James Chase: Eve

Carol knew only that part of my nature that I chose to reveal to her. Towards the end of our association, circumstances became so difficult to control that she did finally discover my faults. But up to that time, I hoodwinked her as successfully as some of you are hoodwinking those who love you.

It was because Carol was always understanding and sym-pathetic that, after staying two days at Three Point, following the night I first met Eve, I drove into Hollywood to see her.

The service station at San Bernardino had taken care of my car. They had told me that they had also taken care of the Packard. As I drove down the hill road from Big Bear Lake, I came upon a gang of men working on the obstruction in the road. They had nearly cleared it, but I had some difficulty in passing. The foreman of the gang knew me and he had planks laid across the soft ground and a bunch of men practically carried the car over.

I reached Carol’s apartment off Sunset Strip about seven o’clock. Frances, her maid, told me she had only just returned from the Studios and was changing.

“But come right in, Mr. Thurston,” she said, beaming at me. “She won’t be but a few minutes.”

I followed her ample form into Carol’s living room. It was a nice room, modern and quiet and the concealed lighting was restful. I wandered around while Frances fixed me a highball. She always made a fuss over me and Carol had once laughingly told me that Frances considered me her most distinguished visitor.

I sat down and admired the room. It was simply furnished. The chair and large settee were of grey suede and the hangings were wine coloured.

“Every time I come into this room,” I said, taking the highball Frances offered me, “I like it better. I must ask Miss Rae to get me out some designs for my place.”

Carol came in while I was speaking. She was wearing a foamy negligée, caught in at her waist by a broad red sash, and her hair was dressed loosely to her shoulders.

I thought she looked pretty good. She wasn’t a beauty — at least, she wasn’t stamped from the Hollywood mould. She reminded me, as she came in, of Hepburn. She was the same build, nicely put together with the right things in the right places. Her complexion was pale which offset her scarlet lips and her skin seemed to have been pulled too tightly across her face, revealing the bone structure. Her eyes, her best feature, were big, intelligent and alive.

“Why, hello, Clive,” she said gaily, coming swiftly across the room. She held a cigarette in an eighteen-inch holder. The long holder was her only mannerism. It was a clever one because it showed off her beautiful hands and wrists. “Where have you been these last three days?” Then she paused and looked questioning at my bruised forehead. “What have you been doing?”

I took her hands. “Fighting a wild woman,” I said, smiling down at her.

“I might have guessed that,” she said, glancing at my knuckles, still skinned from the punch I’d given Barrow. “She must have been a very wild woman.”

“Oh, she was,” I said, leading her to the settee. “The wildest woman in California. I’ve come all the way from Three Point to tell you about her.”

Carol settled herself in the corner of the settee and drew her legs up under her.

“I think I’ll have a highball,” she said to Frances. A little of her gaiety had gone from her eyes. “I have a feeling Mr. Thurston’s going to shock me.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “I hope to interest you, but that’s all. I’m the one who’s shocked.” I sat down by her side and took her hand. “Have you been working very hard today? There are smudges under your eyes. They suit you, of course, but do they mean tears and toil or are you, at last, becoming dissolute?”

Carol sighed. “I’ve been working. I have no time to be dissolute and I’m sure I’d be very bad at it. I am never any good at anything that doesn’t interest me.” She took the highball from Frances and smiled her thanks.

Frances went away.

“Now,” she went on, “tell me about your wild woman. Are you in love with her?”

I looked at her sharply. “Why do you think I must fall in love with every woman I met? I’m in love with you.”

“So you are.” She patted my hand. “I must remember that. Only, after three days without seeing you, I was wondering if you had dropped me. So you’re not in love with her?”

“Don’t be tiresome Carol,” I said, not liking her mood. “I’m most certainly not in love with her,” and settling back against the cushions I told her about the storm, Barrow and Eve. But, I didn’t give her all the details.

“Well, go on,” she said as I paused to finger the bruise on my forehead. “After she had laid you out, what did she do? Pour water over you or skip with your wallet?”

“She skipped without my wallet. She didn’t take a thing . . . she wasn’t the type. Don’t get this woman wrong, Carol, she isn’t the usual kind of hustler.”

“They seldom are,” Carol murmured smiling at me.

I ignored that. “While I was unconscious, she must have dressed, packed her grip and gone off into the storm. That was quite a thing to do . . . it was blowing and raining like hell.”

Carol studied my face. “After all, Clive, even a hustler has her pride. You were rather beastly to her. In a way, I admired her for knocking you on your conceited head. Who was the man, do you suppose?”

“Barrow? I have no idea. He looked like a travelling salesman. Just the kind of jerk who’d pay a woman to go out with him.”

I hadn’t told Carol about giving Barrow the hundred and ten dollars. I didn’t think she’d understand that part of the story.

“I suppose you didn’t want to get rid of him so you could have a heart to heart chat with the lady?”

I felt suddenly irritated that she should have touched truth so quickly. “Really, Carol,” I said sharply, “a woman of that type doesn’t appeal to me. Aren’t you being a little ridiculous?”

“Sorry,” she said, wandering over to the window. There was a pause, then she went on, “Peter Tennett said he’d be over. Will you have supper with us?”

“I now regretted telling her about Eve. “Not tonight,” I said, “I’m tied up. Is he calling for you?”

I wasn’t tied up, but I had an idea at the back of my mind and I wanted the evening to myself.

“Yes, but you know Peter . . . he’s always late.”

I knew Peter Tennett all right. He was the only one of Carol’s friends who gave me an inferiority complex. But I liked him. He was a grand guy. We got along fine together, but he had too many genuine talents for me. He was producer, director, script writer, and technical adviser all rolled into one. Everything he undertook had, so far, been successful. He had the magic touch and he ranked as number one at the Studios. I hated to think what he made in a year.

“Can’t you really come?” Carol asked, a little wistfully. “You ought to see more of Peter. He might do something for you.”

Lately, Carol had been continually suggesting various people who might put something in my way. It irritated me that she should think I needed help.

“Do something for me?” I repeated, forcing a laugh. “What on earth could he do for me? Why, Carol, I’m getting along fine . . . I don’t need any help.”

“Sorry again,” Carol said, not turning from the window. “I seem to be saying all the wrong things tonight, don’t I?”

“It isn’t you at all,” I said, going over to her. “I’ve still got a headache and I’m edgy.”

She turned. “What are you doing, Clive?”

“Doing? Well, I’m going out to dinner. My — my publishers . . .”

“I don’t mean that. What are you working at? You’ve been at Three Point for two months now. What’s happening?”