Shot on Location Read Online Free PDF

“In the next room,” he said. “Sorry about that out in the hall, but they do have orders. Rhona—your Mr. Smith is here.”
    The next room was a bedroom—Brad glimpsed a bit of it when Rhona came through the door. He was shocked. She had sounded a little different on the telephone; she looked entirely different. She was older, of course, but that wasn’t against her. She had improved—lost baby fat and gained poise. Her hair was worn in a fashionable cut and her dress was so starkly simple it must have cost a fortune. But she had lost something. She smiled and it came off badly. The child in her smile was gone.
    “Brad—it
is
you!” she cried. “You haven’t changed.” She came forward and placed her hands on his shoulders, holding him at arms length. “But you have changed,” she said quickly. “You’re harder.”
    “Muscle,” Brad said.
    “Oh, yes. You were a soldier for so long. Darling, have you met Peter? This is Peter Lange, Harry’s attorney. He flew in from London this morning—but so did you.”
    “How did you know that?” Brad asked.
    Rhona looked confused. “Why, I didn’t really. I assumed. I did get your flowers right after Peter arrived. See, I have them in a vase … Peter, Brad Smith is one of my oldest and dearest friends—and Harry’s, too. He read about Harry’s plane and sent a note offering to help in any way.”
    “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Lange said bluntly. As Rhona’s hands slid from Brad’s shoulder, her right arm linked in his and guided him towards a buffet on the far side of the room. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked. “I remember how you used to love a good breakfast. Here’s scrambled eggs and sausages and a pot of black coffee—” Her fingers locked about Brad’s and held tight. He knew now what was so different about Rhona: she was afraid. She was clinging to him, as she had the first night they spent together back in Hollywood.
    They were out of earshot of Lange now. “Did you really come all this way just to help me?” she whispered.
    “From London,” Brad lied. “I was there on business.”
    “Yes, I know. I lied to you a minute ago. I called the desk after your flowers came—I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a cruel joke. Hold my hand, Brad. Hold it tight. I think I’m going out of my mind—all the reporters and the police and those awful guards.”
    “Have you had any news at all?”
    “I think Peter has, but he won’t tell me anything until it’s certain. That means it’s bad news, doesn’t it?”
    “Not necessarily.”
    “I think it does. Just three days ago we were together on Corfu and then Harry told me to come on back and make arrangements for the party—but I won’t bore you with that. Anyway, I flew back and he stayed over for another day’s shooting.”
    “You were shooting on Corfu?”
    “No. We weren’t shooting at all—not the film, I mean. It was Harry. He likes to fly about and get shots of the terrain wherever he’s planning to shoot. Then he screens what he’s got and chooses locations. That’s why he chartered the little plane.
Such
a little plane. No wonder they can’t find it. Brad, please take some coffee or something. Peter’s staring at us. He’s such a cold fish!”
    She was afraid of the reporters, the police and of Peter Lange. She seemed on the threshold of a nervous breakdown, and when another ruckus occurred in the hall, outside the door, her nails dug into Brad’s hand. Lange went to the door again. This time he was brushed coolly aside, by someone with even more confidence and control than himself. Such authority could come only from a man of the law—some law, somewhere.
    He was as tall as Brad, as lean as Brad, at least forty years old, expensively tailored and a Negro. He glanced at Lange, looked for Rhona and then walked to the buffet.
    “Mrs. Avery,” he said, “I’m sorry to bust in this way. You remember me, of course.”
    “You’re Mr. Martins,”