by Robert Bloch
“Forget it. Just looking out for myself, that’s the whole idea. Playing both ends against the middle. Who knows, you may be a big man here at Coronet some day.” He shrugged. “Meanwhile, you can buy me a cup of coffee.”
THIRTEEN
WE had our coffee and then I went to see Herb Weichmann. He handed me a copy of the short story on which the film was to be based. I read it then and there, a yarn about a man who thought he was the Devil. Not bad, and it would make an effective vehicle for Druse. I could write this, I knew.
“Knock out a treatment,” the elderly director said. “Keep the theme, but build up the young love-interest and give me a comedy character. I was thinking of Clyde Cook or Jimmy Finlayson, somebody like that. Use your own judgment. You know what goes into a Druse picture. Oh, and keep the sets simple—we try to bring these things in for around two-fifty.”
That was all there was to it. I walked out of the studio with an assignment to write The Man From Hell, at five hundred a week and full screen credits.
Sitting in my apartment that evening, I could hardly believe it, but everything had worked out for the best. Even if Harker was my enemy now, he’d inadvertently done me a good turn. By firing me, he’d given me my chance for the big promotion—in one day I’d gone from title-writing to full-fledged authorship of my own picture, and a hefty raise in salary.
I bore no resentment against Taylor now, or Lozoff. It was easy to understand their position, and I almost pitied them, working with the Great Director. Weichmann was no genius, self-proclaimed or otherwise, but with him I could turn out a competent job without headaches, delays, temper tantrums or delusions of grandeur to cope with. I could congratulate myself on this new association. What more could I ask for?
Dawn Powers, of course.
That was it. I suddenly realized I wouldn’t be spending any time on the Daydreams set; I’d be busy with Weichmann and Druse. How could I get to see her?
Come to think of it, I didn’t even have her address or phone number. She’d told me she was living with two girl friends in an apartment. But where?
Would Carla know? Maybe I could call her and find out. Even if she didn’t know, at least I could tell her the good news. I wanted to talk to somebody. And Carla might be happy to hear about what had happened, just for old time’s sake.
I picked up the phone and gave the operator the number, but Carla didn’t answer. Then I remembered a bit of studio gossip. Carla had been seen at the Montmartre recently with a new boy friend—Nicky Morris, no less. Perhaps she was with him tonight.
Carla was out with Nicky, Dawn Powers was sitting in an apartment somewhere with two girl roommates—
Or was she?
Try as I would to prevent it, the question slipped through. Somehow I’d have to find out, and soon. I promised myself that.
But first there was a job to do. The treatment. If I knocked out the treatment tonight, then maybe I could get in touch with Dawn tomorrow.
So I sat down and wrote the treatment, then went to bed and waited for tomorrow.
Tomorrow never came.
I don’t know how it was with the big-name writers—women, most of them, like Frances Marion, Anita Loos, June Mathis and Bess Meredyth. Maybe they spent months on a script, with plenty of time to loll around the pool at the Garden of Allah. But I know how it was with me.
Weichmann read my treatment the moment I laid it on his desk in the morning, and then he gave it to Karl Druse.
Druse suggested a few changes, very sound ones, too—and would I please rush through a revise so we’d have something to show to Sol Morris by the end of the week?
I rushed through a revise.
When I brought it in, Weichmann asked me to meet with the production staff and the set designers. And then there was wardrobe to consider and a budget conference—
But why go on? (I asked myself that question a hundred times during the next few weeks, but I did go on.) There was no end to what I did, or what I learned. It was one thing to write titles for a script and revise them for rushes somebody else had filmed. It was another thing—many other things—to sit in on every phase of a picture from its inception.
I found I wasn’t just writing a story; I was writing costumes and scenery and actors for Lipsky to cast and schedules for the use of certain stages and cameramen, and I was writing changes for Morris and for the Hays Office and the tastes of some nameless exhibitor in Kalamazoo.
Before I caught my breath we were well into November. I still hadn’t seen the pool at the Garden of Allah, and I hadn’t seen Dawn Powers.
Once in a while I’d run into Arch Taylor or Lozoff or Emerson Craig; always I asked about Dawn, and always I got the same answers. Harker was coaching her in private rehearsals, they were still readying production, Morris was screaming bloody murder but Harker wouldn’t shoot until he felt the girl was ready.
“How is she?” I asked Taylor.
“All right, I guess. I haven’t seen her. When I say she’s getting private rehearsals, I mean just that.”
“But couldn’t I—”
“No, you couldn’t. The set’s closed. And that goes double, as far as you’re concerned. He’s even got a guard outside her bungalow.”
“I know.”
Arch Taylor shrugged. “Be patient. This won’t last forever.”
“Neither will I.”
But I did. I lasted through the rest of November and most of December; now we were shooting the picture and I spent my days on the set and my evenings in the projection room. Then the film was wrapped up, but Weichmann wanted me to sit in while he edited; we were coming in about two reels over, and needed some cutting.
Meanwhile, Daydreams finally went into production, and the set was closed.
“Nobody gets in except cast and crew,” Taylor told me. “Harker’s strict orders. Even Sol Morris keeps out.”
