All That Glitters (70 page)

The results of this minor debacle were several. To begin with, Claire’s accident proved far more serious than anyone had thought, and the next day I learned from Vi that she’d been put in Roosevelt Hospital for a fractured coccyx. Being in any hospital did not set well with Madame since she was a devout Christian Scientist and didn’t believe in medical help. Instead, she kept her Science practitioner at her side, helping her pray her way back to health, though the fact that she was encased in plaster-of-Paris from her chest to her lower back indicated that a more conventional treatment was needed as well.

Also, the accident further served to embroil me in the clutches of—Miss Clutch, who else? Feeling in some small way guilty about her accident, I loaded up on flowers and went to visit the patient in her sickroom, a veritable bower of blooms. Cards and affectionate reminders from a host of notables were everywhere displayed, she was got up in her favorite negligee, her hair freshly done and a ribbon in it, as if she were waiting for the photographers. They’d already come and gone.

When I came in, she settled back against her pillows and began putting on her Lady of the Manor act, cooing over my floral offering and making me look at each bouquet she’d received and read each card.

“Aren’t people simply
wonderful
? How thoughtful, how kind they all are. And how kind you are for coming to see me after all those terrible things I said. Taking time out of your busy schedule.” Now she was into “Little Me” again. She tilted her head to one side, and smiled coyly. “Charles,” she went on, “I’m glad you’ve come, because I’ve been lying here wondering if you’ve forgotten what we were talking about just before I slipped. At the restaurant?”

I’d hardly forgotten about our conversation at the Four Seasons; rather, it had been hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles. What did she have up her sleeve, really?

“Your venom is caking,” I said.

Her brows shot in surprise. “What a thing to say! I’m only attempting to get things straight between us.”

“Sorry, it sounded like a threat. You know—‘my knife is sharp, mind your liver and lights.’ Suppose you just cut the jokes and level with me.”

She maintained a consistently blithe attitude. “Frankly, I don’t think your word ‘threat’ is appropriate. You know me better than that, darling; I don’t go around making threats. At least—not
idle
ones.” Her smile beamed, then turned to glass, and the bitch had the nerve to bat her eyelashes at me, all four feet of them.

“What I am referring to—and I think you already know what I’m going to say—I am referring to some letters. Letters written to me many years ago by a certain party. A rather famous party, who though now dead would attract a lot of attention wherever that name happened to be mentioned. Letters written to me by that party and stolen from me by another party—a relation. Letters that, should they come to light, would doubtless prove embarrassing to still
other
certain parties.
Now
do you catch my drift?”

“I do, but I think if you checked, you’d find that the letters you refer to no longer exist.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“I should be, I burned them myself—
without reading them
, let me mention—I burned them in the fireplace of the Snuggery.”

Claire positively purred. “Ahh, the Snuggery—how well I remember that cozy nook. English as all get-out. Maude in matching sweater sets, her daytime pearls, at the desk writing those gracious notes, Crispin in his high-backed chair, having his bourbon-and-branch, puffing away on his pipe, looking like Sherlock Holmes. And you—
burned
them, you say? The letters?”

“I did. So you see, if you’re plotting a little blackmail in order to get me to do your book, why, then—the letters are ashes, and ashes don’t read very well, do you think?”

“The actual letters are beside the point, we needn’t consider them.”

I tossed up my hands. “Well, there we are. That said, what next?”

“What say we put our cards on the table. Let’s talk about that certain famous party, my ex-father-in-law, the master of Sunnyside.”

“Crispin Antrim? By all means. I’d be interested in hearing what you have to say—since the letters were written to you.”

“You noticed, did you? Well, I can’t say it’s no secret because it is—or was. And it’s my guess that the Widow Antrim, I refer to your darling Belinda, would want to have it go on being kept secret.”

“Why don’t we leave Belinda out of this and you just tell me all about it. Let me be the judge?”

“All right.” She licked her lips around and toothed off some lipstick, a habit of hers. “Well, let’s see—Crispin. He and I go way back, but you probably didn’t know that, most people didn’t. He was the big cheese around AyanBee when I first came on the lot. He didn’t know who I was—which was understandable, since I wasn’t anybody. I’d walk by him, he never gave me a flick. I’d see him in the commissary but he never noticed me. Until—well, it was Christmas, you know? And he was alone. Nobody likes being alone on Christmas.”

This surprised me. “Alone? Are you telling me that Maude wasn’t with him at Christmas?”

