‘He hangs out here,’ the boy said, jerking his thumb contemptuously at the door.
‘Thanks, sonny.’
It was just the kind of room you’d expect a big-shot producer to be in. The carpet had a two-inch pile; the desk, chairs and trappings were modern and expensive; the decor was costly and tasteful. There were seven red telephones, two white ones and a blue one on the desk: all of them at that moment were very silent, and they would probably remain silent. When you’re slipping in the movie business, the first thing that goes is the telephone call.
Dester sat in the desk chair that was made of green leather, bucket shaped and comfortable enough to go to sleep in.
His hands rested on the edge of the desk: an empty bottle of Scotch stood on the virgin blotter, another bottle lolled in the trash basket. His eyes were fixed in a long, glaring stare at a point just above my head; his face was congested; his facial muscles appeared to be as stiff as a board.
‘It’s after four, sir,’ I said.
I might have been talking to the Great Sphinx for all the reaction I got. It occurred to me that he wasn’t just tight; he was at this moment paralytic drunk.
I shut the door just in case someone might pass and look in. I removed the whisky bottle from the desk, then tapped him hard on his left shoulder.
Nothing happened. He continued to glare at the spot above the door. I felt his pulse. It was ticking over, but there was nothing very healthy about it. I loosened his collar. He still showed no reaction. He was as far gone as any drunk I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen quite a few.
There was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t carry him along the passage and through the hall to the car. I would have to wait until he came to the surface, if he ever did, which at the moment seemed unlikely. I sat down in one of the comfortable lounging chairs, lit a cigarette and waited.
It seemed to me as I sat in this forgotten room, that if I were in Dester’s place, sweating out time before I left here forever, I might also be tempted to nibble at a drink or two. What puzzled me was why he should turn the knife in the wound. As he was washed-up, as nobody paid any attention to him, as no telephone bell rang for him, there seemed no point in his staying in this room. Why didn’t he just say, ‘the hell with the lot of them’, and stay at home?
After about half an hour of sitting in the chair, I began to get a feeling of claustrophobia. I got to my feet and began to prowl around, looking for something to break the monotony of just sitting and waiting.
There was still no sign of life from Dester. He continued to sit motionless and glare at the spot above the door. I went over to him and waved my hand in front of his eyes, but that got no reaction either.
Across the room was a green fire-proof filing cabinet. For something better to do, I went over and inspected it. I opened the top drawer. Fitted into the drawer were a number of red-leather folders, lettered in gold: For Mr. Dester’s Immediate Attention. For Mr. Dester’s Remarks. Mr. Dester’s Schedule. Mr. Dester’s Notes on Current Production. Refer to Mr. Dester for Opinion. And so on: fifteen expensive, beautifully lettered folders that proved at one time the Pacific Studios had thought a lot of Mr. Dester, even if they didn’t now. The folders were empty; they were even a little dusty. I closed the drawer and opened another. A fat document in a heavy plastic sleeve lay in the otherwise empty drawer. I picked it up, turned it and read the inscription on the outside.
The National Fidelity Assurance Company of California hereby agrees to pay the sum of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the executors, administrators or assigns of Erle Dester (the assured) on receipt and approval at its Administrative Office in San Francisco of proofs satisfactory to the Company of the death of the assured and of the title of the claimant.
I drew in a long, slow breath and read the inscription for the third time.
No wonder Helen wanted him dead.
A chill as cold and as creepy as the finger of death crawled up my spine.
A blonde in a cowboy shirt and blue jeans, duck waggled past the window with the arrogant knowledge that all the men lounging around were looking at her and finding what they saw pretty good.
I noticed her, but that was all. Three-quarters of a million dollars had a bigger fascination for me than any well-made blonde in a pair of close-cut jeans.
Dester no longer represented to me a chronic alcoholic in need of pity. Sooner or later this guy would drop dead or walk in front of a car or fall out of a window. You can’t fill yourself with alcohol to the point of paralysis and not run into trouble eventually, and when he was dead, but only when he was dead, his carcass would be worth in hard cash seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks which was, in anyone’s language, quite a piece of money.
The reason why Helen didn’t want him to have a chauffeur now became suddenly clear to me. She knew that he would still drive the Rolls, drunk or sober, chauffeur or no chauffeur. The previous night when he had been plastered to the hairline he had been about to drive out on to the crowded boulevard if I hadn’t taken over the job. She was gambling on him getting involved in an accident: a fatal accident for preference. That could be the only explanation why she had got rid of Simmonds and had tried to get rid of me.
According to Solly, Dester was heading for bankruptcy, and Solly had ways and means of knowing things like that. There appeared nothing to save him from the crash, but if he died, his wife could clear his debts and still have plenty to live on.
A slight sound behind me made me drop the policy into the drawer and look over my shoulder.
Dester was coming back to life. His fingers moved on the blotter, the fixed glare had gone out of his eyes.
I silently closed the drawer and stepped quickly across to the door.
‘Are you ready to come home, sir?’ I said loudly.
He blinked, shook his head, blinked again, then got me in focus.
‘There you are, Nash,’ he said thickly. ‘Is it four yet?’
‘It’s a little after four, sir. I’ve been waiting.’
I was surprised how quickly he came alive. He pushed back his chair, frowning. Then he looked at his wristwatch.
‘I have had a lot to do,’ he said. ‘We are pretty busy right now. I didn’t realize it was as late as this.’
I moved over to the desk as he got to his feet, ready to catch him. He swayed dangerously and I put out my hand and steadied him.
‘My foot’s gone to sleep,’ he muttered, leaning against me. He sat on the edge of the desk. ‘Where’s the car?’
‘Outside, in front, sir.’
‘Bring it around the back.’ He waved to a door. ‘I go out this way.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I left the room, walked fast down the corridor, through the hall, feeling the eyes of the four lovelies watching me with concentrated interest, and down the steps to where I had left the car. I drove it around to the back of the building. As I got out Dester came slowly down the steps, supporting himself by hanging on to the rail.
I got him into the car with some difficulty, and he lay back, sweat on his face, his eyes half closed.
‘Shall I take you home, sir?’ I asked.
The effort he had made to move himself from the office to the car proved too much for him. He seemed to go off into a coma: anyway he didn’t look at me nor did he reply.
I shut the car door and went around to the driver’s seat. I drove down to the gate, passing a steady stream of people on their way home. They spotted the Rolls and paused to stare. I heard a girl say: ‘There’s Dester going home: bottled as usual,’ and she giggled.