Eve

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.”

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.