Sinful Woman

Chapter Five

Compared with Sylvia’s glowing twenty-five, Dmitri Spiro’s age was sallowly middle; compared with her slender curvation, his contours were distressingly blimpish. Yet he was still under forty, and in spite of pallor, fat, and baldness, he gave off something describable as magnetism. Spiro wasn’t his name, but it was a fair approximation of his mother’s name, she having been Hungarian; his father’s Lithuanian name was wholly unsayable and unwritable, at least to Americans, and he had dropped it. He had started life as stable boy on the estates of the late Baron Vladimir Alexis Gustavus Adlerkreutz, near Memel, where his father had charge of the cattle and his mother had charge of the cheese, curds, and butter. Respect for the Herrschaft was a prominent feature of the Spiro household, and young Dmitri early learned the deep bow that a peasant must give them, and the correct way to take off his hat to them, and the rigid stance that was required in speaking to them, to be relaxed only in case of critical moisture in the nose, when relief with the back of the hand was permissible. He had one friend, however: the young Vicki Adlerkreutz, son of the baron, and owner of a fine Shetland pony.

After the last war, however, his education was interrupted, for he returned to Buda-Pest, whence he had been taken as a child, and got work tending horses in one of the circuses there. It wasn’t long, however, before he persuaded the management to let him do a comic turn with the clowns.

Comedians are the business men of the theatre; indeed comedy is a business, requiring bookkeepers to keep track of its jokes, its emoluments, and its taxes. After that, his rise in show business was rapid, as was his increase in weight, and acquaintanceship with actresses of the grand, or Viennese style. Soon he had a company, first in Buda-Pest, then in Vienna, a theatre, and a monocle. But then came certain upheavals, and long before Anschluss he left hurriedly, for Paris. There he tried to get started again, but succeeded only in losing such money as he had been able to salvage. He came to Hollywood, and had been there only a few days when he met, at Vine and Selma, his former friend, the young Victor Alexis Olaf Herman Adlerkreutz, now baron in sight of God and all men except Hitler, who had taken his estates. It was the greatest moment of his life when Vicki recognized him, kissed him on both cheeks, dragged him into the Brown Derby, and borrowed $5. For the rest of his day he relaxed, and permitted his head to swim, and inhaled the iridescent beauty of the sunshine at the reflection that he, Dmitri Spiro, a peasant boy, had been thus treated by Adlerkreutz, a baron of Lithuania, with full seignorial rights over the peasant girls of his domain, and no doubt a great many actresses too.

From then on he and Vicki saw each other a great deal, and within a week had taken an apartment together in Beverly Hills. Then the ex-comic, the business man of the theatre, saw the use to which he could put his handsome friend. A young girl was just coming up in pictures, could be made into a star. She had been, not a waitress as she usually said, but a hostess in a Wilshire Boulevard restaurant that bought time on the air for a little lunch-hour feature called Your Favorite Celebrity. When the regular announcer failed to show up one day, she had taken over the mike, and managed it with such tact, wit, and charm, that overnight she was a celebrity herself. Then she got a part in a picture. So one night at the Mocambo, Dmitri appeared at her table with a sketch he had made of her, and asked her to sign it. It was small, risqué, and good. Laughing, she signed, and the next night he presented his friend, Baron Adlerkreutz. The month after that she made a picture, The Glory of Edith Cavell. The month after that, not quite sure how it happened, she was the Baroness Adlerkreutz, rather pleased at the title, wholly captivated by Vicki, and a little surprised, but not unduly alarmed, to find that somewhere along the way she had signed a lot of contracts.

