THE CARPETBAGGERS - 11

THE CARPETBAGGERS

HAROLD ROBBINS

(  INSTALMENT 11  )

JONAS — 1940
BOOK SEVEN


ONE 


"THIS IS DAMN STUPID!" FORRESTER MUTTERED as he lifted the CAB-200 into the air behind the formation of Spitfires.

"What's stupid?" I asked, looking down behind me from the copilot's seat, to see London dropping back into the early-morning haze. There were several fires still burning from last night's raid. "They didn't buy our plane but they'll buy all the B-17’s we can turn out. What the hell, we both know they have to standardize."

"I’m not talking about that," Roger grumbled.

"Engines one and two, check," Morrissey called from behind us. "Engines three and four, check. You can cut the fuel now."

"Check." Roger turned down the mixture. "That's what I’m talking about," he said, motioning toward Morrissey, who was acting as flight engineer. "It's stupid—all of us on the same plane. What if it went down? Who'd be left to run the company?"

I grinned at him. "You worry too much."

He returned my smile without humor. "That's what you pay me for. The president of the company has to worry. Especially the way we're growing. We grossed over thirty-five million last year; this year we'll go over a hundred million with war orders. We'll have to start bringing up personnel who can take over in case something happens to us."

I reached for a cigarette. "What's going to happen to us?" I asked, lighting it. I looked at him through the cloud of smoke. "Unless you got a little jealous of the R.A.F. back there and are thinking about going back into the service."

He reached out and took the cigarette from my mouth and put it between his lips. "You know better than that, Jonas. I couldn't keep up with those kids. They'd fly rings around me. If I have to be an armchair pilot, I’d rather do it here, where at least I’m on your general staff."

There was something in what he said. The war was pushing us into an expansion that neither of us had ever dreamed of. And we weren't even in it yet.

"We'll have to get someone to run the Canadian plant."

I nodded silently. He'd been right — it was a hell of a wise move. We'd fabricate the parts in our plants in the States and ship them to Canada, where they'd go on the production line. As they rolled off, the R.C.A.F. would fly them to England. If it worked, we could knock about three weeks off the production time for each plane.

The idea also had some fiscal advantages. The British and Canadian governments were willing to finance the building of the plant and we'd save two ways. The factory would cost less because we would have no interest charges and the tax on net income could be taken in Canada, where the depreciation allowance was four times that allowed by Uncle Sam. And His Majesty's boys were happy, too, because living in the sterling bloc, they'd have fewer American dollars to pay out.

"O.K., I agree. But none of the boys working for us has the experience to take on a big job like that except Morrissey. And we can't spare him. You got anybody in mind?"

"Sure," he said, shooting a curious look at me. "But you aren't going to like it."

I stared at him. "Try me and see."

"Amos Winthrop."

"No!"

"He's the only man around who can handle it," he said. "And he won't be available for long. The way things are going, somebody's going to snap him up."

"Let them! He's a prick and a lush. Besides, he's bombed out on everything he ever did."

"He knows aircraft production," Forrester said stubbornly. He glanced at me again. "I heard what happened between you two but that's got nothing to do with this."

I didn't answer. Up ahead of us, I saw the Spitfire formation leader waggle his wings. It was the signal to break radio silence. Forrester leaned forward and flipped the switch. "Yes, Captain?"

"This is where we leave you, old boy."

I looked down. The gray waters of the Atlantic stared back at me. We were a hundred miles off the coast of the British Isles.

"O.K., Captain," Forrester said. "Thank you."

"Safe home, chaps. And don't forget to send us the big ones. We'll be needing them next summer to pay Jerry back a little."

Forrester laughed in his mike. The British had just taken the shellacking of their lives and here they were worried about getting their licks in. "You'll have them, Captain."

"Righto. Radio out."

He waggled the wings of his Spitfire again and the formation peeled away in a wide, sweeping circle back toward their coast. Then there was silence and we were alone over the Atlantic on our way home.

I pulled out of my safety belt and stood up. "If it's O.K. with you, I'm going back and grab a little snooze."

Roger nodded. I opened the compartment door. "You just think about what I said," he called after me.

"If you're talking about Amos Winthrop, forget it."

Morrissey was sitting dejectedly in the engineer's bucket seat. He looked up when I came in. "I don't understand it," he said sadly.

I sat down on the edge of the bunk. "It's easy enough to figure out. The B-17 flies with a five-man crew against our nine. That means they can put almost twice as many planes in the air. Round trip to Germany at the most is two thousand miles, so they don't need a five-thousand-mile range. Besides, the operational costs are just a little more than half ours."

"But this plane can go ten thousand feet higher and two hundred miles an hour faster," Morrissey said. "And it carries almost twice the pay load of bombs."

"The trouble with you, Morrissey, is you're ahead of the times. They're not ready for planes like this one yet."

I saw the stricken look come over his face. For a moment, I felt sorry for him. And what I'd said was true. For my money, he was the greatest aircraft engineer in the world. "Forget it. Don't worry, they'll catch up to you yet. Some-day, they'll be flying planes like this by the thousands."

"Not in this war," he said resignedly. He picked up a Thermos from a cardboard carton. "I think I’ll take some coffee up to Roger."

He went forward into the pilot's compartment and I stretched out on the bunk. The drone of the four big engines buzzed in my ears. I closed my eyes. Three weeks in England and I don't think I had a good night's rest the whole time. Between the bombs and the girls. The bombs and the girls. The bombs. The girls. I slept.

******

The shrill shriek of the falling bomb rose to its orgiastic climax as it fell nearby. All conversation at the dinner table hung suspended for a moment.

"I’m worried about my daughter, Mr. Cord," the slim, gray-haired woman on my right said.

I looked at her, then glanced at Morrissey, seated opposite me. His face was while and strained. I turned back to the woman. The bomb had landed practically next door and she was worried about her daughter, safe in America. Maybe she should be. She was Monica's mother.

"I haven't seen Monica since she was nine years old," Mrs. Holme continued nervously. "That was almost twenty years ago. I think of her often."

You didn't think of her often enough, I thought to myself. I used to think it was different with mothers. But they were no different than fathers. They thought of themselves first. At least that was one thing I’d had in common with Monica. Our parents never gave a damn about us. My mother died and hers had run away with another man.

She looked up at me from the deep violet eyes under the long black lashes and I could see the beauty she'd passed on to her daughter. "Do you think you might see her when you return to the States, Mr. Cord?"

"I doubt it, Mrs. Holme," I said. "Monica lives in New York now. I live in Nevada."

She was silent for a moment, then again came the piercing look from her eyes. "You don't like me very much, do you, Mr. Cord?"

"I hadn't really thought about it, Mrs. Holme," I said quickly. "I'm sorry if I give that impression."

She smiled. "It wasn't anything you said. It was just that I could sense a shrinking in you when I told you who I was." She played nervously with her spoon. "I expect Amos told you all about me—about how I ran off with someone else, leaving him with a child to raise alone?"

"Winthrop and I were never that close. We never discussed you."

"You must believe me, Mr. Cord," she whispered, a sudden intensity in her voice. "I didn't abandon my daughter. I want her to know that, to understand it."

Nothing ever changed. It was still more important for parents to be understood than to understand.

"Amos Winthrop was a woman-chaser and a cheat," she said quietly, without bitterness. "The ten years of our marriage were a hell. On our honeymoon, I discovered him with other women. And finally, when I fell in love with a decent, honest man, he blackmailed me into giving up my daughter under the threat of exposure and the ruination of that man's career in His Majesty's service."

I looked at her. That made sense. Amos was a cute one with tricks like that. I knew. "Did you ever write Monica and tell her that?"

"How does one write something like that to one's own daughter?"

I didn't answer.

"About ten years ago, I heard from Amos that he was sending her over to stay with me. I thought then that when she got to know me, I'd explain and she'd understand." She nodded slightly. "I read in the papers of your marriage and she never came."

The butler came and took away the empty plates. Another servant placed demitasse cups before us. When he went away, I spoke. "Just what is it you would like me to do, Mrs. Holme?"

Her eyes studied my face for a moment. I saw the slight hint of moisture in them. Her voice was steady, though. "If you should happen to speak with her, Mr. Cord," she said, "let her know that I asked for her, that I think of her and that I'd appreciate hearing from her."

I nodded slowly. "I'll do that, Mrs. Holme."

The butler began to pour coffee as the dull thud of bombs rolled into the heavily draped
room like a muffled sound of thunder in peacetime London.

******

The roar of the four big motors came back into my ears as I opened my eyes. Morrissey was in the bucket seat, his head tilted uncomfortably to one side as he dozed. He opened his eyes as I sat up. "How long was I sleeping?" I asked.

"About four hours."

"I better give Roger some relief," I said, getting to my feet.

Forrester looked up as I came into the compartment. "You must have been tired. For a while, you were snoring so loud back there I was beginning to think we had five motors instead of four."

I sank into the copilot's seat. "I thought I'd give you a little relief. Where are we?"

"About here," he said, his finger pointing to the map on the holder between us. I looked down. We were about a thousand miles out over the ocean.

"We're slow."

He nodded. "We ran into heavy head winds."

I reached for the wheel and pulled it back to me until it locked in. "O.K.," I said. "I got her."

He released his wheel, got to his feet and stretched. "I think I’ll try to get a nap."

"Fine," I said, looking out through the windshield. It was beginning to rain.

