The press had dubbed her 'The Waif of Paris' after a memorable performance in an early version of Hugo's 'Les Miserables'. The critics had proclaimed her 'one of the finest actresses that France had ever produced'. To her admirers she was a goddess, one of the first of a generation of movie idols that would dominate the culture of the Western world for decades. To her friends, those few she had managed to retain in the cutthroat world of the film industry, she was a sad and somewhat lonely figure, isolated from her past and barely able to cope with the image her public expected of her. What ever else Yvette Carlin was, she was undoubtedly a star.
She had resisted the lure of Hollywood for several years, preferring to perform in her native French, to make artistic and emotional films in small European studios. But she had succumbed in the end, her finances shaken by an unexpected failure at the box office and her personal affairs in tatters after a disastrous 'liaison' with a temperamental director. Fleeing to a promising contract in the new world she had found herself treated like a child, the studio rejecting script after script without consulting her, until she had felt tempted to behave like one. In the end they had chosen a tragic love story as her introduction to the American public and, with a sudden flare of inventiveness from the publicity department, they had decided it should be filmed on location - for 'authenticity'. Accordingly Yvette, her two co-stars, two supporting character actors, her director, a camera crew and sundry technical people, had departed for Manila in a blaze of publicity, supposedly to film the entire story, but actually to obtain a few setting sequences to add the desired authenticity to studio scenes already in the can.
Manila was hot, humid and uncomfortable. The food was poor, the accommodation dismal and the authorities uncooperative. Two weeks later the director, having finally got what he wanted, bundled the entire crew into a chartered ship bound for San Francisco and set about shooting the last few scenes on his schedule, using the battered steamer as backdrop and stage combined.
It was only then, with the last page of the ninth revision of the script captured on film and every item in the contract accounted for, that the studio relented. The ship altered course for the Marivellas, where, the director announced with some relief, they would meet the east bound China Clipper and return to Los Angeles at a civilised pace and in a civilised manner.
They anchored in Boragora bay just after lunch on the Monday.
"God in heaven," John Winter drawled with accentuated effect. "A regular cannibal isle no less. Do they really expect us to stay here for three whole days?"
He was tall, angular and striking, an actor well known for his villainous roles and adored by countless numbers of women. He knew it too.
"Merci de Dieu." Yvette had had enough of his arrogance over the past months, and had discovered the best way to silence him was to scold him like a child. "You always expect the worst, and it never happens! Well," she corrected reluctantly at his frown, "except for Manila. This will be different." She leaned on the ship's rail and stared at the sweep of lush vegetation and the cluster of buildings that nestled close to the beach. The view is rather attractive n'est ce pas?"
"And what," Winter enquired sardonically, "makes you think that this place will be any more civilised than Manila?"
She laughed, the soft laugh that had charmed so many on celluloid. "Johnny," she chided, "the Marivellas's are a French colony. Of course it will be civilised!"
He sniffed disdainfully. He hated the diminutive form of his name and she knew it. "Anything," he announced, "would be better than this dammed ship."
"All ashore whose going ashore, eh?" The voice of Henry Derwell rang with cheery enthusiasm from behind them. Yvette swallowed a sigh with difficulty. Derwell was the studio's 'discovery'; already a leading man in his early twenties and the darling of the gossip columnists. He was tall, athletic looking and smoothly handsome in the slicked back, glossed over manner beloved by Hollywood publicists. He was also, as she had discovered, shallow, insincere, insecure and positively conceited. Nothing about him was original - not his looks, which he'd modelled on a number of faces current in Tinseltown, nor his manner, which he had developed as a result of reading his own publicity material. He was renowned for his conquests of 'the weaker sex'; she had realised early on that all his affairs were short and one-sided. His side. She had no intention of becoming nothing more than a notch on his tennis racquet; she was an intense and passionate woman who had been wooed by experts, Italian aristocrats, Spanish bullfighters and Hungarian cavalrymen among them. Countless gallant Frenchmen had thrown her roses, sent her jewels and wrapped her in furs. She found Henry Derwell's overtly obvious attempts to lure her into his bed both dreary and unwelcome. She didn't even find him particularly attractive - and had told him as much.
He hadn't believed her. He had interpreted the acting skill she had brought to their scripted love scenes as genuine passion, ad the more she rejected him the more determined he became. He would not take no as an answer. Unused to being refused he had convinced himself that it was merely a matter of time before she would succumb to his charms, and had taken ever opportunity since to pursue his quarry with insensitive determination. She hated it. She didn't hate him; she merely felt a vague mixture of dislike and pity that, coupled with her growing irritation at his awkward and transparent ploys, led her to long with heartfelt sincerity for the company of real people. She hadn't found them in Manila; the thought that she had reached French soil, however distant it may have been from Paris, had lifted her spirits as nothing else could have done.
"I wonder if they have a tennis court?" Derwell was saying brightly, joining them at the rail with an insincere smile that set her nerves on edge. "You and I could knock a ball or two around. What do you say, Evie?"
"I hate tennis," she answered coldly. She disliked being called Evie about as much as the man on the other side of her hated 'Johnny'. Derwell used both names incessantly.
"We could always find something else to do," he suggested. "Say - this place looks okay to me. Kinda quiet though. Guess they don't see a load of action around here.
"Bullet holes?" The voice of Boragora's resident Magistrate dropped through the open hatch of Cutter's Goose with a note of gentle reproach. Jake Cutter, pilot, ex Flying Tiger, and owner of the offending seaplane, grimaced at his mechanic and leant out of the window.
