by John Collier
Later on, I went up to his suite. Belinda was there alone, tearing up orchids.
«They look like confetti,» she said. «I find him a leetle … fascinating, your Mr. Mahound.»
I noted her middle-European accent. «You have your bullets, then?»
«Charlie, we're going to have me save the city from a Red Navy. Real shells.»
«That's right, Belinda honey. Nick's a grand guy. He's a white man, Belinda. He's got background. If I were a girl, I'd think a lot of Nick. But don't forget it; you're the one with the talent. Don't let anybody cramp your style. You've got a big future, Belinda. Maybe you think you're in the money. Baby, that's chicken feed to what's coming to you, all so long as you don't get your style cramped.»
«You're right, Charlie. It's my art. It's sacred.»
In the evening I saw Mahound alone. «She's wonderful, Charles! But … I say …»
«Yeah?»
«Did she say anything to you about shells?»
«She said you'd said something to her about shells.»
«Maybe I did. In a moment of emotion. It's tough, Charles. Real shells! There'll be trouble. I don't want to be dragged into court»
«What do you care?»
«I care about my ambitions in pictures. What's more, Charles, I don't like your script. Forgive me, old fellow. It's a grand script, but I don't like it. The fact is, it's too expensive.»
His eyes could not meet mine. I saw that he was ashamed that his millions were not entirely unlimited. I reflected that where vanity of that sort is to be found on one side of a contract there is always hope on the other. I goaded bun. «I thought you had all the money in the world. I thought you were solid. They say 'rich as the devil,' you know.» He couldn't bear to say frankly he was only a devil. He muttered something about a budget being a budget.
«I can do you a western,» said I, sarcastically. «Will you run to a real horse?»
«I've run to a real trap already, my dear Rythym.»
«Maybe you have. Very well, I'll get something on paper.»
Next day I called Belinda early. «Well, lovey, our script's got panned. I'm writing you a little old period piece in a small-town setting. You wear one of those big bonnets that hide the face.»
«Charlie, you don't say so! I want to come in in a carpet, with three big pearls.»
«The pearls are out, ducky. There's an economy ramp on. Listen, even your shells are gone. It's you and a horse.»
«Don't write a word, Charlie. Wait till I've seen Nick.»
After lunch, the telephone summoned me to Mr. Mahound. Belinda was there, flushed and radiant
«Real shells, Charlie!»
«And bells, Charles. Belinda and I are going to be married. Isn't that so, sweetie?»
«Yes, and I'm going to have real shells.»
«Real battle-ships, too,» said I. «How about that for an idea? Let me put 'em in the script. Coming up the Hudson, blazing away! My present to the bride.»
«Do you hear what he says, Nick? Oh, Charlie, you can write! Real battle-ships!»
«I'm afraid Charles is joking, my dear. He likes jokes about blazing away. But you and I — let's talk about our wedding.»
«All right, Nicky. We'll fly to New York. Well go to the Little Church Around the Corner.»
«Did you say the little judge around the corner?»
«No, honey, the Little Church.»
«Not for us, honey. Us for a quiet wedding, in front of a judge.»
«What? Who do you think I am? Your chattel? Your slave? Am I a film star, or not?»
«But a good little wife, too, honey. Remember you're a simple girl. Doggies . . . cookies . . . Her fans want her to be an ideal little wife, don't they, Charles?»
«Yes, Nicky. But I'm not signed up for the wife part yet awhile. I'm not acting any part before I'm signed up for it. My mother said a girl shouldn't ever act like a wife till she is one. She's old-fashioned. Why are one's people so old-fashioned?»
«I'm old-fashioned, too, dear,» said Nick. «I can't go to the Little Church Around the Corner. I should sink through the floor. Look, darling, make it just a plain judge, and maybe I can stretch a little on budget. Maybe I'll get you a battle-ship or two.»
«Well, don't forget you've promised.»
«What a relief! What happiness!» cried he. «Real happiness! Let's start at once.»
