“Then, all I can say, sir, is she’s avoiding you,” he returned obstinately. “You shouldn’t allow it.”
“I think you’d better do my bedroom now, Russell,” I said coldly. “I have everything I want at the moment.
“This Miss Marlow, sir,” he said, “She’s a professional lady, isn’t she?”
I stared at him in amazement. “And how did you know that?”
An almost pious look settled on his face. “Being a gentleman’s man, sir,” he said, a little pompously, “I feel it is part of my duties to know something of the worldly aspects of life. The name, sir, if I may presume, is a little obvious.”
“You think so, do you?” I said, trying not to smile. “And what if she is?”
His bushy white eyebrows crawled to the top of his head. “I can only warn you, Mr. Clive. That sort of woman never did anyone any good. And if I may say so, any attempt to establish a social relationship with her would be fraught with disaster.”
“Do stop talking like a drip and get upstairs,” I said, feeling this had gone far enough. “I am meeting Miss Marlow to get a background for a picture. Mr. Gold’s commissioned me to write it.”
“I’m surprised to hear that, sir. I always understood Mr. Gold was a person of intelligence. No one in his right senses would consider making a picture in connection with that subject. If you will excuse me, I will do your room.”
I watched his dignified exit rather thoughtfully. On the face of it, he was right, yet Gold had definitely promised to do the story. I picked up my letters again and opened them, hopefully looking for a letter from the Studio. It was not here and I realized it was perhaps a little early to expect it I went over to my desk and checked my bank balance. I was surprised to find it so low. After a moment’s hesitation, I tossed the bills into the trash basket. They would have to wait for payment Then I called Merle Bensinger, my agent.
“Look, Merle,” I said, as soon as she came on the line, “what’s happening to “Rain Check”? I haven’t had this week’s receipts.
“I was writing to you about that, Clive,” she returned. Merle had a bright metallic voice which I always found a little overpowering on the telephone. “The cast has been given a week off. I think they deserve it, the poor dears. They’ve been at it now for twenty weeks.”
“So while they disport themselves, I’m supposed to starve?” I said crossly. “Isn’t there anything else coming in? How about my books?”
“You know there’s nothing until September, Clive.” She sounded startled. “Sellick’s don’t make up their accounts until September . . .”
“I know — I know,” I said sharply. “Well, if you can’t do anything for me, Merele, at least listen to my news. Gold’s offered me a contract. I ought to have told you before. I outlined a story to him a couple of weeks ago and he’s offering fifty thousand dollars for it.”
“Why, that’s wonderful.” Her voice sounded even brighter and more metallic. “Do you want me to look after the arrangements?”
“I suppose so,” I said, a little doubtfully. Ten per cent meant parting with five thousand dollars, but Merle did know her job and if Gold was going to try a double cross, she would know how to handle him. “Yes, you’d better look after it. I’ll send you the correspondence when I get it.”
“How’s the new book going?”
“Never mind about the new book. I’ve got Gold on my mind right now.”
“But, Clive,” her voice signalled alarm, “Sellick’s are expecting it by the end of the month.”
“Then they’ll have to expect it,” I returned. “I tell you I’m busy.”
There was a pause, then she said, “But haven’t you begun it yet?”
“No, I haven’t. To hell with Sellick’s. I’m after Gold’s fifty thousand.”
“I shall have to tell Mr. Sellick. He’ll be very disappointed. They’ve advertised it, you know, Clive.”
“Tell whom you like. I couldn’t care less. Tell the President if it’ll make you feel any better, but for God’s sake, Merle, don’t bother me with Sellick’s headaches,” I snapped, feeling suddenly irritated with her. “Isn’t Gold a better proposition?”
“The money’s better, of course,” she said slowly, “but, its some time since you wrote a book and you must think of your name.”
“I’ll look after that,” I assured her. “Don’t worry about my name.
She remembered something. “Oh, Clive,” she said, “I’ve an offer from the Digest. They want an article on the “Women of Hollywood”. Three thousand dollars. Fifteen hundred words. Would you like to do it for them?”
It wasn’t often Merle put anything in my way. I was pleased. “Sure,” I said. “When do you want it?”
“Can you do it today? I’ve been holding it and it’s urgent now.”
