‘How much do you want? I have money, I can get more. How much?’
He paused. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could get money from her. The thought was appealing, but it was even more appealing to go ahead with his original plan.
‘Money can’t help the boy. We are going to a house. At this house you will do as you are told. You will not speak to anyone but me. One word in the wrong place and the child will die. At a signal from me there are people who will act, so don’t try and get away with anything. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand.’ She desperately tried to remember where she had heard his voice before. ‘And what am I supposed to do?’
‘Nothing that you haven’t done before and enjoyed. You should have waited for me. If you had waited for me I wouldn’t make you do this.’
‘Waited for you? Do I know you?’
‘Oh yes, you know me.’
It was like a continuation of the bad dream in Palm Springs. She felt sick and trapped. This must be Claude Hussan’s doing, although how could he involve Jean-Pierre? And who was the madman driving the car? She knew his voice . . . who was he?
* * *
Charlie was getting bored. Following Sunday had been a rid iculous, childish thing to do. He was not even positive it was she in the car; he had only caught a glimpse. And where the hell were they going? Away from Beverly Hills and down into dreary little streets with rows and rows of shabby houses.
Twice he decided to stop and twice he changed his mind, because having come so far he might as well see where she was going. Of course he wouldn’t let her see him; it would be too embarrassing to let her know he had followed her.
It occurred to him that he must fancy her. No, it was stronger than that. There was something about her . . . just something about her.
* * *
Esmé Mae peered once more at Jean-Pierre. He was fast asleep in bed, his long black lashes curling over innocent cheeks. Where was that little bit of a dog? She had looked for it everywhere. Its dinner was waiting, and Miss Simmons had said to be sure that the dog came in for its dinner.
Well, it must have run off up the beach somewhere, for Esmé Mae had shouted herself hoarse.
She pulled the covers up over Jean-Pierre and waddled into the kitchen for a good hot cup of coffee.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The car stopped.
The voice warned, ‘Now just remember everything I’ve said. If you do as you’re told, you’ll be getting back in this car in a couple of hours. We’ll collect the boy and I’ll take you both home. If you don’t co-operate – well, you know what to expect. The boy’s life is in your hands.’
She waited silently for the voice to present himself. There was no point in trying to scream or run. If he had Jean-Pierre, she would just have to do as he said.
The door opened and she saw they were in a quiet street. Herbert’s eyes avoided hers as he took her by the arm and helped her out of the car. She was almost sure she had never seen him before.
He walked her silently up the pathway to a small shabby house and rapped sharply on the door.
A woman answered it, small and brittle in a green satin dress with loads of fake jewellery.
They didn’t speak to each other, but her eyes darted over Sunday inquisitively.
Herbert hurried her up creaking stairs into a bedroom, and quickly shut the door. He was breaking out in a sweat. His clothes felt too tight, his skin clammy. He longed for a shower.
He leant against the door. ‘Take your clothes off,’ he said, ‘and put that on.’ He nodded at a black robe lying on the bed.
She stared at him.
‘Get your clothes off,’ he snarled.
Slowly she bent and pulled her boots off first; then turning her back to him, she slipped off her trousers and chiffon top. Underneath she wore flesh-coloured panties and bra. She put the robe over her head.
‘Everything off,’ Herbert stated. There was an uncomfortable tightness in his trousers.
‘Tell Claude the joke’s gone far enough,’ she said weakly. ‘I’ll finish the goddamn film, I’ll do it.’ She started to cry.
‘This is nothing to do with Claude – this is me – me. Don’t you know who I am?’
‘What do you want from me? What have I done?’
‘Stop snivelling and take the rest of your clothes off. It shouldn’t worry a whore to take her clothes off.’
Slowly she pulled the panties off under the robe. He took them from her and stuffed them in his pocket.
She fumbled with her bra and he said, ‘Take the robe off. I want to see you naked.’
She wondered if he would kill her. He had such blank and evil eyes. She shivered uncontrollably. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘Take the robe off,’ he muttered. He felt stifled, enclosed. A vein throbbed in his throat. His eyes were glazed.
She lifted the robe over her head and faced him.
He stared at her, filled with hate. His eyes roamed shiftily over her naked body.
Then before it was too late, he commanded, ‘Turn round and don’t look back. If you look back the boy will die!’
She turned away from him, shutting her eyes in terror. Clenching her body in anticipation of what was to come.
He ripped open his pants, his hands clumsy in their haste, and with a low anguished groan he relieved his desire into her panties, which he snatched from his pocket.
He made no attempt to approach her. Let her wait, let her suffer a little in waiting for his touch.
She heard him fumbling with his clothes, and then the short anguished groan. She caught her breath in disgust. She knew what he had done.
And then she knew who he was. It was the maniac who had written her all those obscene letters. It had to be! And the voice – now she was almost sure it was the same voice that had muttered obscenities to her over the phone.
Herbert felt strong again. Once more he was in control. He glanced guiltily at his watch. Louella would be waiting.
‘Put the robe on and follow me,’ he said.
* * *
Charlie parked on the other side of the street further down from the Lincoln.
