THE CARPETBAGGERS - 06

THE CARPETBAGGERS

HAROLD ROBBINS

(  INSTALMENT 6  )

TEN 


RINA LOOKED DOWN AT HER WATCH. IT WAS HALF PAST two. "I really must be going," she said.

"To hurry after such a lunch?" Jacques Deschamps spread his hands. "It is sacrilege. You must have a liqueur before you go."

Rina smiled at the slim, graying avocat. "But—I—"

"You have been in Paris for more than a year," Jacques interrupted, "and you still have not learned that one does not hurry after a meal. Whatever it is, it will wait." He hissed at a passing waiter, "Psst!"

The waiter stopped and bowed respectfully, "Monsieur?"

Rina sank back into her chair. Jacques looked at her questioningly. "Pernod. Over ice."

He shuddered. "Over ice," he repeated to the waiter. "You heard mademoiselle."

The waiter looked at her quickly with that glance of appraisal that all Frenchmen seemed to share. "Over ice, monsieur," he said. "The usual for you?"

Jacques nodded and the waiter left. He turned back to Rina. "And how does the painting go?" he asked. "You are making progress?"

Rina laughed. "You know better than that. I'm afraid I'll never be a painter."

"But you are having fun?"

She turned and looked out at the street. The faint smell of May that came only to Paris was in the air. The truck drivers were already in their shirt sleeves and the women had long since begun to abandon their drab gray and black winter coats.

"You do not answer," he said.

She turned back to him as the waiter came with their drinks. "I'm having fun," she said, picking up her drink.

"You are not sure?" he persisted.

She smiled suddenly. "Of course I'm sure."

He lifted his glass. "À votre santé."

"À votre santé," she echoed.

He put his glass down. "And your friend?" he asked. "How is she?"

"Peggy's fine," Rina said automatically. She looked at him steadily. "Peggy is very good to me. I don't know what I'd do without her."

"How do you know?" he said quickly. "You have never tried. You could be many things. You are young, beautiful. You could marry, have children, you could even—"

"Be your mistress?" She smiled, interrupting.

He nodded and smiled. "Even be my mistress. That is not the worst thing that could happen. But you remember my terms."

She looked into his face. "You're a very kind man, Jacques," she said, remembering the afternoon she had first heard them.

She and Peggy had been in Paris a few months and had just found their apartment, after her father had given his permission for her to stay in Paris for a year. Peggy had taken her to a party given by a professor at the University, where she had just begun to work.

Rina felt very alone at the party. Her French was not good enough to let her mix easily and she had retreated to a corner. She was leafing through a magazine when she heard a voice. "Miss Américaine?"

She looked up. A slim, dark man with a touch of gray at his temples was standing there. He was smiling gently.

"Non parle fran—"

"I speak English," he said quickly.

She smiled.

"And what is a pretty girl like you doing all alone with a magazine?" he asked. "Who is fool enough to bring you to a party like this and then—" He gestured expressively.

"My friend brought me," Rina said, indicating Peggy. "She has just got a job at the University."

Peggy was talking animatedly with one of the professors. She looked very attractive in her slim, tailored suit. "Oh," he said, a strangely quizzical look on his face.

"And whom did you bring?"

"No one." He shrugged. "Actually. I came in the hopes of meeting you."

She glanced at his hands and saw that he wore a wedding ring, as so many Frenchmen did. "You don't expect me to believe that?" she said. "What would your wife say?"

He smiled and laughed with her. "My wife would be very understanding. She could not come with me. She is very, very pregnant." He held his arms out in an exaggerated circle in front of him.

She laughed again and just then, Peggy's voice came over her shoulder. "Having fun, darling?"

******

Some weeks later, she was alone in the apartment one afternoon when the telephone rang. It was Jacques and she met him for lunch. And several times after that.

Then one afternoon—it had been a day just like this one—they sat dawdling over their liqueurs. "Why are you so afraid of men?" he asked her suddenly.

She felt the red fire creep up into her throat and over her face. "What makes you say that?"

"I have the feeling," he said. "Inside. I know."

She looked down at her drink. She didn't speak.

"Your friend is not the answer," he said.

She looked up at him. "Peggy has nothing to do with it. She's a good friend, no more."

He smiled knowingly. "You are in France, remember? There is nothing wrong, we understand such things. But I do not understand you. You are not the usual kind who lives like that."

She could feel her face flaming now. "I don't think that's very nice of you."

He laughed. "It is not," he admitted frankly. "But I do not like to see you waste yourself."

"You'd like it better if I went to sleep with some clumsy fool who knows nothing and cares less about the way I feel?" she said angrily.

He shook his head. "No. I would not like that at all. I would like you to come to bed with me."

"What makes you think it would be any different with you?"

He looked into her eyes. "Because I am a man, not a boy. Because I would want to please you. Boys are like bulls; they think only of themselves. In this you are right. But because of this, do not think that it is only women who know how to make love. There are men also who are aware of the sensitivities."

"Like yourself?" she asked sarcastically.

"Like myself. Do you think I see you again and again only because I have a purely intellectual interest in you?"

She laughed suddenly. "At least you are honest."

"I am a great believer in the truth."

A few months later, on a rainy afternoon, she went to his apartment and it was just as he said. He was kind and gentle and she did not hurt at all. And all the while, she felt the power in her, the power to bring him to a point of ecstasy from which he would never return, a power that could never turn into terror for her because she could always control it or him.

She watched him buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror. "Jacques."

He turned. "What is it, my sweet?"

She held out her arms to him. "Come here, Jacques."

He came over to the bed. He bent swiftly and kissed her naked breast. "When you make love, my darling," he said, "your nipples are full like bursting purple plums. Now they are like little pink poppies."

"It was like you said it would be, Jacques."

"I am glad."

She took his strong brown hands in her own and looked down at them. His gold wedding ring shone up at her. She looked up into his face. "I think I would like to be your mistress," she said softly.

"Bon," he said. "I had hoped you would say that. That is why I took this little apartment. You can move in tonight."

She was surprised. "Move in here?"

He nodded. "If you do not like this place, I will get another."

"But I can't do that! What about Peggy?"

"What about her?" He shrugged. "It is fini."

"Can't we just go on like this? I’ll meet you here whenever you like."

"You mean you will not move in?"

She shook her head. "I can't. What would Peggy do? She needs my help to keep the apartment. Besides, if my father ever found out, he'd kill me."

"But he does not worry about your living with that—that lesbienne?" he said bitterly.

"You don't know my father. Back in Boston, they don't ever think about things like that."

"What does he think she is?"

"What she has always been," she answered. "My teacher, my companion."

He laughed shortly. "She has been your teacher, yes."

"Oh, Jacques," she said in a hurt voice. "Don't spoil everything now. Why can't we go on like this?"

He looked at her. "Then you won't move in here?"

"I can't," she said. "Don't you understand, I can't."

He got to his feet, and walked back to the dresser. He finished buttoning his shirt and picked up his tie.

"I don't see what difference it would make. After all, you're married. How much time do you think you could spend here, anyway?"

He studied her. "That is different," he said coldly.

"Different?" she shouted in anger. "Why is it different for you and not for me?"

He stared at her. "A man may be unfaithful to his wife, as she may to him if she is so minded. But a man is never unfaithful to his mistress, nor is a woman unfaithful to her lover."

"But Peggy is not a man!"

"No, she is not," he said grimly. "She is something worse than a man."

Rina looked at him for a moment. She drew her head up proudly. "Those are your terms?" she asked quietly.

She sat there proudly, her back straight, her naked breasts magnificent over her deep chest. He could see the outlines of her ribs against her flesh as they rose and fell with her breath. Never in my life have I known so much beauty, he thought. Aloud he said, "If that's the way you put it, those are my terms."

She didn't answer.

"I just don't understand," she said. She looked up at him. "You had better hand me my dress."

That had been many months ago and oddly enough, they still remained friends. She raised the Pernod to her lips and emptied her glass. "And now I really must go," she said. "I promised Pavan I would be at his studio by three o'clock."

He raised an eyebrow. "Pavan? You have taken up sculpting?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm modeling for him."

Jacques knew how Pavan worked. He used many models for just one statue. He was always trying to create the ideal. He would never succeed.

She felt his quizzical gaze sweep down to her breasts. She laughed. "No, it's not what you think."

"No?" he asked. "Why not?"

"He says they're too large."

"He is mad," Jacques said quickly. "But then, all artists are mad. What is it, then?"

She got to her feet. "My pubis," she said.

For the first time since she had known him, he was speechless.

She laughed.

He found his voice. "But why?"

"Because it's the highest mountain any man will ever climb, he says, and more men will die trying to climb it than ever fell from Mount Everest." She smiled and bent over him. "But we won't tell him that you survived the ascent, will we, Jacques?"

She kissed his cheek quickly and turned and walked out onto the sidewalk. He watched her until she was lost in the crowded street, then turned back to the waiter. "Psst!" he said. "I think I will have another drink!"


ELEVEN


SHE HURRIED PAST THE POLITE GREETING OF the concierge, up the three narrow flights of the staircase. She'd stayed at the studio later than she thought. There would be just enough time to prepare dinner before Peggy got home.

Rina went through the tiny living room into the kitchen. Swiftly she lit the gas under the hot-water heater for the tub and with the same match, the oven, leaving the flame low. She took the small, browned chicken she'd just purchased, already cooked, at the corner rotisserie and put it into a pan and into the oven to keep warm. Rapidly she sliced bread from a long loaf, arranged it next to a large piece of cheese and began to set the table. In a few minutes, she was finished.

She looked down at her watch. There would even be time enough for a bath if the water was hot enough. She walked over and felt the tank. It was lukewarm. There would be enough if she didn't fill the tub more than half full.

She walked back into the living room on her way to the bathroom, her fingers already busy with the buttons of her blouse. The door opened and she turned toward it. "You're early," she said.

