'Look,' I said. 'I can't tell you the plot now. This telephone is in the bar. Give you a full synopsis when I see you.'
'I get you. But I think I've recognised him from those pictures you sent. Had the roll developed the instant it arrived. It was that scar that gave me the clue. That's why I flew over. Watch him, Neil. If he's the bloke I think he is, he's a dangerous customer. By the way, I've got that little bitch, Carla, with me. She's had ten Martinis and is now telling me I'm nice and not a bit English. We'll see if our impressions of her so beautiful nature tally — yes?' He gave a quick laugh. 'See you tomorrow, then.' And he rang off.
Joe thrust a drink across to me as I put down the phone. 'Everything all right?' he asked.
'Seems to be,' I said.
'What's he come over for? Did he tell you?'
'Oh, I think he just wants to look over the ground for himself,' I replied.
'He would. Still, he's a bloody good director. Queer fellow. Mother was Welsh, you know. That's where he gets that love of music and that flashy brilliance of speech and intellect. They're all the same, the Welsh — flashy, superficial, no depth to them.'
'There's a bit more to him than that,' I said.
'Well, he's not all Welsh, that's why. Don't know what his father was — something dour, probably a Scot. That's what makes him so moody and gives him that dogged seeking after perfection. Two sides of his nature always at war with each other. Makes him difficult to work with. Still, it's his strength as a director.'
I finished my drink and went back to bed. Joe fussed after me like a mother %- had my hot-water bottles refilled, put a bottle of cognac beside my bed and saw to it that I had some cigarettes. 'Want me to kiss you good-night?' he asked with a grin.