"Sure you can keep your eyes open for a few hours?"

"I'll manage."

He laughed. "Either you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din, or I'm getting old. For a while, back there, I thought you were going to fuck every woman in England."

I looked up at him, grinning. "With the way those bombs were coming down, I thought I better make the most of it."

He laughed again and left the compartment. I turned back to the controls. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who felt that way. The girls must have felt it, too. There'd been something desperate in the way they insisted you accept their favors.

It was beginning to snow now, heavy, swirling flakes against the windshield. I switched the de-icers on and watched the snowflakes turn to water against the Plexiglas. The air speed was two hundred and slowing. That meant the head winds were picking up speed. I decided to see if we could climb up over it.

I moved the wheel back and the big plane began to lift slowly. We came through the clouds at thirteen thousand feet into bright sunlight. I locked in the gyrocompensator and felt the plane level off.

It was a clear and smooth flight all the rest of the way home.


TWO


ROBAIR WAS STANDING IN THE OPEN DOORWAY WHEN I CAME OUT OF THE ELEVATOR. Though it was four o'clock in the morning, he looked as fresh and wide-eyed as if he'd just awakened. His dark face gleamed in a welcoming smile over his white shirt and faultlessly tailored butler's jacket. "Good morning, Mr. Cord. Have a good flight?"

"Fine, thank you, Robair."

He closed the door behind him. "Mr. McAllister's in the living room. Been waiting since eight o'clock last night."

"I'll talk to him," I said, starting through the foyer.

"I’ll fix some steak sandwiches and coffee, Mr. Cord."

I stopped and looked back at the tall Negro. He never seemed to age. His hair was still black and thick, his frame giant-sized and powerful. "Hey, Robair, you know something? I missed you."

He smiled again. There was nothing subservient or false about his smile. It was the smile of a friend. "I missed you, too, Mr. Cord."

I turned and walked into the living room. Robair was more than just a friend. In a way, he was my guardian angel. I don't know how I would have held together after Rina died if it hadn't been for Robair.

By the time I'd got back to Reno from New York, I was a wreck. There was nothing I wanted to do. Just drink and forget. I'd had enough of people.

My father rode my shoulders like a desert Indian on a pony. It had been his woman I had wanted. It had been his woman who had died. Why did I cry? Why was I so empty?

Then one morning, I awakened in the dirt of the yard, back of Nevada's room in the bunkhouse, to find Robair bending over me. I vaguely remembered having leaned my back against the wall of the bunkhouse while I finished a bottle of bourbon. That had been last night. I turned my head slowly. The empty bottle lay beside me.

I placed my hands in the dirt and braced myself. My head hurt and my mouth was dry and when I tried to get to my feet, I found I didn't have the strength.

I felt Robair's arm slip around behind me and lift me to my feet. We started to walk across the hard-packed earth. "Thank you," I said, leaning against him gratefully. "I’ll be all right once I get a drink."

His voice had been so soft that at first I thought I hadn't heard him. "No more whisky, Mr. Cord."

I stared up into his face. "What did you say?"

His large eyes were impassive. "No more whisky, Mr. Cord," he repeated. "I reckon it's time you stopped."

The anger pulled up in me and gave me strength. I shoved myself away from him. "Just who in hell do you think you are?" I shouted. "If I want a drink, I'll take a drink!"

He shook his head. "No more whisky. You're not a little boy no more. You can't run an' hide your head in the whisky bottle ever’ time a little bad comes your way."

I stared at him, speechless for a moment, as the shock and anger ran through me in ice-cold waves. Then I found my voice. "You're fired!" I screamed. "No black son of a bitch is going to own me!"

I turned and started for the house. I felt his hand on my shoulder and turned. There was a look of sadness on his face. "I’m sorry, Mr. Cord," he said.

"There's no use in apologizing, Robair."

"I’m not apologizing for what I said, Mr. Cord," he replied in a low voice. Then I saw his giant, hamlike fist racing toward me. I tried to move away but nothing in my body seemed to work the way it should and I plunged into the dark again.

This time when I woke up, I was in bed, covered with clean sheets. There was a fire going in the fireplace and I felt very weak. I turned my head. Robair was sitting in a chair next to the bed. There was a small tureen of hot soup on the table next to him. "I got some hot soup here for you," he said, his eyes meeting mine levelly.

"Why'd you bring me up here?"

"The mountain air'll do you good."

"I won't stay," I said, pushing myself up. I'd had enough of this cabin when I was here the last time. On my honeymoon.

Robair's big hand pushed me back against the pillow. "You'll stay," he said quietly. He picked up the tureen and dipped a spoon into it, then held the spoon of soup out to me. "Eat."

There was such a note of authority in his quiet voice that involuntarily I opened my mouth before I thought. The hot soup scalded its way down. Then I pushed his hand away. "I don't want any."

I stared into his dark eyes for a moment, then I felt rise up inside me a hurt and a loneliness that I had never felt before. Suddenly, I began to cry.

He put down the tureen. "Go ahead an' weep, Mr. Cord. Cry yourself out. But you'll find tears won't drown you any more than whisky."

He was sitting on the porch in the late-afternoon sun when I finally came out. It was green all around, bushes and trees all the way down the side of the mountain, until it ran into the red and yellow sands of the desert. He got to his feet when I opened the door.

I walked over to the railing and looked down. We were a long way from people. I turned and looked back at him. "What's for dinner, Robair?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. "To tell the truth, Mr. Cord, I was kind of waitin' on how you felt."

"There's a brook near here that has the biggest trout you ever saw."

He smiled. "A mess o' trout sounds fine, Mr. Cord."

It was almost two years before we came down from the mountain. Game was plentiful and once a week, Robair would drive down for supplies. I grew lean and dark from the sun and the bloat of the cities disappeared as the muscles tightened and hardened in my body.

We developed a routine and it was amazing how well the business got along without me. It merely proved the old axiom: once you reached a certain size, it was pretty difficult to stop growing. All the companies were doing fine except the picture company. It was undercapitalized but it didn't matter that much to me any more.

Three times a week, I spoke to McAllister on the telephone. That was generally sufficient to take care of most problems. Once a month, Mac would come driving up the winding road to the cabin, his brief case filled with papers for me to sign or reports for me to study.

Mac was a remarkably thorough man. There was very little that escaped his observant eye. In some mysterious way, everything of importance that was going on in any of the companies found its way into his reports. There were many things I knew I should attend to personally but somehow, everything seemed a long way off and very unimportant.

We'd been there almost a year and a half when we had our first outside visitor. I'd been out hunting and was coming back up the trail, with a brace of quail swinging from my hand, when I saw a strange car parked in front of the cabin. It was a Chevy with California license plates.

I walked around and looked at the registration on the steering column: Rosa Strassmer, M.D., 1104 Coast Highway, Malibu, Cal. I turned and walked into the cabin. There was a young woman seated on the couch, smoking a cigarette. She had dark hair, gray eyes and a determined jaw.

When she stood up, I saw she was wearing a faded pair of Levis that somehow accentuated the slim, feminine curve of her hips. "Mr. Cord?" she asked, holding her hand out to me, a curious, faint accent in her voice. "I’m Rosa Strassmer, Otto Strassmer's daughter."

I took her hand, staring at her for a moment. Her grip was firm. I tried to keep the faint tinge of annoyance from showing in my voice. "How did you know where to find me?"

She took out an envelope and gave it to me. "Mr. McAllister asked me to drop this off
when he heard I was driving through here on my vacation."

I opened the envelope and looked at the paper inside. It was nothing that couldn't have waited until his next visit. I dropped it on the table. Robair came into the room just then. He looked at me curiously as he took the brace of quail and my gun and went back into the kitchen.

"I hope I haven't disturbed you, Mr. Cord," she said quickly.

I looked at her. Whatever it was I felt, it wasn't her fault. It was Mac's not too subtle reminder that I couldn't stay on the mountain forever. "No," I answered. "You must forgive my surprise. We don't get many visitors up here."

She smiled suddenly. When she smiled, her face took on a strange bright beauty. "And I can understand why you don't ask people to come, Mr. Cord," she said. "More than two people would crowd a paradise like this."

I didn't answer.

She hesitated a moment, then started for the door. "I must be going now," she said awkwardly. "I'm glad to have met you. I've heard so much about you from my father."

"Dr. Strassmer!"

She turned toward me in surprise. "Yes, Mr. Cord?"

"I’ll have to ask you to forgive me again," I said quickly. "Living up here as I have, I seem to have forgotten my manners. How is your father?"

"He's well and happy, Mr. Cord, thanks to you. He never gets tired of telling me how you blackmailed Göring into letting him out of Germany. He thinks you're a very brave man."

I smiled. "It's your father who is brave, doctor. What I did was very little."

"To Mother and me, it was a great deal," she said. She hesitated again. "Now I really must be going."

"Stay for dinner," I said. "Robair has a way of stuffing quail with wild rice that I think you'd enjoy."

Her eyes searched mine for a moment. "I will," she answered. "Under one condition—that you call me Rosa, not doctor."

"Agreed. Now sit down again and I’ll get Robair to bring you something to drink."

But Robair was already in the doorway with a pitcher of Martinis. It was too late for her to leave when we were through with dinner, so Robair fixed up the tiny guest room for her. She went to bed and I sat in the living room for a while and then went to my room.

For the first time in a long while, I could not fall asleep. I stared up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. There was a sound at the door and I sat up in the bed.

