She put down her empty cocktail glass, smiled and said unexpectedly, with the swift directness of a meteor shooting across a night sky, “So you wanted to see me about the perfume?”
“How did you know?” he asked.
“I knew perfume entered into the case somewhere,” she said, “because of the very apparent interest you took in the perfume I used.
“As a matter of fact, I changed my perfume either one or two days before, I’ve forgotten which, on the advice of an astrologer. You don’t believe in astrology, do you?”
He didn’t answer her question directly, but asked, “Why did you change your perfume?”
“Because I was informed that the stars threatened disaster, if I didn’t... Oh, I know it sounds so stupid when one says it that way, but there are lots of things which seem perfectly logical in the privacy of your own mind which look like the devil when you bring them out into public conversation. Don’t you think so?”
“Go on,” he told her, “I’m listening.”
She laughed and flexed her muscles as some cat might twist and stretch in warm sunlight, not the stretch of weariness, but that sinuous, twisting stretch of excess animal vitality seeking outlet through muscular activity.
“Do you know,” she said, “we are hopelessly ignorant about the simple things of life. Take scent, for instance. A flower gives forth a scent. A man gives forth a scent. Every living thing has some odor associated with it. I can walk down this path,” and she made a sweeping, graceful gesture toward the patio beyond the French windows, “with my feet encased in leather. Each foot rests on the ground for only a fifth of a second, if I’m walking rapidly. Yet my life force throws off vibrations. The very ground I have walked on starts vibrating in harmony with the rhythm of my own vibrations. We can prove that by having a bloodhound start on my trail. His nose is attuned to the vibrations which we call odor, or scent. He can detect unerringly every place where I have put my foot.
“Women use scent to enhance their charm. It emphasizes in some way the vibrations they are casting forth, vibrations which are emanating all of the time. One scent will go fine with one personality, yet clash with another. Do you see what I mean?”
“I’m still listening,” Selby told her. “... And the anchovy tarts are delicious.”
She laughed, glanced swiftly at him. There was almost a trace of fear in her eyes and more than a trace of nervousness in her laugh.
“There’s something about you,” she said, “which frightens me. You’re so... so damned, persistently direct.”
“Rude?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “it’s not rudeness. It’s a positive, vital something. You’re boring directly toward some definite objective in everything you do.”
“We were talking,” he told her, “about the reason you changed your perfume.”
“For some time,” she said, “I’ve known that I was... well, let us say, out of step with myself. Things haven’t been going just right. There were numerous little irritations which ordinarily I’d have paid no attention to. But recently they began to pile up. I began to lose that inner harmony, that sense of being in tune with the rhythm of existence... if you know what I mean?”
“I think I understand, yes.”
“I went to an astrologer. She told me that my personality was undergoing a change, and I can realize she’s correct. Now that I look back on it, I think every successful picture actress goes through at least two distinct phases of development. Very few of us are born to the purple. We’re usually recruited from all walks of life, stenographers, waitresses, artists’ models. We’re a peculiar lot. We nearly always have a wild streak, which makes us break loose into an unconventional form of life. I don’t mean immorality, I mean lack of conventional routine.
“Then we get a try-out. We’re given minor parts. We are given a major part. If it’s a poor story, with poor direction and poor support, that’s all there is to it. But occasionally it’s a good story, with good direction, something outstanding. A new personality is flashed on the screen to the eyes of theater-goers, and the effect is instantaneous. Millions of people all over the world suddenly shower approval upon that new star.”
He nodded.
“Let me fill up your cocktail glass.”
“No,” he told her, “one’s plenty.”
“Oh, come on,” she coaxed, “have half a one. I want one more and I don’t want to feel, conspicuous.”
“Just half a one, then,” he said.
She didn’t try to take advantage of his acquiescence, but was scrupulously careful to pause when his glass was half full. She filled her own, raised it to her lips and sipped it appreciatively.
“I’m trying to tell you this in detail,” she said, “because I’m so darned anxious to have you understand me and to understand my problems.”
“And the reason for changing the perfume,” he reminded her.
“Don’t worry,” she remarked, “I won’t try to dodge the question — not with such a persistent cross-examiner.
“Well, anyway, an actress finds herself catapulted into fame, almost overnight. The public takes a terrific interest in her. If she goes out to a restaurant, she’s pointed out and stared at. On the street, people driving automobiles suddenly recognize her and crane their necks in complete disregard of traffic. The fan magazines are crazy to satisfy reader demand for a new star. They’ll write up anything they can find.
“Of course, lots of it’s hooey. Lots of it isn’t. People are interested. I’m not conceited enough to think they’re interested entirely in the star. They’re interested in the spectacle of some fellow mortal being shot up into wealth, fame and success — the eternal Cinderella story.
“No wonder a star’s personality changes. She emerges from complete obscurity, drab background and usually a very meager idea of the formalities, into the white light of publicity. Visiting notables want to lunch with her; money pours in on her; there’s pomp, glitter, the necessity of a complete readjustment. An actress either breaks under that, or she achieves poise. When she achieves poise, she’s become a different personality in a way.”
“And why did you change your perfume?”
“Because I’ve passed through that stage and didn’t realize it. I’d been using the same perfume for months. And during those months I’ve been undergoing a transition of personality.”
She pressed an electric button. Almost instantly the butler appeared with a steaming tureen of soup.
“Let’s eat,” she said, smiling. “We’re having just a little informal dinner. No elaborate banquet.”
He seated her at the table. The butler served the soup. When he had retired, she smiled across at Selby and said, “Now that that’s explained, what else do we talk about?”
Selby said slowly, “We talk about the brand of perfume you used before you made the change, and whether you were still using this same brand of perfume on last Monday, when you stayed at the Madison Hotel. And we once more talk about why you made the change.”
She slowly lowered her spoon to her plate. The elation had vanished from her manner.
“Go ahead and eat,” she said wearily, “we’ll talk it over after dinner — if we must.”
“You should have known,” he told her, “that we must.”
She sighed, picked up her spoon, tried to eat the soup, but her appetite had vanished. When the butler removed her soup dish it was more than two-thirds filled.
A steak, vegetables, salad and dessert were perfectly cooked and served. Selby was hungry, and ate. Shirley Arden was like some woman about to be led to the executioner and enduring the irony of that barbaric custom which decrees that one about to die shall be given an elaborate repast.