She even looked beautiful at that hour with her hair pulled back, and big tinted sunglasses.
One day he watched Sunday leave, and then waited for the Mexican girl to take the child shopping. It was easy for him to break into the house through the patio. He wandered around, sniffing anxiously through her belongings. He wrote down her phone number and took some pictures from a large stack lying on a table. In her bedroom he pocketed a lacy bra and panties; then he left as stealthily as he had arrived.
In his mind he knew that with Marge out of the way he and Sunday would be together. It never occurred to him that she would refuse him once he revealed himself to her.
He wrote her many letters, each one better than the last. On two occasions he even risked telephoning her, but she had cut off instantly both times, so he decided it was better to wait until he was in a position to present himself personally.
* * *
Marge waited two weeks before she told Louella of her discovery. She was having a good time. Herbert was doing what she wanted and she didn’t need it spoiled in any way.
Why should she tell Louella anyway? It was none of her business. Sometimes Louella was almost as mean as Herbert, especially last Saturday night when she had made her accept one of the ‘circle of friends’ in a most unspeakable manner.
‘I don’t like to do it like that,’ Marge had protested. ‘It hurts!’
‘Do you want to leave the circle?’ Louella demanded coldly. ‘There are plenty of other women who would be happy to be in your position.’
Marge agreed, hated it, and was reduced to tears.
Louella had laughed in front of everyone. ‘You’re behaving like a sixteen-year-old virgin,’ she had jeered.
Later she had been sorry and made Marge hot milk and chatted sweetly to her.
It was only pride of accomplishment that made her finally reveal to Louella what Herbert had done. Her accomplishment at being clever enough to find out. As she was telling Louella, the enormity of it struck her for the first time. Herbert had killed a girl, murdered her. It was unthinkable.
She started to blubber and cry and panic. Perhaps by even knowing about it she was an accomplice.
Louella confirmed her worst fears. ‘Of course you’re part of it,’ she remarked. ‘Just by not going to the police makes you as guilty as him.’
Marge jumped with fright. ‘You know too,’ she blurted out.
‘Yes, but I might go to the police.’
Marge’s face crumpled in horror. ‘But – but you wouldn’t do that.’
‘Perhaps I should. I didn’t realize how serious this would turn out to be.’
Marge started to cry loudly. Why had she ever interfered? Why had she ever become friendly with Louella Crisp? She had been happy watching her television and eating.
‘However,’ Louella continued, ‘maybe as your friend I can help you. Of course it will take money. How much do you have?’
‘A thousand dollars,’ Marge stammered. ‘It’s all I’ve got, though, kind of my savings for my old age.’ She gave a sickly grin. ‘What do you need money for?’
Louella clucked her tongue. ‘If you’re going to ask stupid questions I don’t think I can help you. We need professional advice and of course there’s my friend at police headquarters. A thousand dollars won’t be enough if we’re to get this matter dropped, the investigation quashed.’
‘What investigation?’ Marge squealed in alarm.
‘I didn’t want to worry you before, but I suspected what Herbert had done, so I made some discreet enquiries and I found that they are pursuing this case very strongly.’
‘Oh!’ Marge went white and her mouth hung open in a strange disjointed way.
‘Of course, with, say, three thousand dollars I think we can settle everything.’
Marge started to cry again. ‘I don’t have three thousand dollars.’
‘What about Herbert?’ Louella’s mind was racing. Was three thousand dollars too much to ask for? Marge, the silly bitch, believed her story, but would Herbert see it for the blackmail it was? He was probably smarter than Marge, but how much smarter could he be, having married her in the first place?
‘Herbie doesn’t have any money,’ Marge whined. ‘We’re always behind, catchin’ up on payin’ for somethin’ or other.’
‘You had better talk to him.’ Louella said coldly.
‘I can’t do that! He’d kill me.’
‘Then there is nothing I can do to help you. I shall have to go straight to the police, otherwise I’ll find myself in the same position as you, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail.’
Marge shuddered. ‘I’ll get you my thousand dollars,’ she said quickly, ‘and I’ll talk to Herbie, he’ll think of something. Is that OK? Will that help us?’
Louella nodded. ‘I should think so. Only I don’t expect my friend can wait too long for the rest of the money.’
* * *
Herbert didn’t go home that night. He had found a way to I get onto the patio on the beach side of Sunday’s house. By crawling along on his hands and knees, then resting on his stomach, he could peer through a chink in the curtains into her bedroom.
He waited two hours after the lights went off, to be sure everyone was asleep. He was especially nervous that the little dog would wake up, start yapping, and give him away.
He inched himself slowly and silently towards her window, then raised himself to look inside.
His luck was in. She hadn’t bothered to pull the drapes at all, and he had a clear view of her sprawled across the bed, covered only by a thin sheet. One long brown leg was thrown over the sheet, and a bare arm.
It occurred to him that she was naked beneath the sheet, and that if he waited patiently she would throw it off altogether. His mouth went dry at the thought, and his breathing became laboured and heavy.
