“Never mind why. Let the camera run itself and come on.”
In the kitchen Cleve held on to Jamie. “It’s about those films you’re showing us. The mistakes. The censored clips. Have you any clips from Diana’s last picture? Spoiled scenes, blow-ups, I mean?”
“Yeah. At the studio. I collect them. It’s a hobby. That stuff usually goes in the trash can. I keep them for laughs.”
Cleve sucked in his breath. “Can you get that film for me; all of it; bring it here tomorrow night and go over it with me?”
“Sure, if you want me to. I don’t see—”
“Never mind, Jamie. Just do like I say, huh? Bring me all the cutouts, the scenes that were bad. I want to see who spoiled the scenes, who caused the most trouble, and why! Will you do it, Jamie?”
“Sure. Sure I will, Cleve. Take it easy. Here, sit down. Have a drink.”
Cleve didn’t eat much the next day. The hours went too slowly. At night he ate a little supper and swallowed four aspirins. Then he drove in a mechanical nightmare to Jamie Winters’s house.
Jamie was waiting with drinks and film in the camera.
“Thanks, Jamie.” Cleve sat down and drank nervously. “All right. Shall we see them?”
“Action!” said Jamie.
Light on the screen. “Take one, scene seven. The Gilded Virgin: Diana Coyle, Robert Denim.”
Clack!
The scene faded in. There was a terrace by an ocean scene in moonlight. Diana was talking.
“It’s a lovely night. So lovely I can’t believe in it.”
Robert Denim, holding her hands in his, looked at her and said, “I think I can make you believe in it. I’ll—damn it!”
“Cut!” cried Guilding’s voice offscreen.
The film ran on. Denim’s face was ugly, getting dark and lined.
“There you go, hogging the camera again!”
“Me?” Diana wasn’t beautiful anymore. Not this way. She shook the gilt off her wings in an angry powder. “Me, you two-bit thespian, you loud-mouthed, dirty—”
Flick. Dark. End of film.
Cleve sat there, staring. After a while he said, “They didn’t get along, did they?” And then, to himself, almost, “I’m glad.”
“Here’s another one,” said Winters. The camera ticked rapidly. Another scene. A party scene. Laughter and music; and cutting across it, dark, snapping, bitter and accusative:
“—damn you!”
“—if you fed me the wrong cue on purpose! Of all the cheap, common little—”
Diana and Robert Denim, at it again!
Another scene, and another, and another. Six, seven, eight! Here was one of Denim saying, “Honest to God, someone ought to shut you up for good, lady!”
“Who?” cried Diana, eyes flashing like little green stones. “You? You snivel-nosed ham!”
And Denim, glaring back, saying quietly, “Yes. Maybe me. Why not? It’s an idea.”
There were some bristling hot scenes with Tally Durham too. And one in which Diana browbeat little Georgie Kroll until he was nervous and sweating out an apology. All on film; all good evidence. But the ratio was seven of Denim’s blow-ups to one of Tally’s or Georgie’s. On and on and on and on!