“I’ll kill you if you don’t come out,” I said, a vicious, desperate note in my voice.
“I’m going to sleep,” the red head shouted back. “I’m not coming out for you or any other tight fisted punk.”
I went on hammering on the door for several minutes until my hands throbbed and burned.
Then I had an idea. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you’ll go home,” I said, with my head against the panel of the door.
“Honest?” I heard her scramble out of bed.
“Honest.”
“Push it under the door and I’ll believe you.”
“Here you are,” I said and I began to force the notes under the narrow space between the carpet and the door.
She could not wait to get it that way and she jerked open the door.
I stepped back, staring at her in horror. She had wedged her big soft body into a pair of Carol’s pyjamas and over her heavy shoulders was Carol’s short ermine coat.
I let the rest of the money slip out of my fingers and I stood there unable to move or unable to say anything. She bent down and began to gather up the money. As she did so her knees burst through the thin silk of the pyjamas.
She giggled. “Your wife must be a skinny bitch,” she said, not pausing as she grabbed at the money.
Then something made me look round.
Carol was standing in the lobby, watching us. Her eyes looked like two big holes cut in a sheet. She drew in a sharp, shuddering breath and the red head looked up. She stared at Carol and then at me.
“What the hell do you want?” she snapped, standing up and trying to cover her heavy breasts with the ermine coat. “Me and my boy friend are engaged.”
I shall never forget the look on Carol’s face. I took a step towards her, but turning swiftly, she ran down the short passage and the front door slammed.
I went after her.
As I jerked open the door, I heard her car start up and I was in time to see the red tail light flashing down the long winding drive.
I blundered out into the moonlight and began running after the car.
“Come back, Carol,” I shouted after her. “Come back . . . don’t leave me, Carol,” I shouted after her’ . . . come back!”
The red tail light disappeared round the corner where the drive entered the road.
I raced on to the gate and stood panting in the middle of the road that led to San Bernardino. The road ran straight for a mile and then turned sharply with the curve of the mountain.
I could see the red tail light moving like a ruby fired from a gun. Carol was driving very fast . . . too fast. I knew the road better than she did and I suddenly began to run again, shouting after her.
“You’re going too fast,” I yelled. “Look out, Carol, my darling. You’re going too fast. You won’t make the turn . . . slow down! Carol!! You won’t make the—”
Even from that distance I heard the tires squeal on the road as the mountain curve suddenly sprang at her from out of the darkness. I saw her headlights swing out to the left and I could hear stones rattling inside the mudguards as the tires skidded.
I stopped running and fell on my knees. The noise of the tyres rose to a high pitched scream and then the car suddenly leaped off the road and went straight through the white palings. I heard a crunching, ripping noise and I watched the car hang for a second in mid-air, then it went down through the darkness into the valley.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IT was Eve. From the very beginning it had been Eve. If it had not been for her none of this would ever have happened.
I walked down Laurel Canyon Drive and passed her house. There were no lights showing. I paused, then retraced my steps. A distant clock struck midnight. Perhaps she was asleep; perhaps she was still out; perhaps she was at the back of the house. I would have to find out.
I looked up and down the street, but there was no one in sight except John Coulson. He stood in the shadows across the road, his hands in his pockets and his head a little on one side, watching me.
I stood outside Eve’s house and again looked up and down the street. It was quiet, even the distant traffic sounded muffled. I pushed open the gate and groped my way down the path. I fumbled my way around to the back of the house and kicked against a number of bottles that were stacked against the wall. One of them rolled and smashed against something in the dark. I stood still and listened. The back of the house was in darkness. No one called out so I edged forward cautiously until I reached a window. It was half open. I pushed it right up and listened. No sound came from inside the house.
I leaned inside the window and struck a match. I was looking in at the small kitchen and it was as well that I had a light because the sink, full of dirty crockery, was immediately under the window.
I threw the match away and stepped onto the window sill. Then I struck another match. I climbed over the sink and lowered myself to the floor.
There was a faint smell of stale cooking and a fainter smell of Eve’s perfume in the room. The smell of that perfume gave me a cold feeling of hate deep in my guts. I went to the door, opened it and stood in the passage. I listened, but I could hear nothing.
I was sure now that the house was empty, but I was still cautious. I edged my way to her bedroom. The door was open and I stood outside, holding my breath and listening. I stood like that for a long time until I was sure there was no one in the room. Then I went in and turned on the light.
By her bed was a large photograph. It was turned face down on the little table. I picked it up. Jack Hurst looked at me. It was a good portrait and I studied it for some minutes, then in a sudden spasm of rage, I nearly smashed it against the wall. I stopped myself in time. That would be the first thing she would miss when she entered the room. I put the photograph back as I had found it and as I did so I wondered whether Hurst would care when he heard that Eve was dead. I wondered too with a sense of malice whether the police would suspect that it might have been Hurst who had killed her.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked softly. It was twenty minutes past twelve. Any moment now, I could expect her to return. In this quiet little room, I had no feeling of time and I sat down on the bed and picked up her dressing gown. I buried my face in it, smelling her scent and the faint odour of her body.
I remembered the first time I had seen her in it. She had been squatting before the fire at Three Point. That picture conjured up a flood of bitter memories. So much had happened since then.
It did not seem that five nights ago I had watched Carol die. It had taken me more than two hours to scramble down the mountain side to reach her. I knew when I looked at the smashed car that she would not be alive. It had been very quick; her lovely little body had been jammed between a great boulder and the side of the car. I could not move her and I sat by her side with her head in my arms, feeling her grow cold until they came and took me away.
Nothing seemed to matter after that. Even Gold did not matter. He took his revenge, but I was past caring. It did not matter that he stripped me of everything. He knew, as I suspected, that Rain Check wasn’t my play. Somehow he found out about Coulson and reported what I had done to the Writers’ Guild. They sent a stiff necked little man to see me. He said they would not prosecute if I repaid all my royalties. I scarcely listened to him and when he gave me a paper authorizing my bank to pay 75,000 dollars to Coulson’s agent to dispose of as he thought fit, I signed it.
I had not the money of course, so they took everything I had. My Chrysler, books, furniture, clothes — everything I had, and even then they wanted more, but there was nothing more to give them.
I did not even care when they took Carol’s clothes. I did not need to have anything of hers to remember her by. She was in my mind as I had last seen her jammed between the boulder and the car with a scarlet thread of blood from her lips to her chin. That memory of her will always be with me.