He watched Sunday as she was hustled into the faded little house by the chauffeur.
It was all very odd. Why would she leave a première halfway through to come dashing down to this place? Perhaps this was where her family lived. But vaguely he remembered Carey telling him that she came from South America and that her parents were dead.
It was none of his business, of course, and she would probably be embarrassed and upset is she ever discovered he had followed her. Yet maybe he ought to stay around for five minutes. There was something not quite right.
He lit a cigarette, and wondered at his sudden hang-up with Sunday Simmons. She was only another actress. Beautiful of course, but just the sort he had sworn to stay away from. Mmm . . . there was definitely something different about her. He wanted to see her, to get to know her, to spend time together.
Of course she probably wouldn’t want to know about him. She probably had every guy in Hollywood after her. Clay literally drooled whenever her name was mentioned.
He shrugged and decided to drive off, but he hesitated, because while he had been sitting thinking about her, nine men had gone into the house and there was another one arriving now.
What was it, a party? If so, where were the girls?
He decided to wait just a little bit longer.
* * *
Marge knew what it was all right. It was a circle-of-friends evening. She bit her pudgy nails and muttered under her breath.
Louella thought she was so smart-assed clever. And Herbert, the two of them plotting and planning to deprive her of her rights.
Well, they weren’t as clever as all that. It was her right to attend all circle-of-friends meetings. She had paid, hadn’t she? She was a member, wasn’t she? She would exercise her rights and join in.
&nbs
p; The only problem was that she didn’t feel well. She had a nagging pain in her stomach, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. She found a bottle of brandy and took a few deep swigs. Then she popped a couple more chocolates in her mouth to take away the taste. Her head was throbbing and she felt dizzy from the alcohol.
To hell with Louella and Herbert. She was on her way.
* * *
Herbert whispered sharply to Sunday. They stood outside a closed door in the hallway of the house.
‘Now remember, whore,’ he said, ‘not one word or the boy gets it. Just do as your told. I’ll be watching you all the time.’
She shivered, cold in the nearly transparent black robe.
He opened the door and they walked in.
The room was lit by long black candles, and all around stood naked men, naked except for masks covering their faces.
The woman who had let her in approached them with arms outstretched. She was naked too, with stringy breasts hanging down. ‘Welcome to the “circle of friends”, my dear.’
Sunday shrank back as she tried to embrace her, and Herbert dug her sharply in the back.
Louella took her by the hand and led her over to what seemed like a board, covered with black velvet and propped against the wall. It was surrounded by black candles and reminded Sunday of a coffin.
The atmosphere was horribly weird – all the silent naked men in the flickering half-light, with Herbert hovering, still fully dressed.
‘Divest yourself of your robe, my dear,’ Louella said soothingly. ‘Take off your clothes and you take off sin.’
Almost in a daze she allowed the robe to be pulled off, and then Louella and a man assisted her on to the board, where she lay.
Louella murmured some kind of chant. The men repeated it after her.
She dipped into a pot of black cream and rubbed it on Sunday’s nipples until they were black and greasy.
Shivering with disgust and horror, Sunday tensed her body, trying not to feel Louella’s short stubby fingers. She attempted to clear her mind of all thoughts and become just a body. A body was all they wanted. If she could only disconnect her mind then it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would matter. They could do what they wanted and not even touch her.
She lay very still. Whatever happened she had to be sure they wouldn’t harm Jean-Pierre.
Louella was chanting again. They were all holding hands and walking slowly around her.
Masked faces and naked bodies were moving closer – closer . . .
Chapter Sixty
The fat woman intrigued Charlie. She had emerged from next door, approached the front door of the house Sunday was in, changed her mind, peered in through a side window, gone back to the front door, changed her mind again, and now she was standing on a straggly bit of grass at the front seemingly indecisive about what to do.
Charlie got out of the car. He intended to stroll casually around the house and then leave. The whole thing was becoming ridiculous. Sunday probably had a very good reason for being where she was, and anyway it was none of his business. He only knew her slightly, and he had no right to be spying on her like this.
Marge staggered. She had a pain in her gut. It was so uncomfortable she could hardly breathe. She wanted to march into Louella’s house and surprise them – but she had to wait a minute, catch her breath, let the pain subside. She could see nothing through the windows. They had pulled heavy drapes.
She knelt down on the grass, and suddenly to her surprise, she fell right over.
She lay there stupidly, hoping that she would soon feel better.
Charlie saw the fat woman fall, and realized that here was his chance to get into the house if he wanted to. He hurried over to her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Here let me help you up.’
She looked at him with sick yellow eyes and decided he was a member of the circle of friends. ‘Take me in with you,’ she mumbled, ‘I’m gonna get my rights.’
‘Certainly,’ he replied soothingly. The woman looked very sick indeed. He propped her up. God, she was a weight. ‘Come on, dear,’ he said, ‘make an effort.’
She heaved herself up. ‘That little bastard’s not gonna get away with it,’ she announced, weaving and swaying.
Together they reached the front door. ‘I’ve gotta key,’ she said. Louella had given it to her some time ago and forgotten to get it back.
