Kitabı oku: «Linda Lee, Incorporated: A Novel», sayfa 12

Impossible to understand herself, to read her own heart, make up her mind…

A thin trickle of sound violated the mid-evening hush, a broken and gusty beating of stifled sobs that for a time she heard without attention, then of a sudden identified.

Windows of guest-rooms looked out on the veranda, but Lucinda had made sure these were closed and lightless before permitting Summerlad's wooing to become ardent. The semi-round room on the corner, however, had French windows let in at an angle which she could not see. After a moment she moved quietly to investigate, and discovered that one of these was open, that the sobbing had its source in a shapeless heap upon the floor in the darkness beyond.

Entering and kneeling, Lucinda touched gently the shoulder of the stricken woman. "Please!" she begged. "Can I do anything?"

In a convulsive tremor the woman choked off her sobs and lifted her face to stare vacantly. Enough light seeped in from the street to reveal the features of Nelly Marquis.

Her voice broke huskily on the hush: "Who are you?"

"Miss Lee – Linda Lee. Can't I do something – ?"

With startling fury the girl struck aside Lucinda's hands and at the same time flung herself back and away.

"No!" she cried thickly. "No, no, no! Not you! Go away – please go!"

"I only wanted to help you, if I could," Lucinda explained, getting to her feet. "If you're unhappy – I'm so sorry – "

The movement must have been misinterpreted, for the girl sprang up like a threatened animal.

"I don't want your help!" she stormed throatily. "I don't want anything to do with you – only to be left alone!" She flung herself at Lucinda as if to thrust her out by force. "Go! go! go!" she screamed. Then the window slammed.

"Poor thing!" Lucinda told herself – "she must have heard…"

XXIV

There was at this time little room in Lucinda's inner life for other people's troubles, she was much too agreeably engrossed in doting on this radiant new avatar of Linda Lee, victress in a form of duel of which Summerlad was reputed a master who had never known defeat. Rumours current of his success with women had found her credulous and lenient; mortal vanity saw to that. It feeds on strange foods, vanity, it waxes fat on inconsistencies. Think as well as you will of yourself, you shall not find unacceptable the belief that one well loved by many has been laid low by love of you alone… And indeed a great part of that indecision at which Lucinda in those days played so daintily was due to the knowledge, unformulated in her consciousness but none the less exercising constant influence on her moods, that she was less in love with Lynn than in love with being loved by Lynn Summerlad the idolized.

In many ways admirable, a fine animal who kept himself always exquisitely fit, intelligent enough to share or seem to share her every taste and prejudice, Lynn had laid a spell upon her mind no less than on her senses. The minor faults of which she had earlier been aware, the little things he sometimes did or said that jarred, he had amended. Or she was no longer competent to perceive them…

So she put away all care on account of the strange woman whose unhappiness had excited her quick compassion, and let fancy have its fling at the dissipation of thinking how blessed was her lot, how supremely distinguished as fortune's favorite she was who had everything, youth, beauty, health and riches, and to whom all things good were granted, love, friends, admiration and envy of the general, and – never to be misprized – a life, in its present phase, of vicissitudes highly diverting.

And if she knew seasons when memories twinged like an old wound slow to mend beneath its scar, she found a certain casuistry to console regrets and compound with conscience, holding herself spiritually, as in material circumstances, a free agent, free to listen to any man, if she would, and if she would to love him. The phantom fiction of a legal bond, all that was left of her married life, she could do away at will, at little cost in inconvenience…

That morning, as every morning now, she woke with a smile responsive to the smiling promise of the day; and when she had lazily girded on her armour against fault-finding eyes, called for her car and sallied forth to while away yet another day of idleness.

Her rooms were so situate, at the end of one wing of the hotel and on the lower floor, that to reach the main entrance she had to pass the corner-room now occupied by Nelly Marquis; and malicious luck would have it that the two should meet.

