Spark [Sheldon_Sidney]_The_Other_Side_of_Midnight(BookSe | Seite 117

Strawberry Blond, and Bette Davis in Dark Victory and smiled happily.
They passed the Hollywood Bowl, which looked enormous from the outside, turned
off Highland Avenue and went west on Hollywood Boulevard. They passed the Egyptian
Theater and two blocks to the west, Grauman’s Chinese, and Catherine’s spirits soared. It
was like seeing two old friends. The driver swung down Sunset Boulevard and headed for
the Beverly Hills Hotel. “You’ll enjoy this hotel, miss. It’s one of the best in the world.”
It was certainly one of the most beautiful that Catherine had ever seen. It was just
north of Sunset, in a semicircle of sheltering palm trees surrounded by large gardens. A
graceful driveway curved up to the front door of the hotel, painted a delicate pink. An
eager young assistant manager escorted Catherine to her room, which turned out to be a
lavish bungalow on the grounds behind the main building of the hotel. There was a
bouquet of flowers on the table with the compliments of the management and a larger,
more beautiful bouquet with a card that read: “Wish I were there or you were here. Love,
Bill.” The assistant manager had handed Catherine three telephone messages. They were
all from Allan Benjamin, whom she had been told was the producer of the training film.
As Catherine was reading Bill’s card, the phone rang. She ran to it, picked up the receiver
and said eagerly, “Bill?” But it turned out to be Allan Benjamin.
“Welcome to California, Miss Alexander,” his voice shrilled through the receiver.
“Corporal Allan Benjamin, producer of this little clambake.”
A corporal. She would have thought that they would have put a captain or a colonel
in charge.
“We start shooting tomorrow. Did they tell you that we’re using actors instead of
soldiers?”
“I heard,” Catherine replied.
“We start shooting at nine in the morning. If you could get here by about eight, I’d
like to have you take a look at them. You know what the Army Air Corps wants.”
“Right,” said Catherine briskly. She had not the faintest idea what the Army Air
Corps wanted, but she supposed that if one used common sense and picked out types that
looked like they might be pilots, that would be sufficient.
“I’ll have a car there for you at seven thirty A . M .,” the voice was saying. “It’ll only
take you half an hour to get to Metro. It’s in Culver City. I’ll meet you on Stage Thirteen.”
It was almost four o’clock in the morning before Catherine fell asleep, and it seemed
the moment her eyes closed, the phone was ringing and the operator was telling her that a
limousine was waiting for her.
Thirty minutes later Catherine was on her way to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
It was the largest motion picture studio in the world. There was a main lot consisting
of thirty-two sound stages, the enormous Thalberg Administration Building which housed
Louis B. Mayer, twenty-five executives, and some of the most famous directors, producers
and writers in show business. Lot two contained the large standing outdoor sets which