"You don't want to know, Louie," he called to the white suited figure on the dock.
The Frenchman frowned at him for a thoughtful moment; then he smiled, shaking his head with patient resignation. "Perhaps not," he decided. "I trust no-one was hurt?"
"Nope." Cutter dropped between the rudder pedals and a few seconds later emerged through the open nose hatch, his one eyed dog in his arms. "Only casualty was a crate of eggs."
"Rotten ones." Corky, Cutter's ever present mechanic, added from the cockpit. "The inside of the Goose is gonna stink for days!"
"Mon Dieu!" Bon Chance Louie's reaction was understandable. The American had joined him on the dock and it was fairly obvious that the interior of the plane was not the only victim of noxious contamination. "Jake Cutter - you are not coming into my hotel in that condition. I will send out some scented tapers and you can fumigate the Goose, and yourselves at the same time."
"Thanks," Cutter grinned. "Can you add a couple of beers to the order?" At his feet the small dog barked twice in quick succession and the Frenchman eyed him warily.
"Obviously," he answered, then cast a rapid glance in the direction of the cockpit. "Two?" he queried.
"Yah." The American stifled a yawn. "The work can wait 'til tomorrow. We've been flying since four o'clock yesterday."
"Ah," Bon Chance acknowledged sagely. "Then you will have no objection to being grounded for a few days."
"Grounded!" The pilot's response was immediately indignant. "What the hell for?"
His friend sighed. "We could start with causing an affray, disturbing the peace on Tagataya, oh - and offending an official of the French Administration. Jake," he added reproachfully, "you know better than that. I have had my knuckles rapped for not keeping you under control. Why did you do it?"
Cutter stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the boards under his feet. "I didn't know the guy was an administrative inspector, Louie. All I knew was that he kept bothering this girl who didn't want to know ..."
His companion smiled. "Always the valiant hero n'est-ce pas? One of these days it will get you into trouble. As a matter of fact," he went on, the amusement clear in his voice, "the Governor was delighted that someone had taken the man down a peg or two. But do be careful who you pick your fights with in future, s'il tu plait. For my sake?"
Jack barked twice a second time and his master laughed. "Sure, Louie. Anything you say."
The Frenchman's expression slipped into one of wry disbelief before he allowed himself a staccato laugh that left a grin behind it. "Three days," he announced authoritatively. "At least," he added thoughtfully, "in the absence of an emergency ..."
"Three whole days," Cutter echoed pensively. "What am I supposed to do with myself?"
"Keep out of trouble?" Bon Chance suggested hopefully. Jack answered that with one short and decisive bark. From the Frenchman's expression it was clear that he agreed with him.
"Hey Jake!" Corky's voice preceded the man himself as he clambered out onto the nose of the plane to pitch a broken crate onto the quay. "We got visitors!" He indicated the approaching ship with a tilt of the head.
"Ah, bon!" The owner of Boragora's only hotel acknowledged the appearance of the vessel without surprise. "I was beginning to think that they had been delayed. Jake - " He turned back to the pilot with businesslike decision. "Do you think you and Corky could stay downwind until it is no longer necessary, mm? These are paying guests, and I do not want to give them the wrong impression. Difficult as that may be," he added as he started back towards the Monkey Bar.
Cutter laughed, and joined Corky at the end of the jetty to watch the passengers disembark. Perhaps having to spend the next three days on the ground wouldn't be so bad after all.
By the time they reached the entrance to the hotel Yvette Carlin was beginning to wish she had joined another profession. The circus perhaps. Anything that would involve less fuss in travelling than J.K. Kopanski's sideshow. Kopanski directed the unloading and handling of the luggage the same way he directed his films: loudly. His broken Polish accent could be clearly heard right across the bay as he gave last minute instructions to his camera crew who, victims of studio economy, were returning to the US aboard the ship. Yvette surveyed the group around her with despairing eyes. At least the camera crew didn't think they were gods, or spend more time drunk than sober.
Stanley Mordecai, J.K's personal assistant, was organising the group in front of the hotel as though he had suddenly turned into a tour guide. There were a number of people gathering on the sidelines, obviously finding their arrival the most interesting event for weeks, and Derwell was playing to the crowd with gusto, stalking around like the Great White Hunter he had played in 'African Heat' the year before. It was all too much. Realising that, for once, no-one was watching her, the actress slipped through the swinging doors of the bar and collapsed into a nearby chair.
The building's interior was a welcome coolness after the noonday sun, and the place was full of comforting half familiar smells: baked bread, fresh lit tobacco, and wood polish mingled with more tropical scents to make a heady concoction. A man was working behind the bar, polishing glasses with an air of unconcern that seemed to imply there was no hurry to the job. In one corner a small group of men were discussing business with comfortable amiability, while a man in a wheelchair served them all with wine. Yvette sat entranced; the room was unexpectedly clean, the bar eye-catchingly different, and the atmosphere so unhurried that the lazy sweep of the overhead fans seemed almost an intrusion.
Outside she could hear Derwell making his own assessment. "Will you look at this place," he was exclaiming. "Straight out of 'King Kong'. When do the native dances start?"
She shuddered at the man's crassness. There was an air of frontier civilisation about this island that Manila had sadly lacked.