The Marquis girl had been out and was returning with a small packet gripped in a shabbily gloved hand. A well-made woman with a graceful carriage, her face held elements of beauty of a wild, sweet sort, but dimmed and wasted by despondency and impaired health. Today the dark rings under her eyes were deeper, the eyes themselves more desperate than when their look had first appealed to Lucinda's sympathies. And seeing her so, Lucinda with a solicitous cry – "Why, Miss Marquis!" – paused and extended an impulsive hand.

The girl swerved away from the hand, shrinking to the wall, her scant natural colour ebbing till the rouge was livid on cheeks and lips, while her eyes grew hard and hot.

"Well!" she said sullenly – "what do you want?"

Confounded by this proof of a hostility as pertinacious as it was perverse, Lucinda faltered: "But – you are ill – "

"Well: and if I am, what's that to you?" The words uttered in a level tone nevertheless seemed to force explosively past the tremulous, waxen lips. "Oh, don't worry your head about me; think about yourself. Don't forget you can be contaminated by a creature like me, don't forget" – she accomplished a singularly true reproduction of Summerlad's tone – "I'm 'really not the sort you can afford to get mixed up with'!"

"I'm so sorry you heard, Miss Marquis. Of course neither of us had any idea you were – "

"Eavesdropping! why don't you say it? I'm not ashamed."

"But are you fair to me? I meant you no harm, I didn't say – what you resent – you know."

The girl gave a grimace of pure hate. "No," she snarled – "you didn't say anything unkind, you were too busy posing as Lady Bountiful to pass uncharitable remarks! But he – he said enough – enough for me. Oh, I'm not saying he didn't tell the truth! I'm 'a bad lot,' all right – a rotten bad lot, if you want to know – and I'll be worse before I'm better. So you watch out and keep away from me – d'you hear? I want and warn you to keep away from me. I don't want your pity or your charity or any of your holier-than-thou butting in – all I want's just to be let alone. Any time I change my mind, I'll send you an engraved notice… I trust I make myself clear, Miss Lee!"

"Yes, thank you," said Lucinda coolly – "quite" – and went her way.

Insolence so patently hysterical could neither hurt nor harden her heart. She consigned the affront to the limbo of the insignificant, and had put all thought of it away when, fifteen minutes later, her car brought her to the Lontaine bungalow.

Here Lucinda had to rout Fanny out of bed and make her dress, against her protestations that she'd been on a party the night before, with Harry and some people, so needed rest and kind words more than exercise and open air.

The reflection cast a shadow as transitory as a flying cloud's upon the bright tranquillity of Lucinda's temper, that Fanny, by her own frank account, had been going in for parties rather heavily of late, and it wasn't doing her any good. Not that she showed ill effects more than in a feverish look that really enhanced her blonde prettiness. But with Fanny's insatiable appetite for the sort of thing that she called fun…

After all, that was Fanny's concern, and Harry's. One had confidence in their ultimate good sense, in their knowing where to draw the line, when to call a halt.

From the Lontaine bungalow the two proceeded to the Zinn Studios, having nothing better to do and thinking to pick up Harry there and run him down to the Alexandria for luncheon. But the shabbily furnished little office assigned to Linda Lee Inc. was empty, the blue-and-white car was missing from the yard, and nobody had any information concerning Lontaine's whereabouts or probable return.

This was nothing unusual, Lontaine was always on the wing, blowing to and fro between Los Angeles and the studio; but his absence left the young women at loose ends until Fanny suggested that they look up Lynn, find out what he was doing, and make him stop it.

Summerlad's company was busy doing nothing at all on one of the enclosed stages, contentedly lounging in and about a bizarre ball-room set and waiting for something to happen; the occupation which, Lucinda by this time had come to know, earns the motion-picture actor about ninety per cent. of his wages; the other ten being paid him for actual acting. Neither Lynn nor Joseph Jacques, his director, was in evidence, but the cameraman said the two of them had retired to the director's office for a conference.

