CLAIRE: Down-to-earthiness, that’s what she lacks. You know. No finer feelings. But none! No sense of human brotherhood. Honestly, I don’t understand what they all see in her, anyway!

  SALZER: Five million bucks net per each picture—that’s what I see!

  CLAIRE: I don’t know why she draws them like that. She’s completely heartless. I went down to her house yesterday afternoon—to discuss her next script. And what’s the use? She wouldn’t let me put in a baby or a dog, as I wanted to. Dogs have such human appeal. You know, we’re all brothers under the skin, and . . .

  SALZER: Peemoller’s right. She’s got something there.

  CLAIRE: And furthermore . . . [Stops suddenly] Wait! That’s funny! I haven’t thought of this before. She did mention the dinner.

  FARROW: [Eagerly] What did she say?

  CLAIRE: She got up and left me flat, saying she had to dress. “I’m going to Santa Barbara tonight,” she said. Then she added, “I do not like missions of charity.”

  SALZER: My God, what did she mean by that?

  CLAIRE: What does she mean by anything? So then I just couldn’t resist it, but couldn’t! I said, “Miss Gonda, do you really think you’re so much better than everybody else?” And what did she have the nerve to answer? “Yes,” she said, “I do. I wish I didn’t have to.”

  FARROW: Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?

  CLAIRE: I had forgotten. I really didn’t know there was anything between Gonda and Granton Sayers.

  McNITT: An old story. I thought she was through with him long ago.

  CLAIRE: What did he want with her?

  FARROW: Well, Granton Sayers—you know Granton Sayers. A reckless fool. Fifty million dollars, three years ago. Today—who knows? Perhaps, fifty thousand. Perhaps, fifty cents. But cut-crystal swimming pools and Greek temples in his garden, and . . .

  CLAIRE: And Kay Gonda.

  FARROW: Ah, yes, and Kay Gonda. An expensive little plaything or artwork, depending on how you want to look at it. Kay Gonda, that is, two years ago. Not today. I know that she had not seen Sayers for over a year, previous to that dinner in Santa Barbara last night.

  CLAIRE: Had there been any quarrel between them?

  FARROW: None. Never. That fool had proposed to her three times, to my knowledge. She could have had him, Greek temples and oil wells and all, anytime she winked an eyelash.

  CLAIRE: Has she had any trouble of any kind lately?

  FARROW: None. None whatever. In fact, you know, she was to sign her new contract with us today. She promised me faithfully to be here at five, and . . .

  SALZER: [Clutching his head suddenly] Tony! It’s the contract!

  FARROW: What about the contract?

  SALZER: Maybe she’s changed her mind again, and quit for good.

  CLAIRE: A pose, Mr. Salzer, just a pose. She’s said that after every picture.

  SALZER: Yeah? You should laugh if you had to crawl after her on your knees like we’ve done for two months. “I’m through,” she says. “Does it really mean anything?” Five million net per each picture—does it mean anything! “Is it really worth doing?” Ha! Twenty thousand a week we offer her and she asks is it worth doing!

  FARROW: Now, now, Sol. Control your subconscious. You know, I have an idea that she will come here at five. It would be just like her. She is so utterly unpredictable. We cannot judge her actions by the usual standards. With her—anything is possible.

  SALZER: Say, Tony, how about the contract? Did she insist again . . . is there anything in it again about Mick Watts?

  FARROW: [Sighing] There is, unfortunately. We had to write it in again. So long as she is with us, Mick Watts will be her personal press agent. Most unfortunate.

  CLAIRE: That’s the kind of trash she gathers around her. But the rest of us aren’t good enough for her! Well, if she’s got herself into a mess now—I’m glad. Yes, glad! I don’t see why we should all worry ourselves sick over it.

  McNITT: I don’t give a damn myself! I’d much rather direct Joan Tudor anyway.

  CLAIRE: And I’d just as soon write for Sally Sweeney. She’s such a sweet kid. And . . .

  [The entrance door flies open. MISS DRAKE rushes in, slamming it behind her, as if holding the door against someone]

  MISS DRAKE: She’s here!

  FARROW: [Leaping to his feet] Who? Gonda?!

  MISS DRAKE: No! Miss Sayers! Miss Frederica Sayers!

  [They all gasp]

  FARROW: What?! Here?!

  MISS DRAKE: [Pointing at the door foolishly] In there! Right in there!

  FARROW: Good Lord!

