Was I going crazy? I asked myself, as I drove towards Three Point. It was one thing to be furiously angry with her, but to kill her . . . what a mad, stupid, dangerous thing even to think of for a moment.
All the same I knew I would get pleasure out of killing Eve. There was no other way that I could touch her. Her armour was too strong. Again I hurriedly dismissed the thought but it kept coming back, and, in my mind, I went throughout the details of killing her and it gave me a lot of pleasure.
I saw myself, some night, getting into that little house when she was out and waiting for her. I would hide upstairs in one of the empty rooms until I heard her key in the lock. Then I would come out of my hiding place onto the landing to make sure that she was alone. I knew I could see her quite easily by leaning over the banisters and that she couldn’t see me.
Before going to bed, she would want to use the bathroom. I would slip back into one of the other empty rooms and wait until she went downstairs again. It would give me a lot of pleasure to think she was moving about the lonely little house, believing that she was alone, while, all the time, I was hiding upstairs, waiting to kill her.
Perhaps she would return drunk as she had on the night I had walked out on her. If she were drunk, then it would be easy for me to kill her. I would have no pity nor feeling for her if I found her snoring and smelling of whisky.
I would creep out onto the landing and listen. I would hear her prepare for bed. I knew enough of her routine now to picture exactly what she would do. First she would take off her skirt. She did that the moment she got indoors because it was cut so tight that she could not sit down comfortably in it. Then she would go to her wardrobe and take out a clothes hanger. She would put the coat and skirt away methodically. Perhaps she would light a cigarette while she slid out of the rest of her flimsy underclothes. She would put on her nightdress and flop into bed.
By listening carefully, I would be able to follow all these details. Each of them had their own individual sound to the final creaking of the bed as it received her slight body. Perhaps she would read or perhaps she would turn out the light and smoke in the darkness. Whatever she did, I would give her plenty of time to fall asleep. What did I care if I had to wait hours up there in the darkness? I would come down eventually. I would come down like a ghost, holding onto the banister rail and trying each stair before I put my full weight upon it. I would not wake her until it was too late for her to save herself.
I would edge round the door and peer into the darkness. I would not be able to see her, but I would know just where her head lay and I would sit gently on the bed by her side. Even then she would not awaken. I would find her throat with one hand and with the other I would switch on the little bedside lamp.
Then would come the moment that would heal all the wounds she had inflicted on me. That brief moment when her senses would awake from sleep and her eyes would recognize me. We would look at each other and she would know why I was there and what I was going to do. I would see the helpless, terrified look that would come into her eyes and I would see her for the first time without her wooden mask or without her professional mannerisms.
It would be only for two or three seconds. But it would be enough! would kill her quickly with my knee on her chest and my hands about her throat. Pinning her to the bed with all my weight, she would not have a chance. She would have no time to steel her body against me or even scratch at my hands.
No one would know who had done it. It could have been any of her men friends.
I was shaken out of this horrible daydream by the violent sound of a motor horn and I only managed to avoid a head-on collision with a Cadillac. I had been so absorbed that I had allowed the Chrysler to wander over to the left side of the road. I heard the driver of the other car curse me as he swept past and I hastily pulled over to my right side and continued on my way with caution.
When I reached Three Point I was still disturbed by the uncontrolled feeling of pleasure I had experienced while imagining how I might settle all my differences with Eve. As it was now almost three o’clock, I asked Russell to bring me sandwiches and a whisky on the terrace.
While I waited, I paced up and down, savagely angry by the way Eve had treated me and yet alarmed to realize to what an extent my mentality had been affected by her callous indifference towards me. The fact that I had actually contemplated murder down to the last details and had derived pleasure in doing so shocked and frightened me. Such a thought would never have entered my mind some three weeks ago, but in that unguarded moment in the call-box it had seemed to be the one solution of our struggle.
I must pull myself together, I thought, as I paced up and down. She’s no good to me. She never will be and I might just as well admit defeat and forget her. I can never hope to get on with any work if I allow her to influence my mind, to occupy my thoughts and to irritate my nerves in this way. This nonsense must stop.
Russell came with a tray which he put on the table.
“Get my typewriter, Russell,” I said turning. “I’ve some work to do.”
He beamed at me. “I do hope, sir, you had a good morning at the Studio.”
“It was all right,” I said, without enthusiasm. “Be a pal and let me get to work.”
He gave me a quick, disappointed glance and hurried into the library for my typewriter.
I sat down and began to read through Bernstien’s notes but I found concentration difficult. I could not erase from my mind the humiliation of standing outside Eve’s door like some street salesman. The more I thought about it, the more angry I became. When Russell put the typewriter at my elbow and had gone away, I could not bring myself to work. Instead I finished the sandwiches and began to drink steadily.
I’ll make her pay for this, I thought, pouring more whisky into my glass with an unsteady hand. Somehow I’ll find a way to get even with her. I drank the whisky at a gulp and immediately refilled my glass. I did this several times until I felt a slight numbness in my legs. I knew I was getting drunk. I pushed the decanter away and pulled the typewriter towards me. To hell with her, I said aloud. She can’t stop me. Nobody can.