Peggy looked at her coldly and without answering, she closed the door behind her. Rina shrugged her shoulders. Peggy had these moods. One moment, she'd be bright, warm and gay, the next cold, even sullen. It would pass. "There's some wine and cheese on the table if you'd like something before dinner," she said, starting for the bathroom again.

Peggy's hand spun her around. "I thought I told you not to see Deschamps again!"

Rina stared at her. So that was it. Someone must have seen them at the restaurant and told Peggy. Strange that of all the men they knew, Peggy was jealous of none except Jacques. The younger men never upset her, but Jacques, with his curious, confident smile and the bright-gray hair at his temples, always managed to upset her.

"I just ran into him and he invited me to lunch," she said. It wasn't that she was afraid of Peggy's jealous rages but she didn't feel like having a quarrel. "I just couldn't be rude."

"Then where were you all afternoon?" Peggy demanded. "You weren't at art school, you weren't home. I kept calling both places until I became frantic with worry."

"I didn't feel like going to school," she said.

Peggy's eyes squinted at her. "You didn't walk over to his apartment, by any chance?"

Rina stared back at her. "No, I didn't."

"He was seen entering his apartment with a blonde about four o'clock."

Rina raised an eyebrow. Jacques hadn't wasted any time. "I'm not the only blonde in Paris," she said.

"He didn't answer his phone," Peggy said accusingly.

Rina smiled. "I can't say that I blame him, do you?"

Peggy's hand slashed across Rina's face. "You're lying!"

Rina's hand flew to her cheek. She stared at Peggy.

The other side of her face flamed as Peggy slapped her again. She grabbed Rina's shoulders and began to shake her. "Now I want the truth!"

"I told you the truth!" Rina screamed. She struck out at Peggy wildly.

Peggy fell back in surprise at the sudden onslaught. A hurt expression came over her face. "Why do you do these things to me when you know I love you so much?"

Rina stared at her. For the first time, a feeling of revulsion swept over her. First for Peggy, then for herself.

Almost instantly, Peggy threw herself to her knees, her arms clasped around Rina's thighs. "Please, please, darling, don't look at me like that. Don't be angry with me. I'm sorry. I was crazy jealous."

Rina's face ached where it had been slapped. Suddenly, she was tired. "Don't do that again—ever," she said wearily.

"I won't, I won't," Peggy promised wildly. "It's just that I can't bear to think of that lecher getting his filthy hands on you again."

"He's not a lecher, he's a man," Rina said. She looked down at Peggy. A faint note of contempt came into her voice. "A real man. Not an imitation!"

"I have shown you more than you would learn from all the men in the world."

A sudden knowledge came to Rina—the first faint revelation of self-truth. A cold fright ran through her. She looked down at the dark-brown head pressed against the front of her skirt.

"That's what's wrong. You're so anxious to show me love, to teach me love. But it's all from the outside in. Why can't you teach me to feel love, to give love?" Slowly she pushed Peggy away from her. And then, for the lack of a better place to do it, she dropped to her knees and turned her face into Peggy's bosom and began to cry.

"Cry, lover, cry," Peggy whispered. "Cry it all out. I’ll always take care of you. That's what love is for."

 ******

It was early when Amru Singh arrived at the party that Pavan was giving to celebrate the unveiling of his master statue. It was about six o'clock when Amru Singh made his obeisance to his host, politely refused a drink and took his usual place against the wall in the empty room.

As was his habit, he took off his shirt and folded it neatly and placed it on the floor. Then he took off his shoes—he wore no socks—and placed them next to the shirt. He took a very deep breath and placing his back against the wall, slid down until he was seated squarely on the shirt with his legs crossed beneath him.

It was thus that he could observe, without turning his head, the actions of every person in the room. It was also from this position that he could most easily fill his mind. He thought about many things, but mostly about the vanities and ambitions of man. Amru Singh was seeking a man whose vanities and ambitions transcended the personal, aspiring only to the glory that had been buried by the centuries deep in the human spirit. That he had not yet found such a man did not discourage him.

He felt his muscles lock in the familiar tension which was at the same time relaxed and comforting; he felt his breathing become slower, shallower. He closed off a corner of his mind for a few minutes, though his eyes remained open and alert. It could be any night, perhaps tonight, that his search would be ended.

But he could already feel the evil spirit of the goddess Kali unleashed in the room. With an inward shrug of his shoulders, he cast from him the feeling of disappointment. There were so many little people in the room.

On the floor, in the corner behind the big sofa, a man and a woman were committing an act of fornication, hidden, or so they thought, from the others. He thought of the positions of obscenity carved high into the walls of the temple of the goddess and felt a distaste seep through him. This ugly copulation, which he could observe through the space between the high Regency legs of the couch, was not justified by even a holy worship of the evil one.

In a niche near the door, with a single light shining down on it from above, stood the draped statue on a pedestal. It stood there very still, like a corpse in a shroud, and did not even stir when the door opened for two newly entered guests. Without moving his eyes, Amru knew them. The blond American girl and her friend, the dark woman. He closed his mind to them as the clock began to toll the hour and Pavan began his speech.

It was nothing but a repetition of what he had been saying all evening, and many times before, but at its finish, he suddenly began to weep. He was very drunk and he almost fell as, with a quick gesture, he tore the covering from the statue.

There was a silence in the room as all looked at the cold marble form of the statue. It was scaled to two-thirds life size and carved from a rose-blush Italian marble that took on a soft hue of warm life from the light in the room. The figure stood poised on tiptoe, the hands held over her upturned face, reaching for her lover, the sun.

Then the silence was broken as all at once began to comment and congratulate the sculptor. That is all except one. He was Leocadia, the art dealer. A small, gray man with the thin, pursed lips of the money-changer.

In the end, no matter what anyone said, his was the final judgment. It was he who determined its value. It did not matter that the price he set might forever prohibit a sale, his evaluation was the recognition of art.

Pavan approached him anxiously. "Well, monsieur?" he asked. "What do you think?"

Leocadia did not look at Pavan. He never looked at anyone while he spoke to him. The artists claimed that he could not meet their gaze because he was a parasite living better from the proceeds of their life's blood than they themselves did. "The market for sculpture is very weak," he said.

"Bah!" Pavan snorted. "I do not ask about the market. I ask about my work!"

"Your work is as always," the dealer said evasively.

Pavan turned and gestured, his arm outflung toward the silent statue. "Look at those breasts. I took them from different girls to achieve the symmetry that nature did not provide. And the face. Flawless! Notice the brow, the eyes, the cheekbones, the nose!" He was suddenly silent, staring up at the statue. "The nose," he said, almost whispering.

He turned toward the models, huddling against the wall. "Bring monsieur a bottle of wine! The nose, monsieur," he said accusingly. "Why did you not tell me about the nose?"

Leocadia was silent. This was no time to tell Pavan he had found nothing at fault with the nose. He had a reputation to maintain.

"My chisel!" Pavan roared. He climbed upon a chair and positioned the chisel delicately. He scraped the stone slightly, then polished the surface with his sleeve. The marble shone once more and he stepped down and looked.

Suddenly he screamed in frustrated agony. "It's wrong!" he cried, "It's all wrong! Why didn't you tell me, monsieur? Why did you let me make a fool of myself?"

Leocadia still did not speak.

Pavan stared dumbly at the dealer, tears coming to his eyes, then he turned and violently swung the mallet at the statue's head. The marble cracked and the head fell into fragments on the floor. Pavan began to swing wildly at the rest of the statue. The arms fell, then a shoulder; a crack appeared across the bust and that, too, shattered. The statue rocked crazily on its pedestal, then crashed forward.

Pavan knelt over the pieces, swinging his mallet like a man possessed. "I loved you!" he screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I loved you and you betrayed me!" At last, he sank exhausted to the floor, amidst the debris.

As suddenly as they had come, the tears stopped and Pavan began searching frantically among the pieces of shattered marble. At last, he found what he sought. He got to his feet. Holding the fragment in his hand, he weaved unsteadily toward the art dealer. Cupping the marble in his hands, he held it out. "I see now where I went wrong, monsieur," he said. "Do you?"

Leocadia looked at the piece of stone. He didn't even know what it was intended to be. But again, this was no time for him to speak. He nodded cautiously.

"Thank God!" Pavan cried. "Thank the good Lord that I did not destroy the sole thing of beauty in the stupidity of my disappointment!"

The crowd pushed forward to see what Pavan held in his hand. It seemed to be only a piece of broken marble. "What is it?" one of them whispered to another.

"You stupid fools! Do you not recognize where you come from? The soul itself of a woman's beauty?" Pavan roared.

He got to his feet and stared at them balefully. "This is fit only for the gods themselves to lie upon!" He looked down at the stone in his hands and a tender look came over his face.

"Now I see my error," he said. "It is around this tiny core that I will carve into stone the perfect Woman!" He looked around at them dramatically.

Leocadia looked at the piece of marble again. So that was what it was. Almost immediately, he thought of the fat young Egyptian prince who had come into the gallery. This was something he would appreciate. "A thousand francs," he said.

Pavan looked at the dealer, his confidence suddenly restored. "A thousand francs!" he said scornfully.

"Fifteen hundred, then," Leocadia murmured.

Pavan was caught up now in the never-ending struggle between artist and dealer. He turned to his fellow artists. "Only fifteen hundred francs he offers me!"

He whirled back to the dealer. "Not a centime less than twenty-five hundred and a commission to do the sculpture of the woman from whom this was taken!" he shouted.

Leocadia looked down at the floor. "How can I undertake such a commission when I do not know the model?"

Pavan spun around. The models looked at each other curiously, wondering which of them had posed for that particular portion of the statue. But it was none of them. Suddenly, Pavan's arm shot out. "You!" he shouted, pointing. "Come here!"

They turned and followed his pointing finger. Rina stood frozen to the spot. Her face began to flame, then hands pulled her forward, propelling her toward the sculptor.

Pavan seized her hand and turned toward the dealer. For once, Leocadia looked. Almost immediately, he looked away again. "Agreed!" he murmured.

