Eve (7 page)

The more I thought about this, the clearer it became that I would have to leave Three Point I was going to see a lot of Eve. Living so far from her would not simplify our meetings. Three Point would have to go.

I stubbed out my cigarette and walked over to the public telephone. I called my apartment.

Russell’s voice floated over the line. “Mr. Thurston’s residence.”

“I’ll be over some time tonight,” I told him. “There’s one thing I want you to do. You’ll find one of my books, “Flowers for Madam” somewhere around. I want it sent immediately to Miss Eve Marlow by special messenger. No card and nothing to show who sent it’ I dictated the address. “Will you do that?”

He said he would and I thought I detected a faint note of disapproval in his voice. He was fond of Carol and always disapproved of any other woman I knew. I hung up before he could express an opinion which he was quite capable of doing. Then I left the bar and walked over to the
Brown Derby.

CHAPTER SIX

I FOUND Carol and Peter at a table away from the band. With them was a big, loosely built man in an immaculate tuxedo. He had a shock of iron-grey hair and his face was long and yellow with a thick loose underlip and a broad flattish nose. His grandfather could easily have been a lion.

Peter caught sight of me as I edged my way past the crowded tables. He rose to greet me. “Hello there,” he said, looking surprised and pleased. “So you made it after all. Look who’s here, Carol. Have you had dinner?”

I took Carol’s hand and smiled at her. “No,” I said. “May I join you?”

“Why, of course,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

Peter touched my arm. “I don’t think you’ve met Rex Gold,” he said. He turned to the lion man who was still drinking his soup with fixed attention. “This is Clive Thurston, the author.”

So this was Rex Gold. Like everyone else in Hollywood, I had heard a lot about him and knew him to be the most powerful man in pictures.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Gold,” I said.

Reluctantly, he gave over drinking his soup and half rose, offering a limp, boneless hand. “Sit down, Mr. Thurston,” he said. His deep-set tawny eyes stared through me. “You’ll find the lobster soup excellent. Waiter!” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Lobster soup for Mr. Thurston.”

I winked at Carol as the waiter slid a chair under me. “You see, I can’t keep away from you,” I murmured to her.

“Didn’t your publishers want to see you after all?” she whispered.

I shook my head. “I phoned them instead.” Under the table I found and squeezed her hand. “It turned out to be nothing important so I’m seeing them tomorrow. I wanted to be in on the celebration.”

While we were talking, Gold continued to spoon soup into his mouth, his eyes fixed in a glazed stare. It was obvious that he did not combine eating and talking.

“I wondered if you were going to see your wild woman,” Carol whispered mischievously, “and that was the reason why you were passing me up.”

“I wouldn’t pass you up for anyone,” I returned, trying to make my smile genuine. Carol had an uncanny knack of guessing the truth as far as I was concerned.

“What are you two whispering about?” Peter asked.

“Secrets,” Carol replied swiftly. “Don’t be inquisitive, Peter.”

Gold finished his soup and dropped his spoon with a rattle. Then he scowled round for a waiter. “Where’s Mr. Thurston’s soup and what’s coming next?” he called as a waiter came scurrying up. As soon as he was satisfied that neither he nor I were forgotten, he turned to Carol, “Are you coming to the club tonight?” he asked.

“For a little while,” Carol said. “But I don’t want to be too late. I’ve so much to do tomorrow.”

The waiter brought me the soup.

“You should always let tomorrow take care of itself,” Gold said, his eyes intent on my soup. I had a vague feeling that he would willingly take it from me and drink it if I gave him any encouragement. The feeling embarrassed me. “You must learn to play as well as work,” he went on. “You can’t divorce the two satisfactorily.”

Carol shook her head. “I need my seven hours’ sleep, especially now.”

“That reminds me,” Gold pursed his heavy lips. “Imgram will be at my office tomorrow morning. I’d like you to meet him.” He was speaking now to Peter.

“Of course,” Peter said. “Will he have much to do with the scenario?”

“No. If he is difficult to handle, just let me know.” Gold looked suddenly at me. “Have you written for the screen, Mr. Thurston?”

“No . . . not yet,” I returned. “I’ve a number of ideas I’m going to work out when I have the time . . .”

