“Do something for me?” I repeated, forcing a laugh. “What on earth could he do for me? Why, Carol, I’m getting along fine . . . I don’t need any help.”
“Sorry again,” Carol said, not turning from the window. “I seem to be saying all the wrong things tonight, don’t I?”
“It isn’t you at all,” I said, going over to her. “I’ve still got a headache and I’m edgy.”
She turned. “What are you doing, Clive?”
“Doing? Well, I’m going out to dinner. My — my publishers . . .”
“I don’t mean that. What are you working at? You’ve been at Three Point for two months now. What’s happening?”
This was the one subject I wanted to avoid with Carol. “Oh, a novel,” I said carelessly. “I’m just laying out the blueprint. I start working seriously next week. Don’t look so worried,” and I tried to smile at her assuringly.
Carol was an extraordinarily difficult person to lie to. “I’m glad about the novel,” she said, shadows in her eyes, “but I wish it were a play. There’s not much in a novel, is there, Clive?”
I raised my eyebrows, “I don’t know . . . film rights . . . serial rights . . . maybe Collier’s will take it. They paid Imgram fifty thousand dollars for his serial rights.”
“Imgram wrote an awfully good book.”
“And I’m going to write an awfully good book too,” I said. Even to me, it sounded a little lame. “I’ll write another play in a little while, but I’ve got this idea for a book and I don’t want it to grow cold on me.”
I had an uneasy feeling that she was going to ask me what the book was about. If she’d done that, I would have been in a spot, but at that moment Peter came in and for once I was glad of the interruption.
Peter was one of the few successful Englishmen in Hollywood. He still had all his clothes made in London and the Sackville Street cut was right for his English type of figure, broad in the shoulders and slimming down at the hips.
His dark, thoughtful face lit up when he saw Carol. “Not dressed yet?” he said, taking her hand. “But looking very lovely. Sure you’re not too tired to come out tonight?”
“Of course not,” Carol said smiling.
He looked over at me. “How are you, my dear boy?” He shook hands. “Doesn’t she look wonderful?”
I said she certainly did and noticed his eyes were question marks when he saw my bruise.
“Give him a drink, Clive, while I dress,” Carol said. “I won’t be long.” She looked over at Peter. “He’s being stuffy . . . he won’t dine with us.”
“Oh, but you must . . . this is an occasion, isn’t it, Carol?”
Carol shook her head helplessly. “He’s dining with his publishers. I don’t believe it, but I suppose I’d better be tactful and pretend I do. Look at that bruise . . . he’s been fighting a wild woman.” She laughed, turning to me, “Tell him, Clive . . . he may think it’s a story.”
Peter beat me to the door. He opened it. “Don’t hurry,” he said. “I’m feeling very leisurely tonight.”
“But I’m hungry,” Carol protested. “Don’t let’s be too late,” and she ran from the room.
Peter came over to the little bar in the far corner of the room where I was fixing myself another drink. “So you’ve been fighting, have you?” he said. “That’s quite a nasty bruise you have there.”
“Never mind about that,” I said. “What will you drink?”
“A little whisky, I suppose.” He leaned against the bar and selected a cigarette from a heavy gold case. “Carol’s told you the news?”
I gave him bourbon and water. “No . . . what news?”
Peter raised his eyebrows.” Funny kid . . . now I wonder why . . .” He lit his cigarette.
I had a sudden sinking feeling. “What news?” I repeated, staring at him.
“She has been given the script of the year. It was arranged this morning . . . Imgram’s novel.”
I slopped whisky on the polished bar. Hearing him say that was wormwood to me. Of course, I knew I couldn’t have handled Ingram’s theme. It was too big for me, but it came as a blow to hear that a kid like Carol was to do it.
“Why, that’s terrific,” I said, trying to look pleased. “I’ve been reading it in Collier’s. It’s a great story. You producing?”
He nodded. “Yes, there are all sorts of angles. It’s just the kind of story I’ve been looking for. Of course, I wanted Carol to do the script, but I didn’t think Gold would agree. Then, while I was working out how best to persuade him, he actually called me in to say she’s to do it.”
I came around from behind the bar and carried my drink to the settee. I was glad to sit down. “What will it mean?”
Peter shrugged. “Well, a contract, of course . . . bigger money . . . screen credit . . . and another chance if she makes good.” He tasted his whisky. “And she will, of course. She is very talented.”
I was beginning to think that everyone in this game had talent except myself.
He came over and dropped into an armchair. He seemed to sense that the news had shaken me. “What are you working on now?”
I was getting tired of this interest in my work. “A novel,” I said shortly. “Nothing of interest to you.”
“That’s a pity. I’d like to film something of yours.” He stretched out his long legs. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you before. Ever thought of working for Gold? I could give you an introduction.”
I wondered suspiciously if Carol had been getting at him.
“What’s the use, Peter? You know me. I can’t work for anyone. From what Carol tells me working at your Studio is refined hell.”
“It’s also big money,” Peter said, taking the drink I handed to him. “Think it over and don’t leave it too long. The public has a short memory and Hollywood an even shorter one.” He didn’t look at me, but I had a feeling that there was more to it than just casual conversation. It was almost a warning.
