“And you’re honeymooning. Isn’t that romantic? You’re happy — both of you? That’s swell, I can see it. My, my, it’s done her good. You know, Thurston, I’ve watched this little girl ever since she came to Hollywood. She can write. Sure, she can write, but there was something frozen inside. “Carol, my pet,” I said to her over and over again, “what you want is a man. A big, strong man and then you will really write.” But she takes no notice.” He pulled at my sleeve and whispered, “The trouble is she did not think me big enough,” and he laughed, patting Carol’s shoulder and putting his arm around her. “Now she will do great things.”
I thought this was all pretty nice, but I was wondering what he wanted. He hadn’t come all the way from Hollywood just to tell me that he was glad and happy to see me and that Carol wanted a big, strong man.
“Let’s sit down,” he said, going over to the table. “Let’s all have drinks. I have come to talk to your clever husband, Carol. I have a lot of important things to talk to him about, otherwise I would not interrupt your honeymoon. You know me, don’t you, my pet? Romantic . . . a lover . . . I do not spoil a honeymoon unless it is important.”
“Come on, Sam,” Carol said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “What do you want to talk about?”
Bernstien rubbed his hand over his fat face, pushing his small beaky nose almost flat. “I have read your play, Mr. Thurston,” he said. “I think it is very good.”
A cold trickle ran down my spine. “You mean “Rain Check”?” I said, staring at him. “Why, why of course, it’s very good.”
He beamed. “And by golly, it’ll make a grand picture. That’s what I want to talk to you about. Let us, you and me make this play of yours into a picture.”
I looked quickly at Carol. She put her hand on mine and squeezed it. “I told you, Clive. I told you Sam would like it,” she said breathlessly.
I looked over at Bernstien. “Do you mean it?”
He waved his hands. “Mean it? Why should I come all this way if I didn’t mean it? Of course, I mean it. But wait, there is one little thing. It’s nothing, but it is something.”
“So there’s a catch in it?” I said, my excitement dying on me. “What is it?”
“You can tell me.” He leaned forward. “What has Gold against you? Tell me that. Let me put that right and we make the picture. We give you a contract. Everything will be all right. But first I must put you right with Gold.”
“That’s a hell of a chance.” I said bitterly. “He hates my guts. He loves Carol. Now do you understand what he’s got against me?”
Bernstien looked at me and then at Carol and began to laugh. “That is very funny,” he said, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak. “I had no idea. I would hate you too if I were in his place.” He drank half his highball and then raised a short, fat finger. “There is a way. Not so good, but in the end—” he shrugged his shoulders, “it’ll be all right. You write the treatment and I will take it to Gold and tell him that I do the picture. He does what I say, but first I must have the treatment.”
“But first I want a contract.”
He frowned. “No. Gold gives the contracts. I can’t give you that. But I get you a contract when you have finished the treatment. I promise.” He offered his hand.
I looked at Carol.
“It’s all right, Clive. Sam always gets his own way. If he promises to give you a contract, he’ll give it to you.”
I shook hands with Bernstien. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do you a treatment and you’ll sell it to Gold. Right?”
“Right,” he said. “Now I go. I have already stolen too many minutes of your honeymoon. We will work together. Your play is very fine. I like your mind. I like the way you express yourself. I like your drama. It is good. You will make a fine treatment. Come and see me at the Studio on Monday at ten o’clock. Carol will show you where to come. Then we get to work.”
When he had gone, Carol threw herself into my arms. “Oh, I’m so pleased,” she said. “Bernstien will make a marvellous picture for you. You two working together will make a marvellous team. Isn’t it wonderful? Aren’t you thrilled?”
I was scared and dismayed. I heard Bernstien’s voice ringing in my ears. “I like your mind. I like the way you express yourself. I like your drama. It is good. You will make a fine treatment.” He wasn’t talking about me. He was talking about John Coulson. I knew I couldn’t possibly write the treatment.
Carol pushed away from me and looked at me, her eyes troubled. “What is it, darling?” she asked, shaking me a little. “Why are you looking like that? Aren’t you pleased?”
