"the conspirators"
by horace p sternwall
illustrated by rhoda penmarq and konrad kraus
hyacinth was almost at the elevator when she heard voices behind her. the door to the suite across the hall had opened and she heard the squawking tones of miss charlton and her crony lord wolverington. well, there was nothing for it, she couldn't turn back. she pressed the button beside the elevator - it was the top floor, there was only a down button - and turned around.
the door to miss charlton's suite had closed. a young man hyacinth had seen once or twice before - probably a relative - he certainly didn't look like a salesman or a lawyer or a gigolo - had emerged and was approaching the elevator.
"good evening." hyacinth flashed him her best smile, but he only nodded, barely smiling, in return,
"good evening."
ordinarily hyacinth would have said something like "why so glum, chum?" but she was too nervous. she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.
the young man looked back down the hall, completely indifferent to her. hyacinth had never seen him so close up before and had not realized how completely he had
m-o-n-e-y stamped all over him. his suit was so good she could hardly refrain from reaching out and feeling the texture. but it also looked like he had slept in it or at least didn't bother taking any great care of it. she had heard that miss charlton was connected to real money, but you heard that about two thirds of the people in new york.
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