To the office Lucinda and Fanny accordingly repaired and – their knock being answered by a morose growl – there discovered Summerlad, in elaborate evening clothes, tilted back in a desk-chair, a thoughtful scowl on his handsome, painted face, with Jacques, a mild-mannered, slender young cinema sultan in riding-breeches and boots, sitting on the desk itself and moodily drumming its side with his heels. These got upon their feet in such confusion that Fanny was moved wickedly to enquire whether Lucinda or herself had been the subject of their confabulations. "And," she further stipulated, sternly, "what you were saying about whichever of us. I never saw two people look more guilty of scandal."

"It wasn't scandal," Jacques insisted with an air of too transparent virtue. "We had been talking about Miss Lee, though."

"Wondering if you'd care to be an angel to us, Linda."

"Look out, Linda," Fanny warned, "when a man begs a woman to be an angel to him, he's generally working her up to do something she oughtn't."

"What is it?" Lucinda enquired, laughing at Summerlad's dashed expression.

"I'm not sure you ought to, at that," he replied – "in your position, that is. But it'd be sure angelic of you."

"Help us out of the worst sort of a hole, Miss Lee," Jacques added. "I wish you would."

"But what is it?"

"Oh, nothing at all!" Summerlad assured her with a laugh that decried the very idea – "all we want you to do is forget you're a star, or going to be, and play a little part with me in this picture we're doing now."

"But how can I? I'd love to – you know that, Lynn – but we've no way of knowing when Mr. Nolan will be ready."

"That's just it, Miss Lee. It isn't any part at all, so to speak, we'll only need you three or four days; what Mr. Summerlad's afraid of is, you'll think it beneath your dignity."

"Is it such an undignified part?"

"Well, you'd have to play second fiddle to Alice Drake."

Miss Drake was Summerlad's leading woman pro tem. Lucinda made a laughing face.

"Is that all? Going on the fuss you make, I thought you'd at least want me to play a Sennett Bathing Beauty. I see no reason in the world why I should balk at playing second to as good an actress as Miss Drake."

"Well, not only that, but the part isn't big enough for you, Linda – only a bit, you know, so little it's scarcely worth mentioning."

"Then who will know or care who acts in it? I'd perfectly love to do it for you, if you think I can."

"Knew she would!" Jacques crowed. "What'd I tell you? A thoroughbred's a thoroughbred every time!"

"You are a brick, Linda, and no mistake. You've no idea what a load you've taken off our minds. You see, this part, while nothing to speak of in itself, is awfully important to the picture in one way; it absolutely demands somebody who's got everything you've got."

"If we stick in anybody that hasn't," Jacques interpolated, "the whole works will postolutely go ker-flooey."

"We did the best we could," Summerlad pursued, "had Gloria Glory engaged; but this morning, when she was to report for work, she sent round word she had ptomaine poisoning and was being taken to a hospital."

"Gloria Glory?" Fanny put in. "Why, I saw her down at Sunset last night. And the only thing the matter with her then was not ptomaine poisoning."

"Too much party," Jacques interpreted. "I had the hunch, all right. Gloria sure do crook a mean elbow when she gets it unlimbered."

"Then you'll do it, Linda?"

"I'll love doing it. What do you want me to wear?"

"You'll do!" Summerlad chuckled. "Only a natural-born picture actress would ask what to wear before wanting to know what the part was. You begin tomorrow if you can get your costume ready, and you'll only want one, a riding habit."

"Cross-saddle costume, Miss Lee," Jacques explained. "White breeches and a pair of swell boots – you know – like the society dames wear when they go hoss-backing in Central Park, New York, if you've ever seen 'em."

"Yes," said Lucinda soberly – "once or twice."

"Have you got a riding costume, Linda?"

"No; but I daresay I can pick one up in Los Angeles this afternoon."

"Do that, will you, Miss Lee, if you can? And be on the lot at eight tomorrow, made up, please. It's a forty-mile run to the location, and we want to get there early's we can so's to get all set to shoot when the light's right."

