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"Perfect Gentleman"
(read or print)
I would never have met Edward Shrimpton if he hadn't neededa towel. He stood naked by my side staring down at a bench in frontof him, muttering, "I could have sworn I left the damn thing there."
I had just come out of the sauna, swathed in towels, so Itook one off my shoulder and passed it to him. He thanked me and putout his hand.
"Edward Shrimpton," he said, smiling. I took his hand andwondered what we must have looked like standing there in thegymnasium locker room of the Metropolitan Club in the early evening,two grown men shaking hands in the nude.
"I don't remember seeing you in the club before," he added.
"No, I'm an overseas member."
"Ah, from England. What brings you to New York?"
"I'm pursuing an American novelist whom my company wouldlike to publish in England."
"And are you having any success?"
"Yes, I think I'll close the deal this week--as long as theagent stops trying to convince me that his author is a cross betweenTolstoy and Dickens and should be paid accordingly."
"Neither was paid particularly well, if I remembercorrectly," offered Edward Shrimpton as he energetically rubbed thetowel up and down his back.
"A fact I pointed out to the agent at the time, whocountered by reminding me that it was my house which publishedDickens originally."
"I suggest," said Edward Shrimpton, "that you remind himthat the end result turned out to be successful for all concerned."
"I did, but I fear this agent is more interested in 'upfront' than posterity."
"As a banker that's a sentiment of which I could hardlydisapprove, as the one thing we have in common with publishers isthat our clients are always trying to tell us a good tale."
"Perhaps you should sit down and write one of them for me?"I said politely.
"Heaven forbid, you must be sick of being told that there'sa book in every one of us, so I hasten to assure you that thereisn't one in me."
I laughed, as I found it refreshing not to be informed by anew acquaintance that his memoirs, if only he could find the time towrite them, would overnight be one of the world's best sellers.
"Perhaps there's a story in you, but you're just not awareof it," I suggested.
"If that's the case, I'm afraid it's passed me by."
Mr. Shrimpton reemerged from behind the row of little tincubicles and handed me back my towel. He was now fully dressed andstood, I would have guessed, a shade under six feet. He wore a WallStreet banker's pinstripe suit and, although he was nearly bald, hehad a remarkable physique for a man who must have been well into hissixties. Only his thick white mustache gave away his true age, andwould have been more in keeping with a retired English colonel thana New York banker.
"Are you going to be in New York long?" he inquired, as hetook a small leather case from his inside pocket and removed a pairof half-moon glasses and placed them on the end of his nose.
"Just for the week."
"I don't suppose you're free for lunch tomorrow, by anychance?" he inquired, peering over the top of his glasses.
"Yes, I am. I certainly can't face another meal with thatagent."
"Good, good, then why don't you join me and I can follow thecontinuing drama of capturing the elusive American author?"
"And perhaps I'll discover there is a story in you afterall."
"Not a hope," he said, "you would be backing a loser if youdepend on that," and once again he offered his hand. "One o'clock,members' dining room suit you?"
"One o'clock, members' dining room," I repeated.
As he left the locker room I walked over to the mirror andstraightened my tie. I was dining that night with Eric McKenzie, apublishing friend, who had originally proposed me for membership ofthe club. To be accurate, Eric McKenzie was a friend of my fatherrather than myself. They had met just before the war while onvacation in Portugal and when I was elected to the club, soon aftermy father's retirement, Eric took it upon himself to have dinnerwith me whenever I was in New York. One's parents' generation neversee one as anything but a child who will always be in need ofconstant care and attention. As he was a contemporary of my father,Eric must have been nearly seventy and, although hard of hearing andslightly bent, he was always amusing and good company, even if hedid continually ask me if I was aware that his grandfather wasScottish.
As I strapped on my watch, I checked that he was due toarrive in a few minutes. I put on my jacket and strolled out intothe hall to find that he was already there, waiting for me. Eric waskilling time by reading the out-of-date club notices. Americans, Ihave observed, can always be relied upon to arrive early or late;never on time. I stood staring at the stooping man, whose hair butfor a few strands had now turned silver. His three-piece suit had abutton missing on the jacket, which reminded me that his wife haddied last year. After another thrust-out hand and exchange ofwelcomes, we took the elevator to the second floor and walked to thedining room.
