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  George came running out. He was wearing white trousers, a dark red shirt and sandals. I had to admit that he looked extraordinarily handsome as he stood on the steps with a smile on his face. “What a grand sight,” he said, shaking my hand. “How are you? They are all longing to meet a real live author. Come on in.”

  He had been drinking heavily and was slightly unsteady on his feet. The reek of whisky on his breath was so strong that I turned my head with a slight grimace of disgust. He said with a grin: “Sorry, ol’ man, but we’ve been cel-cel—you know. Come on in, an’ get tight. I warn you, you’ve got to get tight an’ stay tight if you’re staying in this dump.”

  He took me into a large lounge. At the far end, through open double doors, I could see a number of people sitting or standing with glasses in their hands. They all looked in our direction. One of the girls came to the door, then moved towards us.

  George said, “This is Myra,” and introduced me.

  Myra Luckton’s name was familiar to me as frequent references to her parties appeared in the Press, but I don’t remember ever seeing a photograph of her, and, consequently, it came as a considerable shock meeting her for the first time. It was entirely due to a habit of wearing a poker face that I did not openly reveal my dismay.

  It is exceedingly difficult to describe Myra. She was above the average height, small-featured, silky platinum hair, and, of course, she was perfectly groomed. So much for what God and money had given her, but her expression took away everything that could have counted in her favour. To be brutally frank, she looked like a very expensive street-walker. Her eyes were cold, calculating and vicious, and her mouth was hard. She gave me the impression that she was utterly brazen, and there was nothing she would hesitate to do to satisfy a lust for sensation.

  I’m afraid I must have betrayed a little of my dismay, or else she was very shrewd, because, as she took my hand, she gave me a little jeering laugh and said: “What a lovely man. I do believe I’ve shocked him already.”

  George was watching me too. “Take no notice of her,” he said, “she’s as tight as a tick.”

  She laughed as he said that and put one slim white arm round his neck. “Do come in and meet the others,” she said. “They’ve all read your books and they think they’re too marvellous.”

  Later, when I escaped to my room, I was very thankful to sit by the window and look across at the beautiful bay. I had quite made up my mind that I could not stay in this house long.

  I proceeded to change for dinner. As I wandered around the large airy room, shedding my clothes about the floor, I turned over in my mind the tragedy of George’s wedding.

  It was quite obvious to me that he detested Myra. She was obviously thrilled to have married someone so famous, but there was no question of her having any true affection for him. It was a thoroughly unpleasant marriage.

  A tap sounded on the door, and George came in. He sat on the bed. I saw that he was still rather high, but his face was very serious and lined as he stared at me. “What do you think of her?” he asked abruptly.

  That was the one question I never thought he would ask me. It annoyed me to think that he was forcing me into a lie, as I could not tell him the truth.

  He saw my hesitation. “Say it. Speak your mind. You’re the one guy I’ve met who has been on the level with me. So tell me.”

  “I’m afraid you are not very happy,” I said. “I’m sorry, George.”

  “My God! You don’t want to be sorry for me. I’ve brought it on myself, haven’t I? I knew what I was doing. No, I’m a heel. I’ve sold myself to that woman for the stacks of dollars she’s got. You know that, don’t you?”

  I lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window. “I must tell you that there is a rumour that your firm, Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis, are in a bad way.”

  George stared at me. “You know that?” he asked, his face going very white. “Who else knows?”

  “It’s not common talk yet, but I’m afraid it will be very soon.”

  “You think I’m a heel, don’t you?” he said. “You think I’m marrying this girl to save my own skin. Well, you’re wrong. I’m trying to save all those little guys who put their money into the oil-fields because I told them they couldn’t go wrong. I thought it was a good thing. We all did. We let the little man in and kept the big speculator out. It was to be the small man’s dream. It was my idea; it is my responsibility. I was the fool who thought the idea up. My partners didn’t care a damn so long as they got the backing. I said: ‘We’ll give the little guy a chance,’ and then the wells went dry—”

  I went over and sat by his side. “What’s Myra going to do about this?”

  “She wants her pound of flesh. She’ll give me enough capital to pay out the shareholders if—” He got up and began to wander round the room.

  “Well, go on. If—what?”

  “There’s a big race at Miami next week. The trophy is for the fastest speed on land. You don’t just have to beat the other guy, you’ve got to beat your own previous best record. She says if I get that, I can have the dough.”

  “Why are you drinking again?” I asked.

  “Because I’m so scared that I’ve got to drink. I hate this house and everyone in it; I hate the sound of her voice and her laugh. If I don’t drink I shall crack up.”

  “I’m sorry about this, George,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  He made a little grimace. “Yes, you can. I’m afraid it isn’t a pleasant job. You see, I don’t trust Myra. I want to get it down on paper. I want you to witness it and see that, in the event of an accident, she carries out her bargain.”

  “Don’t talk like that. There mustn’t be an accident. Besides, the whole thing falls down if you don’t win the race.”

  He shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact she would be more thrilled if I was killed. You see, it would give her a lot more fun being a widow of a racing-ace, and she is quite prepared to pay for that.”