A deep bellow of triumph arose from the sculptor's throat. He lifted Rina into his arms and kissed her excitedly on both cheeks. "You will live forever, my lovely one!" he cried proudly. "I will carve your beauty into the stone for all eternity to worship!"

Rina began to laugh. It was crazy. They were all crazy. Pavan began to sing lustily, dragging her with him in an erratic dance. He lifted her up onto the pedestal where the statue formerly stood. She felt hands tugging at her dress, at her clothing. She reached out her arms to brace herself, to keep from falling. Then she was completely nude on the pedestal. A strange hush fell over the room.

It was Pavan himself who led her down. He threw a cloth around her as she started to walk toward the bathroom. One of the models handed her her torn clothing. Rina took it and closed the door behind her. A moment later, she reappeared.

Peggy was waiting for her. She half led, half dragged Rina toward the door. The door slammed behind them.

Suddenly, one of the curtains in the mind of Amru Singh lifted. Through the thin wooden partition behind his head, he could hear dim voices.

"Are you crazy?"

"It wasn't that important, Peggy."

"What if it gets into the papers? The next thing you know, it will be picked up and spread all over the front pages in Boston!"

Rina's laughter echoed gaily. "I can just see the headline now," she said. "Boston girl chosen as most beautiful cunt in Paris!"

"You sound as if you're proud of it."

"Why shouldn't I be? It's the only thing I've ever done for myself."

"Once it gets around, every man in Paris will be after you. I suppose you'd like that."

"Maybe I would. It's time I began to grow up, stopped taking your word for everything."

There was the sound of a vicious slap, then an angry voice. "You're a whore, a cheap whore, and that's how a whore should be treated!"

There was a moment's silence. "I told you never to do that again!"

He heard the sound of another slap. "Whore, bitch! That's the only language you understand!" There was a pause, then "Rina!" The hidden sound of fear was in the voice. Amru Singh thought it sounded much like the trainer of the tiger who steps into the cage only to find his kitten has become a full-grown cat. "What are you doing? Put down that shoe!"

Then there was a half-pitched scream and the sound of a body falling, tumbling erratically down the long, steep stair well. And for the first time in the memory of anyone there, Amru Singh left a party before the last guest had departed.

Rina was standing at the railing, her face ashen, looking down the stair well. Her sharp-pointed high-heeled shoe was still in her hand. He took the shoe from her fingers and bending down, slipped it on her foot.

"I never even touched her!"

"I know," Amru Singh said quietly.

She collapsed suddenly against him. He could feel the wild, frightened beating of her heart against his chest. "She slipped and fell over the railing!"

"Don't say anything to anyone!" he whispered commandingly. "Leave the talking to me!"

Then the door behind them opened and two departing guests came out into the hall. Amru Singh turned toward them, his hand pressing Rina's face against his chest so that she could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. "There's been an accident," he said calmly. "Call a doctor."

He felt Rina begin to cry against his shoulder. He looked down at the shining blond head. A strange satisfied look came into his dark, deep-set eyes.

His portent had come true. The evil goddess, Kali, had struck. But this time, she was not to receive the innocent as a further sacrifice to her power, no matter how carefully she had contrived to plant the guilt.


TWELVE


Rina was standing on her head, the length of her body against the wall, when Jacques entered the apartment. He stood there for a moment, looking at her slim body, sheathed in the tight black leotard, her hair shining as it spilled over on the floor.

"What are you doing?" he asked politely.

She smiled an upside-down smile at him. "Standing on my head."

"I can see that," he answered. "But why?"

"Amru Singh says it is very good for the brain. The blood washes the brain and a new perspective is given to the world. He is right, too. You just don't know how different everything looks upside down."

"Did Amru Singh also tell you how one goes about kissing a girl who is standing on her head?" he asked with a smile.

"No," she answered. A mischievous smile came over her face. "I thought of that myself!" She arched her back quickly and moved her legs.

He laughed aloud. There was no mistaking the invitation of the Y she made against the wall. He bent forward quickly, placing his head between her outstretched legs, and kissed her.

She collapsed on the floor in laughter. "It is good to hear you laugh," he said. "You did not laugh much at first."

"I wasn't happy at first."

"And you are happy now?" he asked.

The laughter was still in her eyes as she looked up at him. "Very happy." She was a very different person from the dazed girl he had seen that night several months ago. He remembered the telephone ringing beside his bed.

"Monsieur Deschamps?" a deep, quiet voice had asked.

"Oui?" he replied, still half asleep.

"My apologies for disturbing your rest," the voice continued, in French with a peculiar British and yet not quite British accent. "My name is Amru Singh. I am with a friend of yours, Mademoiselle Rina Marlowe. She needs your help."

He was awake now. "Is it serious?"

"Quite serious," Amru Singh replied. "Mademoiselle Bradley had an accident. She was killed in a fall and the police are being very difficult."

"Let me speak with Mademoiselle Marlowe."

"Unfortunately, she is in no position to come to the telephone. She is in a state of complete shock."

"Where are you?"

"At the studio of Monsieur Pavan, the sculptor. You know the place?"

"Yes," Jacques answered quickly. "I will be there in half an hour. In the meanwhile, do not let her talk to anyone."

"I have already seen to that," Amru Singh said. "She will not speak with anyone until you arrive."

Jacques did not quite understand what Amru Singh had meant until he saw Rina's ashen face and the blank look in her eyes. The police had efficiently isolated her in the small dressing room of the studio.

"Your friend seems to be in a very bad state of shock, monsieur," the Inspector said when Jacques introduced himself. "I have sent for a doctor."

Jacques bowed. "You are very kind, Inspector. Perhaps you can tell me what happened? I just arrived, in response to a telephone call from a mutual friend."

The Inspector gestured broadly. "It is nothing but routine, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Bradley fell down the stairs. We require only a statement from Mademoiselle Marlowe, who was the only person with her at the time."

Jacques nodded. There must be more to it than that, he thought. Or why would Amru Singh have sent for him? "May I go into the dressing room?"

The Inspector bowed. "Of course, monsieur."

Jacques entered the small room. Rina was seated on a small chair, half hidden behind a tall man wearing a turban.

"Monsieur Deschamps?"

Jacques bowed. "At your service, Monsieur Singh." He glanced at Rina. She didn't seem to see him.

When Amru Singh spoke, his voice was soft, as if he were speaking to a child. "Your friend Monsieur Deschamps is here, mademoiselle."

Rina looked up, her eyes blank, unrecognizing.

Jacques looked at Amru Singh questioningly. The man's dark eyes were inscrutable. "I was at the scene of the accident, Monsieur Deschamps. She was very upset and seemed under a compulsion to accept blame for her friend's accident."

"Did she have anything to do with it?" Jacques asked.

"As I already explained to the police," Amru Singh said blandly, "nothing I saw led me to think so."

"What did she say to them?"

"I thought it best that she not speak with them," Amru Singh replied.

"Are you a doctor?"

"I am a student, monsieur," Amru Singh replied.

Jacques looked up at him. "Then how were you able to keep her from speaking to the police?"

Amru Singh's face was impassive. "I told her not to."

"And she obeyed?" Jacques asked.

Amru Singh nodded. "There was little else she could do."

"May I speak to her?"

"If you wish," Amru Singh answered. "But I suggest someplace other than here. They would perhaps misconstrue what she might say."

"But the police have already sent for a doctor," Jacques said. "Will he not—"

Amru Singh smiled. "The doctor will merely confirm that she is in shock."

Which was exactly what the doctor did. Jacques turned to the Inspector. "If you will permit me, Inspector, I shall escort Mademoiselle Marlowe to her home. I will bring her down to your office tomorrow afternoon, after her own physician has attended her, to make a statement."

The Inspector bowed.

In the taxi, Jacques leaned forward and gave the driver Rina's address.

"I think it would be better if Mademoiselle Marlowe were not to go to her own apartment," Amru Singh said quickly. "There is much there to remind her of her late friend."

Jacques thought for a moment, then gave the driver his other address.

Amru Singh walked into the apartment and Rina followed him docilely. Jacques closed the door behind them. Amru Singh led her to a chair. He gestured and she sat down. "I have taken away my shoulder," he said quietly. "I can no longer speak for you. You must speak now for yourself."

Rina raised her head slowly. Her eyes were blinking as if she were awakening from a deep sleep. Then she saw him.

Instantly, the tears rushed to her eyes. She flung herself into his arms. "Jacques! Jacques!" she cried. "I knew you would come!"

She began to sob, her body trembling against him. The words kept tumbling from her lips in wild, disjointed sentences.

"Shh," he whispered soothingly, holding her. "Don't be afraid. Everything will be all right."

He heard the door open and close behind him. He turned his head slightly. Amru Singh was gone.

******

The following day, they went to the Inspector's office. From there, they went to her flat and moved her things to his apartment. Two nights later, when he had come into the apartment unexpectedly, Amru Singh rose from a chair.

"Amru Singh is my friend," Rina said hesitantly.

Jacques looked at her, then at the Indian. He stepped forward quickly, his hand outstretched. "If he is your friend," he said, "then he is my friend, also."

The Indian's white teeth flashed in a smile as their hands met in a warm clasp. From that time until now, the three of them had dinner together at least once a week.

******

Jacques turned the key in the door. He stepped aside to let Rina enter, then followed her into the bedroom. As soon as she entered, she kicked off her shoes. She sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing her feet. "Ah, that feels good."

He knelt in front of her and massaged her foot. He smiled up at her. "You were very beautiful tonight."

She looked at him mischievously. "Monsieur le Ministre thought so," she teased. "He said if I should ever consider another liaison, to keep him in mind."

"The old lecher!" Jacques swore. "He must be all of eighty years old - and at the Opera, too!"

She got up from the bed and took her dress off, then seated herself, yoga fashion, on the floor. Her legs were crossed under her, her arms formed a square in front of her chest.

"What are you doing?" he asked in surprise.