From then on, Dmitri was successful indeed. Like most of his colleagues from the Danube country, he had a gift for the cute; i.e., for sentimental little situations with a slightly salacious twist, lending themselves to uniforms, peasant bodices, twirling slippers, and czarda music. Sometimes he used the same plot with goona music and South Sea atmosphere, with sarongs instead of bodices; once he switched to swing, with B-girls’ dirndles instead of sarongs, and the story became Love Pirate. Anyway he cut it up, it was the same old hotza; it didn’t make actresses but it made him; Sylvia slipped, but he grew rich. Now, as he sat here in this Western gambling hall, his appearance implied his career. The soft calfskin boots, now glowing under the Mexican boy’s fingers, suggested his present eminence, as well as his start among the horses. The whipcord riding breeches, fitted to his rotund rear, suggested the movies that now engaged him. The full duellist’s shirt, puffed at the throat by a silk handkerchief around his neck, suggested the mokos of Paris. His monocle, as well as his brown silk beret, suggested all the cafes of the world.

He was playing the first four and the first twelve, risking two 25c chips at each spin, and greatly enjoyed Mr. La Bouche’s admiration, and Benny’s admiration, to say nothing of the admiration of the little blond croupier who was serving the table. He frowned when he saw Vicki come in, but was reassured when the sunny smile broke in his direction, and Vicki rattled something at him in German about ‘wir beide,’ which seemed to mean that Hazel was with him, and that the scheduled ceremony was not far off. Tony bustled up, told Vicki his ring was in the office, if that was what he came for. Dmitri went back to his game with zest, and paid no more attention to what went on in the forward part of the establishment, even when Mr. La Bouche held up his finger as though he heard something, and the croupier spoke of the backfiring of trucks, and how the road ought to be renamed Artillery Avenue. Presently, Benny said: “There goes Vicki.”

“Is she with him?”

“Must be. Tail light’s burning.”

“She’s nuts.”

“No law against driving with the lights on if she likes driving with the lights on, is there?”

“No law gegen to be nuts.”

Sylvia came into the casino and Dmitri looked at her in surprise, for he hadn’t known she was here. She said: “Dimmy, if you want to see that personal appearance contract you’ll find it back of Tony’s desk. I just signed it — in red ink.”

Then she hurried outside, and he watched her uneasily as she stepped into the sunshine. Then, becoming aware of what she had said, he knit his brows in puzzlement, turned to Mr. La Bouche and Benny. But they, with that sixth sense that is a special characteristic of Hollywood, had quietly vanished. The boots were almost done now. Paying the Mexican he got up, walked around the end of the bar, approached the office. Throwing open the door for the majestic entrance that befitted his station in life, he strode into the room. He was well inside before he noticed there was nobody there, and stopped. Then he looked at the desk, which had nothing on it but a blotter, a paper cutter, and an ashtray. He looked out the window, to where Sylvia stood at the river’s edge, and took a step or two in that direction, as though he were going to call to her, find out what she had been talking about. Then he gave a low, quavering moan. Then he turned green, and sat down in one of the big leather chairs.

Dreadful, hammering seconds went by before the door opened and Tony came in, faultless in his double-breasted black suit. Dmitri got up, forced a smile, lunged at what was intended for casualness. “Beg poddon, plizze. I’m looking for the proprietor.”

“I own this place.”

“You, Tony?”

“Tony Rico is my name.”

“Spiro mine. President Phoenix Pictures, big Hollywood company. Could I speak to you one minute?”

“What about?”

“I’m in a little trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Telling the truth I don’t know. I was not personally here. But nothing serious I give my word honor, epsolutely. Friend of mine, Baron Victor Adlerkreutz, fine fallow, fine family, one finest families in Europe — is hurt.”

“In what way?”

“I think — shot.”

“And what do you want of me?”

“Listen, Tony; listen, old fallow, listen to me, plizze. I want you to let me get the Baron out from here. I want we get him to a private hospital, get a doctor quick, fix it up what we say, so when the police come, and all those damn reporter, we don’t have any mess.”

“Afraid I couldn’t do that.”

“Tony, you don’t want no mess either!”

“Your friend’s dead.”

Tony motioned toward the desk and added: “Or so I think.” He glanced at the small mirror he had in his hand, polished it with his handkerchief, went behind the desk and knelt down.