She stood there silently in the doorway for a moment, then came into the room. She stopped at the side of my bed and looked down at me. "Don't be frightened, lonely man," she whispered in a soft voice. "I want nothing more from you than this night."

"But, Rosa—"

She pressed a silencing finger to my lips and came down into the bed, all warmth and all woman, all compassion and all understanding. She cradled my head against her breast almost as a mother would a child. "Now I understand why McAllister sent me here."

I cupped my hands beneath her firm young breasts. "Rosa, you're beautiful," I whispered.

I heard her laugh softly. "I know I’m not beautiful, but I am happy that you should say so."

She lay her head back against the pillow and looked up at me, her eyes soft and warm. "Kommen sie, liebchen," she said gently, reaching for me with her arms. "You brought my father back to his world, let me try to bring you back to yours."

In me morning, after breakfast, when she had gone, I walked back into the living room thoughtfully. Robair looked at me from the table, where he was clearing away the dishes. We didn't speak. We didn't have to. In that moment, we both understood that it was only a matter of time before we would leave the mountain.

The world was not that far away any more.

 ******

McAllister was asleep on the couch when I entered the living room. I walked over to him and touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up at me. "Hello, Jonas," he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He took a cigarette and lit it. A moment later, the sleep was gone from his eyes. "I waited for you because Sheffield is pressing for a meeting," he said.

I dropped into the chair opposite him. "Did David pick up the stock?"

"Yes."

"Does Sheffield know it yet?"

"I don't think so," he said. "From the way he's talking, my guess is he still thinks he's got it in the bag." He ground the cigarette out in the ash tray. "Sheffield said that if you'd meet with him before the meeting, he'd be inclined to give you some consideration for your stock."

I laughed. "That's very kind of him, isn't it?" I kicked off my shoes. "Tell him to go to hell."

"Just a minute, Jonas," Mac said quickly. "I think you'd better meet with him, anyway. He can make a lot of trouble. After all, he'll be voting about thirty per cent of the stock."

"Let him," I snapped. "If he wants a fight, I'll curl his hair."

"Meet him, anyway," Mac urged. "You've got too many things coming up to get involved in a fight right now."

He was right, as usual. I couldn't be in six places at one time. Besides, if I wanted to make The Sinner, I didn't want a stupid minority-stockholder's suit holding up production.

"O.K. Call him and tell him to come over right now."

"Right now?" Mac asked. "My God! It's four o'clock in the morning."

"So what? He's the one who wanted a meeting."

Mac went over to the telephone.

"And when you get through talking to him," I said, "call Moroni on the Coast and find out if the bank will let me have the money to buy in Sheffield's stock if I give them a first mortgage on the theaters."

There was no sense in using any more of my own money than I had to.


THREE


I WATCHED SHEFFIELD LIFT THE COFFEE CUP TO HIS LIPS. His hair was a little grayer, a little thinner, but the rimless eyeglasses still shone rapaciously over his long, thin nose. Still, he accepted defeat much more graciously than I would have, if the shoe had been on the other foot.

"Where did I go wrong, Jonas?" he asked casually, his voice as detached as that of a doctor with a clinic patient. "I certainly was willing to pay enough."

I slumped down in my chair. '"You had the right idea. The thing was that you were using the wrong currency."

"I don't understand."

"Movie people are different. Sure, they like money just like everybody else. But there's something they want even more."

"Power?"

I shook my head. "Only partly. What they want more than anything else is to make pictures. Not just movies but pictures that will gain them recognition. They want to regard themselves as artists. Well insulated by money, of course, but artists, just the same."

"Then because you've made motion pictures, they accepted your promises rather than mine?"

"I guess that's about it." I smiled. "When I produce a picture, they feel I'm sharing the same risks they are. I'm not risking money. Everything I am goes on the line. My reputation, my ability, my creative conceit."

"Creative conceit?"

"It's a term I got from David Woolf. He used it to rate certain producers. Those who had it made great pictures. Those who didn't, made pictures. In short, they preferred me because I was willing to be judged on their own terms."

"I see," Sheffield said thoughtfully. "I won't make the same mistake again."

"I'm sure you won't." I felt a suspicion growing in me. This was too easy. He was being too nice about it. He was a fighter. And fighters die hard.

Besides, his whole approach had been inconsistent with his usual way of doing business. Sheffield was a financial man. He dealt with business people about finances. Yet, in this case, he'd gone directly to the picture people. Ordinarily, he'd have contacted me right off the bat and we'd have battled it out. We'd each have compromised a little and been satisfied.

There could be only one answer. Something that had happened in England when I was there began suddenly to make sense. I'd come out of the projection room of our office in London, where I had gone to see the Jennie Denton test, with our British sales manager.

The telephone had rung when we walked into his office. He picked it up and spoke into it a few minutes, then put it down. He looked up at me.

"That was the circuit-buyer for the Engel theater chain," he said. "They are frantic for product now. Their studios were lost completely in the first raid and they had never made a deal for American product, as have the other companies."

"What are they going to do?" I asked, still thinking about the test. For the first time since Rina had died, I began to feel the excitement that came only from making a motion picture again. I only half listened to his answer.

"I don't know," he replied. "They have four hundred theaters and if they can't get additional product in six months, they'll have to close half of them."

"Too bad," I said. I couldn't care less. Engel, like Korda, had come to England from Middle Europe and gone into the picture business. But while Korda had concentrated on production, Engel had gone in for theaters. He came into production only as an answer to his problem of supply. Rank, British Lion, Gaumont and Associated among them managed to control all the product, both British and American. Still, there was no reason to mourn for him. I had heard that his investments in the States were worth in excess of twenty million dollars.

I'd forgotten about the conversation until now. It all fitted together neatly. It would have been a very neat trick if Engel could have stolen the company right out from under my nose. And it was just the kind of deal his Middle-European mind would have dreamed up.

I looked at Sheffield. "What does Engel plan to do with the stock now?" I asked casually.

"I don't know." Then he looked at me. "No wonder," he said softly. "Now I know why we couldn't get anywhere. You knew all along."

I didn't answer. I could see the look of surprise on Mac's face behind him but I pretended I hadn't.

"And I was beginning to believe that stuff you were handing me about picture people standing together," Sheffield said.

I smiled. "Now that the deal fell through, I suppose Engel has no choice but to close those theaters. He can't get product anywhere else."

Sheffield was silent, his eyes wary. "All right, Jonas," he said. "What's on your mind?"

"How would Mr. Engel like to buy the Norman Film Distributors of England. Ltd.? That would assure him access to our product and he might not have to close those theaters."

"How much would it cost him?" Sheffield asked.

"How many shares of stock does he own?"

"About six hundred thousand."

"That's what it would cost him," I said.

"That's five million dollars! British Norman only nets about three hundred thousand a year. At that rate, it would take him almost twenty years to get his money back."

"It all depends on your point of view. Closing two hundred theaters would mean a loss to him of over a million pounds a year."

He stared at me for a moment and then got to his feet. "May I use your phone for a call to London? In spite of the time difference, I just might still catch Mr. Engel before he leaves the office."

"Help yourself," I said. As he walked to the telephone, I looked down at my watch. It was nine o'clock and I knew I had him. Because no one, not even Georges Engel, left his office at two o'clock in the afternoon. Not in merry old England, where the offices were open until six o'clock and the clerks still sat at their old-fashioned desks on their high stools. Engel was probably waiting at the telephone right now for Sheffield's call.

By noon it was all arranged. Mr. Engel and his attorneys would be in New York the next week to sign the agreement. There was only one thing wrong with it: I would have to remain in New York. I reached for the telephone.

"Who're you calling?" Mac asked.

"David Woolf. He's the executive officer of the company. He might as well be here to sign the papers."

"Put down the telephone," Mac said wearily. "He's in New York. I brought him along with me."

"Oh," I said. I walked over to the window and looked down. New York in midmorning. I could sense the tension in the traffic coming up Park Avenue. I was beginning to feel restless already.

I turned back to McAllister. "Well, get him up here. I'm starting a big picture in two months. I'd like to know what's being done about it."

"David brought Bonner along to go over the production details with you."

I stared at him. They'd thought of everything. I threw myself into a chair. The doorbell rang and Robair went to open it. Forrester and Morrissey came in. I looked up at them as they crossed the room.

"I thought you were supposed to leave for California this morning, Morrissey," I said coldly. "How the hell are we ever going to get that new production line started?"

"I don't know if we can, Jonas," he said quickly.

"What the hell do you mean?" I shouted. "You said we could do it. You were there when we signed that contract."

"Take it easy, Jonas," Forrester said quietly. "We have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"The U.S. Army just ordered five CA-200's. They want the first delivery by June and we're in a bind. We can't make them B-17's on the same production line. You're going to have to decide which comes first."

I stared at him. "You make the decision. You're president of the company."

"You own the goddamn company," he shouted back. "Which contract do you want to honor?"

"Both of them. We're not in the business of turning away money."

"Then we'll have to get the Canadian plant in operation right away. We could handle prefabrication if the B-17's were put together up there."

"Then do it," I said.

"O.K. Get me Amos Winthrop to run it."

"I told you before—no Winthrop."

"No Winthrop, no Canadian plant. I'm not going to send a lot of men to their death in planes put together by amateurs just because you're too damn stubborn to listen to reason."

