Chapter 8
"God Heavens, this house of mine is certainly isolated!" Diane Wilson exclaimed as the cabdriver stopped at the top of one of the Hollywood hills, in front of a spacious two-story house set about two hundred yards back from a magnificent lawn and hedges, and completely framed and enclosed by towering trees on either side which further hid it from the road as well as from lower vantage points along the way.
"That is one of its principal charms, Diane." Gregson Torrance observed as he paid the driver and offered the heiress his arm.
"You say you have an offer to buy this house, Mr. Torrance?" she asked as they approached the door.
"Yes. But the asking price could be better, I think. However the prospective client would pay a good deal of money cash down, and that's always advantageous. Of course, for tax purposes, and assuming that you retain me as administrator of your estate after six months," he added with a cynical smile, "my recommendation would be to have the payments spread out year after year so that you wouldn't have to pay so much in a lump sum to Uncle Sam."
"We'll see about your being my administrator later, Mr. Torrance, Diane Wilson icily observed. "For the moment, I just want to inspect this place as quickly as possible, find out what your offer is and then sign any papers I have to. I'd really like to get back to the hotel as soon as I can, repack my suitcase and perhaps leave to tomorrow morning."
"As you say. I'll ring the bell.!
He did so, and after a moment the door was opened by a comely mulatress, wearing a clinging black satin dress whose hems ended about three inches above her dimpled knees. She had a lace cap atop her head, and a little white apron. She wore high heeled black leather pumps with rhinestone buckles, and her lissome legs were sheathed in smoke-colored nylons.
"Miss Johnson, this is the owner of the house, Miss Diane Wilson. Would you please show her around. I want to go downstairs and see if everything is locked up the way it should be," Gregson Torrance remarked.
"Of course, sir. This way, if you please, Miss Wilson!"
"Why don't you show it to me yourself, Mr.
Torrance?" the heiress fumed. "I don't care to have servants show me my own property."
"In a sense, Diane," he turned to her with a frowning look on his sensual face," I'm your servant too, so long as I am your administrator. And Miss Johnson is quite reliable, believe me."
"She's a nigger!" the unexpected sally burst out of Diane's petulant mouth. "Now will you show me the house yourself? I think you've behaved very rudely towards me in getting me out here in the first place and not meeting me at the airport, and now this."
"Very well. Just give me a few minutes and I'll join you. I just have to inspect some stuff downstairs," Gregson Torrance said, controlling his fury and giving the mulatress a quick and almost imperceptible glance at which she responded with an equally imperceptible nod. "Just let her show you the living room and I'll be back in about three or four minutes."
"Oh, all right, but please hurry!" Diane angrily remarked.
The mulatress had gone ahead out of the little antechamber reached to the wall just beyond the door of the huge living room, and clicked on the light switch. Diane moved forward, still scowling and indignant, but had to admit that the decor was really magnificent. The room was furnished in Louis Quinze period, and there were superb tapestries in the style of paintings by Watteau on two of the walls.
The young mulatress stood with arms at her sides, considering Diane Wilson who looked around the room, her upper lip curling in scornful pride. So she owned this lovely house, and it was just one more proof to her that she was far above commoners, and certainly like this impudent nigger maid. She turned now and saw the young woman looking at her, and at once she flared up: "What are you staring at, anyway? What's your name and how long have you been working here and who hired you?"
"Mr. Torrance hired me, my name's Myrna Johnson, and I only just started this job," was the cool reply.
"Well, I happen to own this house, as you probably know from Mr. Torrance. And I say you're fired. You might as well start looking for another job, and I'll tell Mr. Torrance so when he comes back."
"I wish you would, please, Miss Wilson. He night not take it from me," the mulatress at once replied with an engaging smile.
Diane Wilson ground her teeth and, unable to conceal her indignation any longer over what she considered a thoroughly miserable reception since she had landed at the airport in Los Angelees, walked over to Myrna Johnson and slapped her across the cheek. "That'll teach you to be more civil to your betters," she hissed. "And you're still fired, no matter what Mr. Torrance may say. I'll give you a week's extra pay, but get out now. I don't want to see your ugly face again in this house, not ever, do you understand me?"
"Only too well, Miss Wilson."
"And what's that supposed to mean? Do you want another slap? Just get out of here at once, you black bitch!" Diane almost screamed in her fury, turning very pale at the imagined insult.
What she might have done was conjecturable, but at this moment Gregson Torrance entered the living room with a bland smile on his face. "Everything is in shipshape condition. I think we're ready to proceed to the basement, Myrna," he addressed himself to the mulatress.
Diane Wilson stood there, her mouth agape, looking first at him and then at the mulatress. "What is this all about? Mr. Torrance, I want you to fire that girl! She's been rude and insolent to me. I don't want to hear anymore, do you understand? I'll pay her off and give her a week's pay, but if I own this house I never want to see her again."
"That's going to be rather difficult, Diane," he drawled as he calmly took out his cigarette case, took one out and tapped it on the case, then lit it. "You see, starting as of right now, Myrna is going to be your maid."
"Have you gone crazy? I told you I want that bitch fired. I don't want any niggers around me, and certainly not that one. I don't need a maid, I never have." .
"You're going to need this one. You see, your living quarters are going to be a little confined to start with, and you're going to need all the help you can get."
"Now you're talking in riddles and I don't like that sort of talk at all. Take me to see the rest of the house and then let's get out of here. And that girl goes too. In fact, she can leave right this minute and I'll mail her a check.
"I think we'll all go down to the basement, Diane. You can cool off in there. You're a little over excited, which is understandable. But I'm afraid there are a few surprises for you," Gregson Torrance said as he moved closer to the unsuspecting heiress, while at the same time the mulatress approached her from the other side.
"Now that's enough of that!" Diane Wilson stamped her foot, her eyes blazing. "Why should I go to the basement? I wish I'd never come to Los Angeles-"
"Now that, Diane," Gregson Torrance chuckled evilly as he seized her left arm at the elbow," is probably the first honest thing you've said all day! Grab her, Myrna and let's get her downstairs!" m
"Let me go-what do you think you're doing--are you insane, both of you? Stop it-help-oh my God-what are you going to do with me-how dare you-you've no right-let me go of me, you're hurting my arms!" Diane Wilson cried. For the mulatress had seized her right arm now and the two of them were dragging her out of the living room and towards a narrow door at the very back of the lobby which she had just quitted. Pausing to open it. Gregson Torrance glanced at the fuming, frantic heiress and said to the beautiful mulatress, who of course was his own concubine, "I'm sure you'll want to take a little vengeance for the names she called you, Myrna darling! All right, let's get her down the stairs where Joe and Ben can get her ready for her new life!"
With a despairing shriek, Diane tried to hold back, but the two of them dragged her down the winding stairway into the basement. And there, from the light cast by a naked electric bulb stuck in the ceiling, Diane Wilson saw two powerful Negroes, wearing only jockstraps and sandals, grinning at her in anticipation.