It never came.
I looked up … and across.
Jade-eyes had forced the bucking gelding off me and away.
Enraged, he slammed the reins into the anxious wrangler’s hands then strode back to crouch at my side.
‘Are you all right, cherie?’ He had a faint French accent running underneath educated American.
I rolled off the extra and sat up. He lay there winded. His friends gathered around him.
Jade-eyes gently checked my head and neck with his long tanned fingers. ‘Does that hurt?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. But there was something about his touch that kept me still. Waiting …
Only inches away, his eyes stared into mine, still lit with a protective ire.
Beside me the extra lay dazed but uninjured. His friends swore at the four wranglers, abused them.
The wranglers took offence and bellied up to the swelling Confederate-clad mob.
There was going to be a brawl.
‘Mademoiselle.’ Jade-eyes took my hand and pulled me to my feet. ‘This is not the place for you.’
I checked my clothes, dusted them off and grabbed my satchel back off the ground.
A hefty man in a three-piece suit trotted onto the scene and went puce with anger. He bellowed at the wranglers to stop wasting time and for the extras to get over to the backlot. He brusquely ordered the extra still on the ground to go to Costumes and get his dirty coat changed.
‘Thank you,’ I said, searching Jade-eyes’ face.
I felt like I knew him …
He glanced over my shoulder. I turned. A grey-haired man in a dark suit was waving.
‘Excuse me, cherie, there is a meeting and I am late …’
He raised my hand but kissed only one finger.
I shivered.
His mouth was like velvet.
12
EARL’S BUNGALOW
Earl Curtis and the stars of Gone with the Wind all occupied a cluster of bungalows between the back of the sound stages and Van Buren Place. Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh each took one half of the double Bungalow S and Earl Curtis was next door to them in his own, smaller, Bungalow V. Veronica Hall was in Bungalow U, behind Earl.
Bungalow S was a long, white Colonial cottage with columns on either side of the doorway, surrounded by a well-tended garden. Bungalow V was to the left of it, a squarish, art deco-style cottage.
A short, hairy man with thick glasses and wearing an excessively rumpled worsted suit was waiting outside the entrance to Earl’s bungalow. He was preoccupied, alternating sucking in deep lungfuls of cigarette smoke with making notes on a pad. He wrote with sharp jerky movements, like he was trying to scratch the words into the page.
It was Sam Beck, twenty-seven, from Queens, New York.
Beck had come out to Hollywood a year ago and had been employed for the past two months to help Earl with script improvement. He had three previous films to his credit. Aside from those few details no one ever knew much about him. He went back to New York after Earl went missing.
Diagnosis: a dark horse.
I started to speak but a concentrated burst of hammering from behind me overrode my words; they were busy building sets. When the hammering turned into a grating buzz saw that soared and whined, I licked my teeth protectively. It sounded like a giant dentist’s drill.
The second the noise cut out I said, ‘You’re Sam Beck, aren’t you? I’m Kay Dupree.’
He didn’t look me in the eye, too intent on his writing. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.’
‘We’ve never met, Mr Beck. I’m replacing Phyllis Pettigrew for the next few days. She’s off sick.’
He blanched. ‘Replacing Phyllis …’ That’d got Beck’s jittery attention. ‘Does Mr Curtis know?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Oh God! How can she do this to me? This is terrible …’ Beck grabbed my arm. ‘Can’t you bring her in?’
I stared down at his hairy hand. He was actually trembling.
‘No, Mr Beck, I’m sorry. Phyllis’ arm is still too painful. Why, what’s the problem?’
‘What’s the problem?’ Beck was almost hysterical. ‘I have to give Curtis the script changes I worked on all last night and he’s in a bad mood already! Which means he’ll hate everything I give him … That’s what the problem is!’
‘Why is Mr Curtis in a bad mood?’
