She stared down at the pictures. A sick feeling began to come up into her throat. This could not be her. Not like this. Nude. With that woman and those men. She looked up at them helplessly.
The count was smiling. "I should have done better," he said apologetically. "But I think there was something the matter with the timer."
The woman picked them up. "I think you did well enough, Philippe." She laughed. "It was so funny. Making love with that little bulb in your hand so you could take the picture."
Rina was still silent.
Karl bent over her. "Our little Americaine is still sick," he said gently. He held out two aspirins to her. "Here, take these. You will feel better."
Rina stared up at the three of them. "I’d like to get dressed, please," she said in a weak voice.
The woman nodded. "But of course," she said. "Your clothes are in the closet." They turned and left the room.
Rina got out of bed and washed her face quickly. She debated over taking a bath but decided against it. She was in too much of a hurry to leave. She dressed and walked out into the other room.
The woman was still in her peignoir, but the men had changed to soft shirts and white flannels. She started to walk out without looking at them. The man named Karl called, "Mrs. Cord, you forgot your purse."
Silently she turned to take it from him, her eyes avoiding his face.
"I put in a set of the photographs as a memento of our party."
She opened the bag. The pictures stared obscenely up at her. "I don't want them," she said, holding them out.
He waved them aside. "Keep them. We can always make more copies from the negatives."
Slowly she lifted her eyes to his face. He was smiling. "Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee while we talk business?" he asked politely.
The negatives cost her ten thousand dollars and she burned them in an ash tray before she left the room. She sent the cable to Nevada from the hotel, as soon as she had checked in.
I’M LONELY AND MORE FRIGHTENED THAN I EVER WAS BEFORE. ARE YOU STILL MY FRIEND?
His reply reached her the next day, with a credit for five thousand dollars and confirmed reservations from Zurich through to California.
She crinkled the cablegram in her fingers as she read it once more while the limousine climbed to the top of the hill. The cable was typical of the Nevada she remembered. But it didn't seem at all like the Nevada she was coming to see.
I AM STILL YOUR FRIEND.
It was signed "Nevada."
17
NEVADA LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND LOOKED around the large office. An aura of tension had crept into the room. Dan Pierce's face was bland and smiling. "It isn't the money this time, Bernie," he said. "It's just that we feel the time is right. Let's do a picture about the West as it really was and skip the hokum that we've been turning out for years."
Norman looked down at his desk for a moment, his hand toying with the blue-covered script. He assumed an earnest expression. "It isn't the script, believe me, Dan," he said, turning to Von Elster for assurance. "We think it's great, don't we?"
The lanky, bald director nodded. "It's one of the greatest I ever read."
"Then why the balk?" the agent asked.
Norman shook his head. "The time isn't right. The industry is too upset. Warner's has a talking picture coming out soon. The Lights of New York. Some people think that when it comes out, silent movies will be finished."
Dan Pierce laughed. "Malarkey! Movies are movies. If you want to hear actors talk, go to the theater, that's where talk belongs."
Norman turned to Nevada, his voice taking on a fatherly tone. "Look, Nevada, have we ever steered you wrong? From the day you first came here, we've treated you right. If it's a question of money, that's no problem. Just name the figure."
Nevada smiled at him. "It isn't the money, Bernie. You know that. Ten thousand a week is enough for any man, even if income taxes have gone up to seven per cent. It's this script. It's the first real story I've ever read out here."
Norman reached for a cigar. Nevada leaned back in his chair. He remembered when he had first heard of the script. It was last year, when he was making Gunfire at Sundown.
One of the writers, a young man with glasses and a very pale skin, had come over to him. "Mr. Smith," he asked diffidently. "Can I trouble you for a minute?"
Nevada turned from the make-up man. "Why, sure- " He hesitated.
"Mark Weiss," the writer said quickly.
Nevada smiled. "Sure, Mark, what can I do for you?"
"I’ve got a script I'd like you to read," Weiss said quickly. "I spent two years researching it. It's about one of the last gun fighters in the Southwest. I think it's different from anything that's ever been made."
"I'd be glad to read it." That was one of the hazards of being a star. Everyone had a script they wanted you to read and each was the greatest ever written. "What's it called?"
"The Renegade." He held out a blue-covered script.
The script felt heavy in his hand. He opened it to the last page and looked at the writer doubtfully. The script was three times standard length. "Pretty long, isn't it?"
Weiss nodded. "It is long but there was no way I could see to cut it. Everything in there is true. I spent the last two years checking old newspaper files through the entire Southwest."
Nevada turned back to the make-up man, the script still in his hand. "What happened to him?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Nobody seems to know. One day he just disappeared and nothing was ever heard about him again. There was a posse after him, and they think he died there in the mountains."
"A new story's always good," Nevada said. "People are getting tired of the same old heroes. What do you call this guy?"
The writer's voice seemed to hang in the air. "Sand," he said. "Max Sand."
The script slipped from Nevada's fingers. He felt the blood rush from his face. "What did you say?" he asked hollowly.
Weiss stared at him. "Max Sand. We can change it but that was his real name."
Nevada shook his head and looked down at the script. It lay there in the dust. Weiss knelt swiftly and picked it up. "Are you all right, Mr. Smith?" he asked in a concerned voice.
Nevada took a deep breath. He felt his self-control returning. He took the script from the outstretched hand and forced a smile.
A look of relief came into Weiss's face. "Thanks, Mr. Smith," he said gratefully. "I really appreciate this. Thanks very much."
For a week, Nevada couldn't bring himself to read it. In some strange way, he felt that if he did, he'd be exposing himself. Then one evening, he came into the library after dinner, where Von Elster was waiting, and found him deeply engrossed in this script.
"How long have you been sitting on this?" the director asked.
Nevada shrugged. "About a week. You know how it is. These writers are always coming up with scripts. Is it any good?"
Von Elster put it down slowly. "It's more than good. It's great. I want to be the director if you do it."
Late that night, the lamp still burning near his bed, Nevada realized what the director meant. Weiss had given depth and purpose to his portrait of a man who lived alone and developed a philosophy born of pain and sadness. There was no glamour in his crimes, only the desperate struggle for survival.
Nevada knew as he read it that the picture would be made. The script was too good to be passed up. For his own self-protection, he had to make the picture. If it escaped into someone else's hands, there was no telling how much further they'd delve into the life of Max Sand.
He bought the script from Weiss the next morning for one thousand dollars.