Black Is the Fashion for Dying (2 page)

WIDER ANGLE—INCLUDING AHRI, MCCRECOR AND LITTER BEARERS

McGregor leads the bearers into the Phelps's tent. Ahri remains motionless, watching.

INT. PHELPS
'
S TENT
—
MED
.
CLOSE SHOT
—(
NIGHT
)

Barbara is still pretending to be unconscious. The bearers start to put the litter on the ground.

MCGREGOR

Gently! She's a woman … not

a sack of rice!

The bearers place the litter on the cot. McGregor bends over Barbara and draws back the blanket to see where she is hurt. At the same time Ahri appears in the tent entrance, holding the Webley in both hands.

AHRI

A devil, perhaps … but not

a woman!

McGregor starts for her but before he can attempt to wrest the pistol from her it explodes twice, aimed as directly at Barbara as Ahri's shaking hands can manage. The pair struggle, the crippled old hunter and the lithe half-caste girl almost equally matched, until from o.s. comes a hail.

MASTFRSON'S VOICE

Halloo there!

Abruptly, Ahri stops struggling. The Webley, jerked from her hands by McGregor, spins in an arc towards the campfire. She turns and looks.

MED. SHOT
—
FROM AHRI
'S
ANGLE

Coming into the camp is the hunting party, headed by Masterson and Adrian Phelps.

CLOSE SHOT
—
AHRI

She realizes Phelps is still alive, that Masterson has not been able to go through with the plot.
CAMERA PANS
as she runs to him, throws herself into his arms.

AHRI

(
hysterically
)

Ah, Masterson, you didn't …

you didn't …!

MASTERSON

(
holding her away
)

Now, now, Ahri. What's all this

about?

MCGREGOR

(
very flat, as he limps up
)

Murder, I'm afraid.

Masterson and Phelps stare at him. Then, slowly, their heads turn towards the tent where Barbara Phelps lies.

MED. CLOSE SHOT—BARBARA

Painfully, she raises herself on one elbow, looks out the tent entrance.

BARBARA

(
calling
)

Masterson! Come here, please!

Adrian, too.

CAMERA PULLS BACK
as the two men enter the tent, followed by Ahri and McGregor.

BARBARA

Don't come any closer. I want …

(
a wan smile
)

I want to make a speech.

Masterson and Phelps exchange puzzled, worried glances.

BARBARA

(
slowly
)

Black's the fashion for dying …

and for remorse, too. I should

be wearing black

Black what? Hands poised over the typewriter, Blake frowned at the half-filled page. Black sackcloth? Black ashes? He read the opening line again. “Black's the fashion for dying …”

The engine outside spluttered, then resumed its irregular asthmatic chugging.

Black for dying and for this particular night, he thought angrily. Black with sound effects. Looking at the clock, he saw the engine had been running for at least thirty minutes. What gave? He got up, banging his elbow on the typewriter, and went to the study's French doors. Through crystal glass he could see the tiny terrace with the two redwood chairs and the redwood table and the descending streak of gray that was the driveway. Near the driveway's street end, two-thirds down the hill, was a dark blob that shouldn't have been there.

He walked out onto the terrace, hearing the engine clearly now, and when he was past the shaft of light cast by his desk lamp, he looked at the driveway again. The blob was a car, all right, some kind of a coupe, parked opposite his living room. For an instant he hoped it was Lisa, debating whether to return and make peace, and then he remembered she had been driving her convertible.

Queer, he reflected. What would anybody be doing on his driveway, motor running, for so long a time? Not neckers. They didn't waste gasoline. And burglars would have been more careful. Cops? Waiting for something?

Cautiously, he cut through the low bushes walling the terrace, circled the two dwarf lemons and approached the coupe across grass. His eyes, adjusting to darkness, could make out nothing inside. A few feet from the door he halted, squinted through the closed glass window. Empty. He opened the door, feeling the motor's uneven beat through the chrome handle, and leaned in to switch off the ignition. At the same time the dash light came on, revealing under the steering wheel pale skin, silky fur and blond hair. A girl in a fur coat, curled up on the seat, long eyelashes shading closed eyes.