The Philippines had been sticky and oppressive, poverty clear in the crowded streets of the capital and in the huddled villages concealing themselves on the edge of hostile jungle. Boragora on the other hand ... It was easy to see why people talked of pacific islands as paradise. A native girl, bronze skinned and healthy, had joined the little group of businessmen, joking with men whose racial antecedents stretched across the world. It was hot, but not unbearably so, and after the stink of the hotel that had greeted them in Manila this clean and airy room seemed heavenly.
"Are you all right, mademoiselle?"
The gentle murmur of French was unexpected. Startled, not so much at the question but at the language it was addressed in, she turned, to find herself studying the appreciative smile of a stranger. A man of indeterminable age, the white suit a crisp smartness in the shadowed light, his eyes a glitter of mischief in an expressive face. She found she was smiling back.
"Yes - I am fine, thank you, monsieur," she responded with practised politeness, the liquid syllables of her native tongue a pleasure to pronounce. "Just a little taken by the sun I think."
"Ah yes," he nodded sagely, and summoned the chairbound waiter with an elegant gesture. "Gushie. A glass of iced tea for mademoiselle s'il vous plait."
The man he had summoned glanced at her with contemplative interest then smiled, a smile of amusement that seemed to tell her that she had passed some unspoken test.
"Sure," he said. "On the house?"
"Gushie." The man's voice held a hint of admonition, an indication of some private exchange which she had missed. It was a pleasant voice, distinctive in its tones. She studied its owner with a Frenchwoman's eye as he watched his companion wheel his way to the bar. He wasn't young, this elegant Frenchman with his scarlet cravat and his quietly confident manner. Nor was he old, the way that some men grew old before their time. He was good looking, if not classically handsome, and his figure was a comfortable match to his height, neither too stout nor too lean. She smiled inwardly as she assessed him, knowing, with unerring instinct, that he had probably weighed her up in precisely the same manner. But then, she reminded herself, she was a celebrity, and should be used to being stared at. Except - he wasn't staring. He was looking at her with the kind of look she hadn't seen in years. An honest look that went through the veneer or stardom and studied the woman underneath with speculative interest.
He doesn't care who I am, she thought in wonderment, returning the look with fascination. And then Derwell bounded in behind her, totally shattering what might have developed into an interesting moment.
"Oh, there you are Evie. We were all wondering where you'd disappeared to. Old Wentworth is unpacking your stuff upstairs. Any chance of a drink, do you think?"
I don't know your name, Yvette though at her stranger as he smiled and turned away. For a moment she thought he would leave, and the desperation that that thought aroused in her was frightening. But he had only turned to offer the American a chair and attract the attention of the man behind the bar. She wondered if her relief was as obvious as she felt it to be when he turned back towards her.
"Monsieur is very kind," she murmured to cover sudden embarrassment as he placed the requested glass of iced tea in front of her.
"Not at all," he answered teasingly, and added, "It is not every day that I entertain such distinguished company in my hotel."
So he did know who she was. The thought was vaguely disappointing; and then what he had said registered. "Your hotel, monsieur?"
"My island, mademoiselle." It did not occur to her to question this bold claim as he made his way towards the bar. It seemed entirely right and proper that he should be in charge. She smiled her thanks at him as she sipped the lemon scented tea and wondered if it was just because he was French that she found him attractive.
Derwell tipped his feet up onto a second chair and studied her with his usual speculation. He accepted his whisky without really noticing how it was delivered, while Yvette extended her smile to the man in the wheel chair as he passed her.
"Ah - Gushie?" He acknowledged her mastery of his name with a broad grin and wheeled backwards to join her.
"Can I get you anything else?" he enquired.
"No - not for the moment thank you. I - was just wondering. The owner. He did not give me his name."
The man called Gushie stared at her for a moment before glancing in the direction of his employer. "It's Louie ma'm," he told her.
"Louie what?"
"Just Louie." Gushie's voice was amused for some reason. "Folks round here sometimes put Bon Chance in front of it. But I don't suppose he'll mind if you don't."
"Merci," she murmured as he wheeled away.
Further consideration of the matter was swamped by the entrance of Kopanski. The Polish born director had a habit of making entrances, whether they were necessary or not. He made one now, a stomped arrival that threw both swing doors wide with total disregard for their hinges. "Aha!" he cried, a favourite phrase as it meant the same in both his languages. "My shickens are togeter, I zee. Gut. Don't you tink zey mik ze perfect couple Ztanley?"
Ztanley - that is, Stanley, nodded his eager agreement, a pace behind Kopanski's ample frame as always. "Sure J.K. Just perfect. What d'ya say to a publicity session, guys? This place is oozing with visual imagery."
"Oh, ya." The Pole eased himself into a chair beside Derwell, who grinned in easy agreement. "Joost oozink."
Yvette nodded, a slow acquiescence to the suggestion. She knew the value of publicity; not to mention the inadvisability of upsetting J.K. But she couldn't avoid a longing glance at the carved surround behind the bar; the surround and the man its mirrors reflected. Then she realised that he had been joined by a woman; a dark haired figure in a pale blue sundress who leaned on the bar beside him in a familiar manner. Piqued, she turned away, to unintentionally catch Henry Derwell's eye. Misinterpreting the glance, he gave her a knowing smile; a smile tinged with anticipation.
"Is she really a famous actress Louie?" Sarah Stickney White, chanteuse at the Monkey bar and actually an American spy, leaned back against the bar and eyed her employer with a hopeful smile. It was part of her real job on the island to find out what she could about those who passed through it: a difficult task in an ocean where few men even bothered with last names. This group she felt she could study with legitimate curiosity. She was, after all, supposed to be an aspiring entertainer, and, as Hollywood fell firmly within the American sphere, she felt their presence justified her apparently innocent interest.
