Get a Load of This

TWIST IN THE TALE

The first time I met George Hemingway was when I was after marlin off Key West. I ran into him in a casual sort of way in the Plaza Hotel. He was with a large crowd and I was on my own. It was my first experience of deep-sea fishing, and I rather wanted to experiment by myself. I had had a year of worry and hard work steering my firm through the depression, and now that things were looking pretty good again, I considered that I had earned a few weeks off. So down I went to Key West. I had heard a lot about the fishing there, and I thought it sounded just the right sport for my frame of mind.

I put myself in the hands of Joppy, one of the finest fishermen on the coast. He and I went out in a fast motor-boat nearly every day. He was a soft-spoken, patient sort of a guy, and I guess he wanted all his patience by the time I got through. We fished those waters for over a week without seeing anything remotely resembling marlin. I guess they thought I was too mean a guy to bother about, and even Joppy began looking at me thoughtfully towards the end of the week.

I remember sitting in the lounge bar of the ‘Plaza’ after a completely uneventful day, wondering what the hell deep-sea fishermen could see in such a slow sport, when about a dozen people drifted in, making enough row to scare all the marlin right out of the Mexican Bay. They crowded up to the bar, and because I was at a complete loose end I watched them with, what must have amounted to, almost rude curiosity.

The girls were the usual type of brittle beauty that infest the luxury hotels during the season. There were five of them, and they all were wearing beach trousers, sandals, and gay-coloured handkerchiefs that hid their firm, curved breasts. They were chattering and laughing as they always do, and as soon as they had settled their neat little bottoms on stools they began drinking pink gins at an astonishing rate.

With the exception of George Hemingway, the men were also true to type. They wore white trousers, a handkerchief of various hues round their necks and, of course, the inevitable doe-skin shoes.

My eyes swept over the group and came to rest on George. He immediately attracted my attention, and I wondered who he was. His personality was so strong that he made the others seem mere paintings on the wall. He was tall, with big powerful shoulders, tapering away to a small waist and very long legs. You could see at a glance how much he enjoyed the good things in life, and his enormous vitality for absorbing them.

I noticed that he paid for all the drinks out of a well-worn wallet. It amused me to watch these people and to see the clever way the women out-manoeuvred one another to be the centre of attraction.

After a while they all got through with their drinks and decided to go out for a bathe. George told them to go on as he’d left his costume in his room. He stood with a big, humorous grin on his bronzed face watching them troop out, and then turned to the elevator. As he turned he caught my eye, and realizing that I had been watching him for sometime he came over.

“I’m Hemingway,” he said. “Are you all by yourself?”

I explained that it was of my own choosing, and went on to tell him about the deep-sea fishing. His eyes lit up at the mention of marlin. “What sort of sport have you had?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I find it mighty slow,” I said ruefully. “I haven’t seen anything that looks like a big fish since I’ve been here.”

Hemingway looked rather guiltily out of the big window at the group running down to the bathing-pool. “Listen, buddy,” he said, “how about you and me having a go tomorrow morning early? Believe it or not, there’s no one interested in fishing in my party, and I’ve been itching to get my hands on a rod. What do you say?”

I readily agreed. By now I had seen the error in not having a companion on this trip. I had imagined that I should have been so busy fishing that another person would have only been in the way.

Well, to cut a long story short, we had a day’s fishing which will remain long in my memory. George seemed to know where to find the fish, and Joppy, who came with us, was almost as excited as I.

During that day, cruising in the dark blue waters of the Mexican Bay, we formed a friendship which was altogether remarkable, because neither of us had anything in common. My real interest was in my work. I was unmarried, and had little or no use for a gay life. I was fortunate in having a number of good friends, most of them connected with my business, and as a hobby I wrote light novels which had a moderate success.

On the other hand, George lived recklessly, drank heavily, and, in his own words, ‘chased dames’. His absorbing passion was speed. He owned a number of cars, but his favourite was a big racing Bugatti, which he would drive, whenever he could, at an almost fantastic speed.