‘I don’t know! Why is Earl always such a shit to work for?’ Beck muttered under his breath, ‘I never should’ve come out here. I had a good life in New York …’
‘Sorry, Mr Beck, I have to go.’ I unloaded his hand from my arm and reached past him for the doorknob.
Beck grabbed my arm again. ‘You don’t want to go in there now. Mr Curtis is busy.’
‘But I have to tell him that Phyllis is still sick.’
Beck hesitated and I went in.
The front room was a cross between a lounge room and an office. One big desk covered in scripts, open books and a phone sat near the far window. On the opposite wall two lounge chairs sat on either side of a wide four-seater couch, all expensive polished oak and dark green leather.
But it was the walls that drew my eyes.
Posters from Earl’s movies had been framed in carved oak that matched the lounge suite. The heavy frames made them seem like expensive works of art.
Crimson Dawn was in pride of place on the wall directly opposite the door. But it didn’t look anything like the deep social commentary that Susan had described.
I hadn’t had time to see it … or the version of Gone with the Wind that made it to the screen.
The poster was of a darkly handsome man, maybe twenty, in a loincloth and adorned with a feathered helmet and a turquoise breastplate. He was standing on top of a Mayan step pyramid and getting ready to sacrifice a beautiful, scantily clad woman lying across a stone altar. Next to him an evil-looking but exotically lovely priestess was busy sharpening the sacrificial knife.
I moved closer.
The scantily clad woman was lying across the same stone altar that sat in the sculpture garden at Ceiba House.
‘Close your yap and listen to me,’ barked a male voice from the next room. ‘I’m standing here waiting for a fucking important phone call and you’re tying up my line with your asinine ideas.’
A fucking important call … Who from?
I studied the partially closed door with keen interest but there was no one in sight.
‘No, don’t even think of trying that old one on me, you little cocksucker. You do what I tell you to! The Atlanta train depot scene is a pivotal part of the film …’
Silence.
‘No, I don’t care what’s happened to the budget! That’s not my problem. I want another one thousand extras in full Confederate uniform for the railway scene the day after tomorrow and that’s final.’ He grunted the last word.
Silence.
‘No. No. No!’ he yelled. ‘I will not make do with one thousand motorised dummies instead!’
Silence.
‘What …?’ he said, exasperated. ‘No, I don’t care if you’ve found a way to make the dummies’ arms and legs move. I’m making Gone with the frigging Wind not Frankenstein Whistles Dixie, you moron … Get me one thousand extras ready to lie down and die on command or I’ll …’
I could almost hear the man’s teeth grinding. ‘Don’t you dare argue with me, you piece of shit. Just do it!’
A heavy phone was slammed down.
Earl Curtis swung the door wide; behind him was a four-poster bed hung with red velvet. His face was pinched with displeasure.
When Earl saw me the expression switched to calculating.
Earl Curtis was handsome in that slick matinéeidol kind of way, and a well-preserved thirty-four. Medium height, slim with shiny black hair swept back from a steel-grey widow’s peak. He was wearing expensive clothes tailored to fit him like an elegant body stocking.
Constan was right: it was a good body too.
It was the eyelids … they were too thick.
The image of him lying in the morgue with a cloth over his face flashed into my mind. And then the tattoo.
I stared at his chest. Had Earl had it done yet?
Earl strolled over to the desk under the front window and casually picked up a gold embossed cigarette case. In one practised motion he drew out a slim white cylinder, tapped it once on the case then slipped it in his mouth. He snaked a negligent hand out for the matching gold lighter, watching me the whole time.
I had the feeling this was his standard introduction — make ’em wait until I’m good and ready.
One flick of the lighter and a tongue of flame licked the end of his cigarette. Earl drew in a deep lungful of smoke, casually leant back against the desk and exhaled one long white stream.
I forced back a cough.
It was very ‘tough guy’ chic.
Earl ran his eyes up and down me like a searchlight. ‘So, who are you, gorgeous?’
It was my turn to grit my teeth; Susan had immolated herself and her children on this sleazoid’s account.
