Cade

Five

Ed Burdick, special correspondent to the New York Sun, walked into the News Editor’s office, pushed the door shut and straddled the only other chair in the room.

Henry Mathison laid down his blue pencil and regarded Burdick suspiciously. By rights, Burdick should have been down in Mexico. Mathison had sent him down there to write a series of articles aimed at the tourist trade: an assignment that Burdick had been reluctant to accept.

“Who told you to come back, Ed? I didn’t.”

Burdick grinned. He was a tall, thin blond man in his late thirties. He was probably one of the best writers the Sun had ever had, and he knew it. He took certain liberties but he had never failed to deliver.

“If you’re worrying about that tourist crap, relax. I’ve got it all wrapped up and Burley’s handling it. Henry, something’s come up. I have an idea that if it’s handled right, it could do the Sun a lot of good. It could do you good and me good.”

Mathison fetched out a pack of cigarettes. He looked even more suspicious, but he waited.

“Guess who I ran across in Mexico City ten days ago?” Burdick said, helping himself to one of Mathison’s cigarettes although Mathison hadn’t offered him the pack.

“Tell me. This isn’t a TV quiz.”

“Val Cade, the photographer,” Burdick said and leaned back to watch the effect of his words.

He was disappointed. Mathison lit his cigarette and blew smoke across his soiled blotter.

“Well?” he asked as Burdick waited.

“You remember Cade?”

“Yes, I remember him. He got mixed up with some woman, took to the bottle, loused up the de Gaulle assignment and cost his agent a heap of money. Why should I get interested in a lush like him?”

“Because he happens to be the greatest photographer in the world,” Burdick said crisply.

“If you’ve come all the way back from Mexico to tell me that, I’m still not interested. Just why did you come back, Ed?”

“Because I want to work with Cade.”

Mathison stared, screwed up his eyes and leaned forward.

“Come again.”

“I want to team up with Cade. He and I could give the Sun a new look, and strictly between friends, the Sun could do with a new look.”

“Have you been helping Cade empty his bottle?”

“Henry, I’m serious. If you don’t cotton to this idea, then I’m going to talk to the Times, and if they don’t cotton, I’ll talk to the Tribune. Cade and I as a team could be sensational.”

“The guy’s a lush. He’s hooked. You’re wasting your time. What’s got into you? What makes you think Cade could ever be fit to work again?”

“What makes you think he can’t?”

“I know lushes. Once on the hook, they’re on for keeps.”

“Do you have to be so goddamn pessimistic? What have we to lose? This could be a once in a lifetime idea.”

“Have you talked to Cade about it?” Mathison leaned back in his chair and flicked ash on the floor.

“Of course I have. He’s as keen about it as I am.”

“I understood he was holed up in some Indian’s shack. Then I heard he was living on a pesos a day and a bottle of Tequila. Right?”

“That’s all old hat. He was holed up in a shack. Then he got ill. Wand’s agent, a guy named Adolfo Creel, found him and got him into hospital. They worked on him. He was in hospital for three weeks without a drink. Creel came to me. He begged me to do something. So I saw Cade. I liked him and he liked me. Remember those bull fighting pictures he took? Remember the documentary he did on the Indians? Tremendous stuff, Henry! This guy is as low as a man can get, but he’s ready to rise up again. He’s ready now. Do you realise he has never worked for a newspaper? He has always been so good and so talented no newspaper could ever hook him and you know nearly all of them, including the Sun, have tried some time or other. He’s not yet ready to stand on his own feet, but with me with him and you directing, he’ll come back as good as he ever was and that, as you know, is very, very good indeed.”

Mathison stubbed out his cigarette.

“Just because he hasn’t had a drink for three weeks, doesn’t mean he won’t start drinking as soon as he is out of hospital. I know these lushes.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Burdick said impatiently. “He’s been out of hospital now for a week. He’s right here, and he hasn’t touched anything stronger than a Coke since he’s been out.”

“You mean he’s here?” Mathison said, looking startled.

“That’s what I mean. What’s it to be, Henry? Do I work with Cade or shall we go over to the Times?”