I often wondered why it was that he so obviously liked me and sought my company. During the three weeks I remained at Key West he was my constant companion. The little regiment of lovelies who followed him around regarded me with suspicion. I could quite understand my unpopularity. In my company, George seemed to find them boring, and that meant they had to look elsewhere for someone to buy them their drinks and the hundreds of other little luxuries they could not afford for themselves.

On the last night of my stay at the ‘Plaza’ I remember George coming into my room and sitting on my bed. I was just putting a finishing touch to my toilet, and I recollect having difficulty in fixing my tie to my satisfaction.

George sat there watching me. Then he said: “I’m going to miss you a hell of a lot. I wish you were staying.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to go. I’ve had a grand time. Maybe we’ll see something of each other later on.”

George said seriously: “When I come to New York I’d like to see a lot more of you.”

I was pleased that he felt that way, and we exchanged cards. I hoped I would see him soon, as I found his company very exhilarating.

Well, you know how it is. I got back to New York and was immediately caught up in arrears of business. For several weeks I forgot all about him. Then one morning I saw his photograph in the Times and an account of a motor-race he had taken part in. The racing correspondent considered that he was going to be a leading star in the racing world. I was surprised that he had entered this field, but I sent him a note of congratulation, as I thought it would please him. Whether he received the note or not I don’t know, but I didn’t have any reply. I had to go to Washington for a couple of months as we were operating a new branch there, so any hope of meeting George in New York had to be postponed.

His rise to fame in the speed world was remarkable. Soon no motor-race was considered anything at all unless he was a competitor. In fact, he began to win so consistently that his name rapidly became a household word. He apparently had no nerves. It was not that he was more skilful than the other drivers, but that he attained a maximum speed and kept to it. Cornering rough roads and dangerous hills meant nothing to him. He sent the machine he was driving forward like a bullet, and by some miracle finished in one piece. So great was the enthusiasm and talk about his daring that one Saturday afternoon I made an effort and attended one of the races in which he was competing.

I shall never forget that afternoon. And when his car hurtled past the flag a good quarter of a mile ahead of the next man, I found that my legs were almost too weak to support me to the Club bar, and that my shirt was sticking to my back in a most unpleasant manner as I sweated with fear for him and morbid excitement.

I knew it was quite hopeless to get near George until the admiring crowd had moved away, so I fortified myself in the meantime with some very excellent bourbon.

About half an hour after the race George came into the bar, followed by a large crowd of people. One glance was sufficient to tell me that his company was the usual hard-drinking, empty-headed lot. As I hadn’t seen him for over six months, I regarded him with interest. I thought he looked a lot thinner and a lot older. I was rather astonished to see that he was drinking ginger ale, whilst the crowd was belting neat Scotch.

I hesitated to approach him, surrounded by so many obviously ardent admirers; and while I was making up my mind what to do, he happened to glance up and see me. For a moment he looked puzzled, then his face lit up, and with an abrupt excuse he left his party and hurried over to me.

He shook my hand almost feverishly. “This is marvellous,” he said; “for God’s sake where have you been all this time?”

I told him about my business engagements, but I could see he was only giving me half his attention. In fact, he broke in to say: “I must talk to you. I’ve got to get rid of this crowd first. Will you meet me outside and have dinner with me?”

I readily agreed, and he returned to his party, who had been watching us with curious attention, no doubt wondering who I was.

He didn’t keep me waiting long. It was really quite astonishing how quickly he got rid of so many people, but in less than fifteen minutes he joined me outside the Club. Grabbing my arm, he hurried me across the road to where his Bugatti was standing.

“Still got the old bus, I see,” I said, climbing in rather gingerly.

“Yes, she’s been overhauled from time to time, but I wouldn’t part with her.” He settled himself in the driving-seat. “It’s grand to see you again. Where shall we go? How about Max’s? They give you a good dinner there.”

