THE CARPETBAGGERS - 07

THE CARPETBAGGERS

HAROLD ROBBINS

(  INSTALMENT 7  )

SEVENTEEN


DAVID HEARD THE VIOLENT SLAM OF THE DOOR IN HIS UNCLE'S OFFICE. He got to his feet quickly and walked to the connecting door. He opened it and found his uncle Bernie seated in his chair, red faced and angry, gasping for breath. He was trying to shake some pills out of the inverted bottle in his hand.

David quickly filled a glass with water from the carafe on the desk and handed it to Norman. "What happened?"

Norman swallowed the two pills and put down the glass. He looked up at David. "Why didn't I go into the cloak-and-suit business with my brother, your uncle Louie?"

David knew no answer was expected, so he waited patiently until Norman continued. "Fifty, a hundred suits they make a day. Everything is calm, everything is quiet. At night, he goes home. He eats. He sleeps. No worries. No ulcers. No aggravations. That's the way a man should live. Easy. Not like a dog. Not like me."

David asked again, "What happened?"

"As if I haven't got enough troubles," Norman complained, "our stockholders say we're losing too much money. I run to New York to explain. The union threatens to strike the theaters. I sit down and work out a deal that at least they don't close the theaters. Then I get word from Europe that Hitler took over all our German properties, offices, theaters, everything! More than two million dollars the anti-semiten stole. Then I get a complaint from the underwriters and bankers, the pictures ain't got no prestige. So I buy the biggest, most artistic hit on Broadway. Sunspots the name of it is. It's so artistic, even I don't understand what it's all about.

"Now I'm stuck with an artistic bomb. I talk to all the directors in Hollywood about it. I'm not so dumb altogether that it don't take me long to find out they don't understand it neither, so I hire the director who did the play on the stage, Claude Dunbar, a faigele if I ever saw one. But fifty thousand he gets.

"A hundred and fifty I’m in already and no box office. So I call up Louie and say lend me Garbo. He laughs in my face. You ain't got enough money, he says. Besides, we got her in prestige of our own. Anna Christie by Eugene O'Neill she's making. Good-by, I says and call up Jack Warner. How about Bette Davis? Wait a minute, he says. I sit on the phone ten minutes.

"The pisher thinks I don't know what he's doin'? He's calling his brother Harry in New York, that's what he's doin'. Here I am, sitting on long distance in New York with the charges running up by the minute and he's calling back his brother Harry, who is two blocks away from where I'm sitting. Hang up the phone, I feel like telling him. I can call your brother for only a nickel.

"Finally, Jack gets back on the phone to me ninety-five dollars later. You're lucky, he says. We ain't got her penciled in for nothing until September. You can have her for a hundred and fifty grand. For a hundred and fifty, don't do me no favors, I tell him. The most she's gettin' is thirty, thirty-five a picture, maybe not even that.

"How much you want to pay? he asks. Fifty, I says. Forget it, he says. O.K., then, seventy-five, I says. One and a quarter, he says. One even and it's a deal, I says. It's a deal, he says. I hang up the telephone. A hundred and thirty-five dollars the call costs me to talk two minutes.

"So I go back to Wall Street and tell the underwriters and bankers we now got prestige. This picture is goin' to be so artistic, we'll be lucky if we get anybody into the theater. They're very happy and congratulate me and I get on the train and come back to Hollywood."

Bernie ran out of breath suddenly and picked up the glass of water again and drained it. "Ain't that enough trouble for anyone?"

David nodded.

"So enough troubles I got when I walk into my office this morning, you agree? So who do I find waiting but Rina Marlowe, that courveh. 'Rina, darling,' I say to her, 'you look positively gorgeous this morning.' Do I even get a hello? No! She shoves the Reporter under my nose and says, 'What's this? Is it true?'

"I look down and see the story about Davis in Sunspots. 'What are you getting so excited about, darling?' I say. 'That's not for you, a bomb like that. I got a part for you that will kill the people. Scheherazade. Costumes like you never in your life saw before.' And you know what she says to me?" He shook his head sadly.

"What?" David asked.

"After all I done for her, the way she spoke to me!" his uncle said in a hurt voice. " 'Take your hand off my tits,' she says, 'and furthermore, if I don't get that part, you can shove Scheherazade up your fat ass!' Then she walks out the door. How do you like that?" Norman asked in an aggrieved voice. "All I was trying to do was calm her down a little. Practically everybody in Hollywood she fucks but me she talks to like that!"

David nodded. He'd heard the stories about her, too. In the year since she had broken up with Nevada, she seemed to have gone suddenly wild. The parties out at her new place in Beverly Hills were said to be orgies. There was even talk about her and Ilene Gaillard, the costume designer. But as long as nothing got into print, they'd looked the other way. What she did was her own business as long as it didn't affect them. "What are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do about it?" Bernie asked. "Give her the part. If she walked out on us, we'd lose twice as much as we're losing right now."

He reached for a cigar. "I'll call her this afternoon and tell her." He stopped in the midst of lighting it. "No, I got a better idea. You go out to her place this afternoon and tell her. I'm damned if I'll let her make it look like I'm kissing her ass."

"O.K.," David said. He started back toward his own office.

"Wait a minute," his uncle called after him.

David turned around.

"You know who I ran into in the Waldorf my last night in New York?" Bernie asked. "Your friend."

"My friend?"

"Yes, you know who. The crazy one. The flier. Jonas Cord."

"Oh," David said. He liked the way his uncle put it, reminding him of the earlier conversation they had had about Cord some years ago. He and Cord had never exchanged so much as a word. He even doubted if Cord knew he was alive. "How did he look?"

"The same," his uncle replied. "Like a bum. Wearing sneakers and no tie. I don't know how he gets away with it. Anybody else they would throw out, but him? Shows you there's nothing like goyishe money."

"You talk to him?" David asked curiously.

"Sure," Norman answered. "I read in the papers where he's making another picture. Who knows, I says to myself, the schnorrer might get lucky again. Besides, with prestige like we're stuck with, we could use him. We could pay a lot of bills with his money.

"It's two o'clock in the morning and he's got two courvehs on his arm. I walk over and say, 'Hello, Jonas.' He looks at me like he's never seen me before in his life. 'Remember me,' I says, 'Bernie Norman from Hollywood.' 'Oh, sure," he says.

"But I can't tell from his face whether he really does or doesn't, he needs a shave so bad. 'These two little girls are actresses,' he says to me, 'but I won't tell you their names. Otherwise, you might sign them up yourself. If I like a girl,' he says, 'I put her under contract to Cord Explosives now. No more do I take any chances and let them get away from me the way you signed that Marlowe dame.' With that, he gives me such a playful shot in the arm that for two hours I can't raise my hand.

"I made myself smile even if I didn't feel like it. 'In our business, you got to move fast,' I says, 'otherwise you get left behind the parade. But that's over and done with. What I want to do is talk to you about this new picture I hear you're makin'. We did a fantastic job for you on your last one and I think we should set up a meetin'.'

" 'What's the matter with right now?' he asks. 'It's O.K. with me,' I says. He turns to the girls. 'Wait right here,' he says to them. He turns back to me an' takes my arm. 'Come on,' he says, draggin' me off. 'Come up to my office.'

"I look at him in surprise. 'You got an office here in the Waldorf,' I ask him. 'I got an office in every hotel in the United States,' he says. We get on an elevator an' he says 'Mezzanine, please.' We get off and walk down the hall to a door. I look at the sign. 'Gentlemen,' it says. I look at him. He grins. 'My office,' he says, opening the door. We go inside an' it's white and empty. There's a table there and a chair for the attendant. He sits down in the chair and suddenly I see he's very sober, he's not smiling now.

" 'I haven't decided yet where I'm going to release the picture,' he says. 'It all depends on where I can get the best deal.' 'That's smart thinking.' I says, 'but I really can't talk until I know what your picture is about.' 'I'll tell you,' he says. 'It's about the fliers in the World War. I bought up about fifty old planes — Spads, Fokkers, Nieuports, De Havillands—and I figger on havin' a ball flyin' the wings off them.'

" 'Oh, a war picture,' I says. 'That's not so good. War pictures is dead since All Quiet on the Western Front. Nobody'll come to see them. But since I got experience with you and we was lucky together, I might go along for the ride. What terms you looking for?' He looks me in the eye. 'Studio overhead, ten per cent,' he says. 'Distribution, fifteen per cent with all expenses deducted from the gross before calculating the distribution fees.' 'That's impossible,' I says. 'My overhead runs minimum twenty-five per cent.'

" 'It doesn't,' he says, 'but I won't quibble about it. I just want to point out some simple arithmetic to you. According to your annual report, your overhead during the past few years averaged twenty-one per cent. During that period, The Renegade contributed twenty-five per cent of your gross. Deduct that from your gross and you'll find your overhead's up to almost thirty-six per cent. The same thing applies to the studio,' he says. 'Volume governs the percentages and if I supply the volume, I shouldn't be burdened with ordinary percentages. I want some of the gravy, as you picture people call it.'

" 'I couldn't afford it,' I says. 'The way the picture business is going,' he says, 'you can't afford not to.' 'My board of directors would never approve it,' I says. He gets up, smiling. 'They will,' he says. 'Give 'em a couple of years an' they will. Why don't you take a piss longas you're here,' he says. I’m so surprised I walk over to the urinal. When I turn around, he's already gone. The next morning, before I get on the train, I try to locate him but nobody seems to know where he is. His office don't even know he's in New York. He disappeared completely." Bernie looked down at his desk. "A real meshuggeneh, I tell you."

David smiled. "I told you he'd learn fast. His arithmetic is right, you know."

His uncle looked up at him. "Don't you think I know it's right?" he asked. "But is he so poor that I have to give him bread from my own mouth?"

 "If you'll follow me, sir," the butler said politely. "Miss Marlowe is in the solarium."

David nodded and followed silently up the staircase and to the back of the house. The butler halted before a door and knocked.

"Mr. Woolf is here, mum."

"Tell him to come in," Rina called through the closed door.

The butler held the door open. David blinked as the bright California sun suddenly spilled down on him. The roof of the room was a clear glass dome and the sides were of glass, too.

There was a tall screen at the far end of the room. Rina's voice came from behind it. "Help yourself to a drink from the bar. I’ll be out in a minute."

He looked around and located the bar in the corner. There were casual, canvas-covered chairs scattered all about the room and a large white rug over most of the floor.

Ilene Gaillard came out from behind the screen. She was wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled to just above her elbows, and black man-tailored slacks that clung tightly to her narrow hips. Her white-streaked hair was brushed back in a severe straight line.

"Hello, David. Let me help you."

"Thanks, Ilene."

"Make another Martini for me," Rina called from behind the screen.

Ilene didn't answer. She looked at David. "What will it be?"

"Scotch and water," he answered. "Just a little ice."

"O.K.," she said, her hands already moving deftly behind the bar. She held the drink toward him. "There, how's that?"

He tasted it. "Great."

"Got my Martini ready?" Rina said from behind him.

He turned. She was just coming from behind the screen, tying a white terry-cloth robe around her. From the glimpse he caught of the tanned thigh beneath the robe as she moved, he guessed she was wearing nothing underneath. "Hello, Rina."

"Hello, David," she answered. She looked at Ilene. "Where's my drink?"

"David's obviously here on business," Ilene said. "Why don't you wait until after you've had your talk?"

