George acquired for a moment his court-room air. “You heard this quarrel yourself?”
“One of the prop men told me—seems it was the lunch time when nobody else was around. He said Saffron had a gun and was threatening her with it.”
“Why didn’t the prop man do something?”
“Aw, why should he get mixed up in what wasn’t his business? That’s what he said.”
“Even if a man’s threatening a woman with a gun?”
“Apparently she wasn’t hurt.”
“And she didn’t complain?”
“I guess not.”
“And they both went on with the picture after lunch as if nothing had happened?”
“I know—it’s hard to believe. But so was tonight hard to believe —unless you were there.”
“But I WAS there. And already the whole thing’s inflated out of all relation to the truth.”
But again it was no use. George settled down to enjoying himself as a guest at a party; why work for nothing?
Towards midnight someone brought him news which at first he could only think was another rumour—that Carey Arundel had actually arrived at the party. At that stage of the evening, with two or three hundred persons overflowing from a large house into flood-lit gardens, the presence or absence of any individual was not easy to determine outside the range of sight, and George recollected that he was probably the only person to whom Carey’s intention of not coming to the Fulton-Griffin party had been definitely stated only a few hours before. So he doubted the report until he saw her approaching him.
The first thing he noticed was an almost astonishing radiance about her, as if she had given herself some central glow to match the exterior lighting of beauty. She had also changed into another dress much more startling than the one she had worn at the dinner; it had an austere simplicity of line that permitted a special drama of colour and texture. George would say afterwards “a sort of crimson velvet” and leave it at that.
“Hello, Mr. Hare,” she said, smiling.
“Well, Miss Arundel, this IS a surprise. You changed your mind?”
“I often do.”
“So we CAN finish our talk. That’s good.”
“Yes, but let’s go outside. The gardens are lovely.”
He led her through the French windows on to a terrace that stepped down to the swimming-pool where a fair-sized crowd had congregated. He found a side-path leading through a grove of eucalyptus trees.
“I felt I had to come,” she said, “just to show I don’t feel all the things people are thinking I feel.”
“You’re very wise,” he answered, taking her arm. “What Saffron did say, as opposed to all the talk of what he said, wasn’t really against YOU. Therefore there’s nothing for you to be hurt or humiliated about.”
“I’m so glad you think that.”
“Just stupid of him and in bad taste.”
“Oh yes, oh yes, I know it was.”
“Rather odd—coming just after you’d told me his speeches sometimes made you nervous.”
“Yes, wasn’t it odd?”
“You must have had a lot of experience of him.”
She said quietly: “Well, we were married, once.”
He could not conceal the measure of his surprise. “You WERE?”
“Didn’t you know?’
“I didn’t, and as everybody else here must, it’s rather astonishing nobody happened to mention it to me. I suppose they assumed I knew.”
“So you’ve been talking about me to people?”
“A few people have been talking about you to me.”
“What do they say?”
“They like you—and they don’t like him.”
“They don’t have to couple us together any more.”
“Except that you were in the picture together.”
“Yes—for a special reason, but that’s a long story—I might tell you some time, if you’re interested.”
Some men and girls were approaching.
“Maybe tomorrow? Don’t forget you have a date at my office. Make it eleven-thirty and I’ll take you to lunch.”
“Fine.” And she added as they walked back towards the house: “He didn’t show up here tonight, did he?”
“No. I’m sure I’d have known if he had. Did you think he might?”
“He’s capable of it. If he’d been here I’d have wanted to leave—I couldn’t stand any more.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I’m just about at the limit of what I can stand, to be frank.”
“You probably need that holiday in Ireland you talked about. But why Ireland?”
“I was born there. Where were you born?”
“Vermont… on a farm.”
“So was I. In County Kildare. The greenest fields, and my father rode the wildest and most beautiful horses…” She paused as if some secret recollection had stolen her away; George watched her, till she caught his look. She smiled embarrassedly. “Oh, I guess we all feel that about where we were born. Vermont is beautiful too.”
