Highams stroked his chin. “It could be that.” He wagged his finger at me. “Now look, friend,” he said, “I want you to get this straight. The people who’ll make your picture’ll be Peter and me . . . not Gold. Before you turn your treatment over to Gold, let me see it. I’ll help you in any way I can. I know what we can do and what we can’t do. Gold doesn’t. And if Gold doesn’t like a treatment, he’ll kill it. Let me see the treatment first and I’ll vet it for you. You have a good idea to work on. Don’t spoil it and don’t listen to Gold. Okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
I felt that I could trust him. He was sincere, and if he said he would help, I was sure he would without expecting anything in return.
A knock came on the door and when Highams called out, a thin little man, in a shabby suit edged cautiously round the door.
“Am I late?” he asked, looking at Highams anxiously.
“Why, come in,” Highams said, going over to him. “No, you’re all right. This is Clive Thurston. Thurston meet Frank Imgram.”
I could scarcely believe that this insignificant little man was the author of
The Land is Barren,
the book every film company had fought for, and which, it was rumoured, Gold had finally bought for 250,000 dollars.
I got to my feet and offered my hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Imgram,” I said, looking with interest at his pale, sensitive face.
He had large protruding blue eyes, a big forehead and thin, mouse coloured hair.
He looked at me searchingly, smiled nervously and turned back to Highams. “I’m sure Mr. Gold is wrong,” he said, with a kind of feverish anxiety. “I’ve thought about it all this morning. Helen can’t be in love with Lancing. It’s too ridiculous. She could never have any feeling for such a complex character as Lancing. It’s simply pandering to the happy ending.”
Highams shook his head. “Don’t worry,” he said, soothingly. “I’ll talk to R.G.” He looked over at Carol.
“You had an angle, didn’t you?”
Imgram went to her eagerly. “I’m sure you’ll agree that I’m right,” he said. “You’ve agreed with me up to now. Can’t you see how impossible it would be?”
“Of course,” Carol said gently. “The theme’s so big I’m sure we could let the ending stand. Don’t you think, Peter?”
“Yes, but you know what R.G. is about that kind of an ending.” Peter looked worried.
I felt out of this. “Look,” I said, “I’ll leave you to it . . .”
Imgram immediately turned to me. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“You see, I have so little experience and it all rather worries me. Don’t let me drive you away. Perhaps, you can help us. You see . . .”
I stopped him. I had quite enough on my mind and I wasn’t going to take on Imgram’s headaches. “I’ll only be wasting time,” I said, smiling at him. “I know less about this than you do. And besides, I’ve a lot of things to do.” I turned to Carol. “When do we meet?”
“Must you go?” she asked, disappointed.
“You want to get on and I’ve things to do,” I said. “But, let’s fix a date.”
The three men were watching us. I could see Carol wanted me to stay, but I had enough of this concentrated interest in Imgram.
“Today’s Thursday, isn’t it?” She frowned over at the wall calendar. “Tomorrow? Will you come tomorrow evening? I’m working tonight.”
“Swell, I’ll be there.” I nodded to Highams, shook Imgram’s hand and waved to Peter. “Don’t worry,” I said to Imgram. “You’re in very good hands.” I tried not to sound patronizing, but it was there all right. Perhaps, it was his shabby suit that gave me a superior complex.
Carol came with me to the car. “He’s so honest and sincere,” she said as I slid under the wheel. “I’m so sorry for him, Clive.”
I regarded her serious, upturned face with amusement. “Imgram? You should worry. He’s bitten Gold for a quarter of a million, hasn’t he?”
She waved this aside. “R.G. says he has no ideas, but he is full of them. Good ideas — great ideas, but R.G. doesn’t understand them. If we left him alone, I do believe he’d make a far greater picture than anything Peter or Jerry could do. But Gold keeps interfering.”
“Odd little guy, isn’t he?”
“I like him. He’s straight and this all means so much to him.”
“Well, he needs to have something,” I said coldly. “Did you notice the suit he was wearing?”
“It’s not the suit that matters, Clive,” she returned, colour coming to her face.
