Get a Load of This (8 page)

     She looked at him with her jeering smile. “Run away, George. I want to talk to Mr. Arden for a few minutes.”
     When he had left us she lit a cigarette and stood up. There was no doubt she was very beautiful. “You must think my behaviour is very odd,” she said.
     “The whole thing is so utterly preposterous that I would rather not discuss it,” I said tartly.
     “George is afraid, isn't he?” she said. “No one but you and I know that. He's horribly scared. I've been watching him for several weeks now. The last time he raced he was nearly killed because he lost his nerve. I don't think he'll win this race, do you?”
     I faced her. “Are you telling me that you think he will be killed.”
     She shrugged. “I didn't say that. I said I didn't think he would win.”
     “Does he mean anything to you?”
     Her eyes flashed. “Why do you ask that? Has he been talking?”
     “If he does mean anything to you, why don't you let him have the money and tell him you don't want him to race?”
     “Are you mad?” She burst out laughing. “Think of the thrill I'm going to have. I'm gambling with a million dollars. I shall watch every yard of the race. Think of George, scared stiff, knowing that if he doesn't win, hundreds of his little suckers will be ruined. Suppose others get ahead of him. Think how he will feel then. Suppose he finds he just can't win, then his only chance is to kill himself. By God! What a sensation! Will he value his little suckers more than his life?” Her eyes looked a little mad. “I don't care what it costs me, I wouldn't miss this race for anything in the world.”
     I went to the door. “Your attitude is incredible,” I said. “I don't think we have anything further to say to each other. Good night.”
     She ran over to me. “Wait,” she said. “You write novels, don't you? What a wonderful story this will make for you. It only wants that little twist that all good stories have. Just wait for that.” She laughed in my face. “Oh, it's such a lovely little twist. You'll be so very thrilled when you know about it.”
     I went out of the room and left her there. I was sure that she was a little insane, and the thought of George getting himself involved with such a woman made me sick at heart.
     The race was due to start at eleven o'clock. George and I went off early together. We left the house quietly without saying good-bye to Myra.
     George said that he didn't want to see her until the race was over. He looked very ill as he sat at the wheel of the Bugatti, and he drove at a steady twenty-five miles an hour the whole way to the aerodrome. It took us a very short while to reach the Florida course, where the race was being held. He asked me to come to the pits just before the race was to start. “I'd like to have your good wishes,” he said.
     I hung about watching the bustle and activity that inevitably precedes a big race. I watched the vast crowd slowly arriving. I thought I saw Myra and her party arrive and take seats in the grandstand, but I wasn't sure. I had made up my mind to watch the race from the pits.
     Finally, a mechanic came running towards me and I went to meet him. “Mr. Hemingway is about ready now, sir,” he said.
     I saw he was looking worried. And as we walked towards the pits, where I could see about two dozen cars lining up, I asked him what he thought of George's chances.
     “He's got a load on, sir,” the mechanic said, shaking his head. “No guy can drive if he's plastered.”
     I quickened my pace. George was already sitting in his car. His reputation had brought him a stiff handicap, and he was going to be the last off the starting post.
     I ran up to him. “All right, George?” I asked.
     He nodded. “Sure, I'm all right. There's nothing on four wheels that's going to catch me today.”
     His face was very white and his eyes were glassy. He had certainly been drinking, and he looked completely reckless.
     “Don't take chances,” I said, shaking his hand, “I'll look after things for you. Good luck, old man.”
     The noise of the engine made it difficult for us to hear each other. “Good-bye,” George shouted, “look after my little investors, won't you?” and at that moment the flag fell and he roared away.
     I hurried to the pits and stood near a group of mechanics. They were talking in low voices, but I overheard what they were saying. They all seemed worried about George. “Nearly a whole bottle of Scotch went down his throat,” one of them said; “he must be crazy.”
     “Yeah, well, look at him now. Look at the speed he's going.”
     All eyes were on the small red car as it flashed round the course. George had already overtaken three of his competitors, and as he came into the straight he opened up and with a snarling roar the car shot forward. All the other cars had opened up, but the leading cars were slowing down for the bend. George came on, took the bend at full speed, tore up the bank, and for a moment we thought his wheels had left the track, but with a few feet to spare he was down into the straight again.
     There was a terrific burst of cheering as he nosed his way into the first three.
     “What do you call that?” a mechanic demanded. “Do you call that driving?”
     “Do you think he'll last?” Myra asked.
     I turned abruptly and found her at my elbow. Her eyes were fixed on the red car, and I could see she was quivering with excitement.
     I said rather bitterly: “Don't you think you'll see better if you go to the stand?”
