Honeyville

  It was a document from William’s lawyer.

  ‘You need to sign it,’ she said. ‘To confirm you have received the funds.’

  ‘But I haven’t received the funds! You are keeping them from me.’

  ‘Because of debts outstanding, Dora. How many times must I explain it?’ She sighed. ‘However, as I say, I am willing to be generous. I am going to cancel a further two hundred and fifty dollars of the debt, allowing you to leave this room with … Let me think: three hundred and five dollars. Hell, I’ll throw in another fifty! The liquor must be fuzzing my old noddlebox! That leaves you with three hundred and fifty-five … And your freedom, Dora. Imagine that. I know how long you’ve hankered for it. But you need to sign the document.’ She flashed me another grin. (How I detested the sight of her little teeth!) ‘What do you say?’

  ‘What if I refuse to sign it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course. It’s up to you.’

  38

  April 1933

  Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles, California

  Max has his fruit ice. He took some time choosing the flavour and finally settled on coconut and pineapple. And I can’t be certain if he has any idea how infuriating it is, to watch him nibbling on his fruit ice, when we still have so many questions unanswered. He swears he was not her lover – and I do not believe him. I wonder why he ever arranged for us to meet, since he can only tell me lies, and nibble on ices. I am thinking that perhaps it is time for me to leave. In fact, I regret very much having agreed to see him. His lack of concern for Inez can hardly come as a surprise, but still, I see her lying in the morgue; I see him savouring his fruit ice. I see the letter, in all its girlish pain; I see him savouring his fruit ice. How can a man reach his age and still have such a healthy head of hair? It’s a mark of something, I decide. Something callous. Shallow. Max Eastman has words for everything, but feelings for nothing. I reach for my purse.

  ‘I have to leave,’ I say. ‘I have an appointment.’

  He looks surprised. Hurt, even. ‘What?’ he says. ‘Why? What kind of an appointment? We haven’t even started to reach the bottom of this. I thought you said you had all afternoon.’

  Did I say that? I don’t remember. ‘I have a client,’ I say vaguely. ‘Out in Santa Monica. They are expecting me at five.’

  ‘A client?’ Max Eastman blushes. ‘I’m so sorry …’

  ‘Please, don’t apologize.’

  ‘I thought you said … Of course you didn’t actually tell me what you were doing nowadays. I thought you’d given all that up.’

  ‘Oh. No. A different kind of client,’ I say.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I work for the studios now. I coach new actors to sing.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘We have sound. The people want to hear their idols sing.’

  ‘Ha! Yes, of course they do. You bet!’

  ‘Musicals are all the rage.’

  ‘Oh well. Gosh. That sounds—’

  ‘It is. It’s wonderful. I’m very fortunate.’ I take up the letter. He watches me folding it, tucking it into my purse; and, as I do so – God knows why – I feel my eyes stinging with tears. It’s the disappointment. No, it’s the fruit ice. Max and his bloody fruit ice. All these years I have imagined how he would react were he ever to read her letter. I imagined his dismay, his guilt, his grief. I had imagined that my failure to deliver the damn thing to him might in some way have been a mercy. I had spared him from it; the dying wrath of his beloved – and I had nursed that. But here he sits by the pool of the Ambassador, basking in the California sun, telling me lies and slurping like a puppy on the speciality of the house. I want to pick up the bowl and throw its contents into his lap.

  There is a pause. He lays down his spoon. Swallows. ‘Dora, is my fruit ice repelling you?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. I laugh. I can’t help it. All those years of hiding my distastes – had I made it so obvious? ‘No, of course it’s not …’

  ‘Indeed it is!’ he says. ‘I shall send it away. Waiter! Ah, hello. Thank you. Could you kindly relieve me …’ He hands the waiter his bowl. ‘You’re very kind. It was delicious but I have had enough.’ He turns back to me, raises an eyebrow. Smiles. ‘You misconstrued my enjoyment, Dora. I was thinking. That’s all. Sometimes a small amuse-gueule can help one to concentrate. I am sorry if it seemed callous. I was trying to understand … And, by the way. It didn’t help. Not on this occasion. I have nothing. I am as bewildered as you are.’