"Don't be so bossy!" Rina snapped. "Make the drink!" She turned to David. "My father gave me Martinis when I was a child. I can drink them like water. Ilene doesn't seem to understand that."

"Here." Ilene's voice was clipped.

Rina took the Martini from her. "Cheers, David."

"Cheers," David replied.

She belted down half her Martini, then led him to one of the chairs. "Sit down," she said, dropping into another.

"Lovely house you have," he said politely.

"It is nice," she said. "Ilene and I had a wonderful time furnishing it." She reached up and patted Ilene's cheek. "Ilene has the most wonderful sense of color. You should speak to your uncle about letting her try her hand at art direction. I'm sure he'd find out that she could do a terrific job."

"Rina," Ilene said, a happy note in her voice, "I’m sure David didn't come here to talk about me."

"I'll speak to Uncle Bernie," he said politely. "I’m sure she could, too."

"See?" Rina said. "The trouble with Ilene is that she's too modest. She's one of the most talented people I ever met."

She held up her empty glass toward Ilene. "Refill."

David caught a glimpse of her lush, full breasts. It would take more than massage to keep her weight down if she kept on drinking like that.

Rina cut into his thoughts. "Did the old bastard decide to give me that part in Sunspots?"

David looked at her. "You have to understand my uncle's point of view, Rina," he said quickly. "You're the most valuable asset the company has. You can't blame him if he doesn't want to put you in a picture that's almost certain to lay an egg."

Rina took the drink from Ilene. "What it all boils down to," she said belligerently, ''is that he thinks I can't act. All I’m good for is walking around as near naked as he can get me."

"He thinks you're a fine actress, Rina. But more important, you're the one in a million who is a star. He's just trying to protect you, that’s all."

"I'll protect myself," she snapped angrily. "Do I get the part or don't I?"

"You get it."

"Good," she said, sipping her drink. She got out of her chair and he realized that she was slightly drunk. "Tell your uncle for me that I won't wear a brassière the next time I come to his office."

"I’m sure that will make him very happy." David grinned at her. He put down his drink and got to his feet.

"I think he wants to fuck me," she said, weaving slightly.

He laughed. "Who doesn't?" he asked. "I can name at least sixty million men who've thought about it."

"You don't," she said, her eyes suddenly looking right into his.

"Who says?"

"I do," she said seriously. "You never asked me."

"Remind me to get up my nerve sometime."

"What's the matter with right now?" she asked, pulling at the sash of her robe. It fell open, revealing her nude body. He stared, so surprised that he was unable to speak.

"Go downstairs, Ilene," Rina said without taking her eyes off him. "And see to it that dinner is on time."

David caught a glimpse of Ilene's eyes as she hurried past him and out the door. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would never forget the depth of the pain and anguish he saw there.


EIGHTEEN


UNTIL HE MET RINA MARLOWE, CLAUDE DUNBAR HAD BEEN IN LOVE WITH ONLY THREE THINGS IN HIS LIFE—his mother, himself and the theater—and in that order. His Hamlet in modern dress was the most successful Shakespearean production ever played in a New York theater. But it was his direction of Sunspots, an otherwise mediocre play, that lifted him to the pinnacle of his career.

Sunspots was a three-character play dealing with two prospectors, living isolated lives at the edge of a great desert, and a young girl, an amnesiac, who wandered into their camp. It develops into a struggle between the men, the younger trying to protect the girl from the lechery of the older, only, after succeeding, to succumb himself to the lechery in the girl.

It was all talk and very little action, and despite a year's run on Broadway, Dunbar had been so surprised when Norman called and told him he had bought the play and wanted him to direct the motion picture that he had agreed without hesitation. It was only after he got to California, however, that he learned who was to play the lead.

"Rina Marlowe!" he'd said to Norman. "But I thought Davis was going to play it."

The producer had stared at him blandly. "Warner screwed me," he said, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. "So right away I thought of Rina."

"But isn't there anyone else, Mr. Norman?" he'd asked, stammering slightly as he always did when upset. "What about the girl who played it on the stage?"

"No name," Norman said quickly. "This is an important property, this play of yours. We have to protect it with all the box office we can get. Rina never made a picture that didn't make money."

"Maybe," Dunbar admitted. "But can she act?"

"There's no better actress in Hollywood than that girl. You're a director. Go over to her house this afternoon with the script and see for yourself."

"Mr. Norman—"

But Norman had already taken his arm and was leading him to the door. "Be fair, Mr. Dunbar. Give the girl a chance, work with her a little. Then if you still think she can't do it, we'll see."

So efficient had the producer been in getting rid of him that he hadn't been aware of it himself until he stood outside the closed door, with the three secretaries staring at him.

He felt his face flush and to cover his embarrassment, he went over to the girl at the desk nearest the door. "Could you tell me where Miss Marlowe lives?" he asked. "And how to get there?"

The secretary smiled. "I can do better than that, Mr. Dunbar," she said efficiently, picking up the telephone. "I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up and take you there."

That afternoon, before he went to Rina's house, Claude Dunbar dropped into a theater that was playing her latest picture. He watched the screen in a kind of fascinated horror. There was no doubt that the girl was beautiful. He could even see that she had a type of animalism that would appeal to a certain type of audience. But she wasn't the kind of girl called for in the play.

The girl in the play was somber, introspective, frightened. As she tried to recapture her memory, she looked as she felt—gaunt, tortured and burned out by the heat of the desert. The fact that she was female caused the desire in the men, not her physical appearance. And it wasn't until the very climax that the play revealed the root of her fears to be her own capacity for lechery.

On the screen, Rina was exciting and bold, aware of her sexuality and continually flaunting it before the audience, but there was no subtlety in her acting. And yet, in all honesty, he felt the surge of vitality flowing from her. When she was on the screen, no matter who else was in the scene, he could not take his eyes off her.

He left the theater and went back to his hotel, where the car was going to pick him up. As was usual whenever he was disturbed, he called his mother. "Do you know who they want to play in the picture, Mother?"

"Who?" his mother asked, with her usual calm.

"Rina Marlowe."

His mother's voice was shocked. "No!"

"Yes, Mother," he said. "Mr. Norman tells me they couldn't get Bette Davis."

"Well, you turn right around and come home," his mother said firmly. "You tell Mr. Norman that you have a reputation to consider, that he promised you Davis and you won't accept that blond creature as a substitute!"

"But I already told Mr. Norman I'd talk to Miss Marlowe. He said if I wasn't satisfied after meeting her, he'd try to get someone else."

"All right," she said. "But remember, your integrity counts far more than anything else. If you're not completely satisfied, you come right home."

"Yes, Mother," he said. "Much love."

"Much love and take care," his mother replied, completing their farewell ritual.

******

Rina entered the room where he was waiting, wearing a black leotard that covered her body from her feet to her neck. Her pale-blond hair was pulled back straight and tied in a knot behind her head. She wore no make-up.

"Mr. Dunbar," she said, coming toward him unsmiling, her hand outstretched.

"Miss Marlowe," he answered, taking her hand. He was surprised at the strength in her fingers.

"I've looked forward to meeting you," she said. "I've heard a great deal about you."

He smiled, pleased. "I've heard a great deal about you, too."

She looked up and smiled for the first time. "I'll bet you have," she said without rancor. "That's why you're out here the first day you're in Hollywood. You probably wonder why in hell I should want to play in Sunspots?"

He was startled at her frank admission. "Why do you, Miss Marlowe? It seems to me you wouldn't want to rock the boat. You've got a pretty good thing going here."

She dropped into a chair. "Screw the boat," she said casually. "I'm supposed to be an actress. I want to find out just how much of an actress I am. And you're the one director who can make me find out."

He stared at her for a moment. "Have you read the script?"

She nodded.

"Do you remember the first lines the girl speaks when she wanders into the camp?"

"Yes."

"Read them for me," he said, giving her the script.

She took the script but didn't open it. " 'My name is Mary. Yes, that's it, I think my name is Mary.' "

"You're saying the lines, Miss Marlowe," he said, frowning at her, "but you're not thinking about them. You're not feeling the effort that goes into the girl's trying to remember her name.

Think it through like this. I can't remember my name but if I could, it's a familiar one. It's a name I've been called all my life, and yet it's hard for me to remember it. Even though it's a name that is mentioned often in church and I have even said it in my prayers. It's coming back now. I think I've got it. 'My name is Mary. Yes, that's it. I think my name is Mary.' "

Rina stared back at him silently. Then she got up and walked over to the fireplace. She put her hands up on the mantelpiece, her back toward him. She tugged at the knot in her hair and it fell around her shoulders as she turned to face him.

Her face was suddenly gaunt and strained as she spoke. " 'My name is Mary,' " she whispered hoarsely. " 'Yes, that's it. I think my name is Mary.' "

He felt the tiny shivers of goose flesh rising on his arms as he looked at her. It was the same thing he always felt whenever something great in the theater got down inside him.

******

Bernie Norman came down to the set on the last day of shooting. He shook his head as he opened the door and walked onto the big shooting stage. He should have known better than ever to hire that faigele to direct the picture. Worse yet, he should have had his head examined before he ever let them talk him into buying such a story. Everything about it was crazy.

First, the shooting schedule had to be postponed for a month. The director wanted thirty days to rehearse Rina in the part. Norman had to give in when Rina insisted she wouldn't go on before Dunbar said she was ready. That cost a hundred and fifty thousand in stand-by salaries alone.

Then the director had insisted on doing everything like they had done it on stage. To hell with the budget. Another fifty thousand went there. And on top of everything, Dunbar insisted that the sound in each scene be perfect. No looping, no lip-synching. Every word perfect, as it was spoken on the stage. He didn't care how many takes were necessary. Why should he, the bastard? Norman thought. It wasn't his money.

Three months over the schedule the picture went. A million and a half thrown down the drain. He blinked his eyes as he came onto the brilliantly lighted section of the stage.

Thank God, this was the last scene. It was the one in front of the cabin when the girl opens the door in the morning and finds the two men dead, the younger man having killed the older, then himself, when he realized the depths to which the girl had led him. All she had to do was look at the two men and cry a little, then walk off into the desert. Simple. Nothing could go wrong with that. Ten minutes and it would be over.

"Places!"

The two actors stretched out in front of the cabin door. An assistant director and the script girl quickly checked their positions with photographs of the scene previously made and made a few corrections. The hand of one actor was in the wrong place; a smudge had appeared on the cheek of the other.

Norman saw Dunbar nod. "Roll 'em!" There was silence for a moment as the scene plate was shot, then Dunbar called quietly, "Action."

Norman smiled to himself. This was a cinch. There wasn't even any sound to louse this one up. Slowly the door of the cabin began to open. Rina stepped out and looked down at the two men.

Norman swore to himself. You'd think at least the shmuck would have enough sense to rip her dress a little. After all, it was supposed to be out on the desert. But no, the dress went right up to her neck like it was the middle of the winter. The finest pair of tits in the whole business Dunbar had to work with and he kept them hidden.

The big camera began to dolly in for a close-up. Rina raised her head slowly and looked into the camera. A moment passed. Another moment. "Cry, damn you!" Dunbar screamed. "Cry!"

Rina blinked her eyes. Nothing happened.

"Cut!" Dunbar yelled. He walked out on the set, stepping over one of the prostrate men to reach her. He looked at Rina for a moment. "In this scene, you're supposed to cry, remember?" he asked sarcastically.

