“Are you quite certain?”
“I should be, I burned them myself—without reading them, let me mention—I burned them in the fireplace of the Snuggery.”
Claire positively purred. “Ahh, the Snuggery—how well I remember that cozy nook. English as all get-out. Maude in matching sweater sets, her daytime pearls, at the desk writing those gracious notes, Crispin in his high-backed chair, having his bourbon-and-branch, puffing away on his pipe, looking like Sherlock Holmes. And you—burned them, you say? The letters?”
“I did. So you see, if you’re plotting a little blackmail in order to get me to do your book, why, then—the letters are ashes, and ashes don’t read very well, do you think?”
“The actual letters are beside the point, we needn’t consider them.”
I tossed up my hands. “Well, there we are. That said, what next?”
“What say we put our cards on the table. Let’s talk about that certain famous party, my ex-father-in-law, the master of Sunnyside.”
“Crispin Antrim? By all means. I’d be interested in hearing what you have to say—since the letters were written to you.”
“You noticed, did you? Well, I can’t say it’s no secret because it is—or was. And it’s my guess that the Widow Antrim, I refer to your darling Belinda, would want to have it go on being kept secret.”
“Why don’t we leave Belinda out of this and you just tell me all about it. Let me be the judge?”
“All right.” She licked her lips around and toothed off some lipstick, a habit of hers. “Well, let’s see—Crispin. He and I go way back, but you probably didn’t know that, most people didn’t. He was the big cheese around AyanBee when I first came on the lot. He didn’t know who I was—which was understandable, since I wasn’t anybody. I’d walk by him, he never gave me a flick. I’d see him in the commissary but he never noticed me. Until—well, it was Christmas, you know? And he was alone. Nobody likes being alone on Christmas.”
This surprised me. “Alone? Are you telling me that Maude wasn’t with him at Christmas?”
“Her father had died, she’d gone back to New Jersey. So Crispin was high and dry on Christmas. Christmas Eve, to be exact. His show was working late, so was mine. Not a lot of work was getting done. Everybody was partying all over the lot, over in the offices, on the stages, everybody was feeling merry. Only he wasn’t, because he was alone. I was alone, too. That’s how it started.”
“You and him, you mean?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Me ’n’ him. Just like that. He was going one way, I was going the other, we passed on the sidewalk. He looked, I looked, nobody said anything. I went to my dressing room; I was taking off my makeup when he knocked on the screen. ‘May we come in?’ he says, nice and polite. Crispin Antrim was the politest man I ever met. He says something like ‘Since it is the Yuletide and everyone seems to be partaking of the seasonal cheer, it occurred to me that you might partake of a little cheer yourself. Or do I detain you? Perhaps you have other plans?’ No, I say quick, I didn’t have any plans at all. So he pulls out this bottle of shampoo, ice cold. He uncorks it, I get a couple of paper cups, and there we were toasting Christmas and drinking bubbly together. Me and Crispin Antrim! He said how Maude was back in New Jersey and he dreaded going home with her not there. He’s got this book with him—War and Peace. Big. About the fattest book I ever picked up. He starts telling me all about this Russian family—two families, I guess it was—and how it’s one of the great novels. He says he’s read it four times, this is the fifth, and when I ask him why so many times if he knows how it turns out, he smiles. Nice. ‘For the beauty, my dear,’ he says, ‘for the joy of the words. Once beauty presents itself to me I am able to enjoy it over and over. Like a beautiful piece of music, a Beethoven symphony, or a Mozart sonata.’ So I’m drinking my shampoo and I’m thinking, ‘Get a load of you, kid, here’s Crispin Antrim talking to you about Mozart and you don’t even know the guy.’