Actor and director pranced grateful attendance on the two women as they returned to their motor-car; and when it had vanished down the drive, Summerlad fell upon Jacques and shook him fervently by the hand.

"You're a true friend, Joe!" he declared in mock-emotional accents. "I'll never forget what you've done for me this day."

"Worked out pretty, didn't it?" the director grinned. "What d'you know about them dames walking in on us, just when we'd got it all doped? But you always were a fool for luck, Lynn, s'far's the skirts are concerned – you old hyena!"

"I am this flop, anyway," Summerlad mused with a far-away look. "Those white riding-breeches were a regular inspiration, Joe: if she finds a pair before night, I miss my guess."

"Well, it don't do to ride your luck too hard. You've got all afternoon with the coast clear – maybe! Get your make-up off and beat it quick."

XXV

As it turned out, however, Lucinda experienced no great difficulty in fitting herself acceptably with a ready-made costume of white linen for cross-saddle riding, and light tan boots of soft leather.

The prospect of at last doing real work before a camera, after her long wait since falling in with Lontaine's scheme, inspired a quiet elation. She had already been elaborately tested and re-tested, of course, by the cameraman under contract with Linda Lee Inc.; she had ceased to feel self-conscious in the fierce white light of the Kliegs, and was familiar almost to satiety with the sensation, at first so nightmarish, of sitting in a darkened chamber and watching herself move to and fro upon a lighted screen. This last, however, had given Lucinda confidence in the photographic value of her good looks; and she had furthermore learned, through measuring her unproved abilities by those of established screen actresses daily displayed to the millions, not to be apprehensive of scoring an utter failure when her time came to entertain with the mobile shadow of her self audiences that had paid to be amused.

So she felt assured of doing well enough in her work with Summerlad. And if her mood was serious, when she alighted at the hotel and gave a bellboy her purchases, it was because she was thinking of nothing but her immediate purpose, which was to try on her costume all complete, with hat, boots, gloves and riding-crop, before a mirror, partly to make sure every detail was as it should be, but mostly to satisfy herself that she would look as fetching as she felt she must.

It wasn't till she found herself in the corridor leading to her suite that Lucinda remembered Nelly Marquis; she hadn't given the girl two thoughts since morning, and in all likelihood wouldn't have given her another had she not met the bellboy returning from delivering the parcels to her maid, and paused to tip him in front of the door to the corner room. Then, as he thanked her and passed on, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar, the room beyond dark with early dusk, and finally, where the light from the corridor struck in across the threshold, a white hand at rest upon the floor, a woman's hand, palm up, the fingers slightly contracted, absolutely still. A startling thing to see…

For a few seconds Lucinda stood entranced with premonitions of horror. Then she moved to the door and rapped on it gently. There was no response, the hand didn't stir. She called guardedly: "Miss Marquis!" – and when nobody answered laid hold of the knob. The door met a soft obstacle when less than half-open, and would yield no farther. The light now disclosed an arm bare to the elbow. With a shiver Lucinda stepped in and groped along the wall till her fingers found and turned the switch illuminating the central chandelier.

Nelly Marquis lay supine, breathing if at all so lightly that the movement of her bosom, beneath the ragged lace of a dingy pink silk négligé, was imperceptible. Her lids, half lowered, showed only the whites of rolled up eyes, her lips were parted and discoloured, her painted pallor was more ghastly even than it had been in the morning. On the evidence of her body's posture in relation to the partly opened door, she had been taken suddenly ill, had rushed to call for assistance, and had fallen in the act of turning the knob.

Lucinda shut the door, knelt, touched the girl's wrist, and found it icy cold. But her bosom was warm, the heart in it faintly but indisputably fluttering.

In relief and pity, she essayed to take the girl up in her arms and carry her to the bed, but found the dead weight too great.

