Traumerei

At the sound, Henry Ritchie's hand jerked. Most of the martini sloshedout over his robe. He jumped up, swabbing furiously at the spots."Goddam it!"

"Hank!" His wife slammed her book together.

"Well, what do you expect? That confounded buzzer—"

"—is a perfectly natural normal buzzer. You're just terribly upset,dear."

"No," Mr. Ritchie said, "I am not 'just terribly upset, dear'—forseven years I've been listening to that banshee's wail every timesomebody wants in. Well, I'm through. Either it goes—"

"All right, all right," Mrs. Ritchie said. "You don't have to make aproduction out of it."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Mr. Ritchie sighed ponderously, glared at his wife, set what was leftof the martini down on a table and went to the door. He slipped thechain.

"Be this the marster of 'arfway 'ouse?"

Mr. Ritchie opened the door. "Max—what the devil are you doing up atthis hour?"

A large man, well built, in his forties, walked in, smiling. "I couldask you the same question," he said, flinging his hat and scarf in thedirection of a chair, "but I'm far too thoughtful."

They went back into the living room. Mrs. Ritchie looked up, frowned."Oh, swell," she said. "Dandy. All we need now is a bridge four."

"Ruth's just terribly upset," Mr. Ritchie said.

"Well," the large man said, "it's nice to see unanimity in this housefor once anyway. Hi, Ruth." He walked over to the bar and found themartini mix and drained the jar's contents into a glass. Then hedrained the glass.

"Hey, take it easy!"

Max Kaplan turned to face his hosts. He looked quite a bit older thanusual: the grin wasn't boyish now. "Dear folkses," he said, "when Idie, I don't want to see any full bottles around."

"Oh, ha-ha, that's just so very deliriously funny," Mrs. Ritchie said.She was massaging her temples.

"I am glad to see her ladyship amused." Kaplan followed Mr. Ritchie'sgaze. "Hickory dickory dock, the mice looked at the clock...."

"Oh, shut up."

"Oop, sorry." The big man mixed up a new batch silently, then refilledthe three glasses. He sat down. The clock's tick, a deep sharp basssound, got louder and louder in the room. Kaplan rested his head on thecouch arm. "Less than an hour," he said. "Not even an hour—"

"I knew it." Mrs. Ritchie stood up. "I knew it the minute you walkedin. We're not nervous enough, oh, no, now we've got to listen to thegreat city editor and his news behind the news."

"Very well!" Kaplan rose shakily. He was drunk; it showed now. "If I'mnot welcome here, then I shall go elsewhere to breathe my last."

"Never mind," Mrs. Ritchie said. "Sit down. I've had a stomach full ofthis wake. If you two insist on sitting up until X-hour like a coupleof ghouls, well, that's your business. I'm going to bed. And to sleep."

"What a woman," Kaplan muttered, polishing off the martini. "Nerves ofchilled steel."

Mrs. Ritchie looked at her husband for a moment. Then she said, "Goodnight, dear," and started for the door.

...