“Sure, any place. Only take it easy,” I pleaded. “I’m not used to high speeds.”

George laughed and engaged the gears. He drove at quite a reasonable speed. He wanted to know the fullest details about my trip to Washington, and so insistent was he that I suspected he was anxious not to talk about himself until we had settled down from our sudden meeting.

We got a quiet table at Max’s, which was not overcrowded, and ordered a light meal. I asked him what he would drink, but he shook his head. “I’ve given it up,” he said. “It wanted a lot of doing, but in my game it just doesn’t pay.”

I ordered a bottle of light wine for myself. “You certainly have jumped into fame, George,” I said. “What on earth made you take up racing so seriously?”

He looked at me in an odd way. “Why shouldn’t I? You know how keen I am on speed.”

“I know, but I didn’t think you were as keen as all that. After all, if you do want a burst of speed now and then you have the Bugatti. Frankly, I think you are taking the most damnable risks. You scared the life out of me this afternoon.”

George nodded. “You’re a wise old guy. There is a reason, and a very good reason too.”

“It must be,” I said. “I’ve never seen, nor do I hope ever to see again, such mad driving in all my life. Do you honestly mean to tell me that you have been doing this for the last six months?”

“It is very difficult for me. I’ve got nothing on these professionals in the way of tricks—and, believe me, there are plenty of tricks in this game. In order to win I just keep going as fast as I can and that’s my one ace.”

I couldn’t understand this at all. “Surely it isn’t so important to win as all that,” I said, frowning. “I mean, you don’t strike me as a person who must win at everything, and it is not as if you can’t afford to lose sometimes.”

The waiter interrupted us just then with our first course, and for a few minutes there was silence. Then George said, “You see, Myra expects me to win.”

I said, “Oh,” rather blankly, and then: “I’m sorry, George, but I’m rather out of touch. Who is Myra?”

George said with an effort: “Myra is the girl I’m going to marry.”

Automatically I murmured my congratulations, but I was extremely puzzled, as he didn’t seem at all happy. In fact, my congratulations fell rather flat.

There was rather a long, strained silence after that, then I said, “Well, tell me all about it.”

George sat back with a little shrug. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t want to bother you with details. You see, Myra likes celebrities. At first she wouldn’t look at me. Then some of the crowd began to talk about my driving and she took a little interest. I sort of took up the racing to please her, and now we are going to get married.”

All the time he was talking he avoided looking at me, and I thought it was a most extraordinary story. “But surely, George, she must realize what risks you are taking. I mean, she wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

I found that I was floundering, and stopped talking, annoyed at myself. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that marriage should be founded on a quarter of love and three-quarters companionship. It seemed too much like a Hollywood wedding to please me.

George shook his head. “Why, I guess she’s got a lot of confidence in my driving.”

I said, rather dryly, “I see.”

“No, you don’t,” George said miserably. “You think it is most odd, and so it is. What is more, this racket is getting too much for me. I can’t keep it up much longer.”

As he spoke his face relaxed, and I saw a horror in his eyes that startled me. It is not often that one sees naked fear in a man’s face, but I saw it that night and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“I don’t think there is a man alive who could,” I said. “Why don’t you drop it right away? After all, you have enough fame now. You’ve done quite enough.”

“No, I can’t do that. I can’t expect you to understand. I’ve got to go until I’m married—then perhaps—”

I said: “Let’s go to the bar and have a brandy. It’ll do you good.”

“I daren’t touch it,” George said. “If I once start again, I’m sunk.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “My God! I had a close shave once. It was when Myra came to see me race for the first time. I wanted to put on a good show, but I felt edgy and nervous. So I hit the bottle. That cured me. I took a bend at over a hundred miles an hour. Everyone thought it was marvellous driving, and Myra got a tremendous kick out of it, but I knew how close I had been to a smash-up. I found I was losing my sense of judgment, so I gave up the booze. I tell you, sometimes I get pretty scared.”

