The Other Side of Midnight (16 page)

“Yes, Mademoiselle?”

Noelle hesitated. There was still time to leave, still time to turn back and not get involved in something dangerous that was none of her business.

The woman was waiting.

“You—you have a birthday cake for me,” Noelle said, feeling foolish at the game-playing, as though somehow the gravity of what was happening was demeaned
by the childish artifices that were employed.

The woman nodded. “It is ready, Miss Page.” She put a
CLOSED
sign on the door, locked it and said, “This way.”

He was lying on a cot in the small back room of the bakery, his face a mask of pain, bathed in perspiration. The sheet twisted around him was soaked in blood, and there was a large tourniquet around his left knee.

“Israel.”

He moved to face the door, and the sheet fell away, revealing a sodden pulp of mashed bone and flesh where his knee had been.

“What happened?” Noelle asked.

He tried to smile but did not quite make it. His voice was hoarse and strained with pain. “They stepped on
Le Cafard,
but we’re not easy to kill.”

So she had been correct. “I read about it,” Noelle said. “Are you going to be all right?”

Israel took a deep painful breath and nodded. His words came in labored gasps.

“The Gestapo is turning Paris upside down looking for me. My only chance is to get out of the city… If I can get to Le Havre, I have friends who will help me get on a boat out of the country.”

“Can’t you get a friend to drive you out of Paris?” Noelle asked. “You could hide in the back of a truck—”

Israel shook his head weakly. “Road blocks. Not a mouse can get out of Paris.”

Not even
un Cafard,
Noelle thought. “Can you travel with that leg?” she asked, stalling for time, trying to come to a decision.

His lips tightened in the rictus of a smile.

“I’m not going to travel with this leg,” Israel said.

Noelle looked at him, not understanding, and at that moment the door opened and a large, heavy-shouldered, bearded man entered. In his hand he carried an ax. He walked up to the bed and pulled back the sheet, and Noelle felt the blood drain from her face. She
thought of General Scheider and the hairless albino from the Gestapo and what they would do to her if they caught her.

“I will help you,” Noelle said.

It seemed to Catherine Alexander that her life had entered a new phase, as though somehow she had climbed to some higher emotional level, a heady and exhilarating peak. When Bill Fraser was in town, they had dinner together every night and went to concerts or the theater or the opera. He found a small, charming apartment for her near Arlington. He wanted to pay her rent, but Catherine insisted on paying it herself. He bought her clothes and jewelry. She had resisted at first, embarrassed by some deeply ingrained Protestant ethic, but it had given Fraser such obvious pleasure that finally Catherine had stopped arguing about it.

Whether you like it or not,
she thought,
you’re a mistress.
It had always been a loaded word for her, filled with connotations of cheap, slinky women in backstreet apartments, living out lives of emotional frustration. But now that it was happening to her, Catherine found that it was not really like that at all. It just meant that she was sleeping with the man she loved. It did not feel dirty or sordid, it felt perfectly natural.
It’s interesting,
she thought,
how the things that other people do seem so horrible, and yet when you’re doing them they seem so right. When you are reading about the sexual experiences of someone else, it’s
True Confessions,
but when it’s you it’s the
Ladies’ Home Journal.

Fraser was a thoughtful and understanding companion, and it was as though they had been together always.
Catherine could predict his reactions to almost any situation and knew his every mood. Contrary to what Fraser had said, sex with him did not become more exciting, but Catherine told herself that sex was only a small part of a relationship. She was not a schoolgirl who needed constant titillation, she was a mature woman.
Give or take a little,
she thought, wryly.

Fraser’s advertising agency was being run in his absence by Wallace Turner, a senior account executive. William Fraser tried to have as little to do with the business as possible, so he could devote himself to his job in Washington, but whenever a major problem arose at the agency and they needed his advice, Fraser got in the habit of discussing it with Catherine, using her as a sounding board. He found that she had a natural flair for the business. Catherine often came up with ideas for campaigns that proved very effective.

“If I weren’t so selfish, Catherine,” Fraser said one night at dinner, “I’d put you in the agency and turn you loose on some of our accounts.” He covered her hand with his. “I’d miss you too much,” he added. “I want you here with me.”

“I want to be here, Bill. I’m very happy with things the way they are.” And it was true. She had thought that if she were ever in a situation like this, she would want desperately to get married, but somehow there seemed no urgency about it. In every important way they were already married.

One afternoon as Catherine was finishing some work, Fraser walked into her office.

“How would you like to take a drive out to the country tonight?” he asked.

“Love it. Where are we going?”

“To Virginia. We’re having dinner with my parents.”

Catherine looked up at him in surprise. “Do they know about us?” she asked.