     “I want to be with you. I want to see his face if he wins,” she said. “Look, he's coming round again. He's getting in front. Really, isn't he marvellous? Oh, God! Look, they're trying to squeeze him. They've cornered him! Look, look, if he loses his head... he's finished.”
     The three cars flashed past us. George was in the middle. The other two were trying to crowd him, but as he didn't fall back they were beginning to lose their nerve. There couldn't have been more than a foot between each car.
     I shouted suddenly: “He'll beat them on the bend. You see, they'll slow down for the bend. Come on, George, come on, for the love of Mike!”
     I was right. Suddenly the red car shot clear and whizzed round the bend at a sickening speed. The others fell back and George was in the lead.
     I heard Myra scream suddenly: “Blast him! He's going to win after all.”
     George was coming up for the last lap. The noise of the cars and the shouting was deafening. Round he came into the straight. It was like watching a red smudge. I don't know how it happened; no one knew. It was not as if he were taking a corner. It looked as if he knew he had won and then suddenly thrown in his hand. The car swerved right across the track, turned over, bounced in the air like a huge ball and then burst into flames.
     Myra screamed and I ran forward. It was no use. Other cars were still thundering past and no one could get across the track. When at last we did get there, it was too late. George had been strapped in, and one look at the blackened, twisted car told me it was useless to stay.
     I walked away, feeling sick and too stunned to really realize what had happened.
     As I climbed into my car, Myra came up to me. Her eyes were very dark, and her mouth worked rather horribly.
     “Give me that paper,” she said.
     Because I wanted to get away I took the paper from my wallet and looked at her. “This isn't the time now to talk about this. I'll come and see you later.”
     “Oh no, you won't,” she said. She seemed to be speaking through locked teeth. “I fooled George and I fooled you. Read what it says. Didn't I promise to pay my husband one million dollars? Well, he wasn't my husband, I can contest that. By the time the court has made a ruling, it will be too late. George's little suckers will be down the drain.”
     I said: “What do you mean? George married you, didn't he?”
     “Yes, he married me, but that was all. He didn't lie with me. Oh no! My money was good enough for him, but I wasn't. He thought it was sufficient just to marry me—the fool.”
     I stared at her. “You can't prove that,” I said slowly. “Surely you are keeping to your agreement?”
     “Prove it? It will take years not to prove it. By that time the money will not be needed. Tear up the paper, Mr. Arden. You know as well as I do that it's useless now. The poor fool killed himself, although he won the race.... Do you know why? Because he despised himself for marrying me. No man can treat me like that. I warned you, didn't I, about the twist in the tale.” She laughed hysterically. “Don't you think it's lovely?”
     I engaged the gears and drove away, leaving her still laughing.

     
     He was very tall, thin and distinguished-looking. He had a close-clipped moustache, a square jaw and the hair on each side of his head was white.
     He sat on a high stool at the 'Roney Plaza' bar, a cigarette between his thin lips and a glass of Scotch-and-soda at his elbow. Every now and then he would glance up and catch his reflection in the bright mirror behind the bar. He would look at himself and adjust the wings of his evening dress-tie with his well-shaped fingers, and once he adjusted the set of his coat.
     People kept coming up to the bar, but he ignored them. Sometimes they glanced at him curiously, especially the women, but no one spoke to him. He had been in the bar several times during the week, and the habitues began to wonder who he was.
     Manuel, the barman, had tried to discover who he was without success. Not that he wasn't talkative, but that he steered the conversation away from any personal topic.
     During a lull, Manuel came down the long bar towards him. He began polishing glasses. “Not much about tonight,” he said casually.
     The tall, thin man agreed. “Why do you think that is?” he asked.
     Manuel shrugged. “You can't tell these days,” he said; “there is too much entertainment going on. People get too much amusement. They don't know where to go next.”
     “Personally, I find things very dull.”
     Manuel looked at him sharply. “It depends,” he said. “It depends on what you want. Now, there's a fine show at the 'Hot-Spot'. You ought to see that. I went last night. Mind you, I've seen a lot of that kind of stuff, but this is the tops. You can have my word for it, you didn't ought to miss it.”
     The tall, thin man tapped the ash of his cigarette. “I've seen it,” he said briefly. “It's not bad. No, I'd say it's not bad at all.”
     Manuel selected another glass. “That dame with the chest,” he said, rolling his eyes a little. “You know the one I mean.”
     “Did you find her amusing?”
     “Amusing?” Manuel paused. “That ain't quite the word, is it? Amusing? No, I wouldn't call it that. That's the kind of a dame that spoils married life. Comes a trifle flat to get home after seeing a dame like that.”
     The tall, thin man winced. He finished up his whisky and ordered another.