I made an attempt to write the first scene along the lines suggested by Bernstein and after struggling with it for over an hour I tore the sheet from my typewriter and ripped it angrily to pieces.
I was in no mood for creative thought and, leaving the terrace, I wandered through the empty rooms of the cabin. Russell had taken himself off somewhere. He had probably hidden himself away for an afternoon nap in the woods. The cabin was unbearably lonely and I began to wonder if I had not been a fool to have settled in such an out of the way place.
It was perfect so long as I had Carol to keep me company, but now that she was going to spend most of her days at the Studio I was going to find it pretty dull.
My mind kept returning to Eve. I made a feeble effort to think of something else, but I did not succeed. I picked up a novel and tried to read, but after turning a half a dozen pages I realized that I had no idea what I had been reading and I threw the book across the room.
By now, the whisky I had drunk was hitting me and I felt heavy in the head and reckless. I suddenly got to my feet and went over to the telephone. I’ll tell her exactly what I think of her, I decided. If she thinks she can do that to me and get away with it she’s got a surprise coming to her.
I dialled her number.
“Who is that please?” Marty asked.
I hesitated, then quietly replaced the receiver. I wasn’t going to be snubbed by Eve through Marty. I lit a cigarette and wandered unsteadily onto the terrace again.
I could not go on like this, I thought. I must try to do some work. I again sat down at the table and began reading through Bernstien’s notes, but my mind kept wandering and I finally gave it up in despair.
Carol returned in time for dinner. She got out of her cream and blue roadster and came running across the lawn towards me.
I felt a great weight roll from my mind at the sight
of her and I held her tightly against me for several seconds before letting her go.
“Well, my dear,” I said, smiling at her. “How did you get on?”
She heaved a sigh. “I’m tired, Clive. We’ve been at it without a stop. Do come in and get me a drink. I want to hear all your news.”
We walked to the cabin while I listened to her account of the story conference.
“R.G. is delighted so far,” she said. “It’s going to be a marvellous picture. Jerry has never been better and even R.G. has made one good suggestion.”
I fixed her a gin and lime and gave myself another whisky.
“I say, Clive,” she exclaimed suddenly. “You haven’t drunk all that whisky yourself, have you? The decanter was full this morning.”
I gave her a drink and laughed. “Of course not,” I said. “What do you think I am . . . a soak? I upset the damn thing and wasted half of it.”
She gave me a quick, searching look but I met her eyes and her face cleared. “So you’re not a soak,” she said, smiling at me. She looked tired and pale. “Well, tell me, did Sam like the treatment?”
I nodded. “Sure he liked it. Why not? You wrote it, didn’t you?”
“We wrote it, darling,” she said, again looking troubled. “You’re not sore about it, are you? I mean — I won’t interfere if you don’t—”
“Forget it,” I said shortly. “I know I’m not so hot when it comes to a picture treatment, but I don’t mind learning.” I sat down by her side and took her hand. “But I’m not going so well with the second rewrite. You know, Carol, I wish Bernstien would get someone else to do it. I don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”
“Give me a cigarette and tell me what Bernstien said.”
After I had lit her cigarette I explained Bernstien’s suggestions. She listened attentively, nodding her small dark head every now and then with approval.
“He’s terrific,” she said, when I had finished. “It is enormously improved. Oh, Clive, you simply must work at it. I know you can do it and it’ll mean so much to you.”
“It’s all very well for you to talk, Carol,” I returned bitterly, “but now I haven’t any feeling for the story. I’ve been messing with it all the afternoon and I’ve got nowhere.”
She looked at me for a moment, her eyes searching and puzzled. “Perhaps tomorrow you’ll feel more like it,” she said hopefully. “Sam will expect something soon. He’s late for production as it is.”
I got up irritably. “Oh, I don’t know. You can’t force these things.”
She came and put her arms round me. “Don’t worry, Clive. It’ll come, you see.”
“Oh, the hell with it.” I turned to the door. “I’ll put on a dressing gown and settle down for the evening. Have you a book?”
“I’ve some work to do,” she said quickly. “I want to draft out a few scenes.”
“You can’t go on working all day and night,” I returned, irritated that she could give her mind to creative thought. “Have a rest. It’ll do you good.”
She pushed me to the door. “Don’t tempt me. You sit on the terrace. It’s lovely out there and I’ll come as soon as I’m through.”
I sat on the darkening terrace for a long time brooding about Coulson. I knew I was doing a mean thing by turning his play into a picture, but I had gone too far to stop. I should never have stolen his play in the first place. But if I had not done that I should not be where I was, sitting on the terrace of an expensive cabin in one of the loveliest spots in California. I should never have met Carol. I drew a sharp breath — and I should never have met Eve.
“What are you doing out there in the dark?” Carol said as she stepped onto the terrace. “You’ve been sitting there hours, my dear. It’s after twelve o’clock.”
I pulled myself together with a start. “I’ve been thinking,” I said, getting up. I felt stiff and a little cold. “I had no idea the time had gone so quickly. Have you finished?”