I lit a cigarette and brooded. There is one thing you don’t tell other writers or producers in Hollywood. You don’t tell them that you are out of ideas. They find that out quick enough for themselves.
I knew that if I went back to Three Point the same thing would happen as had happened these past two days. I’d think about Eve. I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since I found myself lying on the floor in the deserted cabin with the sun coming through the curtains. I had tried to wash her out of my mind, but I couldn’t do it. She was there in my bedroom, she was sitting with me on the porch, she was staring at me from the blank sheet of paper in my typewriter.
It finally got so bad that I had to talk to someone about her. That was why I had come into Hollywood to see Carol. But when I began to talk, I found I couldn’t tell her the things that were really on my mind. I couldn’t tell Peter either. I couldn’t tell them how I was feeling about Eve. They would have thought I was crazy.
Maybe I was crazy. I had the pick of some twenty smart, attractive women. I had Carol who loved me and who meant a lot to me. But that didn’t seem enough for me. I had to become infatuated with a prostitute.
Perhaps, infatuated wasn’t the right word. I had sat on the porch, the previous night, with a bottle of Scotch at my elbow and I had tried to reason it out. Eve had hurt my pride. Her cold indifference had been a challenge to me. I felt she was living in a stone fortress and I had to storm that fortress and break down its walls.
I was pretty drunk by the time I’d come to these conclusions, but I’d made up my mind I was going to conquer her. All the women I’d played around with in the past had been too easy. I wanted a proposition that I could really get my teeth into. Eve would give me a run. She’d be difficult and the idea excited me. It would be a contest with no holds barred. She wasn’t an innocent little thing who could be twisted around my finger without any effort. She had unconsciously thrown down the challenge and I was going to take it up. I had no doubts what the final results would be. Nor did I think of what would happen once
I’d taken her by storm. That could take care of itself when the time came.
I snapped out of my thoughts as Carol came in. She had changed into an ice-blue evening dress over which she wore a short ermine coat.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, jumping to my feet. “I’m terribly glad and proud of you, Carol.”
She looked at me searching. “It is exciting, isn’t it, Clive? Won’t you come now . . . we ought to celebrate.”
I wanted to, but I had something more important to do. If we’d been alone, I’d have gone with her, but with Peter, it wasn’t quite the same thing.
“I’ll join you later if I can,” I said. “Where are you eating?”
“The Vine Street Brown Derby,” Peter said. “How long will you be?”
“It depends,” I said. “Anyway, if I don’t turn up, I’ll meet you both here after dinner . . . all right?”
Carol put her hand in mind. “It’ll have to be,” she said. “You will try, won’t you?”
Peter got up. “Well, then, let’s go. Are you coming our way?”
“I promised to meet my publisher at eight,” I explained. It was only half past seven. “Do you mind if I stay here for a few minutes? I’d like to finish my drink and I have some calls to make.”
“No . . . come on, Peter, we mustn’t interfere with business.” Carol waved to me. “Then we’ll see you? Are you going back to Three Point tonight?”
“I think so, otherwise, if I’m very late, I’ll go over to the penthouse, but, I want to start work tomorrow.”
When they had gone, I poured myself out another whisky and picked up the telephone book. There were a number of Marlows in the book. Then with a sudden feeling of excitement I saw her name. The address was a house on Laurel Canyon Drive. I had no idea where that was.
For several seconds, I hesitated, then I picked up the tele-phone and dialled her number. I listened to the steady burr- burr of the bell, then there was a click and my blood began to move around in me, like a prospective tenant looking over a house.
A woman, it wasn’t Eve, said, “Hello?”
“Miss Marlow?”
“Who is calling?” The voice was cautious.
I grinned into the telephone. “She won’t know my name.”
There was a pause, then the woman said, “Miss Marlow wants to know what you want.”
“Tell Miss Marlow to come off her high horse,” I said. “I’ve been advised to call her.”
There was another pause, then Eve came on the line. “Hello,” she said.
“Can I come and see you?” I kept my voice low so she wouldn’t recognize it.
“You mean now?”
“In half an hour.”
“I suppose so.” She sounded doubtful. “Do I know you?”
I thought this was a hell of a conversation. “You will before long,” I said and laughed.
She laughed too. Her laugh sounded good on the telephone. “Then you’d better come along,” she said and hung up.
It was as simple and as easy as that.
CHAPTER FIVE
LAUREL CANYON DRIVE was a narrow street with a scattering of small-town style frame dwellings, partly hidden by hedges and shrubs.
I drove slowly down the street until I saw the number of Eve’s house painted on a small white gate I stopped and got out.
There was no one in sight and the house itself was discreet. Once I was through the gate, the high hedge hid me from the street. I walked down the path that went steeply to the front door which, in its turn, was screened by a built-in porch. The windows on each side of the door were curtained with cream muslin. I had to walk down several wooden steps before I was level with the front door.
The knocker on the door was an iron ring which passed through the body of a naked woman. It was a nice design and I studied it for a few seconds before I knocked. I waited, aware that my heart was thumping with suppressed excitement.