Mathison lit another cigarette. His frown showed he was thinking.

“You’re pretty serious about this, aren’t you, Ed?”

“I am. I want to work with Cade. We’ll make a sensational combination.”

“What had you in mind?”

“I would like to have six pages of the Weekend supplement to fill. We could work out the subjects: the three of us. We would have Cade in colour.”

“Got any ideas?”

“Comparison stuff. Cade’s brilliant at that. The young and the old. The rich and the poor. The weak and the strong. The crooks and the suckers.”

Mathison thought about this, nodded, trying not to show his growing excitement.

“What’s it going to cost?”

“For Cade... as he is? You’ve got a bargain. You can get him for three hundred dollars, a week. And that is a bargain. A year ago he was making four or five times that amount.”

“Hm. Well... might be interesting. Think we could get him on a six year contract?”

“I wouldn’t let him sign a contract for that long. Two years: no more, and five hundred dollars for the second year.”

“Have you appointed yourself his agent?” Mathison asked, looking suddenly sour.

Burdick grinned cheerfully. “I’m making sure he gets a square deal. I know you. Well, what is it to be?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Mathison said. “I don’t promise anything, but at least I will talk to him.”

An hour later, Cade walked into the bar where Burdick was anxiously waiting.

Four months had made a big difference to Cade. He was thinner, harder, and there were white streaks in his black hair. The Mexican sun had burned his skin to an Indian brown, but he didn’t look well. There was a drawn, remote look about him that hinted of a secret illness, but his smile as Burdick looked questioningly at him was alert and pleased.

“Thanks, Ed,” he said, hoisting himself on a stool beside Burdick. “It worked. For better or for worse, I signed for two years.”

Burdick punched him lightly on his bicep.

“Val, old pal, now we will show them! This is something I have really set my heart on. You and I are going places!”

And they did. This was the beginning of a partnership of brilliant reporting that raised the circulation of the New York Sun way above its competitors.

The discipline and the pressure of newspaper routine seemed to agree with Cade. Working to a deadline, having Burdick as a constant companion, gave him little time to brood about the past. There were times when he wanted a drink badly, but he fought off the urge. It was at these times he was thankful to have Burdick, understanding and sympathetic, with him. Burdick had also given up alcohol to make things easier for Cade. Both men now only drank Coca-Cola or coffee.

Burdick had a three-room apartment near the Sun’s office and he persuaded Cade to take the spare room. This was convenient for the two men could work together in comfort and they seldom went to the Sun’s offices except to deliver their finished assignments.

There were times when Cade, before falling asleep, alone in his bedroom, would think of Juana. Her memory was less painful, but he was still in love with her. He knew that if she walked into his room at that moment, he would gladly take her in his arms which proved, he thought ruefully, what a stupid sucker he was. He knew her behaviour had been unforgivable, but he was ready to forgive her. She was in his blood like a virus. Although he often longed for her, he made no attempt to trace her or to find out what was happening to her. It was now six months since she had left him. The bull fight season was over in Spain. She was probably back in Mexico City. He wondered if she were still with Diaz or tiring of him, had found someone else. Cade was very conscious that she was still his wife. He knew he should divorce her, but he could not bring himself even to think of it.

One evening some months after Cade had begun to work for the Sun, he was settling down to watch television when the telephone bell rang.

Burdick, in dressing-gown and pyjamas, was lying on the settee. He lifted his head and glared at the instrument.

“Let it ring,” he said.

This call was to affect Cade’s future destiny. He felt an extraordinary compulsion to answer the call. He hesitated for a long moment, then got to his feet.

“I’d better answer it,” he said and lifted the receiver.

It was Mathison.

“That you, Val?”

“I suppose so,” Cade was sorry now he had answered.

“Listen, Val, things are popping and I haven’t a photographer. Two of my mutton heads are out of town and my other jerk is out of reach. Will you help me?”

Cade grimaced at Burdick, then shrugged.

“What is it, Henry?”

“Old Friedlander has been shot! We have an exclusive on this if we act fast! Lieutenant Tucker is handling it and he’s a good friend of mine. He gave me the tip. Will you get out there, Val?”