She nodded silently.

He turned around and went back to his place beside the camera. Rina went back into the cabin, closing the door behind her. Again the assistant director and the script girl checked the positions, then walked off the set.

"Roll 'em!"

"Scene three seventeen, take two!" The plateman called and stepped away from in front of the camera quickly.

"Action!"

Everything happened exactly as before until the moment Rina looked into the camera. She stared into it for a moment. Unwinking. Dry eyes. Then, suddenly, she stepped aside.

"Cut!" Dunbar called. He started out onto the stage again.

"I’m sorry, Claude," Rina said. "I just can't. We'd better use make-up."

"Make-up!" the eager assistant director yelled. "Bring the tears!"

Norman nodded. There was no use wasting money. On screen, nobody could tell the difference. Besides, the phony tears photographed even better — they rolled down the cheeks like oiled ball bearings.

Dunbar turned. "No make-up!"

"No make-up!" his assistant echoed loudly. "Hold the tears!"

Dunbar looked at Rina. "This is the last scene of the picture," he said. "Two men are dead because of you and all I want is one lousy little tear. Not because you feel sorry for them or for yourself. It's just to let me know that somewhere inside you, you still have a soul. Not much, just enough to show you're a woman, not an animal. Understand?"

Rina nodded.

"O.K., then," he said quietly. "Let's take it from the top." He walked back to his place beside the camera. He bent slightly forward, peering intensely as Rina came out the door. She looked down at the men, then up as the camera began to dolly in close. "Now!" Dunbar's voice was almost a whisper. "Cry!"

Rina stared into the approaching camera. Nothing happened.

"Cut!" Dunbar yelled. He strode angrily into the scene. "What the fuck kind of a woman are you?" he screamed at her.

"Please, Claude," she begged.

He stared at her coldly. "For five months we were making this picture. I've worked day and night, for only one reason. You wanted to prove you were an actress. Well, I've done all I could. I'm not going to destroy the integrity of this picture in the last scene because of your inadequacy. You want to be an actress—well, prove it! Act!"

He turned his back on her and walked away. Norman covered his face with his hands. Ten thousand dollars a day this was costing him. He should have known better.

"Action!"

He opened his fingers and peered through them at the scene. This time, he could hear Dunbar speaking to Rina in a low voice.

"That's right, that's right, now you walk out. You look down and see them. First at Paul, then at Joseph. You see the gun in Joseph's hand and you know what has happened. Now you begin to look up. You're thinking, they're dead. Maybe you didn't love them but you lived with them, you used them. Maybe for a moment one of them brings back a piece of your memory—the memory you lost and never recovered. But for a fraction of a second, the veil lifts. And it's your father, or your brother, or maybe the child you never had, lying there in the sand at your feet. The tears start up in your eyes."

Slowly Norman's hands slipped away from his face. He held his breath as he moved toward the side away from the camera, which blocked his view. Rina was crying. Real tears.

Dunbar was still whispering. "The tears have come but the veil has dropped again and you can't remember why you are crying. The tears stop and your eyes are dry. Now you turn and look out into the desert. Out there in the lonely sand someone is waiting, someone with your memory. You will find that person out there. Then you'll really know who you are. You begin to walk out into the desert ... slowly ... slowly ... slowly."

Dunbar's voice faded as Rina began to walk away, even the proud, straight shape of her back calling for pity. Norman looked around him. The crew were staring at Rina. They had forgotten everything on the set except her. He felt a moisture in his eyes. The damn scene had even got to him.

"Cut!" Dunbar's voice was a hoarse, triumphant shout. "Print it!" He slumped back into his chair, exhausted.

The stage turned into bedlam, with everybody applauding. Even the hard-bitten veterans of the crew were grinning. Norman ran out onto the stage. He grabbed Rina's hand excitedly. "You were wonderful, baby!" he said. "Magnificent!"

Rina looked at him. For a moment, it seemed as if she were far away, then her eyes cleared. She looked toward Dunbar, seated in his chair, surrounded by the camera crew and his assistants, then back at Norman. "Do you really think so?"

"Would I say it if I didn't mean it, baby?" he replied, smiling. "You know me better than that. Now, you take a good couple of weeks' rest. I got Scheherazade all set to go."

She turned away from him and watched Dunbar, who was approaching them slowly, the lines of exhaustion showing clearly on his thin, forty-year-old face. "Thank you," she said, taking Dunbar's hand.

He smiled wearily. "You're a great actress, Miss Marlowe," he said, formal once again, now that their work was over. "It was a privilege working with you."

Rina stared at him for a moment, a new vitality flowing into her. "You're out on your feet," she said, concern in her voice.

"I'll be all right with some rest," he said quickly. "I don't think I've slept a night through since the picture began."

"We'll soon fix that," Rina said confidently. "Ilene."

From somewhere in the crowd, Ilene suddenly appeared. "Call James and have him prepare the guest room for Mr. Dunbar."

"But, Miss Marlowe," the director protested. "I can't put you to all that trouble!"

"Do you think I'd let you go back to that empty hotel room the way you're feeling?" Rina demanded.

"But I promised Mother I'd call her the moment the picture was finished."

"You can call her there." Rina laughed. "We do have telephones, really."

Norman clapped Dunbar on the shoulder. "You do like Rina says, Dunbar. You can use the rest. You still got ten weeks of editing in front of you. But don't worry, you got a great picture here. I wouldn't be surprised if you both get Academy Awards!"

Norman didn't believe it when he said it, but that was exactly the way it turned out.


NINETEEN


NELIA DUNBAR, SIXTY-THREE YEARS OLD AND STRONG AS THE PROVERBIAL ROCK, crossed the room and looked down at her son. "That horrible creature," she said quietly.

She slipped into the seat beside her son and took his head on her shoulder. Absently she stroked his forehead. "I was wondering how long it would take you to see her in her true light," she said. "I told you not to marry her."

Claude didn't answer. There was no need to. There was a familiar safety in his mother's arms. There always had been. Even when he was a child and had come running home from school when the boys ganged up on him. His mother knew him. He didn't have to tell her when he was troubled. Instinctively she had moved out to California after his marriage to Rina.

He had never been very strong, always frail and thin, and the intense nervousness of his creative spurts left him drained and exhausted. At times like that, his mother would see to it that he took to his bed—for weeks on end, sometimes. She would serve him his meals, bring him the newspapers, read to him from the books they both loved.

Often he felt that these were the happiest moments of his life. Here in the gentle pastels of the room his mother had decorated for him, he felt warm and comfortable and at ease. Everything he wanted was at his fingertips. The dirtiness and petty meanness of the world were safely locked away outside the walls of that room.

His father had never been more than a vague nebulous shadow. He could scarcely remember him, for he had died when Claude was only five. His father's death had caused scarcely a noticeable ripple in the course of their lives, for they were left well off. They weren't wealthy but never was there want.

"You go back to the house and get what few things you need," his mother said. "You can spend the night here. In the morning, we'll see about a divorce."

He raised his head from his mother's shoulder and looked at her. "But, Mother, I wouldn't even know what to say to a lawyer."

"Don't worry," his mother said confidently. "I'll take care of everything."

He could feel a great weight lifting from his shoulders. Once again, his mother had spoken the magic words. But when he stood in the street in front of the house and saw Rina's car in the driveway, he was afraid to go in. There would only be another scene and he wasn't up to it. He had no more strength.

He looked at his wrist watch. It was almost eleven o'clock. She would be leaving soon because she had a luncheon date at the studio. He walked back down the hill to the cocktail lounge just off the corner of Sunset. He would have a drink while he waited. He would be able to see her car as it came down the hill.

The cocktail lounge was dark as he entered, the chairs still up on the tables. The bar was open, however, and there was already a customer seated with a glass of beer in front of him. Claude climbed up on a stool near the window, from which he could watch the street.

He shivered slightly. It had begun to drizzle as he came down the hill and was turning into one of those nasty, chilly afternoons peculiarly indigenous to sunny California. He shivered again. He hoped he wasn't catching cold. "Whisky and warm water," he said to the bartender, remembering the drink his mother always gave him at the first sign of a cold.

The bartender looked at him peculiarly. "Warm water?"

Claude nodded. "Yes, please." He looked up and noticed that the lone customer was also staring at him—a young man in a yellow lumber jacket. "And a slice of lemon, if you have it," he called after the bartender.

Claude picked up the small steaming mug. He sipped at it and felt its warmth creep down toward his stomach. He turned and looked out the window. It was really raining now. He picked up the mug again and to his surprise, it was empty. He decided to have another. There was time. He knew exactly what Rina was doing right now. He gestured to the bartender.

Right at this moment, she was seated in front of her dressing table, putting on her make-up, until it was precisely the way she wanted it. Then she would fuss with her hair, teasing it until it hung carelessly, but with every strand in its allotted place.

She had a fetish about not getting anywhere on time. She was always at least an hour late, most of the time even later. It used to drive him crazy having to wait for her, but it never seemed to disturb anyone else. They just took it for granted.

Claude looked down at the mug. It was empty again. He ordered another drink. He was beginning to feel better. Rina would be surprised when she came home and found his things gone. No more would she call him half a man. She'd find out just how much of a man he was when the lawyer served her with divorce papers. She'd know then that she couldn't push him around.

And she'd never look at him again the way she had the first night they were married—with pity and yet contempt, and worst of all, the knowledge in her eyes that she saw into him deeply, laying bare the very secrets of his soul, secrets that he kept even from himself.

He had come into the darkened bedroom, holding in his hand a tray on which stood an iced bottle of champagne and two glasses. "I have come bearing wine for my beloved."

They began to make love. Gently and beautifully, the way he had always known it would be, for he was a virgin. And there was comfort in the womanly curve of her body on the bed, lying there so passive and undemanding. He had even begun to compose a poem to her beauty when he felt her searching hand against his flesh.

For the tiniest fraction of a moment, he froze, startled by her alien fingers. Then he relaxed, for her touch was so light and gentle that he was scarcely aware of it. He felt a tremor shake her body, then another, and a sudden burst of heat seemed to rise from her.

Then a cry came from deep within her and she pulled him down toward her, her hands ripping off the bottom part of his pajamas. No longer was she suppliant and gentle, no longer did she care what he felt or needed, she was caught up in a frenzy of her own. Her fingers hurt him as she tried to guide him, to force him into her.

Suddenly, a wild terror began to run through him. A fear of the demanding sexuality of her body, which had lain dormant, waiting only for this moment to feed upon his manhood and devour him. In a near panic, he tore himself free and stood trembling near the bed.

He tried to pull the torn pajamas around him and heard the sound of her breathing become quieter. There was a rustle of the sheets and he looked down at her.

She had turned over on her side and was staring up at him, the sheet carelessly draped over her hips. Her breasts were heavy, the nipples still swollen with passion. Her eyes seemed to flame their way into him. "Are you the kind of man some people say you are?"

He felt the fire burning its way into his cheeks. He had not been unaware of the snide remarks made behind his back, but ordinary people did not understand his absorption in his work. "No!" he said quickly.

"Then what kind of man are you?"

He fell to his knees beside the bed and looked at her. "Please," he cried. "Please, you've got to understand. I married you because I love you but I'm not like the others. My mother says I’m more nervous and high strung."

She didn't answer and he saw the horrible combination of pity, contempt and knowledge come fleetingly into her eyes. "Don't look at me like that," he begged. "It will be better the next time. I won't be so nervous. I love you. I love you."