"Still the fly-boy hero?" I sneered. "What's it to you who puts the planes together? You're not flying them."

He crossed the room and stood over my chair, looking down at me. I could see his fists clench. "While you were out whoring around London, trying to screw everything in sight, I was out at the airfields watching those poor bastards come in weary and beat from trying to keep the Jerry bombs off your fucking back. Right then and there, I made up my mind that if we were lucky enough to get that contract, I'd personally see to it that every plane we shipped over was the kind of plane I wouldn't be afraid to take up myself."

"Hear, hear!" I said sarcastically.

"When did you decide you'd be satisfied to put your name on a plane that was second best? When the money got big enough?"

I stared at him for a moment. He was right. My father said the same thing in another way once. We'd been walking through the plant back in Nevada and Jake Platt, the plant supervisor, came up to him with a report on a poor batch of powder. He suggested blending it in with a large order so the loss would be absorbed.

My father towered over him in rage. "And who would absorb the loss of my reputation?" he shouted. "It's my name that's on every can of that powder. Burn it!"

"All right, Roger," I said slowly. "You get Winthrop."

He looked into my eyes for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "You'll have to find him for us. I'm sending Morrissey up to Canada to get the new plant started. I’ll go out to the Coast and start production."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know," he answered. "Last I heard, he was in New York, but when I checked around this morning, nobody seemed to know where he is. He seems to have dropped out of sight."


FOUR


I SLUMPED BACK INTO A CORNER OF THE BIG LIMOUSINE AS WE CAME OFF THE QUEENSBORO BRIDGE. Already, I regretted my decision to come out here. There was something about Queens that depressed me. I looked out the window while Robair expertly threaded the big car through the traffic. Suddenly, I was annoyed with Monica for living out here.

I recognized the group of houses as the car rolled to a stop. They hadn't changed, except that the lawn was dull and brown with winter now, where it had been bright summer-green the last time.

"Wait here," I said to Robair. I went up the three steps and pressed the doorbell. A chill wind whistled between the buildings and I pulled my light topcoat around me. I shifted the package uncomfortably under my arm.

The door opened and a small girl stood there, looking up at me. Her eyes were dark violet and serious. "Jo-Ann?" I asked tentatively.

She nodded silently.

I stared at her for a moment. Leave it to children to remind you of the passing of time. They have a way of growing that ticks off your years more accurately than a clock. The last time I had seen her, she was little more than a baby. "I'm Jonas Cord," I said. "Is your mother home?"

"Come in," she said in a small, clear voice. I followed her into the living room. She turned to face me. "Sit down. Mummy's dressing. She said she wouldn't be long."

I sat down and she sat in a chair opposite me. She stared at me with wide, serious eyes but didn't speak. I began to feel uncomfortable under her candid scrutiny and lit a cigarette. Her eyes followed my hand as I searched for an ash tray for my match. "It's over there," she said, pointing to a table on my right.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said politely. Then she was silent again, her eyes watching my face. I dragged on the cigarette and after a moment's silence, spoke to her. "Do you remember me, Jo-Ann?"

Her eyes dropped and she was suddenly shy, her hands smoothing the hem of her dress across her knees in a typically feminine gesture. "Yes."

I smiled. "The last time I saw you, you were just so big," I said, holding my hand out just about level with my knee.

"I know," she whispered, not looking at me. "You were standing on the steps waiting for us to come home."

I took the package out from under my arm. "I brought you a present," I said. "A doll."

She took the package from me and sat down on the floor to open it. Her eyes were smiling now. She lifted out the doll and looked at me. "It's very pretty."

"I hoped you'd like it," I said.

"I do. Very much." Her eyes grew solemn again. "Thank you," she said.

A moment later, Monica came into the room. Jo-Ann leaped to her feet and ran to her. "Mummy! Look what Mr. Cord brought me!"

"It was very thoughtful of you, Jonas," Monica said.

I struggled to my feet. We stood looking at each other. There was an almost regal quality of self-possession about her. Her dark hair fell almost to her bare shoulders over a black cocktail dress.

Then the doorbell rang. It was the baby sitter and Jo-Ann was so busy showing her the new doll, she didn't even have time to say good-by when we left.

Robair was standing at the car door when we came out. "Robair!" Monica put out her hand. "It's nice to see you again."

"It's nice to see you again, Miss Monica," he said as he bowed over her hand.

I looked out at the cruddy Queens scenery as the car rolled back to Manhattan. "What do you want to live out here for?" I asked.

She reached for a cigarette and waited while I held the match for her. "Jo-Ann can play outside when the weather is good and I don't have to worry about her being hurt in the city streets. And I can afford it. It's much more reasonable than the city."

"From what I hear, you're doing all right. If you want to live in the suburbs, why don't you move up to Westchester? It's nicer up there."

"It's still too expensive," she said. "I don't make that kind of money. I'm only the office manager at the magazine. I'm not an editor yet."

"You look like an editor."

She smiled. "I don't know whether you mean that as a compliment or not. But at Style, we try to look the way our readers think we should."

I stared at her for a moment. Style was one of the most successful new fashion magazines aimed at the young matron. "How come you're not an editor yet?"

She laughed. "I'm one step away. Mr. Hardin's an old-fashioned businessman. He believes that every editor should put in some time on the practical side. That way, they learn something about the business problems involved in getting out a magazine. He's already hinted that the next editorial opening is mine."

I knew old Hardin. He was a magazine publisher from way back. He paid off in promises, not in dollars. "How long has he been promising?"

"Three years," she said. "But I think it will happen soon. He's planning a new movie magazine. A slick. Something on the order of the old Photoplay. We'd have been on the presses, only the finances are holding it up."

"What would you do on it?"

"Feature editor," she said. "You know, arrange stories about the stars, that sort of thing."

I glanced at her. "Wouldn't you have to be out in Hollywood for that?"

She nodded. "I suppose so. But Hardin hasn't got the money yet so I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

******

Monica put her coffee cup down and smiled at me. "It's been a perfectly lovely dinner, Jonas, and you've been a charming host. Now tell me why."

"Does there have to be a reason?"

She shook her head. "There doesn't have to be," she said. "But I know you. When you're charming, you want something."

I waited until the waiter finished holding a match for her cigarette. "I just got back from England," I said quietly. "I ran into your mother over there."

A kind of veil dropped over her eyes. "You did?"

I nodded. "She seems very nice."

"I imagine she would be, from what I can remember of her," Monica said, a slight edge of bitterness in her voice.

"You must have a very good memory. Weren't you about Jo-Ann's age?"

The violet eyes were hard. "Some things you don't forget," she said. "Like your mother telling you how much she loves you, then disappearing one day and never coming back."

"Maybe she couldn't help it. Maybe she had a good reason."

"What reason?" she asked scornfully. "I couldn't leave Jo-Ann like that."

"Perhaps if you wrote to your mother, she could tell you."

"What could she tell me?" she said coldly. "That she fell in love with another man and ran away with him? I can understand that. What I can't understand is why she didn't take me with her. The only reason I can see is that I didn't matter."

"You may not know your mother, but you do know your father. You know how he can hate when he feels someone has crossed him."

Her eyes looked into mine. "Someone like you?"

I nodded. "Someone like me," I said. "That night, when you both came up to the hotel in Los Angeles—was he thinking about you or was he thinking about how much he wanted to get even with me?"

She was silent for a moment, then her eyes softened. "Was it like that with my mother, too?"

I nodded again. "Something like that," I said quietly.

She looked down at the tablecloth silently. When she looked up at me, her eyes were clear once more. "Thank you for telling me, Jonas. Somehow, I feel better now."

"Good." The waiter came by and refilled our coffee cups. "By the way," I said, "seen anything of your father lately?"

She shook her head with a wry smile. "About two years ago, he came out to dinner and borrowed a thousand dollars. That's the last I saw of him."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"Why?"

"I’ve got a good job for him up in Canada, but he seems to have dropped out of sight."

A strange look came into her eyes. "You mean you'd give him a job after what he did to you?"

"I haven't much choice," I said reluctantly. "I don't especially like the idea but there's a war on. I need a man like him."

"I had a letter from him about a year ago. He said something about taking over as manager of the Teterboro Airport."

"Thanks," I said. "I’ll look out there."

Her hand suddenly came across the table and pressed mine. I looked at her in surprise. She smiled. "You know, Jonas, I have the strangest feeling you're going to make a much better friend than husband."


FIVE 


MCALLISTER WAS WAITING FOR ME IN THE HOTEL WHEN I GOT BACK THE NEXT AFTERNOON. "You find him?" he asked.

I shook my head. "He only stayed out there long enough to pass a bum check for five hundred bucks on some poor jerk."

"That's pretty far down the ladder for him. Any idea where he went next?"

"No," I said. I threw my topcoat across a chair and sat down. "For all I know, he's in jail in some hick town we never heard of. Bum check—Jesus!"

"What do you want me to do?" Mac asked.

"Nothing," I said. "But I promised Roger I’d try to find him. We better put an agency on the job. If they can't turn him up, at least Roger will know I tried. You call Hardin?"

Mac looked at me curiously. "Yes. He'll be here any minute now. Why do you want to see him?"

"We might go into the publishing business."

"What for?" Mac asked. "You don't even read the papers."

I laughed. "I hear he's thinking of putting out a movie magazine. I'm making a picture. The best way I know to grab space is to own a magazine. I figure if I help him out with the movie magazine, he'll give us a plug in his others. That adds up to twelve million copies a month."