The members' dining room at the Metropolitan differs littlefrom any other men's club. It has a fair sprinkling of old leatherchairs, old carpets, old portraits, and old members. A waiter guidedus to a corner table that overlooked Central Park. We ordered, andthen settled back to discuss all the subjects I found I usuallycover with an acquaintance I only have the chance to catch up with acouple of times a year--our families, children, mutual friends,work; baseball and cricket. By the time we had reached cricket wehad also reached coffee, so we strolled down to the far end of theroom and made ourselves comfortable in two well-worn leather chairs.When the coffee arrived I ordered two brandies and watched Ericunwrap a large Cuban cigar. Although they displayed a West Indianband on the outside, I knew they were Cuban because I had pickedthem up for him from a tobacconist in St. James's, Piccadilly, whichspecializes in changing the labels for its American customers. I !have often thought that they must be the only shop in the worldthat changes labels with the sole purpose of making a superiorproduct appear inferior. I am certain my wine merchant does it theother way round.
While Eric was attempting to light the cigar, my eyeswandered to a board on the wall. To be more accurate, it was ahighly polished wooden plaque with oblique golden lettering paintedon it, honoring those men who over the years had won the club'sbackgammon championship. I glanced idly down the list, not expectingto see anybody with whom I would be familiar, when I was brought upby the name of Edward Shrimpton. Once in the late thirties he hadbeen the runner-up.
"That's interesting," I said.
"What is?" asked Eric, now wreathed in enough smoke to havepuffed himself out of Grand Central Station.
"Edward Shrimpton was runner-up in the club's backgammonchampionship in the late thirties. I'm having lunch with himtomorrow."
"I didn't realize you knew him."
"I didn't until this afternoon," I said, and then explainedhow we had met.
Eric laughed and turned to stare up at the board. Then headded, rather mysteriously: "That's a night I'm never likely toforget."
"Why?" I asked.
Eric hesitated, and looked uncertain of himself beforecontinuing: "Too much water has passed under the bridge for anyoneto care now." He paused again, as a hot piece of ash fell to thefloor and added to the burn marks that made their own privatepattern in the carpet. "Just before the war Edward Shrimpton wasamong the best half dozen backgammon players in the world. In fact,it must have been around that time he won the unofficial worldchampionship in Monte Carlo."
"And he couldn't win the club championship?"
"'Couldn't' would be the wrong word, dear boy. 'Didn't'might be more accurate." Eric lapsed into another preoccupiedsilence.
"Are you going to explain?" I asked, hoping he wouldcontinue, "or am I to be left like a child who wants to know whokilled Cock Robin?"
"All in good time, but first allow me to get this damn cigarstarted."
I remained silent, and four matches later, he said, "BeforeI begin, take a look at the man sitting over there in the cornerwith the young blond."
I turned and glanced back toward the dining room area, andsaw a man attacking a porterhouse steak. He looked about the sameage as Eric and wore a smart new suit that was unable to disguisethat he had a weight problem: only his tailor could have smiled athim with any pleasure. He was seated opposite a slight, notunattractive strawberry blond half his age who could have trodden ona beetle and failed to crush it.
"What an unlikely pair. Who are they?"
"Harry Newman and his fourth wife. They're always the same.The wives I mean--blond hair, blue eyes, ninety pounds, and dumb. Ican never understand why any man gets divorced only to marry acarbon copy of the original."
"Where does Edward Shrimpton fit into the jigsaw?" I asked,trying to guide Eric back on to the subject.
"Patience, patience," said my host, as he relit his cigarfor the second time. "At your age you've far more time to waste thanI have."
I laughed and picked up the cognac nearest to me and swirledthe brandy around in my cupped hands.
"Harry Newman," continued Eric, now almost hidden in smoke,"was the fellow who beat Edward Shrimpton in the final of the clubchampionship that year, although in truth he was never in the sameclass as Edward."
"Do explain," I said, as I looked up at the board to checkthat it was Newman's name that preceded Edward Shrimpton's.
"Well," said Eric, "after the semifinal, which Edward hadwon with consummate ease, we all assumed the final would only be aformality. Harry had always been a good player, but as I had beenthe one to lose to him in the semifinals, I knew he couldn't hope tosurvive a contest with Edward Shrimpton. The club final is won bythe first man to reach twenty-one points, and if I had been askedfor an opinion at the time, I would have reckoned the result wouldend up around twenty-one to five in Edward's favor. Damn cigar," hesaid, and lit it for a fourth time. Once again I waited impatiently.