“Her father had died, she’d gone back to New Jersey. So Crispin was high and dry on Christmas. Christmas Eve, to be exact. His show was working late, so was mine. Not a lot of work was getting done. Everybody was partying all over the lot, over in the offices, on the stages, everybody was feeling merry. Only he wasn’t, because he was alone. I was alone, too. That’s how it started.”

“You and him, you mean?”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Me ’n’ him. Just like that. He was going one way, I was going the other, we passed on the sidewalk. He looked, I looked, nobody said anything. I went to my dressing room; I was taking off my makeup when he knocked on the screen. ‘May we come in?’ he says, nice and polite. Crispin Antrim was the politest man I ever met. He says something like ‘Since it is the Yuletide and everyone seems to be partaking of the seasonal cheer, it occurred to me that you might partake of a little cheer yourself. Or do I detain you? Perhaps you have other plans?’ No, I say quick, I didn’t have any plans at all. So he pulls out this bottle of shampoo, ice cold. He uncorks it, I get a couple of paper cups, and there we were toasting Christmas and drinking bubbly together. Me and Crispin Antrim! He said how Maude was back in New Jersey and he dreaded going home with her not there. He’s got this book with him—
War and Peace.
Big. About the fattest book I ever picked up. He starts telling me all about this Russian family—two families, I guess it was—and how it’s one of the great novels. He says he’s read it four times, this is the fifth, and when I ask him why so many times if he knows how it turns out, he smiles. Nice. ‘For the beauty, my dear,’ he says, ‘for the joy of the words. Once beauty presents itself to me I am able to enjoy it over and over. Like a beautiful piece of music, a Beethoven symphony, or a Mozart sonata.’ So I’m drinking my shampoo and I’m thinking, ‘Get a load of you, kid, here’s Crispin Antrim talking to you about Mozart and you don’t even know the guy.’

“Well, we polish off the bottle and then it’s time to go, only he doesn’t want to. He asks me if he can drive me home. In his chauffeured car yet. Everything’s really gentlemanly; he asks me about my movie, wants to know what plans Sam has for me, just shop talk, and when I say good night he insists on walking me to my door. I was living on Hyperion Avenue then, and when we get there he says can he come in and see my apartment. I make coffee, he sits and talks some more, all about how much he loves Maude and his boy, Perry—from the way his old man talked about him I figured he must be plenty spoiled—and he was, believe me. His father’s worried about how he’ll turn out. Needs a nice girl, that stuff—and I think, Is he going to fix me up with his son? Uh uh. I know the guy’s just looking for a shoulder to cry on, it being Christmas and everything. I figure he’ll talk himself to death and then take off for home. Only—”

Only instead he’d stayed long after the coffee had been drunk, and in the end he’d stayed and made love to her. When they saw each other again at the studio, they talked about the miserable Christmases they’d each had, and he asked her out to dinner. They went to Musso & Frank’s in Hollywood, then they returned to Hyperion to talk, and ended up in bed again.

He came back a third time, a fourth. One night she cooked for him, corned beef and cabbage, his favorite. Next time she did chicken fricassee with dumplings. He always came to talk but always stayed to make love. Somehow Viola got wind of these trysts and advised Claire to knock it off before there was trouble. Vi might have gone to Sam with the tale but she didn’t, she kept her mouth shut. When Maude came home, Crispin was there to meet her. She was to know nothing.

“But he felt guilty,” Claire said. “All the time guilty. You know how it was—they’d been married twenty years now, he had a roving eye. I was young, he loved my body. And I made him laugh. I’ll tell you this, it’s a lot easier getting a guy if you make him laugh than just being terrific in the sack.”

“Did Frank know what was going on?”

“Sure. Frank knew, but he never said much. I think he was ashamed because of the shabby way he’d treated me in New York. He figured it wasn’t any of his business anyway. Then he and Babe started having those arguments right out in public; she’d haul off and sock him—and he’d sock her back—and I knew he was getting tired of her carrying on like that. So when he dumped her I see that here’s my chance to get him back. So I write Crispin this letter, breaking it off, saying I can’t see him anymore or it’s going to mean trouble for everybody. I say, Don’t come around me at the studio, don’t come to the apartment, and don’t call. So he starts writing these letters, pleading with me to see him, he doesn’t want to lose me. Really passionate letters, you’ve no idea.