«Linda,» I whispered, while he was telephoning for a plane. «Don't forget your prestige. Make it a good long honeymoon. Two months at least, honey, or the world'll think there's something wrong with your glamor.»
«You're right, Charlie. I will.»
So they went to Yuma. After some weeks I got a telegram. «Home on Friday. Love. Nick and Linda.» Soon afterwards came another. «Confidential. Can you possibly outline alternative script? Western, South Sea, or other simple natural background. Repeat confidential. Nick.»
After some thought I drafted a rather humorous farm story, of the sort that made Mabel Normand in the good old days. I thought it would hardly appeal to Belinda, but I was under contract. Orders were orders.
I was at the airport to meet them. Linda alighted first, and was at once seized on by the press. I heard the words husband, doggies, cookies.
«Charles,» whispered Mahound. «A word in your ear. Have you got that outline? That rough script?»
«Yes. I've got it. What's the matter? Are you stalling on the real battle-ships?»
«Charles, she wants the real New York.»
«Well! Well! Well! Never mind. I've got a farm story. She can have real striped stockings.»
«She thinks big, Charles. She may feel it rather a letdown after the real New York.»
«Don't worry. You go off to the hotel. Everything's fixed up for you. I'll look in after supper.»
Late that evening I went round to see them. Something told me that all was not harmony in the romantic ménage. Mahound was frowning over a heap of bills.
«You've bought a lot of rather impressive orchids, Charles,» said he, in a worried tone.
«Nothing's too good for you and Linda,» said I, smiling. «You're my best friends in pictures.»
«Yes, but it all goes down on the expense account»
«There you go again, dear!» cried Linda. «He's got all mean, Charlie. He says he can't afford to buy me New York. For the bombardment scene. Where I save it. I can't act in front of a lot of paste-board, Charlie. You tell him.»
«There's something in that, Nick,» said I. «Still, listen, Linda, I've got a new script for you. The part's sort of lovable. Farm. Birds singing. Real birds. Hens, too. You come in scattering the corn. With comedy stockings on. Real stockings. Real comedy.»
«Nick, is this just a bad joke, to welcome me home?»
«Now, listen, honey,» said Nick. «Give the writer a chance. He's put his life's blood into this story. Go on, Charlie.»
«That's true, Linda. There's smiles and tears in this script»
«Smiles?»
«Where you get a sock in the puss with a custard pie. A real …»
«Say. What have you got lined up for me next? A burlesque act? I'm out. I'm through.»
«Joan of Arc started on a farm, honey.»
«Joan of Arc never got no custard pie.»
«She got worse than that, milking the cows, sweetie,» said Nick. «I was there. I fixed it.»
«What do you mean, you were there?» cried Belinda. «Are you starting in lying to me already? I'll fly to Reno. No, I won't, though. Don't forget what you put in my contract, out in Yuma. I've got to O.K. every script.»
«Well, sweetie, Charles'll write you one you'll really like. Maybe where you're a young girl, mad to get on the stage. Then you can do your Juliet speech at a party. Where there's a big producer.»
«No, he won't»
«Yes, he will.»
«No, he won't. That's flat.»
«Yes, he will,» said Mahound. «A lovely script. A part that'll make you drive the whole world crazy. The real world. W
on't you, Charles?»
«Well, as a matter of fact,» said I, «I won't»
«What?»
«Look at the clock. Didn't you hear it strike twelve?»
«What of it?»
«Well, Nick,» said I, «it's two months. Today — but now it's yesterday — my first option came up for renewal. I'm afraid you've let it slip by. I'm free!»
«Hell! I could sink through the floor!»
«Nicky, you got to sign a writer who'll put me in New York. And parts for my doggies.»
«Your doggies are dead,» I told her. «They ate your cookies.»
«Ow! Charlie! My doggies!»
«I could sink through the floor!» muttered Nick. «To slip up on an option!»
«Yeah,» said I. «You've slipped. Sink away!»
«I will, too,» cried he, stamping his foot.
And with that he seized Belinda, and, WHOOSH, they were gone through the floor.
I chose one of the smaller orchids for a button hole, and went off to a night-club. Next day I returned to Malibu.
