Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [341]
She leaned back, smiling. “This lunch. Just seeing you here. Just knowing that you had to come to me.”
An angry spark flashed in Taggart’s veiled eyes, then his eyelids narrowed slowly and he, too, leaned back in his chair, his face relaxing to a faint look of mockery and satisfaction. Even from within that unstated, unnamed, undefined muck which represented his code of values, he was able to realize which one of them was the more dependent on the other and the more contemptible.
When they parted at the door of the restaurant, she went to Rearden’s suite at the Wayne-Falkland Hotel, where she stayed occasionally in his absence. She paced the room for about half an hour, in a leisurely manner of reflection. Then she picked up the telephone, with a smoothly casual gesture, but with the purposeful air of a decision reached. She called Rearden’s office at the mills and asked Miss Ives when she expected him to return.
“Mr. Rearden will be in New York tomorrow, arriving on the Comet, Mrs. Rearden,” said Miss Ives’ clear, courteous voice.
“Tomorrow? That’s wonderful. Miss Ives, would you do me a favor? Would you call Gertrude at the house and tell her not to expect me for dinner? I’m staying in New York overnight.”
She hung up, glanced at her watch and called the florist of the Wayne-Falkland. “This is Mrs. Henry Rearden,” she said. “I should like to have two dozen roses delivered to Mr. Rearden’s drawing room aboard the Comet.... Yes, today, this afternoon, when the Comet reaches Chicago.... No, without any card—just the flowers.... Thank you ever so much.”
She telephoned James Taggart. “Jim, will you send me a pass to your passenger platforms? I want to meet my husband at the station tomorrow.”
She hesitated between Balph Eubank and Bertram Scudder, chose Balph Eubank, telephoned him and made a date for this evening’s dinner and a musical show. Then she went to take a bath, and lay relaxing in a tub of warm water, reading a magazine devoted to problems of political economy.
It was late afternoon when the florist telephoned her. “Our Chicago office sent word that they were unable to deliver the flowers, Mrs. Rearden,” he said, “because Mr. Rearden is not aboard the Comet.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Quite sure, Mrs. Rearden. Our man found at the station in Chicago that there was no compartment on the train reserved in Mr. Rearden’s name. We checked with the New York office of Taggart Transcontinental, just to make certain, and were told that Mr. Rearden’s name is not on the passenger list of the Comet.”
“I see.... Then cancel the order, please.... Thank you.”
She sat by the telephone for a moment, frowning, then called Miss Ives. “Please forgive me for being slightly scatterbrained, Miss Ives, but I was rushed and did not write it down, and now I’m not quite certain of what you said. Did you say that Mr. Rearden was coming back tomorrow? On the Comet?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rearden.”
“You have not heard of any delay or change in his plans?”
“Why, no. In fact, I spoke to Mr. Rearden about an hour ago. He telephoned from the station in Chicago, and he mentioned that he had to hurry back aboard, as the Comet was about to leave.”
“I see. Thank you.”
She leaped to her feet as soon as the click of the instrument restored her to privacy. She started pacing the room, her steps now un-rhythmically tense. Then she stopped, struck by a sudden thought. There was only one reason why a man would make a train reservation under an assumed name: if he was not traveling alone.
Her facial muscles went flowing slowly into a smile of satisfaction: this was an opportunity she had not expected.
Standing on the Terminal platform, at a point halfway down the length of the train, Lillian Rearden watched the passengers descending from the Comet. Her mouth held the hint of a smile; there was a spark of animation in her lifeless eyes; she glanced from one face to another, jerking her head with the awkward eagerness of a schoolgirl. She was anticipating the look on Rearden’s face when, with his