“Not everything,” he grinned. “Just that I have a
fantastic young assistant and I’m bringing her to dinner.”

If she felt a pang of disappointment, she did not let it show on her face. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll stop by the apartment and change.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock.”

“Date.”

The Frasers’ house, set in the beautiful rolling hills of Virginia, was a large Colonial farmhouse with sixty acres of vivid green grass and farmland surrounding it. The house dated back to seventeen hundred.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Catherine marveled.

“It’s one of the best breeding farms in America,” Fraser informed her.

The car drove past a corral filled with beautiful horses, past the neatly kept paddocks and the caretaker’s cottage.

“It’s like another world,” Catherine exclaimed. “I envy your growing up here.”

“Do you think you’d like living on a farm?”

“This isn’t exactly a farm,” she said dryly. “It’s more like owning your own country.”

They had arrived in front of the house.

Fraser turned to her. “My mother and father are a little formal,” he warned, “but there’s nothing for you to worry about. Just be yourself. Nervous?”

“No,” Catherine said. “Panicky.” And as she said it, she realized with a sense of astonishment that she was lying. In the classic tradition of all girls about to meet the parents of the man they loved, she should have been petrified. But she felt nothing except curiosity. There was no time to wonder about that now. They were getting out of the car and a butler in full livery was opening the door, greeting them with a welcoming smile.

Colonel Fraser and his lady could have been living
out of the pages of an ante-bellum story book. The first thing that struck Catherine was how old and fragilelooking they were. Colonel Fraser was a pale carbon of what had once been a handsome, vital man. He reminded Catherine very strongly of someone, and with a shock, she realized who it was: an old, worn-out version of his son. The colonel had sparse white hair and walked with a painful stoop. His eyes were pale blue and his once-powerful hands were gnarled with arthritis. His wife had the look of an aristocrat and still retained traces of a girlish beauty. She was gracious and warm to Catherine.

In spite of what Fraser had told her, Catherine had the feeling that she was there for their inspection. The colonel and his wife spent the evening questioning her. They were very discreet but thorough. Catherine told them about her parents and her childhood, and when she talked about moving from school to school, she made it sound like adventurous fun, rather than the agony it had been. As she talked she could see Bill Fraser proudly beaming at her. Dinner was superb. They dined by candlelight in a large, old-fashioned dining room with a real marble fireplace and liveried servants.
Old silver, old money and old wine
. She looked at Bill Fraser and a wave of warm gratitude went through her. She had the feeling that this kind of life could be hers if she wanted it. She knew that Fraser loved her, and she loved him. And yet there was something missing: a sense of excitement.
Possibly,
she thought,
I’m expecting too much. I’ve probably been warped by Gary Cooper, Humphrey Bogart and Spencer Tracy! Love isn’t a knight in shining armor. It’s a gentleman farmer in a gray tweed suit. Damn all those movies and books!
As she looked at the colonel, she could see Fraser twenty years hence, looking exactly the same as his father. She was very quiet during the rest of the evening.

On the way home Fraser asked, “Did you enjoy the evening?”

“Very much. I liked your parents.”

“They liked you, too.”

“I’m glad.” And she was. Except for the vaguely disquieting thought in the back of her mind that somehow she should have been more nervous about meeting them.

The following evening, while Catherine and Fraser were having dinner at the Jockey Club, Fraser told her that he had to go to London for a week. “While I’m gone,” he said, “I have an interesting job for you. They’ve asked our office to supervise an Army Air Corps recruiting film they’re shooting at MGM studios in Hollywood. I’d like you to handle the picture while I’m gone.”

Catherine stared at him incredulously. “Me? I can’t even load a Brownie. What do I know about making a training film?”

“About as much as anyone else,” Fraser grinned. “It’s all pretty new, but you don’t have to worry. They’ll have a producer and everything. The Army plans to use actors in the film.”

“Why?”

“I guess they feel that soldiers won’t be convincing enough to play soldiers.”

“That sounds like the Army.”

“I had a long talk with General Mathews this afternoon. He must have used the word ‘glamour’ a hundred times. That’s what they want to sell. They’re starting a big recruitment drive aimed at the elite young manhood of America. This is one of the opening guns.”

“What do I have to do?” Catherine asked.

“Just see that everything runs smoothly. You’ll have final approval. You have a reservation to Los Angeles on a nine
A
.
M
. plane tomorrow.”

Catherine nodded. “All right.”

“Will you miss me?”

“You know I will,” she replied.

“I’ll bring you a present.”

“I don’t want any presents. Just come back safely.”
She hesitated. “The situation’s getting worse, isn’t it, Bill?”

He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think we’re going to be at war soon.”

“How horrible.”