Cade could have refused. This kind of work wasn’t in his contract, but he remembered Mathison had given him his chance to rehabilitate himself. This seemed to him to be his chance to even the score.

“I’ll take care of it, Henry. Leave it to me.”

“Good boy! You know the address?”

“I know it. I’m on my way.”

Cade hung up, ran into the bedroom, put on a tie and his jacket, snatched up his camera equipment and started for the front door.

“Where the hell are you off to?” Burdick said, gaping.

“Friedlander’s been shot! I’m covering it!” Cade said and was gone.

Jonas Friedlander was a poet, dramatist, painter and musician. During the past thirty years, he had established himself as a character without whom no artistic event, no opera first night, no literary luncheon could hope for success. He was also a pederast. An ageing, fat, raddled, pot-bellied, slug-like creature who snapped, bit, clawed and caressed his way through New York Society always accompanied by a willowy, frail, beautiful youth who disappeared from time to time to be immediately replaced by yet another willowy, frail, equally beautiful youth who would last no longer than his predecessor.

But Friedlander made news. Whatever he did, whatever he said was scrupulously recorded in the World’s press. Cade knew, as he drove recklessly towards Friedlander’s magnificent penthouse that Mathison had every right to call on him for help. An exclusive on a Friedlander shooting was a scoop that News Editors dream of and news that would electrify the world.

Leaving his car double parked and not caring what happened to it, Cade ran up the steps of the apartment block. He took the elevator to the pent-house. As the elevator door swung back, Cade was confronted by a big, red-faced cop standing guard outside Friedlander’s front door.

Cade crossed the lobby while the cop glared threateningly at him.

“Who are you and where do you think you’re going?” the cop growled.

“Lieutenant Tucker around?” Cade asked briskly.

“What if he is?”

“Tell him Cade of the Sun wants in. Snap it up, Jack. That glaring act of yours is pure horror-comic”

The cop’s jaw dropped. He hesitated, then he opened the front door and stepped inside. Cade shoved his way in after him.

Lieutenant Tucker, a small, white-haired, hard-faced man, was standing in the ornate lobby, talking to another detective. He turned and scowled at Cade as Cade side-stepped the cop and walked up to him.

“Who are you?” Tucker snapped.

“Cade of the Sun. Mathison sent me. What’s going on?”

Tucker’s frown went away. Mathison and he had been to school together. They both helped each other whenever they could.

“Glad to know you, Cade,” he said and shook hands.

“What’s going on?”

“The old fairy tried it on once too often,” Tucker explained. “He forgot to get rid of his boy-friend before he brought in another. They had an argument and the boy shot him.”

“Is he dead?”

“No such luck. He’s in there, making like a hero,” and Tucker jerked his thumb to massive double doors.

“Who’s the boy?”

“Jerry Marshall. Seems a decent enough kid. Probably dazzled and corrupted by the old bastard. Still, he could have killed him.”

“Where is he?”

“The boy?” Tucker nodded to a closed door on his right. “I’m going to talk to him now.”

“I’ll want shots of him.”

“Sure. You can have him when I’m through,” and Tucker opened the door and went into the room.

Cade got his camera out of the case. He screwed on the flash gun and opening one of the big double doors, entered the vast, high-ceilinged lounge, decorated in black and white with Friedlander’s own decadent murals on the walls.

Lying on a chaise longue, covered with a zebra skin and raised on a high dais was Jonas Friedlander. He wore tight, scarlet velvet trousers and he was naked to the waist. Hovering over him was a scared-looking elderly manservant and a tall, thin man who Cade guessed was a doctor who was putting the finishing touches to a bandage on Friedlander’s fat arm.

“How are you feeling?” Cade asked, climbing the steps of the dais and pausing at Friedlander’s side.

The fat man scowled at him.

“Go away! How dare you walk in like this! I won’t have any pictures taken! I feel very bad.”

“I am Val Cade.”

The manservant, tuttering and twittering, advanced on Cade, but Friedlander waved him aside.