“Well, we polish off the bottle and then it’s time to go, only he doesn’t want to. He asks me if he can drive me home. In his chauffeured car yet. Everything’s really gentlemanly; he asks me about my movie, wants to know what plans Sam has for me, just shop talk, and when I say good night he insists on walking me to my door. I was living on Hyperion Avenue then, and when we get there he says can he come in and see my apartment. I make coffee, he sits and talks some more, all about how much he loves Maude and his boy, Perry—from the way his old man talked about him I figured he must be plenty spoiled—and he was, believe me. His father’s worried about how he’ll turn out. Needs a nice girl, that stuff—and I think, Is he going to fix me up with his son? Uh uh. I know the guy’s just looking for a shoulder to cry on, it being Christmas and everything. I figure he’ll talk himself to death and then take off for home. Only—”
Only instead he’d stayed long after the coffee had been drunk, and in the end he’d stayed and made love to her. When they saw each other again at the studio, they talked about the miserable Christmases they’d each had, and he asked her out to dinner. They went to Musso & Frank’s in Hollywood, then they returned to Hyperion to talk, and ended up in bed again.
He came back a third time, a fourth. One night she cooked for him, corned beef and cabbage, his favorite. Next time she did chicken fricassee with dumplings. He always came to talk but always stayed to make love. Somehow Viola got wind of these trysts and advised Claire to knock it off before there was trouble. Vi might have gone to Sam with the tale but she didn’t, she kept her mouth shut. When Maude came home, Crispin was there to meet her. She was to know nothing.
“But he felt guilty,” Claire said. “All the time guilty. You know how it was—they’d been married twenty years now, he had a roving eye. I was young, he loved my body. And I made him laugh. I’ll tell you this, it’s a lot easier getting a guy if you make him laugh than just being terrific in the sack.”
“Did Frank know what was going on?”
“Sure. Frank knew, but he never said much. I think he was ashamed because of the shabby way he’d treated me in New York. He figured it wasn’t any of his business anyway. Then he and Babe started having those arguments right out in public; she’d haul off and sock him—and he’d sock her back—and I knew he was getting tired of her carrying on like that. So when he dumped her I see that here’s my chance to get him back. So I write Crispin this letter, breaking it off, saying I can’t see him anymore or it’s going to mean trouble for everybody. I say, Don’t come around me at the studio, don’t come to the apartment, and don’t call. So he starts writing these letters, pleading with me to see him, he doesn’t want to lose me. Really passionate letters, you’ve no idea.
“He knew it wasn’t any good; just moments in his life. He was hog-tied to Maude. He told me he’d never been unfaithful to her before me, and I’ll tell you something—I don’t think he was unfaithful after, either. And he helped me: he made Sam give me the Fedora picture, and the other one at MGM. I never regretted a thing.”
“What about later, when you and Perry were married and you lived at Sunnyside? How did he feel then, you being so near?”
Claire shrugged. “The whole thing was his own idea. He was gung-ho for our getting married, me and Perry. Crispin didn’t like him running off all the time. He thought I’d make him a good wife and maybe he’d stop his gallivanting. Maude wasn’t keen on our living over there in the Playhouse, but Crispin really thought it was terrific, having me right there next door to him.”
“Did he ever try to start up again? I mean did he ever—”
“Put the make on me? Are you kidding? He was just ‘Daddy dear.’ You’d never have known there was anything between us. I was his daughter now; I was supposed to produce an heir for him. But it was no dice. God knows I tried; any time Perry wanted to party, okay with me. Only—no kids in the nursery.”
Further talk along these lines was cut off when the night nurse came in, all smiles, but telling me I had to go, it was long after Miss Reg
rett’s lights-out. While the nurse plumped the pillows and buzzed the bed down flat, Claire’s eyes lingered on me, as if to ask, Well, what do you think of all that? I didn’t know what to think, but it gave me plenty of food for thought until I could see her again. I wasn’t able to come back for two days, since I was tied up every minute with the play. Belinda was due in at the end of the week, and once she got here it would be full speed ahead. Meanwhile, we were trying to cast the lead male.
I finally got back to Room 804, this time lugging in a hothouse gardenia tree in full bloom. As I trucked in I was met by Claire’s Christian Science practitioner, Mrs. Conklin, a pleasant-faced woman of sixty or so who gave me a friendly smile and a firm handshake. We chatted briefly; then she kissed Claire and left to get some books at the library, she said. I liked it that Claire seemed so fond of this woman; Mrs. Conklin seemed one person who might do some real good in Claire’s hectic and unfocused life.