I began to get seriously worried. It was quite obvious to me that he was making a tremendous effort to seem casual, but every now and then I would get a glimpse of an expression in his eyes that told me he was in a very bad shape. There was no doubt that he was terrified, almost as pathetically as a child awakening from some evil nightmare.

I asked him when he was getting married.

“Early next month. I have two more races, and then I’m going to Key West for my honeymoon. That’s really what I want to speak to you about. I want you to come along for some fishing.”

I stared at him. “My dear fellow. Not on your honeymoon. Why, damn it—”

He laughed. “For God’s sake don’t be so old-fashioned. Of course you can. Myra likes plenty of company. Quite a lot of the crowd will be there.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, George, it’s quite impossible. I’ve got my work to think about, and I’m just finishing a novel. No, I’m sorry.”

When I said that, I realized that there was a lot more behind this peculiar wedding than George had told me. He suddenly seemed to lose control of himself, and I thought he was going to break down. He seized my arm in a grip that made me wince. “Don’t let me down,” he said, “I’ve been relying on you. I don’t think I could stand it if you weren’t there.”

I said, rather sharply, “What the devil is this business?”

He shook his head. “Don’t ask me. You’ll know in time. Don’t say you won’t come. You must come.”

I finally gave him my promise. Almost immediately he braced up and seemed anxious to get away. “I’m sorry about all this,” he said, signalling to the waiter, “but I am frightfully nervy after a race. A good night’s sleep will put me right, I expect. I can’t say how glad I am that you’re coming. It’ll be like old times, won’t it?”

He drove me back to my apartment, but refused to come in. “I’ll write and give you the details as soon as I get everything fixed up. Myra will be tickled when she hears you are an author. She gets a big kick out of that sort of thing.”

I looked at him sharply because I was almost certain that there had been a sneer in his voice, but I could detect nothing from his expression. We shook hands and parted. I went up to my apartment in a very thoughtful mood. It had been an evening full of strange and uncomfortable incidents.

The following day I obtained a clue to the whole thing. It came about in the course of a casual conversation with Drayton, my senior director. He and I had just finished an excellent lunch, and I was on the point of leaving to buy a harness for the fishing trip with George.

Drayton asked me where I was going to fish. I told him how I had met George, and I could see an immediate interest at the mention of his name.

“Hemingway? He’s the fellow in oil, isn’t he?”

“I really don’t know. I have never asked. This Hemingway is the motor-racing fellow.”

“Yes. I didn’t know you knew him. Between you and me, I’m afraid he’s going to run into a packet of trouble before long.”

Sensing that I was on the very clue that might explain all this business I sat down again. “What sort of trouble?”

Drayton lowered his voice. “I understand that the particular oil-fields he’s invested in have dried up without warning. His firm are facing one of the biggest crashes in the history of Wall Street. No one knows about it yet. Engineers are out there making a report. It has never happened before. Everyone thought oil had been struck in a big way. It lasted until all the necessary machinery was set up and then—finish. It is incredible.”

I stared at him. “He’s getting married next month,” I said. “Poor devil. I suppose he’s aware what has happened?”

Drayton coughed. “His future wife is Myra Luckton. She is an heiress in her own right to over six million dollars. I should imagine the marriage comes at a very opportune moment.”

Well, there it was. The cat was out of the bag, and I didn’t have to wonder any more. I knew. It was now perfectly obvious that George was marrying this girl in order to save his financial position, and he fell very considerably in my estimation. I didn’t say anything to Drayton, but went out to make my purchases. Now that I had seen the beginning of this thing I was determined to see the finish.

Time passed fairly quickly, as I was working hard to finish the book before going to Key West. I noticed that George had been in another race. This time the newspapers carried two-inch type about his sensational escape from death. It appears that he rounded a corner with the utmost recklessness, and got into a skid while travelling well over a hundred miles an hour. The car overturned several times, throwing him clear. He escaped unhurt, but the car was utterly destroyed by fire.

