All this, and much more, could be learned by any reader during early fall.
But Jimmy Powers had prophesied correctly when he said that the mystery angle would prove to be the most attractive part of the legend. There was the Betsey Blake Did Not Die! theory, which played up the “strange circumstances” surrounding the case, the “unexplained disappearance” of the two boats, the “reluctance” of the studio to exhibit the body in a public funeral. This angle fastened on every conceivable circumstance, real or rumored, which could be offered as “proof.”
As November approached, the volume and tempo of the articles neared a crescendo. For now the Betsey Blake legend was public property, and the fake fan clubs had given way to real fan clubs. Some of the scandal rags were printing the “inside story” and the “real lowdown” — Betsey Blake had been a tramp, she had been an alcoholic, she had started out posing for “art studies” and worse — but none of these allegations affected the legend. Rather, they served to strengthen it. To her growing army of devotees came the teenagers, and that was the final victory. Everyone from eight to eighty was breathlessly awaiting the advent of Splendor on their local screens.
It was early one night in November, as Steve sat typing the second draft of his novel, that Jimmy Powers reappeared.
Once again he hailed Steve from the doorway, and once again Steve thought he might be drunk.
This time, however, he had more grounds for his suspicion, because as Jimmy entered the room he brought an alcoholic aura with him.
“How ya doing, boy?” he shouted.
Steve started to tell him, but Powers wasn’t really listening.
“Guess I don’t have to tell you how I’m doing,” he exclaimed. “We open nation-wide next week. Nation-wide, get me? No previews, no test spots, no New York first run — just solid bookings straight across the board. Every key city, and the highest percentage of the gross we ever sold a picture for! And who did it, Stevie-burger? Me, that’s who.”
Steve lit a cigarette to avoid having to make any comment.
“And don’t think the Industry doesn’t know it! Man, are the offers pouring in. Of course, M.P.’s a smart old buzzard — he’s not going to let me get away from him. Two grand a week, five years non-cancellable, and that’s not all. When the pic opens I get a bonus. Fifty Gs under the table. You imagine that? Fifty Gs, cash, that nobody will ever know about. No taxes, nothing. Let me tell you, M.P. knows how to make a gesture. Of course, it’s worth it to him. I been sweating blood on this thing, Stevie. Nobody will ever know the throats I had to cut—”
“Don’t tell me,” Steve said.
“Still playing it simon-pure, huh? Well, that’s okay by me, no hard feelings. I just wanted you to know what you missed out on, sweetheart. This was the biggest coup of the century.”
“You can say that again.”
Both Jimmy Powers and Steve stared at the woman in the doorway. She was short, brown-haired, and plump enough to fill out the rather bedraggled slacks-and-sweater combination she was wearing. Her feet were bare, and she had some difficulty balancing on them, because she was obviously tight as a tick.
“What the hell—?” Jimmy began as she weaved toward him with a smirk.
“Saw you leave your shack just as I came along,” she said. “So I just sneaked in there by myself and had a little drinkie. I could hear you talking over here, so I thought why not come over and join the party?”
“Mind telling me who you are?” Steve asked, a premonition growing in him.
The woman grinned and pointed at Jimmy Powers. “Ask him,” she said.
Jimmy Powers just stood there, his face going from red to white.
“No,” he said. “No, it isn’t — it can’t be—”
“The hell it isn’t,” said the woman. “You know better than to try and get away with that.”
“But what happened? Where have you been?”
“Took myself a little trip.” The woman giggled. “It’s kind of a long sh-story.” She turned to Steve. “Got anything to drink?”
Before Steve could answer, Jimmy stepped forward. “You’ve had enough,” he said. “Tell your story and make it fast.”
“All right, all right, hold your horses.” The woman flopped into an armchair and for a moment stared at the floor.
“I saw the papers, of course,” she said. “They got it all wrong.”
“Then why didn’t you do something?” Jimmy growled.
“Because I was on a trip, remember? I mean I saw them all right, but they were a couple of months old.” She paused. “You going to let me tell this my way?”
“Go ahead.”
“Sure, I cracked into this other boat, like they said. Damn thing running without a light, motor throttled down so’s I never heard a thing. This Louis Fryer was on board, like they said — I knew old Louie from ’way back. What the papers didn’t know, of course, is that he wasn’t alone. He must have picked up some tramp off the beach, some blonde floozy hanging around the Yacht Club. Anyway, when we hit she got it, too. At least that’s the way it figures. She got it and when her body came up they identified her as me.”
“And what happened to—?”
“I’m coming to that part. I passed out, I guess. But I had sense enough to hang onto the boat.”
“The boat went down. They never found it.”
“The boat didn’t go down. And the reason they never found it was that it got picked up that night. With me with it. Little Mexican freighter spotted us just outside the channel and hauled us on board. Me and the boat. I was out cold — guess I had a concussion. When I came to, I was on my way to Chile.”
“Chile?”
The woman nodded. “Sure, Chile. That’s in South America, you know? Valparaiso, Santiago — we went everywhere. Those little wildcat freighters, they take their own good-natured time when they make a trip. Besides, I sold the boat down there for a good price. Made enough to pay my way and plenty left over for tequila. Captain was a good friend of mine. Whole crew, for that matter. You see, they didn’t ever catch on to who I was. All they could see was a blonde. At least, after I got another bottle of rinse and touched it up a bit.” The woman gestured toward her tousled hair. “You know how they flip for a blonde.” She giggled again.
Jimmy Powers stood up. “You mean to tell me you’ve spent the last five months helling around on a freighter with a bunch of Mex grease-monkeys?” he shouted.
“And why not? First real vacation I’ve had in years. And believe me, it was one long party. When I found out in Santiago what the score was, I thought the hell with it, let ’em suffer. This was my big chance to get off the hook for a while and live a little. So I lived. But we ran out of cash, the Captain and I, so when we docked at Long Beach today I came ashore, I knew M.P. would blow his stack if I walked in on him cold. I figured I’d see you first. Maybe we can cook up a publicity angle together, so when we hit M.P. he won’t go through the roof.”
The woman turned to Steve. “You sure you haven’t got a drinkie?” she asked. “Jeez, look at my hair. Got to get to a beauty parlor right away. Nobody’d recognize me. Isn’t that right, pal? Go ahead, admit it — you didn’t recognize me either at first, did you? Gained fifteen pounds, hair grown out. And next week the picture opens—”
“That’s right,” Jimmy Powers said. “Next week the picture opens.”