He felt her hand touch his head gently, then slowly stroke his temples. Gradually, his tears subsided and he seized her hands, kissing them gratefully. "It will be better, darling," he promised.

But it was never any better. There was something about the complete femaleness of her body, her terrifying sexuality, that frightened him into complete impotency.

"What did you say?" The words took him from the past into the present. He looked up. The other customer, the young man in the yellow jacket, was speaking to him. "I thought you said something to me. I'm sorry."

Claude felt foolish. There was no doubt that he had spoken. Very often he did while lost in thought. He began to feel embarrassed. "I did," he said, quickly trying to cover his embarrassment. "I said it turned into a rather nasty day, didn't it?"

The young man's eyes went past him to the window, then back. "Yes," he said politely. "It sure did."

Claude looked at him. He seemed like a nice enough young man. Handsome, too, in a rough sort of way. Probably an actor, down on his luck, who'd stopped in to nurse a beer until the rain stopped. He picked up his mug. It was empty again. "Let me buy you a drink," he said.

The boy nodded. "I'd like another beer. Thanks."

"Bartender, a beer for the young gentleman," Claude called. He tapped his mug. "And I’ll have another of these."

It wasn't until three drinks later, when he saw Rina's car turn downtown onto Sunset, that he got the idea. After all, there were quite a few things he wanted to take with him and he couldn't carry all of them alone.

After he rang the bell the second time he remembered it was Thursday and all the servants were off. He took out his key. They went right up the staircase to his room. He opened the closet and took out a valise. "You empty those drawers," he said to the boy. "I’ll get another suitcase."

He left the room for a moment and when he returned, his companion was holding a picture of Rina that had been standing on the bureau. "Who's this?"

"My wife," Claude answered tersely. Then he giggled. "Will she be surprised when she gets home and finds I'm gone."

"You Rina Marlowe's husband?"

Claude nodded. "But not for long now, thank God!"

The boy looked at him strangely. "What do you want to walk out on a dish like that for?" he asked.

Claude snatched the picture angrily from his hand and threw it against the wall. The glass shattered and fell into tiny bits on the carpet. He turned and walked into the bathroom. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie. He turned on the taps to wash his hands but the sound of the water rushing into the basin reminded him suddenly of the time he had walked into the solarium. He remembered the sound the water had made in the fountain as he became aware of Rina, lying nude on the table, being given a massage by Ilene.

Ilene was nude to the waist, her lower half enclosed in the tight-fitting black trousers she usually wore. He noticed the stringy muscles working along her back as her hands moved gently over Rina's body.

Rina had one arm thrown over her face to shield her eyes from the sun. Her body writhed sensuously under Ilene's touch. When they became aware of his presence, Rina lifted her arm. He felt a vague surprise at the straight flatness of Ilene's chest. "Don't stop, darling," Rina said huskily to Ilene.

Obediently Ilene began to massage again. The sensuous rhythm seemed to return to Rina's body as she lay there, her head turned to the side, watching him. After a moment, she put her arms up and drew Ilene's head down to her hips, "Kiss me, lover," she commanded, her eyes still watching Claude.

He turned suddenly and fled from the room, the sound of her mocking laughter, mixed with the sound of the water from the fountain, echoing in his ears.

Remembering, he lifted his hands to his face. It was bathed in perspiration. His clothing clung to him stickily. His skin began to feel crawly. He decided to take a shower.

The hot needle spray of the shower began to relax him. It seemed to bring the inner warmth of the whisky to the surface of his skin. Luxuriously he lathered himself with the delicately scented soap his mother ordered from London especially for him.

He stepped out of the shower, rubbing himself vigorously. He looked down with satisfaction at his pink, tingling skin. He liked being clean. He looked for his robe, but it wasn't on its usual hook. "Would you get the blue robe from the closet for me, please," he called automatically, without thinking.

He took the bottle of cologne down from the shelf and sprinkled it lavishly into his hand, then began to rub himself down. Some instinct caused him to look up into the mirror. The boy was standing in the open door, watching him. The robe was thrown over his arm. He had taken off his yellow jacket, revealing a dirty white T-shirt.

Claude saw the thick black hair that sprouted wildly from the young man's arms, shoulders and chest. A feeling of distaste ran through him. "You can leave it on the chair," he said, covering himself partly with the towel.

Instead, the boy grinned knowingly at him and came into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot.

Claude turned around angrily. "Get out of here!"

The young man didn't move. His smile grew even broader. "Aw, come off it, old man," he said. "You didn't really bring me up here to help you with your packing, did you?"

"Get out or I’ll call for help," Claude said, feeling a strangely exciting fear.

The boy laughed. "Who'll hear?" he asked. "I was wise to you the minute you told me the servants were off."

"You horrible thing!" Claude screamed. He felt a stunning blow on the side of his head and he fell sprawling. He pulled himself to his hands and knees. "Please go," he whispered, his voice breaking.

The young man raised his hand threateningly. Instinctively Claude shrank back but he wasn't quick enough. The open palm cracked smartly across the side of his face, knocking his head sideways against the toilet bowl. He stared up at the boy with frightened eyes.

"You don't really want me to go, do you?" the young man said, his hand tugging at the black leather belt around his waist. "You're the kind that likes to get roughed up a little first."

"I am not!"

"No?" The boy laughed derisively, raising the belt. "Don't crap me, I can see."

For a fraction of a moment, Claude did not know what he meant, then he looked down at himself. A crazy thought went racing through his mind. If Rina could only see him now, she would know he was a man.

The belt cut down across his back, sending a thin shiver of agony down his spine. "That's enough!" he whimpered. "Please don't hit me any more!"

******

He raised himself wearily from the floor and looked out into the bedroom. The boy was gone, taking with him all the money Claude had had with him. Slowly he got into the shower again and turned on the hot water.

He felt his strength returning as the water soaked into his skin. What a horrible thing to have happen, he thought, remembering all the indignities the young man had subjected him to. A warm feeling of satisfaction came to him. If he had been the stronger, he would have shown him. He felt the excitement begin to beat inside his chest as he thought how he would have torn the belt from the young man's hand and beaten him with it until he bled. He felt the sudden surge of power to his loins.

It was precisely at that moment that the truth came to him. "Oh, no!" He cried aloud in shock at the realization. What everyone had said about him was true. It was only he who had been blind to it until his own body betrayed him.

A dazed kind of anger came over him. Leaving the water running, he stepped from the shower stall. He opened the medicine cabinet and took down the old-fashioned straight razor that he had used ever since he began to shave—the razor that had stood proudly for him as a symbol of his manhood.

A wild, crazy kind of anger rolled blindly over him as he slashed viciously at himself. If he was not to be a man, at least he could turn himself into a woman. Again and again, he slashed at himself. Until at last, his strength gone, he collapsed onto the floor.

"Damn you!" he cried. "Damn you, Mother!"

They were the last words he ever said.


TWENTY 


DAVID WOOLF STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF THE BATHROOM, NAUSEA RISING IN THE PIT OF HIS STOMACH. There was blood everywhere, on the white-and-blue tiles of the floor and walls, along the sides of the white bathtub, sink and toilet bowl.

It was hard to believe that it was only thirty minutes ago that the door of his office had burst open to reveal his uncle, his face flushed and purple, as it always was whenever he was upset. "Get right over to Rina Marlowe's house," Bernie Norman said. "One of the boys in publicity just got a tip from the Beverly Hills police station that Dunbar committed suicide."

David was already on his way to the door.

"Make sure she's protected!" the old man called after him. "Two million dollars in unreleased negatives we got on her!"

He picked up Harry Richards, chief of the studio guards, at the gate on the way out. Richards, a former police sergeant, was in good with all the cops. He took the short cut over the back roads through Coldwater Canyon to Sunset. He was at Rina's house in twenty minutes.

Now the two white-jacketed mortuary attendants were lifting Dunbar's somehow shrunken body into the small, basket-like stretcher and covering it with a white canvas sheet.

The attendants picked up the stretcher and David moved aside to let them pass. He lit a cigarette as they carried the body through the bedroom and out into the corridor. The first acrid taste of smoke settled his stomach. A faint screaming came from the downstairs foyer and he started hurriedly for the door, wondering if somehow Rina had got away from the doctor. But when he got to the head of the staircase, he saw that it wasn't Rina at all. It was Dunbar's mother.

She was struggling to free herself from the grasp of two red-faced policemen as the white-covered stretcher went by. "My baby!" she screamed. "Let me see my baby!" The attendants moved impassively past her and out the door. David could see the crowd of reporters outside, pressing against the door as it opened and closed. He started down the staircase, hearing the old woman begin to scream again.

She had pulled herself partly free of one of the policemen and with one hand she held onto the railing of the staircase. "You murdered my son, you bitch!" The high-pitched voice seemed to fill the whole house. "You killed him because you found out he was coming back to me!" The old woman had her other hand free now. She seemed to be trying to pull herself up the stairs.

"Get that crazy old woman out of here!" David turned, startled at the harsh voice that came from the top of the stairway behind him.

Ilene stood there, a wild, angry look on her face. "Get her out!" she hissed harshly. "The doctor's having enough trouble with Rina as it is, without her having to listen to that crazy old bitch!"

David caught Richards' eye and nodded to him. Instantly, Richards walked over to one of the policemen and whispered to him. All pretense of politeness gone, the two policemen got a new grip on the old woman and, one of them covering her mouth with his hand, they half dragged, half carried her out of the room. A moment later, a side door slammed and there was silence.

David glanced back up the staircase but Ilene had already disappeared. He walked over to Richards. "I told the boys to take her over to Colton's Sanitarium," the ex-policeman whispered.

David nodded approvingly. Dr. Colton would know what to do. The studio sent many of their stars out there to dry out. He'd also make sure that she didn't speak to anyone until he had calmed her down.

"Call the studio and have them send a couple of your men out here. I don't want any reporters getting in when the police leave."

"I already did," Richards replied, taking his arm. "Come on into the living room. I want you to meet Lieutenant Stanley."

Lieutenant Stanley was seated at the small, kidney-shaped telephone desk, a notebook open in front of him. He got up and shook hands with David. He was a thin, gray-faced, gray-haired man, and David thought he looked more like an accountant than a detective.

"This is a pretty terrible thing, Lieutenant," David said. "Have you figured out what happened yet?"

The lieutenant nodded. "I think we've about got it put together. There's no doubt about it—he killed himself, all right. One thing bothers me, though."

"What's that?"

"We backtracked on Dunbar's movements like we usually do," the detective said. "And he picked up a young man in a cocktail lounge just before he came here. He flashed quite a roll of bills in the bar and we didn't find any money in his room. He's also got a couple of bruises on his head and back that the coroner can't explain. We got a pretty good description of him from the bartender. We'll pick him up."

David looked at him. "But what good will that do?" he asked. "You're sure that Dunbar killed himself; what more could he tell you?"

"Some guys think nothing of picking up a homo and beating him up a little for kicks, then rolling him for his dough."

"So?"

"So Dunbar isn't the only homo in our district," the lieutenant replied. "We got a list of them a yard long down at the station. Most of 'em mind their own business and they're entitled to some protection."

David glanced at Richards. The chief of the studio guards looked at him with impassive eyes. David turned back to the policeman. "Thank you very much for talking to me, Lieutenant," he said. "I'm very much impressed with the efficient manner in which you handled this."

