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handed his license to her. With a hand that trembled so she could hardly do anything she fished a pencil out of her bag, copied the number and name and address on a bit of paper.
She handed back the license. Took back her own. Looked at the cars.
Keith's beautiful car was badly damaged. One fender was completely crumpled. The bumper was bent. The radiator was badly bashed in. The other car, large but not new, was hurt just about as badly.
"I'll sue if you don't pay for the damages," the man said. Marsha looked at him closely for the first time. He was badly dressed in an unpressed blue serge. He needed a shave. His brows were heavy, his eyes close together. He wasn't the type you could be reasonable — or chummy with.
"How foolish!" said Marsha. "For then I'll sue. And then what will you have? I'm afraid, gentlemen, that this is one case where you pay your own damages — and watch a little more carefully the next time you're driving."
"We won't pay for your car," the man muttered.
"Perhaps I'll have to< charge it off to hard luck," said Marsha, "though I think you ought to pay." She knew they'd be suspicious of her if she didn't say something like that.
The men got into their car, still muttering. Marsha got into Keith's car — into the driver's seat this time. Luckily, neither car was damaged too badly for driving. They drove away.
In front of her house Marsha stopped the car. Keith had come to — if he'd ever been really knocked out. He was groaning a little.
"How do you feel?" Marsha asked.
He opened one eye, looked at her — and she would have sworn he winked. Then he closed his eyes.
"I feel like the devil," he said. She would have given quite a lot to know what he was thinking about — if he were thinking at all.
"I've locked your car. Here are the keys," she said and gave them to him. He managed to get them into his pocket.
"I'll go in and call a taxi," she said. "You can send for your car in the morning."
"All right," said Keith, strangely acquiescent.
Marsha went quietly into her apartment. Eleanor was asleep in one of the wall beds. Tiptoeing— and speaking in a whisper, Marsha dialed the Yellow Cab Company,
asked that a cab be sent immediately. She tiptoed down stairs again.
The cab came in just a few minutes. Marsha didn't have to explain anything to the driver. He was used to drunken occupants of his car, it seemed. He helped Keith into the car. Keith was able to give his address. The car drove away.
Marsha went up to her apartment again. She undressed slowly, quietly. " Eleanor didn't wake up. In her pajamas Marsha went to the window, looked out on the quiet Hollywood street. Funny ! An odd ending to a Hollywood evening. A Hollywood holiday. The accident had been slight, after all. She knew the man wouldn't sue. But she knew, too, what trouble he could have made — and undoubtedly would have made had he known that the man who hit him was Keith Knowles, the movie star. And Keith drunk at the time !
She had started out just a few hours ago so gay and carefree. And she'd been dancing at the Trocadero with Keith Knowles — and been in an accident with Keith Knowles — and knocked out Keith Knowles ! W ell, Keith wouldn't be arrested or his reputation damaged. Not tonight, anyhow.
She was still shivering a little as she crept into her little wall bed next to Eleanor. She closed her eyes.
Well, that was finished. She had been out with Keith Knowles. And so what? He had got drunk. And she had learned that he got drunk frequently. And Keith was in love with another woman. And that wasn't finished. And Marsha knew that, though it was perfectly ridiculous of her, in spite of the fact that Keith was a star and that he drank too much and that he loved someone else, she was in love with him. Hopelessly? Undoubtedly. But, for the first time in her life she was really in love. And that was just beginning.
And, although she didn't give it a second thought as she fell asleep, there was another thing that wasn't finished. For, in front of her apartment house, for anyone to see who happened to be passing by, stood Keith Knowles' automobile. And it was to stand there all night and well into the morning. And it was a well-known automobile, distinctive as to both color and number. The accident had happened on a dark street and the men hadn't even taken the number of the car — or paid much attention to it. But the car stood directly under a light, now. And soon it would be daylight. Anyone who passed could notice it. (To Be Continued)
In Defense of Snooty Stars
Continued from page 33
not give interviews to the Press and she hides out from her public. This makes Luise different from the big smile Give Girls. Luise, being one of the twenty-eight, is immediately pounced on by the Five Hundred who have just been bawled out by their editors for sending in tepid copy about Paula Stone, and a Roman Holiday of Rainer is begun. I don't have to tell you what has been written about the lovely Luise who made such an exquisite O-lan that she still haunts me ; you can read ; and how those pet words "temperament" and "neurotic" were tossed about like a volley ball. Well, you might like to know that when Luise first came to Hollywood, a lonely girl from Vienna, she was rather taken back by the frenzied goings-on in the film capital. She was a foreigner in a strange land and a strange tongue, with the most awful verbs in it, and she wanted to do what was right, but what was right?
Nice, kind Metro got an earful of Miss Rainer's English and lifted an eyebrow and said Um-m-m-m. But before Metro had gotten around to calling on Miss Rainer officially she had already spoken a few pieces to the Press. She was having a bit of trouble with her tenses and her proper nouns, (they often became improper), anl she always said "make" instead of "do." The Press went into hysterics and quoted Miss Rainer as saying the most frightening things. (When you confuse "make" with "do" you can be very frightening.) "But I did not say that," Luise would weep when she read her interviews in the papers. "They misquote me. I am . so ashame. They make me a fool. Please — " No one could resist that please, certainly not Mr. Mayer, so Luise was granted permission not to give any more interviews. And nice kind Metro, who was getting a bit worried about those "makes," drew
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