Swimming to Catalina

luggage, and I can’t know if one or two pieces are missing.”
    “Had you quarreled? Was she angry about anything?”
    Calder pulled into the Bel-Air parking lot, stopped, and waved away the attendant. “No, not angry, but she was…different. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
    “How was she different?”
    “The night before, she had told me about the baby. I was overjoyed; I’ve always wanted a child, and I thought she did, too. She…was not overjoyed.”
    “What did she say?”
    “It’s not so much what she said as the way she behaved. Then I did some thinking, and it occurred to me that the child…might not be mine.”
    Stone said nothing.
    “Stone, you and I both know that Arrington and I married after the briefest of courtships and that she was living with you up until a week or ten days before we married.”
    Stone still said nothing.
    “She didn’t come right out and say that the child was yours, but she was very subdued.”
    “Did you ask her?”
    “No, but she knew I was thinking that.”
    “What about the following morning?”
    “She said nothing. I had to be at the studio at seven—I’m in the middle of a picture—and she wasn’t up when I left, so we had no opportunity to talk. I went to work, and I thought about nothing else all day, and Icame home prepared to tell her that I didn’t care who the biological father was, I wanted to be the father who brought up the child. But she was gone.”
    “She didn’t leave a note?”
    “No. Nothing.”
    “And you still haven’t called the police?”
    “Stone, I just can’t do that; I think I’ve already explained why not.”
    “The tabloids.”
    “Yes. That, and the fact that I don’t really feel that she’s in any danger.”
    “What do you expect me to do, then?”
    “I’ve told you about the dinner party tomorrow night.”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ve done something unusual; I’ve invited a reporter. The following day, there’ll be a story recounting the evening and the guest list. Your name will be mentioned.”
    “And you think she might read it?”
    “Almost certainly; she follows the trade papers closely.”
    “And you think she might try to get in touch with me?”
    “I’ll see to it that it’s mentioned that you’re staying at the Bel-Air.”
    “And if she doesn’t call me?”
    “Then I’ll take your advice on how to proceed. I promise I will.”
    Stone shrugged. “It’s your decision, I guess.”
    Calder handed him a card. “Here’s my address and all my private numbers. Wear a tie, dinner’s at seven, and people are usually on time. I’m five minutes from the Bel-Air.”

    Stone took the card. “I’ll be there.”
    “Oh, if you’re not busy tomorrow and you’d like to visit the studio, call my secretary—her number is on the card—and she’ll arrange it.”
    “Thanks, I might do that. By the way, Vance, are you aware that two men have been following you all evening?”
    “What?”
    “They’re in a car parked about thirty yards behind us. They followed us into Spago, too.”
    Calder glanced over his shoulder and smiled, revealing astonishingly white and even teeth. “Oh, those are my boys; they watch my back.” He held out his hand. “Thank you for coming out here, Stone. I hope you don’t think I’m too much of a fool for handling it this way.”
    “I hope it’s the right way,” Stone said. He got out of the car and watched the Bentley disappear into the scented night, followed by Calder’s backwatchers. He wondered if somebody had been watching Arrington’s back.

5
    After breakfast the following morning, Stone called Betty Southard, whose name and number were on Calder’s card, said he’d like to see the studio, and was given the address and was told to be at the main gate at ten-thirty. He was on time.
    He gave his name to a guard at the gate and was directed to a parking lot just inside. As he got out of the car a golf cart pulled up, and a tall, slender woman got out and came toward him. She seemed to be in her late thirties and was comfortably but elegantly dressed n a pale Italian suit; her hair was a deep auburn and fell around her shoulders. “Mr. Barrington?” she asked. “I’m Betty Southard.”
    “I’m Stone,” he replied, shaking her hand.
    “Welcome to Centurion Studios; hop in and we’ll get going.”
    Stone got into the golf cart and Betty pulled out of the lot and soon turned left. Stone was suddenly submerged in a wave ofdéjà vu; the street was