I was anxious for her to go on with her story, and it didn’t take much urging on my part. She proceeded now to enlighten me on the reason Faun had been so desperate to get her hands on the fifteen thousand dollars she’d told Maude she had to have. It was pure chance that had caused Claire and Faun to meet at the L.A. airport following Frank’s funeral and Claire’s untimely visit at Sunnyside. They’d ended up sitting next to each other on the flight, and by the time they got to New York they were on good terms. Faun was invited to stay for the weekend, and managed to stay for over two months. Not surprisingly, they didn’t get along. There were several nasty scenes. Once Claire’s maid caught Faun snooping in the files which no one but Claire was allowed to touch, and when Claire heard about it she read the riot act. Then things simmered down a bit until the next, the final, upset.
It seemed that the tenants in the apartment below Claire’s, a Japanese doctor named Sadikichi and his American wife, were among the few couples in the building with whom Claire was on speaking terms. When Mrs. Sadikichi expressed the desire to entertain the daughter of Belinda Carroll, Claire obliged. Before the meal was served, the doctor invited Faun to help select a good Burgundy to go with the beef. He had showed off his notable collection of vintages, some of them costing as much as five hundred or even a thousand dollars a bottle, one being worth far more, a rare-vintaged Château Lafite.
When Claire named this figure, I began adding it all up. “Faun stole it?” I asked.
“Not that night. She waited until the Sadikichis had gone to their country house; then she went down and told the maid she’d left her cigarette lighter somewhere and wondered if it might have slipped in between the sofa cushions. The maid told Faun to take a look around. Faun looked, not in the sofa but in the wine cabinet, and she made off with the most expensive bottle. When I confronted her with the theft, she denied it all, but I knew she was lying. She’d gone to visit friends at Southampton and taken the bottle along as a house present. The host realized it was an expensive wine and didn’t want to open it, but Faun insisted. I knew the people vaguely—they lived in Gin Lane—so I checked up and out came the whole story. Faced with this, darling Faun confessed. Then, by God, if she didn’t talk me into paying Dr. Sadikichi and said she’d get the money from Maude. That’s when she went to the goddamn files and stole the letters—Crispin’s letters. Only I didn’t find out about that until later. Then when she got killed, I thought, I’m never going to see that dough again. But I didn’t reckon with Maude. I wrote and explained what had happened, and I got a check back just like that. It was Maude who told me about the letters, and when I looked in the files—sure enough, they were missing. Maude also sent me back that letter I’d written to Crispin all those years ago.”
“Her way of telling you she knew?”
“I guess. Said she’d unearthed it among his things after he died. I felt bad that she found out. It hurt her. But what I have to tell you is, because Faun was threatening to use Crispin’s letters in that book she was writing—yeah, I heard all about that one—I figure Maude got so angry she’d have done anything short of murder to keep it all quiet—even not short of murder… hm? What do you think, Charles?”
“She was upset, sure, why shouldn’t she be? But more than that—”
“More than that you don’t care to say. I don’t blame you, darling; in your shoes I wouldn’t, either.”
“In my shoes? What does that mean?”
“It means that you’re very interested in keeping this whole unsavory business a private matter. And I don’t blame you. It’s hardly in the Antrim image, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
She sucked in her cheeks and gave me that oh-come-on smirk of hers. “Don’t play coy with me, laddie, you damn well do know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the fact that there was some skulduggery at the crossroads. Maude’s dead, a scandal couldn’t hurt her anymore. But if—notice I say if—if word started getting around about those letters and what Faun threatened to do, people might—notice I say might—get the wrong impression. And you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you? Charles? Especially if you care about what happens to our friend Blindy.”
I still couldn’t see what she was getting at, but I knew it spelled trouble. “Claire,” I said soberly, “I think you ought to know that Belinda and I plan to be married after the play opens.”
I was simply letting her know how things stood, but the face I saw was that of the Wicked Queen in Snow White. I’d struck a nerve.