"Preparing for meditation," she answered. "Amru Singh says that five minutes' meditation before going to sleep relieves the mind and the body of all its tensions."

He removed the studs from his shirt and placed them on the dresser. He watched her in the mirror. "It would be very easy for me to become jealous of Amru Singh."

"That would make me very unhappy," she said seriously. "For then I would have to stop seeing Amru."

"You would do that for me?"

"Of course," she said. "I love you. He is only my friend, my teacher."

"He is my friend, too," he said, as seriously. "I would be very unhappy if you let a jesting remark disturb that relationship."

She smiled. He smiled back at her and turned back to the dresser. He began to take off his shirt. "And what have you learned from our friend today?"

"There is a good possibility that I may soon be free of the death wish that has governed many of my actions since I was a child," she answered.

"Good," Jacques said. "And how is this to come about?"

"He is teaching me the yoga exercises for childbearing. It will give me control over my entire body."

"I don't see how that will help. The exercises are important only when having a child."

"I know," she said.

Something in her voice made him look at her in the mirror. Her face was impassive as she held the position of meditation. "What brought that subject up?" he asked.

Her eyes flicked up at him. "You," she said. "Doctor Fornay says that you have made me enceinte."

Suddenly, he was on the floor beside her, holding her in his arms and kissing her, talking of divorcing his wife so that the child would be born at the family villa in the south of France.

She placed a finger on his lips. It seemed to him as if she had suddenly become older than he. "Come, now," she said gently. "You are acting like an American, with stupid, provincial ideas. We both know that a divorce would ruin your career, so speak no more about it. I will have the child and we will go on as we are."

"But what if your father finds out?"

She smiled. "There is no need for him to know. When I go home for a visit, I will merely say I made an unfortunate marriage and no one will be the wiser."

She laughed and pushed him toward the bathroom. "Now go. Take your bath. You have had enough excitement for one day. Did you get the Boston papers for me?"

"They're in my brief case."

He sank into the tub. The water was warm and relaxing and gradually he could feel the excited tempo of his heart return to something that approximated normal. Slowly and with a feeling of great strength and luxury, he began to lather himself.

He came out of the bathroom, tying his robe. Rina wasn't in the bedroom and he walked through into the living room. Something in the way she was sitting at the table, staring down at the newspaper, sent a frightened chill racing through his body. "Rina!"

She turned toward him. Slowly her eyes lifted. He had never seen such depths of torture in his life. It was as if she had lost all hope of redemption. "I can't have the baby, Jacques," she whispered in an empty voice.

His voice grated in his throat. "What?"

The tears were beginning to well into her eyes. "I must go home," she whispered.

"Why?" he cried, the hurt already beginning.

She gestured to the paper, and he walked over and looked down over her shoulder.

A banner headline streamed across the entire page:

HARRISON MARLOWE INDICTED
FIFTH-GENERATION BOSTON BANKER
CRIMINALLY IMPLICATED IN FAILURE
OF FAMILY BANK

Below was a three-column picture of Harrison Marlowe.

He caught her shoulders. "Oh, my darling!" he said.

He could barely hear her whispered, "And I wanted this baby so."

He knew better than to argue with her. One thing he understood as a Frenchman—filial duty. "We'll have another baby," he said. "When this is over, you'll return to France."

He could feel her move within the circle of his arms. "No," she cried, "Doctor Fornay told me there will never be another child!"


THIRTEEN



THE LARGE OVERHEAD FAN DRONED ON AND THE AUGUST HEAT LAY HEAVY AND HUMID IN THE GOVERNOR'S OFFICE. The slightly built, nervous male secretary showed Rina to a chair in front of the massive desk.

She sat down and watched the young man, standing nervously next to the Governor, pick up sheet after sheet of paper as the Governor signed each one. At last he was finished and the secretary picked up the last sheet of paper and hurried out, closing the door behind him.

She looked at the Governor as he reached across the desk and took a cigar from a humidor. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of piercing dark eyes, set deep in a handsome face. His voice was slightly husky. "Do you mind if I smoke, Miss Marlowe?"

She shook her head.

He smiled, taking a small knife and carefully trimming the end of the cigar. He placed it in his mouth and struck a match. The flame burned brightly yellow, large and small, with his breath as he drew on the cigar. She was conscious of the faintly pleasant smell of Havana leaf as he dropped the match into an ash tray.

He smiled again. "One of the few pleasures my physician still allows me," he said. He had a simple yet extraordinary clear voice that easily filled the room, though he spoke quietly, like an actor trained to have his whispers heard in the far reaches of the second balcony. He leaned across the desk, his voice lowering to a confidential whisper. "You know, I expect to live to be a hundred and twenty-five and even my physician thinks I might make it if I cut down on my smoking."

She felt the convincing warmth and intensity flow toward her and for the moment, she believed it, too. "I’m sure you will, Governor."

He leaned back in his chair, a faintly pleased look on his face. "Just between us, I don't really care whether I live that long or not," he said. "It's just that when I die, I don't want to leave any enemies, and I figure the only way I’ll ever do that is to outlive them all."

He laughed and she joined him, for the moment forgetting her reason for being there. There was something incredibly young and vital about him that belied the already liberal sprinkling of gray in his thick, lustrous black hair.

He looked across the massive desk at her, feeling once again the rushing of time against him. He drew on his cigar and let the smoke out slowly. He liked what he saw. None of this modern nonsense about dieting and boyish bobs for her. Her hair fell long and full to her shoulders.

He looked up and suddenly met her eyes. Almost instantly, he knew that she had been aware that he was studying her. He smiled without embarrassment. "You were a child when I approved your adoption papers."

Her words put him at ease. "My mother and father often told me how kind you were and how you made it possible for them to adopt me."

He nodded slowly. It was smart of them to tell her the truth. Sooner or later, she'd have found out, anyway. "You're eighteen now?"

"Nineteen next month," she said quickly.

"You've grown a little since I saw you." Then his face turned serious as he placed the cigar carefully in the ash tray. "I know why you've come to see me," he said in his resonant voice. "And I'd like to express my sympathy for the predicament your father is in."

"Have you studied the charges that are being made against him?" Rina asked quickly.

"I've looked over the papers," he admitted.

"Do you think he's guilty?"

The Governor looked at her. "Banking is like politics," he said. "There are many things which are morally right and legally wrong. That they may be one and the same thing doesn't matter. Judgment is rendered only on the end result."

"You mean," she said quickly, "the trick is—not to get caught!"

He felt a glow of satisfaction. He liked quick, bright people, he liked the free exchange of ideas that came from them. Too bad that politics attracted so few of that kind. "I wouldn't be cynical," he said quietly. "It isn't as simple as that. The law is not an inflexible thing. It is alive and reflects the hopes and desires of the people. That's why laws are so often changed or amended. In the long run, we trust that eventually the legal and the moral will come together like parallel lines which meet in infinity."

"Infinity is a long time for a man my father's age to wait," she said. "No one has that much time. Not even you if you live to the hundred and twenty-five."

"Unfortunately, decision will always remain the greatest hazard of leadership," he answered. "Your father assumed that hazard when he authorized those loans. He justified it to himself because without them, certain mills might be forced to close, throwing many people out of work, and causing others to lose their investment or principal means of support. So your father was completely right morally in what he did.

"But legally, it's another story. A bank's principal obligation is to its depositors. The law takes this into account and the state has rules governing such loans. Under the law, your father should never have made those loans because they were inadequately collateralized. Of course, if the mills hadn't closed and the loans had been repaid, he'd have been called a public benefactor, a farseeing businessman. But the opposite happened and now these same people who might have praised him are screaming for his head."

"Doesn't it make any difference that he lost his entire fortune trying to save the bank?" Rina asked.

The Governor shook his head. "Unfortunately, no."

"Then, is there nothing you can do for him?" she asked desperately.

"A good politician doesn't go against the tide of public opinion," he said slowly. "And right now the public is yelling for a scapegoat. If your father puts up a defense, he'll lose and get ten to fifteen years. In that case, I'd be long out of office before he was eligible for parole."

He picked up the cigar from the ash tray and rolled it gently between his strong white fingers. "If you could convince your father to plead guilty and waive jury trial, I’ll arrange for a judge to give him one to three years. In fifteen months, I’ll grant him a pardon."

She stared at him. "But what if something happens to you?"

He smiled. "I’m going to live to be a hundred and twenty-five, remember? But even if I weren't around, your father couldn't lose. He'd still be eligible for parole in twenty months."

Rina got to her feet and held out her hand. "Thank you very much for seeing me," she said, meeting his eyes squarely. "No matter what happens, I hope you live to be a hundred and twenty-five."

******

From her side of the wire partition, she watched her father walk toward her. His eyes were dull, his hair had gone gray, even his face seemed to have taken on a grayish hue that blended softly into the drab gray prison uniform.

"Hello, Father," she said softly as he slipped into the chair opposite her.

He forced a smile. "Hello, Rina."

"Is it all right, Father?" she asked anxiously. "Are they—"

"They're treating me fine," he said quickly. "I have a job in the library. I'm in charge of setting up a new inventory control. They have been losing too many books."

She glanced at him. Surely he was joking.

An awkward silence came over them. "I received a letter from Stan White," he said finally. "They have an offer of sixty thousand dollars for the house."

Stan White was her father's lawyer. "That's good," she said. "From what they told me, I didn't think we'd get that much. Big houses are a glut on the market."

"Some Jews want it," he said without rancor. "That's why they'll pay that much."

"It was much too big for us and we wouldn't live there when you come home, anyway."

He looked at her. "There won't be very much left. Perhaps ten thousand after we take care of the creditors and Stan."

"We won't need very much," she said. "We'll manage until you're active again."

This time his voice was bitter. "Who would take a chance on me? I'm not a banker any more, I'm a convict."

"Don't talk like that!" she said sharply. "Everyone knows that what happened wasn't your fault. They know you took nothing for yourself."

"That makes it even worse," he said wryly. "It's one thing to be condemned for a thief, quite another for being a fool."