I turned away. “Of course I am,” I said, sitting on the settee and lighting a cigarette. “But, Carol, let’s face it. I don’t know much about film treatments. I’d much sooner sell the thing and let Bernstien get someone to do it. I — I don’t think somehow—”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said, sitting by me and reaching for my hand. “Of course you can do it. I’ll help you. Let’s do it now. Let’s make a start this very minute.”
She was away to the library before I could stop her and I heard her calling to Russell to prepare a sandwich supper.
“Mr. Clive’s going to turn his play into a picture, Russell,” I heard her say. “Isn’t it marvellous? We’re going to start right in now.”
She was back again with a copy of the script and we sat down and began to go through it. In an hour or so Carol had mapped out the first rough treatment. I did nothing except agree because her mind was so quick and her experience so sure that I knew that any suggestion from me would be valueless.
While we paused to eat chicken sandwiches and drink iced hock, she said, “You must do the script, Clive. It would mean so much if you did the actual shooting script. With your gift for dialogue . . . you must do it.”
“Oh no,” I protested, getting up and pacing the floor. “I couldn’t. I don’t know how . . . no, that’s absurd.”
“Listen . . .” she held up her hand. “Of course you can. Listen to this dialogue . . .” and she began to read from the play.
I stopped walking up and down, held by the power and strength of the words. They were words that I could never write. Words that had beauty, rhythm and drama. And as I listened, the words seemed to burn themselves into my brain until I thought I must snatch the play from her or go mad.
What a fool I had been to imagine that I could step into Coulson’s shoes. I thought of what Gold had said. “It is, to say the least, a lucky flash in the pan, more extraordinary, perhaps, because your first play was excellent. I have often wondered how you came to write that play.”
This was too dangerous. If I made a slip now I might be found out. Already Gold was suspicious. Why else had he said such a thing? If I began to write the script they would know at once that I had never written the play. God knows what would happen to me if they found out.
“Aren’t you listening, darling?” Carol asked, looking at me.
“Let’s not do any more tonight,” I said, pouring hock into my glass. “I think we’ve done quite enough. I’ll talk it over with Bernstein on Monday. Maybe he has someone in mind to do the script.”
She looked at me puzzled. “But darling . . .”
I took the play from her hands. “No more tonight,” I said firmly and walked out onto the verandah, unable any longer to meet her eyes.
The moon rode high. I could see the lake, the valley and the hills. But at that moment they meant nothing to me. My attention was concentrated on a man who was sitting on the wooden seat at the far end of the garden. I could not see his features. He was too far away for that, but there was something strangely familiar about the way he sat and the way he held himself, his shoulders rounded and his clasped hands gripped between his knees.
Carol came out and joined me.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she said, slipping her arm through mine.
“Do you see . . . ?” I asked, pointing to the man sitting on the garden seat. “Who is that man? What is he doing there?”
She looked. “What do you mean, Clive? What man?”
A cold wave of blood surged down my spine. “Isn’t there a man sitting on the garden seat down there in the moonlight?”
She turned to me quickly. “There is no one there, darling.”
I looked again. She was right There was no one there.
“That’s odd,” I said, suddenly shivering. “It must have been a shadow . . . it looked like a man.”
“You’re imagining things,” she said, her voice troubled. “There honestly was no one there.”
I drew her closer to me. “Let’s go inside,” I said, turning back to the sitting room. “It seems cold out here.”
It was a long time before I fell asleep that night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAM BERNSTIEN whipped off his horn-rimmed glasses and gave a wide, expansive smile. “Yes,” he said, slapping the treatment Carol and I had written with his small fat hand, “this is what I want. It is not right. It is not nearly right, but it is something to work on. It is a good beginning.”
I looked expectantly at him from where I was sitting in a low comfortable armchair in his big office. “I thought that’d be something on which to base a discussion. After all, you have ideas of your own so I kept it to the briefest outline.”
Bernstien pulled a box of cigars towards him, selected one, offered it to me but I shook my head. He lit up and rubbed his hands. “I didn’t expect you’d be so quick,” he said. “Now let us go through this point by point. When we have agreed, I suggest you take it away, expand it and let me have it when you are ready. Then I will see R.G.”