“Cade? Are you really? Yes, I recognise you. Well, this is a happy surprise. You are as great an artist as I am... in your own very special field let it be understood. What brings you here?”

“Mr. Friedlander, you must not exert yourself,” the tall, thin man said soothingly.

“Shoo! Run away!” Friedlander snarled. “I will not be dictated to by quacks! Be off!”

The tall, thin man seemed used to this treatment. He beckoned to the manservant and drew him aside. He began whispering to him.

Cade said, “Mr. Friedlander, this shooting can’t remain a secret. You don’t want any kind of photograph of yourself appearing in the Worlds’ press. You know my work. Give me an exclusive and you can be sure of an artistic job.”

Friedlander forced a smile. Although in pain, he was flattered.

“Yes, of course, dear boy. You go right ahead. No other photographer will be allowed in here. After all, a Cade photograph is like a Friedlander painting.”

As Cade began taking photos, he asked casually,

“How did it happen, Mr. Friedlander?”

The old man’s face turned vicious. It was the kind of expression he was hoping for. The shutter snapped as Friedlander said, “The boy is mad! Quite, quite mad! When I think what I have done for him! I had a little friend. It is so stupid. Jerry is madly jealous, but no one dictates to me. He had this gun. I couldn’t believe he would use it.”

The doctor, seeing how pale the old man was growing, signalled to Cade. He had his pictures, so he nodded and stepped back.

“Thank you, Mr. Friedlander. Get well quickly.”

The old man looked on the point of fainting, but actor to the end, he waved a feeble hand as Cade left the room.

The clamour of voices outside the front door warned Cade that the press had arrived.

Tucker came from the side room.

“Go ahead. I can give you ten minutes... no more,” he said. “I guess I’d better talk to these apes outside.”

Cade walked into the room where two bored looking detectives were smoking by the window and a young man sat in an upright chair, his hands between his knees, his shoulders slumped.

Jerry Marshall was twenty three years of age. He was tall, blond and handsome with good features and blue deep-set eyes. As soon as he saw Cade’s camera, he stiffened and became scowlingly hostile.

Cade put the camera on the table.

“I’m Val Cade,” he said. “You have probably heard of me. I want to photograph you, Jerry, but only on your say-so. You’ve made headlines of the World press tonight, and there is nothing you can now do about it. Outside, there are pressmen and photographers. You can’t avoid them. But I’ll do a deal with you. Pose for me and in return I’ll get my paper to hire the best attorney they can find to look after your interests. If there is anything else I can do for you, just say so and I’ll do it.”

Marshall studied Cade, then relaxed.

“I know of you. Who doesn’t? All right, Mr. Cade, it’s a deal.”

Because Marshall wasn’t self-conscious and highly photogenic, Cade only took four flashlight shots, but he knew they were what he wanted.

One of the detectives said, “We have to get this guy down to headquarters, Mr. Cade. Hurry it up, will you?”

“I’m through,” Cade said, then to Marshall, he went on, “I’ll have a lawyer with you tonight... the best. Don’t worry about a thing. Is there anything else I can do?”

Marshall hesitated, then said, “Could you tell my sister what’s happened? I don’t want her to read about it in the papers tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Cade said. “I’ll see her tonight. Where do I find her?”

Marshall took out his wallet and scribbled an address on the back of one of his cards.

“Don’t jump it on her, Mr. Cade.” His face suddenly crumpled and he struggled to hide his emotion. After a moment, he controlled himself. “She and I are pretty close. Let her down lightly. It’ll be a shock.”

“Sure,” Cade said, taking the card. “Don’t worry. Any message?”

“Tell her I wish I had killed the stinking old bastard,” Marshall said.

“I’ll tell her just that. Okay, relax. I’ll fix it for you.”

He picked up his camera case and went out into the lobby. The uproar outside the penthouse made him hesitate. The elderly manservant came hurrying out of the lounge and Cade grabbed him by the arm.

“Is there a back way out of this place?”

The manservant pointed to a door.

“That leads to the service elevator.”

Five minutes later, Cade was in his car and heading for the Sun offices.