"I shouldn't have gone to Europe. I should have stayed at home with you. Then perhaps none of this would have happened."

"It was I who failed in my obligation to you."

"You never did that, Father."

"I've had a lot of time to think up here. I lay awake nights wondering what you're going to do now."

"I’ll manage, Father," she said. "I'll get a job."

"Doing what?"

"I don't know," she replied quickly. "I’ll find something."

"It's not as easy as that. You're not trained for anything." He looked down at his hands. "I've even spoiled your chances for a good marriage."

She laughed. "I wasn't thinking of getting married. All the young men in Boston are just that—young men. They seem like boys to me; I haven't the patience for them. When I get married, it will be to a mature man, like you."

"What you need is a vacation," he said. "You look tired and drawn."

"We'll both take a vacation when you come home," she said. "We'll go to Europe. I know a place on the Riviera where we could live a whole year on less than two thousand dollars."

"That's still a long way off," he said. "You need a vacation now."

"What are you getting at, Father?" she asked.

"I wrote to my cousin Foster," he said. "He and his wife, Betty, want you to come out and stay with them. They say it's beautiful out there and you could stay with them until I could come out to join you."

"But then I wouldn't be able to visit you," she said quickly, reaching for his hands in the narrow space beneath the bars.

He pressed her fingers. "It will be better that way. Both of us will have less painful things to remember."

"But, Father—" she began to protest.

The guard started over and her father got to his feet. "I’ve already given Stan White instructions," he said. "Now, you do as I say and go out there."

He turned away and she watched him walk off through eyes that were beginning to mist over with tears. She didn't see him again until many months later, when she was on her way to Europe again on her honeymoon. She brought her husband out to the prison.

"Father," she said, almost shyly, "this is Jonas Cord."

What Harrison Marlowe saw was a man his own age, perhaps even older, but with a height and youthful vitality that seemed characteristic of the Westerner.

"Is there anything we can get you, Father?" she asked.

"Anything we can do at all, Mr. Marlowe?" Jonas Cord added.

"No. No, thank you."

Cord looked at him and Harrison Marlowe caught a glimpse of deep-set, penetrating blue eyes. "My business is expanding, Mr. Marlowe," he said. "Before you make any plans after leaving here, I'd appreciate your speaking with me. I need a man with just your experience to help me in refinancing my expansion."

"You're very kind, Mr. Cord."

Jonas Cord turned to Rina. "If you'll excuse me," he said, "I know you want some time alone with your father. I'll be waiting outside."

Rina nodded and the two men said good-by. For a short time, father and daughter looked at each other, then Rina spoke. "What do you think of him, Father?"

"Why, he's as old as I am!"

Rina smiled. "I told you I'd marry a mature man, Father. I never could stand boys."

"But—but—" her father stammered. "You're a young woman. You have your whole life ahead of you. Why did you marry him?"

Rina smiled gently. "He's an extremely wealthy man, Father," she said softly. "And very lonely."

"You mean you married him for that?" Then suddenly he understood the reason for her husband's offer. "Or so he could take care of me?" he asked.

"No, Father," she said quickly. "That isn't why I married him at all."

"Then why?" he asked. "Why?"

"To take care of me, Father," she said simply.

"But, Rina— " he began to protest.

She cut him off quickly. "After all, Father," she said, "you yourself said there wasn't anything I could do to take care of myself. Wasn't that why you sent me out there?"

He didn't answer. There wasn't anything left for him to say. After a few more awkward moments, they parted. He stretched out on the narrow cot in his cell and stared up at the ceiling. He felt a cold chill creeping through him. He shivered slightly and pulled the thin blanket across his legs. How had he failed her? Where had he gone wrong?

He turned his face into the hard straw pillow and the hot tears began to course down his cheeks. He began to shiver as the chill grew deeper within him. Later that night, they came and took him to the prison hospital, with a fever of a hundred and two. He died of bronchial pneumonia three days later, while Rina and Jonas Cord were still on the high seas.


FOURTEEN


THE PAIN BEGAN TO ECHO IN HER TEMPLES, CUTTING LIKE A SHARP KNIFE INTO THE DREAM. She felt it begin to slip away from her, and then the terrible loneliness of awakening. She stirred restlessly. Everyone was fading away, everyone except her. She held her breath for a moment, fighting the return to reality. But it was no use. The last warm traces of the dream were gone. She was awake.

She opened her eyes and stared unrecognizingly for a moment around the hospital room, then she remembered where she was. There were new flowers on the dresser opposite the foot of the bed. They must have brought them in while she slept.

She moved her head slowly. Ilene was dozing in the big easy chair near the window. It was night outside. She must have dozed the afternoon away.

"I have a terrible headache," she whispered softly. "May I have some aspirin, please?"

Ilene's head snapped forward. She looked at Rina questioningly.

Rina smiled. "I’ve slept away the whole afternoon."

"The whole afternoon?" It was the first time in almost a week that Rina had been conscious.

"The whole afternoon," Ilene repeated. "Yes."

"I was so tired," Rina said. "And I always get a headache when I nap during the day. I'd like some aspirin."

"I’ll call the nurse."

"Never mind, I’ll call her," Rina said quickly. She started to raise her hand to the call button over her head. But she couldn't lift her arm.

She looked down at it. It was strapped to the side of the bed. There was a needle inserted into a vein on her forearm, attached to a long tube which led up to an inverted bottle suspended from a stand. "What's that for?"

"The doctor thought it would be better it they didn't disturb your rest to feed you," Ilene said quickly. She leaned across the bed and pressed the buzzer.

The nurse appeared almost instantly in the doorway. She walked quickly to the bed and stood next to Ilene, looking down at Rina. "Are we awake?" she asked with professional brightness.

Rina smiled slowly. "We're awake," she said faintly. "You're a new one, aren't you? I don't remember you."

The nurse flashed a quick look at Ilene. She had been on duty ever since Rina was checked into the hospital. "I’m the night nurse," she answered calmly. "I've just come on."

"I always get a headache when I sleep in the afternoon," Rina said. "I was wondering if I could have some aspirin?"

"I'll call the doctor," the nurse said.

Rina turned her head. "You must be exhausted," she said to Ilene. "Why don't you go home and get some rest? You've been here all day."

"I'm really not tired. I grabbed forty winks myself this afternoon."

The doctor came into the room just then and Rina turned toward the door. He stood there blinking his eyes behind his shining glasses. "Good evening, Miss Marlowe. Did you have a good rest?"

Rina smiled. "Too much, doctor. It's left me with a headache." Her brows knit. "It's a peculiar kind of a headache, though."

He came over to the side of the bed and put his fingers on her wrist, finding her pulse. "Peculiar?" he asked, looking down at his watch. "How do you mean peculiar?"

"It seems to hurt most when I try to remember names. I know you and I know my friend here"—she gestured to Ilene—"but when I try to say your name, the headache comes and I can't remember."

The doctor laughed as he let go of her wrist. "That's not at all unusual. There are some types of migraine headaches which make people forget their own name. Yours isn't that bad, is it?"

"No, it's not," Rina answered.

The doctor took an ophthalmoscope from his pocket and leaned over. "I'm going to look into your eyes with this," he said. "This makes it possible for me to see behind them and we may find out that your headache is due to nothing but simple eyestrain. Don't be frightened."

"I’m not frightened, doctor," Rina answered. "A doctor in Paris once looked at me with one of those. He thought I was in shock. But I wasn't. I was only hypnotized."

He placed his thumb in a corner of her eye and raised the eyelid. He pressed a button on the instrument and a bright light reflected through the pin-point hole. "What's your name?"
he asked casually.

"Katrina Osterlaag," she answered quickly. Then she laughed. "See, doctor, I told you my headache wasn't that bad. I still know my name."

"What's your father's name?" he asked, moving the instrument to the other eye.

"Harrison Marlowe. See, I know that, too."

"What's your name?" he asked again, the light making a half circle in the upper corner of her eye.

"Rina Marlowe," she answered. She laughed aloud. "You can't trick me, doctor."

He turned off the light and straightened up. "No, I can't," he said, smiling down at her.

There was a movement at the door and two attendants wheeled in a large, square machine. They pushed it over to the side of the bed next to the doctor.

"This is an electroencephalograph," the doctor explained quietly. "It's used to measure the electrical impulses emanating from the brain. It's very helpful sometimes in locating the source of headaches so we can treat them."

"It looks very complicated," Rina said.

"It's not," he answered. "It's very simple, really. I'll explain it to you as we go along."

"And I thought all you had to do was take a few aspirins for a headache."

He laughed with her. "Well, you know how we doctors are," he said. "How can we ever justify our fees if all we do is recommend a few pills?"

She laughed again and the doctor turned toward Ilene. He nodded silently at her, his eyes gesturing to the door. He had already turned back to Rina by the time she had opened it.

"You'll come back later, won't you?" Rina asked.

Ilene turned around. The attendants were already plugging in the machine and the nurse was helping the doctor prepare Rina. "I’ll be back," Ilene promised. She walked out and closed the door gently behind her.

It was almost an hour later when the doctor came out of the room. He dropped into a chair opposite Ilene, his hand fishing in his pocket. It came out with a crumpled package of cigarettes, which he held out to her. She took one and he struck a match, holding it first for her, then for himself.

'Well?" she asked through stiff lips.

"We'll be able to tell more when we study the electroencephalogram," he said, dragging on his cigarette. "But there are already definite signs of deterioration in certain neural areas."

"Please, doctor," she said. "In words that I can understand."

"Of course," he said. He took a deep breath. "The brain already shows signs of damage in certain nerve areas. It is this damage that makes it difficult for her to remember things—simple, everyday things like names, places, time. Everything in her memory is present, there is no past, perhaps no today. It is an unconscious effort to recall these little things that causes the strain and brings on the headache."

"But isn't that a good sign?" she asked hopefully. "This is the first time in almost a week that she seems partly normal."