“Ideas? What ideas?” His face hung over the table as he hunched forward. “Anything I could use?”

I searched my mind frantically for a discarded plot that might be of use to him, but I could not think of anything. “There must be,” I said, deciding to bluff. “I’ll let you see some of them if you’re interested.”

I felt his eyes boring into me like drills. “See what? I don’t understand.”

“Treatments,” I said, feeling suddenly hot and irritated. “As soon as I’ve time to dope out some treatments I’ll let you see them.”

He stared blankly over at Carol. She was crumbling bread casually and did not look up. “Treatments?” he repeated. “I’m not interested in treatments. I want a story. You’re an author, aren’t you? All I want you to do is tell me a story . . . tell me one now. You say you’ve ideas. All right, tell me one.”

I wished I had not sat down at that table. I felt Peter eyeing me curiously. Carol still crumbled bread, but there was a faint flush on her face. Gold continued to stare at me while he stroked his loose jowls with his fleshy hand.

“I can’t talk here,” I said. “If you’re really interested, perhaps I could come and see you.”

Just then several waiters closed in on us and began to serve the next course. Gold immediately lost interest in me and began to badger the waiters. Everything had to be just right even to the exact temperature of the plate on which his meal was served. For several minutes there was a feverish stir of activity round the table. Finally, he was satisfied and began to eat wolfishly as if he hadn’t had a meal for several days.

Peter caught my blank look and grinned faintly. There seemed no point in attempting to make conversation while Gold was eating. Neither Carol nor Peter made any effort and I decided to follow their example. We all ate in silence. I wondered if, when he had finished his dinner, Gold would come back to his request for a story. Somehow I didn’t think he would. In a way I was angry with myself for letting the opportunity slip, but as I had nothing to tell him, I decided to be thankful for the interruption.

The moment Gold finished eating, he pushed his plate impatiently away and took a toothpick from his vest pocket. He thoughtfully probed his teeth while he looked round the crowded room.

“Did you read Clive’s book,
Angels in Sables
?” Carol asked suddenly.

Gold frowned. “I never read anything,” he said shortly; “you know that.”

“Then I think you ought to. The plot’s not suitable for a picture, but the idea behind it is.”

This was news to me and I looked sharply at her. She studiously ignored me.

“What idea?” His yellow face showed interest.

“Why men prefer wantons,” Carol replied.

I was taken aback because I had no recollection of such a situation in
Angels in Sables.

“Do they?” Peter asked softly.

“Of course they do,” Gold said, snapping his toothpick between his fingers. “She’s right. And I’ll tell you why. They prefer them because a good woman is so tedious.”

Carol shook her head. “I don’t think so, do you, Clive?”

I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t thought about it. Then Eve came to my mind. I thought of her and Carol. Eve was a wanton. While Carol was good in the sense that she was reliable, sincere, honest and lived by a code of sound ethics, I doubted if Eve even knew what ethics meant. This was as good a comparison as any. I had left Carol, lied to her even, to have a few minutes with Eve. Why had I done that? If I could answer that, I could answer Carol.

“A wanton has some qualities which a good woman lacks,” I said slowly. “Those qualities — they’re not necessarily good ones — appeal to the primitive instinct in man. Men lag behind women in controlling their instincts and as long as women have better control, so will men go after wantons. All the same, a man doesn’t want a wanton for any length of time. She’s here today and gone tomorrow.”

Carol said sharply,” Absolute rubbish, Clive, and you know it.”

I looked blankly at her. There was an expression in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. She was hurt, angry and ready for a fight.

“I don’t disagree with Mr Thurston myself,” Gold said conplacently. He took a large cigar from his case and examined it thoughtfully. “Men’s instincts are important.”

“They have nothing to do with it,” Carol snapped. “I’ll tell you why men prefer wantons.” She glanced over at Peter as if to exclude him from the conversation. “I’m talking now about the majority of men who, if they are let off the lead, rush off and behave like promiscuous puppies. I’ve no quarrel with the minority of men who have set themselves a standard of moral behaviour and refuse to depart from it.”

“My dear Carol,” I protested, realizing that this could easily be a personal attack. “You ought to be in a pulpit.”

“She’d look charming in a pulpit,” Gold said, handing his cigar to a waiter to pierce. “Let her go on.”