‘Kay Dupree.’ I kept my tone efficient and courteous.
‘And …?’ He ran his eyes up and down me one more time … just in case I’d grown anything new.
‘Phyllis Pettigrew arranged for me to replace her until she can come back to work.’
Earl went from a sophisticated slouch to upright and rigid in one second flat. ‘What did you say?’ he bellowed.
I winced. Beck could probably hear his boss over the drilling noise.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Curtis, but Phyllis needs to have her arm reset.’
Actually, she’d be getting on her train home in two hours’ time.
‘She can’t!’ Earl spluttered. ‘I need her here!’ He pointed to the desk. ‘Get on that phone right now and tell her to get her ass over here!’
What a bastard.
I’d been wondering how I’d go … watching a human being unknowingly meander to his wrongful death. God knows I hadn’t coped with that horse trying to kick the extra’s head in … But maybe it was going to be easier with this man …
‘There’s no point, Mr Curtis. She went back into hospital again this morning.’
Earl seethed at that.
‘It’s all right, Mr Curtis. Phyllis rang Mrs Brindlestern in the typing pool yesterday afternoon and asked her to send me over as an emergency replacement.’
I went for a slightly nasal tone. ‘I usually work for Mr Calvert in the Publicity Office. But he’s in Europe at the moment, so …’
‘But I need —’ Earl was rounding himself up for another furious outburst.
I cut in. ‘Phyllis knew you’d want someone who was …’ I paused, ‘discreet. So that’s why she rang Mrs Brindle —’
Earl ignored me to grab the desk phone and dial. ‘Switch? Give me Calvert’s office.’ He waited, then said, ‘What can you tell me about …’
He glowered at me.
‘Kay Dupree,’ I said.
Phyllis had used her influence and I’d added some hefty bribes to set up my cover story.
‘What can you tell me about Kay Dupree?’ He listened for a while. ‘Really? She’s that good?’ Earl shot me a thoughtful look. ‘Okay, that’s enough.’
He slammed down the phone and slouched back on the desk again. ‘You’d better be good, Dupree …’
What choice did he have? I’d made sure he didn’t have any.
Earl gave me another full-length exam. ‘You don’t look like a secretary.’ He flashed his white teeth in what he thought was an engaging smile but which came out as a sleazy leer. ‘What if we found something else for you to do when Phyllis comes back …’
Ugh!
There was an imperious rap at the door.
‘Now what?’ barked Earl.
He jerked his head at the desk chair. ‘Sit down, girl, shut up and take notes of everything I say.’
Earl stubbed out his cigarette as though he was stabbing it into the chest of the visitor.
I sat, peeled off my gloves and got a pad and pencil out of my bag. I’d had to learn shorthand as part of my NTA training. In a job where you’re expected to do surveillance without modern recording technology you need low-tech skills.
Earl swung the front door open as though he was trying to rip it off its hinges.
A fine-boned woman in full technicolour make-up and wearing a silk dressing gown covered in red and black roses had her matching slippers firmly planted in Earl’s doorway.
‘Vivien?’ Earl wasn’t overly pleased to see her but strove to hide it. ‘Please, come in.’
It was Vivien Leigh, the female lead of Gone with the Wind.
She was British to the backbone and had beaten thousands of other contenders, all American, to play Scarlett O’Hara, the classic Southern heroine. Leigh was twenty-six years old and obsessed with winning an Academy Award for her portrayal. She does.
Diagnosis: Leigh had no known reason to hate Earl. She was not a suspect.
Vivien Leigh was beautiful, with dark flowing locks and big blue-green eyes framed by midnight-black lashes. But this morning Vivien had a scowl that could drop a charging water buffalo.
She took just one dismissive look at me and charged in. The pad and pencil must have explained all she needed to know. I was just a two-legged recording machine.
‘You have to do something, Earl! I can’t stand this any longer!’
Vivien waved a fistful of mangled yellow paper filled with typed black text at Earl. It looked like she had started to rip them up then thought better of it.
