get pretty scared.”
I began to get seriously worried. It was quite obvious to me that he was making a tremendous effort to seem casual, but every now and then I would get a glimpse of an expression in his eyes that told me he was in a very bad shape. There was no doubt that he was terrified, almost as pathetically as a child awakening from some evil nightmare.
I asked him when he was getting married.
“Early next month. I have two more races, and then I’m going to Key West for my honeymoon. That’s really what I want to speak to you about. I want you to come along for some fishing.”
I stared at him. “My dear fellow. Not on your honeymoon. Why, damn it—”
He laughed. “For God’s sake don’t be so old-fashioned. Of course you can. Myra likes plenty of company. Quite a lot of the crowd will be there.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, George, it’s quite impossible. I’ve got my work to think about, and I’m just finishing a novel. No, I’m sorry.”
When I said that, I realized that there was a lot more behind this peculiar wedding than George had told me. He suddenly seemed to lose control of himself, and I thought he was going to break down. He seized my arm in a grip that made me wince. “Don’t let me down,” he said, “I’ve been relying on you. I don’t think I could stand it if you weren’t there.”
I said, rather sharply, “What the devil is this business?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ask me. You’ll know in time. Don’t say you won’t come. You must come.”
I finally gave him my promise. Almost immediately he braced up and seemed anxious to get away. “I’m sorry about all this,” he said, signalling to the waiter, “but I am frightfully nervy after a race. A good night’s sleep will put me right, I expect. I can’t say how glad I am that you’re coming. It’ll be like old times, won’t it?”
He drove me back to my apartment, but refused to come in. “I’ll write and give you the details as soon as I get everything fixed up. Myra will be tickled when she hears you are an author. She gets a big kick out of that sort of thing.”
I looked at him sharply because I was almost certain that there had been a sneer in his voice, but I could detect nothing from his expression. We shook hands and parted. I went up to my apartment in a very thoughtful mood. It had been an evening full of strange and uncomfortable incidents.
The following day I obtained a clue to the whole thing. It came about in the course of a casual conversation with Drayton, my senior director. He and I had just finished an excellent lunch, and I was on the point of leaving to buy a harness for the fishing trip with George.
Drayton asked me where I was going to fish. I told him how I had met George, and I could see an immediate interest at the mention of his name.
“Hemingway? He’s the fellow in oil, isn’t he?”
“I really don’t know. I have never asked. This Hemingway is the motor-racing fellow.”
“Yes. I didn’t know you knew him. Between you and me, I’m afraid he’s going to run into a packet of trouble before long.”
Sensing that I was on the very clue that might explain all this business I sat down again. “What sort of trouble?”
Drayton lowered his voice. “I understand that the particular oil-fields he’s invested in have dried up without warning. His firm are facing one of the biggest crashes in the history of Wall Street. No one knows about it yet. Engineers are out there making a report. It has never happened before. Everyone thought oil had been struck in a big way. It lasted until all the necessary machinery was set up and then—finish. It is incredible.”
I stared at him. “He’s getting married next month,” I said. “Poor devil. I suppose he’s aware what has happened?”
Drayton coughed. “His future wife is Myra Luckton. She is an heiress in her own right to over six million dollars. I should imagine the marriage comes at a very opportune moment.”
Well, there it was. The cat was out of the bag, and I didn’t have to wonder any more. I knew. It was now perfectly obvious that George was marrying this girl in order to save his financial position, and he fell very considerably in my estimation. I didn’t say anything to Drayton, but went out to make my purchases. Now that I had seen the beginning of this thing I was determined to see the finish.
Time passed fairly quickly, as I was working hard to finish the book before going to Key West. I noticed that George had been in another race. This time the newspapers carried two-inch type about his sensational escape from death. It appears that he rounded a corner with the utmost recklessness, and got into a skid while travelling well over a hundred miles an hour. The car overturned several times, throwing him clear. He escaped unhurt, but the car was utterly destroyed by fire.
Reading the description made me think of the day I saw him race, and I tossed the paper away with a grimace of disgust. I could see the look of terror in his face and wondered doubtfully how his nerves were reacting to this last escape.
A week after this I received a note from George asking me down to Key West on the following Saturday. He said in his letter that he would not ask me to the wedding as he knew I should be bored with the hundreds of people who were turning up.
His handwriting revealed that he was in a very bad state of nerves, and the allusion to his last race struck me as significant. I hoped the change by the Mexican Bay would do him good, but I must confess the trip had lost a lot of its savour for me now that I knew why he was marrying the girl.
However, Saturday came round after a busy week clearing up and, to save time, I did the journey by air.
I went immediately to the very beautiful house near the beach that George had rented. As my car swung into the short circular drive I was conscious of a considerable amount of noise and laughter drifting through the large open windows. It seemed that George and noise were inevitably linked together.
George came running out. He was wearing white trousers, a dark red shirt and sandals. I had to admit that he looked extraordinarily handsome as he stood on the steps with a smile on his face. “What a grand sight,” he said, shaking my hand. “How are you? They are all longing to meet a real live author. Come on in.”
He had been drinking heavily and was slightly unsteady on his feet. The reek of whisky on his breath was so strong that I turned my head with a slight grimace of disgust. He said with a grin: “Sorry, ol’ man, but we’ve been cel-cel—you know. Come on in, an’ get tight. I warn you, you’ve got to get tight an’ stay tight if you’re staying in this dump.”
He took me into a large lounge. At the far end, through open double doors, I could see a number of people sitting or standing with glasses in their hands. They all looked in our direction. One of the girls came to the door, then moved towards us.
George said, “This is Myra,” and introduced me.
Myra Luckton’s name was familiar to me as frequent references to her parties appeared in the Press, but I don’t remember ever seeing a photograph of her, and, consequently, it came as a considerable shock meeting her for the first time. It was entirely due to a habit of wearing a poker face that I did not openly reveal my dismay.
It is exceedingly difficult to describe Myra. She was above the average height, small-featured, silky platinum hair, and, of course, she was perfectly groomed. So much for what God and money had given her, but her expression took away everything that could have counted in her favour. To be brutally frank, she looked like a very expensive street-walker. Her eyes were cold, calculating and vicious, and her mouth was hard. She gave me the impression that she was utterly brazen, and there was nothing she would hesitate to do to satisfy a lust for sensation.
I’m afraid I must have betrayed a little of my dismay, or else she was very shrewd, because, as she took my hand, she gave me a little jeering laugh and said: “What a lovely man. I do believe I’ve shocked him already.”
George was watching me too. “Take no notice of her,” he said, “she’s as tight as a tick.”
She laughed as he said that and put one slim white arm round his neck. “Do come in and meet the others,” she said. “They’ve all read your books and they think they’re too marvellous.”