  MISS DRAKE: She wants to see you, Mr. Farrow. She demands to see you!

  FARROW: Well, let her in! Let her right in, for God’s sake! [As MISS DRAKE is about to rush out] Wait! [To the others] You’d better get out of here! It may be confidential. [Rushes them to private door Right]

  SALZER: [On his way out] Make her talk, Tony! For God’s sake, make her talk!

  FARROW: Don’t worry!

  [SALZER, CLAIRE, and MCNITT exit Right. FARROW whirls on MISS DRAKE]

  FARROW: Don’t stand there shaking! Bring her right in!

  [MISS DRAKE exits hurriedly. FARROW flops down behind his desk and attempts a nonchalant attitude. The entrance door is thrown open as FREDERICA SAYERS enters. She is a tall, sparse, stern lady of middle age, gray-haired, erect in her black clothes of mourning. MISS DRAKE hovers anxiously behind her. FARROW jumps to his feet]

  MISS DRAKE: Miss Frederica Sayers, Mr. Far—

  MISS SAYERS: [Brushing her aside] Abominable discipline in your studio, Farrow! That’s no way to run the place. [MISS DRAKE slips out, closing the door] Five reporters pounced on me at the gate and trailed me to your office. I suppose it will all appear in the evening papers, the color of my underwear included.

  FARROW: My dear Miss Sayers! How do you do? So kind of you to come here! Rest assured that I . . .

  MISS SAYERS: Where’s Kay Gonda? I must see her. At once.

  FARROW: [Looks at her, startled. Then:] Do sit down, Miss Sayers. Please allow me to express my deepest sympathy for your grief at the untimely loss of your brother, who . . .

  MISS SAYERS: My brother was a fool. [Sits down] I’ve always known he’d end up like this.

  FARROW: [Cautiously] I must admit I have not been able to learn all the unfortunate details. How did Mr. Sayers meet his death?

  MISS SAYERS: [Glancing at him sharply] Mr. Farrow, your time is valuable. So is mine. I did not come here to answer questions. In fact, I did not come here to speak to you at all. I came to find Miss Gonda. It is most urgent.

  FARROW: Miss Sayers, let us get this clear. I have been trying to get in touch with you since early this morning. You must know who started these rumors. And you must realize how utterly preposterous it is. Miss Gonda happens to have dinner with your brother last night. He is found dead, this morning, with a bullet through him. . . . Most unfortunate and I do sympathize, believe me, but is this ground enough for a suspicion of murder against a lady of Miss Gonda’s standing? Merely the fact that she happened to be the last one seen with him?

  MISS SAYERS: And the fact that nobody has seen her since.

  FARROW: Did she . . . did she really do it?

  MISS SAYERS: I have nothing to say about that.

  FARROW: Was there anyone else at your house last night?

  MISS SAYERS: I have nothing to say about that.

  FARROW: But good God! [Controlling himself] Look here, Miss Sayers, I can well understand that you may not wish to give it out to the press, but you can tell me, in strict confidence, can’t you? What were the exact circumstances of your brother’s death?

  MISS SAYERS: I have given my statement to the police.

  FARROW: The police refuse to disclose anything!

  MISS SAYERS: They must have their reasons.

  FARROW: Miss Sayers! Please try to understand the position I’m in! I’m entitled to know. What actually happened at that dinner?

  MISS SAYERS: I have never spied on Granton and his mistresses.

  FARROW: But . . .

  MISS SAYERS: Have you asked Miss Gonda? What did she say?

  FARROW: Look here, if you don’t talk—I don’t talk, either.

  MISS SAYERS: I have not asked you to talk. In fact, I haven’t the slightest interest in anything you may say. I want to see Miss Gonda. It is to her own advantage. To yours also, I suppose.

  FARROW: May I give her the message?

  MISS SAYERS: Your technique is childish, my good man.

  FARROW: But in heaven’s name, what is it all about? If you’ve accused her of murder, you have no right to come here demanding to see her! If she’s hiding, wouldn’t she be hiding from you above all people?

  MISS SAYERS: Most unfortunate, if she is. Highly ill advised. Highly.

  FARROW: Look here, I’ll offer you a bargain. You tell me everything and I’ll take you to Miss Gonda. Not otherwise.

  MISS SAYERS: [Rising] I have always been told that picture people had abominable manners. Most regrettable. Please tell Miss Gonda that I have tried. I shall not be responsible for the consequences now.

