everybody’s got the rat poison out of their system, maybe we can give it to you the way you want it.”
Ned Gammon nodded. “Nothing like a little hamming to clear the air. All right here we go.”
He went back beside the camera. The assistant shouted “roll ‘em” and the scene went through without a hitch.
“Cut,” Gammon said. “Print that one. Break for lunch everybody.”
The actors came down a flight of rough wooden steps and nodded to Wilson. Mavis Weld came last, having stopped to put on a terry-cloth robe and a pair of beach sandals. She stopped dead when she saw me. Wilson stepped forward.
“Hello, George,” Mavis Weld said, staring at me. “Want something from me?”
“Mr. Marlowe would like a few words with you. Okay?”
“Mr. Marlowe?”
Wilson gave me a quick sharp look. “From Ballou’s office. I supposed you knew him.”
“I may have seen him.” She was still staring at me. “What is it?”
I didn’t speak.
After a moment she said, “Thanks, George. Better come along to my dressing room, Mr. Marlowe.”
She turned and walked off around the far side of the set. A green and white dressing room stood against the wall. The name on the door was Miss Weld. At the door she turned and looked around carefully. Then she fixed her lovely blue eyes on my face.
“And now, Mr. Marlowe?”
“You do remember me?”
“I believe so.”
“Do we take up where we left off—or have a new deal with a clean deck?”
“Somebody let you in here Who? Why? That takes explaining.”
“I’m working for you. I’ve been paid a retainer and Ballou has the receipt.”
“How very thoughtful. And suppose I don’t want you to work for me? Whatever your work is.”
“All right, be fancy,” I said. I took the Dancers photo out of my pocket and held it out. She looked at me a long steady moment before she dropped her eyes. Then she looked at the snapshot of herself and Steelgrave in the booth. She looked at it gravely without movement. Then very slowly she reached up and touched the tendrils of damp hair at the side of her face. Ever so slightly she shivered. Her hand came out and she took the photograph. She stared at it. Her eyes came up again slowly, slowly.
“Well?” she asked.
“I have the negative and some other prints. You would have had them, if you had had more time and known where to look. Or if he had stayed alive to sell them to you.”
“I’m a little chilly,” she said. “And I have to eat some lunch.” She held the photo out to me.
“You’re a little chilly and you have to eat some lunch,” I said.
I thought a pulse beat in her throat. But the light was not too good. She smiled very faintly. The bored- aristocrat touch.
“The significance of all this escapes me,” she said.
“You’re spending too much time on yachts. What you mean is I know you and I know Steelgrave, so what has this photo got that makes anybody give me a diamond dog collar?”
“All right,” she said. “What?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But if finding out is what it takes to shake you out of this duchess routine, I’ll find out. And in the meantime you’re still chilly and you still have to eat some lunch.”
“And you’ve waited too long,” she said quietly. “You haven’t anything to sell. Except perhaps your life.”
“I’d sell that cheap. For love of a pair of dark glasses and a delphinium-blue hat and a crack on the head from a high-heeled slipper.”
Her mouth twitched as if she was going to laugh. But there was no laughter in her eyes.
“Not to mention three slaps in the face,” she said. “Goodbye, Mr. Marlowe. You came too late. Much, much too late.”
“For me—or for you?” She reached back and opened the door of the dressing room.
“I think for both of us.” She went in quickly, leaving the door open.
“Come in and shut the door,” her voice said from the dressing room.
I went in and shut the door. It was no fancy custom-built star’s dressing room. Strictly utility only. There was a shabby couch, one easy chair, a small dressing table with mirror and two lights, a straight chair in front of it, a tray that had held coffee.
Mavis Weld reached down and plugged in a round electric heater. Then she grabbed up a towel and rubbed the damp edges of her hair. I sat down on the couch and waited.
“Give me a cigarette.” She tossed the towel to one side. Her eyes came close to my face as I lit the cigarette for her. “How did you like that little scene we ad libbed on the yacht?”