"One of the best," Louie was murmuring in reply to her question, his eyes studying the gathered group with thoughtful intent.
If Sarah had had less of an eye for Hollywood's latest leading man and more for the Frenchman beside her, she would have noticed that his look lingered on Yvette Carlin a little longer than perhaps it should. Gushie would have known that look, if anyone had bothered to ask him, although this time, perhaps, it was more speculative and less amused than usual. In fact, Bon Chance was regarding his celebrity guest with both curiosity and pleasure. In real life her soft focused beauty was more clearly defined, her hair an eye-catching fire of scarlet and gold that framed her sharply chiselled face to perfection. She was no longer the fresh faced innocent that had won the heart of Paris,, but time had been very kind to her and a career that had spanned nearly ten years had left very little outward mark. Only her eyes were strangely haunted, as though the child were somehow trapped within the woman and was staring out at a world it couldn't control. She looked tired too, a world weary tiredness in which nothing was new and very little worth an effort.
"I've seen him," Sarah was saying. "That's Henry Derwell. He was in a picture with Jean Harlow - I think. No - it was Mae West."
"Mon Dieu," Louie murmured, turning to her with a slightly pained expression. "I would hardly think that the two ladies are confusable. Besides; Mae West would act him off the screen."
"Why Louie!" She looked at him in wonderment. "I didn't know you were a movie fan."
"Moi?" he questioned with wide eyed innocence.
She laughed, knowing that, on an island where new entertainment was extremely scarce, any film, no matter how bad or good, was received with welcome delight. Most of what they saw on Boragora was month old newsreels, obscure French 'art' films, and the odd feature. If they saw a picture from a major studio it was probably two or three years old, and was more likely to come from Paris or London than from Hollywood.
"Well," she conceded, "maybe it was someone else altogether. Perhaps I'll ask him."
"Perhaps," he agreed. "They will be here three days. But ..."
"But?"
He smiled, a gentle, almost fatherly smile. "But - as Jake has been grounded for precisely that length of time ..."
"Yes ...?" she prompted suspiciously, unable to keep the light from her eyes.
"I merely thought," he shrugged, "that you might consider helping Corky keep him out of trouble?"
"Louie," she announced, throwing her arms around him, "you're an angel!"
"Well," he considered, in no hurry to disentangle himself, "if that is the kind of reaction it produces I must ground Jake more often."
"Huh!" Sarah stepped back and straightened her dress self-consciously. "Make that a fallen angel."
He laughed, and after a moment she joined him. Neither of them noticed how the eyes of Yvette Carlin watched them with envious longing from the other side of the room.
Todd Harcourt, by his own admission a character actor of some standing, was taking a walk around the tiny village when he nearly bumped into a harassed looking man in a dog collar as he hurried out of his church. "Hey," he said good naturedly. "Where's the fire, Father?"
"I'm sorry?" The bemused man turned to look at him in some confusion. "There is a fire?"
"No," Harcourt reassured him. "At least, none I know of. You okay?"
"Ja," the pastor nodded absently. "I vas - looking for some of my flock. They were supposed to be here for a blessing - have you seen them? Two innocent children, so young and ..." He broke off, and looked more closely at the actor. "Do I know you, my son?"
"Nope." Harcourt shook his head with conviction. "I steer clear of churches if I can. But you may have seen me. In the movies?" he added, as the other man continued to look bemused.
"Nein," the pastor considered. "I steer clear of - movies? I am a simple man, my son. With simple pleasures. Ahh - " He caught sight of his missing congregation with obvious relief.
"Simple, huh?" Harcourt watched the two long legged beauties as they ran giggling up the church steps. "I bet."
"Bless you, my son." The pastor dismissed the actor and turned to follow his 'flock'. Then a thought obviously struck him, because he turned back. "You have just arrived in Boragora?" he asked genially.
"Yeah." Harcourt was still watching where the two dusky ladies had vanished. "Came in on the ship that's just leaving. Couldn't wait to take a walk to get away from the slobs I've been working with. Leading players, directors - they're all the same. You slog your guts out for 'em, and they treat you like dirt."
"All men have immortal souls my son. But perhaps you would feel better if you talked about it. Come back and see me in about an hour. I will look forward to hearing all about you and your travelling companions."
"Well ..." Harcourt hesitated, not quite sure what to make of the accented cleric.
"I have Schnapps."
"I'll come. Say - " The actor stared at the man's departing back. "Will your 'flock' still be around?"
"Oh, ja." The pastor smiled benevolently. "After blessing they make me my tea."
It was seven o'clock before Jake Cutter deemed it safe to show his face inside the Monkey bar. He and Corky had fumigated the Goose with scented smoke, thrown Jack into the sea (much to the small dog's disgust), and hung what they could of the upholstery out in the open: the scent of rotten eggs still faintly haunted the plane's interior, but a change of clothes and a long shower had made the pilot feel fit for company again. Corky was still in the shower, complaining that he wasn't due on yet, while Jack, not entirely happy about his cavalier treatment, had sought refuge in the kitchen.
The bar had begun to fill for the evening. Monday night had a tendency to be a social affair: passengers from the afternoon arrival of the boat from Tagataya rubbed shoulders with farmers in from the interior for their weekly trade. Jake spotted familiar faces as he stood in the doorway and scanned the crowd. For once he owed none of them money; nor was there anyone that he could immediately identify as having any reason to avoid. That meant it was going to be a good evening; no potential antagonist meant little chance of a quarrel, which meant even less chance of a fight.