In a moment he stood up and came over to Dmitri, holding up the mirror. “You see anything on that?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

He went to the phone, picked up the receiver, jiggled the bar. Dmitri seemed to come out of the trance that had half enveloped him and jumped for the instrument. Tony stepped aside and motioned him back to his seat. But, Dmitri kept grabbing, until the phone was knocked off the desk and Tony had to let go or have the cord torn out by the roots. He swore hotly at Dmitri, who paid no attention. “Tony! Not yet! Don’t call the police till I talk to you!”

“Sorry, this is nothing I can talk about.”

“Yes, Tony.”

“Listen! I don’t know where the hell you come from, but in this state we got laws.”

“Tony! Don’t you get it? I’m a producer! If this mess comes out, it ruins me, ruins my life, ruins my company, ruins my star!”

“Once more: There’s nothing I can do for you!”

“Then do it for Sylvia!”

“You trying to tell me she shot him?”

“Who do you think?”

Tony stared incredulously at Dmitri, who seized the chance to pick up the phone, set it on the desk, and clap the receiver in place. At once it rang. He answered. “Hello. No, nobody called. Fell off the desk. Sorry, plizze.”

He set the receiver in place, held it with both hands. Sylvia came in, her bravado gone. She sat down. Tony, after looking at her, was no longer incredulous. He went over to her. “We’ve been having an argument, Miss Shoreham. About something that’s happened. I’ve got no choice. I’ve got to report it.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s none of my affair. But after what’s been going on, it don’t surprise me any. I want you to hear me say that, Miss Shoreham.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“A jury may feel the same way.”

“I’m not that far yet.”

To Dmitri, a little wearily, Tony said: “You needn’t hold on to that phone. There’s twenty-two extensions in the place, and I can call from any of them.”

Dmitri leaped for him, clamped arms around his neck as a drowning man might. “Tony, you don’t know what I say even. It’s not the jury. It’s Hays! So, jury say O. K., is swell, hey? Is like hell. Hays say, mess is mess and rub her out. Tony, I got one million pingo-pangoes tied up in this face! One million I swear, for Sugar Hill Sugar, first picture I make all my own money! If this mess comes out, I can’t release! It breaks me, breaks my company, breaks Sylvia—”

“It’s tough, but I can’t—”

“You want money? I’m rich, I—”

“So am I!”

“I buy your place, Tony! How much—”

“It’s not for sale!”

“Tony, give me ten minutes! Give me five minutes! I’ve got my production manager here! He can make it accident! He can make it—”

“Mr. Spiro, maybe you’ve been in the picture business so long you don’t know how the rest of the world is. I’m a gambler. To you, maybe that’s a low tout, somebody to be bought. In this state, a gambler is as good as anybody else. He pays most of the taxes, he runs a straight game, he’s a leading citizen. And if you think you can—”

“O. K., ruin me. I don’t care.”

Tony started for the casino, first unwinding Dmitri from his neck and flinging him to the floor. But for a moment, in this straight-shouldered march to rectitude, he hesitated, broke step. It didn’t seem possible that Dmitri, prone by the desk, could see. Possibly he heard. At any rate, he rolled over, jumped up. “What is it, Tony? Only say!”

“My little daughter.”

“Yes, your little daughter!”

Tony stood like a man of granite. Then, with even more emotion than Dmitri had shown, he went on: “My little girl Maxine, that’s got more talent than any actress that ever lived; that’s sent her picture to every scout for every agent in Hollywood, and that not never even got an answer to her letter; my little girl that’s crazy to get in pictures — could you make her a star?”

“Tony! Ask something hard, something that will show how I feel for you! If she’s not cross-eyed, I make her Garbo! If she is cross-eyed—”

“She’s not cross-eyed.”

Having leveled one mountain, Dmitri turned to the Everest that sat motionless in the chair.

But to his astonishment Sylvia looked up wearily and said: “Yes, Dimmy, it was an accident.”