“I’ll tell you what we will do,” Schneider said. “I’ll keep the film and you have the cartridge. How’s that?” He began pulling the film out of the cartridge until it made a long black coil of destroyed film at Cade’s feet.
Cade looked down at the film. This was the worst moment of his life.
This is my finish, he thought. Nothing for Mathison. Nothing to show for my beating and those swine will now get away with their murder. But what does it matter? Juana... Adolfo... Ed... Vicki... and now this. What the hell does it matter? What does anything matter?
He stared at Schneider for a long moment while Schneider continued to grin at him.
“Screw you and screw your bastard town,” Cade said, then turning, he walked slowly through the barrier towards the waiting aircraft. Schneider’s bellowing laughter followed him.
Three and a half hours later the aircraft touched down at the Kennedy airport. Cade was now so drunk the air hostess had to help him along the ramp from the aircraft to the reception centre. The other passengers, some disgusted, others grinning, stood aside and let him go first.
When he and the girl finally reached the reception centre, the girl, a nice looking blonde, asked anxiously, “Are you sure you are all right now, sir?”
Cade tried to focus her, but her face swam in a haze of drunkenness.
“I’m fine, baby,” he said. “Thanks a million.”
A tall, thin man, wearing a smart chauffeur’s uniform came up to Cade. He jerked his head at the air hostess, dismissing her.
“Mr. Cade?”
Cade reeled, grabbed the man’s arm and steadied himself.
“That’s the name.”
“I have the car here, sir,” the chauffeur said. “Let me have your bag.”
“Mistake,” Cade said and shoving the chauffeur aside, he began to stagger towards the line of taxis he could vaguely make out through the open gates.
The chauffeur followed him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cade...”
Cade turned and squinted at the man.
“Now what the hell is it?”
“Mr. Braddock wishes to see you sir,” the chauffeur said. “May I have your bag?”
“Go ahead if you’re all that excited about it,” Cade said and let the chauffeur take his bag. “Who is Mr. Braddock?”
“The car is right here, sir,” the chauffeur said and indicated a black and yellow Rolls Royce parked at the kerb.
Cade stared at the car, then at the chauffeur.
“Sure you haven’t made a mistake?” he asked, trying to fight off the whisky fumes that enveloped his brain.
“There is no mistake, sir.”
Cade felt himself being helped into the car and he sank into the soft luxury of the seat, suddenly not caring any more. His head dropped back against the cushion and he passed out.
The chauffeur regarded him with distaste, then put Cade’s bag carefully by Cade’s feet. He got in the car and drove away.
Shad Braddock sat in a lounging chair in the shaded garden of his penthouse, twenty-four stories above the bustle and roar of New York.
He was tall, bony and heavily sunburned. A faddist about his health, he lived on health food, shunned all meat, and when he had the time practised Yogi exercises and sun worshipped at every opportunity. For his age, and he admitted to seventy-five, he was remarkably well preserved. His face was the face of a skull. His eyes were deeply sunk: small, glittering stones, animated and restless. His lips were thin, his nose pinched, his ears large and flat.
He was rated by the New York social index as the fifth richest man in America. One of his business sidelines was the scandal sheet Whisper. This weekly newspaper gave him more interest, and more amusement than any of his other varied business activities.
Braddock was a sadist. He was never happier than when he was able to cause pain and trouble for some well known person in the gutter-inspired pages of Whisper.
Opposite him, holding a whisky and soda in an unsteady hand, sat Cade. The time was 22.15 hours and Cade was still a little drunk. He recognised Braddock as he had crossed the terrace to where Braddock was sitting. He knew him to be one of the most dangerous, influential and wealthy tycoons of all American tycoons.
“Well, Cade,” Braddock said in a dry, soft voice, “you seem to have reached the end of your road.”
The Japanese manservant who had served Cade his whisky and soda had gone and the two men were alone.
Cade sipped his drink. He felt pretty bad, but not bad enough to accept patronage from a man like Braddock.
“Who cares what you think?” he said.
“I’ve been following your career,” Braddock went on. He glanced at the gold Omega on his skinny wrist. “I haven’t a lot of time. I have an offer to make you.”
Cade lifted his shoulders. He finished his drink and set down the glass. He was genuinely uninterested.
“I want certain photographs. The fee will be ten thousand dollars,” Braddock said, staring at Cade. “You will also retain the syndicate rights. They could get you a small fortune.”
“Why pick on me?” Cade asked. “There are plenty of other photographers. I’m just a goddamn lush.”
“It is because you are what you are, Mr. Cade, that I know you are the man I need,” Braddock said, crossing his thin legs. “Drink destroys principles. I know you are in need of money. I have it. I think we could work together.”
The Japanese servant came in silently, refilled Cade’s glass and went as silently away.
“I’m still under contract to the Sun,” Cade said.
Braddock shook his head.
“Not any more. I have taken over your contract. Mathison seemed pleased to be rid of it”
Cade stared down at his drink, then he lifted his shoulders. He didn’t blame Henry. How much lower am I going to sink? he asked himself. To work for a rag like Whisper is about as far as I can get.
“I don’t know if you have studied your contract, Mr. Cade,” Braddock went on, “but it is a very comprehensive document Mathison would be in his rights to sue you for falling down on your various assignments, but he has a kindly disposition. I have not. I want it understood that you are to do as I tell you or else you will have a law suit in your lap that will prevent you from earning another dollar: even if you find work outside your particular speciality.”
Cade drank half the whisky in his glass and shrugged again.
“So what do you want me to do?” he said, looking at Braddock, his eyes glassy and out of focus.
“I am preparing a profile on Anita Strelik,” Braddock said. “I want certain photographs to complete the profile. It will be your job to get them.”
Anita Strelik was an international movie star. She rated along with Bardot, Moreau, Lollobrigida. She had been hailed by some of the New York critics as the modern Garbo. Russian by birth, aged around twenty-seven, blonde, handsome rather than beautiful, she had been headline news for the past five years. She was to the film world what Callas was to the Opera world: an intriguing international figure whose slightest move immediately appeared in the world’s press.
Cade knew all this. He finished his drink, then with a shaking hand, he lit a cigarette.
“What did she do to you, Braddock?” he asked. “A profile? I can imagine what that is going to be.”
“So much the better,” Braddock said. “Never mind what she has done to me. That is immaterial. Has it ever struck you as odd that this woman has never married?”
“Strelik doesn’t interest me. Why should she? Why should I care if she married or not?”
“You will take an interest in her now, Mr. Cade,” Braddock said, recrossing his thin legs. “So you should begin to think about her. She is unique as far as movie stars are concerned. During her five years of success, there has been no scandal and no men. She is not a lesbian. Her behaviour as it is must be suspect. She is made of flesh and blood. I do not believe a woman of her temperament has reached the age of twenty-seven and has remained a virgin. That is something I do not accept. However, up to now, we have been unable to discover a lover, and I might tell you, my men have watched her continuously from the time she became internationally famous.”