  ‘What might help,’ I say, ‘is if you started telling the truth. You were in love with each other. Anyone could see it. I don’t know why you would want to deny it after all these years. What does it even matter any more?’

  He shakes his head. ‘What can I say to persuade you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘And really, I have to leave. Please, don’t get up.’ In fact he has made no sign that he might. I am pushing back the chair. My eyes are blurred with tears now. It’s important that I leave before giving way to them. ‘It was good to see you, after all these years. I only wish it could have been more illuminating …’ I feel a hand on my shoulder, and in an instant, Max’s expression alters: from frustration, to astonishment, to alarm – to delight.

  39

  ‘Good God!’ he says. ‘For a moment I thought you were – but you look so alike! I had forgotten how alike you always were. Although I declare I think you have grown even more alike.’ Now Max is on his feet. He has leapt to his feet, and his face is alight with pleasure. ‘Xavier Dubois! It is you, isn’t it? Tell me it’s you! – Well, I know it is. How could it be anyone else?’ He wraps his long arms around Xavier’s shoulders and hugs him.

  When Max pulls back they both laugh, as surprised as each other by his warmth.

  ‘Hello there Max,’ Xavier says. ‘Well, well! … Here you are!’

  ‘Yes indeed!’ grins Max.

  ‘Dora mentioned she was meeting with you and I must admit I rather insisted on being allowed to barge in. Sidled out of a godawful meeting this afternoon …You don’t mind me joining you, I hope?’

  ‘My friend, I couldn’t be more delighted!’ cries Max.

  Xavier nods and smiles. ‘… I see you still have all your hair.’ He lifts his boater, reveals a forehead several inches higher than it used to be.

  Max examines the hairline. ‘Oh, you just need to brush it forward a bit, old chap. Plus you’re tall enough. Most people don’t even get a chance to see the top of your head.’

  I laugh. Poor Xavier! I tell him he still looks good – and he does, too. But this is Hollywood. He minds about his hairline more than he ought, perhaps. ‘Is that really all you have to say to each other,’ I ask, ‘after all these years?’

  ‘Far from it,’ Xavier says. ‘It’s just the first thing we have to say to each other. After all these years. We have plenty more to talk about now we’ve settled that.’

  ‘Nineteen years,’ Max says. ‘Nineteen years almost to the day – do you realize? Dora – you didn’t tell me Xavier would be joining us. I had no idea.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure myself if he would make it,’ I reply. ‘Hello darling,’ I say to him.

  He swoops to kiss me. It lands half on my head, half on the edge of my hat. He takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘Am I too late?’ he asks us. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t get away before. Dora, darling – you looked as if you were leaving?’

  ‘Well, I thought I had an appointment,’ I mutter.

  ‘But you said you’d kept the afternoon free! Can’t you stay for a drink? Now that I’ve made it all the way out here? Please, darling?’

  The pleading is a formality. He knows I will stay for a drink now. Because he is impossible to refuse, just as his sister was. So I put my purse down again, and he nods at a passing waiter. ‘What are we all having?’ he asks.

  ‘Max is having the fruit ice,’ I say.

  Max chuckles. ‘I am decidedly not having the fruit ice. Another martini, I think. What about you?’

  �
�Three martinis,’ Xavier says. ‘However my friends took them. I’ll have the same. Thank you.’

  He sits down. I notice for the first time what he is carrying. Actually, he produced it – Inez’s swordstick – from the back of a cupboard, the evening I returned from the restaurant and told him about my encounter with Max. It was covered in dust, and the silver blade had turned black, having been so long neglected in its casing. Now the silver catch glistens in the sunlight. He has polished it up for the occasion.

  We exchange glances. He is not sure, I think, if I approve of his bringing it out with him today. But who am I to approve or disapprove? What difference does it make? When he talks to Max, and discovers the extent of his callousness, as I have in the past hour or so, he will no doubt wish he had left it in the dark cupboard where it belongs.