“Yes, very…” The people who were approaching had voices he recognized; he said hastily: “There’s just time for one more question before the mob finds you again… a rather personal question, so don’t be startled… Did Saffron ever—in a dressing-room at the studio while the picture was being made—did he ever quarrel with you and threaten you with a gun?”
She looked amazed, then laughed. “Good heavens, no. Who on earth made that one up?”
* * * * *
They separated inside the house, and soon afterwards George left; it was already long past his usual bedtime. A few hours later (nine, to be exact) he was telling his secretary he would see Miss Arundel as soon as she arrived. But she did not arrive, and about noon he found out where she lived and telephoned. It was a fashionable apartment hotel and the desk informed him she was out. He thought she was probably on her way, but after a late lunch alone he was concerned enough to telephone Randolph at the studio. Randolph said she had not only not been there, but they had been trying for hours to find where she was and why she had broken an appointment to see some publicity people. It was not like her, Randolph said, to be either forgetful or unco-operative and already he was a little worried. “The hotel people were cagey at first about what time she got home, but finally they said it was about one o’clock.”
“Sounds reasonable. I left the Fulton-Griffins’ soon after midnight and she was still there. She had a date to see me at eleven-thirty this morning.”
“I didn’t know she was one of your clients.”
“She wasn’t—till last night.”
“Was it important business—or I suppose you can’t tell me that?”
George Hare was a highly successful lawyer for a number of reasons, one of which was that he never kept a secret that didn’t matter.
“Of course I’ll tell you—she wanted to know if she could sub-let her apartment while she takes a vacation in Ireland. Hardly headline news, is it?”
“Talking of headlines, what do you think of the Saffron thing?”
“Been too busy to see the papers yet. Do they make much of it?”
“You bet they do, and in some ways I’m glad they could tie it all into one story. Sort of takes the edge off what he said when the police found him drunk.”
“I don’t—quite—get you, Randolph. How do the police come into it?”
“You mean you don’t know what happened after he left the dinner?”
“I told you I hadn’t seen the papers.”
“Well, read ‘em, they’ll give you the details. Not that there’s much to it if it hadn’t been him, but he was a fool to talk back to the cops. That’s probably why they took him along. Of course as a studio we’re not interested —so far as he’s concerned, we’re through. But we don’t like him upsetting HER.”
“Naturally. And from what she told me last night she’s had enough of him to last a lifetime. By the way, how much of a lifetime DID it last? He
r marriage, I mean?”
“To Saffron? Oh, that was all years ago.”
“Did she never marry again?”
“Sure, she’s got a husband now—but they’re supposed to be separating or separated. Millionaire banker, broker, something like that. New York… The latest gossip links her with Greg Wilson.”
Oh no, George thought in protest—not Greg Wilson. But then he realized what was behind the protest, and being skilled in self-diagnosis, he was astonished. For already he was aware of something quite unexampled in his experience. He liked women and had frequently thought he loved them, but never before had he been able to contemplate marriage. Now, quite suddenly, he was able. Not a desire, of course, just a pleasure in abstract thought. And it was absurd—after an hour or so of acquaintance and a few scraps of conversation. Yet it did not SEEM absurd, and that was what made it such an astonishment to him. He had not known he was capable of it.
Randolph was waiting, so he said lightly: “Sounds a little confusing, Randy.”
“Did you ever know the life of an actress that wasn’t? Not that Greg Wilson seems to me her type.”
“Maybe she doesn’t have a type. She isn’t one, why should she have one? Well, call me up later if you get more news.”
