Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

What Killed Diana Barrymore? (Continued from page 46) of gin — stuff Diana had kept on hand for them, friends, and for acquaintances, moochers, whoever might drop by. On the morning of January 24, a Sunday— thirty-two days later — there was only one quarter of one of these bottles left. Diana held it. tremblingly, in her hand, pouring some of it into a glass. "I'll finish it," she mumbled, groggily. as the maid, Eva Smith, walked into the room. " — And then, after I'm through, I'll get some more. . . ." Dangerous combination The maid was worried. "Miss B." she said, "it's nearly noontime. Ain't you ever planning to get out of bed today?" "A person gets out of bed after she's slept. I haven't slept," Diana said. "Not for two days." The maid looked over at the table next to the bed, at the tiny bottles of Seconal and barbiturates there. "The pills don't help?" she asked. Diana shook her head. "No." "Maybe you're taking too many of them," the maid said. "I don't know," said Diana. "Maybe," said the maid, "could be, I mean, that it's the whisky combining with them pills that don't make them work You got to be careful about the whisky and them pills, Miss B. They can produce dangerous results taken together. Bad on the heart." She nodded. And then she walked over to the bed, and slapped some life into the pillow on which the weary Diana lay, and then she reached for the glass Diana was holding. "Now maybe if you stopped on the whisky for a while — " she started to say. Diana drew back her hand, the glass. "Would you raise the shade?" she asked. "Yes ma'am," the maid said. She walked across the room, to the window, lifted the shade and looked out. "My," she said, "looks like a nice cold one again today . . . People coming back from church," you should see how bundled up and shivering they all are." Diana faced the window. She squinted. Then she brought her glass to her lips and took a swallow. "Did the papers come?" she asked. "The Times and The Tribune," the maid said, " — I put them on the foot of vour bed." Diana reached for one of them. She flipped for the theatrical section, and pulled it out. She began to scan the columns. "All these new names," she said, after a while, bringing the glass back up to her lips, taking another swallow, " — being cast for this play and for that . . . Who knows them?" "I bet," the maid said, as she walked back towards the bed, "I bet you can remember when your name used to be there." "Vividly," said Diana. (Another swallow.) "And I bet you something else," said the maid — she smiled now, " — that it s gonna be back there again, your name, before too long. I just got the feeling . . . Things start getting back to normal around here. You start sleeping again, getting strong again, talking to those producers on the telephone again. And I bet you it won't be long till your name be back there, Miss B." Her smile broadened. "Now, for now, Miss B," she said, "why don't you just try to get some of that sleep." She began to reach for the glass again. "And then, after you wake — " Again, Diana drew back her hand. "Keep your hands off this," she said, sharply. She closed her eyes. "I'm not going to sleep," she said. "I wish I could . . . But I can't." "Gonna have some lunch then, some soup maybe?" the maid asked. "I'm not going to have anything but this." Diana said, raising the glass a little, as if she were toasting some invisible guest. "And then," she said, "after I finish — like I told you — I'm going to get some more." The maid started to leave the room. "Eva," Diana said, opening her eyes suddenly, calling, pleadingly. " — don't be angry." "I'm not angry, Miss B," said the maid, shaking her head. "Don't be," said Diana. "Not with me . . . not today. . . ." The Sunday search It was shortly before two that afternoon when the bottle, the last bottle, was empty, and when she got out of her bed and walked over to the phone. She looked up the number of the swank restaurant across the street, The Colony, and. slowly, she dialed. "Mr. Cavallero," she said, controlling her voice, asking for the owner. " — This is Diana Barrymore. B — A — R — R — Y — " — she finished it and repeated it, until she heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line. "Gene?" she asked. "Yes, Diana?" "I need your help. I need a bottle, whisky . . . any kind." He hesitated. " — And how can I help?" "You take one of your bottles, you put it in a paper bag, you give it to one of your boys, he brings it over — " "Diana," he said, interrupting. "It's illegal. I can't." "Please," she said. "I can't." "Please . . . I'll pay you. I have lots of money. Lots." "I'd lose my license." "Please. ..." She began to cry. "It's the last favor I'll ever ask of you, Gene." "Diana — " he started to say. "I've been a good customer of yours, haven't I, always?" she asked. "Sure you have," he said, "but that's got nothing to do with it." "Please, Gene, please." "Look. I — " he started to say. He paused. "Diana." he said then, "there's a call on another phone . . . I'll be right with you. Hold on." Diana didn't seem to hear him, the sound his receiver made as he lowered it. "Are liquor stores open on Sunday?" she asked, suddenly, excitedly. She answered her own question. "Yes, some of them are ... Of course. Some of them must be," she said. She hung up the phone. And got up from where she was sitting. "Who needs anybody when there are good liquor stores around," she said, as she rushed over to her closet, pulled out a coat, threw it over her slip, grabbed her purse and headed for the door. Outside — where it was cold, just as Eva had said, freezing cold — she walked the practically-deserted streets for nearly an hour. East to Park Avenue. 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