Reading the description made me think of the day I saw him race, and I tossed the paper away with a grimace of disgust. I could see the look of terror in his face and wondered doubtfully how his nerves were reacting to this last escape.

A week after this I received a note from George asking me down to Key West on the following Saturday. He said in his letter that he would not ask me to the wedding as he knew I should be bored with the hundreds of people who were turning up.

They are not your fun [he wrote], nor are they mine, but Myra wants them to come. It will be better at Key West. I received a bad shaking the other day when my bus overturned. I feel now that that was my last race. Myra doesn’t know yet.

His handwriting revealed that he was in a very bad state of nerves, and the allusion to his last race struck me as significant. I hoped the change by the Mexican Bay would do him good, but I must confess the trip had lost a lot of its savour for me now that I knew why he was marrying the girl.

However, Saturday came round after a busy week clearing up and, to save time, I did the journey by air.

I went immediately to the very beautiful house near the beach that George had rented. As my car swung into the short circular drive I was conscious of a considerable amount of noise and laughter drifting through the large open windows. It seemed that George and noise were inevitably linked together.

George came running out. He was wearing white trousers, a dark red shirt and sandals. I had to admit that he looked extraordinarily handsome as he stood on the steps with a smile on his face. “What a grand sight,” he said, shaking my hand. “How are you? They are all longing to meet a real live author. Come on in.”

He had been drinking heavily and was slightly unsteady on his feet. The reek of whisky on his breath was so strong that I turned my head with a slight grimace of disgust. He said with a grin: “Sorry, ol’ man, but we’ve been cel-cel—you know. Come on in, an’ get tight. I warn you, you’ve got to get tight an’ stay tight if you’re staying in this dump.”

He took me into a large lounge. At the far end, through open double doors, I could see a number of people sitting or standing with glasses in their hands. They all looked in our direction. One of the girls came to the door, then moved towards us.

George said, “This is Myra,” and introduced me.

Myra Luckton’s name was familiar to me as frequent references to her parties appeared in the Press, but I don’t remember ever seeing a photograph of her, and, consequently, it came as a considerable shock meeting her for the first time. It was entirely due to a habit of wearing a poker face that I did not openly reveal my dismay.

It is exceedingly difficult to describe Myra. She was above the average height, small-featured, silky platinum hair, and, of course, she was perfectly groomed. So much for what God and money had given her, but her expression took away everything that could have counted in her favour. To be brutally frank, she looked like a very expensive street-walker. Her eyes were cold, calculating and vicious, and her mouth was hard. She gave me the impression that she was utterly brazen, and there was nothing she would hesitate to do to satisfy a lust for sensation.

I’m afraid I must have betrayed a little of my dismay, or else she was very shrewd, because, as she took my hand, she gave me a little jeering laugh and said: “What a lovely man. I do believe I’ve shocked him already.”

George was watching me too. “Take no notice of her,” he said, “she’s as tight as a tick.”

She laughed as he said that and put one slim white arm round his neck. “Do come in and meet the others,” she said. “They’ve all read your books and they think they’re too marvellous.”

Later, when I escaped to my room, I was very thankful to sit by the window and look across at the beautiful bay. I had quite made up my mind that I could not stay in this house long.

I proceeded to change for dinner. As I wandered around the large airy room, shedding my clothes about the floor, I turned over in my mind the tragedy of George’s wedding.

It was quite obvious to me that he detested Myra. She was obviously thrilled to have married someone so famous, but there was no question of her having any true affection for him. It was a thoroughly unpleasant marriage.

A tap sounded on the door, and George came in. He sat on the bed. I saw that he was still rather high, but his face was very serious and lined as he stared at me. “What do you think of her?” he asked abruptly.

That was the one question I never thought he would ask me. It annoyed me to think that he was forcing me into a lie, as I could not tell him the truth.