  Max leans back in his wicker seat, the better to examine his new guest. ‘God, you look well! Is there something in the water here in California? The pair of you don’t look a day older! Are you living here too, Xavier? Of course you are! You were making films even back then. Are you still? And have you at any point had the good fortune to encounter my great friend Charles Chaplin? We’ve fallen out rather, lately, sadly. Politics. But I am awfully fond of him, you know.’

  Xavier takes a cigarette from the silver box that Max holds out to him, attaches it to his cigarette holder. ‘I’ve met him often,’ Xavier says. ‘He’s not an easy man to work with.’ He produces his lighter – gold. I gave it to him last birthday, engraved with his name. ‘And yes, to answer your question. Absolutely, I live in Califor- nia. Here in Hollywood. Dora and I live together.’

  ‘Oh!’ Max looks embarrassed and slightly confused. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  Xavier looks politely surprised. ‘Which bit?’

  I smother a laugh. I want to redirect us back to the letter. I want to hear Max telling Xavier what he has just told me – and to see how Xavier reacts to it. I am pulling the letter back out of my purse when the golden-limbed, dive-bombing Adonis – whose face I had recognized previously – approaches the table. We wait, while he and Xavier exchange pleasantries, and then Xavier introduces us all. We have met before, he reminds me. I had forgotten. He is not a famous movie star – though Xavier assures him and us that he soon will be. He is a friend of Xavier’s. Ah – too bad! He is a sight for sore eyes, no matter what.

  I indicate the ebony swordstick; say to Max: ‘Look familiar?’

  He picks it up. ‘I can’t say that it does …’ He fiddles with the catch, and the blade slides out. ‘Oh indeed! Dora, it’s not what I think, is it? Is it?’ He looks, for once, quite misty eyed. ‘I never saw it before, but she told me about it. She was terribly proud of it. Isn’t it part of the notorious “spy equipment” she ordered down from Chicago or somewhere? It’s actually rather beautiful …’ He continues to fiddle with it, sliding out the blade. ‘Do you remember that wonderful little pistol-in-a-purse she was so pleased with? I wonder what became of it.’

  ‘We never found it,’ Xavier says, turning back to us, his handsome friend having been sent on his way. ‘Presumably it was in the auto. We never saw her car again either. Vanished without a trace … I often think,’ he adds, after a pause, ‘how lucky we were that they left us a body. If it’s not too macabre to say so. At least now we know what became of her.’

  ‘Well,’ says Max. ‘But I’m not so sure that we do know, do we? That is to say …’ He looks to me to pick up.

  ‘Max has read the letter,’ I tell Xavier. ‘He says it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Sure it makes sense,’ Xavier chips in. ‘You have to take into account the situation when she was writing it. Maybe it’s a little hysterical. But it makes perfect sense.’ He stops, as the waiter delivers our martinis.

  ‘Max isn’t talking about the tone, Xavier. He’s saying the letter doesn’t make any sense because he says …’ I shoot Max a look, as hostile as I feel. Max opens his mouth to defend himself, but I talk through him. ‘Max claims that he showed his article to Inez before she died, and that she adored it.’

  ‘Oh really?’ says Xavier, excessively polite.

  ‘I tell you she adored it!’ cries Max.

  ‘He also claims that he and Inez were never lovers.’

  ‘Nor were we,’ Max nods.

  Xavier looks from one of us to the other, swallows half his drink in a single gulp. ‘Well that’s absurd,’ he says at last. But I can hear a note of something in his voice. There is hesitation. Not the astonishment and outrage I had been expecting. As if this isn’t the first time the idea has crossed his mind.

  ‘You bet it’s absurd!’ I say. ‘Inez told us. Don’t you remember?’

  Slowly, he says, ‘No, Dora darling. She told you. And quite rightly assumed that you would tell me. Remember?’

  ‘The letter doesn’t make any sense,’ Max says irritably, yet again. He picks it up, opens it, starts to read it one more time. ‘This is her blood. Is it?’ he asks, looking at the smears with delicate horror.

  ‘Of course it is,’ I reply.

  ‘Not that it’s any of our business,’ Xavier says, ‘but perhaps you could explain to us, Max – why in hell Inez would have told Dora that you and she were lovers if you weren’t?’

