reason for anyone to use them. In any case, unless you knew to look for it, the door—concealed at the back of a broom closet—was not likely even to be discovered, so no one would be tempted, though he couldn’t think who that someone might be.

  The furniture would all have to be covered, of course, and a few things put into storage. The morning paper carried the advertisement for the car, the last item he intended to sell before departing. After that would come his trip to Europe and his first reunion with his sister, Emily, since she had taken up residence in Paris some ten years earlier, and when he returned, it would be to another home, to the small apartment that was already prepared for him.

  When his tea was brewed, Roger carried it with him into the parlor and settled himself with a book of poetry, but the poetry was no more successful at holding his attention than his other diversions had been. He was restless, strangely so, and the house was too quiet, with first Mama and now the housekeeper gone.

  He made a mental note to call and see how Mama was getting along. For some peculiar reason, which he could not quite understand himself, it gave him a vague sense of annoyance to know that she was as comfortable as she seemed to be with Aunt Sarah.

  Of course, Aunt Sarah and Mama were both widowed now, and Aunt Sarah’s neat, modern apartment was obviously easier for both of them—no steps to climb, a modern heating system free of the drafts that plagued this old house, everything that would make life simpler for two ladies of advancing years and bad hearts.

  The front door knocker banged loudly, interrupting his train of thought. Roger sat for a moment before he remembered again that there was no Mrs. Bruce to answer it, and jumped up to get it himself.

  * * * *

  The young man at the door was a stranger, and rather a handsome one in a crude, unpolished way. His dark hair, only half combed, framed a faced that in repose was strikingly cherubic. When he smiled, however, an oddly one-sided smile, the eyebrows arched and the dark eyes narrowed, giving him a look not at all angelic, but rather Mephistophelean.

  Roger stared at him curiously, momentarily puzzled that such a perversely attractive young man should be calling on him. There had been young men, of course, sweaty cock-teasers in the darkness, in the past, but not here, never at the house. He had often wondered if someday one of those heavy-hung hustlers might not come to this very door. Faint images of the past darted through his mind—but, no, this was certainly a stranger, no one he had seen before. Not until his caller spoke did he recall the advertisement in the morning paper.

  “You’re the one with the car for sale?” he asked. His voice was low and the sort that seemed always to be saying something more than the actual words spoken.

  The images of hustlers vanished, and Roger smiled with slight embarrassment. “Oh, yes, the car,” he said. “Would you like to buy it?”

  The visitor gave him another of his peculiar smiles. “I’d like to see it,” he said.

  “Well, that’s understandable.” An attractive creature, Roger thought, exciting, even. Again, memories played across Roger’s consciousness. Beneath a battered corduroy jacket, the young man’s shirt and trousers were unnecessarily tight fitting, but they served to reveal a well-developed physique—and a well-proportioned bulge at his crotch. “It’s in the garage, back this way.”

  He pulled the door closed after himself and led the way around the house. The visitor walked beside him, glancing around at the grounds as they went. Roger found himself wishing that things were in better repair. The grounds were looking shabby, and they were so lovely when they were kept up.

  “Nice place you have here,” the young man said, seemingly unperturbed by the evidence of neglect.

  “Yes. I’m fond of it, but I’m afraid it’s rather too much for one person to keep up.”

  “You live here by yourself?” The visitor threw him a glance.

  “Only for another month or so,” Roger confessed, opening the gate into the back yard. “I plan to go abroad for a while, and then I suppose I’ll have to think about selling the place. It’s been in the family for years, but there’s no one left now to keep it up. My sister lives in Paris and my mother’s just too old to get around in a house like this.”

  “Sure seems a shame.” The young man stopped by the pool, long empty, and stared down at the layer of debris and dirt at the bottom. “Must have been quite a place in its day.”

  They went to the garage. Roger opened the door, trying to conceal the effort necessary to lift the considerable weight, and flicked on the naked bulb that hung inside.

  “It’s the Packard I’m selling, the town car. I’ll keep the Ford to use when I get back, although to tell you the truth, I don’t really use either of them much.”

  The stranger walked slowly about the Packard, looking it over. It was an older model, dating back to a period of tall rooflines and sweeping fenders. At the moment it was plainly in need of cleaning and waxing, but otherwise it was sound.

  “How does it run?”


/>   “Oh, quite smoothly. The key is in the ignition, if you’d like to start it up.”

  He waited as the young man slid inside the car and started up the engine. He let it run for a moment or two, listening with a cocked ear.

  “Not bad,” he said, switching off the engine and climbing out again. Once more he circled the car to examine the exterior.

  Roger stood in awkward silence. He hated the bother of selling things and hoped that the young man wouldn’t want to haggle. Perhaps if he did not want to buy the car, Roger would simply call a dealer and let him take it away.

  The young man finished his inspection, but he still had not offered any decision. Roger cleared his throat nervously.

  “Perhaps you’d like to come inside,” he suggested timidly. “We could discuss the matter over a glass of sherry.” It was probably not an orthodox way to settle these things, he was thinking, but somehow it seemed to him a far more refined way of doing business.

  No, there was something more than that, he admitted. Suddenly he was lonely, and did not want to re-enter the silent, empty house alone. He did not really care if his visitor bought the car or not. He could always dispose of that somehow, but something about the young man had stirred long dormant feelings within him. He had been called back to the past, to the other young men with whom he had shared a few brief moments of fleshly pleasures. Of course, this interlude would not be the same as those others had been, but at least he could talk for a while, over some sherry, and perhaps he could enjoy vicariously a few moments of youth.

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” the young man said. “By the way, I’m Lenny.” He offered a hand and a grip that was almost painfully strong.