He saw my hesitation. “Say it. Speak your mind. You’re the one guy I’ve met who has been on the level with me. So tell me.”

“I’m afraid you are not very happy,” I said. “I’m sorry, George.”

“My God! You don’t want to be sorry for me. I’ve brought it on myself, haven’t I? I knew what I was doing. No, I’m a heel. I’ve sold myself to that woman for the stacks of dollars she’s got. You know that, don’t you?”

I lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window. “I must tell you that there is a rumour that your firm, Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis, are in a bad way.”

George stared at me. “You know that?” he asked, his face going very white. “Who else knows?”

“It’s not common talk yet, but I’m afraid it will be very soon.”

“You think I’m a heel, don’t you?” he said. “You think I’m marrying this girl to save my own skin. Well, you’re wrong. I’m trying to save all those little guys who put their money into the oil-fields because I told them they couldn’t go wrong. I thought it was a good thing. We all did. We let the little man in and kept the big speculator out. It was to be the small man’s dream. It was my idea; it is my responsibility. I was the fool who thought the idea up. My partners didn’t care a damn so long as they got the backing. I said: ‘We’ll give the little guy a chance,’ and then the wells went dry—”

I went over and sat by his side. “What’s Myra going to do about this?”

“She wants her pound of flesh. She’ll give me enough capital to pay out the shareholders if—” He got up and began to wander round the room.

“Well, go on. If—what?”

“There’s a big race at Miami next week. The trophy is for the fastest speed on land. You don’t just have to beat the other guy, you’ve got to beat your own previous best record. She says if I get that, I can have the dough.”

“Why are you drinking again?” I asked.

“Because I’m so scared that I’ve got to drink. I hate this house and everyone in it; I hate the sound of her voice and her laugh. If I don’t drink I shall crack up.”

“I’m sorry about this, George,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

He made a little grimace. “Yes, you can. I’m afraid it isn’t a pleasant job. You see, I don’t trust Myra. I want to get it down on paper. I want you to witness it and see that, in the event of an accident, she carries out her bargain.”

“Don’t talk like that. There mustn’t be an accident. Besides, the whole thing falls down if you don’t win the race.”

He shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact she would be more thrilled if I was killed. You see, it would give her a lot more fun being a widow of a racing-ace, and she is quite prepared to pay for that.”

What could I say? The whole business was, from the very start, fantastic, but now it was rapidly developing into a nightmare.

He was quite right about the week being grim. Myra seemed to find me amusing, and took special pains in keeping me away from George. We did not get one day’s fishing during the whole week. In fact, I took refuge in my room as much as possible with the excuse that I was polishing the last chapter of my book.

The topic of conversation was entirely about the coming race. George was seldom sober, and joined in with the crowd as if he had nothing on his mind. Myra and he were never alone together, and the rest of the party seemed to find nothing odd in this. Myra came in for an enormous amount of admiration as George’s wife, and I could see how she revelled in being the centre of attraction.

During the week I had the opportunity of studying her, and I came to the conclusion that she was an exceedingly dangerous woman. Sometimes, I would catch her watching George, and I could see a smouldering suppressed hatred in her eyes which made me extremely uneasy.

On the Sunday before the race, George asked me to come into the library. “I’ve got a draft drawn up. I want you to look it over, and then witness her signature.”

We went into the library. Myra was sitting in an easy chair. She smiled at me as I came in. “So George has let you into our little secret,” she said. There was a tigerish look in her eyes as she spoke. “What do you think of him? Do you think it is awfully nice to marry a girl for her money?”

“Surely, Mrs. Hemingway,” I said quietly, “it is not so one-sided as that. I believe you have struck a bargain as well.”

She laughed. “Why, of course, and I always get the best of a bargain. I’m not so stupid as you think.”

George said abruptly: “Shall we get this over, and join the others?”

She shrugged. “Poor little George. He is so anxious to save his silly investors.”

