“Harry’s career is doing very badly. The studio will not be renewing his contract. He has no money of his own and as soon as the divorce is completed, he will have no money of mine. His father has a slightly better than menial job, and Harry owes a great deal to a very impatient gambler in Las Vegas.”
“Maybe not a good candidate for murderer, but how about blackmail?”
“No,” she said, “He has no spine. He’s perfectly typecast in his movies, but this really doesn’t concern me, Mr. Peters.” She looked at her wrist-watch and said, “Now, I’m afraid you’ll just have to excuse me, I’m expecting someone.”
“One last thing,” I said, fishing into my pocket and pulling out the torn photo with the head of the girl. “Cunningham was pushing his blackmail with a photograph of a certain actor and a young girl in an indelicate situation. I have a photograph of the girl. Can you tell me if you ever saw her with Cunningham.”
I handed the photograph fragment to her. She looked at it blankly for a few seconds and then handed it back to me.
“No,” she said, tossing her golden hair, “I don’t know that girl. Now, you’ll have to …”
Something had changed, but I didn’t know what. I did know she was suddenly very anxious to get rid of me, and I decided to slow things down a little.
“I’m afraid I have to ask just a few more questions,” I said, taking a step toward her and trying to look determined. “It’s either that or answer questions from the police. Cunningham has been murdered. You knew Cunningham. Your husband knew that blackmail was going on.”
She glanced at her watch again and suddenly shivered and looked at me in a different way. I didn’t know what was happening, but there was a change in her attitude. She had made up her mind about something.
“Mr. Peters; Toby,” she said softly, looking intently at me so long that I wished I had shaved before I came, “there is something I want to show you, something important in the pool house.”
She smiled and opened the door into the garden. I walked behind her, and she waited this time till I caught up. She leaned very close to my ear breathing softly.
“It is very important.”
“I’m with you,” I said, and I was.
The heart-shaped pool was as blue as her eyes, with a few wooden lounge chairs around it. We walked around the pool into the pool house, and she closed the door behind us. The light from outside flickered through a window bounced from the surface of the pool. The room was small, with a large white wicker chair and a black leather lounge. The floor was covered with dark carpet. There was a bar in the corner and the photographs on the wall were all of Brenda Stallings. They were stills from her movies.
On the lounge was the morning newspaper. GERMANY CONSIDERS INVASION OF ENGLAND, was the headline, and the story under it, with a photograph, was TROTSKY ATTACKED, DIES OF WOUNDS. She swept the newspaper and current history on the floor and motioned for me to sit on the leather lounge. I did.
She stood in front of me for about a minute and then, slowly and deliberately, unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Beneath it she wore a pink slip.
“Are we going swimming?” I asked.
She shook her head no and unbuttoned her white blouse. The bra matched the slip and her skin was tan and smooth. It was happening, but I couldn’t figure out why and didn’t want to ask. Brenda Stallings, the beautiful blonde who had appeared in front of me in theaters ten times her own size in love scenes with Gable and Freddie March, was looking at me as if I were Flynn.
“I don’t get it,” I said reluctantly as she bent over to unbutton my shirt. “I’m not giving you the photograph.”
She smiled and finished unbuttoning my shirt. Then she leaned over and put her mouth against mine. She caught mine open. To say I was excited would be as useless as saying FDR wanted a third term.
“I don’t want the photograph,” she whispered.
She unzipped my pants and helped me out of them and then stood back to drop her bra and slip so that I could see her. Her breasts stood up and the hair between her legs was golden yellow. If she’d asked then, I would have gladly given her the photograph and the hell with the case, Adelman and Flynn.
I dropped my drawers and sat naked on the lounge looking at her as she walked toward me, the light from the pool reflecting against her browned body.
She leaned over me again gently touching the stitches in my head. Then she kissed them and pushed me on my back on the lounge.
“How did you break your nose?” she whispered, returning to my face.
“Accidents,” I said, thinking of other things.
“You’ve had a violent life haven’t you?” she said, her wide blue eyes inches from mine and her body on me.
“More than most,” I said. I knew I was sweating.
She was up on top of me with a push, and I felt myself entering her. She was soft, wet and warm and moving rapidly. I was confused and barely in control. I don’t know how I knew she was ready, but I knew, and it was just in time. I let go and she groaned happily. She leaned forward and kissed me again for a long time before getting off of me and moving away.
“That was nice,” she said, putting her clothes back on.
I followed her lead and began to dress. I think I was shaking, but I don’t think I showed it.
When I was dressed and standing, she moved close to me and put her arms around my waist. I put my battered nose into her hair and smelled perfume or sweat.
“We’ll have to do this again,” she said taking my hand and leading me to a door at the back of the pool house.
“The sooner, the better,” I said. She kissed my cheek and opened the door. About ten yards in front of us was a gate. It looked like the rear of the house.
“You can go through there and around to the front for your car. Next time we’ll meet at your place.”
“I don’t think you’ll like it,” I said, grinning at her stupidly.
“I’ll like it,” she said moving away and back to the pool house.
Then I heard the voice, a girl’s voice from the house or the pool. I couldn’t make out the words.
Brenda looked suddenly nervous and waved goodby. Something was strange. I took a step toward her and not toward the gate. She started to close the pool house door. I put my hand on it, and we repeated the scene we had gone through at the front door.
“I want you to leave, Mr. Peters,” she whispered urgently.
“I thought I was Toby, and we were in love,” I whispered back, forcing my way into the pool house past her. She followed me to the door.
On the other side of the pool, across from us stood a girl in a blue dress. She was looking into the sun and squinting at us.
She took a step or two toward us around the pool, and I could see that she looked about 14, a little older than she did in the photograph with Flynn. I fingered the picture of the girl’s head I had in my pocket as she walked toward us, a slight touch of curiosity on her face.
“Mother,” she said, looking at Brenda, “you weren’t in the house, so …”
“That’s all right, Lynn,” said Brenda brightly. “Mr. Peters is from Warners. He was talking to me about a picture. Well, Mr. Peters, perhaps you could call me later, and we’ll finish our talk. I think we can work something out.”
She shook my hand and smiled as if nothing had happened. I had been taken, but not far enough. She had wanted me out of that house when the girl came home, and she knew the way to get me out. She hadn’t batted an eyelash when I had showed her her daughter’s picture.
“Your mother is a very fine actress,” I said to the girl.
The girl looked childish and innocent. Her eyes scanned me, my clothes and my scars with some question about my credentials as a studio executive, but she was too polite to say anything.
“Brenda,” I said, taking both of the woman’s hands. “I’ve enjoyed our talk, and I look forward to hearing what you have to say later. I’ll call.”
“Please do,” she said, guiding me back through the house. The girl trailed behind us.
As I stepped out the front door and down the stairs I looked back at the mother and daughter. The girl was