"I know how concerned you are," he said cautiously. "And I don't want to appear unduly pessimistic, but the human mechanism is a peculiar machine. It is a tribute to her physical stamina that she's holding up as well as she is. She's going through recurrent waves of extremely high fever, a fever that destroys everything in its path. It's almost a miracle that when it abates slightly, even for a moment, as it just has, she can return to a semblance of lucidity."

"You mean she's slipping back into delirium?"

"I mean that her temperature is beginning to climb again," he answered.

Ilene got to her feet quickly and crossed to the door. "Do you think I can speak to her again before she slips back?"

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. He got to his feet. "Her temperature began to rise about twenty minutes after you left the room. I put her in sedation to ease the pain."

She stared at the doctor. "Oh, my God!" she said in a low voice. "How long, doctor? How long must she suffer like this?"

"I don't know," he said slowly. He took her arm. "Why don't you let me drive you home? There's nothing you can do tonight, believe me. She's asleep."

"I’d—I'd like to look in on her just for a moment," she said hesitantly.

"It's all right, but let me warn you. Do not be upset by her appearance. We had to cut off most of her hair to make the electroencephalogram."

******

Ilene closed the door of her office and crossed to her desk. There were some preliminary sketches of the costumes for a new picture waiting for her approval. She flicked on the light and walked over to the built-in bar.

She took down a bottle of Scotch and filled a glass with ice cubes. Covering the ice with the whisky, she went back to her desk, sat down and picked up the sketches. She sipped at the drink as she studied them.

She pressed a button in the arm of her chair and an overhead spotlight set in the ceiling shone down onto the drawings. She turned her chair toward the pedestal on her left, trying to imagine the dress on the model.

But her eyes kept misting over with tears. The sketches seemed to disappear and all she could see was Rina standing there on the pedestal, the white light shining down on her long blond hair—the white-blond hair that still hung in angry clinging tufts to the pillow under her shorn head.

"Why did you have to do it, God?" she cried aloud angrily at the ceiling. "Why do you always have to destroy the beautiful things? Isn't there enough ugliness in the world?"

The tears kept blurring in her eyes, but through them, she could still see Rina as she stood on the pedestal for the first time, the white silk shimmering down over her body.

It wasn't long ago. Five years. And the white silk was for a wedding gown. It was just before Rina's marriage to Nevada Smith.


FIFTEEN


IT STARTED OUT AS A QUIET WEDDING BUT IT TURNED INTO A CIRCUS, THE BIGGEST PUBLICITY STUNT EVER TO COME OUT OF HOLLYWOOD. And all because David Woolf had finally made it into the bed of the redheaded extra who had a bit-role in The Renegade.

Though he was a junior publicist, just one step above the lowest clerk in the department, and made only thirty-five a week, David was a very big man with the girls. This could be explained in one word. Nepotism. Bernie Norman was his uncle.

Not that it did him much good. But the girls didn't know that. How could they know that Norman could scarcely stand the sight of his sister's son and had only given him the job to shut her up? Now, in order to keep his nephew from annoying him, he had given his three secretaries orders to bar David from his office, no matter what the emergency.

This annoyed David, but right now it was far from his mind. He was twenty-three and there were more important considerations at hand. What a difference between the broads out here and those back home. He thought of the usherettes back at the Bijou Theater in New York, the frightened little Italian girls and the big brassy Irish, and the quickies that took place in the deserted second balcony or out on the empty stage in back of the big screen while the picture unfurled itself over their nervous heads. Even back there, Bernie Norman's name had been a help to him. Why else would they take an eighteen-year-old kid off a junk wagon and make him an assistant manager?

The girl was talking. At first David didn't hear her. "What did you say?" he asked.

"I’d like to go to the Nevada Smith wedding."

Her position may have been oblique but her approach wasn't. He recognized it. "It's going to be a small affair," he said.

Her voice was clearer now as she looked up at him. "There'll still be a lot of important people there who'd never see me any other way."

"I’ll see what I can do," he said.

It was a little while later, when he was making his third greedy attempt to grab the brass ring, that the idea came to him. "Yeow!" he yelled suddenly as the far-reaching implications unfurled in his mind.

Startled, the girl looked up at him and saw a blindly rapt expression on his face. "Take it easy, honey. You'll wake the neighbors," she whispered softly, thinking he had reached his climax.

And, in a manner of speaking, he had.

******

Bernie Norman prided himself on being the first executive in the studio each day. Every morning at seven o'clock, his long black chauffeur-driven limousine would swirl through the massive steel gates of the executive entrance and draw to a stop in front of his office building. He liked to get in early, he always said, because it gave him a chance to go through his correspondence, which was at least twice as voluminous as that of anyone else in the studio, before his three secretaries came in. That way, the rest of his day could be left free for anyone who came to his door. His door was always open, he claimed.

Actually, he got there early because he was a born snoop. Though no one ever spoke about it, everyone in the studio knew what he did the moment the front door closed behind him. He would prowl through the silent offices, executive and secretary alike, looking at the papers lying on desks, peeking into whatever desk drawers happened to be unlocked and examining the contents of every letter and memo. It got so that whenever an executive wanted to be sure that something got to Norman's attention, he would leave a rough draft of his message lying innocently on his desk when he went home.

Norman justified this to himself easily. He was merely keeping his finger on the pulse of things. How could one man control so complicated an organization, otherwise?

He arrived at the door to his own private office that morning about eight o'clock, his inspection having taken a little longer than usual. He sighed heavily and opened his door. Problems, always problems.

He started for his desk, then froze with horror. His nephew David was asleep on his couch, sheaves of papers strewn over the floor around him. Bernie could feel the anger bubbling up inside him.

He crossed the room and pulled David from the couch. "What the hell are you doing sleeping in my office, you bum bastard!" he shouted.

David sat up, startled. He rubbed his eyes. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was looking at some papers and I must have dozed off."

"Papers!" Norman yelled. "What papers?" Quickly he picked one up. He turned horror-stricken eyes back to his nephew. "The production contract for The Renegade!" he accused. "My own confidential file!"

"I can explain," David said quickly, awake now.

"No explanations!" Norman said dramatically. He pointed to the door. "Out! If you're not out of the studio in five minutes, I'll call the guards and have you thrown out. You're through. Fired! Fartig! One thing we don't tolerate in this studio—sneaks and spies. My own sister's son! Go."

"Aw, come off it, Uncle Bernie," David said, getting to his feet.

"Come off it, he tells me!" Norman roared. "Half the night his mama keeps me up with telephone calls." His voice unconsciously mimicked his sister's nasal whine. " 'My Duvidele didn't come home yet, all night he didn't come home. Maybe he vass in a accident.' Accident, hah! I should tell her her little Duvidele was fucking all night the redheaded shiksa extra from the studio, hah! Get out!"

David stared at his uncle. "How did you know?"

"Know?" his uncle roared. "I know everything that goes on in this studio. You think I built a business like this fucking in furnished rooms all night? No! I worked, I tell you, I worked like a dirty dog. Day and night!"

He walked over to the chair behind his desk and sank into it. He clasped his hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture. "Aggravation like this, from my own flesh and blood first thing in the morning, I need like another luch im kopf!" He unlocked his desk and took out a bottle of pills. Quickly he swallowed two and leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed.

David looked at his uncle. "You all right, Uncle Bernie?"

Slowly Norman opened his eyes. "You still here?" he asked in the voice of a man making a supreme effort to control himself. "Go!" His eyes fell on the papers still on the floor. "First pick up the papers," he added quickly. "Then go!"

"You don't even know why I came here this morning," David said tentatively. "Something very important came up."

His uncle opened his eyes and looked at him. "If it's something important, come to see me like everybody else. You know my door is always open."

"Open?" David laughed sarcastically. "If Christ himself came into this studio, those three harpies wouldn't let him in to see you!"

"Don't bring religion into it!" Norman held up a warning hand. "You know my policy. Everybody's the same as everybody else. Somebody wants to see me, they talk to my number-three girl, she talks to my number-two girl, my number-two girl talks to my number-one girl. My number-one girl thinks it important enough, she talks to me and the next thing you know, you're in my office!" He snapped his fingers. "Like that! But don't come sneaking around in the night, looking at confidential papers! Now go!"

"O.K." David started for the door. He should have known better than to try to do anything for the old bastard. "I’m going," he said bitterly. "But when I walk out this door, you look good—real good, because you're throwing out a million dollars along with me!"

"Wait a minute!" his uncle called after him. "I like to be fair. You said you had something important to tell me? So tell it. I’m listening."

David closed the door. "Next month, before the picture opens, Nevada Smith and Rina Marlowe are getting married," he said.

"You're telling me something?" His uncle glowered. "Who cares? They didn't even invite me to the wedding. Besides, Nevada's finished."

"Maybe," David said. ''But the girl isn't. You saw the picture?"

"Of course I saw the picture!" Norman snapped. "We're sneaking it tonight."

"Well, after the sneak, she's going to be the hottest thing in the business."

His uncle looked up at him, a respect dawning in his eyes. "So?"

"From the papers, I see nobody's got her under contract," David said. "You sign her this morning. Then— "

His uncle was already nodding his head.

"Then you tell them you want to give them the wedding. As a present from the studio. We'll make it the biggest thing ever to hit Hollywood. It'll add five million to the gross."

"So what good does that do us?" Norman asked. "We don't own any of the picture, we don't share in the profits."

"We get a distribution fee, don't we?" David asked, his confidence growing as he saw the intent look on his uncle's face. "Twenty-five per cent of five million is one and a quarter million dollars. Enough to carry half the cost of our whole distribution setup for a whole year. And the beautiful thing about it is we can charge all our expenses for the wedding to publicity and slap the charge right back against the picture. That way, it doesn't cost us one penny. Cord pays everything out of his share of the profit."

Norman got to his feet. There were tears in his eyes. "I knew it! Blood will tell!" he cried dramatically. "From now on you're working for me. You're my assistant! I’ll tell the girls to have the office next door made ready for you. More than this I couldn't ask from my own son—if I had a son!"