     Manuel went on: “When you see a hot number like her, it makes you wonder what sort of a life she leads off the stage. Maybe she's married. She might have a flock of kids. She might sleep with anyone. You don't know, do you?”
     “It's a great mistake to enquire into that kind of a person's life. They're making money because the people who pay to see them regard them as something totally unlike themselves. They are the escape valve of the public.”
     Manuel nodded. “Yeah, that's right, but I don't kid myself.” He had to go away to serve two elderly women, and when he got back again he said: “There's a good fight on tonight. I can let you have a ticket if you fancied it.”
     The tall, thin man shook his head. “Not tonight. I'm waiting for someone. Maybe some other night. I like a good fight.”
     “Yeah?” Manuel's face brightened. “So do I. I like a good fight too. There has been some pretty bum shows recently. Did you see McCoy give up in the sixth?”
     “Yes.”
     “Why did he do that, do you think?”
     “They say he was scared, but it wasn't that. He had something on his mind. It must be tough going into the ring with something bad on your mind. The public don't care. All they want to see is a fight. It doesn't matter how much trouble you've got, you've got to leave it outside. Well, I guess McCoy took it in with him.”
     Manuel regarded the tall, thin man thoughtfully. “You reckon that's what the trouble was, do you?” he said.
     “Of course. It couldn't have been anything else. McCoy isn't yellow. He wasn't getting the breaks.”
     Manuel, who didn't miss anything, said: “You'll pardon me, but are you waiting for a lady?”
     The tall, thin man played with his glass, his eyes went frosty. “Curiosity?” he said.
     Manuel put down the glass he was polishing. He jerked his head. “Some lady's lookin' for someone,” he said. “I thought maybe it was you.”
     The tall, thin man looked over his shoulder. “You're quite remarkable,” he said, and beckoned to the girl who stood just inside the doorway.
     She came across slowly. Manuel watched her, without appearing to. During his stay at the 'Roney Plaza' he had seen so many women that his standard of what was good had become exceedingly high. This girl was interesting. She was interesting in a ripe sort of a way. She had a lazy, sensuous walk, and her big blue eyes looked sleepy. Her mouth was wide and very red. She wore a black dress that emphasized her breasts and hips without being tight on her body. Manuel thought she looked like a very beautiful genteel whore.
     She said to the tall, thin man, “Hello, Harry.”
     He got off the stool and touched her fingers. There was a tense eager tightening of his face muscles.
     “Come and have a drink,” he said. “Do you like these stools, or would you rather sit at a table?”
     She gave her answer by climbing up and perching herself on the stool.
     He said, “You're looking very, very beautiful.”
     “Every time we meet you tell me that. Is it for something to say, or do you feel so strongly about it?”
     He climbed up on the stool beside her. “I want to talk to you.”
     “Can't I have something to drink? Is it so urgent that I can't be asked what I should like?”
     He looked at her, his eyes angry. “I'm sorry.” He nodded to Manuel, who came down to them, then he said, “What are you drinking?”
     She turned her attention to Manuel. First, she gave him a very bright smile. It was a smile that unsettled Manuel's calm. He felt an urge to reach forward and pull her across the bar towards him. This urge so startled him that he became very confused. He stood looking at her uneasily.
     “What shall I drink?” she asked him. “Something that will set fire to my blood. Suggest something.”
     Manuel turned to his bottles. “I have something for you,” he said. “You will not be disappointed.”
     The tall, thin man she had called Harry said, “I wish you wouldn't, it doesn't suit you.”
     “That's only your opinion,” the girl said. She had very fine hands, slim and white and very beautiful. “We are starting well tonight. Soon we shall be quarrelling, and then we shall go away from each other. I think I shall like that.”
     Harry offered her a cigarette. “You mustn't talk like that. I don't know what's come over you lately. Have a cigarette. Look, Manuel is bringing you your drink.”
     She took the cigarette and smiled very brightly again at Manuel as he put the glass down.
     Manuel said, “You will like it. I have every confidence.”
     She said: “I am sure I will. Look, I'll taste it before I smoke.” She raised her hand to stop Harry from striking a match. When she had tasted the drink, she put it down with a little shudder. “God!” she said.
     Manuel looked at her closely and then looked at Harry. “You like it?” he asked anxiously.
     She said: “It's like nothing I've ever tasted before. I wouldn't say I liked it, but it's what I want.”
     Manuel went away, his face a little sullen. He wasn't sure what she meant.
     Harry said softly, “You've hurt him.”
     “Why not? Why shouldn't I hurt someone for a change? You don't mind when I am hurt, why should you bother about a barman?”
     He moved uneasily. “I wish you wouldn't go on like this,” he said. “Really, it doesn't do any good.”