“He knew it wasn’t any good; just moments in his life. He was hog-tied to Maude. He told me he’d never been unfaithful to her before me, and I’ll tell you something—I don’t think he was unfaithful after, either. And he helped me: he made Sam give me the Fedora picture, and the other one at MGM. I never regretted a thing.”

“What about later, when you and Perry were married and you lived at Sunnyside? How did he feel then, you being so near?”

Claire shrugged. “The whole thing was his own idea. He was gung-ho for our getting married, me and Perry. Crispin didn’t like him running off all the time. He thought I’d make him a good wife and maybe he’d stop his gallivanting. Maude wasn’t keen on our living over there in the Playhouse, but Crispin really thought it was terrific, having me right there next door to him.”

“Did he ever try to start up again? I mean did he ever—”

“Put the make on me? Are you kidding? He was just ‘Daddy dear.’ You’d never have known there was anything between us. I was his daughter now; I was supposed to produce an heir for him. But it was no dice. God knows I tried; any time Perry wanted to party, okay with me. Only—no kids in the nursery.”

Further talk along these lines was cut off when the night nurse came in, all smiles, but telling me I had to go, it was long after Miss Regrett’s lights-out. While the nurse plumped the pillows and buzzed the bed down flat, Claire’s eyes lingered on me, as if to ask, Well, what do you think of all that? I didn’t know what to think, but it gave me plenty of food for thought until I could see her again. I wasn’t able to come back for two days, since I was tied up every minute with the play. Belinda was due in at the end of the week, and once she got here it would be full speed ahead. Meanwhile, we were trying to cast the lead male.

I finally got back to Room 804, this time lugging in a hothouse gardenia tree in full bloom. As I trucked in I was met by Claire’s Christian Science practitioner, Mrs. Conklin, a pleasant-faced woman of sixty or so who gave me a friendly smile and a firm handshake. We chatted briefly; then she kissed Claire and left to get some books at the library, she said. I liked it that Claire seemed so fond of this woman; Mrs. Conklin seemed one person who might do some real good in Claire’s hectic and unfocused life.

I was anxious for her to go on with her story, and it didn’t take much urging on my part. She proceeded now to enlighten me on the reason Faun had been so desperate to get her hands on the fifteen thousand dollars she’d told Maude she had to have. It was pure chance that had caused Claire and Faun to meet at the L.A. airport following Frank’s funeral and Claire’s untimely visit at Sunnyside. They’d ended up sitting next to each other on the flight, and by the time they got to New York they were on good terms. Faun was invited to stay for the weekend, and managed to stay for over two months. Not surprisingly, they didn’t get along. There were several nasty scenes. Once Claire’s maid caught Faun snooping in the files which no one but Claire was allowed to touch, and when Claire heard about it she read the riot act. Then things simmered down a bit until the next, the final, upset.

It seemed that the tenants in the apartment below Claire’s, a Japanese doctor named Sadikichi and his American wife, were among the few couples in the building with whom Claire was on speaking terms. When Mrs. Sadikichi expressed the desire to entertain the daughter of Belinda Carroll, Claire obliged. Before the meal was served, the doctor invited Faun to help select a good Burgundy to go with the beef. He had showed off his notable collection of vintages, some of them costing as much as five hundred or even a thousand dollars a bottle, one being worth far more, a rare-vintaged Château Lafite.

When Claire named this figure, I began adding it all up. “Faun stole it?” I asked.

“Not that night. She waited until the Sadikichis had gone to their country house; then she went down and told the maid she’d left her cigarette lighter somewhere and wondered if it might have slipped in between the sofa cushions. The maid told Faun to take a look around. Faun looked, not in the sofa but in the wine cabinet, and she made off with the most expensive bottle. When I confronted her with the theft, she denied it all, but I knew she was lying. She’d gone to visit friends at Southampton and taken the bottle along as a house present. The host realized it was an expensive wine and didn’t want to open it, but Faun insisted. I knew the people vaguely—they lived in Gin Lane—so I checked up and out came the whole story. Faced with this, darling Faun confessed. Then, by God, if she didn’t talk me into paying Dr. Sadikichi and said she’d get the money from Maude. That’s when she went to the goddamn files and stole the letters—Crispin’s letters. Only I didn’t find out about that until later. Then when she got killed, I thought, I’m never going to see that dough again. But I didn’t reckon with Maude. I wrote and explained what had happened, and I got a check back just like that. It was Maude who told me about the letters, and when I looked in the files—sure enough, they were missing. Maude also sent me back that letter I’d written to Crispin all those years ago.”