He found Mathison impatiently pacing up and down. He put the film cartridge on the desk.

“We’ve got exclusive pictures, Henry, and they are good ones, both of Friedlander and the boy who shot him.”

Mathison snatched up the telephone receiver and yelled for the Photo Editor to come a-running.

“I did a deal with the boy,” Cade went on as Mathison hung up. “Will you arrange for a first-class attorney to take care of him? I have an idea my photos could get him off.”

“What do you mean?” Mathison said, staring at him.

“Wait until you’ve seen them, Henry.”

“I’ll get Bernstein. A case like this is right up his alley.”

“Yes,” Cade started for the door. “I’ve something to do. Get Bernstein down to the boy tonight.”

“Wait a minute! Hey! Val!”

But Cade was already running down the stairs and out to his car. He slid under the wheel and then looked at the card Marshall had given him to check the address. Vicki Marshall, the boy’s sister, lived in an apartment on Tremont Avenue.

As Cade drove towards Tremont Avenue, he was unconsciously keeping yet another appointment with his destiny that was to lead him eventually to a town called Eastonville.

Indifferent to the world-shattering news of Friedlander’s shooting, Ed Burdick lay on the settee watching the Perry Mason show with cynical interest. As the programme was coming to its inevitable end, the telephone bell started its clamour. He hesitated about answering it. Then thinking it might be Cade wanting him, he picked up the receiver.

It was Mathison.

“Ed! I want you down here right away! I don’t give a damn what you are doing. I want you down here!”

“Take it easy, Henry. I’m off duty and I’m staying off duty. Besides I work with Cade now. What’s biting you? Friedlander? Let me tell you something: Friedlander...”

“Stop flapping with your mouth!” Mathison roared. “We have a story, Ed, right here on my desk that you wouldn’t pass up for all the gold in Fort Knox! That Cade! Wow! He’s taken a picture of Friedlander that will crucify the old bastard throughout the world! You’ve never seen anything like this picture! Cade thinks it could get the boy off. I’m damn sure it will. I have Bernstein coming down here. I want you to handle the story. Cade’s done his job. Now it’s up to you and Bernstein!”

Burdick began to get excited.

“Because of Cade’s pictures?”

“Sure. I’m telling you. It’s the picture... wait until you’ve seen it!”

“Remember what you once said, Henry? You said, ‘I know lushes. Once on the hook, they’re on for keeps.’ Remember?”

“So I was wrong. Okay, if it will make you happy, I’ll eat my words. Now, come on down here and stop wasting time.”

“Did Cade give you that picture, Henry?”

“Oh, God! Now what’s biting you?”

“It’s not in his contract to take news pictures,” Burdick said. “You’ll pay him for that picture and you’ll respect his copyright. If it’s as good as you say it is, it will be reproduced all over the world. The Sun doesn’t own the copyright, just remember that.”

“What do you think I am... a thief?”

“You could be unless you’re closely watched, Henry,” Burdick said and hung up.

He was scrambling into his clothes when he heard the front door open. Hastily zipping up his trousers, he came out of his bedroom.

Cade and a tall, blonde girl had entered the living-room.

“Hello, Val,” Burdick said and then looked at the girl. What a beaut! he thought Wherever did she drop from?

“This is Vicki Marshall,” Cade said, setting down his camera bag. “Her brother put a slug in Friedlander’s arm. She is going to stay the night here, out of the way of the reporters.” He turned to the girl and went on, “No one will think of looking for you here, Miss Marshall. Just take it easy and try to stop worrying. I have an idea I can fix it for your brother. I’m going down to the Sun now. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

The girl walked slowly around the table, shedding her black, light-weight coat. She seemed in a state of shock. Her large violet-blue eyes were empty of expression, her full red lips were trembling.

“Sit down,” Cade said gently. “It’s going to work out. You take it easy until I get back.” To Burdick, he went on, “You coming, Ed?”

“Sure. Henry is yelling for me.”

“Then let’s go.”

Vicki Marshall was now sitting in one of the lounging chairs, her head down, her fine gold hair falling forward and hiding her face.

