James Chase - Eve

“You think men are more at their ease if women haven’t brains?” Gold asked.

“You know they are, R.G.,” Carol said shortly. “Don’t think you can pull wool over my eyes. You’re as bad as any of them.”

Gold’s yellow face softened into a smile. “Go on,” he said. “You haven’t finished, have you?”

“It makes me tired to see the worthless women men drag around with them. That’s all most men think of . . . looks, dress and bodies. A girl who hasn’t looks is nowhere in Hollywood. It is disgusting.”

“Never mind that. Keep to wantons,” Peter said, his eyes alight with interest.

“All right . . . wantons. A man dislikes his woman to know more than he does. That’s where a wanton scores. She’s lazy by nature and she’s no time to be anything else but wanton. She has no other subject to talk about but herself, her clothes, her troubles and, of course, her looks. Man likes that. He has no competition. If he wants to, he can be patronizing. He’s a little tin god to himself, although, the wanton probably thinks he’s a bore. All she’s after is a good time and what she can get out of him.”

“Very interesting,” Gold said, “But where is the picture idea? I don’t see it.”

“A satire on men,” Carol said. “Angles in Sables” is a grand title. Never mind about Clive’s plot. Use the title, and let him write a hundred per cent satire about men. Think how the women would eat it . . . after all, women are our public.”

Gold glanced across at me. “What do you say?”

I was staring at Carol. She had given me an idea. She had done more than that. She had fired my imagination which had been dead since I wrote my last book. I knew now what I was going to do. It had come in a flash. I was going to write the story of Eve. I was going to capture her warped, odd personality and put it on the screen.

“It’s good,” I said, excitedly. “Yes, I know I can do it!”

Carol looked at me and suddenly bit her lip. Our eyes met and I knew she had sensed what I was going to do. I looked quickly away and went on to Gold, “As Carol says it’s a great title and a great subject . . .”

Carol pushed back her chair. “Would you mind if I run away?” she said abruptly. “I’ve developed an awful head. It’s, been coming on all the evening . . .”

Peter was at her side before I could even stand up.

“You’ve been working too hard, Carol,” he said. “R.G. will excuse you . . . won’t you.”

The tawny eyes had gone sleepy again. “Go to bed,” he said a little curtly. “Mr. Thurston and I will stay here. See her home, Peter.”

I stood up. “I’m seeing her home,” I said, feeling angry and a little frightened. “Come on, Carol . . .”

She shook her head. “Stay with Mr. Gold,” she said, without looking at me. “Peter, I want to go home.”

As she turned away I put my hand on her arm. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice. “Is it something I said?”

She looked steadily at me. The hurt, angry look was still in her eyes. “I just want to say good night to you now, Clive. Will you please understand?”

She knows, I thought, she knows everything. There’s nothing I can keep from her. She sees through me as if I were made of glass.

There was an awkward pause. Gold stared down at his fleshly hands, a frown on his heavy face. Peter picked up Carol’s ermine cape and stood, uneasily waiting.

“Of course,” I said, surprised that my voice sounded so harsh, “if it’s like that.”

She tried to smile. “It is rather like that. Good night, Clive.”

“Good night,” I said.

“I’ll see you at the club, R.G.” Peter waved and they went away together.

I sat down at the table again.

Gold regarded the white ash of his cigar thoughtfully.

“Women are odd, aren’t they?” he said. “Of course, you mean something to each other?”

I did not feel like discussing Carol with a comparative stranger. “We’ve known each other some time,” I said flatly.

His thick lips pursed and his eyebrows came down. “That idea of hers is good. A satire about men. Angels in Sables. It’s box office.” He closed his eyes and brooded. “What’s your angle?”

“A portrait of a wanton,” I said, leaning back in my chair, my mind divided between Carol and Eve. “The men who pass through her hands, the power she exerts and her ultimate conversion.”

“Who would convert her?” Gold asked casually.

“A man . . . someone who is stronger than she.”

Gold shook his head. “That’s bad psychology. Carol would tell you that. If your character’s a genuine wanton, then only another woman could convert her.”

“I don’t agree,” I said stubbornly. “A man could do it. If a wanton could be made to love, then I believe the barriers would come down and you could do anything with her.”

He touched off his cigar ash onto a plate. “I don’t think you and I are thinking along the same lines,” he said. “Describe to me your idea of a wanton.”

“I’ll describe the wanton I have in mind. She’s the only one I could be interested in because I know her. She is real and I can study her.”

“Go on.” Smoke curled from his lips and partly obscured his face.

“The woman I’m thinking of lives on men. She is pitilessly selfish and very experienced. She is anti-social, amoral and interested only in herself. Men mean nothing to her except for the money they give her.” I ground my cigarette butt into the ash tray. “That is my wanton.”

“Interesting,” Gold said, “but too difficult. You don’t know what you’re talking about. A woman like that could never love. She would have lost the feeling for love.” He glanced up and looked at me fixedly. “You say you know such a woman?”

“I’ve met her. I can’t say I really know her, but I’m going to.”

“You are experimenting with her?”

I was unwilling to tell him too much. He might talk to Carol.

“Only from the point of view of writing about her,” I said carelessly. “I have to mix with all kinds of people in my game.”

“I see.” His lips closed wetly over his cigar. “You weren’t thinking of persuading this woman to fall in love with you?”

I eyed him. “I’ve something better to do with my time,” I said, a little sharply.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said, fairly waving his hands. “You said this woman was the character you have chosen for your theme. You also said if she could be made to love then you could do anything with her? Isn’t that so?”

I nodded.

“Then how can you be sure that you are psychologically right, unless you actually experiment? I don’t think you are. I think such a woman as you have described is beyond the feeling of love. That is to me sound reasoning, while you are merely theorizing.”

I sat back in my chair. I suddenly saw the trap he had laid for me. I had either to back out or else admit what I was planning to do.

“Now wait,” Gold said, “Don’t say anything. Let me talk first. It is always better to know all the facts before you commit yourself.” He waved to a waiter. “We’ll have a little brandy. I find brandy is very good for this kind of conversation.”

When the brandy had been ordered, he sunk his head into his shoulders and hunched over the table. “I’m interested,” he said. “I like “Angels in Sables”. I like the idea of a satire about men. I haven’t made a psychological picture for a very long time. They are good box office. Women like them. Carol was right when she said women are our public.” He fumbled inside his coat and took out a cigar-case. “Have a cigar, Mr. Thurston?”

I took the long cigar although I really didn’t want it. Something, however, told me that Gold didn’t offer cigars to anyone but those he favoured.