Mac didn't say anything. The doorbell rang and Robair went to open it. It was S. J. Hardin, right on time. He came into the room, his hand outstretched. "Jonas, my boy," he wheezed in his perennially hoarse voice. "It's good to see you."

We shook hands. "You know my attorney, Mr. McAllister?" I said.

S. J. gave him the glad eye. "It's a real pleasure, sir," he said, pumping Mac's hand enthusiastically. He turned back to me. "I was surprised to get your message. What's on your mind, boy?"

I looked at him. "I hear you're thinking about putting out a movie magazine."

"I have been thinking about it," he admitted.

"I also hear that you're a little short of cash to get it started."

He spread his hands expressively. "You know the publishing business, boy," he said. "We're always short of cash."

I smiled. To hear him, one would think he didn't have a pot to piss in. But S. J. had plenty, no matter how much he cried. The way he raided his own company made old Bernie Norman look like a Boy Scout.

"I'm about to make my first movie in eight years."

"Congratulations, Jonas," he boomed. "That's the best news I've heard in years. The movies can use a man like you. Remind me to tell my broker to pick up some Norman stock."

"I will, S. J."

"And you can be sure my magazines will give you a big play," he continued. "We know what makes good copy."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, S. J. I think it's a shame your chain has no movie magazine in it."

He fixed me with a shrewd glance. "I feel the same way, Jonas."

"How much would it take to get one on the stands?" I asked.

"Oh, two, maybe three hundred thousand. You've got to make sure of a year's run. It takes that long for a magazine to catch on."

"A magazine like that depends on the kind of editor you have, doesn't it? The right kind of editor and you got it made."

"That's entirely correct, boy," he said heartily. "And I have the finest group of editors in the business. I see you know the publishing business, Jonas. I'm always interested in a fresh point of view. That's what makes the news."

"Who's going to be your feature editor?"

"Why, Jonas," he said in wide-eyed innocence. "I thought you knew. The little lady you had dinner with last night, of course."

I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. The old bastard was smarter than I figured. He even had spies planted in "21."

After he left, I turned to McAllister. "I don't really have to stay here to sign those Engel papers, do I?"

He looked at me sharply. "I don't suppose so. Why?"

"I want to go to the Coast," I said. "Here I'm about to make a picture. What am I doing in New York, getting nothing done?"

"David and Bonner are here. They've been waiting for a call from you."

"Get David on the phone for me." A moment later, he handed me the telephone. "Hello, David. How's Rosa?"

"She's fine, Jonas, and very happy."

"Good," I said. "I just wanted to tell you what a great job I thought you did on that stock bit. Look, I don't feel right hanging around New York while I'm trying to get The Sinner ready. I'm going to shove off for the Coast."

"But, Jonas. I brought Bonner into New York."

"That's fine," I said. "But you get him back to the studio and tell him I'll see him there. That's the only place to handle a picture."

"O.K., Jonas," he said, a faint disappointment in his voice. "You flying out?"

"Yeah. I think I can make the ICA two-o'clock flight. That way, I'll be in California tomorrow morning."

"Give Rosa a call, will you, Jonas? She'd be pleased to hear from you."

"I will, David," I said. "By the way, how do I get in touch with that Jennie Denton? I think I ought at least to meet the girl who's going to play the lead in The Sinner."

"She's in Palm Springs, at the Tropical Flower Hotel, registered under the name of Judy Belden."

"Thanks, David," I said. "Good-by."

"Have a safe trip, Jonas."

******

It was 11:30 a.m., California time, the next day, when I parked my convertible in the driveway of the Tropical Flower Hotel in Palm Springs. I checked at the desk and walked down to Cottage No. 5. When I knocked on the door, there was no answer. But the door was unlocked, so I walked in. "Miss Denton?" I called.

There was no answer. Then I heard the shower running in the bathroom. I walked through and opened the bathroom door. I could see the outline of her body against the opaque shower curtain. She was singing in a low, husky voice.

I closed the bathroom door behind me and sat down on the can. I lit a cigarette while I watched her through the shower curtain. I didn't have to wait long.

She turned off the water and I could hear her sniff at the cigarette smoke. Her voice, from behind the curtain, was calm. "If that's one of the bellboys waiting out there, he'd better go before I come out," she said, "or I report him to the desk."

I didn't answer.

She stuck her head through the shower curtain, groping for a towel. I reached over and put one in her hand. Through the curtain, I could see her wrap it around herself, then the curtain slid back and she stared at me. Her eyes were dark gray and unafraid. "The bellboys in this hotel are the worst," she said. "They walk in on you at the oddest times."

"You could try locking your door."

She stepped out of the tub. "What for? They all have passkeys."

I got to my feet. "Jennie Denton?"

"It's Judy Belden on the register." A questioning look came over her face. "You the law?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm Jonas Cord."

She looked up at me, a slow smile spreading over her face. "Well, hey! I've been waiting to meet you."

I smiled back at her. "What for?"

She came very close to me and reached up to put her arms around my neck. She drew my face down and the towel slipped from her body to the floor as she stretched up to her tiptoes and kissed me. Then she leaned her head back and looked up at me with mischievous, laughing eyes.

"Boss," she whispered, "ain't it about time you signed my contract?"


SIX 


IT WAS THE SAME BUNGALOW OFFICE I'D USED TEN years ago, when we were making The Renegade. Nothing had changed except the secretaries. "Good morning, Mr. Cord," they trilled in unison as I came in.

I said good morning and walked through to my office. Bonner was pacing up and down nervously. Dan Pierce was seated on the long couch underneath the window. I looked at him for a moment, then without speaking, walked behind my desk and sat down.

"I asked Pierce to come over and help convince you," Bonner said. "You can't make a picture costing this much without a name."

"Dan couldn't convince me to go to the can if I had the runs."

"Wait a minute, Jonas," Dan said quickly. "I know how you feel. But believe me, I'm only looking out for your good."

I turned to him. "Like you did when you sold your stock to Sheffield without checking with me?"

"The stock was mine," he said hotly. "I didn't have to check with anybody. Besides, who could get in touch with you? Everybody knew that you didn't give a damn about the company, that you were unloading part of your own stock."

I reached for a cigarette. After a moment, I nodded. "You're right, Dan," I said. "The stock was yours; you didn't owe me anything. You did your job and I paid you for it—in full, for the five years your contract still had to run." I leaned back in the chair and dragged on the cigarette. "I just made a mistake. You were a good agent when I met you. I should have left well enough alone."

"I'm trying to keep you from making another mistake, Jonas. When the script of The Sinner was written, it was a vehicle for a big star—Rina Marlowe. She was the biggest there was. You can't just take a girl with no experience, and who nobody's heard of, and put her in a picture without stars to support her. They'll laugh you out of the theater."

I looked up quizzically. "What do you think I ought to do, then?"

I could see the quick look of confidence come into his eyes. "Get a couple of big names," he said. "Use the girl if you want but back her up. Bogart. Tracy. Colman. Gable. Flynn. Any one of them insures it for you."

"I suppose you can get them for me?"

He missed the sarcasm. "I think I could help," he said cautiously.

"Well, bless your little bleeding, ten-per-centing heart. That's very kind of you." I got to my feet. "Get out, Dan. Get out before I throw you out. And don't ever come back on this lot while I’m on it."

He stared at me, his face turning white. "You can't talk to me like that," he blustered. "I’m not one of your flunkies who you can buy and sell."

"I bought you and I sold you," I said coldly. "You're the same guy you were when you tried to dump Nevada's show for Buffalo Bill's. You'd sell your own mother if there was anything in it for you. But you're not selling me any more. I'm not buying."

I pressed the buzzer on my desk and one of the secretaries came in. "Yes, Mr. Cord?" she asked from the open doorway.

"Mr. Pierce was just leaving—"

Dan's face was livid with rage. "You'll regret this, Jonas."

The door slammed behind him and I turned to Bonner. "I'm sorry, Jonas," he stammered.  "I—didn't know—"

"That's O.K.," I said easily. "You didn't know."

"But the way the picture is shaping up now, it's going over three million dollars. I’d feel better if we had some stars in it."

I shook my head. "Stars are great, I’m not fighting them. But not this time. We're doing a story based on the Bible. When somebody looks up at that screen at John or Peter, I want them to see John or Peter, not Gable, Tracy or Bogart. Besides, the girl is the important thing."

"But nobody ever heard of the girl."

"So what?" I asked. "What have we got a publicity department for? By the time this picture comes out, there won't be a man, woman or child in the world who won't know her name. You thought enough of her to make the test, didn't you? And all you knew about her was that she was a girl you met at a party."

A curiously embarrassed look came over Bonner's face. "That was different. It was almost a gag. I never thought anybody would take it seriously."

"David saw the test and took it seriously. So did I."

"But a test isn't a whole picture. Maybe she can't sustain—"

I cut him short. "She'll sustain," I said. "And you know it. You knew it when you asked her to make the test."

He looked at me with his ugly horse face. Nervously his hand scratched at himself. "She—she told you about the party?" he asked hesitantly.

I nodded. "She told me how you'd watched her all evening, how you came over and asked her to take the test." I laughed. "You guys beat me. You find a Lana Turner at a soda fountain. You find Jennie at a dinner party. How do you do it?"