Other faces drew his attention, much as they were drawing attention from everyone in the room: the party from Hollywood was the nearest thing to a sensation Boragora could claim in a long time. He recognised John Winter, and then Henry Derwell, who appeared to be discussing something with great fervour. The portly man between them, a square faced figure wearing a dark red shirt, seemed to be highly amused by the conversation, nodding vigorously in agreement. Beside this tableau Yvette Carlin seemed a waif indeed, a pale shadow staring moodily in her cocktail while an older woman conversed brightly with the bespectacled man who completed the circle at their table. Behind him stood a thick set man whom Cutter vaguely remembered from some film or other.
Then Sarah appeared on the stairs, ready for her first song of the evening, and Jake forgot all about Hollywood as she floated down in a gown of peach and amber, her hair reflecting the late afternoon light. She paused on the landing, her eyes sweeping the crowd, and then she seemed to change her mind and, instead of descending the last few steps to the bar, she turned and drifted in the direction of the office, disappearing through the doorway with one last backward glance.
As entrances go it was eye-catching, and Jake wondered idly whether it was intended to be so. He wouldn't put it past Sarah to be trying to make an impression on the Hollywood crowd. She'd certainly made an impression on him. He made his way to the bar, keeping one eye on the half open office door, and ordered himself a beer. The evening was beginning to look even better than he had hoped.
Inside the office Sarah performed a sweeping pirouette in front of the desk, and then looked hopefully at the man behind it. "How do I look?" she asked.
Bon Chance leaned back in his chair and frowned thoughtfully. "Well ..." he considered, holding the moment as long as he dared. "It will do."
"Do!" she responded indignantly. "I - " She suddenly realised he was teasing her. "Is that all you can say?"
"Non," he answered matter of factly, and then smiled. "Sarah, you do not need me to tell you you are beautiful. But tonight - tonight you excel yourself."
She coloured slightly at the compliment. "Do you think Jake will think so?"
"Ahh." He acknowledged the implication behind her question with a knowing smile. "In that dress - " he shrugged expressively, "I do not think you will need to ask him."
"Oh. Louie ..." Her voice was suddenly cajoling.
"Oui, cherie?"
Sarah hesitated uncertainly and looked down at her feet. "You did say Jake was grounded for three days, didn't you?"
"Oui." Bon Chance could not keep the smile from his eyes even though the rest of his face remained firmly under control.
"Well - " She was uncertain as to how he would react to the next question. "I just wondered ..." He was watching her patiently. "Would you mind, very much, if I had an evening off tomorrow? I mean, it's so nice to walk in the moonlight, and I wouldn't have to worry about time, and ..." It was coming out in a rush, and she was getting annoyed with herself for it. This wasn't like her at all. Surely she could ask for time off without acting like a giddy-headed schoolgirl. And it wasn't as though Louie was the sort of boss who'd say no: in fact he rarely reminded her he was her boss at all, and yet here she was ...
"Take tomorrow by all means." He managed to keep his voice from sounding too amused. "And the day after, if you wish. I do not think it will be busy. But Sarah - "
"Yes?" The response was eager, her joy at his generosity hard to conceal.
"For two days off I will expect a new song for Saturday ..."
"Done," she answered quickly in case he changed his mind.
"Bon," he affirmed in return, moving back to the papers on his desk. Then he paused and looked at her expectantly.
"Was there anything else?' she enquired curiously.
"Non." He shook his head. "Just - tonight I expect you to work ...?"
"I'm going," she responded, her hands out in mock surrender, and left, a flurry of peach silk crowned by a radiant smile. Bon Chance watched her leave, his eyes amused, his face thoughtful. Then he laughed quietly to himself, rose to his feet, and followed her.
Yvette Carlin sighed into her drink in an attempt to revive the quiet resignation that had helped her to survive the last few uncomfortable months. This time it didn't help. She no longer felt like 'enduring with good grace', as she had done while her professionalism was at stake. The surrounding conversation hammered into her; she wished she could switch off altogether, or else that part of her that had learned English at least. Derwell and Winter were arguing the relative merits of various studios, a pointless discussion as both of them were under contract anyway, while Kopanski agreed and disagreed with total disregard as to whether he contradicted himself or not. It was a repeat of exactly the same conversation they had had in Manila, and it was no less inane the second time around. Even Stanley Mordecai was listening with less than his usual enthusiasm.
On the other side of her Eliza Wentworth was punctuating the repeat performance with passing remarks on the other occupiers of the bar. Most of them weren't very complimentary: the islanders were primitive, the farmers uncouth, the sailors and assorted others unsavoury, and the staff - Miss Wentworth settled for labelling the staff 'unusual', which at least brought the beginnings of a smile to Yvette's lips. Michael Tulliver watched them all with intrigued eyes, making the kind of mental notes that would never occur to Henry Derwell.