WET SATURDAY
It was July. In the large, dull house they were imprisoned by the swish and the gurgle and all the hundred sounds of rain. They were in the drawing-room, behind four tall and weeping windows, in a lake of damp and faded chintz.
This house, ill-kept and unprepossessing, was necessary to Mr. Princey, who detested his wife, his daughter, and his hulking son. His life was to walk through the village, touching his hat, not smiling. His cold pleasure was to recapture snapshot memories of the infinitely remote summers of his childhood — coming into the orangery and finding his lost wooden horse, the tunnel in the box hedge, and the little square of light at the end of it. But now all this was threatened — his austere pride of position in the village, his passionate attachment to the house — and all because Millicent, his cloddish daughter Millicent, had done this shocking and incredibly stupid thing. Mr. Princey turned from her in revulsion and spoke to his wife.
«They'd send her to a lunatic asylum,» he said. «A criminal-lunatic asylum. We should have to move away. It would be impossible.»
His daughter began to shake again. «I'll kill myself,» she said.
«Be quiet,» said Mr. Princey. «We have very little time. No time for nonsense. I intend to deal with this.» He called to his son, who stood looking out of the window. «George, come here. Listen. How far did you get with your medicine before they threw you out as hopeless?»
«You know as well as I do,» said George.
«Do you know enough — did they drive enough into your head for you to be able to guess what a competent doctor could tell about such a wound?»
«Well, it's a — it's a knock or blow.»
«If a tile fell from the roof? Or a piece of the coping?»
«Well, guv'nor, you see, it's like this —»
«Is it possible?»
«No.»
«Why not?»
«Oh, because she hit him several times.»
«I can't stand it,» said Mrs. Princey.
«You have got to stand it, my dear,» said her husband. «And keep that hysterical note out of your voice. It might be overheard. We are talking about the weather. If he fell down the well, George, striking his head several times?»
«I really don't know, guv'nor.»
«He'd have had to hit the sides several times in thirty or forty feet, and at the correct angles. No, I'm afraid not. We must go over it all again. Millicent.»
«No! No!»
«Millicent, we must go over it all again. Perhaps you have forgotten something. One tiny irrelevant detail may save or ruin us. Particularly you, Millicent. You don't want to be put in an asylum, do you? Or be hanged?
They might hang you, Millicent. You must stop that shaking. You must keep your voice quiet. We are talking of the weather. Now.»
«I can't. I … I …»
«Be quiet, child. Be quiet.» He put his long, cold face very near to his daughter's. He found himself horribly revolted by her. Her features were thick, her jaw heavy, her whole figure repellently powerful. «Answer me,» he said. «You were in the stable?»
«Yes.»
«One moment, though. Who knew you were in love with this wretched curate?»
«No one. I've never said a —»
«Don't worry,» said George. «The whole god-damned village knows. They've been sniggering about it in the Plough for three years past.»
«Likely enough,» said Mr. Princey. «Likely enough. What filth!» He made as if to wipe something off the backs of his hands. «Well, now, we continue. You were in the stable?»
«Yes.»
«You were putting the croquet set into its box?»
«Yes.»
«You heard someone crossing the yard?»
«Yes.»
«It was Withers?»
«Yes.»
«So you called him?»
«Yes.»
«Loudly? Did you call him loudly? Could anyone have heard?»
«No, Father. I'm sure not. I didn't call him. He saw me as I went to the door. He just waved his hand and came over.»
«How can I find out from you whether there was anyone about? Whether he could have been seen?»
«I'm sure not, Father. I'm quite sure.»
«So you both went into the stable?»
«Yes. It was raining hard.»
«What did he say?»
«He said 'Hullo, Milly.' And to excuse him coming in the back way, but he'd set out to walk over to Bass Hill.»
«Yes.»
«And he said, passing the park, he'd seen the house and suddenly thought of me, and he thought he'd just look in for a minute, just to tell me something. He said he was so happy, he wanted me to share it. He'd heard from the Bishop he was to have the vicarage. And it wasn't only that. It meant he could marry. And he began to stutter. And I thought he meant me.»
