Swimming to Catalina

the film into a handsome, old-fashioned leather suitcase. He gave her the suit he was wearing and started rubbing on cold cream. Ten minutes later, they were on the way to the airport, with Betty at the wheel of Stone’s temporary car, Vance’s Mercedes SL600. Stone turned in his studio pass at the front gate, and soon they were on the freeway.
    “I have to pick up my clothes at the Bel-Air,” he said.
    “They’re in the trunk; the hotel packed for you,” she said. “You know, I think the very least you could do would be to return the favor of last night. Loving and leaving a girl, as you are.”
    Stone laughed. “I’d be delighted, but not on the freeway. You have no idea how close we came to death last night. You’ll have to come and see me in New York.”
    “Maybe,” she said.

    They were quiet for a while as they zipped along in moderate traffic. “Betty,” he said as they neared the airport, “what’s going on?”
    “Going on?” she asked innocently. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
    “I mean why am I being rushed out of L.A.?”
    “Rushed?”
    “Rushed. And after the big push to get me to act in Vance’s movie, why was there an actor on the set wearing the same suit as mine?”
    She glanced at him. “You’re very observant.”
    He thought he noticed a hint of a blush. “So?”
    She pulled up at the airport setdown. “So, I don’t knowwhat’s going on. I honestly don’t.”
    “Vance said Arrington called him last night, and that she’s fine.”
    “I have no reason not to believe that,” she said.
    “Let’s rewind for a moment. What time did you leave me this morning? I was dead asleep.”
    “Around five.”
    “And what time did you speak to Vance?”
    “Not until I got to the office.”
    “Did you speak to anybody else?”
    “Is this a cross-examination?”
    “Yes. Did you speak to anyone else?”
    She looked at her lap. “I got a call,” she said.
    “From whom?”
    “All right, it was Vance.”
    “What was the substance of your conversation?”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Did he ask you why we were at Grimaldi’s last night?”
    “Yes,” she said with reluctance.
    “Did you tell him?”

    “Yes.” She looked at him. “Stone, I’ve told you that my loyalty to Vance is complete.”
    “I believe that. Do you really believe you’re acting in his best interests?”
    “Do you think I’m not?”
    “I think that something is terribly wrong here, and that I might be able to help, if I’m allowed to.”
    “Vance doesn’t seem to want any help.”
    “Don’t you think he needs it?”
    She shrugged. “Maybe, but…”
    “I know you’re in a tough spot, but you’ve got a decision to make. I wouldn’t want either Arrington or Vance to get hurt because you make a mistake.”
    She reached over, took hold of his necktie, and pulled him toward her. “I wouldkill to help that man.”
    “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Stone said, disentangling his tie from her grip, “but could you act against his wishes if you thought it would help him?”
    She thought about that. “Probably,” she said.
    “Then let’s get out of here.”
    “I’m supposed to call after I’ve seen you get on the airplane.”
    “So, call.”
    She reached into her purse and produced a card and a key. “Here’s my home address and the key; the alarm code is four-one-one-four. Repeat that.”
    “Four-one-one-four,” he said.
    “Go into the terminal, rent a car, and go to my house. I’ll be home around seven, and we can talk.”
    Stone smiled and kissed her. “You’re doing the right thing,” he said.
    “I hope to God I am,” she replied, “or I’m going to be in a lot of trouble.”

14
    Stone was feeling flush, what with a check for twenty-five thousand dollars in his pocket, so he asked the rental car agent for a Mercedes. After half an hour’s wait, he was picked up and driven to the agency’s Beverly Hills location, where he was given a choice of a dozen luxury cars, including a Rolls-Royce. He chose a Mercedes SL500, which had a smaller engine than he had grown accustomed to but would do in a pinch.
    Using the supplied map, he found his way to Betty’s house, which was on a quiet street south of Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, near Neiman-Marcus. He let himself into the house, tapped in the alarm code, and left his luggage, including his elegant new suitcase, by the stairs. He thought the house probably dated from the thirties, but it had