Blake turned the key and hurriedly pulled out his head as the motor choked to a stop. The air inside smelled, all right, but he dimly remembered that carbon monoxide had no odor. He also dimly remembered cherry red, but maybe that was from some other kind of poison. At least what he could see of the girl's skin wasn't red. It was tallow white. It was also warm to his hand. If she was dead, she hadn't been dead long. He moved his hand from her face to the fur-covered shoulder and shook her gently.

She wasn't dead, but she didn't seem to be very much alive, either. The eyes fluttered, then closed again, and she moaned softly. He reached into the car, holding his breath against possible carbon monoxide, and raised her to a sitting position. Her head fell against one shoulder and she mumbled something that sounded like “Lemme 'lone.”

“Come on,” he said. “Got to get some air.”

Hands under her arms, he dragged her along the seat, lifted her out of the car and tried to put her on her feet. Her knees buckled and she would have fallen if he hadn't held her. He was wondering whether or not he should pick her up and carry her into the house when, suddenly, she began to support her own weight.

“George?” she mumbled indistinctly. “You George?”

“Not tonight, I'm not,” Blake said. “Come on. Snap out of it.”

Stiffening, the girl tried to pull free of his hands, but he held on to her, afraid she would fall. She struggled for a second, then turned and peered up at his face. Her breath smelled of juniper.

“Who you …?”

“Who
are
you?”

“Me?” The juniper got stronger. “Who me?” She giggled. “Guess.”

Moses! Blake thought. Stewed to the eyeballs.

“Do you know where you live?” he demanded.

“Neb.”

“
Neb?
”

“Live in Neb. Omaha, Neb.”

“Oh, God!” He swung her around, started her towards the front steps.

“Where going?” she asked.

“Coffee. And some spirits of ammonia.”

“Want a drink.”

“Okay. We're going for a drink.”

By the time he got her into the living room, she was walking by herself. He left her near the entrance hall and felt for the light switch, as usual knocking his left knee against the long table under it. He turned on the lights and swung around to look at her.

She was about nineteen, a Dresden doll of a girl, flaxen hair falling in a long bob over her shoulders, slim ankles rising from absurdly high-heeled evening slippers, her small body almost lost in a mink coat two sizes too big for her. Her eyes, under dark lashes, were gentian blue; her skin was the color of ivory; her face was composed and blank. She looked like a child playing grown-up in her mother's clothes.

“Want to tell me your name now?” he asked.

She paid no attention. Instead, weaving a little but in no danger of falling, she crossed to the gray marble fireplace and stared up at the slates and pinks of the Bermuda landscape by Wing Howard. “Pretty,” she said.

He came across the room to her. “Look,” he said. “Will you drink some coffee?”

She turned her head and smiled mysteriously, showing tiny, perfectly formed teeth, but her face remained blank. It was as if he were speaking to her in a foreign language.

“You'll drink,” he said grimly. “If I have to pour it down your throat.”

Still smiling, she looked up at the picture again.

“And take off your coat!” He found he was shouting, lowered his voice. “It must be eighty in here. And if you feel sick, there's a powder room off the entrance hall.”

She remained silent, lost somewhere in Bermuda.

On his way to the kitchen the sliver of light from the not-quite-closed door to the study made him think of “Black's the fashion for dying …” The Fates were sure as hell conspiring to put off Caresse's big speech. He'd have to get rid of the girl pronto, just make sure she was able to drive, and then get back to the script. It had to be ready at eight. Quarter to eight, actually, because the actors would be on the set at eight.

By taking hot water from the sink faucet, he was able to get the percolator going almost at once. As he watched the geyser darken under the glass dome, he thought about the girl. Miss Omaha. Certainly not a would-be suicide. Too composed for that. Just drunk, and probably turning into a convenient driveway to sleep. And forgetting to turn off the engine. That figured. As for Miss Omaha herself; about as cute as they came. A real doll, but probably older than she looked. They were almost always older than they looked.