  “Roger Caldwell. We can go through the back way.”

  He led the way into the house, annoyed with himself for the tingle of excitement he had felt at Lenny’s handshake. After all, this young man was here on business, he reminded himself—and anyway, Roger could not allow, had never allowed himself to contemplate such indiscretions here in Cincinnati, where he was known and where the family name was still of some, albeit diminishing, importance.

  They moved through the house slowly, pausing often as Lenny admired a room or a particular piece of furniture. Roger smiled and was pleased that the house should receive the flattering attention of this pleasant young man.

  In the parlor, Roger reached for a decanter of sherry, and paused. This man was of a different sphere, he reminded himself, and probably different tastes. “Perhaps you’d prefer something else?” he suggested.

  “Do you have any beer?”

  Roger shook his head regretfully. “Scotch?”

  “Fine.”

  That settled, they seated themselves in the tall chairs that flanked the window, facing one another. Lenny had removed his jacket and Roger found it increasingly difficult not to let his eyes fix themselves on his bulging crotch, or wander up and down the length of the sculptured young body.

  “You’re a native of Cincinnati?” Roger asked.

  Lenny shook his head almost apologetically. “No, I come from the West Coast. I was on my way to New York, but somebody told me Cincinnati was the Queen City, so I decided to check it out.” He laughed, revealing slightly uneven teeth. Roger laughed with him, a bit uncertain as to the reason for his mirth.

  Lenny grew quickly serious again, his moods passing like light and shadow over his face. “To tell the truth, I was broke,” he said. “My money ran out, so I stopped here to pick up some work. That was seven months ago, and I’m still here.”

  “What sort of work do you do?”

  “You name it. I was working on a construction job out of town a ways, but that ended last week. Right now I’m looking around for something else to do.”

  It struck Roger as odd that a young man without a job and admittedly short on money would be shopping for a car, but that was hardly his concern, so long as he was paid for the car.

  As though reading his thoughts, Lenny said, “I have a friend, a woman. I think she may loan me the money to buy a car.”

  Roger said nothing, but he did not have to question how Lenny intended to repay such a load. He had known such men, gigolos who screwed anything for cash. They were more common in New York, where he had often visited in the past, but they were not unknown here in Cincinnati either.

  “That’s about the situation,” Lenny said aloud, with a rueful grin.

  Roger jumped, startled. “What’s that?”

  “What you were thinking, about my woman friend.”

  Roger wondered if the young man were indeed reading his mind. It was certainly unnerving, to have his thoughts put into words.

  Lenny shifted his position in the chair. “I was broke when I arrived in town, totally broke. I met—this woman. She has money, so I let her spend some of it on me.” He spoke defensively, almost defying Roger to offer some objection.

  “I hadn’t intended to pry,” Roger apologized, not quite sure why he should find it necessary to do so. “I’m sure you’re not normally the sort who enjoys being, well, dependent upon other people.”

  Lenny relaxed slightly at that. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I was trying to pick a fight over it. Some people think it’s wrong of me.”

  Roger’s discomfort was increasing. He disliked conversations of this intimacy, particularly with a virtual stranger. Yet there was something about his companion that was too direct for conventional barriers, something that created its own aura of intimacy.

  “You must be lonely,” Lenny said unexpectedly. It was a direct statement, rather than a question, delivered with a bold stare.

  “Lonely?”

  “Living here all by yourself, in this big house.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” Some sixth sense warned Roger that he should employ discretion, yet the conversation seemed to be drifting quite beyond his control. The sherry, and the bluntness of his guest, had weakened his usual caution. “I used to travel. Once a month or so, I’d go into New York City.”

  “Used to?”

  Roger hesitated, but his reserve was no longer sufficient to hold back his words. “I had some difficulty on one visit, a few years ago. I stopped going.”

  “A guy?”

  Roger jumped again, genuinely embarrassed. Had his admiration for the young man’s good looks been so obvious? “Why do you ask that?” he stammered, knowing that his embarrassment could only serve as a confirmation of Lenny’s guess.

  Lenny grinned, seemingly unperturbed by this turn of the conversation. “They say it takes one to know one,” he said.

  “I see.” Roger was at a loss exactly what he should say. Deny it, he thought impulsively, though that seemed a futile gesture. And, if his guest were truly of the same caste....

  “What sort of trouble?” By now the conversation was Lenny’s, steered deftly into whatever channel he chose.

  “A young man, I met him at a cocktail party....” As he spoke, Roger found himself reliving the experience. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to his companion, his voice going on almost in a monotone....

  * * * *

  It was, unquestionably, a successful party. The guests had overflowed into the hall, the chatter and babble of cocktail conversation audible even in the elevator as it ascended from the lobby. Roger paused outside the apartment for a moment, never quite comfortable facing such large crowds, although it was hardly a new experience for him. He became aware of a pair of young men standing nearby in the hall and looking him over. He glanced briefly in their direction: effeminate, flamboyant types with made-up eyes and cheap, flashy clothes.

  “Hello, dear,” one of them greeted him with a broad smile, mistaking Roger’s glance for flirtation.

  Roger did not need to be told that it was something other than his looks, which had never been spectacular, which interested them. At least he could give them credit for recognizing good taste when they saw it, and expensive clothes. Of course, these young men were like many others in that respect: such knowledge was their stock in trade. As far as that went, he was rather accustomed to being sized up in terms of his probable financial worth rather than his worth as an individual.

  He knew that his success on his visits to New York depended to a large extent upon the fact that he exuded wealth and breeding. The clearly expensive suits he wore, the diamond on his finger, the brilliance of the emerald links, the car and driver he rented for his visits, the tower suite at the Waldorf—these were the elements that made up his appeal.