Chapter 3

A Little Badminton

Newton Harlow III and I belonged to the same athletic club.

He belonged because his family had been charter members since the club was founded more than eighty years ago. I had belonged to it a year and a half because I had been elected and admitted, for reasons obscure to myself. But we both played squash and badminton at about the same speed, and for the past year Newt and I had been getting together to play once or twice a week, when his banking or my newswriting did not interfere.

I suppose in odd ways we admire each other. Newt thinks it is ludicrous, but I hope worthy, that a man can make a fair living by just going places, talking to people, and then writing about it. And I think it is both absurd and wonderful that a man can make a handsome living by computing the interest on large sums, borrowed or loaned, in sixteenths of a cent.

On the day we had had dinner at Twit-Twit’s, Newt and I played three games of badminton singles at the club and retired, sweating and puffing, to the dry-heat room. There we sat, draped in brief towels and enjoying, or at least enduring, the heat.

He seemed oddly quiet, especially considering that he had beaten me handily two games to one. I wiped perspiration from my eyes.

“You won’t do that again. I’m on to that new serve.”

He grinned a little. He knew what I really meant. For a guy who is a highly dignified young banker and has battled his way well up in a world of facts, figures, and cold decisions, Newt is warmly perceptive.

“I am worried,” he said. “I admit it. That’s one reason I felt like a game today.”

“Federal Reserve kicking you boys around again?”

“No. Not at the moment. But the movie business is.”

“Movie business! Don’t tell me your bank, of all the conservative, mossy, old-line banks, is getting into—”

“We are.”

He looked around cautiously, although except for us the heat room had been empty ever since we came in.

He said, “Six months ago we loaned Mel Compton ten million dollars. Two months ago we let him have five million more. I was one of those who favored the loan. Now the money may go up in smoke. Greek smoke.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Don’t think I can’t. You know what Compton’s done. Four successive hit pictures in two years—the hottest director—producer in the business. Each picture was low budget but it netted far up in the millions, and they’re all still making money.”

“I know.”

“He came to us with a proposition. He wanted to make a big-budget picture, and had an unassailable proposition. He had arrangements with both the Turkish and Greek governments—he’s a Turk, you know; Compton’s not his real name—to make a super-spectacular based on Helen of Troy. And he had signed up Merrilee Moore for Helen. He had everything except that much money. It would be the first movie loan our bank ever made but, after some very sober meetings during which we considered his record, we decided to go along. He got the loan. And when he came back later for the other five million, he got that, too.”

“So what’s the trouble?”

“Merrilee.”

“What’s the trouble with Merrilee?”

I thought of her as I’d seen her in some of her pictures, and I laughed at my question. A goddess, a Circe, a taunting temptress, a lovely child, a warm woman...what could be the trouble with Merrilee?

“Nobody knows where she is,” said Newt. He toweled steam off his face.

“Newt, are you crazy? A dame like that doesn’t disappear.”

“She has, though. In fact, as far as we can figure it out, I may well have been the last person to talk to her.”

“For a minute I was afraid you were going to say ‘see her alive.’”

“Oh, I don’t think she’s—she’s met with foul play or anything like that. But—well, here’s the problem. Maybe you can help. Come to think of it, maybe you could damned well help.”

We both mopped perspiration.

“Merrilee worked for C-L-C Productions for almost ten years,” Newt said. “As I’m sure you know. She’s thirty-three now. At C-L-C she did drudgery roles. For years. Minor parts in B pictures at five hundred a week, and completely controlled by the studio. Then she got that good part in—what was the name?”

“One Night on Fifth Avenue.”

“That’s it. Anyway, she suddenly went over very big, and the studio began to star her. Every picture she was in clicked, and she made millions for them. But the damned fools kept her tied to the same old contract.”

“At five hundred a week?”

“Not quite. They upped her salary. But they still didn’t pay her what she was worth. And she had no voice in what roles she would play, what pictures she would do—that sort of thing.”

“So?”