  What could I say? The whole business was, from the very start, fantastic, but now it was rapidly developing into a nightmare.

  He was quite right about the week being grim. Myra seemed to find me amusing, and took special pains in keeping me away from George. We did not get one day’s fishing during the whole week. In fact, I took refuge in my room as much as possible with the excuse that I was polishing the last chapter of my book.

  The topic of conversation was entirely about the coming race. George was seldom sober, and joined in with the crowd as if he had nothing on his mind. Myra and he were never alone together, and the rest of the party seemed to find nothing odd in this. Myra came in for an enormous amount of admiration as George’s wife, and I could see how she revelled in being the centre of attraction.

  During the week I had the opportunity of studying her, and I came to the conclusion that she was an exceedingly dangerous woman. Sometimes, I would catch her watching George, and I could see a smouldering suppressed hatred in her eyes which made me extremely uneasy.

  On the Sunday before the race, George asked me to come into the library. “I’ve got a draft drawn up. I want you to look it over, and then witness her signature.”

  We went into the library. Myra was sitting in an easy chair. She smiled at me as I came in. “So George has let you into our little secret,” she said. There was a tigerish look in her eyes as she spoke. “What do you think of him? Do you think it is awfully nice to marry a girl for her money?”

  “Surely, Mrs. Hemingway,” I said quietly, “it is not so one-sided as that. I believe you have struck a bargain as well.”

  She laughed. “Why, of course, and I always get the best of a bargain. I’m not so stupid as you think.”

  George said abruptly: “Shall we get this over, and join the others?”

  She shrugged. “Poor little George. He is so anxious to save his silly investors.”

  George gave me a sheet of paper. It contained very few words:

  I promise to pay the s
um of one million dollars to my husband if he wins the Morgan Golden Road Trophy. In the event of an accident resulting in his death during the race, I will pay that sum to Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis. My cheque to be given immediately the race has been won.

  I looked at her. “Have you seen this?” I asked her.

  She laughed. “My dear man,” she said, “I drew it up myself. Are you satisfied? Here, give it to me. I will sign it.”

  I re-read it and, finding no fault with it, I passed it over to her and she signed it. I witnessed her signature and handed the paper to George.

  He shook his head. “You keep it,” he said, “it will be safer with you.”

  She looked at him with her jeering smile. “Run away, George. I want to talk to Mr. Arden for a few minutes.”

  When he had left us she lit a cigarette and stood up. There was no doubt she was very beautiful. “You must think my behaviour is very odd,” she said.

  “The whole thing is so utterly preposterous that I would rather not discuss it,” I said tartly.

  “George is afraid, isn’t he?” she said. “No one but you and I know that. He’s horribly scared. I’ve been watching him for several weeks now. The last time he raced he was nearly killed because he lost his nerve. I don’t think he’ll win this race, do you?”

  I faced her. “Are you telling me that you think he will be killed.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t think he would win.”

  “Does he mean anything to you?”

  Her eyes flashed. “Why do you ask that? Has he been talking?”

  “If he does mean anything to you, why don’t you let him have the money and tell him you don’t want him to race?”

  “Are you mad?” She burst out laughing. “Think of the thrill I’m going to have. I’m gambling with a million dollars. I shall watch every yard of the race. Think of George, scared stiff, knowing that if he doesn’t win, hundreds of his little suckers will be ruined. Suppose others get ahead of him. Think how he will feel then. Suppose he finds he just can’t win, then his only chance is to kill himself. By God! What a sensation! Will he value his little suckers more than his life?” Her eyes looked a little mad. “I don’t care what it costs me, I wouldn’t miss this race for anything in the world.”

  I went to the door. “Your attitude is incredible,” I said. “I don’t think we have anything further to say to each other. Good night.”

  She ran over to me. “Wait,” she said. “You write novels, don’t you? What a wonderful story this will make for you. It only wants that little twist that all good stories have. Just wait for that.” She laughed in my face. “Oh, it’s such a lovely little twist. You’ll be so very thrilled when you know about it.”

  I went out of the room and left her there. I was sure that she was a little insane, and the thought of George getting himself involved with such a woman made me sick at heart.

  The race was due to start at eleven o’clock. George and I went off early together. We left the house quietly without saying good-bye to Myra.

  George said that he didn’t want to see her until the race was over. He looked very ill as he sat at the wheel of the Bugatti, and he drove at a steady twenty-five miles an hour the whole way to the aerodrome. It took us a very short while to reach the Florida course, where the race was being held. He asked me to come to the pits just before the race was to start. “I’d like to have your good wishes,” he said.

  I hung about watching the bustle and activity that inevitably precedes a big race. I watched the vast crowd slowly arriving. I thought I saw Myra and her party arrive and take seats in the grandstand, but I wasn’t sure. I had made up my mind to watch the race from the pits.

  Finally, a mechanic came running towards me and I went to meet him. “Mr. Hemingway is about ready now, sir,” he said.

  I saw he was looking worried. And as we walked towards the pits, where I could see about two dozen cars lining up, I asked him what he thought of George’s chances.