“Well, have it your own way.” I reached forward and stabbed the starter button. “Don’t work too hard. I’ll see you around eight tomorrow.”
“Clive.” She stepped up onto the running board. “What did Gold arrange with you?”
“He wants me to do a story,” I said carelessly. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
“About this woman?”
I twisted in my seat. “What woman?”
“When I suggested the idea, I knew I had made a mistake,” she said a little breathlessly. “You want an excuse to see her, don’t you? Oh Clive, I know you so well. You’re just pretending that you want to write about her, but it isn’t that. It’s something far more complex than that. But, be careful, won’t you? I can’t stop you, but do be careful.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I began, but she raised her hand.
“Don’t Clive,” she said and turning, she ran back into the building.
I drove slowly to my appartment. The hands of the clock on the dashboard pointed to three-thirty when I drove into the garage. I had an uneasy feeling at the back of my mind. Although I told myself it wasn’t anything to do with Carol, I knew I was playing a dangerous game. I wanted Carol. If she hadn’t been such a worker, if she could have given me of her time, I guess I wouldn’t have wanted any other woman. But with so much time on my hands I had to do something. Maybe, I thought, I’d better wash Eve out of my mind. Thinking like that was just kidding. I knew, even if I really wanted to — and I didn’t — I should not be able to get free from her as easily as that.
I walked into my apartment, tossed my hat into the nearest chair and went to the library. I found a letter from International Pictures on my desk. I read it through carefully. There was no catch in it. Perhaps, the only suspicious thing about it was Gold’s request to keep the arrangement confidential. But then, he might easily be asking it for my sake as well as his own. He had laid down in black and white that he would pay me fifty thousand dollars for a shooting script to be entitled
Angels in Sables,
provided the story was based on our discussions and that the script met with his approval.
I wrote a hurried note to Merle Bensinger and enclosed the letter. Then I turned my attention to the article for the
Digest.
“Women of Hollywood’ seemed, on the face of it, an easy subject. But, I was not used to writing articles and I approached my task with considerable uneasiness and doubt.
I lit a cigarette and considered the problem. Concentration was difficult. I kept thinking of Carol. It frightened me to know she could read my mind so completely. I did not want to lose her and I knew, if I was not careful, that was what would eventually happen. Then Eve shouldered Carol out of my thoughts. I considered the coming week-end. Where should I take her? How would she behave? What would she wear? Why was she so cagey about appearing in public? If there was anyone to be cagey it should surely be me.
I picked up the newspaper and checked through the enter-tainments. I decided to take her to a theatre and after some hesitation I picked on
My Sister Eileen
as appropriate. The deck clock showed five fifteen and I hurriedly dropped the newspaper and threaded paper into my typewriter. I typed “Women of Hollywood by Clive Thurston’ at the top of the page and then sat back to stare at the typewriter keys. I had no idea how to begin the article. I wanted to say something sophisticated and witty, but my mind was completely barren.
I wondered uneasily if Eve would dress flashily and whether she would look what she was. It’d be an embarrassing situation if I ran into Carol when she was with me. I knew I was taking a risk. I had never seen Eve dressed and had no idea of her taste. I decided that I should have to select some small secluded restaurant where I was not known and where no one that I knew was likely to see me.
I lit another cigarette and tried once more to concentrate on the article. By six o’clock, the page in the typewriter was still blank, and I was in a slight panic.
Pulling the typewriter impatiently towards me, I began to hammer out words, hoping that they would make sense. I wrote like this until seven o’clock, then I gathered up the sheets of paper and pinned them together. I made no attempt to read them through.
Russell came in to tell me that my bath was ready. He eyed the sheets of paper in my hand approvingly.
“Gone all right, sir?” he asked in his most encouraging manner.
“Yes,” I said, moving to the door. “I’ll check it through when I come back and you can take it down to Miss Bensinger first thing tomorrow.”
I did not arrive back from the Wilburs until one fifteen. It had been a good party and my head was a little heavy from the excellent champagne I had been drinking most of the evening. I forgot about the article lying on my desk to be checked and I went straight to bed.
Russell woke me at nine o’clock the following morning. “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said apologetically, “but shall I take die article to Miss Bensinger now?”