«Don't tell me what you thought. Exactly what he said. Nothing else.»
«Well … Oh dear!»
«Don't cry. It is a luxury you cannot afford. Tell me.»
«He said no. He said it wasn't me. It's Ella Brangwyn-Davies. And he was sorry. And all that. Then he went to go —»
«And then?»
«I went mad. He turned his back. I had the winning post of the croquet set in my hand —»
«Did you shout or scream? I mean, as you hit him?»
«No. I'm sure I didn't.»
«Did he? Come on. Tell me.»
«No, Father.»
«And then?»
«I threw it down. I came straight into the house. That's all. I wish I were dead!»
«And you met none of the servants. No one will go into the stable. You see, George, he probably told people he was going to Bass Hill. Certainly no one knows he came here. He might have been attacked in the woods. We must consider every detail … A curate, with his head battered in —»
«Don't, Father!» cried Millicent.
«Do you want to be hanged? A curate, with his head battered in, found in the woods. Who'd want to kill Withers?»
There was a tap on the door, which opened immediately. It was little Captain Smollett, who never stood on ceremony. «Who'd kill Withers?» said he. «I would, with pleasure. How d'you do, Mrs. Princey. I walked right in.»
«He heard you, Father,» moaned Millicent.
«My dear, we can all have our little joke,» said her father. «Don't pretend to be shocked. A little theoretical curate-killing, Smollett. In these days we talk nothing but thrillers.»
«Parsonicide,» said Captain Smollett. «Justifiable parsonicide. Have you heard about Ella Brangwyn-Davies? I shall be laughed at.»
«Why?» said Mr. Princey. «Why should you be laughed at?»
«Had a shot in that direction myself,» said Smollett, with careful sang-froid. «She half said yes, too. Hadn't you heard? She told most people. Now it'll look as if I got turned down for a white rat in a dog collar.»
«Too bad!» said Mr. Princey.
/> «Fortune of war,» said the little captain.
«Sit down,»said Mr. Princey. «Mother, Millicent, console Captain Smollett with your best light conversation. George and I have something to look to. We shall be back in a minute or two, Smollett. Come, George.»
It was actually five minutes before Mr. Princey and his son returned.
«Excuse me, my dear,» said Mr. Princey to his wife. «Smollett, would you care to see something rather interesting? Come out to the stables for a moment.»
They went into the stable yard. The buildings were now unused except as odd sheds. No one ever went there. Captain Smollett entered, George followed him, Mr. Princey came last. As he closed the door he took up a gun which stood behind it. «Smollett,» said he, «we have come out to shoot a rat which George heard squeaking under that tub. Now, you must listen to me very carefully or you will be shot by accident. I mean that.»
Smollett looked at him. «Very well,» said he. «Go on.»
«A very tragic happening has taken place this afternoon, »said Mr. Princey. «It will be even more tragic unless it is smoothed over.»
«Oh?» said Smollett.
«You heard me ask,» said Mr. Princey, «who would kill Withers. You heard Millicent make a comment, an unguarded comment.»
«Well?» said Smollett. «What of it?»
«Very little,» said Mr. Princey. «Unless you heard that Withers had met a violent end this very afternoon. And that, my dear Smollett, is what you are going to hear.»
«Have you killed him?» cried Smollett.
«Millicent has,» said Mr. Princey.
«Hell!» said Smollett.
«It is hell,» said Mr. Princey. «You would have remembered — and guessed.»
«Maybe,» said Smollett. «Yes. I suppose I should.»
«Therefore,» said Mr. Princey, «you constitute a problem.»
«Why did she kill him?» said Smollett.
«It is one of these disgusting things,» said Mr. Princey. «Pitiable, too. She deluded herself that he was in love with her.»
«Oh, of course,» said Smollett.
«And he told her about the Brangwyn-Davies girl.»
«I see,» said Smollett.
«I have no wish,» said Mr. Princey, «that she should be proved either a lunatic or a murderess. I could hardly live here after that.»