  FARROW: [Rushing after her] Wait! Miss Sayers! Wait a moment! [She turns to him] I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! I’m . . . I’m quite upset, as you can well understand. I beg of you, Miss Sayers, consider what it means! The greatest star of the screen! The dream woman of the world! They worship her, millions of them. It’s practically a cult.

  MISS SAYERS: I have never approved of motion pictures. Never saw one. The pastime of morons.

  FARROW: You wouldn’t say that if you read her fan mail. Do you think it comes from shopgirls and schoolkids, like the usual kind of trash? No. Not Kay Gonda’s mail. From college professors and authors and judges and ministers! Everybody! Dirt farmers and international names! It’s extraordinary! I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole career.

  MISS SAYERS: Indeed?

  FARROW: I don’t know what she does to them all—but she does something. She’s not a movie star to them—she’s a goddess. [Correcting himself hastily] Oh, forgive me. I understand how you must feel about her. Of course, you and I know that Miss Gonda is not exactly above reproach. She is, in fact, a very objectionable person who . . .

  MISS SAYERS: I thought she was a rather charming young woman. A bit anemic. A vitamin deficiency in her diet, no doubt. [Turning to him suddenly] Was she happy?

  FARROW: [Looking at her] Why do you ask that?

  MISS SAYERS: I don’t think she was.

  FARROW: That, Miss Sayers, is a question I’ve been asking myself for years. She’s a strange woman.

  MISS SAYERS: She is.

  FARROW: But surely you can’t hate her so much as to want to ruin her!

  MISS SAYERS: I do not hate her at all.

  FARROW: Then for heaven’s sake, help me to save her name! Tell me what happened. One way or the other, only let’s stop these rumors! Let’s stop these rumors!

  MISS SAYERS: This is getting tiresome, my good man. For the last time, will you let me see Miss Gonda or won’t you?

  FARROW: I’m so sorry, but it is impossible, and . . .

  MISS SAYERS: Either you are a fool or you don’t know where she is yourself. Regrettable, in either case. I wish you a good day.

  [She is at the entrance door when the private door Right is thrown open violently. SALZER and McNITT enter, dragging and pushing MICK WATTS between them. MICK WATTS is tall, about thirty-five, with disheveled platinum-blond hair, the ferocious face of a thug, and the blue eyes of a baby. He is obviously, unquestionably drunk]

  McNITT: There’s your precious Mick Watts for you!

  SALZER: Where do you think we found him? He was . . . [Stops short seeing MISS SAYERS] Oh, I beg your pardon! We thought Miss Sayers had left!

  MICK WATTS: [Tearing himself loose from them] Miss Sayers?! [Reels ferociously toward her] What did you tell them?

  MISS SAYERS: [Looking at him coolly] And who are you, young man?

  MICK WATTS: What did you tell them?

  MISS SAYERS: [Haughtily] I have told them nothing.

  MICK WATTS: Well, keep your mouth shut! Keep your mouth shut!

  MISS SAYERS: That, young man, is precisely what I am doing. [Exits]

  McNITT: [Lurching furiously at MICK WATTS] Why, you drunken fool!

  FARROW: [Interfering] Wait a moment! What happened? Where did you find him?

  SALZER: Down in the publicity department! Just think of that! He walked right in and there’s a mob of reporters pounced on him and started filling him up with liquor and—

  FARROW: Oh, my Lord!

  SALZER: —and here’s what he was handing out for a press release! [Straightens out a slip of paper he has crumpled in his hand, reads:] “Kay Gonda does not cook her own meals or knit her own underwear. She does not play golf, adopt babies, or endow hospitals for homeless horses. She is not kind to her dear old mother—she has no dear old mother. She is not just like you and me. She never was like you and me. She’s like nothing you bastards ever dreamt of!”

  FARROW: [Clutching his head] Did they get it?

  SALZER: A fool you should think I am? We dragged him out of there just in time!

  FARROW: [Approaching MICK WATTS, ingratiatingly] Sit down, Mick, do sit down. There’s a good boy.

  [MICK WATTS flops down on a chair and sits motionless, staring into space]

  McNITT: If you let me punch the bastard just once, he’ll talk all right.

  [SALZER nudges him frantically to keep quiet. FARROW hurries to a cabinet, produces a glass and a decanter, pours]

  FARROW: [Bending over MICK WATTS, solicitously, offering him the glass] A drink, Mick? [MICK WATTS does not move or answer] Nice weather we’re having, Mick. Nice, but hot. Awfully hot. Supposing you and I have a drink together?