“But why? More of that damned astrology nonsense?”
Taylor shook his head. “Harker doesn’t want to upset his leading lady. She’s a little nervous.” He shook his head. “So am I. This may be an epic, but it’s no picnic.”
When I cornered Emerson Craig in the commissary one noon he was more explicit.
“It’s murder,” he said. “I don’t know what the Old Man’s thinking of, using a girl like that. She’s beautiful, yes, and photogenic. The boys on camera aren’t having any trouble setting up their shots. They just focus on her face and shoot over the back of my head.” He smiled wryly. “But that’s not what I’m complaining about. The kid just can’t act.”
I tracked Arch Taylor down again in his office.
“Dawn,” I said. “I’ve got to see her—”
He shook his head. “Not a chance. We’re a month behind schedule right now. If Morris knew how much footage we’ve scrapped he’d go through the floor, barber chair and all—”
“I don’t give a damn if he drops down clear to hell. It’s Dawn I’m worried about. Arch—please. Help me.”
Taylor took out his pipe and pointed it at me. “I am helping you. By keeping you out of this mess. You’ve got your own job to worry about—if your picture clicks, it means a whole new career. So don’t make trouble. You can’t stop what’s going on, and if Harker gets riled up about you again—”
“All right,” I said. “You win.”
But he hasn’t, I told myself. And neither has Harker. There must be a way.
So I went to Kurt Lozof’s party over the holidays, hoping that Dawn would be there. She wasn’t, of course. But I did manage to talk to Lozoff alone.
The little man was pale, and he’d lost some weight. I didn’t have to ask him how things were going. He told me, immediately.
“Tom, I made a big mistake. You were right about the picture, absolutely right. I should have backed you up.”
“Don’t worry, I understand. You couldn’t risk your job.”
“I’m risking more than my job, the way things are turning out. I’m risking the entire future.�
� People were laughing and shouting all around us, but he kept his voice down so that even I could scarcely hear him. “This film is hopeless; it will never be completed.”
“That bad, eh?”
“Harker’s like a madman, I’ve never seen him this way before. Retake after retake, and everything wrong. I keep trying to tell him the Napoleonic flashbacks aren’t in key, but he won’t listen. Something’s happened—you saw it coming, and I wasn’t smart enough to believe you. But it’s true. He’s not shooting a picture. He’s filming a love letter to Dawn Powers.”
I could feel myself trembling. He must have noticed, but he didn’t pause.
“She can’t handle the role, everyone can see it. Everyone but Harker. The thing to do is build up the story line to give her a strong assist in every scene, use her for decoration. I could salvage this picture, I know it, but he won’t listen. He thinks he can make her a great actress. And it won’t work, not even for Theodore Harker.”
“What’s going to happen?”
Lozoff shrugged. “I wish I knew. My guess is that one day she’ll just collapse. If you could see the way he drives her—day after day, rehearsal after rehearsal, take after take! One thing in the picture will be real—her tears—”
I gripped Lozoff’s arm. “Get me in to talk to her.”
“The set is closed. You know that.”
“Find me a way. Some time when Harker isn’t around.” My grip tightened. “Remember, I got you past the gates.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Lozoff stared at me for a long moment. Then, “Will you be in your office on Monday morning?”
I nodded.
“Wait for me there. I’ll try to find a way.”
“That’s a promise?”
“A promise.” He rolled his eyes. “But God help us all if things go wrong!”
FOURTEEN
“HAPPY New Year, Mr. Post,” said the guard at the gate as I swung the Stutz into the drive that Monday morning.
And, “Happy New Year!” yelled Jackie Keeley, waving from the walk as I parked outside my office. “Don’t get too close to the Crown Prince’s car. I’ve got a bomb planted in the engine.”
He gestured at the big yellow Marmon parked next to me, and I nodded. I had no intention of getting too close to Nicky Morris’s car—maybe Keeley had planted a bomb in it. He wasn’t the only one with such ideas.
For if I had been active this past fall, young Morris had been positively frenetic. He’d started out with John Frisby on a Dude Williams picture, but never finished it. Sometime around Thanksgiving, Dude Williams collapsed on the set (heart trouble, according to his wife) and was carted off to a private sanatorium under orders to rest up until spring.
So Frisby went on to a Jackie Keeley comedy, and Nicky Morris went with him. Went with him to stop the camera for idiotic suggestions, to drag sloe-eyed residents of Olvera Street before the casting director, to break up shooting with poker games when the spirit moved him, to make life miserable for the crew.
Sol Morris had left for New York over the holidays on some mysterious mission of his own, but rumor had if there’d be a showdown between Nicky and Keeley when he returned to referee.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d had a rough time during the closing months of the year. But this was Happy New Year, 1926, I reminded myself. And things were going to be different.
My office still looked the same, and so did Miss Kress. I glanced through the stack of mail on the desk. Cards, bills, trade papers—the usual assortment. The only thing that interested me here was the telephone. Would Lozoff call?
The phone rang and I grabbed it. “Hello—”
“Arch Taylor.”
“Yes,” I said, the adrenalin draining out of my voice. “What is it?”
“Haul your butt over to Projection Two. We’re running final title inserts on The Man From Hell.”