A puzzled look came into his eyes. He started to say something but the telephone on my desk rang. I picked it up. It was one of the secretaries. "Miss Denton is finished in Hairdressing. Do you want her to come down?"

"Yes." I put down the phone and turned back to Bonner. "I sent Jennie up to Hairdressing. I had an idea I wanted to try out."

The door opened and Jennie came in. She moved slowly, almost hesitantly, to the center of the office. She stopped in front of my desk. She spun slowly, her long hair no longer a pale brown but a sparkling champagne. It swirled down around her neck and shoulders, spilling a translucent radiance around her tanned face.

Bonner's voice was an eerie whisper. "My God!"

I looked at him. There was a strange look on his face. His lips moved silently, his eyes were fixed on her. "It's as if—as if she was standing here."

"That's right," I said slowly. I looked back up at Jennie. I began to feel a pressure in my heart. Rina.

"I want Ilene Gaillard to dress her," I said softly to Bonner.

"I don't know," he said. "She's retired. She's moved back East. Boston, I think."

I remembered the forlorn, white-haired figure kneeling by Rina's grave. "Send her a picture of Jennie. She'll come."

Bonner walked over to the desk and stood next to Jennie, looking down at me. "By the way, I heard from Austin Gilbert. He likes the script. He's coming over to see the test this afternoon. If he likes the girl, he'll do the picture."

"Good," I said. That was the way it was with big directors. The two hundred grand you paid them meant nothing; they could get that on any picture. The important thing was the script. And the players.

Bonner walked to the door and stood there a moment, looking back at Jennie. "So long," he said finally.

"Good-by, Mr. Bonner," Jennie said politely.

I nodded as he went out the door.

"Can I sit down now?" Jennie asked.

"Help yourself."

She sat down and watched silently as I ran through the papers on my desk. The preliminary budget. Set-construction estimates. Bonner was right—this was going to cost money.

"Do I have to look like her?" Jennie asked softly.

I glanced up. "What?"

"Do I have to look like her?"

"Why do you ask?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I just feel funny, that's all. Like it's not me, any more. Like I'm a ghost."

I didn't answer.

"Is that all you saw in the test—Rina Marlowe?"

"She was the biggest thing ever to hit the screen."

"I know," she said slowly. "But I'm not her. I could never be."

I stared at her. "For two thousand dollars a week," I said, "you'll be whatever I tell you to be."

She didn't answer. Just looked at me. Her eyes were masked and somber and I couldn't tell what she was thinking. "You remember that," I said quietly. "A thousand girls like you come to Hollywood every year. I could take my pick of any of them. If you don't like it, go back to what you were doing before Bonner saw you at that party."

A kind of caution came into her eyes. It wouldn't hurt to have her a little afraid of me. She was entirely too cocky. "Bonner told you about me?"

"Not a word. He didn't have to. You told me all I needed to know. Girls like you are always looking for a producer to impress. Well, you were lucky—you got one. Don't louse it up."

She let her breath out slowly. The cautious look had gone out of her eyes. Suddenly, she smiled. "O.K., massa, anything you say."

I walked around the desk, and pulled her up into my arms. Her mouth was soft and warm and when I looked down, her eyes were closed. And then the damn telephone rang. I reached around behind her and picked it up. It was McAllister, calling from New York.

"That agency located Winthrop for you," he said.

"Good. Get in touch with him and tell him to get his ass out here."

"Their man says he won't come."

"Then call Monica and have her talk to him. He'll listen to her."

"I did," Mac said quickly. "But she's already left for California, on the Twentieth Century, this noon. If you want him, you'd better do it yourself."

"I'm too busy to come running back to New York."

"You don't have to. Amos is in Chicago. The agency office out there will tell you how to locate him."

"Chicago? Well, I guess I’ll have to go after him." I put down the telephone and looked at Jennie. "The weekend's coming up," she said softly. "I'm not doing anything. Chicago's a great town."

"You'll come?" I asked.

She nodded. "We'll fly, won't we?"

"All the way," I said.


SEVEN 


JENNIE LOOKED AT ME. "THIS IS THE WAY TO TRAVEL," SHE SAID. "A WHOLE PLANE TO OURSELVES."

I looked around the empty cabin of the ICA that Buzz had put on special flight for me when I had called. I checked my watch. It was almost nine o'clock. I moved it forward two hours to Chicago time. I felt the slight change of pressure in my ears. We were starting to come down.

"It must be great to own an airline," Jennie said, smiling.

"It comes in handy when you have to get someplace in a hurry."

"I don't get you."

''What don't you get, girl?"

"You," Jennie said. "You baffle me. Most guys I understand. They got their eye on the ball and they're always for making points. But you, you're different. You already got everything."

"Not everything."

She nodded at the lights of Chicago below us. "By that, I suppose you mean you don't own what's down there."

"That's right. I don't want much though, I'm satisfied just owning what's in here."

Her eyes grew cloudy. "What happens if we go boom?"

I snapped my fingers. "What the hell! Easy come, easy go."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

She glanced out of the window for a moment, then turned back to me. "I guess you do own me in a kind of way."

"I wasn't talking about you," I said. "I was talking about this plane."

"I know, but all the same, it's true. You do own everybody who works for you, even if you don't feel you do. Money does that."

"Money does lots of things for me," I said.

"Why don't you let it buy you a pair of shoes?"

I looked down at my stockinged feet. "Don't worry," I said. "I got shoes. They're somewhere on this plane."

She laughed, then became serious again. "Money can buy you time. It also lets you make people over, into what you want them to be."

I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were a philosopher as well as an actress."

"You don't know that I'm an actress—yet."

"You better be," I said. "Otherwise, I'm going to look awful foolish."

Again, her eyes were serious. "You wouldn't like that, would you?"

"Nobody likes it," I said. "I'm no different than anybody else."

"Then why do you do it, Jonas? You don't need to. You don't need the money. What do you want to make pictures for?"

I leaned my head back against the seat. "Maybe because I want them to remember me for something else besides gunpowder, airplanes and plastic dishes."

"They'll remember you longer for that than a movie."

"Will they?" I turned my head to look at her. "How do you remember a man? Because of the thrill he gave you? Or because he built the tallest building in the world?"

"You remember all those things," she said softly. "If those were the things he did."

"You are a philosopher. I didn't think you understood men so well."

She laughed. "I’ve been a woman all my life. And men are the first thing a girl tries to understand."

I felt the wheels touch and we were on the ground. Unconsciously I felt myself leaning forward against the wheel to keep her from bucking. Then I relaxed. Habit was a funny thing. You landed every plane, whether you were at the controls or not.

Jennie shivered and pulled her thin coat around her as the first cold blast of air came through the open door. There was snow on the ground as we walked across the landing strip to the terminal.

A chauffeur stopped me, his hand touching his cap respectfully. "Your car's right outside, Mr. Cord."

Jennie was still shivering as we got into the car. "I forgot how cold winter can be," she said.

In forty-five minutes, we were at the Drake Hotel. The assistant manager greeted us at the door. "Good to see you again, Mr. Cord. Your apartment is all ready. Your office called from the Coast." He snapped his fingers and an elevator appeared by magic. We sped up with him in solitary splendor.

"I took the liberty of ordering a hot supper for you, Mr. Cord."

"Thank you, Carter," I said. "That was thoughtful of you."

Carter held open the apartment door. A small table was set up in the dining alcove and there were fresh, gleaming bottles on the bar.

"If you'll just call down when you're ready, Mr. Cord, we'll send it right up."

"Give us a few minutes to wash up, Carter," I said.

"Very good, sir."

I glanced at Jennie, who was still shivering from the cold. "Carter!"

"Yes, Mr. Cord?"

"Miss Denton obviously wasn't prepared for the cold. Do you think we could manage to get her a warm coat?"

Carter allowed himself a brief glance at Jennie. "I believe it could be arranged, sir. Mink, of course?"

"Of course," I said.

"Very good, sir. I'll have a selection up here shortly for mademoiselle."

"Thank you, Carter."

He bowed and the door closed behind him. Jennie turned to me, her eyes wide. "That does it! I thought nothing could impress me any more but that does. Do you know what time it is?"

I looked at my watch. "Ten after twelve."

"Nobody, but nobody, can go shopping for mink coats after midnight."

"We're not going shopping. They're being sent up here."

She stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Oh, I see," she said. "That makes a difference?"

"Of course."

"Tell me. What makes you so big around here?"

"I pay my rent."

"You mean you keep this apartment all the time?"

"Of course," I said. "I never know when I might be in Chicago."

"When were you here last?"

I rubbed my cheek. "About a year and a half ago."

The telephone rang. I picked it up, then held it out to Jennie.

A look of surprise came over her face. "For me?" she said. "But nobody knows I'm here."

I went into the bathroom and closed the door. When I came out, a few minutes later, she was sitting on the side of the bed, a dazed look on her face. "It was the furrier," she said. "He wanted to know which I preferred—light or dark mink. Also, what size."

"What size did you tell him?"

"Ten."

I shook my head. "I would have thought you took a twelve. Nobody ever buys a mink coat size ten. It hardly pays."

"Like I said, you're crazy," she said. Then she threw herself into my arms and hugged me. "But you're crazy nice."

I laughed aloud. Mink will do it every time.


EIGHT


THE MAN FROM THE DETECTIVE AGENCY ARRIVED WHILE WE WERE EATING SUPPER. His name was Sam Vitale and if he thought it was odd that Jennie was eating in a full, almost black mink coat, his weary, wise eyes evinced no surprise.