It would be so easy, he thought, to force the safety-catch on her window and let himself in. He was confident that once he identified himself as the writer of the letters, she would welcome him with open arms. But it was too soon. He wasn’t ready. He had to be free.
Chewing on his lower lip, he crouched uncomfortably, watching her until dawn. Then he made his way back to his car and dozed until she emerged at seven o’clock and set off for the studios.
He followed her. Only when she was safely inside the studio gates did he go home to Marge.
Chapter Forty-Three
Charlie was in a depression. His birthday came and went and he celebrated it alone at his hotel.
He had not telephoned Phillipa since the night she had walked out on him. He had given up the struggle as far as she was concerned.
He took out Thames Mason, who bored him with talk about the number of magazine covers she had appeared on that year. He took out a mousey studio secretary, who bored him, period. He took out a pseudo-intellectual magazine writer, who wanted to be tied up and raped. He took out a blonde pretty ding-a-ling, who unfortunately reminded him of Dindi. He took out a different woman every night.
One evening, sitting in the back of the Mercedes with a Swedish starlet, he complained to George. ‘You drive this car like a bus, can’t you get a move on?’
George glanced in the rear-view mirror. It was very unlike Charlie to be picky with him, when in any case he was already exceeding the speed limit.
Charlie leaned back in the car, trying to avoid the onslaught of words from the Swede. She hadn’t stopped all night. After five minutes of her company he had been ready to slit her throat, and now they had been together for two long hours.
‘So the producer said to me, “You are a beautiful girl, Lena, and the star refuses to have you in the same scene with her. Can you blame her?” he said. So they cut me out. Of course I can understand it, Clara is ten years older than me and—’
Charlie tuned out. Enough was enough. He would phone Phillipa the next day.
‘Come on, George, I’ve got a seven o’clock call tomorrow,’ he said irritably.
George put his foot down and the big car surged forward. They were approaching a changing light and, sensing his boss’s impatience, George pressed his foot down even harder. They could just make it across the light.
That was the last George remembered before the accident. He never even saw the Cadillac coming the other way.
In the split second before the cars hit, Charlie knew what was happening, and he grabbed the girl, covering her with his body.
He woke up two days later in the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital.
It was the strangest feeling to open your eyes and not know where you were or what was happening. There was a tube attached to his arm, but apart from that he couldn’t feel or see any sign of injury.
He was in a plain white room. A nurse sat next to the bed, knitting, her head bent in concentration.
‘Nurse,’ he tried to say. His voice came out as a dried-up croak, just enough to attract her attention.
She dropped the knitting and jumped up. ‘Mr Brick,’ she fluttered, ‘you’re awake, that’s wonderful. Please don’t move, I’ll call for the doctor.’
‘Must have some water,’ he gasped. His throat felt swollen and intolerably dry.
She lifted his head and allowed him a few sips, although he could have drunk the whole pitcher twice over. Then she departed, returning with a doctor and two more nurses.
* * *
Slowly, he pieced together the story. The two cars, travelling in opposite directions, had both been trying to jump the light. The passenger in the front seat of the Cadillac died. The driver and George were both suffering from multiple injuries. Charlie, by protecting the girl in the back, had smashed his head on the side and been unconscious for two days. The girl – Lena – had escaped with a few bruises.
Charlie had a bump on his head the size of an egg, and a nasty cut across his forehead. He felt relieved to be alive. It had been a close call, and the doctors had been unable to predict how long he would stay unconscious. It could have been weeks or even months.
‘I never realized so many people cared,’ Charlie told Clay a few days later. ‘You should see some of the letters I’ve had, it’s bloody marvellous.’ He was thinking in particular of a letter from Lorna, a letter full of all the love and affection she had never given him in their marriage. God, she had changed. But then so had he.
‘There were a lot of people thought you might not pull through,’ Clay remarked. ‘Those head injuries are very dodgy things.’
‘I’ve seen the papers. Christ, the English ones are almost obituaries. But I feel good. In fact I never really felt anything except a diabolical headache when I woke up. It’s poor old George I’m worried about. He’s broken about everything there is to break. They say he’ll be OK although it will take some time. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.’
‘I wanted to talk to you about that. We’ve got this great chauffeur who we never seem to use. Natalie is too tired to go shopping now, and I prefer to drive myself anyway, so he’s all yours.’
‘Wait a minute, I don’t want to—’
‘No argument, Charlie. You don’t need all the drag of interviewing and finding someone, this guy will do you fine. His name is Herbert. I’ll have him meet you tomorrow. In fact I’ll come with him.’
* * *
Charlie was anxious to leave the hospital. The doctors had insisted that he stay there for at least a week’s observation, but he was bored and jumpy and felt he didn’t need to. Besides there was the film he was shooting; the delay was costing a lot of money. He knew that while he had been unconscious there had been talk of a replacement. The director and producer had both been to see him, and he had reassured them that he would be back within a week.
He had received a stream of visitors.