George gave me a sheet of paper. It contained very few words:

I promise to pay the sum of one million dollars to my husband if he wins the Morgan Golden Road Trophy. In the event of an accident resulting in his death during the race, I will pay that sum to Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis. My cheque to be given immediately the race has been won.

I looked at her. “Have you seen this?” I asked her.

She laughed. “My dear man,” she said, “I drew it up myself. Are you satisfied? Here, give it to me. I will sign it.”

I re-read it and, finding no fault with it, I passed it over to her and she signed it. I witnessed her signature and handed the paper to George.

He shook his head. “You keep it,” he said, “it will be safer with you.”

She looked at him with her jeering smile. “Run away, George. I want to talk to Mr. Arden for a few minutes.”

When he had left us she lit a cigarette and stood up. There was no doubt she was very beautiful. “You must think my behaviour is very odd,” she said.

“The whole thing is so utterly preposterous that I would rather not discuss it,” I said tartly.

“George is afraid, isn’t he?” she said. “No one but you and I know that. He’s horribly scared. I’ve been watching him for several weeks now. The last time he raced he was nearly killed because he lost his nerve. I don’t think he’ll win this race, do you?”

I faced her. “Are you telling me that you think he will be killed.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t think he would win.”

“Does he mean anything to you?”

Her eyes flashed. “Why do you ask that? Has he been talking?”

“If he does mean anything to you, why don’t you let him have the money and tell him you don’t want him to race?”

“Are you mad?” She burst out laughing. “Think of the thrill I’m going to have. I’m gambling with a million dollars. I shall watch every yard of the race. Think of George, scared stiff, knowing that if he doesn’t win, hundreds of his little suckers will be ruined. Suppose others get ahead of him. Think how he will feel then. Suppose he finds he just can’t win, then his only chance is to kill himself. By God! What a sensation! Will he value his little suckers more than his life?” Her eyes looked a little mad. “I don’t care what it costs me, I wouldn’t miss this race for anything in the world.”

I went to the door. “Your attitude is incredible,” I said. “I don’t think we have anything further to say to each other. Good night.”

She ran over to me. “Wait,” she said. “You write novels, don’t you? What a wonderful story this will make for you. It only wants that little twist that all good stories have. Just wait for that.” She laughed in my face. “Oh, it’s such a lovely little twist. You’ll be so very thrilled when you know about it.”

I went out of the room and left her there. I was sure that she was a little insane, and the thought of George getting himself involved with such a woman made me sick at heart.

The race was due to start at eleven o’clock. George and I went off early together. We left the house quietly without saying good-bye to Myra.

George said that he didn’t want to see her until the race was over. He looked very ill as he sat at the wheel of the Bugatti, and he drove at a steady twenty-five miles an hour the whole way to the aerodrome. It took us a very short while to reach the Florida course, where the race was being held. He asked me to come to the pits just before the race was to start. “I’d like to have your good wishes,” he said.

I hung about watching the bustle and activity that inevitably precedes a big race. I watched the vast crowd slowly arriving. I thought I saw Myra and her party arrive and take seats in the grandstand, but I wasn’t sure. I had made up my mind to watch the race from the pits.

Finally, a mechanic came running towards me and I went to meet him. “Mr. Hemingway is about ready now, sir,” he said.

I saw he was looking worried. And as we walked towards the pits, where I could see about two dozen cars lining up, I asked him what he thought of George’s chances.

“He’s got a load on, sir,” the mechanic said, shaking his head. “No guy can drive if he’s plastered.”

I quickened my pace. George was already sitting in his car. His reputation had brought him a stiff handicap, and he was going to be the last off the starting post.

I ran up to him. “All right, George?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sure, I’m all right. There’s nothing on four wheels that’s going to catch me today.”

His face was very white and his eyes were glassy. He had certainly been drinking, and he looked completely reckless.