"There's one more thing."

"There is?" Norman sat down again. "What?"

"I think we should try to make a deal with Cord to do a picture a year for us."

Norman shook his head. "Oh, no! We got enough crazy ones around here without him."

"He's got a feeling for pictures. You can see it in The Renegade."

"It was a lucky accident."

"No it wasn't," David insisted. "I was on the set through the whole thing. There wasn't anything in the picture that he didn't have something to do with. If it wasn't for him, Marlowe would never be the star she's going to be. He has the greatest eye for cunt I ever saw in my life."

"He's a goy," Norman said deprecatingly. "What do they know about cunt?"

"The goyim knew about cunt before Adam led Eve out of the Garden of Eden."

"No," Norman said.

"Why not?"

"That kind of man I don't want around," Norman said. "He won't be satisfied just to make a picture. Pretty soon, he'll want to run the whole thing. He's a balabuss, he's not the kind who would work with partners."

He got up and walked around the desk toward his nephew. "No," he said. "Him I won't do business with. But your other ideas I like. This morning we'll go out and get the girl's signature on the contract. Then we'll tell them about the wedding. Nevada won't like it but he'll do it. After all, he's got his own money in the picture and he won't be taking any chances!"

David saw to it that a special print of the newsreel of the wedding was sent on to Cord, who was in Europe at the time. When Jonas walked into the small screening room in London, where he had arranged for it to be run off, the lights immediately went down and a blast of music filled the room. On the screen, lettering was coming out of a turning camera until there was nothing else to be seen.

NORMAN NEWSREEL
THE FIRST WITH
THE FINEST IN
PICTURES!

The dramatically somber voice of the narrator came on under a long shot of a church, around which crowds of people swirled.

All Hollywood, all the world, is agog with excitement over the fairy-tale wedding in Hollywood today of Nevada Smith and Rina Marlowe, stars of the forthcoming Bernard B. Norman release The Renegade.

There was a shot of Nevada riding up to the church resplendently dressed in a dark, tailored cowboy suit, astride a snow-white horse.

Here is the groom, the world-famous cowboy Nevada Smith, arriving at the church with his equally famous horse, Whitey.

Nevada walked up the steps and into the church, with the police holding back mobs of screaming people. Then a black limousine drew up. Bernie Norman got out and turned to assist Rina. She stood for a moment, smiling at the crowd, then taking Norman's proffered arm, began to walk into the church, as the camera moved in for a close-up.

And here is the bride, the lovely Rina Marlowe, star of The Renegade, on the arm of Bernard B. Norman, noted Hollywood producer, who will give the bride away. Miss Marlowe's wedding gown is ivory Alençon lace, designed especially for her by Ilene Gaillard, famous couturière, who also designed the exciting costumes that you will see Miss Marlowe wear in the Bernard B. Norman picture The Renegade.

The camera then cut to the exterior of Nevada's Beverly Hills home, where there was a tremendous tent with throngs of people milling about it.

Here on the lawn of the palatial home of Nevada Smith is the tent erected by the Bernard B. Norman studio workmen as their tribute to the famous couple. It is large enough to shelter and feed a thousand guests and is the largest of its kind ever set up anywhere in the world. And now let us say hello to some of the famous guests.

The camera rolled down the lawn as the announcer introduced many famous stars and newspaper columnists, who paused in the midst of their obviously carefully posed groups to smile and bow in the direction of the camera. The camera moved on up the steps to the entrance of the house as Nevada and Rina appeared in the doorway. A moment later, Norman stood between them. Rina held a large bouquet of roses and orchids in her arms.

Here again is the happy bride and groom, together with their friend, the famous producer Bernard B. Norman. The bride is about to throw her bouquet to the eagerly waiting crowd.

There was a shot of Rina throwing her bouquet and a scramble of pretty young girls. The flowers were finally caught by a red-haired, sloe-eyed girl and the camera moved in for a quick close-up of her.

The bouquet was caught by Miss Anne Barry, a close friend of the bride's. Miss Barry, a beautiful redhead, also has an important role in The Renegade and has just been placed under contract by Norman Pictures for her fine portrayal in that part.

The camera then moved in for a final close-up. Rina, Norman and Nevada smiled into the theater. Norman was standing between them, one arm placed in fatherly fashion around Nevada's shoulder, the other hidden from view behind the bride. They all laughed happily as the scene faded.

Lights in the screening room came up as Jonas got to his feet and, unsmiling, walked out of the room. There was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. If that was the way Rina wanted it, she could have it.

But what Jonas didn't see, and neither could anyone else who had been looking at the screen, was Bernie Norman's left hand, hidden behind Rina's back.

It was comfortably and casually exploring the rounded contours of her buttocks.


SIXTEEN



IT HAD BEEN AFTER EIGHT O'CLOCK WHEN ILENE HEARD THE DOOR TO HER OUTER OFFICE OPEN. She put down the small palette and wiped the smudges of paint from her hands on her loose gray smock. She turned toward the door just as Rina came in.

"I’m sorry to hold you up, Ilene," Rina apologized. "We went overtime on the set tonight."

Ilene smiled. "It's O.K. I had some work to finish up, anyway." She looked at Rina. "You look tired. Why don't you sit down and rest a few minutes? I heard from the production office that you'd be late so I ordered coffee and sandwiches."

Rina flashed a grateful smile. "Thanks," she said, dropping onto the big couch and kicking off her shoes. "I am tired."

Ilene pushed a coffee table over to the couch. She opened a small refrigerator and took out a tray of sandwiches, which she set down in front of Rina. Opening a large Thermos of black coffee, quickly she poured a cup for Rina.

Rina held the steaming cup to her lips. "This is good," she said over the rim. She sipped again, then leaned her head against the back of the couch. "I'm really so pooped I'm not even hungry."

"You have a right to be," Ilene answered. "You haven't had a week off in the year since you finished The Renegade. Three pictures, one right after the other, and next week you're starting another. It's a wonder you haven't collapsed."

Rina looked at her. "I like to work."

"So do I," Ilene replied quickly. "But there's a point where you have to draw the line."

Rina didn't answer. She sipped at her coffee and picked up a copy of Variety. Idly she turned the page. She stopped at a headline, read for a moment, then held the paper out to Ilene. "Have you seen this?"

Ilene glanced down at the paper. The headline caught her eye. It was typical Varietese:

THE RENEGADE'S BIGGEST HAUL - BOX OFFICE

In a year filled with cries from moaning exhibitors and anguished producers about the seemingly bottomless pit into which motion-picture grosses are falling, it's encouraging to note one ray of sunshine. It was reliably learned from informed sources that the domestic gross of The Renegade passed the five-million-dollar mark last week, a little less than one year after release. Based on these figures, the Rina Marlowe vehicle, with many subsequents still to be played in the U.S. and the rest of the world still to be heard from, can be expected to gross at ten million dollars. The Renegade, a Norman release, was produced and bankrolled by Jonas Cord, a rich young Westerner better known for his record-breaking flight from Paris to L.A. last year, and also features Nevada Smith.

Ilene looked up from the paper. "I saw it."

"Does that mean everyone got their money back?"

"I guess it does," Ilene said. "That is, if Bernie didn't steal them blind."

Rina smiled. She felt a surge of relief. At least, Nevada didn't have to worry now. She picked up a sandwich and began to eat ravenously. "Suddenly I'm hungry," she said between mouthfuls.

Silently Ilene refilled her coffee cup, then poured one for herself. Rina ate quickly and in a few minutes, she had finished. She took a cigarette from the small box on the table and lit it.

She leaned back and blew the smoke at the ceiling. A faint touch of color came back into her cheeks. "I feel better now. We can try on those costumes as soon as I finish this cigarette."

"No hurry," Ilene said. "I have time."

Rina got to her feet. "We might as well get started," she said, grinding her cigarette out in an ash tray. "I just remembered, I have a breakfast layout to do for Screen Stars magazine at six o'clock in the morning."

Ilene walked over to the closet and slid back the doors. Six pairs of circus-style chemise tights, each in a different color, hung there. Rina took one down and turned to Ilene, holding the brief costume in front of her. "They get smaller and smaller."

Ilene smiled. "Bernie himself gave the orders for those. After all, the name of the picture is The Girl on the Flying Trapeze."

She took the costume and held it while Rina began to undress. Rina turned her back as she slipped out of her dress and struggled into the tight-fitting costume. "Whew!" she gasped. "Maybe I shouldn't have eaten those sandwiches!"

Ilene stepped back and studied the costume. "Better step up on the pedestal," she said. "There are a few things I'll have to do."

Quickly she chalked out the alterations. "O.K.," she said. "Let's try the next one."

Rina reached behind her to unfasten the hooks. One of them stuck. "You'll have to help me, Ilene. I can't get out of this thing."

Rina stepped down from the pedestal and turned her back to Ilene. Deftly Ilene freed the hook. The cloth parted quickly and her fingers brushed against Rina's naked back. They tingled with the firm, warm touch of her flesh. Ilene felt the rush of blood to her temples. She stepped back quickly as if she had touched a hot iron. Too many times had she been  tempted to let a thing like this get her into trouble. It had taken too many years to get this job.

Rina dropped the top of the costume to her waist and struggled to get the tights over her hips. She looked at Ilene. "I'm afraid you'll have to help me again."

Ilene kept her face a mask. "Step back on the pedestal," she said through stiff lips.

Rina got back on the pedestal and turned toward her. Ilene tugged at the garment, her fingers burning where they touched Rina. At last, the tights gave way and Ilene felt Rina shiver as her hand accidentally brushed the soft silken pubis.

"Are you cold?" Ilene asked, stepping back.

Rina stared at her for a moment, then averted her eyes. "No," she answered in a low voice, stepping out of the tights. She picked them up and held them toward Ilene.

Ilene reached for the costume, touched Rina's hand and suddenly couldn't let it go. She looked up at Rina steadily, her heart choking inside her.