George then sent out for the morning papers, and while they were coming he brushed aside the work on his desk and indulged in a daydream. He wondered if what she really sought from him was advice on matters more important than sub-letting an apartment—her marriage problem, maybe? Perhaps she wanted a divorce from the millionaire? George was an expert in getting divorces from (and for) millionaires. It would be exciting to be able to help her, to show off a little in doing so, to say in that calm, casual way that had reassured so many clients during their first professional interview: “Sure, we’ll get what you want. Not a doubt of it. Just relax and don’t worry…”
The papers then arrived and he found the Saffron affair two-columned on the front page under the caption: “Abuses Hollywood, then Cops; Noted Director makes Morning Journey to Jail”. There was the usual photograph through prison bars, and the story had been written up in that style of deadpan glee which, by long experience, has proved most effective in making the fall of the mighty pleasurable to the masses.
“Paul Saffron, director of the hit picture Morning Journey, gave Hollywood a straight punch to the jaw in his speech at the Critics’ Dinner last night.” (Then a technically indisputable but thoroughly tendentious summary of what Saffron had said.) “Unfortunately Mr. Saffron was just as mad with the police an hour later when they asked why he had bashed in the fenders of a parked car outside his apartment…” Etc. etc.
George telephoned a few people who would know and found that the case, though trivial, would make further headlines if only because of Saffron’s emphatic denials and generally truculent behaviour in court that morning. But as he had admitted a few drinks at the dinner and been unable to pass a sobriety test, he might just as well have pleaded guilty from the outset. On the whole he was lucky to get off with a fifty-dollar fine.
George was working late at the office that evening and about ten o’clock Randolph called him again. “Still missing, George, but a scrap more news. We finally got the hotel clerk to admit that she went out again about half an hour after checking in. She’d changed to street clothes and drove off in her car. Now where could she go alone at half-past one in the morning?”
“Ah,” said George, beginning to chuckle because of the twinge of jealousy that made him catch his breath.
Randolph ignored the frivolity. “Well, it so happens we do know where she went, because the clerk eavesdropped on a phone call. You’d never guess.”
“I probably wouldn’t. Where was it?”
“The Observatory on Mount Wilson. She called up somebody there and asked if she could look at the stars.”
“Any proof that she did?”
“Not yet, but someone’s on his way there to find out. Have to tread carefully, we don’t want the papers to make another sensation.”
After Randolph hung up, George telephoned the Observatory. He wouldn’t have been a good lawyer if he hadn’t been able to ask a straight question without making it seem important. Within five minutes he was talking to a quiet-spoken man who said he was Professor Lingard and readily confirmed that Miss Arundel had indeed visited the Observatory the previous night. “Anything wrong?” asked the Professor.
“Not a thing,” answered George. “She just didn’t keep an appointment for lunch, but she often does things like that—she’s a little haywire about times and places. We just wondered what she was up to during the small hours, that’s all. ‘We’ is her studio and I’m her lawyer.” And he laughed as if the whole thing was just part of some good-hearted fun he was having.
The Professor did not attempt to share the fun, but he explained with great seriousness how it had all come about. He said that about 1 A.M. Miss Arundel had telephoned to ask if it were a right time for coming up to look at the sky. No, he didn’t know her well, he had met her only once before, but they had talked about astronomy and he had invited her to visit the Observatory some suitable night. That night being one of the best, he had answered sure, come by all means. He himself was at work with his assistant, as always when weather conditions were thus favourable. She had reached the Observatory about two-thirty and he had been slightly surprised that she was alone—she hadn’t mentioned anyone else, but somehow he had assumed she would have company on the rather lonely drive to the mountain-top. They had spent perhaps an hour at the big telescope; she had then said she must go. He and his assistant had taken her to her car about a quarter to four.
“Did she say she was going straight home?”
“I imagined she was. We talked about it being sunrise before she’d get there.”
“So she’s probably asleep still… Well, thanks, Professor, it’s been very kind of you.”
He was just about to hang up when the Professor added, with a blandness that George thought remarkable: “I suppose she never arrived home at all and you’re looking for her? I’m afraid I can’t help you much about that. She was wide awake when she left and certainly able to drive a car. I myself drove down the mountain about half an hour later and there was no sign of any accident.”
