High Risk 7.4

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter seven]

“I can let you look at that,” the clerk said. “But I can’t let you take it away. Mr. Neal says he’s going to need it again.”

“We wouldn’t dream of interfering with Mr. Neal,” Desiree said. “In fact, we’re trying to help him.”

“I’m sure,” the clerk said. Damn, thought Casey. Everyone in this city is a cynic.

Casey and Desiree sat down at a table as far from the clerk as they could get. Casey couldn’t suppress a sigh of disappointment: Lily Cross’s file was not going to be of much use if its size was any indication. The number of documents it contained was pathetically small: her contract, dated October 18, 1929; a filled-in biographical form, to which was appended a small sheet of preliminary notes from someone in the publicity department, itemizing things to change or suppress; a collection of photos, showing a beautiful young woman with pale-colored hair styled in a wave that made her look sophisticated and much older than eighteen; and a series of reports. Casey remembered the laughing young woman who’d briefly blessed Conrad Hart’s little party.


Desiree seized on the reports. “Here we go,” she said. “Jerry’s recommendation. The sound department’s report on her test. And the report on her screen test.”

“Why two tests and two reports?”

“It’s like I said, Casey. Everybody’s afraid of sound. So the sound technicians are pretty much running Hollywood. Nobody gets hired anymore unless they’ve done a screen test and a separate sound test. Even the established actors have to do sound tests. You should hear Dickie Armstrong go on about his test. Apparently it was a nightmare.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Casey said.

“Aw, there’s nothing wrong with Dickie that you couldn’t fix by inserting him into the Pacific. Head first. For about a half-hour.”

“So what did the sound department think?”

“They think she’s okay. ‘Good in both upper and lower registers,’ it says here. Sounds like the beds on a Pullman car to me, but what do I know?”

“I don’t think it’s too difficult to see why she was hired,” Casey said, picking up another sheet of paper. “Listen to this: ‘This young woman has incredible presence, and her voice has a richness that is very nearly the equal of Miss Farrell or Miss Garbo. What is more, she photographs beautifully. She has been recommended to me by Ronald Cambridge, the art director on this picture, and I have no hesitation in adding my recommendation to that of Mr. Cambridge. Signed, J.W. Straebo.’”

“Ron Cambridge?” Desiree asked. “I guess I should be paying more attention to what goes on with the crafts people. I always assumed he was queer.”

“He might still be, you know.” Casey pulled a piece of scrap paper from the waste-basket and scribbled down names and addresses from the file. “Maybe he just saw something in her.”

“I watched her work, Casey. She wasn’t that good.”

“Well, she has to have had something going for her.” Casey closed the file and stood up. He had to go slow; he could tell his ribs were healing but it still hurt a bit to draw a full breath.

“She probably did,” Desiree said. “The same thing that women have had going for them for thousands of years.”

“Let’s ask her friends and room-mates,” Casey said. “Before we jump too deeply into any conclusions.”

“Stop being so damned chivalrous, Casey,” Desiree said.

Next     Prologue    Chapter One    Chapter Two    Chapter Three    Chapter Four    Chapter Five
Chapter Six    Chapter Seven