Rina shivered again. "No," she whispered, her eyes still looking away. "Please, don't."

Ilene felt as if she were in a dream. Nothing seemed real. "Look at me," she said.

Slowly Rina turned her head. Their eyes met and Ilene could sense her trembling. She saw Rina's nipples burst forth upon her breasts like awakening red flowers on a white field.

She moved toward her and buried her face in the pale soft flax between her hips. They were very still for a moment, then she felt Rina's hand lightly brushing across her hair. She stepped back and Rina came down into her arms.

Ilene felt the hot tears suddenly push their way into her eyes. "Why?" she cried wildly. "Why did you have to marry him?"

******

As usual, Nevada awoke at four thirty in the morning, pulled on a pair of worn Levi's and went down to the stables. As usual, on his way out, he closed the connecting door between their rooms to let Rina know he had gone out.

The wrangler was waiting with a steaming mug of bitter black range coffee. Their conversation followed the routine morning pattern as Nevada felt the hot coffee scald its way down to his stomach.

The mug empty, and Nevada in the lead, they walked through the stable, looking into each stall. At the end was Whitey's stall. Nevada came to a stop in front of it. "Mornin', boy," he whispered.

The palomino stuck its head over the gate and looked at Nevada with large, intelligent eyes. It nuzzled against Nevada's hand, searching for the lump of sugar it knew would appear there. It wasn't disappointed.

Nevada opened the gate and went into the stall. He ran his hands over the sleek, glistening sides of the animal. "We're gettin' a little fat, boy," he whispered. "That's because we haven't had much to do lately. I better take you out for a little exercise."

Without speaking, the wrangler handed him the big saddle that lay crosswise on the partition between the stalls. Nevada slung it over the horse's back and cinched it tight. He placed the bit in the mouth and led the animal out of the stable. In front of the white-painted wooden building, he mounted up.

He rode down the riding trail to the small exercise track he had built at the foot of the hill in back of the house. He could see the gray spires of the roof as he rode past. Mechanically he put the horse through its paces.

The item he had read in Variety came to his mind. His lip curved at the irony. Here he was with the biggest-grossing picture of the year and not once during that whole period had anyone approached him about beginning another. The day of the big Western movie was over. It was too expensive.

At least he wasn't the only one, he thought. Mix, Maynard, Gibson, Holt—they were all in the same boat. Maynard had tried to fight it. He made a series of quickies for Universal, which took about five days to complete. Nevada had seen one of them. Not for him. The picture was choppy and the sound worse. Half the time, you couldn't even understand what the actors were saying.

Tom Mix had tried something else. He'd taken a Wild-West show to Europe and, if the trade papers were right, he and his horse, Tony, had knocked them dead. Maybe that was worth thinking about. The troop he had on the road was still doing all right. If he went out with it, it would do even better. It was that or take up the guitar.

That was the new Western—a singing cowboy and a guitar. He felt a vague distaste even as he thought about it. That chubby little Gene Autry had made it big. The only problem, he'd heard from one of the wranglers, was to keep him from falling off his horse. Tex Ritter was doing all right at Columbia, too.

Nevada looked up again at the house. That was the biggest stupidity of all—a quarter-million-dollar trap. It took more than twenty servants to keep it running and ate up money like a pack of prairie wolves devouring a stray steer. He quickly reviewed his income.

The cattle ranch in Texas had just started to pay off when the depression hit and now he was lucky if it broke even. His royalties on the sale of Nevada Smith toys and cowboy suits had dwindled as children shifted their fickle loyalties to other stars. All that was left was his share of the Wild-West show and the Nevada divorce ranch. That brought in at most two thousand a month. The house alone cost him six thousand a month just to keep going.

Rina had offered to share the expenses but he'd refused, feeling it was a man's responsibility to pay the bills. But now, even with the bank loans for The Renegade paid off, he knew it wouldn't be possible to keep the house going without dipping further into his capital. The sensible thing was to get rid of it.

He'd have to take a loss. Thalberg over at Metro had offered him a hundred and fifty thousand. That way, at least, he'd save the broker's fee.

He made up his mind. There was no use sitting around, waiting for the telephone to ring. He'd go out on the road with the show and sell the house. He began to feel better. He decided to tell Rina when she got back from the studio that night.

The telephone on the pole against the far rail began to ring loudly. He walked his horse over to it. "Yes?"

"Mr. Smith?"

It was the voice of the butler. "Yes, James," he said.

"Mrs. Smith would like you to join her for breakfast in the Sun Room."

Nevada hesitated. Strange how quickly the servants recognized who was important in the family. James now used the same distant formal manner of speaking to him that he had once used in speaking to Rina.

He heard the butler clear his throat. "Shall I tell Mrs. Smith you will be up, sir?" he asked. "I think she's expecting some photographers from Screen Stars magazine."

So that was it. Nevada felt a stirring of resentment inside him. This was the first time in months that Rina had called him for breakfast and it took a publicity layout to do it.

Almost immediately, he regretted the way he felt. After all, it wasn't her fault. She'd been working day and night for months.

"Tell her I'll be up as soon as I stable the horse," he said.

******

"Just one more shot of you pouring coffee for Nevada," the photographer said, "and we're finished."

Nevada picked up his cup and extended it across the table to Rina. She lifted the silver coffeepot and poised it over the cup. Professionally and automatically, the smiles came to their lips.

They'd gone through the whole routine. The picture of Rina frying bacon and eggs while he looked over her shoulder at the stove, the burned-toast bit, the popping of food into each other's mouth. Everything the readers of fan magazines had come to expect from movie stars. This was supposed to give them the homey touch.

There was an awkward silence for a moment after the photographers picked up their gear and left. Nevada spoke first. "I'm glad that's over."

"So am I," Rina said. She hesitated, then looked up at the wall clock. "I'd better get started. I'm due in make-up at seven thirty."

She started to get up but the telephone near her began to ring. She sat down again and picked it up. "Hello."

Nevada could hear a voice crackle through the receiver. Rina shot him a funny look, then spoke into the telephone again.

"Good morning, Louella," she said in a sweet voice. "No, you didn't wake me up. Nevada and I were just having breakfast. ... yes, that's right — The Girl on the Flying Trapeze. It's a wonderful part ... no, Norman decided against borrowing Gable from Metro. He says there's only one man who could do the part justice. ... of course. Nevada, it's a natural for him. Wait a minute, I'll put him on and let him tell you himself."

She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "It's Parsons," she whispered quickly. "Bernie decided yesterday he wanted you to play the part of the stunt-rider. Louella's checking on the story."

"What's the matter?" Nevada asked dryly. ''Wouldn't MGM lend him Gable?"

"Don't be silly! Get on the phone."

"Hello, Louella."

The familiar, sticky-sweet voice chewed at his ear. "Congratulations, Nevada! I think it's just wonderful that you're to play opposite your lovely wife again!"

"Wait a minute, Louella." He laughed. "Not so fast. I’m not making the picture."

"You're not?" Another Parsons scoop was in the making. "Why?"

"I've already agreed to go out on the road with my Wild-West show," he said, "And that will keep me tied up for at least six months. While I'm away, Rina will look for another house for us. I think we'll both be more comfortable in a smaller place."

Her voice was businesslike now. "You're selling Hilltop?"

"Yes."

"To Thalberg?" she questioned. "I heard he was interested."

"I don't know," he said. "Several people have expressed interest."

"You'll let me know the moment you decide?"

"Of course."

"There's no trouble between you two?" she asked shrewdly.

"Louella!" He laughed. "You know better than that."

"I’m glad! You're both such nice people," she said. She hesitated a moment. "Keep in touch if there's any news."

"I will, Louella."

"Good luck to both of you!"

Nevada put down the telephone and looked across the table. He hadn't meant for it to come out this way, but there was nothing that could be done about it now.

Rina's face was white with anger. "You could have told me about it before you told the whole world!"

"Who had the chance?" he retorted, angry despite himself. "This is the first time we've talked in months. Besides, you might have told me about the picture."

"Bernie tried to get you all day yesterday but you never came to the phone."

"That's a lot of crap," he said. "I was home all day and he never called. Besides, I wouldn't have his handouts—or yours either, for that matter."

"Maybe if you took your nose out of that damn stable once in a while, you'd find out what was going on."

"I know what's going on," he said angrily. "You don't have to start acting like a movie star."

"Oh, what's the use?" she said bitterly. "What did you ever marry me for?"

"Or you me?" he asked, with equal bitterness.

As they stared at each other, the truth suddenly came to both of them. They had married because they both knew they had lost each other and wanted desperately to hold onto what was already gone. With the knowledge, the anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. "I'm sorry," he said.

She looked down at the coffeepot. "I am, too. I told you I was a spoiler, that I wouldn't be any good for you."

"Don't be silly," he said. "It wasn't your fault. It would have happened, anyway. The business is changing."

"I’m not talking about the business," Rina answered. "I'm talking about you and me. You should have married someone who could have given you a family. I've given you nothing."

"You can't take all the blame. We both tried in our own way but neither of us had what the other really needed. We just made a mistake, that's all."

"I won't be able to file for a divorce until after I finish this next picture," she said in a low voice. "It's all right with me if you want to file before then."

"No, I can wait," he said calmly.

She glanced up at the wall clock. "My God! I’m late!" she exclaimed. "I'll have to hurry."

At the door, she stopped and looked back at him. "Are you still my friend?"

He nodded his head slowly and returned her smile, but his voice was serious. "I’ll always be your friend."

She stood there for a moment and he could see the sudden rush of tears to her eyes, then she turned and ran from the room.

He walked over to the window, and lifting the curtain, looked out onto the front drive. He saw her come running from the house, saw the chauffeur close the door. The car disappeared down the hill on its way to the studio. He let the curtain fall back into place.

Rina never came back to the house. She stayed that night at Ilene's apartment. The next day, she moved into a hotel and three months later filed for divorce in Reno. The grounds were incompatibility.

And that, except for the legalities, was the way it ended.


CONTINUED IN
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