Cade signalled to Burdick and the two men left the apartment. On the way down in the elevator, Cade said, “It’s knocked her sideways. She and the boy are pretty close.”

“Some girl!” Burdick said. “What a looker! Any idea what she does?”

“From what I saw in her place, she is a fashion artist. Very good stuff. I thought it best to get her out of the way. She wanted to go to him, of course, but I persuaded her to wait.”

Ten minutes later, they walked into Mathison’s office. Joel Bernstein was already there. The well-known criminal lawyer was short, fat and aggressive. He was studying one of Cade’s photos of Friedlander. He stood up as Mathison made the introductions. The three men shook hands.

“I wouldn’t want a picture like this printed if I were Friedlander,” Bernstein said, dropping the print on the desk.

Burdick examined it, then whistled. Here was a fat, ageing face of evil and corruption, every wrinkle cruelly etched, the heavy bags under the eyes in deep shadows, the slack ruthless, mean mouth twisted in a snarl.

“We’re not using it,” Cade said quietly. “We can do a deal with Friedlander. We’ll use the others.”

“We won’t!” Mathison exploded. “That’s the one! What are you talking about? These others are nothing!”

Burdick flicked through the other prints.

“They flatter the old fairy,” he said. “That’s the one, Val.”

Cade looked at Mathison.

“These photographs are my property, Henry. You can have the others for free. They show Friedlander’s bandaged arm and that’s news. They are also exclusives. This one will not be used unless I say so.”

“You can’t stop me using it!” Mathison said furiously.

“He can, you know,” Burdick said, “and he can slug the Sun for infringement of copyright.”

Cade turned to Bernstein.

“We could get this thing settled quickly. Would you see Friedlander and show him this print? If he will drop the charges against Marshall and say it was an accident, we don’t print, but if he wants it rough, he can have it rough.”

Bernstein thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Nice idea.” He put the print in his brief-case. “I’ll get over there right away.”

“Now, wait a minute...” Mathison shouted, banging-his fist on the desk. “You...”

But Bernstein walked out of the office without even looking at Mathison.

There was a pause, then Mathison said, “Do you realise, Val, you could have sold that picture to every paper in the world? You could have cleaned up big with it. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. There are times when money isn’t everything. I would like to get the boy off... that’s all there is to it.”

Watching him, Burdick wondered if it was the sister and not the boy who was influencing Cade. He hoped it was.

An hour later, Bernstein telephoned.

“It worked,” he said to Mathison who answered the call. “I’m on my way down to Police Headquarters. Friedlander is dropping the charge. It’s lucky it was his gun and not Marshall’s. His story is Marshall found the gun in a drawer, didn’t realise it was loaded, picked it up and it went off.”

Mathison breathed heavily.

“But everyone will know it’s a lie.”

“Of course, but they won’t be able to prove it’s a lie.”

Mathison looked at the remaining prints of Friedlander and Jerry Marshall. At least he had the exclusives, even if the story was dead.

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks for calling.”

“I’ll have the boy out in an hour. He’ll have to appear in court tomorrow, but that will be a formality. I’ll take care of it all,” Bernstein said and suddenly laughed. “This fellow Cade is something pretty special. It never occurred to me to blackmail Friedlander. He certainly knows his psychology.”

“Yes, doesn’t he?” Mathison said sourly and hung up.

Cade and Burdick were waiting outside police headquarters when Jerry Marshall came out, surrounded by excited press men. An angry cop cleared the way for him to Cade’s car. Getting in, with flashlights popping, Marshall flopped on the back seat as Cade drove away.

“Mr. Bernstein told me what you did for me, Mr. Cade,” Marshall said. “I owe you a lot. Anyway, thanks.”

“You owe more to your sister, Jerry. She’s a pretty nice girl. Try to remember that in the future, will you?”

Burdick smiled to himself. There was a note in Cade’s voice he hadn’t heard before. Burdick had heard about Juana. He had a feeling that Vicki Marshall could be the antidote that he was hoping sooner or later Cade would find.

Cade pulled up outside their apartment.