Casting round at random for something in the nature of a restorative, smelling salts or the like, she saw nothing that would serve, at first, only a disarray of garments and other belongings characteristic of natures in which care for appearances and personal neatness has become atrophied through one cause or another – if it ever existed. But she noticed absently that one of the windows stood wide to the veranda, and went to close it and draw the shade before pursuing her search.

Then, in the bathroom, she found a bottle of aggressive toilet water and a pint flask of whiskey, half emptied.

Alternately moistening the pale lips with the whiskey and bathing the brows and temples with the pungent water, she observed for the first time a reddish bruise under the left eye, the mark of a blow, possibly sustained in falling. But there was nothing nearby that the girl could have struck to inflict such a hurt except the door-knob, and if she had struck this with such force she must have slammed the door.

It was puzzling…

Her ministrations eventually began to take effect. The bleached lips quivered, closed, then opened and closed several times. The woman's lashes trembled and curtained her eyes. Lucinda went to the bathroom for water. When she returned with half a glassful liberally laced with whiskey, Nelly Marquis was conscious; but her eyes, with pupils inordinately expanded, remained witless until she had drained the glass with convulsive gulps and Lucinda had set it aside.

"Do you think you're strong enough now to get to bed, if I help?"

The girl nodded: "… try," she whispered. Using all her strength, Lucinda succeeded in getting Nelly Marquis on her feet. About this time the clouded faculties began to clear. Clinging to Lucinda's arm, Nelly started as if in a spasm of fear, darted swift glances of terror round the room, then turned a look of perplexity to Lucinda.

"Where is he?" the whisper demanded. "Has he – has he gone?"

"There is no one else here, nothing to be afraid of. Come: let me help you to bed."

Recognition dawned as she spoke, with a movement of feeble fury the girl threw Lucinda's arm away, but deprived of its support staggered to the foot of the bed, to which she clung, quaking.

"You!" she cried – "what you doing here?"

"The door was open, I saw you lying senseless on the floor. I couldn't go on and leave you like that. You'd have done as much for me."

"Oh! would I? A lot you know!" Her knees seemed about to buckle; will-power alone kept Nelly Marquis from sinking; yet she persisted: "I suppose I ought to thank you. Well: much obliged, I'm sure. Is that enough?"

"Quite enough. I've no wish to annoy you. Only, let me suggest, you need a doctor. May I ask the office to call one?"

"When I want a doctor, I'll call him myself. Good night."

"I'm sorry," said Lucinda simply.

With no choice other than to go, she went. But the vision she carried away, of Nelly Marquis glaring at her with eyes malevolent, her frail body vibrating so that it shook the bed, must have haunted Lucinda's conscience all evening long had she let the affair drop then and there.

Returning to her room, she telephoned the office and asked for the hotel physician. The clerk reported that the doctor was out, but promised to advise him of her call as soon as he came in.

Upwards of an hour later a knock ushered in a quiet young man with weary, understanding eyes, who attended gravely to what Lucinda had to tell him.

"She seems to have taken such an inexplicable dislike to me," Lucinda wound up, "I'm sure she won't see you if she knows you come through me. But the girl is really ill and needs help. So, I thought, perhaps you might find someone else in the hotel who knows her and could get her to consent to see you."

"I fancy I know her well enough myself to excuse a friendly call," the physician answered. "She's an old patient of mine, though she hasn't been in Hollywood for some time, I believe."

"Then you must know what's the matter with her…"

"Yes, I know… But it would be unprofessional to tell you, of course, Miss Lee."

"Then tell me this much: that you can help her."

"I'm not sure of that. Not unless she's willing. To do her any real good, I'd have to have her under observation for some weeks. And cases like hers are peculiar, peculiarly strong-headed… However, I'll see if I can do anything with her now, and let you know."

Three minutes after he had left, he knocked again.

"Too late, Miss Lee," he reported. "Nelly Marquis checked out about a quarter of an hour ago, they tell me at the desk – called for an auto and left no address."