I drove on up to the cabin. A short, dark fat man was sitting on the verandah with a highball on the table near him. He waved to Carol and got up.
“Who the hell’s this?” I asked Carol in an undertone.
She clutched at my arm. “Bernstien,” she whispered back. “Sam Bernstien of International Pictures. I wonder what he can possibly want.”
We went up together and Bernstien patted Carol’s arm affectionately before turning to me.
/
“So you’re Thurston?” he said, offering a limp, fat hand. “Well, I am glad and happy to know you, Mr. Thurston.
Glad and happy, and I don’t often say that to writers, do I, my pet?”
Carol looked at him with a twinkle in her eyes. “You don’t, Sam,” she said. “At least, you don’t say it to me.”
“And you’re honeymooning. Isn’t that romantic? You’re happy — both of you? That’s swell, I can see it. My, my, it’s done her good. You know, Thurston, I’ve watched this little girl ever since she came to Hollywood. She can write. Sure, she can write, but there was something frozen inside. “Carol, my pet,” I said to her over and over again, “what you want is a man. A big, strong man and then you will really write.” But she takes no notice.” He pulled at my sleeve and whispered, “The trouble is she did not think me big enough,” and he laughed, patting Carol’s shoulder and putting his arm around her. “Now she will do great things.”
I thought this was all pretty nice, but I was wondering what he wanted. He hadn’t come all the way from Hollywood just to tell me that he was glad and happy to see me and that Carol wanted a big, strong man.
“Let’s sit down,” he said, going over to the table. “Let’s all have drinks. I have come to talk to your clever husband, Carol. I have a lot of important things to talk to him about, otherwise I would not interrupt your honeymoon. You know me, don’t you, my pet? Romantic . . . a lover . . . I do not spoil a honeymoon unless it is important.”
“Come on, Sam,” Carol said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “What do you want to talk about?”
Bernstien rubbed his hand over his fat face, pushing his small beaky nose almost flat. “I have read your play, Mr. Thurston,” he said. “I think it is very good.”
A cold trickle ran down my spine. “You mean “Rain Check”?” I said, staring at him. “Why, why of course, it’s very good.”
He beamed. “And by golly, it’ll make a grand picture. That’s what I want to talk to you about. Let us, you and me make this play of yours into a picture.”
I looked quickly at Carol. She put her hand on mine and squeezed it. “I told you, Clive. I told you Sam would like it,” she said breathlessly.
I looked over at Bernstien. “Do you mean it?”
He waved his hands. “Mean it? Why should I come all this way if I didn’t mean it? Of course, I mean it. But wait, there is one little thing. It’s nothing, but it is something.”
“So there’s a catch in it?” I said, my excitement dying on me. “What is it?”
“You can tell me.” He leaned forward. “What has Gold against you? Tell me that. Let me put that right and we make the picture. We give you a contract. Everything will be all right. But first I must put you right with Gold.”
“That’s a hell of a chance.” I said bitterly. “He hates my guts. He loves Carol. Now do you understand what he’s got against me?”
Bernstien looked at me and then at Carol and began to laugh. “That is very funny,” he said, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak. “I had no idea. I would hate you too if I were in his place.” He drank half his highball and then raised a short, fat finger. “There is a way. Not so good, but in the end—” he shrugged his shoulders, “it’ll be all right. You write the treatment and I will take it to Gold and tell him that I do the picture. He does what I say, but first I must have the treatment.”
“But first I want a contract.”
He frowned. “No. Gold gives the contracts. I can’t give you that. But I get you a contract when you have finished the treatment. I promise.” He offered his hand.
I looked at Carol.
“It’s all right, Clive. Sam always gets his own way. If he promises to give you a contract, he’ll give it to you.”
I shook hands with Bernstien. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do you a treatment and you’ll sell it to Gold. Right?”
“Right,” he said. “Now I go. I have already stolen too many minutes of your honeymoon. We will work together. Your play is very fine. I like your mind. I like the way you express yourself. I like your drama. It is good. You will make a fine treatment. Come and see me at the Studio on Monday at ten o’clock. Carol will show you where to come. Then we get to work.”
When he had gone, Carol threw herself into my arms. “Oh, I’m so pleased,” she said. “Bernstien will make a marvellous picture for you. You two working together will make a marvellous team. Isn’t it wonderful? Aren’t you thrilled?”
I was scared and dismayed. I heard Bernstien’s voice ringing in my ears. “I like your mind. I like the way you express yourself. I like your drama. It is good. You will make a fine treatment.” He wasn’t talking about me. He was talking about John Coulson. I knew I couldn’t possibly write the treatment.
Carol pushed away from me and looked at me, her eyes troubled. “What is it, darling?” she asked, shaking me a little. “Why are you looking like that? Aren’t you pleased?”
I turned away. “Of course I am,” I said, sitting on the settee and lighting a cigarette. “But, Carol, let’s face it. I don’t know much about film treatments. I’d much sooner sell the thing and let Bernstien get someone to do it. I — I don’t think somehow—”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said, sitting by me and reaching for my hand. “Of course you can do it. I’ll help you. Let’s do it now. Let’s make a start this very minute.”
She was away to the library before I could stop her and I heard her calling to Russell to prepare a sandwich supper.
“Mr. Clive’s going to turn his play into a picture, Russell,” I heard her say. “Isn’t it marvellous? We’re going to start right in now.”
She was back again with a copy of the script and we sat down and began to go through it. In an hour or so Carol had mapped out the first rough treatment. I did nothing except agree because her mind was so quick and her experience so sure that I knew that any suggestion from me would be valueless.
While we paused to eat chicken sandwiches and drink iced hock, she said, “You must do the script, Clive. It would mean so much if you did the actual shooting script. With your gift for dialogue . . . you must do it.”
“Oh no,” I protested, getting up and pacing the floor. “I couldn’t. I don’t know how . . . no, that’s absurd.”
“Listen . . .” she held up her hand. “Of course you can. Listen to this dialogue . . .” and she began to read from the play.
I stopped walking up and down, held by the power and strength of the words. They were words that I could never write. Words that had beauty, rhythm and drama. And as I listened, the words seemed to burn themselves into my brain until I thought I must snatch the play from her or go mad.
What a fool I had been to imagine that I could step into Coulson’s shoes. I thought of what Gold had said. “It is, to say the least, a lucky flash in the pan, more extraordinary, perhaps, because your first play was excellent. I have often wondered how you came to write that play.”
This was too dangerous. If I made a slip now I might be found out. Already Gold was suspicious. Why else had he said such a thing? If I began to write the script they would know at once that I had never written the play. God knows what would happen to me if they found out.