Charlie opened the front door. Then it struck him that Sunday might not be pleased to see him. She would know he had followed her, and he would look like a fool.
Marge had a grip on his arm. ‘Come on,’ she mumbled, ‘we’ll surprise ’em.’ She dragged him over to a door and flung it open.
He could hardly see anything. The room was lit only by candles. Then his eyes accustomed themselves to the flickering gloom and he saw everything.
Marge began to yell. ‘I’ve come for my rights. Don’t think you can get rid of me you bastards . . .’
There was Sunday, so pale and beautiful, resting on a black board, surrounded by a circle of naked, masked people.
Herbert, the chauffeur, started to smack the fat woman viciously round the face.
Oh Christ! Charlie thought. It’s some black-magic scene. She’s involved in a weird fucking cult. Oh shit!
Marge fell in a heavy heap on the floor, groaning.
The naked men started running for their clothes, all piled in a corner.
A short nude woman pleaded with them. ‘Wait, everything will be fine. Wait. We’ll get rid of her.’ She indicated the heap that was Marge. ‘It’s my sister, she’s drunk – wait.’
Nobody took any notice of her. The scene was confusion.
Charlie stood by the door. Nobody appeared to notice him. He shook his head in disbelief. He knew Hollywood was full of kooks, people ready to do anything for a kick, but he just had not figured Sunday as one of them.
She hadn’t moved. She lay as if hypnotized, completely beautiful, completely blank.
He shrugged. There was nothing for him to hang around for, and yet he had a strange feeling that he should go to her, persuade her to come with him, get her out of this crazy scene.
Herbert looked around in panic. What had happened to his plans? Why was Marge here? He had given her the chocolates, hadn’t he? If she had eaten them, she should have been dead by now. Dead and out of his life! Each chocolate had been carefully treated. He had used enough arsenic to kill an elephant.
Maybe she was dead. She was lying awfully still. It was time to get out . . .
Sunday remained motionless. She had forced herself into a self-induced state of oblivion which a doctor would call severe shock. Perfectly still, she waited for the inevitable. The only important thing was that Jean-Pierre remain unharmed. She noticed the chaos around her as if from a great distance.
Just as Charlie decided that he would try to talk some sense into Sunday, Herbert grabbed her. He caught her roughly by the arm and commanded, ‘Move!’ propelling her towards the door, towards Charlie.
The hell with it, Charlie thought, he had gone this far, why not all the way? He stepped forward, blocking their path. Before he could say anything, Herbert kicked him swiftly in the balls, and dragged Sunday out of the house.
For a brief moment she saw him, her eyes focused, recognized, and she began to scream as reality hit.
Charlie was doubled over in agony. He couldn’t move. The pain was intense. Now Sunday was screaming uncontrollably.
Louella heard the screams. She had pulled on an old dressing-gown and was darting around the room, trying to restore some kind of order. She ran to the window. Something was horribly wrong. Marge was too still on the floor. If Sunday Simmons had come of her own free will why was she screaming?
She remembered how this whole evening had come about. It was because Herbert had murdered a girl.
Charlie was trying to stand.
‘You’d better stop him from taking her in that car,’ Louella yelled at the few remaining men, struggling with trou
sers and jackets. ‘He’s mad. He’ll kill her!’
Charlie was the only one to move. He made it to the front door in time to see Herbert shove Sunday in the back of the Lincoln. He reached the car just as it sped off.
The pain was lessening. He ran across the street to the Ferrari and threw himself in.
It was all so clear now. The man was Herbert Lincoln Jefferson, the chauffeur Phillipa had made the unbelievable accusations about. And he had laughed, told her not to be so silly.
And now the man had Sunday.
* * *
There was applause at the end of the movie. Branch was pleased, proud to have been a part of it. He looked around to receive Sunday’s congratulations, and realized she had left.
Where had she gone? He vaguely remembered someone coming to fetch her in the middle of the film. He thought perhaps he should telephone to check that everything was all right, but just then Maxwell Thorpe walked by with his new young actor, and Branch leapt to his feet.
‘I sent her home,’ he whispered. ‘I want to take you to the party.’
Maxwell smiled. ‘You’re a little late, my dear, but you may come with us if you wish.’
‘Fine, Max, I’ll do that,’ Branch said eagerly. ‘How did you like the film? How did you like me?
He had forgotten all about Sunday.
* * *
‘I know who you are,’ Sunday said. She tried to make her voice sound calm and collected, although in fact she was terrified as she huddled, still naked, in the back of the car.
She wasn’t sure if the speakers were on. She wasn’t sure if he could hear her, but she was determined to appear in complete control. It was important, she sensed, with this madman, not to break down. ‘Can you hear me?’ she asked. ‘I’m cold. Give me something to put on.’
There was silence.
‘You wrote me the letters, didn’t you?’ she continued. ‘Answer me. You wrote them, didn’t you?’
There was no reply.
She bit her lip hard. Where were they going? What now? Was Jean-Pierre all right? And the biggest question of all – where had Charlie Brick appeared from?