“You’re going to have some difficulty there,” I said, pessimistically.
He laughed. “That is something I can take care of,” he said. “For the past five years R.G. and I have had our little fights. They mean nothing because, in the end, I get my own way. You leave him to me.”
“All right,” I returned, not convinced. “I’ll leave it to you, but I warn you, Gold hates my guts.”
He laughed again. “I don’t blame him,” he said. “Carol’s a very lovely girl and you are a very lucky man. But if he hates your guts, he also loves a good story.” He slapped the treatment again. “This is a good story!”
I caught a little of his enthusiasm. “Just as you say.” I pulled my chair closer to his desk. “Suppose we go through the treatment.”
“It’s swell,” he said, grinning delightedly at me. “Take all this stuff away and give me a second treatment. I think then it will be time to go on R.G.”
I got to my feet. “Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Bernstien,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed this immensely and I won’t be long in letting you have the second treatment.”
“Just as soon as you can.” He walked with me to the door.
“I suppose Carol will be tied up all day?” I said, as we shook hands.
He lifted his shoulders. “I do not know. Go along and see for yourself. She’s with Jerry Highams. You know his office?”
“Sure,” I said. “I know where it is. Well, so long, Mr. Bernstein. I’ll be seeing you.”
I walked quickly down the corridor and although I had to pass Highams’ office I did not pause. I had no intentions of meeting Frank Imgram again and the chances that he would be with Carol were too great a risk.
I passed a public call-box at the end of the corridor and I slowed my steps, stopping outside it. I looked at my wrist- watch. It was eleven fifty-five. With any luck, Marty would not have arrived. I wanted to be sure that Eve would answer the telephone. I entered the call-box and shut myself in. While I dialled her number I was aware that my heart was pumping against my side with suppressed excitement.
The bell rang several times before she answered.
“Hello.”
I recognized her voice.
“Eve,” I said. “How are you?”
“Good morning, Clive,” she said. “How are you? You’re early, aren’t you?”
“Did I wake you up?” I asked, startled that she sounded so friendly.
“No, it’s all right. I was having some coffee. I’ve been awake some time.”
“When am I going to see you?”
“When do you want to come?”
“Now wait a minute, Eve,” I said too puzzled to be cautious. “The other day you said you didn’t want to see me again.”
“All right, then I don’t want to see you again,” she returned and giggled.
“I’m coming right away,” I said. “You are a devil. You gave me a bad two days. I really thought you meant it.”
She giggled again. “Well, you are the limit, Clive. Anyway I did mean it at the time. I was angry. You were a stinker to go off like that.”
“All right, I was a stinker,” I said, laughing. “But I’ve had my lesson and I won’t do it again.”
“You better not,” she warned. “I shan’t forgive you so easily next time.”
“Come and have lunch with me.”
“No.” Her voice hardened. “I’m not going to do that, Clive. You can come and see me professionally if you want to, but I’m not coming to lunch.”
“That’s what you think. You are coming to lunch and you’re not going to argue,” I said.
“Clive!” There was a startled annoyed note in her voice. “I tell you I’m not coming to lunch.”
“We’ll talk about that when we meet. I’ll be along in half an hour.”
“It’s too soon, Clive. I shan’t be ready by then. Come about one o’clock.”
“All right and wear something nice.”
“I’m not coming to lunch.”
“You’re going to do what you’re told for a change,” I said, laughing at her. “You put on something smart—” but the line suddenly went dead as she hung up.
I looked at the telephone and grinned. Okay, sweetheart, I thought, we’ll see who’s going to be boss.
I went to the parking lot and drove the Chrysler slowly through the Studio gateway. I felt good. I felt confident that I could master Eve. She could hang up on me if that pleased her vanity, but she was going to have lunch with me, if I had to drag her to the restaurant in her nightdress.
I drove to the Writers’ Club and asked the Steward for my mail. He gave me a few letters and I walked over to the bar and ordered a Scotch and soda. A quick look at the letters convinced me that there was nothing from Eve. Leaving my drink on the bar table I went back to the Steward and asked him if he was sure that there was nothing else for me.
“No, sir,” he said, after looking again in my pigeonhole.