“It’s going to be even more horrible if we
don’t
get into it,” he said quietly. “England got out of Dunkirk by a miracle. If Hitler decides to cross the Channel now, I don’t think the British can stop him.” They finished their coffee in silence, and he paid the check.

“Would you like to come to the house and spend the night?” Fraser asked.

“Not tonight,” Catherine said. “You have to get up early, and so do I.”

“All right.”

After he had dropped her off at her apartment and she was getting ready for bed, Catherine asked herself why she had not gone home with Bill on the eve of his departure.

She had no answer.

Catherine had grown up in Hollywood even though she had never been there. She had spent hundreds of hours in darkened theaters, lost in the magic dreams manufactured by the film capital of the world, and she would always be grateful for the joy of those happy hours.

When Catherine’s plane landed at the Burbank airport, she was filled with excitement. A limousine was waiting to drive her to her hotel. As they drove down the sunny, broad streets, the first thing Catherine noticed was the palm trees. She had read about them and had seen pictures of them, but the reality was overwhelming. They were everywhere, stretching tall against the sky, the lower part of their graceful trunks bare and the upper part beautiful and verdant. In the center of each tree was a ragged circle of fronds, like a dirty petticoat, Catherine thought, hanging unevenly below a green tutu.

They drove by a huge building that looked like a factory. A large sign over the entrance said “Warner Bros.” and under it, “Combining Good Pictures with Good Citizenship.” As the car went past the gate, Catherine thought of James Cagney in
Strawberry Blond,
and Bette Davis in
Dark Victory
and smiled happily.

They passed the Hollywood Bowl, which looked enormous from the outside, turned off Highland Avenue and went west on Hollywood Boulevard. They passed the Egyptian Theater and two blocks to the west, Grauman’s Chinese, and Catherine’s spirits soared. It was like seeing two old friends. The driver swung down Sunset Boulevard and headed for the Beverly Hills Hotel. “You’ll enjoy this hotel, miss. It’s one of the best in the world.”

It was certainly one of the most beautiful that Catherine had ever seen. It was just north of Sunset, in a semicircle of sheltering palm trees surrounded by large gardens. A graceful driveway curved up to the front door of the hotel, painted a delicate pink. An eager young assistant manager escorted Catherine to her room, which turned out to be a lavish bungalow on the grounds behind the main building of the hotel. There was a bouquet of flowers on the table with the compliments of the management and a larger, more beautiful bouquet with a card that read: “Wish I were there or you were here. Love, Bill.” The assistant manager had handed Catherine three telephone messages. They were all from Allan Benjamin, whom she had been told was the producer of the training film. As Catherine was reading Bill’s card, the phone rang. She ran to it, picked up the receiver and said eagerly, “Bill?” But it turned out to be Allan Benjamin.

“Welcome to California, Miss Alexander,” his voice shrilled through the receiver. “Corporal Allan Benjamin, producer of this little clambake.”

A corporal. She would have thought that they would have put a captain or a colonel in charge.

“We start shooting tomorrow. Did they tell you that we’re using actors instead of soldiers?”

“I heard,” Catherine replied.

“We start shooting at nine in the morning. If you could get here by about eight, I’d like to have you take a look at them. You know what the Army Air Corps wants.”

“Right,” said Catherine briskly. She had not the faintest idea what the Army Air Corps wanted, but she supposed that if one used common sense and picked out types that looked like they might be pilots, that would be sufficient.

“I’ll have a car there for you at seven thirty
A
.
M
.,” the voice was saying. “It’ll only take you half an hour to get to Metro. It’s in Culver City. I’ll meet you on Stage Thirteen.”

It was almost four o’clock in the morning before Catherine fell asleep, and it seemed the moment her eyes closed, the phone was ringing and the operator was telling her that a limousine was waiting for her.

Thirty minutes later Catherine was on her way to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

It was the largest motion picture studio in the world. There was a main lot consisting of thirty-two sound stages, the enormous Thalberg Administration Building which housed Louis B. Mayer, twenty-five executives, and some of the most famous directors, producers and writers in show business. Lot two contained the large standing outdoor sets which were constantly redressed for various movies. Within a space of three minutes, you could drive past the Swiss Alps, a western town, a tenement block in Manhattan and a beach in Hawaii. Lot three on the far side of Washington Boulevard housed millions of dollars’ worth of props and flat sets and was used to shoot outdoor spectacles.

All this was explained to Catherine by her guide, a young girl who was assigned to take her to Stage 13. “It’s a city in itself,” she was saying proudly. “We produce our own electricity, make enough food in the
commissary to feed six thousand people a day and build all our own sets right on the back lot. We’re completely self-sufficient. We don’t need anybody.”