  MICK WATTS: [In a dull monotone] I don’t know a thing. Save your liquor. Go to hell.

  FARROW: What are you talking about?

  MICK WATTS: I’m talking about nothing—and that goes for everything.

  FARROW: You could stand a drink once in a while, couldn’t you? You look thirsty to me.

  MICK WATTS: I don’t know a thing about Kay Gonda. Never heard of her. . . . Kay Gonda. It’s a funny name, isn’t it? I went to confession once, long ago—and they talked about the redemption of all sins. It’s useless to yell “Kay Gonda” and to think that all your sins are washed away. Just pay two bits in the balcony—and come out pure as snow.

  [The others exchange glances and shrug hopelessly]

  FARROW: On second thought, Mick, I won’t offer you another drink. You’d better have something to eat.

  MICK WATTS: I’m not hungry. I stopped being hungry many years ago. But she is.

  FARROW: Who?

  MICK WATTS: Kay Gonda.

  FARROW: [Eagerly] Any idea where she’s having her next meal?

  MICK WATTS: In heaven. [FARROW shakes his head helplessly] In a blue heaven with white lilies. Very white lilies. Only she’ll never find it.

  FARROW: I don’t understand you, Mick.

  MICK WATTS: [Looking at him slowly for the first time] You don’t understand? She doesn’t, either. Only it’s no use. It’s no use trying to unravel, because if you try, you end up with more dirt on your hands than you care to wipe off. There are not enough towels in the world to wipe it off. Not enough towels. That’s the trouble.

  SALZER: [Impatiently] Look here, Watts, you must know something. You’d better play ball with us. Remember, you’ve been fired from every newspaper on both coasts—

  MICK WATTS: —and from many others in between.

  SALZER: —so that if anything should happen to Gonda, you won’t have a job here unless you help us now and . . .

  MICK WATTS: [His voice emotionless] Do you think I’d want to stay with the lousy bunch of you if it weren’t for her?

  McNITT: Jesus, it beats me what they all see in that bitch!

  [MICK WATTS turns and looks at McNITT fixedly, ominously]

  SALZER: [Placatingly] Now, now, Mick, he doesn’t mean it. He’s kidding, he’s—

  [MICK WATTS rises slowly, deliberately, walks up to McNITT without hurry, then strikes him flat on the face, a blow that sends him sprawling on the floor. FARROW rushes to help the stunned McNITT. MICK WATTS stands motionless, with perfect indifference, his arms limp]

  McNITT: [Raising his head slowly] The damn . . .

  FARROW: [Restraining him] Discipline, Bill, discipline, control your . . .

  [The door is flung open as CLAIRE PEEMOLLER rushes in breathlessly]

  CLAIRE: She’s coming! She’s coming!

  FARROW: Who?!

  CLAIRE: Kay Gonda! I just saw her car turning the corner!

  SALZER: [Looking at his wristwatch] By God! It’s five o’clock! Can you beat that!

  FARROW: I knew she would! I knew it! [Rushes to intercom, shouts:] Miss Drake! Bring in the contract!

  CLAIRE: [Tugging at FARROW’s sleeve] Tony, you won’t tell her what I said, will you, Tony? I’ve always been her best friend! I’ll do anything to please her! I’ve always . . .

  SALZER: [Grabbing a telephone] Get the publicity department! Quick!

  McNITT: [Rushing to MICK WATTS] I was only kidding, Mick! You know I was only kidding. No hard feelings, eh, pal?

  [MICK WATTS does not move or look at him. WATTS is the only one motionless amid the frantic activity]

  SALZER: [Shouting into the phone] Hello, Meagley? . . . Call all the papers! Reserve the front pages! Tell you later! [Hangs up]

  [MISS DRAKE enters, carrying a batch of legal documents]

  FARROW: [At his desk] Put it right here, Miss Drake! Thank you! [Steps are heard approaching] Smile, all of you! Smile! Don’t let her think that we thought for a minute that she . . .

  [Everyone obeys, save MICK WATTS, all eyes turned to the door. The door opens. MISS TERRENCE enters and steps on the threshold. She is a prim, ugly little shrimp of a woman]

  MISS TERRENCE: Is Miss Gonda here?

  [A moan rises from the others]

  SALZER: Oh, God!