That rather spoiled the offer. What she really meant was she had been trying to get someone to write it and had so far failed. “Well, all right. Leave it with me. I’ll get Russell to bring it over first thing tomorrow morning.” I said good-bye and hung up.
Russell came in just then to clear the breakfast things.
“I have an article to do for the Digest,” I said. “Have I any dates today?”
Russell liked to be consulted about my appointments. “You promised to see Miss Selby at three, sir,” he said. “And you’re dining with Mr. and Mrs. Henry Wilbur tonight.”
“Well, Miss Selby isn’t important. She’s a damn little nuisance anyway. Tell her I’ve had to go out of town. If I have the afternoon to myself I should be able to manage. I’ll dine with the Wilburs.”
I left him pottering about the living room and went upstairs to dress. By the time I was through it was twenty to twelve. It was time to ring Eve.
The bell rang for quite a while before she answered. She sounded sleepy.
“Hello there,” I said. “Did I get you out of bed?”
“You did, Clive,” she said. “I was fast asleep.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but look at the time. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“I never get up before twelve. You ought to know that by now.”
Well, anyway, she was at least stringing some sentences together for a change.
I drew a deep breath. “Eve,” I said, “you wouldn’t like to spend a week-end with me, would you?”
There was a long pause, then she said in a flat, indifferent voice. “If that’s what you want.”
“We might take in a theatre. How about this week-end?”
“All right.”
If she should only sound just a little enthusiastic, I thought angrily. “Fine,” I said, keeping the disappointment out of my voice. “Where would you like to dine?”
“I’ll leave it to you.” There was a pause and then she said, “But it mustn’t be . . .” and she ran through a bewildering number of restaurants and hotels which left me gasping.
“But there’s nothing to choose from after that little lot’s been eliminated,” I protested. “For instance, why on earth can’t we go to the Brown Derby?”
“I just can’t,” she said. I could imagine the two furrows above the bridge of her nose deepening. “Or any of the other places I’ve told you.”-
“Well, all right,” I said, feeling that if I pressed her she would refuse to go altogether. “I’ll send you a line. Then we definitely meet on Saturday?”
“All right,” and down went the receiver before I could say how pleased I was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As I drove round the corner of Fairfax and Beverley I saw a big crowd ahead. The boulevard was blocked with cars and people. It looked as if there had been an accident so I pulled into the curb and waited; but the crowd increased.
I said, “Hell!” and jumped out of my car and went to see what it was all about.
A small roadster was crossways in the street; one of its front fenders was crumped up. Four men were pushing a big Packard over to the curb; it had a broken headlight and lot of scratches on its immaculate body and a flat tyre.
Peter Tennett stood in the middle of the group of arguing men. He was speaking to an elderly man, and I could see he was worried and angry.
“Hello there, Peter,” I said, shouldering my way through the crowd. “Anything I can do?”
His face brightened when he saw me. “Got your car with you, Clive?” he asked hopefully.
“Sure,” I said. “It’s parked over there. What happened?”
He waved his hand at the Packard. “I was pulling from the curb when our friend here cut across and hit me head on.”
The elderly man muttered something about his brakes. He looked white and scared.
Just then there came the wail of a police siren and a radio car pulled up. A big red-faced policeman got out and pushed his way through the crowd.
He recognized Peter. “What’s the matter, Mr. Tennett?” he demanded.
“I got clipped,” Peter said, “but I don’t want any trouble. I’m satisfied if this gentleman is.”
The policeman looked coldly at the elderly man, “Well, if Mr. Tennett’s satisfied, I am. Do you want to make anything of it?”
The elderly man backed away. “It’s all right with me, officer.”
Peter looked at his watch. “Will you take care of this, officer?” he said. “I’m late for the Studio as it is.”
The policeman nodded. “That’s okay, Mr. Tennett. I’ll call the Studio garage for you.”
Peter thanked him and then joined me. “Can you run me over to the Studio, or will it be out of your way?”
“Glad to,” I said, pushing through the crowd. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
Peter laughed. “Yes, but the old fellow looks bad. I hope they take care of him.”
I heard a girl who was standing nearby say to a little blonde with a bicycle, “That’s Peter Tennett, the director.”
I glanced at Peter with a grin, but he hadn’t heard.
When we were driving towards the Studio, Peter said, “Where’ve you been, Clive? I haven’t seen you for days.”