Almost immediately I heard an electric light switch click on and then the door opened. A tall, angular woman, almost as tall as myself, stood squarely in the doorway.
The light in the passage floodlit me while she remained in the shadows. I could feel her eyes crawling over me, then as if satisfied by what she saw, she stood aside.
“Good evening, sir. Have you an appointment?”
As I stepped round her into the lobby, I looked curiously at her. She was a red-faced woman of about forty-five or so. Her face was sharp with a pointed chin, pointed nose and small bright eyes. Her smile had just the right blend of friendly servility.
“Good evening,” I said. “Miss Marlow in?”
I felt acute embarrassment and irritation. It was hateful to me that this woman should see me and should know why I had come to this sordid little house.
“Will you come this way, sir?” She moved down the passage and opened a door.
My mouth was dry and I felt a pulse beating in my temples as I entered the room.
It was not a large room. Facing me was a dressing table fitted with a bevelled mirror; on the floor in front of the dressing table, was a thick white rug. To the left of the rug was a small chest of drawers on which stood several tiny glass animals. On the far right was a cheap, white-painted wardrobe. A large divan bed, covered by a shell-pink bedspread took up the remaining space.
. Eve stood by the empty fireplace. Near her was a small armchair and a bedside table on which stood a reading lamp and several books.
She was wearing the same short-sleeved blue dressing gown and her face was wooden under careful make-up.
We looked at each other.
“Hello,” I said, smiling at her.
“Hello.” Her expression did not change nor did she move. It was a suspicious, indifferent greeting.
I stood looking at her, slightly embarrassed, puzzled that she showed no surprise at seeing me again and irritated about the dressing gown. But in spite of the hostile atmosphere, my blood moved fast through my veins.
“So we meet again,” I said a little lamely. “Aren’t you surprised to see me?”
She shook her head. “No . . . I recognized your voice.”
“I bet you didn’t,” I said. “You’re kidding.”
Her mouth pursed. “I did . . . besides, I was expecting you.”
I must have shown my startled surprise because she suddenly laughed. The tension eased immediately.
“You were expecting me?” I repeated. “Why?”
She looked away. “Never mind.”
“But I do mind,” I insisted, walking round her and sitting in the armchair. I took out my cigarette case and offered it.
Her eyebrows went up, but she took a cigarette. “Thank you,” she said. She hesitated, and then sat down on the bed near me.
I also took a cigarette, thumped my lighter and as she leaned forward to light up, I said, “Tell me why you were expecting me.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to.” She let smoke drift down her nostrils and she glanced uneasily round the room. She was on the defensive and I felt instinctively that she was nervous and unsure of herself.
I studied her for a few seconds. As soon as she felt my eyes on her face, she turned to look directly at me. “Well?” she said sharply.
“It’s a pity you make-up like that. It doesn’t suit you.”
She stood up immediately and looked into the mirror over the fireplace. “Why,” she asked, staring hard at herself. “Don’t I look all right?”
“Of course, but you’d look better without all that muck on your face. You don’t need it.”
She continued to look at herself in the mirror. “I’d look an awful fright without it,” she said, half to herself, then she turned and frowned at me.
“Did anyone tell you you’re an interesting woman?” I asked, before she could speak. “You have character and that’s more than most women have.”
Her mouth tightened and she sat down. For a moment I had caught her off guard, but the wooden expression was now bac
k again.
“You haven’t come here to tell me I’m interesting, have you?”
I smiled at her. “Why not? If no one has told you before, then it’s time someone did. I like to give women their due.”
She flicked ash into the fireplace. It was a nervous, irritable movement and I could see she did not know what to make of me. As long as I could keep her in that frame of mind I held the initiative.
“Aren’t you going to say sorry for this?” I asked, touching the bruise on my forehead.
She said what I expected her to say. “Why should I? You deserved it.”
“I suppose I did,” I said and laughed. “I’ll have to be careful next time. I like a woman with spirit. I’m sorry about the way I behaved, but I did want to see what your reactions would be.” I laughed again. “I didn’t expect to feel your reactions.”
She looked at me doubtfully, smiled and then said, “I do get wild sometimes . . . but you deserved it.”
“Do you always treat men like that?”
She hedged. “Like what?”
“Knocking them on the head if they annoy you,”
This time she giggled. “Sometimes.”
“No hard feelings?”
“No.”
I watched her. She slouched as she sat, her head forward and her slim shoulders rounded. Again she looked sharply at me when she felt my eyes on her.
“Don’t sit there looking at me,” she said irritably. “Why did you come here?”
“I like looking at you,” I returned, relaxing in the armchair and feeling completely at ease. “Can’t I talk to you? Would that strike you as odd?”
She frowned. I could see she was in two minds. She did not know whether I was wasting her time or whether I was here professionally. It was obvious that she was controlling her im-patience with difficulty.
“You have only come here to talk?” she said, looking at me and then immediately looking away. “Isn’t that a waste of time?”
“I don’t think so. You interest me and besides I like talking to attractive women.”
She looked up at the ceiling with an exaggerated expression of exasperation. “Oh they all say that,” she said impatiently.
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