“Did you expect one?” George asked sharply.
“There’s a dangerous part of the road where several cars have gone over in recent months.”
“And you wondered about it enough to follow her and make sure?”
“Yes… for some reason I can’t quite explain… I did.”
“That’s a strange thing.”
“It is, isn’t it? But she was rather strange too. Behind a surface cheerfulness I’d have guessed her in acute distress of some kind.”
“Look here, Professor, I think we ought to meet personally to talk about all this…”
The Professor agreed, but before George could fix an appointment his secretary had entered with a typewritten message: “Randolph’s been trying to phone you again. He said it’s important—about Miss Arundel.”
George got rid of the Professor as best he could and then called Randolph, who said simply: “She’s gone off with Saffron. It’ll be in the morning papers along with the drunk case. The real topper of toppers. Some paper up the Coast just spotted them together in a hotel. Calls it an elopement. I dare say this means we’re through with her as well—I don’t know what else we can do. If only these people would realize we don’t give a damn what their morals are, provided they don’t make trouble for US with ‘em… Personally, I can’t understand it. Not only throwing away a career but for God’s sake what on earth can she see in Saffron? What on earth DID she see? Don’t suppose we’ll ever get the whole truth about that.”
“Do you ever expect to get the whole truth about anything?” George asked, with all his lawyer’s experience. But behind the hardboiledness he felt a little sad. He was rather sure he would never meet another woman who would make
him—even fleetingly—question the validity of his bachelorhood. He added: “She must have had an interesting life, Randy. Born in Ireland, she told me—on a farm… I wonder how she ever…” But there were so many things he wondered.
* * *
PART ONE
At the convent school just outside Dublin, Carey had nourished ambitions to be either a nun or an actress; the nuns dissuaded her from the former, and her mother was equally against the latter. Mrs. Arundel, however, died when Carey was fifteen, and a year later, after a period of idleness at home, the girl managed to get a small part at the Abbey Theatre. It was in a bad play that lasted a week, and the sole press report that noticed her at all called her ‘an interesting newcomer’. But whatever she had or lacked, she was both eager and popular, so that during later seasons she was given a number of even smaller parts in other plays. She read all the books she could get hold of about acting and theatrecraft, she studied plays and actors and tried to copy their tricks (some of which, at the Abbey, were among the neatest in the world), and occasionally she put into her lines a curious quality that riveted an audience’s attention in the wrong place and made the director wrinkle his forehead in dismay.
She was a small girl, delicately featured, with a generous expressive mouth that twisted a little when she smiled, as if (a doctor admirer once said) she had once had a very slight attack of Bell’s palsy and had only ninety-nine per cent recovered. Dark hair and grey-blue eyes added to a total that might have taken no first prize in a beauty contest, yet might well have drawn more glances than the winner. Her figure, slow to develop, was still boyish at a time when her voice had already acquired a richness rare even in a mature woman; it was the most striking thing about her, this voice— low pitched, never shrill, yet capable of catching the random ear as colour catches the eye. (Much later, a critic said: “Whenever she speaks, her voice gives a command performance”, but ‘command’ was not quite the word for a compulsion yielded to so happily. And another critic said, also much later: “She has a quality of womanhood so ample, and in a peculiar way so purposeless, that the nerves of the critic unclench and even his judgment is off guard; for this reason she can often be over-praised, but never under-enjoyed”.) At school she had been a bright, gay, normal pupil, cleverer than the average, but no bluestocking. She liked horses, games, picnics. A ribald sense of humour had sometimes got her into scrapes, but never seriously; she had many friends and no enemies, and when she recited Portia’s speech at the school’s annual concert the nuns applauded affectionately, not thinking she was specially good (and she wasn’t), but beguiled by her voice into a vision they found vicariously satisfying—that of wifehood and motherhood in the well-tempered Catholic life.