Up went the brows, down went the mouth. “Married? You don’t say. And you never told me, you sly puss. Well, well, love comes to Honey Brewster, huh? And at her age, too. Well, I guess there’s nothing wrong with sex after sixty, unless it brings on an attack of sciatica. Congratulations, Charles. I wish you every happiness. And—notice I say and—this news leads me to believe you’d be that much more interested in keeping Belinda’s name free of any scandal, especially when your little play is about to open.”
More than ever I wanted to kiss her off. “Why don’t you stop screwing around and just say what’s on your mind,” I growled.
She smiled, radiating sweetness and light. “No need to get surly, darling. Put it this way: give me what I want and I’ll give you what you want. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know—what is it you want?”
“Just say you’ll help me with my book, as I’ve been asking you to do, and I’ll throw away the key.” She did her little pantomime of locking her lips and disposing of the key.
“This key being—”
“—being a very strong suspicion that somebody had tinkered with that blue stove in the Playhouse bedroom. In fact, I think I know just who arranged that—accident.”
“I see. And supposing it wasn’t an accident, who gets your vote?”
“You, sweetie, you get my vote.”
“Oh, you’re wrong, sweetie, you’re way out in left field somewhere pulling daisies.”
“Am I? No, I am not. And if you think I didn’t mean what I say—I’ll just put the whole nasty business in my own book. Now, how do you like them apples?”
“They sound awfully sour to me.”
“But do you agree? My silence for your pen?”
There I was, being gored on the horns of a dilemma. Jesus. I said I’d have to think it over, which, of course, told her lots: either that she was right or plenty close to it—even that I’d have to agree to her terms. I never liked her less than I did when I looked at her there, well pillowed in her four-way bed of pain.
I left the hospital and walked home through the park. I knew I wanted to talk things over with someone, but I didn’t know who. Vi? I considered that to be unwise, given Vi’s penchant for gossip, but it was she who eventually brought the thing up to me. She’d had all the facts, whether from Claire or some other source I hadn’t a clue. “Do it, dear,” she said. “Do it or she’ll have you roasted for dinner with an apple in your mouth.”
So ominous was this warning that I was forced
to take it to heart. Finally, believing discretion much the better part of valor, I caved in to Claire. I called her and agreed to her terms, and was relieved when she didn’t gloat but merely accepted it as my good business sense. Belinda Carroll opening on Broadway to a blast in the papers about Claire’s affair with Crispin Antrim plus the odd circumstances surrounding the demise of Belinda’s daughter hardly would stack up as the best kind of publicity.
In return, however, I got Claire’s promise to hostess the party my producers were throwing aboard the cruise boat. Hordes of press would be on board, and what better way to hype the evening than for Claire Regrett to be on hand, Claire encouraging her “old friend” Belinda, who was about to embark on her Broadway stage career?
I came home from the hospital to find a message that Vi had called. “Sweetie, how absolutely wonderful!” she crowed when I rang her up. “I knew you couldn’t turn the poor thing down, especially now when she’s in extremis. You really have a very kind heart, dear. And she’s going to go full-out for you on the party thing. Won’t Belinda be pleased!”
This remained to be seen. Belinda arrived in New York too nervous to join me in my East Side love nest, instead taking rooms at a nearby hotel. I chose my time—we were in bed eating openface steak sandwiches—to invoke her blessing on Claire’s hostessing the party. She took it all in stride, then grew suspicious when I laid on her the arrangements concerning Claire’s book.
“Ghostwriter? You? You’re mad. You’re a novelist, a playwright, a screenwriter—but you don’t ghostwrite! And you certainly don’t ghostwrite Claire Regrett!”
“That’s what you think.” When I explained that I had to do it, Belinda laughed.
“Don’t tell me—she’s blackmailing you.” Seeing my expression, she sat up and gave me a hard look. “My gosh—you mean she is blackmailing you?”
I said it was a sort of semi-hemi-demi-blackmailing. Then it all came out in the wash. Lunch at the Four Seasons, the conversations at the hospital, my ultimate capitulation.