"It's cold in Chicago," Jennie explained.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered politely.

"Did you have any trouble finding him?" I asked.

"Not too much. All we had to do was check the credit agencies. He left a trail of bad checks. It was just a matter of time. When we narrowed it down to around Chicago, we checked Social Security. They may change their names but they generally don't fool with their Social Security. He's going under the name of Amos Jordan."

"Where is he working?" I asked curiously.

"In a Cicero garage, as a mechanic. He makes enough to keep him in booze. He's hitting the bottle pretty hard."

"Where does he live?"

"In a rooming house, but he only goes there to sleep. He spends most of his spare time in a clip joint called La Paree. You know the kind of joint. Continuous entertainment. There's always a stripper working on the stage, while the other girls take turns hustling the suckers for drinks."

Amos hadn't changed, I thought. He still went where the girls were. I pushed back my coffee cup. "O.K., let's go get him."

"I'm ready," Jennie said.

Vitale looked at her. "Maybe you'd better stay here, ma'am. It's a pretty rough place."

"What?" Jennie said quickly. "And miss the chance of breaking in my new mink coat?"

******

La Paree was one of about twenty similar clubs on a street that looked like every other Strip Street clear across the country. Its windows were covered with posters of half-naked girls—Maybellene, Charlene, Darlene and the inevitable Rosie Tookus. All were dancing tonight.

The doorman wore an ear-to-ear grin as the big limousine rolled to a stop. He opened the door with a flourish. "Welcome, folks. They come from all over the world to La Paree."

They certainly did. The doorman rushed into the club, where a small man in a dark suit materialized before us. A hat-check girl, in a pair of tights, took our coats. Jennie shook her head and kept her coat on as we followed him down the dark, narrow smoke-filled room to a tiny table right in front of the stage.

A stripper was working just over our heads. The drums were taking a slow beat and she was grinding away, almost down to the bare essentials.

"Two bottles of your best champagne," I said. This wasn't the place to order whisky. Not unless you had a zinc-lined stomach.

At the word champagne, the stripper paused in her routine, right in the middle of a bump, and looked down. I saw her appraising eyes flick over me as she put on her most seductive smile.

Then Jennie let her coat fall back on the seat and took off her turban. Her long blond hair caught all the flashes of light from the spot as it tumbled down around her shoulders. As quickly as it had appeared, the stripper's smile vanished.

I looked at Jennie. She smiled back at me. "You gotta fight fire with fire," she said.

I laughed. A white-shirted waiter came up with two bottles of champagne in a bucket. Quickly he put three glasses down on the table and opened the first bottle. The cork popped and the champagne spilled down over the sides of the bottle. He filled all three glasses without waiting for me to taste the wine and hurried off.

It was still warm but it was a good champagne. I looked at the bottle. Heidsieck, 1937. Even if the label was a phony, it wasn't half bad. Then I noticed a white chit beside me on the table. Eighty dollars.

"If you'd come in a cab," Vitale said, "it only would have cost you twenty bucks a bottle."

"How much if we'd walked?"

He grinned. "Fifteen."

"'Cheers," I said, lifting my glass.

No sooner had we put down our glasses than the waiter was refilling them. He moved quickly, slopping some over the edge of the glasses, then started to upend the bottle into the ice bucket.

I stopped him with my hand. "Not so fast, friend. If I don't squawk at the tariff, the least you can do is let us finish the bottle."

He stared at me, then nodded. He put the bottle into the bucket right side up and disappeared. There was a roll of drums and the stripper went off, to a desultory clatter of halfhearted applause.

"He's over there, down at the end of the bar," Vitale said.

I turned to look. There still wasn't much light. All I could see was a figure hunched over the bar, a glass cupped in his hands.

"I might as well go get him."

"Think you'll need any help?" Vitale asked.

"No. You stay here with Miss Denton."

The lights went down again and another stripper came on. As I walked toward the bar, a girl brushed against me in the dark. "Looking for someone, big boy?" she whispered. It was the stripper who had just come down off the stage.

I ignored her and walked down the bar to Amos. He didn't look up as I climbed onto the empty stool alongside him. "A bottle of Budweiser," I said to the bartender. The bottle was in front of me and my dollar gone before I was fully settled on the stool.

I turned to look at Amos, who was watching the stage, and a feeling of shock ran through me. He was old. Incredibly old and gray. His hair was thin and his skin hung around his cheeks and jowls the way a skinny old man's flesh hangs.

He lifted his drink to his lips. I could see his hand shaking and the grayish-red blotches on the back of it. I tried to think. He couldn't be that old. The most he could be was his middle fifties. Then I saw his eyes and I knew the answer.

He was beat and there was nothing left for him but yesterdays. The dreams were gone because he'd failed all the challenges and the dry rot of time had set in. There was nowhere left for him to go but down. And down and down, until he was dead.

"Hello, Amos," I said quietly.

He put his drink down and turned his head slowly. He looked at me through bloodshot, watery eyes. "Go away," he whispered in a hoarse, whisky-soaked voice. "That's my girl dancing up there."

I glanced up at the stage. She was a redhead who'd seen better years. They were a good combination, the two of them. They'd both fought the good fight—badly—and lost.

I waited until the music crashed to its finale before I spoke again. "I got a proposition for you, Amos."

He turned toward me. "I told your messenger I wasn't interested."

For a moment, I was ready to get down off that stool and walk off. Out into the fresh, cold night and away from the stench of stale beer and sickness and decay. But I didn't. It wasn't only the promise I'd made Forrester. It was also that he'd been Monica's father.

The bartender came up and I ordered us both a round. He picked up the five and left.

"I told Monica about the job. She was very happy about it."

He turned and looked at me again. "Monica always was a damn fool," he said hoarsely, and laughed. "You know, she didn't want to divorce you. She was crazy mad, but afterward she didn't want to divorce you. She said she loved you."

I didn't answer and he laughed again. "But I straightened her out," he continued. "I told her you were just like me, that neither of us could ever resist the smell of cunt."

"That's over and done with," I said. "A long time ago."

He slammed the glass down on the bar with a trembling hand. "It's not over!" he shouted. "You think I can forget how you screwed me out of my own company? You think I can forget how you beat me out of every contract, wouldn't let me get started again?" He laughed craftily. "I’m no fool. You think I didn't know you had men following me all over the country?"

I stared at him. He was sick. Much sicker than I had thought.

"And now you come with a phony proposition, huh?" He smiled slyly. 'Think I'm not wise to you? Think I don't know you're tryin' to get me out of the way because you know if they ever get a look at my plans, you're through?"

He slid off the stool and came at me with wildly surging fists. "Through, Jonas!" he screamed. "Through! Do you hear me?"

I swung around on the stool and caught at his hands. His wrists were thin and all fragile old bone. I held his arms and suddenly he slumped against me, his head on my chest.

I looked down at him and saw that his eyes were filled with weak old tears of rage at his helplessness. "I’m so tired, Jonas," he whispered. "Please don't chase me any more. I'm sorry. I'm so tired I can't run any—"

Then he slipped from my grasp and slid down to the floor. The redhead, who had come up behind him, screamed and the music stopped, suddenly. There was a press of people around us as I started to get down from the stool. I felt myself pushed back against the bar violently and I stared into the face of a big man in a black suit. "What's goin' on here?"

"Let him go, Joe." Vitale's voice came from behind and the bouncer turned his head around. "Oh, it's you, Sam." The pressure against my chest relaxed.

I looked down at Amos. Jennie was already kneeling beside him, loosening his shirt collar and slipping down his tie. I bent over. "He pass out?"

Jennie looked up at me. "I think it's more than that," she said. "He feels like he's burning up with fever. I think we'd better get him home."

"O.K.," I said. I took out a roll and threw a hundred-dollar bill down on the bar. "That's for my table." I looked up and saw the redhead staring at me, a mascara track of tears streaming down her cheeks. I peeled off another hundred and pressed it into her hand. "Go dry your tears."

Then I bent down and picking Amos up in my arms, started for the door. I was surprised at how light he was. Vitale got our coats from the hat-check girl and followed me outside.

"He lives just a couple of blocks away," he said as I put Amos into the car.

It was a dirty gray rooming house and two cats stood on open garbage cans in front of the door, glaring at us with their baleful yellow night eyes. I looked up at the building from the car window. This was no place for a man to be sick in.

The chauffeur jumped out and ran around to open the back door. I reached out and pulled the door shut. "Go back to the Drake, driver," I said.

I turned and looked down at Amos, stretched out on the back seat. Just because he was sick didn't make me feel any different about him. But I couldn't get over the feeling that if things had turned out a little differently, it might have been my own father lying there.


NINE 


THE DOCTOR CAME OUT, SHAKING HIS HEAD. Jennie was right behind him. "He'll be all right when he wakes up in the morning. Somebody fed him a slug of sodium amytal."

"What?"

"Knockout drops," Jennie said. "A Mickey."

I smiled. My hunch was right. Vitale had left nothing to chance. I wanted Amos, he saw to it that I got him.

"He's very run down," the doctor added. "Too much whisky and too little food. He has some fever but he'll be all right with a little care."

"Thank you, doctor," I said, getting up.

"You're welcome, Mr. Cord. I’ll stop by in the morning to have another look at him. Meanwhile, Miss Denton, give him one of those pills every hour."

"I’ll do that, doctor."