Laurel and Floss came, friendly and anxious, bearing a gift of chocolate cake heavily impregnated with pot which Charlie, unknowingly, had given to the nurses, who had never been quite the same since.
He was glad to see Phillipa, serious and apologetic about the last evening they had spent together. After all, there were more things to a relationship than sex.
The Swedish starlet who had been in the car wreck with him was basking in all the publicity. She came to visit him with two photographers. He saw her, but banned the photographers. She was furious.
At his age, and in his position, he knew it was ridiculous to run around with little starlets just so people would think what a swinger he was. Why should he care what people thought?
True to his word, Clay arrived with his chauffeur to take Charlie home.
Home was his suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, which seemed depressingly quiet and empty without George pottering about.
Clay had invited him to stay a few days with Natalie and himself, but Charlie declined. He wanted to finish the movie and then take a holiday. In a way things had worked out for the best. Now he was not committed until the end of the year and could do what he wanted.
He fell once more into the routine of working at the studio all day, and seeing Phillipa in the evenings.
He made good use of Clay’s chauffeur, but found him cold and withdrawn and could not establish any contact with him. This disturbed Charlie, who needed some sort of rapport with the people who worked for him.
Phillipa complained that Herbert was always staring at her in a strange way. Charlie replied that it was because most of her long hippy clothes were transparent.
‘I’ve seen him somewhere before,’ she said, ‘I wish I could remember where. I don’t like him. I hope you get rid of him soon.’
The next day Charlie gave Herbert a hundred-dollar bonus, and sent him back to Clay.
Clay, who really no longer needed him, gave him a month’s salary and dismissed him.
It was nearly a week later when Phillipa remembered where she had seen him. ‘It was on the Strip one night, several months ago. He was cruising along in a big black car and he picked up this girl. I didn’t know her but we had all been chatting – she was in a bad way – needed money. Anyway this creep in the car picked her up and the next day she was found murdered in the hills.’
Charlie laughed incredulously. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Why?’ Her face was tight and serious. ‘It was him, I’m sure of it.’
‘Oh, come on, you sound like a bad movie, love. Anyway, if it had been that important, you would have remembered him before.’
‘I think we should do something.’
Charlie laughed. ‘What did you have in mind? Phone up Clay and say, “Hey, about your chauffeur – Phillipa just remembered she saw him pick up a girl several months ago who was later found murdered”?’
‘I can’t stand you when you’re flippant, you remind me of my mother.’
She knew how to put the boot in.
‘All right, if it will make you happy we’ll call the police, and you’ll find out the case was solved the next day, and Herbert what’s-his-name will sue you for a fortune.’
‘Forget it, Charlie, let’s just forget it.’
Chapter Forty-Four
A week after Claude’s return he telephoned Sunday. She could hardly keep the hurt and anger out of her voice.
‘I’ve been so busy,’ he complained.
‘Didn’t you get my messages?’ she asked.
‘Come up to my hotel this evening. We’ll have dinner, I’ll explain.’
‘Don’t you want to come to my house and see Jean-Pierre?’
‘He’s fine, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She bit her lip, hating and loving at the same time. ‘But I thought you’d want to see him.’
‘Another time,’ he said brusquely. ‘Tonight I want to talk to you. Be here at eight.’
He hung up, leaving her angry and confused. She knew that if she were smart, she would give him back his child and walk away from the relationship. And she planned to be smart.
* * *
Claude opened the door of his suite. He was wearing an all-bla
ck outfit and tinted glasses. He smoked a short black cigarette.
Sunday couldn’t help thinking how much he looked like a French movie star. The compelling, almost ugly face, the long rangey body. She felt her reserves start to crumble.
The attraction, she reminded herself, was purely physical. He had come at her with his body first, and that was all he had ever given.
‘Hello.’ He kissed her briefly on the cheek.
She brushed her hand in her hair nervously, determined to stay unaffected. ‘Hello, Claude, you’re looking well.’ Everything she wanted to say sounded like an accusation, so she remained silent. What she wanted was a drink, an exchange of small talk, and then a discussion about when Jean-Pierre should be delivered back – nothing dramatic, no hysterics.
‘Your breasts are getting smaller,’ he remarked, rubbing his hands familiarly across them.
She backed away angrily. With a sudden sickness, she realized that merely his touch made her desire him, and she knew that he knew it too.
Would it matter if she went to bed with him one last time? Men behaved like that continually. After all, she was a grown woman, and there was nothing wrong in wanting sex.
As if reading her thoughts, Claude said, ‘Let’s screw first and talk after.’ He was already peeling off his black silk turtle-neck sweater.
She hesitated. She wanted very much to be able to say no.
‘Come on.’ He stood naked in front of her and roughly fiddled with the thin snake-skin belt on her brown trousers.
She stood still while he stripped her item by item, until her clothes rested in a small pile beside them.
Then he was on her, knocking her on the floor, his hands and mouth rough.
She was silent, listening to the stream of obscenities uttered in French and English. It reminded her in a frightening way of the letters she had been getting.