He started out of the room, leaving Richards and the policeman alone. He could hear Richards' heavy whisper as he walked out the door.

"Look, Stan," the big ex-cop was saying. "If this hits the papers, there's goin' to be a mess an' the studio stands a chance of bein' hurt real bad an' it's bad enough just with the suicide."

David went through the door and crossed the foyer to the staircase. Bringing the old sergeant had been the smartest thing he could have done. He was sure now that there wouldn't be reference to any other man in the newspapers. He went up the stairs and into the small sitting room that led to Rina's bedroom. Ilene was slumped exhaustedly in a chair. She looked up as he entered. "How is she?"

"Out like a light," she answered in a tired voice. "The doctor gave her a shot big enough to knock out a horse."

'You could stand a drink." He walked over to the small liquor cabinet and opened it. "Me, too," he added. "Scotch all right?"

She didn't answer and he filled two glasses with Haig & Haig pinch bottle. He gave her one and sat down opposite her. A faint flush of color crept up into her face as the whisky hit her stomach. "It was terrible," she said.

He didn't answer.

She drank again from the glass. "Rina had a luncheon appointment so we got home from the studio about four o'clock. We came upstairs to dress about four thirty, and Rina said she thought she heard the water running in Claude's bathroom. The servants had the day off so she asked me to check. She must have sensed that something was wrong when I didn't come right back. She came into the bedroom while I was still phoning the police. I tried to keep her from seeing what had happened but she was already at the bathroom door when I turned around."

She put her glass down and hunted blindly for a cigarette. David lit one and handed it to her. She took it and placed it between her lips, the smoke curling up around her face. "She was standing there, staring down at him, staring down at that horrible mess of blood, and she was saying over and over to herself, 'I killed him, I killed him! I killed him like I killed everyone who ever loved me.' Then she began to scream." Ilene put her hands up over her ears.

David looked down at his glass. It was empty. Silently he got up and refilled it. Sitting down again, he looked into the amber liquid reflectively. "You know," he said, "what I can't understand is why she ever married him."

"That's just the trouble," she said angrily. "None of you ever tried to understand her. All she ever meant to any of you was a ticket at the box office, money in the bank. None of you cared what she was really like. I’ll tell you why she married him. Because she was sorry for him, because she wanted to make a man of him. That's why she married him. And that's why she's lying there in her bedroom, crying even though she's asleep. She's crying because she failed."

The telephone rang. It rang again. David looked at her. "I'll get it," he said.

"Hello."

"Who is this?"

"David Woolf," he said automatically.

"Jonas Cord," the voice replied.

"Mr. Cord," David said. "I'm with Norman— "

"I know," Cord interrupted. "I remember you. You're the young man who does all the trouble-shooting for Bernie. I just heard over the radio about the accident. How's Rina?"

"She's asleep right now. The doctor knocked her out."

There was a long, empty silence on the line and David thought they might have been cut off. Then Cord's voice came back on the line. "Everything under control?"

"I think so," David said.

"Good. Keep it like that. If there's anything you need, let me know."

"I will."

"I won't forget what you're doing," Cord said.

There was a click and the line was dead. Slowly David put down the telephone. "That was Jonas Cord," he said.

Ilene didn't raise her face from her hands.

He turned and looked back at the telephone. It didn't make sense. From what he'd heard about Cord, he wasn't the kind of man who spent his time making sympathy calls. If anything, he was exactly the opposite.

Unconsciously he glanced at the closed door to Rina's bedroom. There had to be more to it than that, he thought.

******

It was four months before he saw Rina again. He looked up from the couch in his uncle's office as she swept into the room.

"Rina, darling!" Bernie Norman said, getting up from his desk and throwing his arms around her enthusiastically.

The producer stepped back and looked at her, walking around her as if she were a prize heifer in a cattle show. "Slimmer and more beautiful than ever."

Rina looked over. "Hello, David," she said quietly.

"Hello, Rina." He got to his feet. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she answered. "Who wouldn't be after three months on a health farm?"

He laughed. "And your next picture will be another vacation," Norman interrupted.

Rina turned back to him, a faint smile coming over her face. "Go ahead, you old bastard," she said. "Con me into it."

Norman laughed happily. "For a minute, I was wondering if it was my old girl who was coming into the office, so nice she was!"

Rina laughed, too. "What's the vacation?" she asked.

"Africa!" Norman said triumphantly. "The greatest jungle script I read since Trader Horn."

"I knew it," Rina said, turning to David. "I knew the next thing he'd have me do would be a female Tarzan!"

After she was gone, David looked across the room at his uncle. "Rina seems quieter, more subdued, somehow."

Norman looked at him shrewdly. "So what?" he said. "Maybe she's growing up a bissel and settling down. It's about time." He got up from his desk and walked over to David. "Only six months we got to the stockholders' meeting next March."

"You still don't know who's selling us short?"

"No." Norman shook his head. "I tried everyplace. The brokers, the underwriters, the banks. They tried. Nobody knows. But every day, the stock goes down." He chewed on his unlit cigar. "I bought up every share I could but enough money I ain't got to stop it. All the cash I could beg or borrow is gone."

"Maybe the stock will go up when we announce Rina's new picture. Everyone knows she's a sure money-maker."

"I hope so," Norman said. "Everywhere we're losing money. Even the theaters." He walked back to his chair and slumped down into it. "That was the mistake I made. I should never have bought them. For them I had to float the stock, borrow all that money from the banks. Pictures I know; real estate, phooey! I should never have listened to those chazairem on Wall Street, ten years ago. Now I sold my company, the money I ain't got no more. And I don't even know who owns it!"

David got to his feet. "Well, there's no use in worrying about it. There's still six months till the meeting. And a lot can happen in six months."

"Yeah," Norman said discouragingly. "It can get worse!"

David closed the door of his office behind him. He sat down at his desk and ran down the list of enemies his uncle had made in the course of his life. It was a long list but there wasn't anyone who had the kind of money this operation required. Besides, most of them were in the picture business and they had done as much to his uncle as he had done to them. It was a kind of game among members of a club. They screamed and hollered a lot but none ever took it seriously enough to carry a grudge like this.

Suddenly, he remembered something—Rina. He glanced at the door, his hand going automatically to the telephone. He pulled his hand back sharply. There was no sense in making a fool of himself.

But he had a hunch. How right he was he wasn't to know until he had Ilene sign Rina into the hospital under a phony name six months later. She was just back from Africa after shooting The Jungle Queen, and suddenly took very sick. He hadn't wanted the press to find out until after the picture was released.


TWENTY-ONE


"JONAS CORD," NORMAN SAID BITTERLY. "Jonas Cord it was the whole time. Why didn't you tell me?"

David turned from the hotel window looking out over Central Park. "I didn't know. I was only guessing."

"Know, not know," the producer said, chewing on his dead cigar. "You should have told me, anyway."

"What good would it have done?" David asked. "I couldn't have proved it and even if I had, you didn't have the money to fight him."

Norman took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it glumly. With an angry gesture, he threw it on the rug. "What did I ever do to him he should want to ruin me?" he asked angrily.

David didn't answer.

"Nothing! That's what I did. Only made money for him. More money that he should use to cut my throat with!" Bernie took a fresh cigar from his pocket and waved it in front of David's face. "That should be a lesson to you. Never do a favor for anybody, never make money for anybody, only yourself. Otherwise, you'll find a knife in your back made of your own silver!"

David looked at his uncle's angry purple face, remembering the scene that had taken place at the stockholders' meeting.

Norman had gone into it, feeling more confident than he had at any time during the past few months. The percentage of proxies that had been returned was about what they got every year. Only about twenty-five per cent of the stockholders ever bothered to send in their proxy forms. All they were interested in was when they'd begin receiving dividends again. But those proxies, plus the eight per cent of stock that Norman had in his own name, gave him a comfortable thirty-three per cent of the stock to vote.

The attendance at the meeting was the same as usual. A few retired businessmen and some women who wandered in off the street because they owned ten shares and it gave them something to do; those directors of the company who happened to be in town and the company officers from the New York office.

It was only after the formalities of the meeting were over and Norman was asking for nominations for the board of directors that he sensed there was something wrong. As he was speaking, Dan Pierce, the agent, and another man, whose face was familiar but whose name Norman couldn't remember, came into the room and sat down in the front row of the small auditorium.

A vice-president in charge of sales dutifully read off Norman's approved list of nominations for directorships. Another vice-president, in charge of theater operations, dutifully seconded the nominations. A third vice-president, in charge of foreign operations, then dutifully moved that the nominations be closed.

At that moment, Pierce got to his feet. "Mr. President," he said, "I have several more nominations to make for directors of the corporation."

"You got no right," Norman yelled from the podium.

"According to the bylaws of the company," Dan Pierce retorted, "any stockholder of record may nominate as many persons for directors as there are directors in the corporation!"

Norman turned to his vice-president and general counsel. "Is that true?"

The attorney nervously nodded. "You're fired, you dumb bastard, you!" Norman whispered.

He turned back to Pierce. "It's illegal!" he shouted. "A trick to upset the company."

The man seated alongside Pierce got to his feet. "Mr. Pierce's nominations are perfectly in order and I, personally, can attest to his legal right to make them."

It was then that Norman remembered the name—McAllister—Jonas Cord's attorney.

He calmed down immediately. "I suppose you can prove you're stockholders?" he asked cannily.

McAllister smiled. "Of course."

"Let me see your proof. I got a right to demand that!"

"Of course you have," McAllister said. He walked up to the podium and handed up a stock certificate.

Norman looked down at it. It was a stock certificate for ten shares properly issued in the name of Daniel Pierce, "Is this all the stock you got?" he asked innocently.

McAllister smiled again. "It's all the proof I need," he said, evading the producer's attempt to find out just how much stock he represented. "May I proceed with the nominations?"

Norman nodded silently and Pierce got to his feet and presented six names for the nine-man board. Just enough to assure clear-cut control. Outside of his own and McAllister's, all the names were strange to Norman.

When the votes were ready to be counted, McAllister presented to the meeting proxies representing forty-one per cent of the company — twenty-six per cent in the name of Jonas Cord and fifteen held by various brokerage houses. All six of his nominees were elected.

Norman turned to his executives. He studied them silently for a moment, then withdrew six of his nominees, leaving only himself, David and the vice-president and treasurer on the board. The meeting over, he called for a directors' meeting at the company offices that afternoon, for the election of officers.

Silently he started out of the room, his usually ruddy face pale and white. Pierce stopped him at the door. "Bernie," Pierce said, "I'd like a minute with you before the directors' meeting."

Norman stared at him. "Traitors to their own kind I don't talk to," he said coldly. "Go talk to Hitler!" He stamped out of the room.

Dan Pierce turned to David. "David, make him listen to reason," he said. "Cord authorized me to offer three million bucks for the old man's shares. That's twice what they're worth. If he doesn't sell, Cord says he'll put the company in receivership and all the shares will be good for then is wall-paper."

"I'll see what I can do," David said, hurrying after his uncle.

Now Norman was yelling again, pacing up and down the room and threatening a proxy fight. He'd show that crazy Cord that Bernie Norman was no fool, that he hadn't built a business up from nothing with his bare hands without having something in his kopf.