“So when the contract’s final clause was up, she cut loose from C-L-C, and especially from Roger Kane who runs the studio. Kane is a wild neurotic, of course. He has a fantastic temper. There’s a story that he once had three psychiatrists working on him, all at one time, and finally fired all three of them the same day. When Merrilee quit he flew into a fairy fit of rage, called her ungrateful, and swore he’d have revenge. He even claimed he had been going to make Helen himself, and that Merrilee leaked the news to Compton. We at the bank know better, of course.”

“This is a hell of a thing for a bank to have to deal with.”

“Deal with! We’re entirely underwriting the picture that depends on her alone. That’s the rub. She’s missing.”

I was getting interested. “Maybe you’d better explain this in some detail.”

“She came to New York to do some shopping before sailing. She and Compton, and another of our vice-presidents and myself, had dinner at the Colony. I’ve never been at a table so stared at by the rest of the restaurant. She was beautiful and ravishing and, superficially at least, bubbling with excitement. But I got the impression she was haunted by something. And the impression deepened afterward.”

“How do you mean?”

“She was staying at the Carlyle. I offered to drop her off. But when we got there, she suggested a nightcap in the bar. I wanted to catch the 12:35 to Rye but—so. After a very healthy stinger, she told me what was bothering her. She was afraid of crossing the ocean. She had never done it before.”

“That’s why she was scared?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. But she was scared of crossing the ocean. By ship, air—or osmosis. She wouldn’t say why. She did say she was thinking of taking the ship with a suitcaseful of sleeping pills and tranquilizers, and staying in her cabin all the way over and having her maid feed her pills periodically until she reached the other side.”

“She sounds screwy.”

“She is, but only a little. She’s a reasonably balanced girl, Deac. On the level. But something deep was bugging her. Anyway, I made her promise to have another meeting, and she agreed. So, I took her up to her suite, and her maid let her in. Interesting woman, the maid. Hungarian, old, raw-boned. She’s been with Merrilee for some twelve years and is devoted, I take it. At least, the suspicious way she looked at me gave me that idea. I said good night at the door and heard the bolt slide into place before I’d walked two steps.”

“But what in hell is Merrilee afraid of?”

“Wait. Two days later she came down to the bank. She needed to arrange some currency transfers and things, and that was the excuse for having another talk with her. She looked like hell. She’d dyed her hair white, was wearing an old black dress, and I think had even made up to look older. Really an old woman.”

“Why that?”

“I don’t know. She said she just didn’t want to be recognized by fans. But she’d gone a very long way to make sure of it. And of course she’s been accustomed to stage make-up since she was a child. Anyway, she promised solemnly she would be on the Montmartre, and that her maid would be with her, and apparently a publicity man named Jones whom the Compton-studio people assigned to her at the last minute—not to get her publicity, but to shield her from it, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Jones was with her when she came down to the bank. He is not attractive, Deac. Shifty, loud—insincere and probably dishonest, in my opinion. You know those Hollywood types.”

“Sure. But holy jiminy”—I started toweling my wet chest and shoulders for the last time—”all those Hollywood types are nutty. What does she really have to be afraid of? The ship sinking?”

Newt was staring into the corner. “Just fear itself, perhaps. Mutilation, maybe. She’s afraid of something; that’s for sure.”

“But what does crossing the ocean have to do with it? And why the disguise?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re seeing sadists under the bed, Newt. Who in the world would want to touch a hair of the loveliest head—”

“Kane,” said Newt. “Kane would. I think that’s whom she’s hiding from. You don’t know how mad he is, Deac. And you perhaps don’t know how he feels about women. He hates them. Even homely ones. Now the one whom a lot of people think is the most beautiful woman in the world has left his studio, and will make a picture for a rival producer, which will probably prove enormously successful. If it’s ever completed, that is.”

I got up and draped my towel around myself.

“Now you’re sounding more normal. It’s not Merrilee you’re worried about. It’s your fifteen million bucks. But it’ll come out fine. She’ll be a smash, the picture will—”

“Then why has she disappeared?” said Newt. “She’s checked out of the Carlyle and no one knows where she is. She promised to be aboard the boat. But where is she?”

