“I know it was foolish.”
“Well then—”
“You don’t have to nag me.”
She lifted his hand and kissed it, and then they were back to the corporation and its general problem. It could only be solved, he had insisted, through Veda. Now, on his second highball, he was even more of that opinion. “She’s the one that’s costing you money, and she’s the one that’s making money. She’s got to pay her share.”
“I never wanted her to know.”
“I never wanted her to know, either, but she found out just the same, when I hit the deck. If she’d had a little dough when Pierce Homes began to wobble, and I’d taken it, and Pierce Homes was ours right now, she’d be better off, wouldn’t she?”
Mildred pressed Bert’s hand, and sipped her rye, then she held his hand tight, and listened to the radio for a minute or two, as it began moaning low. She hadn’t realized until then that Bert had been through all this himself, that she wasn’t the only one who had suffered. Bert, in a low voice that didn’t interfere with the radio, leaned forward and said: “And who the hell put that girl where she is today? Who paid for all the music? And that piano. And that car? And those clothes? And—”
“You did your share.”
“Mighty little.”
“You did a lot.” Intermingling of Pierce Homes, Inc., with Mildred Pierce, Inc., plus a little intermingling of rye and seltzer, had brought Bert nearer to her than he had ever been before, and she was determined that justice must be done him. “You did plenty. Oh we lived very well before the Depression, Bert, as well as any family ever lived in this country, or any other. And a long time. Veda was eleven years when we broke up, and she’s only twenty now. I’ve carried on nine years, but it was eleven for you.”
“Eleven years and eight months.”
Bert winked, and Mildred quickly clutched his hand to her cheek. “All right, eleven years and eight months, if you’ve got to bring that up. And I’m glad it was only eight months, how do you like that? Any boob can have a child nine months after she gets married. But when it was only eight, that proves I loved you, doesn’t it?”
“Me too, Mildred.”
Mildred covered his hand with kisses, and for a time they said nothing, and let the radio moan. Then Bert said: “You want me to talk to that girl?”
“I can’t ask her for money, Bert.”
“Then I’ll do it. I’ll drop over there this afternoon, and bring it up friendly, and let her know what she’s got to do. It’s just ridiculous that you should have your back to the wall, and she be living off you, and rolling in dough.”
“No, no. I’ll mortgage the house. In Glendale.”
“And what good will that do you? You raise five grand on it, you square up for a few weeks, and then you’re right back where you started. She’s got to kick in, and keep on kicking.”
They ran up the beach to Sunset Boulevard and rode homeward in silence. Then unexpectedly Bert pulled over, stopped, and looked at her. “Mildred, you’ve got to do it yourself.”
“... Why?”
“Because you’ve got to do it tonight.”
“I can’t, it’s late, she’ll be asleep—”
“I can’t help how late it is, or whether she’s asleep, or she’s not asleep. You’ve got to see her. Because you forgot, and I forgot, and we both forgot who we’re dealing with. Mildred, you can’t trust Wally Burgan, not even till the sun comes up. He’s a cheap, chiseling little crook, we know that. He was my pal, and he crossed me, and he was your pal, and he crossed you. But listen, Mildred: He was Veda’s pal too. Maybe he’s getting ready to cross her. Maybe he’s getting ready to grab her dough—”
“He can’t, not for corporate debts—”
“How do you know?”
“Why, he—”
“That’s it, he told you. Wally Burgan told you. You believe everything he says? You believe anything he says? Maybe that meeting tonight was just a phony. Maybe he’s getting ready to compel you to take over Veda’s money, as her guardian, so he can attach it. She’s still a minor, remember. Maybe you, I, and Veda will all have papers slapped on us today. Mildred, you’re seeing her tonight. And you’re getting her out of that house, so no process server can find you. You’re meeting me at the Brown Derby in Hollywood for breakfast, and by that time I’ll be busy. There’ll be four of us at that table, and the other one will be a lawyer.”
Conspiratorial excitement carried Mildred to Veda’s room, where necessity might never have driven her there. It was after three when she came up the drive, and the house was dark, except for the hall light downstairs. She put the car away, walked on the grass to keep from making a noise, and let herself in the front door. Putting the light out, she felt her way upstairs, carefully staying on the carpeting, so her shoes would make no clatter. She tiptoed along the hall to Veda’s room and tapped on the door. There was no answer. She tapped again, using the tips of her fingers, to make only the softest sound. Still there was no answer. She turned the knob and went in. Not touching any light switch, she tiptoed to the bed, and bent down to touch Veda, to speak to her, so she wouldn’t be startled. Veda wasn’t there. Quickly she snapped on the bed light, looked around. Nobody was in the room, and it hadn’t been slept in. She went to the dressing room, to the bathroom, spoke softly. She opened a closet. Veda’s things were there, even the dress she had put on tonight, before Mildred went to Laguna. Now puzzled and a little alarmed, Mildred went to her own room, on the chance Veda had gone there to wait for her, and fallen asleep, or something. There was no sign of Veda. Mildred went to Monty’s room, and rapped. Her tempo was quickening now, and it was no finger rap this time. It was a sharp knuckle rap. There was no answer. She rapped, again, insistently. Monty, when he spoke, sounded sleepy, and quite disagreeable. Mildred said it was she, to let her in, she had to see him. He said what about, and why didn’t she go to bed and let him sleep? She rapped again, imperiously this time, and commanded him to let her in. It was about Veda.
When he finally came to the door, half opened it, and found what Mildred wanted, he was still more annoyed. “For God’s sake, is she an infant? Suppose she’s not there, what do I do then? I went to bed — I don’t know what she did. Maybe she went somewhere. Maybe she had a blowout. Maybe she’s looking at the moon. It’s a free country.”
“She didn’t go anywhere.”
“How do you know?”
“Her dress is there.”
“Couldn’t she have changed it?”
“Her car is there.”
“Couldn’t she have gone with somebody else?”
This simple possibility hadn’t even occurred to Mildred, and she was about to apologize and go back to her room when she became aware of Monty’s arm. He was leaning on it, but it was across the door, in a curious way, as though to bar her from the room. Her hand, which was resting on the door casing, slipped up, flipped the light switch. Veda was looking at her, from the bed.