I hesitated. “Is it absolutely necessary, Arch? I’m expecting an important call—”
“Tell your girl to switch it. Mr. Morris is here and he asked if you’d come.”
“Command performance, eh? I’ll be there.”
And I was.
Five minutes later I sat between Morris and Taylor in the little projection room behind the Executive Offices, watching the all-too-familiar titles flicker by; each of them numbered and tagged with a few feet of the film that followed. Morris had a pad and pencil in his lap, but he wasn’t using them. His cigar sent up smoke signals of silent approval.
The lights came on and Sol Morris nodded at Taylor.
“You were right,” he said. “No changes.” He glanced at me. “Good job. Looks like we’re gonna have a nice gross with this one.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morris.”
He sighed. “We better. On account otherwise we’re in for a little trouble,”
“What’s the matter?” Taylor asked.
Morris waved his cigar in a gesture of ashy deprecation. “European exhibitors. You know for the last two-three years we been booking over there and doing okay. Now, with the new studio and everything, I figured on taking out some of the profits. Only there ain’t any.”
He sighed again. “On account of the foreign inflation, you understand. Four million I got tied up in German banks—and Glazer tells me I can’t get out with two cents on the dollar.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I already done. Where do you think I went over the holidays? To New York. For a loan to tide us over.”
“You got it?”
“Sure I got it. We’ll get by. If Harker brings in a big hit and we have any kind of luck, I can pay off in a year.”
Sol Morris stood up. “Only thing is, we’ll have company for a while.”
“What kind of company?”
Morris seemed oddly abashed. “You know how they are in New York. They gotta stick their noses into everything. So the bank tells me, we’re sending out a representative. Somebody to watch how you spend the money. Maybe you can give him a title, vice-president or something.”
“When’s he coming?”
“He’s here already. I got him staying out at the house with me. Fella name of Lester Salem.”
“Vice-president?” Taylor blinked.
Morris didn’t look at him. “What else? Six banks I’d been to already and always the same story; money is tight. So these guys, they’ll kick in, only they want a kibitzer. But don’t worry, he’s harmless, one of those college professor fellas, he won’t bother nobody. I’ll fix him up with a ritzy office and when we get the loan paid off, back he goes to Wall Streeet.”
The phone rang and I got to it first. “Yes?”
Lozof’s voice, low and urgent. “I’ve made arrangements,” he said. “She’s in her dressing room. He hasn’t come in and isn’t expected. There’s no one on the set now. So if you could get right over—”
“Three minutes.”
“Good. I’ll wait for you outside. And keep your eyes open while you—”
“I’m on my way.”
I hung up and glanced at Morris. “Will you excuse me? Got an errand to run.”
“Sure, go ahead.” He cleared his throat. “Oh, don’t tell anybody about this new schnorrer yet. I want to make a big splash next week in the papers, a press reception and everything.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“Good.”
I hurried out, moving down the walk on legs that had suddenly turned rubbery, propelled by a heart that was beginning to pound.
Why?, I asked myself. How can you feel this way about a girl you’ve only seen a few times?
There was no answer. But my heart continued to pound.
Lozoff was waiting at the entrance.
“Get inside, quickly,” he murmured. “There’s a man on the door and you’re supposed to sign in, but I sent him around to the canteen. I told him I’d keep watch while he was gone.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope this is the right thing.” Lozoff
was talking to himself, not to me, and I noticed he was sweating although the day wasn’t warm.
“Her dressing room is on the right, over near the wall. You have ten minutes—be careful—”
I nodded, and then the rubber legs and the pounding heart moved onto the deserted set. It was a reproduction of Metternich’s suite at the Congress of Vienna, with a huge, ornate table in the center, designed for diplomatic conferences. Right now four members of the crew were using it for a penny-ante poker game.
Hugging the shadows, I stepped behind a flat and walked along the wall to my right. Nobody noticed me.
Then I was at the dressing-room door, tapping very softly, making a sound which seemed softer to me than the pounding of my heart.
The door opened and I saw the stranger.
The girl in the doorway had changed her name and dyed her hair and altered her features; this I knew and was prepared to recognize. But there were other differences now. Somebody had taught her how to stand, how to move her hands, how to smile at me now and ask me to please come in.
I moved past her and she shut the door behind me and I sat down on the couch against the wall. Somebody had designed a dress for this stranger, all gold and sequins, and I stared at it as she came toward me slowly. She came slowly, but realization came with a rush. You don’t know her. You don’t know her at all.
And with the realization came relief. I wanted to shout for joy, because my heart had stopped pounding; I didn’t give a damn about this golden-gowned goddess.
“So you finally came,” she said.
Even her voice was different than I remembered. It was softer, with a more precise inflection; the voice of an amateur actress trying to play a scene. Well, it was a scene, only a scene to me now. And I could take my role without a qualm or a quaver.
“I’ve been quite busy, writing a picture—”
“I know. Lozoff told me. He told me everything.”
“Good.” I smiled at her without effort as she sat down beside me. Even her nearness meant nothing now. “He told me about you, too. That’s why I didn’t try to visit the set. I knew you were busy, too.”