that was somehow dreadful, "Sandra died of a throat infection, Hardy."
Jack didn't answer. He stumbled back a step. Hess went on dully.
"She got all white and died. And the doctor didn't know what it was, although the death certificate said anemia. Did you bring back some filthy disease with you, Hardy? Because if you did I'm going to kill you."
"Wait a minute," I said. "A throat infection? I didn't know"
"There was a wound in her throat—two litle marks, close together. That couldn't have killed her, unless some loathsome disease"
"You're crazy, Hess," I said. "You know you're drunk. Listen to me: Jack couldn't have had anything to do with—that."
Hess didn't look at me. He watched Jack Hardy out of his bloodshot eyes. He went on in that low, deadly monotone:
"Will you swear Mart's right, Hardy? Will you?"
Jack's lips were twisted by some inner agony. I said, "Go on, Jack. Tell him he's wrong."
Hardy burst out, "I haven't been near your wife! I haven't seen her since I got back. There's"
"That's not the answer I want," Hess whispered. And he sprang for the other man—reeled forward, rather.
Hess was too drunk, and Jack too weak, for them to do each other any harm, but there was a nasty scuffle for a moment before I separated them. As I pulled them apart, Hess's hand clutched the scarf about Jack's neck, ripped it away.
And I saw the marks on Jack Hardy's throat. Two red, angry little pits, whiterimmed, just over the left jugular.
2. The Cremation of Sandra
It was the next day that Jean telephoned me.
"Mart," she said, "we're going to run over a scene for Red Thirst tonight at the studio—Stage 6. You've been assigned as assistant director on the pic, so you should be there. And—I had an idea Jack might not tell you. He's been—so odd lately."
"Thanks, honey," I said. "I'll be there. But I didn't know you were in the flicker."
"Neither did I, but there's been some wire-pulling. Somebody wanted me in it—the Chevalier, I think—and the big boss phoned me this morning and let me in on the secret. I don't feel up to it, though. Had a bad night."
"Sorry," I sympathized. "You were okay when I left you."
"I had a—nightmare," she said slowly. "It was rather frightful, Mart. It's funny, though, I can't remember what it was about. Well—you'll be there tonight?"
I said I would, but as it happened I was unable to keep my promise. Hess Deming telephoned me, asking if I'd come out to his Malibu place and drive him into town. He was too shaky to handle a car himself, he said, and Sandra's cremation was to take place that afternoon. I got out my roadster and sent it spinning west on Sunset. In twenty minutes I was at Deming's beach house.
The house-boy let me in, shaking his head gravely as he recognized me.
"Mist' Deming pretty bad," he told me. "All morning drinking gin straight"
From upstairs Hess shouted, "That you, Mart? Okay—I'll be down right away. Come up here, Jim!"