That was what made Tulliver an actor and Derwell only a leading man. It was the young man who leaned on the bar who had caught Miss Wentworth's eye of course. Yvette had noticed him as soon as he entered the room, his rangy good looks marking him out from the crowd. His was an open, honest face, a face with character that seemed perfectly at home among the mellow company. He was obviously no stranger to the bar; he greeted a number of people as they arrived, spoke amenably to Gushie as he passed; and yet, outwardly, he would have fitted with equal ease into the kind of mid-American church congregation that would have regarded their present surroundings as a den of iniquity. Eliza Wentworth compared him favourably with a young man she had known in Idaho. Then she went a little pink and hurriedly explained that he had been a friend of her brother's at their military college. Yvette rather liked the thought. The man at the bar would look well in uniform; in fact, she felt his warm smile matched well with one she had met at an otherwise tedious party in Hollywood. She was distracted enough by the memory to search for the name that went with it, and allowed a smile to emerge as she identified the face she sought and with it the appropriateness of the comparison. An errant adventurer himself, the man named Flynn would have had no difficulty blending in to the motley atmosphere of the Monkey Bar.
The thought, and the memory, was interrupted by the reappearance of the woman she had seen in the afternoon and, a short step behind her, the white-clad owner of the hotel. Again an irrational stab of jealousy made her turn away, to find Henry Derwell giving the new arrival a much more favourable look.
"This place is looking up," he announced.
"Well don't look too hard," Winter advised. "I think she's spoken for."
Yvette looked back and froze. The peach dress was encircled by an affectionate arm: but it belonged to the adventurer in the faded jacket, and the Frenchman was pouring them both a drink as though he hadn't a care in the world.
"Since when has that stopped me?" Derwell was enquiring. "If it wasn't for this pretty lady right here ..."
"Stop it!" Yvette Carlin had had enough. "'Enri Derwell you are a fool and a pretty stubborn on at that. Go chase your 'conquests' if you wish. You wouldn't know a moment of genuine passion if it hit you where it hurt the most! I - " She emphasised the 'I' by rising to her feet and slamming her glass on to the table. "Have no intention of lowering myself into your gutter. And as for the rest of you - " She swept the table with a fiery glance that cowed even Kopanski for a moment, "you can choose to ignore life if you wish. But I no longer wish to ignore it with you. Goodnight!"
She swept from her chair and out into the night with an exit that would have drawn a round of applause from a paying audience. As it was she left a ring of stunned silence that was finally broken by Derwell's dulcet tones.
"I think she loves me," he suggested arrogantly.
"I think she's right," Winter replied, his voice sharp. "You are a fool."
Kopanski was staring after his departed leading lady with bemusement. "Vhy?" he tried after a moment. "Vhat did ve do? And she vill miss ze meal zhat I'av ordered."
"I don't think she was thinking about food, J.K." Mordecai took off his glasses and polished them with care. "Temperamental these actresses. She'll be okay in the morning. You'll see."
Miss Wentworth made a half hearted effort to rise to her feet, but Mordecai reached out and stopped her. "You stay put Miss Liza," he advised. "She'll come to her senses a lot quicker on her own."
"Ja," Kopanski concurred with feeling, noticing that food was beginning to issue from the kitchen. "Zere is no point in you starvink as vell."
Over by the bar the more permanent residents of the Monkey Bar had caught only the tail end of the dramatic incident; it had been hard not to notice Yvette Carlin rising to her feet, and her departure had raised a murmured wave of conversation that rippled around the regular customers. Jake hazarded the opinion that she had seemed upset; this was so obvious that Sarah had announced herself overwhelmed by his perceptiveness. Fortunately Cutter had recognised the note of sarcasm in her voice and wisely avoided saying any more. Bon Chance had looked rather worriedly after his departing guest and missed most of this little exchange. His next remark was made almost to himself rather than anyone in particular.
"She is unhappy," he murmured. "And she does not need to be."
"She'll be hungry." Sarah considered the steaming dish that Gushie carried past her, and found Cutter an appealing look. "Are we going to eat, Jake?" She cast a glance in Louie's direction before adding pointedly, "I have to work tonight, and I shouldn't be eating after the customers have finished."
"Sure." Cutter was studying the thoughtful look on his friend's face and answered distractedly. "Louie, are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"
Bon Chance favoured him with a wry smile that spoke volumes. "And what makes you think you have a monopoly on aiding damsels in distress, mon ami?"
"Nothing," the pilot admitted with a grin. "Okay, Sarah. Let's eat. I'm starving."
"Great. Are you joining us, Louie?"
The Frenchman shook his head slowly, weighing up options in the back of his mind. "Non, cherie. Not tonight. Tonight - I think I have a very special guest for dinner."
Sarah looked at him with a moment of confusion before the penny dropped. "Oh," she considered. "Well, whatever you say. I guess she needs someone to talk to."
"Talk with," Louie corrected gently. "We are both of us a long way from home, n'est-ce pas?"
"That's if she wants to talk." Jake steered Sarah away from the bar and towards a table. "Bon chance, Bon Chance."
"Vous aussi, mes amis."
The Frenchman watched them for a moment before he made his way thoughtfully to the kitchen. As he passed Gushie's busy chair he paused to drop one request in his major domo's ear.
And Gushie smiled. A very knowing smile that might have said 'I thought as much'.
The knock was the discreetest of sounds, almost an apology for its own intrusion. Yvette looked up from the magazine she wasn't reading, and considered whether to answer it or not.
"Who is it?" she called in French, prompted by a sense of perverseness.
"A friend."
The sound of the voice sent her into a flurry of activity, spurred by a moment of sheer panic. She had expected Derwell, or Mordecai, or even Miss Wentworth; but not the gently pronounced French that had answered her.
