But approaching the Temple house his spirit quailed as he saw that there was a tall iron fence and an electric gate. And didn’t guides have to have a licence?
“Not here,” he said quickly to the chauffeur. “I made a mistake. I think it’s the next one, or two or three doors further on.”
He decided on a large mansion set in an open lawn and stopping the chauffeur got out and walked up to the door. He was temporarily licked but at least he might bring back some story to soften them—say, that Miss Temple had mumps. He could point out her sick-room from the walk.
There was no answer to his ring but he saw that the door was partly ajar. Cautiously he pushed it open. He was staring into a deserted living room on the baronial scale. He listened. There was no one about, no footsteps on the upper floor, no murmur from the kitchen. Pat took another pull at the gin. Then swiftly he hurried back to the limousine.
“She’s at the studio,” he said quickly. “But if we’re quiet we can look at their living-room.”
Eagerly the Robinsons and Boojie disembarked and followed him. The living-room might have been Shirley Temple’s, might have been one of many in Hollywood. Pat saw a doll in a corner and pointed at it, whereupon Mrs Robinson picked it up, looked at it reverently and showed it to Boojie who sniffed indifferently.
“Could I meet Mrs Temple?” she asked.
“Oh, she’s out—nobody’s home,” Pat said—unwisely.
“Nobody. Oh—then Boojie would so like a wee little peep at her bedroom.”
Before he could answer she had run up the stairs. Mr Robinson followed and Pat waited uneasily in the hall, ready to depart at the sound either of an arrival outside or a commotion above.
He finished the bottle, disposed of it politely under a sofa cushion and then deciding that the visit upstairs was tempting fate too far, he went after his clients. On the stairs he heard Mrs Robinson.
“But there’s only ONE child’s bedroom. I thought Shirley had brothers.”
A window on the winding staircase looked upon the street, and glancing out Pat saw a large car drive up to the curb. From it stepped a Hollywood celebrity who, though not one of those pursued by Mrs Robinson, was second to none in prestige and power. It was old Mr Marcus, the producer, for whom Pat Hobby had been press agent twenty years ago.
At this point Pat lost his head. In a flash he pictured an elaborate explanation as to what he was doing here. He would not be forgiven. His occasional weeks in the studio at two-fifty would now disappear altogether and another finis would be written to his almost entirely finished career. He left, impetuously and swiftly—down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back gate, leaving the Robinsons to their destiny.
Vaguely he was sorry for them as he walked quickly along the next boulevard. He could see Mr Robinson producing his card as the head of Robdeer Food Products. He could see Mr Marcus’ scepticism, the arrival of the police, the frisking of Mr and Mrs Robinson.
Probably it would stop there—except that the Robinsons would be furious at him for his imposition. They would tell the police where they had picked him up.
Suddenly he went ricketing down the street, beads of gin breaking out profusely on his forehead. He had left his car beside Gus Venske’s umbrella. And now he remembered another recognizing clue and hoped that Ronald Colman didn’t know his last name.