  Max lays the letter back down on the table. ‘Well, I would have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘Far from it,’ Xavier says. ‘Is it obvious to you, Dora?’

  ‘Not at all. She was moving to New York to be with you.’

  ‘She was moving to New York,’ Max says impatiently, as if we were the fools, ‘to be with Lawrence O’Neill.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s not possible. He didn’t live in New York. You did. She was in love with you.’

  ‘She was not in love with me.’ Max is sounding quite irritable now. ‘She was in love with O’Neill. And, so far as I knew, he was moving to New York. And, by the way, on the few occasions I saw them together—’

  ‘When did you see them together?’ Xavier asks him. ‘When could you possibly have seen them together?’

  ‘Well – of course I saw them together. I already told Dora – O’Neill took a room at the Corinado. She was with him constantly. They couldn’t be seen in public. But they used to come to my rooms often, ask me how my story was going, and so on. O’Neill used to give me leads. He arranged one or two introductions – although there were reasons I never did take them up. In any case, Inez was smitten with O’Neill – there was no doubt about that. And I would have said that the feeling was mutual. O’Neill adored her.’ Max pauses. ‘What man didn’t adore her, of course? We all adored her. But O’Neill was smitten too. Absolutely. You must at least have realized that?’ Max looks at me.

  I picture Lawrence’s face in the hallway at Plum Street, the day he came to tell me she was dead. I picture him at the Toltec, when he came over to introduce himself to Max, his hand brushing on the back of her neck, and Inez seeming not to notice it; his standing so close to the back of her chair. I picture him in the tearoom, asking me over and again if she was all right. ‘Yes … I guess so,’ I said. ‘Yes, I knew he was smitten. But Inez had moved on. She said so. Why would she bother to lie?’

  Max shrugs. He opens his mouth to say something and then seems to think better of it.

  ‘For heaven’s sake Max,’ Xavier says. ‘If there’s something you know, that might shed some light – just spit it out, won’t you? We’ve waited long enough.’

  ‘Very well,’ Max says carefully. ‘It may shed no light whatsoever, of course. After all this time I’m not certain anything will. But I remember Inez mentioned she had been terribly ill shortly before we all arrived in Trinidad. There had been a riot involving Mother Jones, and Inez was put in the cells for a night.’

  ‘Not quite a night,’ I nod. ‘But yes. For a few hours.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Max says. ‘Inez told me it was a whole night but Inez was prone to exaggeration. It doesn’t matter, in any case. It was long enough for the muni
tions – the stash of Colt-Brownings in her basement to have been stolen. And, after that, from what I understood, everything became nigh on impossible for them both. It was imperative, for both their sakes, that no one should see them together. You two – and the young lad, Cody, of course – were the only people in Trinidad who had any idea there had ever been any friendship between them. Except for me. But I hardly counted. I was only passing through. And, in any case, as you can see, they needed a cover. Inez couldn’t write poetry.’ He glances at the bloodstained letter lying open on the table between them. ‘Or prose, for that matter. But she was a lot smarter than I think any of us took her for.’

  ‘But you misunderstand. The weaponry,’ says Xavier quietly, ‘the Colt-Brownings – they weren’t stolen from her cellar. They were simply moved to another safe house.’

  ‘That’s the reason—’ He stops, stares at Xavier, and then at me. He’s looking at us with a mixture of embarrassment, astonishment – and pity. ‘Well of course the stuff was stolen! It was stolen while Inez was in the cells. When you went by the cottage and she was lying sick in the maid’s room at Plum Street, the cellar was empty, correct? Everything had been removed, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Removed. Nobody said anything about being stolen.’

  Max takes a moment to absorb this – the depth of our ignorance. And so do we. Xavier reaches for the letter again. He clutches at it. The blood is real. The paper is real. The handwriting is hers.

  ‘The same Colt-Brownings that were in her cellar,’ Max says carefully, ‘they weren’t simply any old rifles, that’s the thing. They turned up at Ludlow.’

  ‘Of course they turned up at Ludlow!’ I say. I have to stop myself from shouting. ‘Where else would they have gone?’