“She’ll show up. How could she turn down a fifteen-million-dollar role?”

“I’m going to make you a proposition,” he said. “It occurred to me before we started the badminton, when you said you had a month’s vacation left over that you wanted to take now. I’ve been thinking about it while we were talking here. How’d you like to take your vacation in Europe, Deac? Expenses paid. And you’ll presumably cross the ocean with Merrilee. In a posh suite on the Montmartre. Even bring a friend or two, if you like.”

I will frankly admit that at this point I returned to the bench and sat down.

“Stop smirking,” I said. “What do you mean, bring a friend?”

“I mean this.” He was talking nervously. “Merrilee will be traveling with her maid. In a suite on the boat deck, as I happen to know. Jones—the publicity man—will be aboard, too. But the bank has a major suite reserved on the Montmartre practically every trip.”

“The hell it does.”

“For our officers. And preferred customers. It’s part of the—part of the banking drill. The suite is also on the boat deck, incidentally, and we’ve held it in reserve simply to protect our investment—a fifteen-million-dollar investment. You could have it.”

I laughed. “This is a new side of banking. Up to now I’ve always thought all you people did was send out notices telling us customers we were overdrawn.”

“There are other sides. I’m serious. I couldn’t be more so. I think Merrilee will be on the ship. If she isn’t, God help everyone. Shooting starts north of Athens in less than two weeks. But I think she will be. And I would just feel our investment was more secure if someone like yourself was aboard, just standing by in the wings, so to speak.”

“Why me? I’m no professional bodyguard. And ships have their own security systems, you know.”

“Sure. The fact is, we have alerted the first officer, and well, frankly—paid him a little money. So, she’ll be watched all right. And I doubt whether there can be any real threat at all, once she’s aboard.”

“She’ll have Jones, or whatever his name is.”

“I question his responsibility. He’s just a press agent who was assigned to her a day or so ago. But having you there, just keeping an eye on her—well, you’ve been around and covered crime stories, and so on. To have someone with your savvy on hand—you wouldn’t even have to spend any time with her—if you didn’t want to.”

“What do you mean, not want to?”

“Then why don’t you do it? If a few thousand bucks over and above all expenses would—”

“Newt, for the love of God! I’m no private detective. I’ll bet your girl is safer than a—a government bond. So’s your investment.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then hire the Pinkertons.”

I punched his shoulder, and we headed for the shower room.

* * * *

That’s how it was until later that night when we had dinner at Twit-Twit’s, and it turned out everyone wanted to go to Paris on the Montmartre.

I couldn’t resist the temptation. For once in my life I could make a grand gesture.

So I made it.

* * * *

The evening before we sailed, Newt rang me and said he had finally heard from Merrilee—by phone, at least. She had at long last returned his many calls and, sounding very agitated and flighty, again promised she would make the trip. Newt had given her my name, told her I would be her general overseer, and said that I would contact her.

“Just as a precaution,” he said, “I am going to send a wire to her on the ship, establishing a recognition code. You will be ABC, and the code words, when you first meet, will be ‘procedural meeting.’ Can you remember that?”

I said I could and privately concluded that Newt, the conservative banker, was letting theatricalism go to his head.

“I’m sure now that she’ll be there, and I must say that I feel more relaxed,” he went on. “Once she’s aboard ship, I think we’re safe. If you like, you could even see how the land lies before contacting her. But you should presently let her know you are there.”

“I see. What about Kane? Might he be on board the ship?”

“I doubt it. To begin with, if he’d planned anything, I’d bet he’d get someone else to do it. I don’t think he personally has the intestinal fortitude for any rough stuff. As I read it, it is her own fears that we mainly have to worry about. Well, bon voyage.”

* * * *

Obviously she had received Newt’s wire long after boarding the ship this noon or else had read it late. But now we were in communication.

Ten o’clock tonight.

I’d seen a lot of her films. I wondered what she would be like in real life.

And what she really had to be afraid of.