The Dream Merchants by Harold Robbins Page B

as they stood there. They were about the same age, but there were other things about them that suddenly struck me.
    Doris’s skin was pale and her hair was cut short. Standing next to Dulcie, she looked like a schoolgirl. Dulcie was studying her, too. I knew the look on her face already. To most people it seemed a fleeting glance, but I knew Dulcie well enough by then. She could tell more in a few seconds than most people in hours.
    Esther turned to me. “She’s lovely, Johnny. Where did you meet her?”
    “She’s an actress,” I had answered. “I met her backstage at a theater in New York.”
    Peter had turned to me. “Actress, did you say? Maybe we can find a part for her.”
    Dulcie smiled at him.
    “There’s time enough for that,” I had said. “We’ve got to settle down first.”
    Dulcie didn’t speak.
    When we had left, Dulcie said to me: “Johnny.”
    I was busy driving. “Yes, dear.”
    “You know she’s in love with you.”
    I took a quick look at her. She was watching me with an amused look in her tawny eyes. “You mean Doris?”
    “You know who I mean, Johnny,” she said.
    I laughed. “You’re wrong that time, honey,” I said uncomfortably, “I’m only Uncle Johnny to her.”
    She laughed too, a knowing laugh, full of amusement at male ignorance. “Uncle Johnny,” she said, and laughed again. “Did you ever read her book?”
    “No,” I answered, “I haven’t had time.”
    “You ought to read it, Uncle Johnny,” she said with a faint mockery in her voice. “You’re in it.”
    ***
    Doris began to speak again. Her voice was low. “I thought of calling the doctor for Mother before I showed her the telegram, and then I thought I’d tell Papa first. He was in the library. I went to the door and knocked. There was no answer, so I went in. He was seated at his desk there, the phone in front of him. He was looking at it. I often wondered why he didn’t have it taken out. You know the one I mean—the direct wire to the studio.”
    I knew the one she meant. Involuntarily I looked at it. It stood there on the desk with a lonely unused look about it. In the old days, when the receiver was picked up, a blue light would flash on the studio switchboard. It meant that the president was calling. The call took precedence over anything else on the board at the time.
    “He was looking at it, a vague longing in his eyes.
    “‘Papa,’ I said. My voice began to shake a little.
    “With an effort he brought his mind back to me. ‘What,
liebchen
?’ he said.
    “Suddenly I didn’t know what to say. Wordlessly I handed him the telegram. He read it slowly, his face turning white under his tan. He looked up at me unbelieving for a moment, his lips moving, then he read the telegram again. He got to his feet, his hand trembling.
    “‘I got to tell Mamma,’ he said, his voice dull. He took a few steps, and then he seemed to stumble a little. I caught his arm.
    “‘Papa,’ I said, ‘Papa!’ Suddenly I was crying.
    “He held on to me for a minute, his eyes searching mine. There were tears in his eyes too. Then he crumpled. It happened so quickly that he fell from my grasp. I tried to lift him, but I couldn’t. Then I ran to the door and called the butler. Together we placed him on the couch. I ran to the desk and picked up the telephone. By mistake I picked up the wrong one. I picked up the studio phone. The operator’s voice came on immediately. There was a question in her voice. ‘Magnum Pictures,’ she said. I hung up the phone with a feeling of shocked surprise. ‘Magnum Pictures,’ I was thinking. I began to hate the sound of those words. I had been hearing them all my life, it had turned all our lives inside out. Why did we ever have to go into the picture business?”
    She looked at me. Her eyes were wide and strange, filled with flickering lights. “Why couldn’t we have stayed in Rochester and missed all this? Mark dead and Papa lying on the floor with a broken heart. It’s