"Wait a minute!" David said sharply. He had taken more than enough nonsense from his uncle. It was time somebody taught the old man the facts of life. "You're talking about a proxy fight?" he shouted. "With what are you going to fight him? Spitballs instead of money? And if you fight, do you honestly believe that anybody will go along with you? For the last four years, this company has been steadily losing money. The biggest picture we had during that time was The Renegade—Cord's picture, not ours. And the biggest picture on the market today is Devils in the Sky—Cord's picture, too. The one you wouldn't distribute for him because there wasn't enough koom-shaw in it for you! Do you think anybody in his right mind is going to pick you over Cord?"

The producer stared at him. "To think," he cried out, "that from my own flesh and blood should come such words!"

"Come off it, Uncle Bernie," David said. "Family's got nothing to do with it. I'm just looking at the facts."

"Facts?" Norman shouted. "Facts is it you want? Well, look at them. Who was it went out and bought Sunspots, a picture that won almost every award? Who? Nobody but me."

"It also lost a million dollars."

That's my fault?" his uncle replied bitterly. "I didn't tell them before I did it? No, prestige they wanted, and prestige they got."

"That's over the dam, Uncle Bernie," David said. "It has nothing to do with today. Nobody cares about that any more."

"I care about it," Norman retorted. "It's my blood they're spilling. I'm the sacrifice they're making to the Golem. But not yet am I dead. When I tell them about the pictures I'm making with Rina Marlowe, I’ll get all the proxies I want."

David stared at his uncle for a moment, then went to the telephone. "Long distance, please," he said. "I want to place a call to the Colton Hospital, Santa Monica, California, room three-o-nine, please."

He glanced at his uncle, who was looking out the window. "Ilene? This is David. How is she?"

"Not good," Ilene said, her voice so low he could scarcely hear her.

"What does the doctor say?"

David heard her begin to sob into the telephone. "Hold on," he said. "This is no time to start breaking down."

"He said—she's dying. That it's a miracle she's lasted this long. He doesn't know what's keeping her alive."

There was a click and the phone went dead in his hand. David turned to his uncle. "Rina won't make another picture for you or anybody else," he said. "She's dying."

The producer stared at him, his face going white. He sank back into a chair. "My God! Then what will happen to the company? She was the one chance we had to stay alive. Without her, the bottom will drop out of the stock, we're finished." He wiped at his face with a handkerchief. "Now even Cord won't bother with us."

David stared at his uncle. "What do you mean?"

"Schmuck!" Norman snapped. "Don't you see it yet? Do I got to draw for you diagrams?"

"See?" David asked, bewildered. "See what?"

"That Cord really don't give a damn about the company," the old man said. "That all he wants is the girl."

"The girl?"

"Sure," Norman said. "Rina Marlowe. Remember that meeting I had with him in the toilet at the Waldorf? Remember I told you what he said? How he wouldn't tell me the courvehs' names because I stole the Marlowe girl from under his nose?"

The light came on suddenly inside David's head. Why hadn't he thought of it? It tied up with the phone call from Cord the night Dunbar killed himself. He looked at his uncle with a new respect. "What are we going to do?"

"Do?" the old man said. "Do? We're going to keep our mouths shut and go down to that meeting. My heart may be breaking but if he offered three million for my stock, he’ll go to five!"

******

The dream didn't slip away this time when Rina opened her eyes. If anything, it seemed more real than it had ever been. She lay very still for a moment, looking up at the clear plastic tent covering her head and chest. She turned her head slowly.

Ilene was sitting in the chair, watching her. She wished she could tell Ilene not to worry, there really wasn't anything to be afraid of. She had gone through this so many times before in the dream. "Ilene!" she whispered.

Ilene started and got up out of her chair. Rina smiled up at her. "It's really me, Ilene," she whispered. "I'm not out of my head."

"Rina!" She felt Ilene's hand take her own under the sheet. "Rina!"

"Don't cry, Ilene," she whispered. She turned her head to try and see the calendar on the wall but it was too far away. "What day is it?"

"It's Friday."

"The thirteenth?" Rina tried to smile. She saw the smile come to Ilene's face, despite the tears that were rolling down her cheeks. "Call Jonas," Rina said weakly. "I want to see him."

She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them when Ilene came back to the bed. "Did you get him?"

Ilene shook her head. "His office says he's in New York, but they don't know where to reach him."

"You get him, wherever he is!" Rina smiled. "You can't fool me any more," she said. "I’ve played this scene too many times. You call him. I won't die until he gets here." A faint, ironic smile came over her face. "Anyway, nobody dies out here on the weekend. The weekend columns have already gone to press."


JONAS—1935
BOOK FIVE 


ONE


I PULLED THE STICK BACK INTO MY BELLY WITH A LITTLE LEFT RUDDER. At the same time, I opened the throttle and the CA-4 leaped upward into the sky in a half loop, like an arrow shot from a bow. I felt the G force hold me flat against my seat and bubble the blood racing in my arms. I leveled her off at the top of the loop and when I checked the panel, we were doing three hundred, racing out over the Atlantic with Long Island already far behind us.

I reached forward and tapped the shoulder of the Army flier seated in front of me. "How about that, Colonel?" I shouted over the roar of the twin engines and the shriek of the wind against the plastic bubble over our heads.

I saw him bob his head in answer to my question but he didn't turn around. I knew what he was doing. He was checking out the panel in front of him. Lieutenant Colonel Forrester was one of the real fly boys. He went all the way back to Eddie Rickenbacker and the old Hat in the Ring squadron. Not at all like the old General we'd left on the ground back at Roosevelt Field, that the Army had sent out to check over our plane.

The General flew an armchair back in Purchasing and Procurement in Washington. The closest he ever came to an airplane was when he sat on the trial board at Billy Mitchell's court-martial. But he was the guy who had the O.K. We were lucky that at least he had one Air Corps officer on his staff.

I had tabbed him the minute he came walking into the hangar, with Morrissey, talking up a storm, trotting beside him. There were two aides right behind him—a full colonel and a captain. None of them wore the Air Corps wings on their blouse.

He stood there in the entrance of the hangar, staring in at the CA-4. I could see the frown of disapproval come across his face. "It's ugly," he said. "It looks like a toad."

His voice carried clear across the hangar to where I was, in the cockpit, giving her a final check. I climbed out onto the wing and dropped to the hangar floor in my bare feet. I started toward him. What the hell did he know about streamline and design? His head probably was as square as the desk he sat behind.

"Mr. Cord!" I heard the hissed whisper behind me. I turned around. It was the mechanic. There was a peculiar grin on his face. He had heard the General's remark, too.

"What d'yuh want?"

"I was jus' gettin' ready to roll her out," he said quickly. "An' I didn't want to squash yer shoes."

I stared at him for a moment, then I grinned. "Thanks," I said, walking back and stepping into them. By the time I leached Morrissey and the General, I was cooled off.

Morrissey had a copy of the plans and specs in his hand and was going over them for the benefit of the General. "The Cord Aircraft Four is a revolutionary concept in a two-man fighter-bomber, which has a flight range of better than two thousand miles. It cruises at two forty, with a max of three sixty. It can carry ten machine guns, two cannon, and mounts one thousand pounds of bombs under its wings and in a special bay in its belly."

I looked back at the plane as Morrissey kept on talking. It sure as hell was a revolutionary design. It looked like a big black panther squatting there on the hangar floor with its long nose jutting out in front of the swept-back wings and the plastic bubble over the cockpit shining like a giant cat's eye in the dim light.

"Very interesting," I heard the General say. "Now, I have just one more question."

"What's that, sir?" Morrissey asked.

The General chuckled, looking at his aides. They permitted a faint smile to come to their lips. I could see the old fart was going to get off one of his favorite jokes. "We Army men look over about three hundred of these so-called revolutionary planes every year. Will it fly?"

I couldn't keep quiet any longer. The million bucks it had cost me to get this far with the CA-4 gave me a right to shoot off my mouth. "She'll fly the ass off anything you got in your Army, General," I said. "And any other plane in the world, including the new fighters that Willi Messerschmitt is building."

The General turned toward me, a surprised look on his face. I saw his eyes go down over my grease-spattered white coveralls.

Morrissey spoke up quickly. "General Gaddis, Jonas Cord."

Before the General could speak, a voice came from the doorway behind him. "How do you know what Willi Messerschmitt is building?"

I looked up as the speaker came into view. The General had evidently brought a third aide with him. The silver wings shone on his blouse, matching the silver oak leaves on his shoulders. He was about forty, slim and with a flier's mustache. He wore just two ribbons on his blouse—the Croix de guerre of France and the Distinguished Flying Cross.

"He told me," I said curtly.

There was a curious look on the lieutenant colonel's face. "How is Willi?"

The General's voice cut in before I could answer. "We came out here to look over an airplane," be said in a clipped voice, "not to exchange information about mutual friends."

It was my turn to be surprised. I flashed a quick look at the lieutenant colonel but a curtain had dropped over his face. I could see, though, that there was no love lost between the two.

"Yes, sir," he said quickly. He turned and looked at the plane.

"How do you think she looks, Forrester?"

Forrester cleared his throat. "Interesting, sir," he said. He turned toward me. "Variable-pitch propellers?"

I nodded. He had good eyes to see that in this dim light. "Unusual concept," he said, "setting the wings where they are and sweeping them back. Should give her about four times the usual lift area."

"They do," I said. Thank God for at least one man who knew what it was all about.

"I asked how you thought she looks, Forrester?" the General repeated testily.

The curtain dropped down over Forrester's face again as he turned. "Very unusual, sir. Different."

The General nodded. "That's what I thought. Ugly. Like a toad sitting there."

I'd had about enough of his bullshit. "Does the General judge planes the same way he'd judge dames in a beauty contest?"

"Of course not!" the General snapped. "But there are certain conventions of design that are recognized as standard. For example, the new Curtiss fighter we looked at the other day. There's a plane that looks like a plane, not like a bomb. With wings attached."

"That baby over there carries twice as much armor, plus a thousand pounds of bombs, seven hundred and fifty miles farther, five thousand feet higher and eighty miles an hour faster than the Curtiss fighter you're talking about!" I retorted.

"Curtiss builds good planes," the General said stiffly.

I stared at him. There wasn't any use in arguing. It was like talking to a stone wall. "I'm not saying they don't, General," I said. "Curtiss has been building good airplanes for many years. But I'm saying this one is better than anything around."

General Gaddis turned to Morrissey. "We're ready to see a demonstration of your plane," he said stiffly. "That is, if your pilot is through arguing."

Morrissey shot a nervous look at me. Apparently the General hadn't even caught my name. I nodded at him and turned back to the hangar.

"Roll her out!" I called to the mechanics, who were standing there waiting.

Morrissey, General Gaddis and his aides walked out. When I got outside I saw that Morrissey and the others had formed a group around the General but Forrester stood a little to one side, talking to a young woman. I shot a quick look at her. She was stuff, all right—wild eyes and sensuous mouth.

I followed the plane out onto the runway. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned around. It was Morrissey. "You shouldn't have teed off on the General like that."

I grinned at him. "Probably did the old bastard good. He's got enough yes men around him to be a movie producer."

"All the same, it's tough selling him as it is. I found out Curtiss is bidding their planes in at a hundred and fifty thousand each and you know the best we can do is two twenty-five."

"So what?" I said. "It's the difference between chicken shit and chicken salad. You can't buy a Cadillac for the same price as a Ford."