“I’ve been around,” I said. “How’s the picture going?”
Peter lifted his hands expressively. “We’re getting down to it,” he said. “The first few weeks are always the worst. It’s too early yet to say what’s going to happen.” He waved casually to Corrine Moreland, the movie star, as she passed us in a cream roadster. “I’ve been meaning to ring you, Clive. I’m damn pleased you’re working for R.G.”
I glanced at him quickly. “He told you?”
“He said he wanted you to get an angle on this idea of Carol’s, but he didn’t give me any details. What’s behind it?”
I hedged. “I’m working on it now,” I said. “It’s going to be a satire on men. I can’t tell you anything else because it’s still up in the air.”
“But is there anything really in it? R.G. usually talks to me about his plots, only this time he’s gone mysterious on me.”
“As soon as I’ve anything to show you.” I said, “I’ll let you in on it.”
I slowed down before the Studio gates. The guard opened up and touched his cap to Peter as we drove through.
“You sure I’m not taking you out of your way?” Peter said as I crawled along the palm edged drive to the Studio offices.
“I’ll drop you just here if you don’t mind,” I said, pulling up. “I’ve a whale of a lot of work . . .” and I stopped because Carol was standing by my side. “Why, hello, stranger,” I went on, taking off my hat and smiling at her.
She was wearing a dark brown shirt and brick red slacks. Round her hair she wore a flame coloured turban. She looked smart, neat and picturesque.
“Hello, Clive.” Her dark eyes were wide and serious. “Have you come to see me?”
“It’s time, isn’t it?” I opened the car door and got out. “Do you know I’ve been ringing you twice a day?”
Peter broke in. “I’ll leave you two. Thanks, Clive, for pulling me out of that mess.” He waved and disappeared into the vast glass and wooden building that housed the Studio offices.
Carol suddenly put her hand in mine. “I’m sorry, Clive,” she said with a rush. “I’ve been angry with you.”
“I know,” I said, thinking how lovely she looked. “I deserved it. Let’s go somewhere and talk. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” She slipped her arm through mine. “Let’s go to my room, we can talk there.”
As we moved towards the building, a call boy came running out. “Miss Rae,” he said, a little breathlessly. “Mr. Highams wants you right away.”
Carol snapped her fingers. “Oh, Clive, what a bore. But come with me. I want you to meet Mr. Imgram.”
I hung back. “You don’t want me around, Carol,” I said. “You’re busy now, aren’t you?”
She pulled at my arm. “Its time you met the fellows,” she said severely: “Jerry Highams is an important person. He’s our production chief and you ought to meet him.”
I allowed myself to be persuaded and followed her through the endless maze of wide passages until we reached a polished mahogany door on which was written in neat black letters
Jerry Highams.
Carol went straight in.
Peter was sitting in an armchair with a mass of papers in a leather bound folder on his knees. By the window was a big fat man with hair like straw and tobacco ash all over his white and yellow sweater. He turned as we entered. I noticed his slate grey eyes. They were humourous, sharp and penetrating.
“Jerry, this is Clive Thurston who wrote “Angels in Sables” and the play “Rain Check”,” Carol said.
He looked swiftly at me and I could feel his eyes probing inside my skull. He took his hands out of his trouser pockets and came over! “I’ve been hearing about you,” he said, shaking hands, “R.G. was saying you were working on a script for him.”
Gold seemed to be generally advertising me. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or not.
“Sit down. Have a cigarette,” Highams went on, waving me to a chair. “What’s the angle on this script? R.G.”s acting mysterious.”
“She’ll tell you,” I said waving to Carol. “After all, it was her idea.”
“Her idea?” Highams’ face brightened. “Was it, Carol?”
“Well I did suggest that Clive should write a satire on men and use his title “Angels in Sables”.”
Highams shifted his attention to me again. “Are you doing that?”
I nodded. “That’s the idea.”
“Well, that isn’t so bad.” He looked hopefully over at Peter.
“The idea’s right, and if Clive turns in a script like “Heaven Must Wait”, it’ll be terrific,” Peter said, putting the folder on the desk.
“Then why’s R.G. being cagey?” Highams demanded.
“It’s time he put one over you,” Carol laughed. “Maybe he knows it’s good and wants to surprise you.”