Stranger At Home (25 page)

“And so the character I portray becomes a rather stereotyped person who is slightly bored with it all. I'm not acting any more; I'm just walking through the part.”

“That boredom,” she pointed out, “is what got you a two hundred and fifty dollar raise in
Die by Night
.”

“Two hundred and twenty-five,” I corrected, “after you take your cut.”

She shrugged. “You don't think I'm going to give it back to you? I got you the raise.”

“And that dress. I keep you well. What will you do when I quit acting? I have enough money to go along my own merry way. But I'm your only important client. Is this streamlined furniture paid for?”

“You paid for it,” she said. “But you're not going to quit acting.”

“No?”

“No. You can't. It's part of you. I propose to see that you get paid for doing something you'd do anyway.”

‘I'm not playing detectives any more, and I'm so typed I doubt if anyone wants me to play anything else.”

“I do, George,” she said. “I want you to play Hilary Weston.”

“Fat chance,” I scoffed.

“Fat contract,” she substituted. “You'll put the government back in the black with your new salary.”

She was serious. My mouth didn't exactly drop open, but it felt open. I'd have given my right profile to play Hilary Weston, and here she was dropping it in my lap. I had no idea I had even been considered for the star part in
Seven Dreams
. It was a part for which any actor would give his press clippings. That gentleman pirate who took frontiers in his stride, who left behind him a peopled wilderness and tax collectors, whose philosophy contributed so much to our present civilization, whose loves were as torrid as they were numberless, and who coffined his enemies while stealing their wives and fortunes – he had the color and variety of greatness. And I, George Sanders, was to play him.

“Are you kidding?” I asked Melva.

“It's all over but the signing,” she assured me. “I didn't mention it to you before because I wanted to surprise you. Did I?”

“More than if you'd stuck a knife in my throat. Baby, you're wonderful. I am going to kiss you.”

“Only in front of Fred, George. You leave Monday on location. Riegleman wants to get the desert shots out of the way while we have good weather. If you want the part.”

“I'll do it for nothing, if necessary.”

She was horrified. “Shut your big mouth!” She took up her telephone. “Get me Riegleman,” she said. Presently she repeated, “Mr. Riegleman, please. This is Melva Lonigan... Mr. Riegleman?... Fine, how are you?... That's good. Look, I talked to George before he left. He's taking a vacation, you know... Left an hour ago. He's been working hard and he needs that vacation. He wants me to thank you for the thought, and he realizes that it's a good part.. All right, a great part.”

‘I'm working on an invention,” I muttered.

“Besides, he's working on an invention that should make him a fortune. So I'm afraid he'd have to have a thousand dollars a week more than you offer.” (Inventions are my other hobby – G. Sanders.)

I came out of my chair to throttle her. She waved me back and listened for a moment.

“Well,” she said into the phone. “He was definite. And there's no question, of course, that he's worth even more than that. But I know you've got to stay inside your budget, and it's an expensive picture. Still–… that's fine, then. I can still catch him at Las Vegas and he'll fly back on the six o'clock plane... Yes, he'll be ready to leave Monday morning.”

She hung up and grinned at me. “That's a hundred bucks more for baby each week.”

“That was idiotic,” I said. “He might have told you to go peddle your flesh elsewhere.”

“He didn't, though. He came through. I should have asked for two thousand.”

“I'll buy you a drink,” I said.

“Not in public. At least, not until after the six o'clock plane comes in.” She frowned. “Now why did I tell him you were leaving on a vacation? Suppose you couldn't get a seat on the plane?”

“Then tell him I crawled back on my hands and knees over broken glass. I'd do it. I'm that tired of bending over corpses and looking deductive.”

I should have kept my mouth shut. If there are Fates watching us, whiplashing us at the end of their strings, I must have given my particular Fate an inspiration. For it was less than a week later that I was bending over a corpse again, in the blazing light of a malignant sun, searching for clues. But when I nudged that sprawled and bloody figure, it didn't get up.

It was dead.