"No name," Norman said quickly. "This is an important property, this play of yours.
We have to protect it with all the box office we can get. Rina never made a picture that didn't make money."
"Maybe," Dunbar admitted. "But can she act?"
"There's no better actress in Hollywood than that girl.
You're a director.
Go over to her house this afternoon with the script and see for yourself."
"Mr. Norman- "
But Norman had already taken his arm and was leading him to the door.
"Be fair, Mr. Dunbar.
Give the girl a chance, work with her a little. Then if you still think she can't do it, we'll see."
So efficient had the producer been in getting rid of him that he hadn't been aware of it himself until he stood outside the closed door, with the three secretaries staring at him.
He felt his face flush and to cover his embarrassment, he went over to the girl at the desk nearest the door.
"Could you tell me where Miss Marlowe lives?" he asked. "And how to get there?"
The secretary smiled.
"I can do better than that, Mr. Dunbar," she said efficiently, picking up the telephone. "I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up and take you there."
That afternoon, before he went to Rina's house, Claude Dunbar dropped into a theater that was playing her latest picture.
He watched the screen in a kind of fascinated horror. There was no doubt that the girl was beautiful.
He could even see that she had a type of animalism that would appeal to a certain type of audience.
But she wasn't the kind of girl called for in the play.
The girl in the play was somber, introspective, frightened.
As she tried to recapture her memory, she looked as she felt – gaunt, tortured and burned out by the heat of the desert.
The fact that she was female caused the desire in the men, not her physical appearance.
And it wasn't until the very climax that the play revealed the root of her fears to be her own capacity for lechery. On the screen, Rina was exciting and bold, aware of her sexuality and continually flaunting it before the audience, but there was no subtlety in her acting.
And yet, in all honesty, he felt the surge of vitality flowing from her.
When she was on the screen, no matter who else was in the scene, he could not take his eyes off her.
He left the theater and went back to his hotel, where the car was going to pick him up.
As was usual whenever he was disturbed, he called his mother.
"Do you know who they want to play in the picture, Mother?"
"Who?" his mother asked, with her usual calm.
"Rina Marlowe."
His mother's voice was shocked. "No!"
"Yes, Mother," he said.
"Mr. Norman tells me they couldn't get Bette Davis."
"Well, you turn right around and come home," his mother said firmly. "You tell Mr. Norman that you have a reputation to consider, that he promised you Davis and you won't accept that blond creature as a substitute!"
"But I already told Mr. Norman I'd talk to Miss Marlowe.
He said if I wasn't satisfied after meeting her, he'd try to get someone else."
"All right," she said.
"But remember, your integrity counts far more than anything else.
If you're not completely satisfied, you come right home."
"Yes, Mother," he said. "Much love."
"Much love and take care," his mother replied, completing their farewell ritual.
Rina entered the room where he was waiting, wearing a black leotard that covered her body from her feet to her neck.
Her pale-blond hair was pulled back straight and tied in a knot behind her head. She wore no make-up.
"Mr. Dunbar," she said, coming toward him unsmiling, her hand outstretched.
"Miss Marlowe," he answered, taking her hand. He was surprised at the strength in her fingers.
"I've looked forward to meeting you," she said. "I've heard a great deal about you."
He smiled, pleased.
"I've heard a great deal about you, too."
She looked up and smiled for the first time.
"I'll bet you have," she said without rancor. "That's why you're out here the first day you're in Hollywood.