Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

She opened the door of the projection room which she had had installed in the big house years ago, when she had been the biggest star of them all. Darkness filled the little room, except for the flickering shadows on the screen, and the only sound was the little tinkle-tinkle of old-time piano music on the tape recorder.

Watching Conrad as he sat down, his back straight as a ramrod, his grey-gloved hands resting on the gold top of his cane, she wondered why he had bothered to come back, after all these years. It was not like Conrad to feel the pull of old friendships, nor to yearn for rest and tranquillity, after the hectic years.

When she went back with the big bowl of popcorn, the movie was nearly over. It chanced to be one in which she and Conrad had starred, with Minnie Gordon as comedienne and Grant Lester as villain. The train careened down the track, with Grant at the throttle, and Conrad struggling masterfully to wrest the controls from the villainous Lester. There was Cora tied to the tracks, her small face pleading, pleading to be set free. Once again, Cora Ransome felt the old fear, the old excitement, the old sense of immediacy.

The reel went to its expected climax, and Cora switched on the lights. The viewers blinked at one another, emerging reluctantly from the dream, back into reality.

“I have a surprise for you,” Cora said, in the little, birdlike voice which had been her chief reason for retiring, when talkies came in. “You all remember Conrad Dillingham! He’s just back from Europe.”

All the old actresses, with their softly-painted faces, all the old actors with their carefully-lifted chins their military bearing, turned in their chairs. Conrad Dillingham stepped forward.

“My dear friends!” he said. “How wonderful to see you all again.”

Lillian Boone, who was tall and white-haired and regal, asked in a tone which was ice itself, “Well, Conrad, to what do we owe this honor, after so many years?”

His great, sonorous tones filled the room. “To friendship, of course, my dear Lillian. I’ve come back — for old times’ sake.”

Mrs. Carstairs, who had been Sally Jones in the old days, went up and put her tiny hand in Conrad’s. “Where are you staying?” she asked.

Conrad turned his searching, black-eyed look on each of them in turn — on sweet Sally Carstairs and Grant Lester and Lillian Boone, and fat old Casper Cuthbert, once the funniest man in the movies, on little Betsy Moore and Anthony Meriweather, who walked with a cane now, but once had been as heroic as Conrad himself, handsome, noble-browed, a little larger than life; on Geroge Masters and Minnie Gordon and Helen Johnson. Ten of them, in all, besides Cora herself, and Conrad, of course.

Cora loved having them about her, these aging actors and actresses, with their remembrances of past glory. She felt fiercely protective toward them; they were her bulwark against a changing, unfamiliar world, as she was theirs. All their little airs and pretenses were so harmless; even their tiny jealousies were childlike and unimportant.

Only Conrad — Conrad was different. He had always been different, taking money and women and good times where he found them. Cora shuddered when he finally answered Sally.

“Where else should I stay, but among my dear friends?” he asked, winningly, spreading his blue-veined hands in a helpless gesture.

He’s broke, Cora thought grimly. That’s why he’s here, among his dear friends.

“I’m sure Cora can find room for me,” he said, looking at her, repeating the phrase he had used before. “For old times’ sake.”

Cora set her little mouth determinedly. For once, she intended to turn someone away. But at that precise moment, Conrad suddenly clutched at his breast pocket. “In here!” he gasped.

Grant and Walter gave him a tablet from the flat tin in his pocket, gave him water to drink, helped him to a chair. In a few minutes, he brightened and the color came back to his face.

He leaned back against the chair. “The old ticker,” he said, almost cheerfully, “isn’t what it used to be.”

He tapped his breast pocket. “I carry my medicine here, always. It saved my life last year, in Italy.”

Casper Cuthbert cackled. “Can’t go chasing those pretty young things around so much any more, can we, Conrad?”

Conrad gave him a repressive look. “I never had to chase them, Casper; they chased me.”

Casper flushed an unbecoming red, but said nothing.

“Do you think I could get to bed now, Cora?” Conrad asked weakly.

Cora opened her lips, but the “no” would not come out. For too many years, she had said “yes” to her friends from the old days, taking them in when they had nowhere else to go, using her modest annuity to keep the big house running, whether the room rent came in or not. She could not — not quite — turn away this man with the thin, blue-white line still around his lips.

And so Conrad Dillingham moved into Mon Repos, and gradually — or so it seemed to Cora — the light, the gentleness, the other-day quality seemed to move out of it.