     “Very well, I won't. Let us change the subject. Let us talk about something else. I'll be very good. I promise I won't be difficult any more. There, now I've promised.”
     There was a pause, then she went on: “This morning I was very extravagant. I went out and bought a hat. It cost a lot of money, but I felt that I had to have something new. It made me feel very happy for a few minutes.”
     “I'm glad. I wish you'd buy yourself what you want. You know you can have what you want.”
     She shook her head. “No, no, I can't. You think that your money will give me everything I want, but it can't.”
     He bit his lips, annoyed at giving her the obvious opening. She went on before he could say anything. “Your money can't make me Mrs. Harry Garner, can it? By the way, how is Mrs. Harry Garner, and how is your daughter?”
     Harry finished up his whisky. “Didn't we agree not to talk about that side of my life?” he said, trying to speak gently.
     “Oh yes, I know. We agreed not to talk about them, but sometimes I get very curious. You can't blame me, can you? I mean they are so important in your life, aren't they? They are much more important to you than I am, aren't they?”
     “You know they're not. Look, we're getting on the wrong topics tonight. Let's go somewhere and have dinner. Perhaps you'd like to see the show at the 'Hot-Spot'.”
     She laughed. “I'll tell you something. I saw you take the Mrs. Harry Garner there the night before last. I couldn't go after that. It wouldn't be right.”
     He clenched his fist. “You can be very hateful sometimes,” he said, and she could see that for the first time he was really angry.
     “No, not hateful. I wouldn't like you to call me that. Not after the nights I've given up to you. You can't say that. It's because it's the truth and it annoys you. Be honest, isn't that right?”
     He drew a deep breath. “All right, it does more than annoy me, it hurts. For God's sake, can't we stop this awful bickering?”
     “I'm sorry.” She finished the drink Manuel had given her. “Tell him to give me another. It's terribly, terribly dangerous stuff, but I don't care.”
     Harry signed to Manuel, who smiled. If she wanted another, it must be all right.
     They didn't say anything to each other until Manuel had brought the drinks, and then, when he had gone away, Harry said: “He's a genius for finding new drinks. Will you thank him very nicely when we go?”
     She sipped the drink, pulling a little face. “Yes, I will thank him. I'll be very, very nice to everyone you like, including your wife and your daughter. There, I can't do more than that, can I?”
     He felt the evening couldn't go on any longer like this. It was absurd that she should dominate him. He was determined to get things back to normal.
     “Listen,” he said, “are you going to say bitchy things all the evening?”
     Her eyes opened a trifle. “Am I?”
     “It's no use going on like this. Tell me. Get it off your mind, then perhaps we can forget about it.”
     “Forget about what? Mrs. Harry Garner and Miss Garner? They'd be very difficult to forget.”
     “Four months ago you said they didn't matter,” Harry said, determined to keep his temper. “You said you understood my position and you didn't mind. You didn't mind; I know you didn't. Why this sudden change?”
     She didn't like this direct approach. “Harry, do you think if I fell in love with a woman I should be any happier?”
     “No, you can't side-track like that. You don't mean anything by that. You're just gaining time.”
     “No, honestly. I've wondered. Women can be so much more understanding.”
     Three people came up to the bar and ordered drinks. They stood close to Harry and the girl. One of them was a tall, flat-chested girl with a serious expression on her face. She wore heavy, horn-rim glasses. The other two were middle-aged men.
     One of the men said, “Manuel, you're looking pretty good tonight.”
     Manuel pushed a bottle of Canadian Rye across the polished wood. He said: “Yes, sir, I'm feeling pretty good. You don't look so bad yourself.”
     The man turned to the serious-looking girl. “I like this place. They give you the bottle and let you get tight, fast or slow, just as you feel. There's no waiting to be served.”
     The serious-looking girl said: “That's fine, because I want to get tight very fast tonight.”
     Harry said: “Let's go. I can't talk to you here. Let's go back to the apartment.”
     She shook her head. “No, not tonight. I'm feeling nervy. We should only quarrel. Not tonight.”
     He hid his disappointment. “Well, let's go, anyway. I'll see you home.”
     He gave Manuel some money and she smiled at him. “Your drink's been a big success. Mr. Garner says you're a genius.”
     Manuel showed his surprise. He said good night rather stiffly. He felt somehow that she had insulted him.
     The two of them walked out into the bustle of the street. He noticed that she was just a little drunk; it gave him hope.
     “Let me come back with you,” he said, “I have a lot to say to you.”
     She shook her head. “Not tonight.” She sounded very final.
     He raised his hand to signal a cab.
     “No,” she said, “I'm much too tired. We'll walk.”