I sat up with a grunt of dismay. My head felt heavy and my mouth like the bottom of a bird-cage. “Hell!” I exclaimed. “I forgot to look it over. Get it, will you, Russell? I’ll do it now.”
I had finished my first cup of coffee by the time he returned. He handed me the typewritten sheets. “I’ll just clean your shoes, sir, then I’ll be back.”
I waved him away and began to read what I had written. In less than three minutes, I was out of bed and running downstairs to my study. I knew I could never send this stuff to Merle. It was hopeless. It was so awful that I could scarcely believe that I had written it.
I began hammering away at the typewriter, but my head ached and I could not string two sentences together. After a half an hour, I had worked myself into a furious rage. For the fourth time, I snatched the paper out of the typewriter and threw it angrily to the floor.
Russell put his head round the door. “It’s after ten, sir,” he reminded me apologetically.
I turned on him furiously. “Get out!” I shouted. “Get out and for God’s sake stop worrying me!”
He backed out of the room, his eyes wide with surprise.
I turned savagely back to my typewriter. At eleven o’clock my head was nearly bursting and my temper was seething. Round me were crumpled balls of paper. I knew it was no good. I could not begin to write the article. Panic, rage and disappointment made me want to pick up the typewriter and smash it to the floor.
Then the telephone rang.
I snatched it up. “What is it?” I snapped.
“I’m waiting for the Digest article . . .” Merle began plaintively.
“You’ll go on waiting,” I said, the whole of my concentrated rage and bitterness bursting from me. “Who do you think I am? Do you think I haven’t anything better to do than to bother with a goddam mawkish article for the Digest? To hell with them! Tell ‘em to write it themselves if they need it so much!” And I slammed down the receiver.
CHAPTER NINE
I DID not see Carol that evening. I did not feel like it. I did not feel like doing anything after the way I had bawled out Merle. Once I had cooled down, I realized just how crazy I had been. Merle was the best agent in Hollywood. Writers and stars fought for her to handle their business. She was only interested in five-figured incomes and everyone knew it. So if she was your agent, your credit stood high everywhere. By bawling her out as I had done, it was likely that she would drop me. Right now, I could not afford to be without Merle. If there was any work to be had, it would come through her. In actual fact, she was my meal ticket. As soon as I had realized what a fool I had been and seen what a mess I had landed myself in, I telephoned her. Her secretary said she was out and she did not know when she would be back. She sounded as if she did not care. This did not look good to me so I wrote Merle a note, apologizing for what I had done and pleading a hangover. I said I hoped she would understand. I did everything in that letter except kiss her feet and I sent it to her office by special messenger.
After lunch, I still felt like hell. The idea of passing up three thousand dollars was wormwood to me. But what worried me more was that I could not sit down and write a simple article at a moment’s notice. That was something to worry about. It told me, as nothing else could tell me, that I had not the equipment to make the grade as a first-class writer. The thought stuck in my throat like a fish hook.
Anyway, I did not feel like spending the evening with Carol. I knew she would start something about Eve and my temper was too jumpy to take anything from anyone. So I called her and told her I had to go to Los Angeles on urgent business. She wanted to see me on Saturday, but I lied myself out of that too. I could tell by her voice that she was depressed and disappointed, but I was determined to spend the week-end with Eve and no one was going to upset my plans. All the same I felt a heel when Carol tried to persuade me.
Then I wrote to Eve. I told her I would call for her at six- thirty the following evening, that we would go to the theatre and have the rest of the week-end to get to know each other. I enclosed a hundred dollar bill saying it was for bed-and-break- fast charges. This was the first time I had ever paid a woman to go with me. I did not like it. Somehow I began comparing myself with Harvey Barrow, but I told myself that she would come out with me before long just for the fun of it. That made things different.
The following morning while Russell prepared breakfast, I lounged in the big armchair by the window and idled with the newspaper.
“Russell,” I said, when he brought the coffee and eggs, “I’ll be away for the week-end. I want you to go out to Three Point and pack my things. I’m giving the place up. See the Estate agents and fix it with them.”