“A man prefers a wanton because he is vain,” Carol said, speaking directly at me. “A wanton is usually decorative. She is sophisticated and glamorous. Men like to be seen with that kind of woman because their friends envy them . . . the poor saps. A wanton is usually without brains. She doesn’t need them, of course. All she needs is a pretty face, a nice pair of legs, smart clothes and willingness.”

“You think men are more at their ease if women haven’t brains?” Gold asked.

“You know they are, R.G.,” Carol said shortly. “Don’t think you can pull wool over my eyes. You’re as bad as any of them.”

Gold’s yellow face softened into a smile. “Go on,” he said. “You haven’t finished, have you?”

“It makes me tired to see the worthless women men drag around with them. That’s all most men think of . . . looks, dress and bodies. A girl who hasn’t looks is nowhere in Hollywood. It is disgusting.”

“Never mind that. Keep to wantons,” Peter said, his eyes alight with interest.

“All right . . . wantons. A man dislikes his woman to know more than he does. That’s where a wanton scores. She’s lazy by nature and she’s no time to be anything else but wanton. She has no other subject to talk about but herself, her clothes, her troubles and, of course, her looks. Man likes that. He has no competition. If he wants to, he can be patronizing. He’s a little tin god to himself, although, the wanton probably thinks he’s a bore. All she’s after is a good time and what she can get out of him.”

“Very interesting,” Gold said, “But where is the picture idea? I don’t see it.”

“A satire on men,” Carol said. “Angles in Sables” is a grand title. Never mind about Clive’s plot. Use the title, and let him write a hundred per cent satire about men. Think how the women would eat it . . . after all, women are our public.”

Gold glanced across at me. “What do you say?”

I was staring at Carol. She had given me an idea. She had done more than that. She had fired my imagination which had been dead since I wrote my last book. I knew now what I was going to do. It had come in a flash. I was going to write the story of Eve. I was going to capture her warped, odd personality and put it on the screen.

“It’s good,” I said, excitedly. “Yes, I know I can do it!”

Carol looked at me and suddenly bit her lip. Our eyes met and I knew she had sensed what I was going to do. I looked quickly away and went on to Gold, “As Carol says it’s a great title and a great subject . . .”

Carol pushed back her chair. “Would you mind if I run away?” she said abruptly. “I’ve developed an awful head. It’s, been coming on all the evening . . .”

Peter was at her side before I could even stand up.

“You’ve been working too hard, Carol,” he said. “R.G. will excuse you . . . won’t you.”

The tawny eyes had gone sleepy again. “Go to bed,” he said a little curtly. “Mr. Thurston and I will stay here. See her home, Peter.”

I stood up. “I’m seeing her home,” I said, feeling angry and a little frightened. “Come on, Carol . . .”

She shook her head. “Stay with Mr. Gold,” she said, without looking at me. “Peter, I want to go home.”

As she turned away I put my hand on her arm. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice. “Is it something I said?”

She looked steadily at me. The hurt, angry look was still in her eyes. “I just want to say good night to you now, Clive. Will you please understand?”

She knows, I thought, she knows everything. There’s nothing I can keep from her. She sees through me as if I were made of glass.

There was an awkward pause. Gold stared down at his fleshly hands, a frown on his heavy face. Peter picked up Carol’s ermine cape and stood, uneasily waiting.

“Of course,” I said, surprised that my voice sounded so harsh, “if it’s like that.”

She tried to smile. “It is rather like that. Good night, Clive.”

“Good night,” I said.

“I’ll see you at the club, R.G.” Peter waved and they went away together.

I sat down at the table again.

Gold regarded the white ash of his cigar thoughtfully.

“Women are odd, aren’t they?” he said. “Of course, you mean something to each other?”

I did not feel like discussing Carol with a comparative stranger. “We’ve known each other some time,” I said flatly.

His thick lips pursed and his eyebrows came down. “That idea of hers is good. A satire about men. Angels in Sables. It’s box office.” He closed his eyes and brooded. “What’s your angle?”

“A portrait of a wanton,” I said, leaning back in my chair, my mind divided between Carol and Eve. “The men who pass through her hands, the power she exerts and her ultimate conversion.”