He stared at me for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders. "It's your money, Jonas."

I watched him walk back to the General. He might be a great aeronautical engineer, but he was too anxious ever to become a good salesman. I turned to the mechanic. "Ready?"

"Ready when you are, Mr. Cord."

"O.K.," I said, starting to climb up to the cockpit. I felt a hand tugging at my leg. I looked down.

"Mind if I come along for the ride?" It was the lieutenant colonel.

"Not at all," I said. "Hop in."

"Thanks. By the way, I didn't get your name."

"Jonas Cord," I said.

"Roger Forrester," he answered, holding out his hand.

I should have guessed it the minute I heard his name, but I didn't tie it up until now. Roger Forrester—one of the original aces of the Lafayette Escadrille. Twenty-two German planes to his credit. He'd been one of my heroes when I was a kid.

"I've heard about you," I said.

His smile changed into a grin. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

We both laughed and I felt better. I pulled on his hand and he came up on the wing beside me. He looked into the cockpit, then back at me.

"No parachute?"

"Never use 'em," I said. "Make me nervous. Psychological. Indicates a lack of confidence."

He laughed.

"I can get one for you if you like."

He laughed again. "To hell with it."

About thirty miles out over the ocean, I put her through all the tricks in the book and then some only the CA-4 could do, and he didn't bat an eyelash.

For a clincher, I took her all the way up in a vertical climb until, at fourteen thousand feet, she hung in the sky like a fly dancing on the tip of a needle. Then I let her fall off on a dead stick into a tailspin that whipped the air-speed indicator up close to the five hundred mark. When we got down to about fifteen hundred feet, I took both hands off the stick and tapped him on the shoulder.

His head whipped around so fast it almost fell off his neck. I laughed. "She's all yours, Colonel!" I shouted.

We were down to twelve hundred feet by the time he turned around; eight hundred feet by the time he had the spin under control; six hundred feet before he had her in a straight dive; and four hundred feet before he could pull back on the stick.

I felt her shudder and tremble under me and a shrill scream came from her wings, like a dame getting her cherry copped. The G pinned me back in my seat, choking the air back into my throat and forcing the big bubbles right up into my eyes. Suddenly, the pressure lifted. We were less than twenty-five feet off the water when we started to climb.

Forrester looked back at me. "I haven't been this scared since I soloed back in fifteen," he yelled, grinning. "How did you know she wouldn't lose her wings in a dive like that?"

"Who knew?" I retorted. "But this was as good a time as any to find out!"

He laughed. I saw his hand reach forward and knock on the instrument panel. "What a plane. Like you said, she sure does fly!"

"Don't tell me. Tell that old coot back there."

A shadow fell across his face. "I'll try. But I don't know if I can do much good. It's all yours," he said, raising his hands. "You take her back in now."

I could see Morrissey and the soldiers standing on the field, watching us through field glasses as we came in. I put her into a wide turn and tapped Forrester on the shoulder. He looked back at me. "Ten bucks says I can take the General's hat off on the first pass."

He hesitated a moment, then grinned. "You're on!"

I came down at the field from about a thousand feet and leveled off about fifteen feet over the runway. I could see the startled expression on their faces as we rushed toward them, then I pulled back the stick. We went over their heads, into an almost vertical climb, catching them full blast in the prop wash.

I looked back just in time to see the captain running after the General's hat. I tapped Forrester's shoulder again. He turned to look back. He was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes.

She set down as lightly as a pigeon coming home to its roost. I slid back the plastic canopy and we climbed down. I glanced at Forrester's face as we walked over to the group. All the laughter was gone from it now and the wary mask was back on.

The General had his hat on his head again. "Well, Forrester," he said stiffly. "What do you think?"

Forrester looked into his commanding officer's face. "Without a doubt, sir, this is the best fighter in the air today," he said in a flat, emotionless voice. "I'd suggest, sir, that you have a test group make an immediate check to substantiate my opinion."

"Hmm," the General said coldly. "You would, eh?"

"I would, sir," Forrester said quietly.

"There are other factors to be considered, Forrester. Do you have any idea of what these planes might cost?"

"No, sir," Forrester answered. '"My only responsibility is to evaluate the performance of the plane itself."

"My responsibilities go much further than that," the General said. "You must remember that we're operating under a strict budget."

"Yes, sir."

"Please bear it in mind," General Gaddis said testily. "If I went off half-cocked over every idea you Air Corps men had, there wouldn't be money enough left to keep the Army running for a month."

Forrester's face flushed. "Yes, sir."

I glanced at him, wondering why he stood there and took it. It didn't make sense. Not with the reputation he had. He could step out of the Army and knock down twenty times what he was making with any airline in the country. He had a name as good as Rickenbacker's any day.

The General turned to Morrissey. "Now, Mr. Morrissey," he said in an almost jovial voice. "Whom do we talk to about getting a few facts and figures on the cost of this airplane?"

"You can talk with Mr. Cord, sir."

"Fine!" boomed the General. "Let's go into the office and call him."

"You don't have to do that, General," I said quickly. "We can talk right here."

The General stared at me, then his lips broke into what he thought was an expansive smile. "No offense intended, son. I didn't connect the names."

"That's all right, General."

"Your father and I are old friends," he said. "Back during the last war, I bought a lot of the hard stuff from him and if it's all right with you, I'd like to talk this over with him. Purely for old times' sake, you understand. Besides, this can turn out to be a mighty big deal and I'm sure your daddy would like to get in on it himself."

I felt my face go white. I had all I could do to control myself. How long did you have to live in a man's shadow? My voice sounded flat and strained even to my own ears. "I'm sure he would, General. But I'm afraid you'll have to talk to me; you can't talk to him."

"Why not?" The voice was suddenly cold.

"My father's been dead for ten years," I said, turning my back on him and walking toward the hangar.


TWO 


I WALKED THROUGH TO THE SMALL ROOM IN THE BACK THAT MORRISSEY USED AS AN OFFICE. I shut the door behind me and crossing to his desk, took out the bottle of bourbon that was always there for me. Pouring a shot into a paper cup, I tossed the whisky down my throat. It burned like hell. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling.

There are some people who won't stay dead. It doesn't make any difference what you do to them. You can bury them in the ground, dump them into the ocean or cremate them. But the memory of them will still turn your guts into mush just as if they were still alive.

I remembered what my father said to me one morning down at the corral in back of the house. It was a little while after his marriage to Rina and I’d come down one morning to watch Nevada break a new bronc. It was along about five o'clock and the fast morning sun was just raising its head over the desert.

The bronc was a mean one, a wiry, nasty little black bastard that, every time it threw Nevada, went after him with slashing hoofs and teeth. The last time it threw him, it even tried to roll on him. Nevada scrambled out of the way and just did make it over the fence.

He stood there leaning against the fence and breathing heavily while the Mex boys chased the bronc. Their shrill whoops and yells split the morning air. "He's a crazy one," Nevada said.

"What're you going to do with him?" I asked curiously. It wasn't often I saw Nevada take three falls in a row.

The Mexicans had the horse now and Nevada watched them lead it back. "Try him once more," he answered thoughtfully. "An' if that doesn't work, turn him loose."

My father's voice came from behind us. "That's just what he wants you to do."

Nevada and I turned. My father was already dressed as if he was going straight to the plant. He was wearing his black suit and the tie was neatly centered in the thickly starched white collar of his shirt. "Why don't you put a clamp on his muzzle so he can't snap at you?"

Nevada looked at him. "Ain't nobody can git near enough to that hoss without losin' an arm."

"Nonsense!" my father said tersely. He took a short lariat from the pegs on the fence and ducking between the bars, stepped out into the corral. I could see his hands working the rope into a small halter as he walked toward the horse.

The bronc stood there pawing the ground, its eyes watching my father balefully. The Mexicans tightened their grip on the lariats around the horse's neck. The bronc reared back as my father brought the loop up to catch it around the muzzle. At the same time, it lashed out with its forefeet. Father just got out of the way in time.

He stood there for a moment, staring into the horse's eyes, then reached up again. The bronc shook its head wildly and slashed savagely at my father's arm. Again the hoofs lashed out, just missing Father.

The bronc was really wild now, twisting and turning as if there were a rider on it. The Mexicans leaned on their lariats to hold it still. After a moment, it was quiet and Father walked back to it.

"You ornery son of a bitch," my father said quietly. The bronc bared its teeth and snapped at him. Father seemed to move his arm just a fraction of an inch and the bronc's head flashed by his arm. "Let him go," my father yelled to the Mexicans.

The two boys looked at each other for a moment, then shrugging in that almost imperceptible manner they had to absolve themselves of responsibility, let up on their lariats.

Free of restraint, the bronc was motionless for a fraction of a second, bewildered. My father stood there in front of him, tall and broad in his black suit. Their eyes were about on a level. Then slowly my father started to bring his hand up again and the bronc exploded, its eyes flashing, its teeth bared, as it reared back and struck out with its hoofs. This time, my father stepped back and then darted as the bronc came down.

I saw my father's clenched fist hanging high in the air over his head for a flashing second. The bronc's four hoofs struck the ground and Father's fist came down like a hammer, just over the bronc's eyes. The thud of the blow echoed back against the side of the house like a small explosion. The bronc stood there for a moment, then sagged slowly to its knees, its front legs crumpling as if they had suddenly turned to rubber.

Quickly my father walked around to the side and slapped his open palm against the bronc's neck. The horse toppled over on its side. For a moment, it lay there, its sides heaving, then it raised its head and looked up at my father. The four of us—the Mexicans, Nevada and I—were silent as we stood there watching them.

The bronc's raised head threw a long morning shadow in the corral dirt that was dwarfed only by the shadow of my father as they stared into each other's eyes. Then the bronc seemed to heave a giant sigh and dropped its head back on the ground.

My father looked down at the bronc for a moment, then bent over and taking the reins near the bronc's mouth, pulled the horse to its feet. The bronc stood there, its legs trembling, its head hanging dejectedly. It didn't even raise its head as my father crossed in front of it and came back through the fence to us.

"You won't have any trouble with him now." My father hung the lariat back on the peg and started for the house. "Coming in for breakfast, Jonas?" he called without turning his head or breaking his stride.

Nevada was already back in the corral, walking toward the bronc. "Yes, sir," I said, starting after my father. I caught up to him on the back porch. We turned and watched Nevada mount the horse. The bronc bucked and sawed but it was easy to see his heart wasn't in it.

My father turned to me, unsmiling. "Some horses are like people. The only language they understand is a clout on the head."

"I didn't think you cared that much about the horses," I said. "You never come down to the corral."

"I don't," he said quickly. "It's you I care about. You've still got a lot to learn."

I laughed. "Fat lot I learned from your hitting a bronc on its head."

"You learned that Nevada couldn't ride that horse until I made it possible."

"So?"

My father turned. He was a big man, over six feet, but I was taller. "So," he said slowly, "no matter how big you get, you won't be big enough to wear my shoes until I let you."

I followed my father into the dining room. Rina's back was to me and her hair shone like silver as she raised her cheek for his morning kiss. There was a quiet triumph in my father's eyes as he straightened up afterward and looked at me. He didn't speak as he sat down in his chair. He didn't have to. I knew what he was thinking. He didn't have to hit me over the head.

"Joining us for breakfast, Jonas?" Rina asked politely.

