SHOES OFF, PILLOWS PROPPED behind his head, Bernhardt lay on top of the bedspread on the queen-size bed. On the TV screen, Robert Mitchum was threatening Gregory Peck in the opening scenes of Night of the Hunter. Whenever he could, he watched Mitchum, certainly one of the best actors the Hollywood star system had ever produced. Like Bogart and Lee J. Cobb, Mitchum made it look easy.
Sometimes he wondered how he would have fared in Hollywood. Years ago, he’d auditioned for a soap opera pilot that would have been shot in New York. He hadn’t gotten the part, but the producer liked what he saw, and offered to introduce Bernhardt to some people “out on the coast.” He’d already decided to leave New York, either for Los Angeles or San Francisco. So he’d thanked the producer and bought an airplane ticket for Los Angeles. He’d stayed almost three weeks, making the rounds. The producer’s name opened a few doors, and one agent had been interested enough in him to invite him to lunch—in a restaurant that, he’d later discovered, was habitually used for second or third echelon lunches. The agent had been a shrewd, aggressive, quick-talking barracuda of a woman, grossly overweight. Over coffee, she’d looked him squarely in the eye and told him that, frankly, she didn’t think he was motivated enough to make it in Hollywood. Years later, he’d learned she’d committed suicide, because of a—
Beside the bed, the telephone rang. As he turned down the TV volume and answered the phone, he glanced at his watch. The time was almost eleven-thirty.
“Mr. Bernhardt?” It was a woman’s voice: a soft, tentative, anxious voice, a young voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Julie Ralston. We talked earlier today, had coffee.”
“Yes, Miss Ralston. What’s up?”
“Well, I—I heard from Betty, just about an hour ago. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. But I’ve—” She hesitated. “I’ve been thinking whether I should tell you—call you.”
“You’re doing the right thing, Miss Ralston. Believe it.”
“Well, I—I’m not sure. I mean, she told me not to tell anyone that she’d called. But she—she sounds terrible. Really terrible. And when you and I talked, I thought you were—you know—pretty sympathetic, pretty honest. So—” Her voice faded into an uncertain silence. He could visualize her, could imagine her frowning as she tried to decide what was best for her friend. What the world needed, Bernhardt decided, was more people like Julie Ralston: honest, conscientious people, with most of their illusions still intact.
“Tell me what she said, Miss Ralston. I think she’s in trouble, and needs help. I’ve already told you that.”
“Will you help her?”
“If I can, I will. First, though, I’ve got to find her.”
“What’ll you do, when you find her? I mean—” Once more, she hesitated. “I mean, will the—the police be involved?”
“I’m not sure. But if they do get involved, it won’t be because I call them. That’s all I can tell you.”
For a moment she didn’t reply. Then, in a low, awed voice, she said, “Nick Ames—she said he was killed. Murdered. Up north, she said. In Santa Rosa.”
“Yes.”
“You knew that, then. When we talked today, you knew he’d been killed.”
“Yes.”
“You—you didn’t tell me.”
“No,” he answered, “I didn’t tell you. If you think about it, that’s how it should be.” He let a beat pass, then said, “If you’d hired me, you wouldn’t want me telling everything I knew. Would you?”
“No, I guess I wouldn’t.”
He let another beat pass while she considered. Then, quietly, he said, “Tell me what she said, Miss Ralston.”
“Well, it—it wasn’t what she said, so much as the way she said it. I mean, it was like she was just about at the end of her rope, you know? Like she didn’t care what happened to her. At least that’s the impression I got.”
“Are you saying that she sounded suicidal?”
“Well, I—” She broke off, thought about it. “I don’t think I’d go that far. But, see, Betty is thirty-three, you know. She’s never been married, never had any children. So she—you know—she has the feeling that life was passing her by. So now, with Nick dead—well—it pretty much wiped her out, I guess.”
“Did she tell you how he died?”
“She said it was robbery. He was shot during a robbery, she said.”
“Did she say anything else, about his murder? Anything at all?”
“No,” she answered slowly, “not that I can remember.”
“Did she seem worried? For herself, her own safety?”
“It didn’t seem like she was. At least, she didn’t say she was worried. But—” She hesitated: a short, tentative pause. “But I asked her—you know—whether she was making arrangements. Funeral arrangements. And she said that, no, she couldn’t make the arrangements because she couldn’t stay in Santa Rosa—that she’d be in danger, if she stayed. So that’s when I thought about what you said today, about there being trouble. And that’s when I decided to call you.”
“Do you have any idea where she is now?”
“Well, not really. But she said something about how she felt just as empty as the desert, something like that. I forget exactly how she put it. But then I got to thinking, and I remembered that she’s been going to a place called Borrego Springs, in the desert. She loves it there. And so when she said something about the desert…” Her voice trailed off into a speculative silence.
“Where’s Borrego Springs? Do you know?”
“I’ve never been there, but I know where it is—about fifty, sixty miles south of Palm Springs, maybe a hundred fifty miles from here, from Los Angeles.”
“If you were me, and you wanted to find her, would you go to Borrego Springs?”
“Yes,” she answered slowly. “Yes, I think I would. Definitely.”