"The final is always held on a Saturday night, and poorHarry over there," said Eric, pointing his cigar toward the farcorner of the room while depositing some more ash on the floor, "whoall of us thought was doing rather well in the insurance business,had a bankruptcy notice served on him the Monday morning before thefinal--I might add through no fault of his own. His partner hadcashed in his stock without Harry's knowledge, disappeared, and lefthim with all the bills to pick up. Everyone in the club wassympathetic.
"On Thursday the press got hold of the story, and for goodmeasure they added that Harry's wife had run off with the partner.Harry didn't show his head in the club all week, and some of uswondered if he would scratch from the final and let Edward win bydefault as the result was such a foregone conclusion anyway. But theGames Committee received no communication from Harry to suggest thecontest was off, so they proceeded as though nothing had happened.On the night of the final, I dined with Edward Shrimpton here in theclub. He was in fine form. He ate very little and drank nothing buta glass of water. If you had asked me then I wouldn't have put apenny on Harry Newman even if the odds had been ten to one.
"We all dined upstairs on the third floor, as the committeehad cleared this room so that they could seat sixty in a squarearound the board. The final was due to start at nine o'clock. Bytwenty to nine there wasn't a seat left in the place, and memberswere already standing two deep behind the square: it wasn't everyday we had the chance to see a world champion in action. By five tonine, Harry still hadn't turned up and some of the members werebeginning to get a little restless. As nine o'clock chimed, thereferee went over to Edward and had a word with him. I saw Edwardshake his head in disagreement and walk away. Just at the point whenI thought the referee would have to be firm and award the match toEdward, Harry strolled in looking very dapper, adorned in a dinnerjacket several sizes smaller than the suit he is wearing tonight.Edward went straight up to him, shook him warmly by the hand, andtogether they walked into the center of the room. Even with thethrow of ! the first dice, there was a tensi on about that match.Members were waiting to see how Harry would fare in the openinggame."
The intermittent cigar went out again. I leaned over andstruck a match for him.
"Thank you, dear boy. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the firstgame. Well, Edward only just won the first game and I wondered if hewasn't concentrating or if perhaps he had become a little toorelaxed while waiting for his opponent. In the second game the diceran well for Harry, and he won fairly easily. From that moment on itbecame a finely fought battle, and by the time the score had reachedeleven to nine in Edward's favor the tension in the room was quiteelectric. By the ninth game I began watching more carefully andnoticed that Edward allowed himself to be drawn into a back game, asmall error in judgment that only a seasoned player would havespotted. I wondered how many more subtle errors had already passedthat I hadn't observed. Harry went on to win the ninth, making thescore eighteen to seven in his favor. I watched even more diligentlyas Edward did just enough to win the tenth game and, with a rashdouble, just enough to lose the eleventh, bring the score to twen!ty even, so that everything would depend on the final game. I swearthat nobody had left the room that evening, and not one backremained against a chair; some members were even hanging on to thewindow ledges. The room was now full of drink and thick with cigarsmoke, and yet when Harry picked up the dice cup for the last gameyou could hear the little squares of ivory rattle before they hitthe board. The dice ran well for Harry in that final game and Edwardonly made one small error early on that I was able to pick up; butit was enough to give Harry game, match and championship. After thelast throw of the dice everyone in that room, including Edward, gavethe new champion a standing ovation."
"Had many other members worked out what had really happenedthat night?"
"No, I don't think so," said Eric. "And certainly HarryNewman hadn't. The talk afterwards was that Harry had never played abetter game in his life, and what a worthy champion he was, all themore for the difficulties he laboured under."
"Did Edward have anything to say?"
"Toughest match he'd been in since Monte Carlo, and onlyhoped he would be given the chance to avenge the defeat next year."
"But he wasn't," I said, looking up again at the board. "Henever won the club championship."
"That's right. After Roosevelt had insisted we help you guysout in England, the club didn't hold the competition again until1946, and by then Edward had been to war and had lost all interestin the game."
"And Harry?"
"Oh, Harry. Harry never looked back after that; must havemade a dozen deals in the club that night. Within a year he was ontop again, even found himself another cute little blond."
"What does Edward say about the result now, thirty yearslater?"
"Do you know, that remains a mystery to this day. I havenever heard him mention the game once in all that time."
Eric's cigar had come to the end of its working life and hestubbed the remains out in an ashless ashtray. It obviously acted asa signal to remind him that it was time to go home. He rose a littleunsteadily, and I walked down with him to the front door.