"A moment," she called, flustered by her unexpected reaction. The magazine was tossed into the open suitcase, which, in turn, was thrust under the bed. Then she paused to check her make-up in the mirror beside her, smoothing back her hair and wishing, irrationally, that she could smooth away ten years with the gesture. Then a thought struck her. She had not reacted like this to the sound of a man's voice for almost as long as those ten years. She certainly shouldn't be doing it now.
A moment to recollect herself, and she was Yvette Carlin again, poised, calm, and sophisticated, opening the door to a man she had met only briefly, who could have come, after all, only to enquire if she were comfortable in her room.
He stood in the doorway, his arms behind him, his head slightly to one side, the essence of a gentleman awaiting a lady's pleasure.
"How may I help you, monsieur?"
"You could smile," he suggested, studying her face with unashamed admiration. Somewhat to her surprise she did.
"Merci," he acknowledged, perhaps equally surprised at the success of his simple request. From behind his back he produced a pale gold orchid, offered it to her with the barest of bows. "A souvenir of the Marivellas for a charming visitor," he announced, "and," in the other hand he flourished a darkened bottle, "a reminder of home."
Her eyes flicked from the flower and the bottle to his face and back again. His eyes were smiling teasingly at her, and for once she didn't know what to say. It wasn't the subtlest way to say hello, but it did have a certain style all the same. The orchid - she took it thoughtfully to play for time, finding it to have a rich though elusive scent - yes, she'd been given orchids before, but usually ice cold from some florist's chill store, wrapped in tissue paper, not warm from a setting sun, fresh picked from the wild. And never with such a sunset to go with it.
"Monsieur is very kind," she allowed.
"Mademoiselle is unhappy." His observation was gentle. "And I cannot bear to see such a beautiful guest so sad. Nor so hungry," he added with the hint of a smile. "Dinner has been arranged."
Now that was bold! But entirely in the spirit that he'd started with. She was dealing with a master here, someone quite capable of assessing just what sort of approach would appeal to her in her present mood. But he was right. She was unhappy. And she was hungry. But she wasn't going to let him think she'd succumb that easily. She leant against the door jamb and studied him with a practised eye.
"Is that an offer, or an order monsieur?"
"Whichever you wish." He paused to study the label on the bottle in his hand. "But it would be a pity to waste both the wine, and the efforts of my chef, don't you think?"
She reached out and relieved him of his burden, her eyes widening at the contents of the offering. The wine was from her home region and it revived a warmth of feeling inside her that she had thought burned out forever. The game demanded a response from her and she thought about what it might be while he watched with amusement. It was the game that she loved to play, the one Derwell had never understood the rules of; a game she suddenly wanted to lose tonight. Or win, perhaps.
"Perhaps monsieur is right," she murmured. "But this wine should have a little time to breathe."
"It has been opened," he pointed out. "But a little longer wouldn't hurt the vintage, I suppose."
"Then leave it here. We can always drink it later."
There was a pause as he digested the implications of that suggestion, and she smiled, knowing what she said and wanting him to know it, too. He understood how the game was played; but that didn't mean he shouldn't know that she did as well.
"Mais oui," he agreed thoughtfully and she turned to place the precious bottle on her dressing table, laying the golden orchid next to it with a contemplative smile. He leant in the doorway and watched her gather up her purse from the bed, and when she turned back he was absently examining one of two glasses that he seemed to have conjured out of nowhere.
She laughed, the first real laugh she had found in months, and, taking the glasses, added them to the collection beneath the mirror.
"Well now, monsieur," she breathed, "if I didn't know better, I would think you had done this before."
He smiled, and offered her his arm as escort.
"Mademoiselle should be aware," he advised teasingly, "that practice makes perfect."
"You may call me Yvette. And I have yet to have perfection proved to me ..."
The final stanza of a George Gershwin number brought Sarah to the end of her first set. Her audience showed their appreciation in a number of ways, including a couple of wolf whistles from the sailors in the corner, although the Hollywood set were more restrained, acknowledging her performance with polite applause. Jake greeted her with a warm smile as she slipped into the space at the bar next to him.
"All right," he approved, offering her his beer. She drank eagerly, her throat dry after singing in the smoky atmosphere.
"Thanks," she smiled, putting the empty glass back on the bar. Behind her Corky started to play an approximate rendition of the Shanghai rag, a ditty he had picked up in a somewhat shady establishment on the Chinese mainland. Cutter grimaced at the familiar melody. Whatever else Corky had trouble remembering he had an uncanny knack for a tune.
"Excuse me." A smooth voice insinuated itself into the space between the singer and the pilot at the bar. They turned together, enabling Henry Derwell to get a very good view of the front of Sarah's dress.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, finding herself front to face (so to speak) with one of the heroes of Hollywood. "Can we help you?"
He had the sense to take a small step backwards. It might have had something to do with the expression on Cutter's face. "You kinda help real good just standing there ma'am. But I came for a refill. You couldn't tell me what the best thing to drink around here might be?"
"Sarah makes a pretty mean Singapore sling," Jake suggested, earning himself a warning look from the lady in question.
"Sounds good to me." Derwell was still staring at Sarah. "Perhaps you'd care to join me in one."
"Ah - no thanks." She found refuge in an old excuse. "House rule - I don't drink with the customers."
"That's okay." He waved an indolent hand. "I ain't paying. Have a drink on RKO. Your friend too, if you like."
"That's very generous," Cutter acknowledged. If Derwell noted the hint of irony in the remark he gave no sign of it.