The doctor nodded and left.

I looked at Jennie. "Wait a minute. You don't have to sit up all night taking care of that slob."

"I don't mind," she said. "It won't be the first time I sat up with a patient."

"A patient?"

"Of course." She looked at me quizzically. "Didn't I ever tell you I graduated from nursing school?"

I shook my head.

"St. Mary's College of Nursing, in San Francisco," she said. "Nineteen thirty-five. I worked as a nurse for a year. Then I quit."

"Why'd you quit?"

"I got tired of it," she said, her eyes masking over.

I knew better than to push. It was her own business, anyway. "Want a drink?" I asked, going over to the bar.

She shook her head. "No, thanks. Look, there's no sense in both of us staying up all night. Why don't you go to bed and get some rest?"

I looked at her questioningly.

"I'll be O.K. I can catch up on my sleep in the morning." She came over and kissed me on the cheek. "Good night, Jonas. And thank you. I think you're a very nice man."

I laughed. "You didn't think I'd let you walk around Chicago in a light coat like that?"

"For the coat, too. But not only for the coat," she said quickly. "I heard what he said about you. And still you brought him here."

"What else could I do? I couldn't just leave him lying there."

"No, of course not," she said, her eyes wide. "Now go to bed."

I turned and walked into the bedroom. It was a dark and crazy night. In my dreams, Amos and my father were chasing me around a room, each trying to make me do what he was shouting at me. But I couldn't understand them—they were speaking a kind of gibberish. Then Jennie, or maybe Rina, came into the room dressed in a white uniform and the two of them began running after her. I tried to stop them and finally, I managed to get her out of the room and shut the door. I turned and took her in my arms but it turned out to be Monica and she was crying. Then somebody slammed me back against the wall and I stared into the face of the bouncer at La Paree. He began to shine a flashlight in my eyes and the light grew brighter and brighter and brighter.

I opened my eyes and blinked them. The sunlight was pouring in the window and it was eight o'clock in the morning.

Jennie was sitting in the living room with a pot of coffee and some toast in front of her. "Good morning. Have some coffee?"

I nodded, then walked over to Amos' room and looked in. He was lying on his back, sleeping like a baby. I closed his door, walked over to the couch and sat down beside her. "You must be tired," I said, picking up my coffee cup.

"A little. But after a while, you don't feel it any more. You just keep on going." She looked at me. "He talked quite a bit about you."

"Yeah? Nothing good, I hope?"

"He blames himself for breaking up your marriage."

"All of us had a little to do with it," I said. "It was no more his fault than it was mine—or hers."

"Or Rina Marlowe's?"

"Most of all, not Rina's," I said quickly. I reached for a cigarette. "Mainly, it was because Monica and I were too young. We never should have got married in the first place."

She picked up her coffee cup and yawned. "Maybe you better get some rest now," I said.

"I thought I’d stay up until the doctor came."

"Go on to bed. I'll wake you when he comes."

"O.K.," she said. She got up and started for the bedroom. Then she turned and walked back, picking up her mink coat from the chair.

"You won't need it," I said. "I left the bed nice and warm."

She nuzzled her face against the fur. "Sounds nice."

She went inside, closing the door behind her. I filled my coffee cup again and picked up the telephone. Suddenly, I was hungry. I told room service to send up a double order of ham and eggs and a fresh pot of coffee.

Amos came out while I was eating breakfast. He had a blanket wrapped around him like a toga. He shuffled over to the table and looked down at me. "Who stole my clothes?"

In the daylight, he didn't look as bad as he had the night before. "I threw them out," I said. "Sit down and have some breakfast."

He remained standing. He didn't speak. After a moment, he looked around the apartment. "Where's the girl?"

"Sleeping," I said. "She was up all night, taking care of you."

He thought about that. "I passed out?" It was more a statement than a question. I didn't answer.

"I thought so," he said, nodding. Then he groaned. He raised his hand to his forehead, almost losing his blanket. "Somebody slipped me a Mickey," he said accusingly.

"Try some food. It's supposed to have vitamins."

"I need a drink," he said.

"Help yourself. The bar's over there."

He shuffled over to the bar and poured himself a shot. He drank it swiftly, throwing it down his throat. "Ah," he said. He took another quick one. Some color flooded back into his gray face.

He shuffled back to the table, the bottle of whisky still in his hand, and slumped into the chair opposite me. "How'd you find me?"

"It was easy. All we had to do was follow the trail of rubber checks."

"Oh," he said. He poured another drink but left this one standing on the table in front of him. Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. "It wouldn't be so bad if it was anyone but you."

I didn't answer, just kept on eating.

"You don't know what it is to get old. You lose your touch."

"You didn't lose it," I said. "You threw it away."

He picked up the whisky glass.

"If you're not interested in my proposition," I said, "just go ahead and drink that drink."

He stared at me silently for a moment. Then he looked at the small, amber-filled glass in his hand. His hand trembled slightly and some of the whisky spilled on the tablecloth. "What makes you such a do-gooder all of a sudden?"

"I'm not," I said. I reached for my coffee cup and smiled at him. "I haven't changed at all. I still think you're the world's champion prick. If it was up to me, I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole. But Forrester wants you to run our Canadian factory. The damn fool doesn't know you like I do. He still thinks you're the greatest."

"Roger Forrester, huh?" he asked. Slowly the whisky glass came down to the table. "He tested the Liberty Five I designed right after the war. He said it was the greatest plane he ever flew."

I stared at him silently. That was more than twenty years ago and there had been many great planes since then. But Amos remembered the Liberty Five. It was the plane that set him up in business.

A hint of the Amos Winthrop I had known came into his face. "What's my end of the deal?" he asked shrewdly.

I shrugged my shoulders. "That's between you and Roger," I said.

"Good." A kind of dignity came over him as he got to his feet. "If I had to deal with you, I wouldn't be interested, at any price."

He stalked back to his bedroom door. He turned and glared at me. "What do I do about clothes?"

"There's a men's shop downstairs. Call them and have them send up what you want."

The door closed behind him and I reached for a cigarette. I could hear the faint murmur of his voice on the telephone. Leaning back in the chair, I let the smoke drift idly out through my nose.

When the clothing arrived, I had them leave it in his bedroom. Then the buzzer sounded again and I cursed to myself as I went to the door. I was beginning to feel like a bloody butler. I opened the door. "Hello, Mr. Cord."

It was a child's voice. I looked down in surprise. Jo-Ann was standing next to Monica, clutching the doll I had given her in one hand and her mother's coat in the other.

"McAllister sent me a telegram, on the train," Monica explained. "He said you'd probably be here. Did you find Amos?"

I stared at her dumbly. Mac must be losing his marbles. He must have known there was a three-hour layover in Chicago and that Monica would show up here. What if I didn't want to see her?

"Did you find Amos?" Monica repeated.

"Yes, I found him."

"Oh, goody," Jo-Ann suddenly exclaimed, spotting the breakfast table. "I'm hungry." She ran past me and climbing up on a chair, picked up a piece of toast. I stared after her in surprise.

Monica looked up at me apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jonas," she said. "You know how children are."

"You said we'd have breakfast with Mr. Cord, Mommy."

Monica blushed. "Jo-Ann!"

"It's all right," I said. "Won't you come in?"

She came into the room and I closed the door. "I’ll order some breakfast for you," I said, going to the telephone.

Monica smiled. "Just coffee for me," she said, taking off her coat.

"Is the doctor here yet, Jonas?"

Monica stared.

I stared.

Jennie stood in the open doorway, her long blond hair spilling down over the dark mink coat, which she held wrapped around her like a robe. Her bare neck and legs made it obvious she wore nothing beneath it.

The smile had gone from Monica's face. Her eyes were cold as she turned to me. "I beg your pardon, Jonas," she said stiffly. "I should have known from experience to call before I came up."

She crossed the room and took the child's hand. "Come on, Jo-Ann."

They were almost to the door before I found my voice. "Wait a minute, Monica," I said harshly.

Amos' voice cut me off. "Ah, just in time, child," he said calmly. "We can leave together."

I turned to look at him. The sick, dirty old man we had found in the bar last night had disappeared. It was the Amos of old who stood there, dressed neatly in a gray, pin-striped, double-breasted suit, with a dark chesterfield thrown casually over his arm. He was every inch the senior executive, the man in charge.

There was a faintly malicious smile on his lips as he crossed the room and turned, his hand on the door. "My children and I do not wish to impose—" He paused and bowed slightly in the direction of Jennie. Angrily I started toward the door. I opened it and heard the elevator doors open and close, then there was silence in the hall.

"I’m sorry, Jonas," Jennie said. "I didn't mean to louse things up for you."

I looked at her. Her eyes were large with sympathy. "You didn't do anything," I said. "Things were loused up a long time ago."

I went to the bar and poured myself a drink. All the good feeling had gone. This was the last time I'd ever play the good Samaritan. I swallowed the drink and turned back to Jennie. "Did you ever get laid in a mink coat?" I asked angrily.

There was sadness and understanding on her face. "No."

I poured myself another drink and swallowed it. We stood there, looking at each other silently across the room for a moment. Finally, I spoke. "Well?"

Her eyes still on mine, she nodded slowly. Then she raised her arms and held them out toward me, the coat falling open, away from her naked body. When she spoke, there was a note in her voice as if she'd always known that this was the way it was going to be. "Come to mother, baby," she whispered gently.


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