Reggie murmured, “Interestin’ — very interestin’,” the way you do when somebody shows you an Abstraction and you have to say something.
Sutherland didn’t notice. Love is so blind. “I was sure I’d seen her too. But she hasn’t been in any pictures.”
“I suppose if they’re grooming her, they can’t let her out of the stable.”
“Sammy, Sammy. Humor misplaced — shockin’ bad taste.”
Shirley frowned over the letters. “She quotes a great many of your poems.”
“That’s the wonderful thing, Shirley! Over the phone, she’d say a line and I’d say one—”
“And when you met her you had the same happy experience?”
Sutherland wore a troubled frown. “You know, it was funny. I’d say a line and she’d just look— Of course, she was thinking about other things.”
“Wait a minute!” I gasped. “You met her? When? Where?”
“The weekend he was missing from home. You didn’t really believe his mother sent for him?”
“What did you use for money?” Sammy inquired cynically.
“I met her at La Guardia airport. She flew in for the wedding.”
“Whose wedding?” I tried to remember. Who married. Who in January.
“Ours,” said Sutherland.
You could have knocked me down with a featherweight. An Edgar Allan Poe Junior eloping! “Suppose your mother found out!”
“We were very careful because of the studio. A baby starlet can’t get married.”
“Why not, if she’s of age,” said Sammy. “But you can’t. Not without your Mama’s consent.”
Sutherland was gazing off into space. “We took a taxi from the airport. We were married at the minister’s home.”
Even Sammy was speechless. Almost. “Without a license?”
“Angel had the license — we signed it there. The minister and his wife were very kind. She had a cake and champagne cocktails and she was just like my mother. Afterwards they drove us to the hotel. I signed the register — Mr. and Mrs. Harold Sutherland—”
Shirley had been sitting with her eyes half closed, dipping her long fingers into the cloisonne box of jujubes. I knew she was thinking because she was just dipping, instead of picking out the green ones. “No doubt Miss Gossamer had arranged for a reservation. Tell me, when did she begin to show signs of nervousness?”
“When we were leaving the minister’s. She began to be very nervous. She was worried for fear the Studio would find out and she wouldn’t get her contract. She kept saying, ‘We’ll stick to each other, no matter what happens — till death do us part—’ ”
Shirley nodded thoughtfully. “As though she expected something to separate you—”
“She had a premonition,” Harry agreed gloomily. “The minister and his wife had just left us when the phone rang.”
“Ah—!” said Shirley. “The studio?”
“They wanted her to leave right away — to start a picture.”
“Oh, no!” I cried. “She didn’t go—?”
“She had to. They’d made a reservation on the plane. She wouldn’t let me take her to the airport because we’d both feel too bad. She said, ‘It’s not really goodbye — and you’ll hear from me every day—’ ” He looked away so we wouldn’t see the tears.
“But you never did.” I knew. I just knew.
“I’ve waited and waited—”
“Maybe she’s sick — or the plane crashed. Or she was busy rehearsing. Or — you called the Studio?”
“All of them. But they don’t want me to know where she is.”
“But why? What’s wrong?” I insisted.
“The jackpot question,” said Sammy. “Who did what to who and how does it pay off.”
“Your father left a great deal of money, didn’t he?” Shirley inquired.
“I don’t know anything about the trust fund. Mother gets the check every month. I have no idea how much it is.”
“Twelve Hundred and Fifty,” said Sammy. “I happened to run into one of the kids at the bank. And on his next birthday he comes into the principal. And that’s what’s under the woodpile.”
“Oh, no, Sammy. There was nothing about money — not even her plane fare. If she’d only write. If I’d only hear from her.”
“You will. After your next birthday. Or try to marry somebody else. Or run for Governor.”
“Oh, Sammy, don’t be so 4F!” I cried. “Can’t you write where you wrote before?”
“I venture to predict his letters will be found unclaimed at the Hollywood Post Office,” said Shirley.
Sutherland sighed. “That’s what Mother says.”
“Your mother? You told her?”
“He had to tell somebody. Besides, she doubtless found the hotel bill in your pocket?”
He nodded dumbly.
“Oh, Sutherland!” I gasped. “What did she say?”
“She was wonderful. She said, ‘Darling, if you only hadn’t tried to keep it from Mother. From now on, let’s have no more secrets.’ And she promised to help me find her.”
Sammy grunted. “I’ll write to Spade Sr. He isn’t doing a thing these days, just acting on the radio.”
“Thanks, Sammy, that’s very kind. But—”
“Don’t be a lug. Nobody’s taking you for a ride while I know it.”
“Mother’s written to Aunt Bernice to hire-someone out there.”
“I don’t trust your mother’s family any further than I can spit mucilage. We’ll get a Continental Op.”
“Please. I’d rather leave it to Mother. I promised I wouldn’t talk about it.”
“And I wouldn’t,” said Shirley. “Do you feel you can stand the truth, Sutherland?”
“I don’t want to hear anything about Angel. I don’t want to hear anything except from her. That’s all I care about. Mother says I’ll write better poetry — but I can’t — I don’t want to write another line as long as I live!” And choking back a sob he disappeared into the house.
Shirley sat with her eyes closed and I knew it was useless to question her. I turned to Reggie. “Bafflin’. Yes. However.”
“Aren’t you going to talk it over?” I followed her to the gate.
“Now? Oh no. Mind doesn’t work that way. Not my mind. I want my tea.” Her round face was a picture of woe. “Oh my Watsie, I haven’t had my tea!”
“How can you think about clotted cream while that poor boy eats up his heart!”
“Poor boy. Oedipus complex. Not punnin’. However. The carpenter said nothing but the butter’s spread too thick. Comin’, Sammy?”
“Am-day i-tray. Gotta see a man about a book. However, to coin a Fortune, ‘However.’ ” And with her most Satanic expression she rode off after Reggie.
Shirley selected a green jujube. “A very trite case, Watsie. You will find a parallel among my father’s adventures. Only a few minor details have been changed.”
“Which adventure? Please — just give me a clue.”
“My dear Watsie, you have all the clues. What do you gather from this letter which I retained for future reference?”
“Well, it’s typed. That means she’s ashamed of her handwriting. My father used to type his letters.”
“While he was courting? And signature, too? Besides, your father did not disappear after the ceremony — witness your presence here today. Have I not told you that every typewriter has a distinctive identity? Note the clogged ‘e’ and the capital ‘S’ dropped out of alignment. They will point out the culprit, mark my words.”
“You think it was all a fraud and she was after his money?”
“Most decidedly money is at the root of the whole wretched fraud. You’re doing splendidly, Watsie. Of course, you’ve missed everything of importance. Such as the significance of the telephone call.”