Sarah was considering the situation hurriedly. She had been looking forward to a nice companionable evening with Jake, but on the other hand, she was supposed to be watching Boragora for Uncle Sam, and the role of a Hollywood actor would be the perfect cover for a foreign agent ... She smiled brightly at Derwell, pushing the thought of a future film career firmly to the back of her mind.
"Maybe just one," she allowed, with her best 'little girl' look. Derwell fell for it like a ton of bricks.
"Great. Hey, you - " He waved at Gushie, who was involved in the process of manoeuvring a tray of glasses between tables. "Bring a bottle of champagne to our table will you? And a couple of beers," he added, throwing a glance in Cutter's direction. "Stick it on Mr. Kopanski's bill."
Taking Sarah by the arm he led her back to the table in the corner of the room, where Kopanski was telling John Winter about a film he had made two or three years before. Winter took the opportunity to cut the conversation short by gallantly offering her his chair. Jake, behind her, silently passed him another from the next table and drew up a third on her other side. This left Derwell to find a place opposite her, scowling a little at the pilot's neat manoeuvre that had left him out in the cold.
He made the introductions anyway. As far as he could, which meant that after he had gone round the table reciting the names of his party he was forced to look hopefully at his guests. Sarah took pity on him, and completed the information with her own and Cutter's names. Derwell looked relieved, and Jake wondered if he made a habit of starting things he was unprepared to finish.
Eliza Wentworth congratulated Sarah on her singing, which started an exchange of admiration during which Cutter worked out where he had seen Tulliver before and Sarah decided that, while Winter was not the aristocratic villain that most of his screen appearances had suggested, he was most certainly a shade too arrogant for her taste. Kopanski was a flatterer, and Mordecai a shade sycophantic. She began to wonder if she had done the right thing in accepting Derwell's invitation.
The champagne arrived, together with the couple of beers, one of which Kopanski appropriated and the other of which Jake decided to share with Corky who, having finished his stint on the piano, had hovered behind Gushie with a hopeful expression on his face. This proved to be a good move, because the mechanic struck up an instant rapport with Miss Wentworth who knew a lot more about movies than might at first be thought. They launched into a discussion in which Corky reminisced about pictures he had seen and she provided the titles, leading players, and most of the plots. With this as a background Sarah was able to keep the conversation light, despite Derwell leering at her from across the table.
They were in the middle of hearing some piece of gossip or other when she saw a glowering frown crease itself onto Derwell's features. Startled at his sudden change of expression she glanced over her shoulder to see what had caught his eye. Yvette Carlin walked across the open floor of the bar, seemingly unaware of anyone's scrutiny. Her attention was focused on her escort; they were laughing, their conversation a murmur of mutual French, and the change in the actress was startling. Her face was radiant; her brooding banished by welcome companionship, her natural humour had bubbled to the surface and brought genuine pleasure with it. She looked happy, relaxed and confident; a far cry from the tragic heroine that had achieved such a dramatic exit only an hour before.
As Louie escorted his guest to the back room where he had prepared a private dining table, Derwell half rose to his feet, anger clearly written in his face. Mordecai put out a hand to catch his arm.
"Leave it Henry," he advised.
Cutter glanced from the actor to Sarah, who was still watching the passing pair with wide eyes. For a man who had been intent on making a good impression on the local beauty, Derwell was showing a little too many signs of jealousy for Jake's liking. But it was good to see that Louie had managed to salvage the actress's evening. Pretty well it seemed. Sarah turned back to catch Cutter's eye, and he winked at her, provoking an indignant glare in return. She never had reconciled her straight-laced morals with the Frenchman's 'laissez faire'.
The end of the day was a dim hue of purple shadows, the remnants of a Pacific sunset dappled across a sapphire sky. In the half light that was neither day nor night, the amber tones of the hotel took on a fleeting warmth that could not be matched, nor captured. Slowly the evening flooded the verandahs with shadows, spilling darkness along their lengths, darkness that blurred details, blanketed even movement. Soon, so very soon, moonlight and the harsher illuminations of man would contrast the gathering of greys, but for a short while the cloak of night was drawn with enveloping obscurity.
In the depths of that twilight no one was there to see the figure that strolled unhurriedly along the boards of the upper walkway. One of many figures that passed like shadows in the passage of time. If there had been anyone to see, they would not have registered anything odd about it. It paused, as many paused, outside the door to a room; turned a quiet handle and slid, unnoticed into the darkness within. Nothing to note in such a thing; but the light did not follow in the room beyond. Instead a tiny flare, like a phantom will o' the wisp, followed a shadow across the blinds, and paused, considering.
The flame of the lighter flickered in the mirror, casting multiple reflections of itself across the quiet interior. The figure that held it paid no attention to its myriad illusions. A hand lingered, briefly, over the empty glasses, touched the orchid fleetingly. Then a drawer opened, closed. Another. The prize was found in the third, and its victor held the flame close, the better to see. In the flickering light the scrawled words on the label were hard to read, but the contents of the jigger sized tub were obvious all the same. There might have been a smile in the semidarkness.
Slowly and deliberately, one by one, the white pills dropped into the waiting wine. One, and the bottle was swirled with gentle precision to dissolve it. Two. Three. And on, until the tub was empty and the warmth of the liquor suffused with hidden danger. Carefully the bottle was replaced upon the dresser, the tub tossed causally under the fitting, dropped so as to be found if sought, unnoticed by the unsuspecting eye.
A beat, a check that all was left as it should be, and the light died. There was a pause, and then the sound of a door closing quietly, closing behind the figure that slipped, unknown and unseen into the gathering night.
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