He put two cups on a wooden tray, reflecting that it was useless to try to guess who or what she was. The mink coat, if it fitted, would mean that she came from a wealthy family, but it looked as though she had borrowed it from someone. Her face could belong to anyone, a high school girl, a model or a debutante. He poured a little coffee into one of the cups, saw it was tar black. He put the percolator on the tray and started for the living room, thinking, if she wanted to remain a creature of mystery that was fine with him.

She was standing by the tall bookshelves on the room's far wall, still wrapped in the mink coat. She seemed to be examining his row of James Gould Cozzens first editions. “Books,” she said, without turning and to nobody in particular.

“Yes. Very good,” he said. “Books.” He put the tray on the marble coffee table by the fireplace, started to fill the cups. “And over here. Coffee.”

She turned her head, let gentian eyes rest on him. Her lips curled in a faintly derisive smile.

“A couple of cups,” he said. “And then, if you can't drive, I'll call a taxi.”

It was still a foreign language. Her face remained empty, her expression bland, composed, mysterious. He felt sudden irritation.

“Come here!”

She turned and came slowly towards the table, a sleepwalker in a dream garden. When she halted a few feet away, he saw that the waxen, perfectly textured skin of cheeks and forehead was damp with perspiration.

“Take that damn coat off,” he said.

Obediently, she took off the coat, letting it fall in silken ripples at her feet. Coffee leaped from the cup he was holding, scalded his leg. A choking sound rose from his throat. Outside of a silver crucifix, suspended between two firm, pink-tipped breasts, Miss Omaha was stark naked.

Karl Fabro

The limousine was just where he had left it, which was a damn good thing because the stitch in his side was getting worse with every step. His heart was fluttering, too, and he felt a strange constriction in his chest, like a leather band being tightened. Excitement, of course, but what if it should be his heart! He felt sweat run from his armpits.

Dawes, as always, failed to hear him until it was too late to do anything but worm out from under the wheel, mumbling the customary inane excuses while he opened the door himself. He would have said something, but he was too out of breath. He sank back on the foam rubber seat, mechanically reaching for a cigar. One of these days he'd fire the bastard whether Irene liked it or not.

Dawes' superior crumpet-and-tea voice floated back above the noise of the starter. He knew what the question was without hearing it. “I'll tell you when to go home,” he growled. “Drive west out Sunset.”

“Yes, Mr. Fabro,” Dawes said, and eased the limousine away from the curb.

He lit a match, held it to the cigar. “What time is it?”

“Eleven twenty-five.”

The acrid smoke from the Upmann Imperial cut the phlegm in his throat. He inhaled deeply, savoring the clean, burning sensation, and then let smoke dribble from his mouth. On a tooth his tongue found a piece of wrapper. He spat it at Dawes' back, feeling better except for the soggy ball souring in the pit of his stomach. Nerves, or maybe the Stroganoff he'd eaten at Lucey's before the studio showing. He ought to start playing tennis again.

But how could he? he thought savagely. With each day bringing a series of crises designed expressly to thwart and harass him. More people, he'd once read somewhere, wanted to be head of a movie studio than President, and he wished to hell they could try it. It wasn't all laying stars and cashing $3,500 checks. Not one in a million, not one in
twenty
million would last a week.

He must have muttered something because Dawes asked, “Did you speak, Mr. Fabro?”

“Shut up,” he said. “I'm trying to think.”

Not one in
twenty
million, he repeated to himself. Take today, for instance. A classic in ulcer production. Even eliminating what he had just done, risking heart and lungs, and what he now had to do, there'd been enough grief to last an ordinary businessman a year.

Even at ten o'clock in the morning, approaching his massive desk with the falsely cheerful greeting of Miss Earnshaw ringing in his ears, he had sensed the day's sinister potentialities, reading with a soothsayer's subtle eye the chicken entrails that lay in the form of torn sheets of New York Teletype, memos, please calls, confidential notes, and morning and afternoon appointment lists on the brown travertine surface. There were no cigars in the humidor, either, and some fool had failed to turn on the air conditioning, even though the Santa Ana was already blistering the city.