“I must go now,” I said looking pointedly at the clock.
Away went the look of confidence; her hands dropped to her sides. I was glad that I had decided not to meet her on her own ground. So long as I behaved differently from the other men who visited her, I was certain to hold her attention and keep her puzzled.
Td like to talk to you about yourself when you have the time,”I said, smiling at her. “I might be good for your inferiority complex.” As I passed the chest of drawers, I slid two ten dollar bills between the glass animals. One, a reproduction of Disney’s Bambi, fell over on its side.
I saw her look quickly at the money and then she looked away. The sullen expression disappeared.
“Do you think I’ll ever see you in anything but that dressing gown?” I asked at the door.
“You might,” she said, blankly. “I do wear other things.”
“One of these days you must give me a treat. And don’t forget, the next time I call, leave off the make-up. It doesn’t suit you. Good-bye now,” and I opened the door.
She joined me. “Thank you for the — the present,” she said, smiling. It was extraordinary how different she looked when she smiled.
“That’s all right. By the way, my name’s Clive. May I phone you soon?”
“Clive? But I know two Clives already.”
During the past quarter of an hour I had completely forgotten that she was anyone’s woman and that remark jarred me badly. “Well, I’m sorry. After all, it is my name. What do you suggest?”
She sensed my irritation and looked a little sullen. “I like to know who’s coming,” she said.
“Of course,” I said sarcastically. “How about Clarence, or Lancelot or Archibald?”
She giggled and looked at me searchingly. “It’s all right I’ll recognize your voice. Good-bye, Clive.”
“Fine. I’ll come and see you again soon.”
“Marty . . .” she called.
The big, angular woman came from an adjoining room. She stood waiting, her hands clasped, a faint smirk in her eyes.
“I’ll call you before long,” I said and followed the woman down the passage.
“Good evening, sir,” she said politely at the door.
I nodded and walked up the path to the white wooden gate. When I reached my car, I paused and looked back at the house. There were no lights to be seen. In the dusk of the evening, it looked just like any other of the little houses that dotted the side streets of Hollywood.
I started the engine and drove to a bar off Vine Street, within sight of the Brown Derby. I felt suddenly deflated and I needed a drink.
The Negro bartender grinned cheerfully at me, his teeth glistening like the keys of a piano in the hard electric light.
“ ‘Evening’, sir,” he said, spreading his big hands on the bar. “What’ll it be tonight?”
I ordered a straight Scotch and carried it to a table away from the bar. There were only a few men in the place, none of them I knew. I was glad of that because I wanted to think. I relaxed in the easy chair, drank a little of the whisky and lit a cigarette.
I decided, after brooding for a while, that it had been an interesting, if expensive, quarter of an hour. The first opening move in the game had been mine. Eve had been puzzled and I felt pretty sure, interested. I should have liked to have heard what she had said to Marty about me after I had left. She was smart enough to guess that I was playing some kind of a game, but I had given her no clue as to what it was.
I had made her curious. I had talked about her and not about myself; that must have been a change for her. The type of man she would mix with was certain to talk continuously about himself. Her inferiority complex was interesting. Possibly it was due to a fear of the future. She wanted to be reassured about herself. If she relied on her trade for money that would explain her anxiety about her looks. She wasn’t young. She wasn’t old, of course, but even if she were thirty-three, and I guessed she would be older than that, in her game that was the age when a woman did get anxious.
I finished my whisky and lit a cigarette. In doing so I broke the chain of my thoughts and began, almost against my will, to examine my own conscience.
Obviously something had happened to me. A few days ago, the idea of my associating with a prostitute would have been unthinkable. I have always despised men who go with such women. Everything they stood for was repugnant to me. And yet, I had spent a quarter of an hour with one of these women, treating her as I treated my other women friends. I had actually left my car outside her house, which must be notorious in the neighbourhood, for anyone to identify and I had paid for the privilege of having a completely futile conversation.
It was my misfortune to associate with brilliant and talented people. I knew I was dross compared with them. But Eve had never known success. She had no talents and she was a social outcast. She was the only woman I knew whom I could genuinely patronize. In spite of her power over men, her strength of will and her cold indifference, she was for sale. As long as I had money I was her master. I realized now that it was essential for me to have such a companion, who was morally and socially my inferior, if I were not to lose all confidence in myself.
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.