I stared at her for a moment, then at my father. I could feel the sick knot tying up my guts. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

I turned and walked hurriedly back through the dining-room door, almost colliding with Robair, who was just entering with a tray. By the time I got back to the corral, Nevada was walking the bronc up and down, breaking him to the meaning of the reins. Father had been right. The horse wasn't giving Nevada any trouble.

And here it was twelve years later and I could still hear his voice as it had echoed quietly on the back porch that morning.

"Let go, old man, let go!" I said angrily, my fist smashing down on the empty desk. The pain ran crazily up my arm into my shoulder.

"Mr. Cord!" I looked up in surprise. Morrissey was standing in the open doorway, his mouth partly open. It took an effort for me to bring myself back to the present.

"Don't stand there," I snapped. "Come in." He entered the office hesitantly, and a moment later, Forrester appeared in the doorway behind him. Silently they came into the office.

"Sit down and have a drink," I said, pushing the bottle of bourbon toward them.

"Don't mind if I do," Forrester said, picking up the bottle and a paper cup. He sloshed himself a good one. "Mud in your eye."

"Up the General's," I said. "By the way, where is the old boy?"

"On his way back to the city. He has a date with a toilet-paper manufacturer."

I laughed. "At least, that's one thing he can test for himself."

Forrester laughed but Morrissey sat there glumly. I pushed the bottle toward him. "You on the wagon?"

He shook his head. "What are we going to do now?" he asked.

I stared at him for a moment, then picked up the bottle and refilled my paper cup. "I was just thinking about declaring war on the United States. That's one way we could show him how good our plane is."

Morrissey still didn't crack a smile. "The CA-4 is the best plane I ever designed."

"So what?" I asked. "What the hell, it didn't cost you anything. It was my dough. Besides, how much did you ever make out of building planes? It doesn't amount to one-twentieth of your annual royalties on that trick brassière you designed for Rina Marlowe."

It was true. But it had been McAllister who'd seen the commercial potential in the damn thing and applied for a patent in the name of Cord Aircraft. Morrissey had a standard employment contract, which provided that all his inventions and designs belonged to the company, but McAllister had been a sport about it. He'd given Morrissey a ten-per-cent interest in the royalties as a bonus and last year, Morrissey's share was in excess of a hundred thousand dollars. The market was getting bigger all the time. Tits weren't going out of fashion for a long time.

Morrissey didn't answer. But then, I hadn't expected him to. He was one of those guys who don't give a damn about money. All he lived for was his work.

I finished my drink and lit a cigarette. Silently I cursed myself. I should have known better than to let a chance remark about my father bug me like that. I could afford it but nobody likes to throw a million dollars down the drain.

"Maybe I can do something," Forrester said.

A ray of hope came into Morrissey's eyes. "Do you think you could?"

Forrester shrugged. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I said maybe."

I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"It's the best plane I've seen," he said. "I wouldn't like to see us lose it because of the old man's stupidity."

"Thanks," I said. "We'd be grateful for anything you could do."

Forrester smiled. "You don't owe me anything. I’m one of those old-fashioned guys who wouldn't like to see us caught short if things suddenly started popping."

I nodded. "They'll start soon enough. Just as soon as Hitler thinks he's ready."

"When do you think that will be?"

"Three, maybe four years," I said. "When they have enough trained pilots and planes."

"Where'll he get them from? He hasn't got them now."

"He'll get them," I said. "The glider schools are turning out ten thousand pilots a month and before the summer is over, Messerschmitt will have his ME-109's on the production line."

"The general staff thinks he won't do much when he comes up against the Maginot line."

"He won't come up against it," I said. "He'll fly over it."

Forrester nodded. "All the more reason for me to try to get them to check out your plane." He looked at me quizzically. "You talk like you know."

"I know," I answered. "I was there less than nine months ago."

"Oh, yes," he said, "I remember. I saw something about it in the papers. There was some kind of a stink about it, wasn't there?"

I laughed. "There was. Certain people accused me of being a Nazi sympathizer."

"Because of the million dollars you turned over to the Reichsbank?"

I shot a quick glance at him. Forrester wasn't as simple as he pretended to be. "I guess so," I answered. "You see, I transferred the money just the day before Roosevelt slapped on his restriction."

"You knew the restriction was about to be placed, didn't you? You could have saved yourself the money by just waiting one day."

"I couldn't afford to wait," I said. "The money had to be in Germany, that was all there was to it."

"Why? Why did you send them the money when obviously you realize they're our potential enemy?"

"It was ransom for a Jew," I said.

"Some of my best friends are Jews," Forrester answered. "But I can't imagine shelling out a million dollars for one of them."

I stared at him for a moment, then refilled my paper cup. "This one was worth it."

******

His name was Otto Strassmer and he started out in life as a quality-control engineer in one of the many Bavarian china works. From ceramics he had turned to plastics and it was he who had invented the high-speed injection mold I’d bought and sold to a combine of American manufacturers. Our original deal had been on a royalty basis but after it had been in effect for several years Strassmer wanted to change it. That was in 1933, shortly after Hitler came to power.

He'd come into my hotel room in Berlin, where I’d been on my annual visit to Europe, and explained what he wanted. He was willing to relinquish all future share in royalties for a flat payment of one million dollars, to be held in escrow for him in the United States. This was agreeable to me, of course. His share of the royalties would amount to much more than that over the licensing period. But I didn't understand why. So I asked him.

He got up out of his chair and walked over to the window, "You ask me why, Herr Cord?" he asked in his peculiarly accented English. His hand pointed out the window. "That's why."

I walked over to the window and looked down. There in the street in front of the Adlon, a group of brown-shirted young men, scarcely more than boys, were tormenting an old frock-coated man. Twice while we were watching, they knocked the old man into the gutter. We could see him lying on the edge of the sidewalk, his head in the gutter, blood streaming from his nose. The boys stood there for a moment watching him, then walked away after kicking him several times contemptuously.

I turned to Strassmer questioningly.

"That was a Jew, Herr Cord," he said quietly.

"So what? Why didn't he call the police?"

Strassmer pointed across the street. Two policemen stood on the opposite corner. "They saw everything that happened."

"Why didn't they stop them?"

"They are under instructions not to," he answered. "Hitler claims that Jews have no right under German law."

"What has this got to do with you?"

"I am a Jew," he said simply.

I was silent for a moment. I took out a cigarette and lit it. "What do you want me to do with the money?"

"Keep it until you hear from me." He smiled. "My wife and daughter are already in America. I would be grateful if you'd let them know I'm all right."

"Why don't you join them?" I asked.

"Perhaps I will—in time. But I am German," he said. "And I still hope this madness will one day pass."

But Herr Strassmer's hopes were not to be realized. This I found out less than a year later, as I sat in the office of the Reichsmarschall. "The Jews of the world are doomed, as are the Jews of Germany," he said in his polite voice. "We of the New Order recognize this and welcome our friends and allies from across the sea who wish to join our crusade."

I was silent, waiting for him to speak again.

"We men of the air understand each other," he said.

I nodded. "Yes, Excellency."

"Good," he said, smiling. "Then we do not have to waste time." He threw some papers on the desk. "Under the new laws, the Reich has confiscated the properties of a certain Otto Strassmer. We understand there are certain monies due him which you are hereby instructed to pay over into the Reichsbank."

I didn't like the word "instructed." "I have been trying to get in touch with Herr Strassmer," I said.

Göring smiled again. "Strassmer had a severe breakdown and is presently confined to a hospital."

"I see," I said. I got to my feet.

"The Third Reich will not forget its friends," the Reichsmarschall said. He pressed a button on his desk.

A young German lieutenant appeared in the doorway. "Heil Hitler!" he said, his arm upraised in the Nazi salute.

"Heil Hitler!" Göring replied negligently. He turned to me. "Lieutenant Mueller will escort you to the Messerschmitt plant. I look forward to seeing you again at dinner, Herr Cord."

The Messerschmitt plant opened my eyes. There was nothing like it building airplanes in the United States. The only things comparable were the automobile production lines in Detroit. And when I saw some of the sketches of the ME-109 that adorned Messerschmitt's office, I didn't have to look twice. It was all over but the shouting unless we got up off our collective asses.

That night at dinner, the Reichsmarschall got me to a corner. "What did you think of our factory?"

"I'm impressed," I said.

He nodded, pleased. "It is modeled after your own plant in California," he said. "But much larger, of course."

"Of course," I agreed, wondering how they got in there. Then I realized it was no secret. Up to now, we'd never got any government work; all we'd built were commercial airlines. He laughed pleasantly, then turned to move away. A moment later, he came back to me. "By the way," he whispered. "The Führer was very pleased about your co-operation. When may I inform him that we will receive the money?"

I stared at him. "On the day Herr Strassmer walks into my office in New York."

He stared back in surprise. "The Führer won't like this," he said. "I told him you were our friend."

"I'm also Herr Strassmer's friend."

He stared at me for another moment. "Now I don't know what to tell the Führer. He will be very disappointed when he learns we shall not receive the money."

"In that case," I said, "why disappoint him? One Jew more or less can't matter to Germany."

He nodded slowly. "Perhaps that is the best way."

Exactly a month later, the little German engineer walked into my office in New York.

"What are you going to do now?" I asked.

"First, I'm going to join my family in Colorado and rest for a while," he said. "Then I must look for work. I'm no longer a rich man."

I smiled at him. "Come to work for me. I’ll consider the million dollars an advance against your royalties."

******

When he left the office, I gave Morrissey the O.K. to go ahead on the CA-4. If my hunch was right, there wasn't enough time left for any of us. But it was another story to make the U.S. Army believe that.

I looked across the desk at Forrester.

"I'll get back to town and make a few calls to Washington. I still have a few friends down there," he said. "I'll stop by and talk to the General. Maybe I can persuade him to listen."

"Good," I said. I looked at my watch. It was almost twelve thirty. The stockholders' meeting ought to be over by now. McAllister and Pierce should be back in the hotel with Norman tucked safely away in their back pockets.

"I have a one-o'clock appointment at the Waldorf," I said. "Can I drop you off?"

"Thanks," Forrester said gratefully. "I have a luncheon date that I'd hate to miss."

He came into the Waldorf with me and cut off toward Peacock Alley as I walked over to the elevators. As I stood there waiting, I saw a woman rise to meet him. It was the same one I had seen him with out at the field. I wondered vaguely why she hadn't waited for him
out there.

Idly I watched Rico, the maître d', lead them around the corner to a hidden table. I walked over to the entrance and stood there until he came back.

"Ah, Monsieur Cord." He smiled. "Dining alone?"

"Not dining, Rico," I said, pressing a bill into his ever ready hand. "A question. The lady with Colonel Forrester — who is she?"

Rico smiled knowingly. He kissed his fingers. "Ah, most charmante," he said. "She is  Madame Gaddis, the wife of the General."

I looked around the lobby as I walked back to the elevators. The General should be somewhere around. From what I had seen of his attitude toward Forrester, I figured there had to be more than just Army and airplanes between them.

I spotted him as he crossed the lobby to the men's room next to the nearest bank of elevators. He was scowling and his face was flushed. He looked like a man who needed more relief than he could find where he was going.

I waited until the door swung shut behind him before I walked over to the elevators. For the first time since I’d landed the CA-4 at Roosevelt Field, I began to feel better. Everything was falling into place now.

I wasn't worried any more. The only problem that remained was how many planes the Army would buy.


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