“Go on up,” he said to Marshall. “We’ll take a drive around. Take her home and keep out of mischief. We want to be in bed in a couple of hours so be out of our place by then.”

Marshall got out of the car. He bent to look at Cade.

“Vicki will want to thank you. Please come up with me.”

Cade shook his head.

“What do I want with thanks? Don’t keep her waiting. So long, Jerry,” and he pulled away from the kerb.

“Nice work,” Burdick said, lighting a cigarette, “and nice girl.”

“Yes,” Cade said.

They drove in silence along the traffic-packed streets, and from time to time Burdick glanced at Cade. The relaxed expression on Cade’s face, the far-away look in his eyes pleased Burdick. This was the first sign that the inner pain and tension that Burdick knew was always with Cade was beginning to lessen.

The following morning, the two men left New York for Hollywood. This was an assignment that had been set up two weeks previously. They were to do an article on the forgotten movie stars, an opportunity for Cade’s camera work that Mathison was sure would be unique.

They returned to New York ten days later. Cade had been following the Friedlander case in the newspapers. The affair had been quickly disposed of as Bernstein had promised. Marshall had been discharged, and Friedlander had gone to Rome to recuperate.

Among his pile of mail, waiting for him at the apartment, was a short note from Vicki Marshall.

The same evening, Cade rang on her front door-bell. He found this girl serious, gentle, understanding and artistic, the companion he had always hoped to find, but up to this moment, had believed a mirage of his imagination.

They talked until two o’clock in the morning. Jerry, she said had gone to Canada. He had a friend in Vancouver who ran a skittle alley and had been pressing Jerry to work with him as his partner. It was a pretty nightmare thing, she said, to have a brother who was homosexual, but it was something you just had to accept. They had always got on well together, and were very fond of each other, but she realised now they were better parted.

She told Cade she was a tremendous admirer of his work. She talked about some of his recent successes, and it pleased him she really knew what she was talking about. This wasn’t idle flattery.

When he finally looked at his watch and saw the time, he got to his feet.

“I have a few free days,” he said. “How are you fixed? Could we go somewhere tomorrow? We could get out of town...”

She looked at the clutter of drawings on the big table under the window.

“I can’t. I would love to, but not tomorrow. You could come here tomorrow evening for dinner. Would you like that?”

“Very much. All right, suppose we go out? I know a place...”

She smiled.

“Are you afraid of my cooking?”

He suddenly thought of Juana. Vicki saw his sudden expression of pain and she said quickly, “Then let’s go out. I would like that.”

“No, I would prefer to come here. It’s nicer here.”

For the next ten days, he was around at her apartment every evening. It was after the fourth evening, after he had told her about Juana, about his drinking, about the nightmare weeks when he had lived in an Indian shack not caring whether he was alive or dead that he realised he was in love with her. He was careful to say nothing although he felt she was also in love with him. The ghost of Juana was too close still and too dangerous. He was frightened of starting something that would come to pieces as the Juana episode had come to pieces.

He welcomed the assignment that took him and Burdick to Paris. It was May, and Burdick thought they should do an article on the American tourist invasion of Paris. Cade agreed. He needed time and distance to get his association with Vicki into perspective. He thought continuously of her while in Paris, and on the flight back, eight days later, he made his decision. He would get his divorce, and as soon as he was free, he would ask Vicki to marry him.

Without saying anything to Burdick, he consulted a lawyer, specialising in divorce. He was told there would be no difficulty. Mexican divorces went through quickly and easily. He would have to go down to Mexico City for a couple of weeks. The lawyer gave him the address of his Mexican representative who he said would arrange everything.

Cade told Mathison he had sudden urgent personal business to take care of and would be out circulation for two weeks. That was all right with material. He had plenty of Cade’s material to run on.

Cade told Burdick he was going to Mexico to get his divorce. Guessing what was in the wind, Burdick wished him luck.

Cade spent the evening before his departure with Vicki. He said nothing about the divorce. He feared there might be an unexpected snag, and until he was sure he was free, he couldn’t bring himself to confide in her. He said he had to go to Mexico to clear up some outstanding business.

The following morning, he flew to Mexico City.