"Good-bye, my boy," he said. "Do give Edward my best wisheswhen you have lunch with him tomorrow. And remember not to play himat backgammon. He'd still kill you."
The next day I arrived in the front hall a few minutesbefore our appointed time, not sure if Edward Shrimpton would fallinto the category of early or late Americans. As the clock struckone, he walked through the door: There has to be an exception toevery rule. We agreed to go straight up to lunch since he had to beback in Wall Street for a two-thirty appointment. We stepped intothe packed lift, and I pressed the No. 3 button. The doors closedlike a tired concertina and the slowest lift in America made its waytoward the second floor.
As we entered the dining room, I was amused to see HarryNewman was already there, attacking another steak, while the littleblond lady was nibbling a salad. He waved expansively at EdwardShrimpton, who returned the gesture with a friendly nod. We sat downat a table in the center of the room and studied the menu.Steak-and-kidney pie was the dish of the day, which was probably thecase in half the men's clubs in the world. Edward wrote down ourorders in a neat and legible hand on the little white slip providedby the waiter.
Edward asked me about the author I was chasing and made somepenetrating comments about her earlier work, to which I responded asbest I could while trying to think of a plot to make him discuss theprewar backgammon championship, which I considered would make a farbetter story than anything she had ever written. But he never talkedabout himself once during the meal, so I despaired. Finally, staringup at the plaque on the wall, I said clumsily:
"I see you were runner-up in the club backgammonchampionship just before the war. You must have been a fine player."
"No, not really," he replied. "Not many people botheredabout the game in those days. There is a different attitude todaywith all the youngsters taking it so seriously."
"What about the champion?" I said, pushing my luck.
"Harry Newman? He was an outstanding player, andparticularly good under pressure. He's the gentleman who greeted uswhen we came in. That's him sitting over there in the corner withhis wife."
I looked obediently toward Mr. Newman's table but my hostadded nothing more so I gave up. We ordered coffee, and that wouldhave been the end of Edward's story if Harry Newman and his wife hadnot headed straight for us after they had finished their lunch.Edward was on his feet long before I was, despite my twenty-yearadvantage. Harry Newman looked even bigger standing up, and hislittle blond wife looked more like the dessert than his spouse.
"Ed," he boomed, "how are you?"
"I'm well, thank you, Harry," Edward replied. "May Iintroduce my guest?"
"Nice to know you," he said. "Rusty, I've always wanted youto meet Ed Shrimpton, because I've talked to you about him so oftenin the past."
"Have you, Harry?" she squeaked.
"Of course. You remember, honey. Ed is up there on thebackgammon honors board," he said, pointing a stubby finger towardthe plaque. "With only one name in front of him, and that's mine.And Ed was the world champion at the time. Isn't that right, Ed?"
"That's right, Harry."
"So I suppose I really should have been the world championthat year, wouldn't you say?"
"I couldn't quarrel with that conclusion," replied Edward.
"On the big day, Rusty, when it really mattered, and thepressure was on, I beat him fair and square."
I stood in silent disbelief as Edward Shrimpton stillvolunteered no disagreement.
"We must play again for old times' sake, Ed," the fat mancontinued. "It would be fun to see if you could beat me now. Mindyou, I'm a bit rusty nowadays, Rusty." He laughed loudly at his ownjoke, but his spouse's face remained blank. I wondered how long itwould be before there was a fifth Mrs. Newman.
"It's been great to see you again, Ed. Take care ofyourself."
"Thank you, Harry," said Edward.
We both sat down again as Newman and his wife left thedining room. Our coffee was now cold so we ordered a fresh pot. Theroom was almost empty and when I had poured two cups for us Edwardleaned over to me conspiratorially and whispered: "Now there's ahell of a story for a publisher like you," he said. "I mean the realtruth about Harry Newman."
My ears pricked up as I anticipated his version of the storyof what had actually happened on the night of that pre-warbackgammon championship over thirty years before.
"Really?" I said, innocently.
"Oh, yes," said Edward. "It was not as simple as you mightthink. Just before the war Harry was let down very badly by hisbusiness partner, who not only stole his money, but for good measurehis wife as well. The very week that he was at his lowest he won theclub backgammon championship, put all his troubles behind him and,against the odds, made a brilliant comeback. You know, he's worth afortune today. Now, wouldn't you agree that that would make one hellof a story?"
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