‘Selznick sent the fucking memo over at 2 am this time! The messenger banged on the door until I answered.’
Like everything else that poured out of her mouth, ‘fucking’ was said in a supremely upper class British accent.
Without losing eye contact with Leigh, Earl fired off an order to me. ‘Take this down … See Selznick about harassing Miss Leigh … Today!’
I wrote.
Leigh responded by hurling the typed pages on the floor.
‘There are eighteen pages here, Earl! I was dragged out of bed to read eighteen pages of drivel at 2 am! All on one subject … Larry’s back in town and I can’t see him!’
Vivien Leigh was griping about her boyfriend and fellow British actor, Laurence Olivier.
She sobbed then began jumping up and down on the mangled yellow pages.
‘Now calm down, Viv.’ Earl led her over to the green leather couch.
They sat.
‘Selznick is a world-class asshole, Viv, but he’s right. He’s just concerned about the way it would look. You’re married … Olivier’s married … You know the tabloids would love this story. Public adultery’s not good business when you’re playing the nation’s favourite heroine. He’s just thinking of your career.’
‘But I miss him, Earl. Larry’s stuck over in New York in that wretched play and I’m going to die before this bloody film is finished …’
‘But, Viv … so David knows Olivier’s in town … that doesn’t matter.’
‘Are you joking? Selznick’s put a twenty-four-hour guard around my house. There was a burly man wearing a trench coat parked in my driveway this morning. He must be reporting everything I do, everywhere I go.’ Vivien glared down at the memo. ‘Selznick says the detective’s there just to keep the press away, but I know it’s to stop Larry from visiting me.’
‘But this gumshoe won’t follow you when you come to work. No one will follow you onto the lot.’
‘But who cares whether I’m followed here?’
Earl leered again. ‘I think we can arrange something, Viv, don’t you?’
‘Here?’ She licked her lips. ‘Right under Selznick’s nose?’
‘Exactly. You have your private bungalow.’
�
��But how …?’
‘Viv, Larry keeps telling me he’s the greatest actor in the world and now he can prove it. He can put on a wig and a driver’s uniform and carry my packages from the car to my bungalow. Which is what … ten feet away from yours? My side window faces your side window … he can climb as well as act, can’t he?’
They got up and took a look.
Vivien studied her bungalow window. ‘Bloody good idea, Earl.’ She smirked. ‘Larry will like the danger of discovery. A uniform too,’ she said speculatively. ‘Hmm. But he’ll need a stepladder … for both windows. He’s not very well coordinated.’
‘It’s done.’
She frowned again, as though checking through an internal list. ‘Now, Earl, I need to talk to you about today. Are you still insisting on —’
‘The script stays as is, Viv. As it’s written. You’ll be wonderful.’
He patted her on the shoulder and used the opportunity to steer her towards the front door.
‘This is going to win you an Oscar, Viv. No doubt about it.’
Vivien dug in her heels before she reached the threshold, and turned to confront him. ‘Not if that whore playing Melanie has anything to do with it. She’s upstaging me every opportunity she can take. I can’t believe it. Did you see what she tried yesterday?’
‘Use it, Viv. Use that anger. It couldn’t be better. Scarlett hates Melanie. What more could you want?’
‘That mad bitch tried to bite me!’
‘Hold that thought, Viv.’ Earl had the door open and assisted her out. ‘But now you’d better get into costume. We start …’ he checked his watch, ‘in half an hour.’
Earl was muttering as soon as the door slammed shut behind her … Mostly swear words, interspersed with ‘actress’ and ‘neurotic’.
As he swung past my chair Earl leant down and ripped the top page of my pad, screwed it up and dumped it in the rubbish bin under the desk.
I took that to mean he wasn’t going to contact Selznick.
Earl had resumed lounging against the desk and ogling me. He got another cigarette out and was ready to light it when there was an even harder rap at the door.
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