“Don’t take chances,” I said, shaking his hand, “I’ll look after things for you. Good luck, old man.”

The noise of the engine made it difficult for us to hear each other. “Good-bye,” George shouted, “look after my little investors, won’t you?” and at that moment the flag fell and he roared away.

I hurried to the pits and stood near a group of mechanics. They were talking in low voices, but I overheard what they were saying. They all seemed worried about George. “Nearly a whole bottle of Scotch went down his throat,” one of them said; “he must be crazy.”

“Yeah, well, look at him now. Look at the speed he’s going.”

All eyes were on the small red car as it flashed round the course. George had already overtaken three of his competitors, and as he came into the straight he opened up and with a snarling roar the car shot forward. All the other cars had opened up, but the leading cars were slowing down for the bend. George came on, took the bend at full speed, tore up the bank, and for a moment we thought his wheels had left the track, but with a few feet to spare he was down into the straight again.

There was a terrific burst of cheering as he nosed his way into the first three.

“What do you call that?” a mechanic demanded. “Do you call that driving?”

“Do you think he’ll last?” Myra asked.

I turned abruptly and found her at my elbow. Her eyes were fixed on the red car, and I could see she was quivering with excitement.

I said rather bitterly: “Don’t you think you’ll see better if you go to the stand?”

“I want to be with you. I want to see his face if he wins,” she said. “Look, he’s coming round again. He’s getting in front. Really, isn’t he marvellous? Oh, God! Look, they’re trying to squeeze him. They’ve cornered him! Look, look, if he loses his head… he’s finished.”

The three cars flashed past us. George was in the middle. The other two were trying to crowd him, but as he didn’t fall back they were beginning to lose their nerve. There couldn’t have been more than a foot between each car.

I shouted suddenly: “He’ll beat them on the bend. You see, they’ll slow down for the bend. Come on, George, come on, for the love of Mike!”

I was right. Suddenly the red car shot clear and whizzed round the bend at a sickening speed. The others fell back and George was in the lead.

I heard Myra scream suddenly: “Blast him! He’s going to win after all.”

George was coming up for the last lap. The noise of the cars and the shouting was deafening. Round he came into the straight. It was like watching a red smudge. I don’t know how it happened; no one knew. It was not as if he were taking a corner. It looked as if he knew he had won and then suddenly thrown in his hand. The car swerved right across the track, turned over, bounced in the air like a huge ball and then burst into flames.

Myra screamed and I ran forward. It was no use. Other cars were still thundering past and no one could get across the track. When at last we did get there, it was too late. George had been strapped in, and one look at the blackened, twisted car told me it was useless to stay.

I walked away, feeling sick and too stunned to really realize what had happened.

As I climbed into my car, Myra came up to me. Her eyes were very dark, and her mouth worked rather horribly.

“Give me that paper,” she said.

Because I wanted to get away I took the paper from my wallet and looked at her. “This isn’t the time now to talk about this. I’ll come and see you later.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” she said. She seemed to be speaking through locked teeth. “I fooled George and I fooled you. Read what it says. Didn’t I promise to pay my husband one million dollars? Well, he wasn’t my husband, I can contest that. By the time the court has made a ruling, it will be too late. George’s little suckers will be down the drain.”

I said: “What do you mean? George married you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he married me, but that was all. He didn’t lie with me. Oh no! My money was good enough for him, but I wasn’t. He thought it was sufficient just to marry me—the fool.”

I stared at her. “You can’t prove that,” I said slowly. “Surely you are keeping to your agreement?”

“Prove it? It will take years not to prove it. By that time the money will not be needed. Tear up the paper, Mr. Arden. You know as well as I do that it’s useless now. The poor fool killed himself, although he won the race…. Do you know why? Because he despised himself for marrying me. No man can treat me like that. I warned you, didn’t I, about the twist in the tale.” She laughed hysterically. “Don’t you think it’s lovely?”

I engaged the gears and drove away, leaving her still laughing.