  “He’s got a load on, sir,” the mechanic said, shaking his head. “No guy can drive if he’s plastered.”

  I quickened my pace. George was already sitting in his car. His reputation had brought him a stiff handicap, and he was going to be the last off the starting post.

  I ran up to him. “All right, George?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Sure, I’m all right. There’s nothing on four wheels that’s going to catch me today.”

  His face was very white and his eyes were glassy. He had certainly been drinking, and he looked completely reckless.

  “Don’t take chances,” I said, shaking his hand, “I’ll look after things for you. Good luck, old man.”

  The noise of the engine made it difficult for us to hear each other. “Good-bye,” George shouted, “look after my little investors, won’t you?” and at that moment the flag fell and he roared away.

  I hurried to the pits and stood near a group of mechanics. They were talking in low voices, but I overheard what they were saying. They all seemed worried about George. “Nearly a whole bottle of Scotch went down his throat,” one of them said; “he must be crazy.”

  “Yeah, well, look at him now. Look at the speed he’s going.”

  All eyes were on the small red car as it flashed round the course. George had already overtaken three of his competitors, and as he came into the straight he opened up and with a snarling roar the car shot forward. All the other cars had opened up, but the leading cars were slowing down for the bend. George came on, took the bend at full speed, tore up the bank, and for a moment we thought his wheels had left the track, but with a few feet to spare he was down into the straight again.

  There was a terrific burst of cheering as he nosed his way into the first three.

  “What do you call that?” a mechanic demanded. “Do you call that driving?”

  “Do you think he’ll last?” Myra asked.

  I turned abruptly and found her at my elbow. Her eyes were fixed on the red car, and I could see she was quivering with excitement.

  I said rather bitterly: “Don’t you think you’ll see better if you go to the stand?”

  “I want to be with you. I want to see his face if he wins,” she said. “Look, he’s coming round again. He’s getting in front. Really, isn’t he marvellous? Oh, God! Look, they’re trying to squeeze him. They’ve cornered him! Look, look, if he loses his head… he’s finished.”

  The three cars flashed past us. George was in the middle. The other two were trying to crowd him, but as he didn’t fall back they were beginning to lose their nerve. There couldn’t have been more than a foot between each car.

  I shouted suddenly: “He’ll beat them on the bend. You see, they’ll slow down for the bend. Come on, George, come on, for the love of Mike!”

  I was right. Suddenly the red car shot clear and whizzed round the bend at a sickening speed. The others fell back and George was in the lead.

  I heard Myra scream suddenly: “Blast him! He’s going to win after all.”

  George was coming up for the last lap. The noise of the cars and the shouting was deafening. Round he came into the straight. It was like watching a red smudge. I don’t know how it happened; no one knew. It was not as if he were taking a corner. It looked as if he knew he had won and then suddenly thrown in his hand. The car swerved right across the track, turned over, bounced in the air like a huge ball and then burst into flames.

  Myra screamed and I ran forward. It was no use. Other cars were still thundering past and no one could get across the track. When at last we did get there, it was too late. George had been strapped in, and one look at the blackened, twisted car told me it was useless to stay.

  I walked away, feeling sick and too stunned to really realize what had happened.

  As I climbed into my car, Myra came up to me. Her eyes were very dark, and her mouth worked rather horribly.

  “Give me that paper,” she said.

  Because I wanted to get away I took the pap
er from my wallet and looked at her. “This isn’t the time now to talk about this. I’ll come and see you later.”

  “Oh no, you won’t,” she said. She seemed to be speaking through locked teeth. “I fooled George and I fooled you. Read what it says. Didn’t I promise to pay my husband one million dollars? Well, he wasn’t my husband, I can contest that. By the time the court has made a ruling, it will be too late. George’s little suckers will be down the drain.”

  I said: “What do you mean? George married you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he married me, but that was all. He didn’t lie with me. Oh no! My money was good enough for him, but I wasn’t. He thought it was sufficient just to marry me—the fool.”

  I stared at her. “You can’t prove that,” I said slowly. “Surely you are keeping to your agreement?”

  “Prove it? It will take years not to prove it. By that time the money will not be needed. Tear up the paper, Mr. Arden. You know as well as I do that it’s useless now. The poor fool killed himself, although he won the race…. Do you know why? Because he despised himself for marrying me. No man can treat me like that. I warned you, didn’t I, about the twist in the tale.” She laughed hysterically. “Don’t you think it’s lovely?”

  I engaged the gears and drove away, leaving her still laughing.

  CONVERSATION PIECE

  He was very tall, thin and distinguished-looking. He had a close-clipped moustache, a square jaw and the hair on each side of his head was white.

  He sat on a high stool at the ‘Roney Plaza’ bar, a cigarette between his thin lips and a glass of Scotch-and-soda at his elbow. Every now and then he would glance up and catch his reflection in the bright mirror behind the bar. He would look at himself and adjust the wings of his evening dress-tie with his well-shaped fingers, and once he adjusted the set of his coat.