She slipped her arm round my neck and kissed me. “Don’t be cross, darling,” she whispered, her lips touching my ear. “I’ve roughed out the second treatment for you. You can do it now and it’s really good. You’re not angry, are you?”
I stared down at her, sick with envy that she could do so easily what I had failed to do. “But, Carol, you can’t do my work as well as your own. This is absurd. I’ll be living on you next.”
“Don’t be angry,” she pleaded. “All I’ve done is to put your ideas and Sam’s ideas down on paper. Why a stenographer could do that. You must polish it tomorrow and take it to Sam. Then R.G. will okay it and you can really start work. Give me a kiss and take that frown off your face.”
I kissed her.
She gave me a quick hug. “Come on to bed,” she said. “I must be up early tomorrow.”
“I’m coming,” I said, feeling flat and depressed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DURING the next four days I became increasingly aware that I made a bad mistake in coming to live at Three Point. By doing this I had cut myself off from all social contact and now, without any form of amusement, I was rapidly becoming bored with this self-imposed isolation. Although I had hoped to write a novel in the quiet of these surroundings when the time came to begin I found that inspiration was lacking.
I had managed, with a considerable effort, to rewrite Carol’s second treatment of the play. As she had done most of the necessary work, my own particular job amounted merely to copying what she had written. Although I had no actual creative work to do, it still required an effort of will to sit at my typewriter. Several times while I worked, I was tempted to telephone for a stenographer to come out and finish it. But, in the end, I managed to complete the treatment and it was now in Sam Bernstien’s hands. I was waiting with mixed feelings to hear what Gold was going to say. It was my intention, if he accepted it, to insist that someone — anyone but me — should do the shooting script. I knew that I was incapable of doing it and besides, I dare not take the risk of writing the additional dialogue and script required. I had no hope of imitating John Coulson’s brilliant phrases and, if I did make the attempt, it would at once become obvious to a man of Gold’s shrewdness that I was not the author of the original play.
My financial position was beginning to worry me. My capital was dwindling, my royalties were becoming depressingly smaller each week and my debts were increasing. I gave Carol no hint of the true position since I knew that she would insist on paying her share. She was, of course, earning big money at the Studio and, although she used a certain amount of this for pocket money and for her wardrobe, the bulk was being carefully invested in real estate. Whatever else were
“I am.” Her voice sounded a little curt.
Tor how long?”
“I don’t know. I do wish you wouldn’t ask so many questions. I don’t know how long he’ll be staying.”
“You expect him today?”
“Hm-hm. I had a telegram last night.”
“Don’t forget I want to meet him.”
There was a moment’s pause. “I won’t.”
“Do we meet this time?”
“No — not this time.”
“When then?”
“Some time. I’ll see.”
“So you’re going to forget all your boy friends? What will they do without you?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. They’ll come back when I’m ready.”
Her indifference tortured me. “Well, have a good time. I’ll call in a few days.”
“All right. Good-bye,” and she hung up.
I slammed down the receiver and walked onto the terrace. Every time we met, every time I telephoned her, it became more obvious that I meant nothing to her. Yet I could not give her up. I knew I would never mean anything to her, but still I had to pursue her.
I couldn’t stay in the cabin all day with the thought that she was meeting her husband on my mind. It would drive me crazy.
I decided I would drive over to the Studio a
nd see if Bernstein had any news for me.
After my bath, I dressed and got the Chrysler from the garage, then I drove leisurely down the mountain road through San Bernardino to Hollywood. I was in a black mood of depression, hating the thought of the long afternoon and evening that lay before me.
I reached the Studio by noon and as I drew up outside the main office buildings, Carol came hurrying down the steps.
“Why, hello, darling,” she said, jumping on the running board and kissing me. “I’ve been trying to get you.”
I looked at her sharply. “Anything wrong?”
“It’s such a bore, but we’re flying to Death Valley and I won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Jerry insists that we get the right desert atmosphere and he, Frank and I are leaving immediately.”
“You mean you won’t be coming home tonight?” I asked blankly.
“I can’t, my sweet. Oh, and Russell won’t be there to look after you. What are we going to do?”
I tried to conceal my dismay, but I did not succeed too well. “I can look after myself. Don’t worry about me, besides I have a lot of work to do.”
“I hate your being all alone,” she said, worried. “Why don’t you stay in town or better still, come with us?”
I thought of Imgram and I shook my head. “I’ll go back to Three Point,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll get along fine.”
“Oh, do come with us,” she pleaded. “It’ll be fun.”
“Now don’t fuss,” I said a little irritably. “I tell you I’ll be all right. Have a good trip. I’ll see you tomorrow night then?”
“I wish I hadn’t to go. It does worry me to think of you being all alone. You’re sure you won’t stay in town?”
“I’m not a child, Carol,” I said, a little curtly. “I can look after myself. I must run. I want to talk to Bernstien.” I had seen Highams and Imgram coming down the long avenue to the office buildings and I was anxious not to meet them. “Have a good time.” I kissed her. “Good-bye and bless you.” I hurried into the building, leaving her looking after me with a worried expression in her eyes.
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