by Robert Bloch
Suddenly my hands were empty. She stepped back, only a foot, but she was a million miles away.
“I know about that part, too. But the answer is still the same, for me. There’s nothing wrong. I made a choice, and I’m not sorry. Ken’s okay. You’d like him—no, don’t scowl that way, I mean it. And I’ve always wanted kids.” She smiled. “That’s right. I’m pregnant. Just a little bit pregnant, now, but it’ll be April.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“You’ll have to come and see us,” she told me. “When you have time.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll do that.”
We were outside again. The sun made me blink. She was blinking a little, too.
“Got to get back,” I said. “There’s a deal cooking.”
“What’s all this about a filling station?” she asked.
“Oh, that. Just a sideline. Picking up a few pieces of property here and there. But you know me—the movies are the main thing. And this time I’ll surprise everyone. Wait and see.”
“I will. Good luck, Tom.”
“Good luck.” I smiled. “Say, I never kissed the bride.”
Then she was in my arms, and the clothes were whipping at my face, one of Ken’s sleeves slapping against my cheek. But I didn’t care, because it was still true, it was still the same, it would always be the same for me. I’ll always love you, never forget that . . .
I walked away. She waved, and the sleeves were waving, too.
Then I climbed into the car and drove away. I didn’t stop to look at the filling station. Damn it, I thought, why try to fool yourself? You still want the movies, don’t you? And you’ve got to get back in, Poverty Row, anywhere. You’ve got to show them all, show her—
When I got back to the apartment, the phone was ringing. I opened the door and picked up the receiver.
“Post speaking.”
“Good afternoon. This is Theodore Harker.”
He didn’t have to tell me. I’d never forget that voice.
“. . . may be a bit awkward under the circumstances, but I’d appreciate it if you could join me this evening for a little discussion which might be of mutual interest. If you are not otherwise engaged, of course.”
“Certainly. I’d be glad to.”
“Excellent. Eight o’clock then, at my home. You know how to get here.”
TWENTY-SIX
I KNEW how to get there. The way hadn’t changed, and when I entered the canyon I realized nothing else had changed, either. The hacienda loomed ahead, the rambler roses ran riot along the wall, the two pools glittered in the moonlight.
The real live butler was still there, his real live sideburns untouched by the greying fingers of Time. The fireplaces blazed, the Salukis prowled the halls, the living room still displayed its divans and tapestry.
But the butler led me straight down the hall to the dining room, with its mahogany table and its thirty chairs, Not all of the chairs were occupied, but enough to again remind me that nothing had changed. Because we were together once more.
I stared at the familiar faces, saluting and securing answering smiles. Here was Kurt Lozoff, the white streak a trifle wider across his scalp, but trim and erect as ever. Here was Karl Druse, somber eyes sunken into his skull, yet still clinging to the ridiculous incongruity of his corncob. Here, surprisingly, was Jackie Keeley, with that incredibly childish face and that incredibly ancient smile. Here—another surprise!—was Emerson Craig, and the paunchy actor who had played Nero in those far-off days when Rome had fallen. The only stranger was the tall woman with the touch of grey in her hair, the tall woman with the ageless eyes. Suddenly I recognized Maybelle Manners.
Then I saw the man sitting in the armchair at the head of the table, and everything was assured. The white-faced shadow was the same. Long black hair, black brows, the dark dominance of the eyes. The flowing collar, the tie, the black suit— Time had not dimmed, nor custom staled, their infinite monotony.
Monotony? Infinite excitement, as Theodore Harker rose and held out his hand in greeting.
“A pleasure to see you. Won’t you find a chair? Rogers, bring Mr. Post something to drink. No? Then we shall proceed. I was waiting for you.”
I tried to read something into the words, into the eyes. It wasn’t there. This wasn’t the man who’d laughed at me. This was Theodore Harker, the famous director. Nothing had changed.
As I seated myself next to Karl Druse, Harker remained standing. The thin lips parted, the long fingers splayed across the table-top.
“I have taken a great liberty in calling you here tonight,” he began. “And I shall take an even greater liberty now, by speaking frankly.”
The Shakespearean pause, and a slow, searching scrutiny of the silent faces. Then:
“This meeting would have created a sensation just three short years ago. The press and photographers would have been present. Yet tonight we sit alone, surrounded by silence. Or shall we say, we sit alone, surrounded by sound?
“That is why we are here, my friends. Why try to deny it? Sound has come to Hollywood—and we have departed. The truth is that none of us has departed willingly. We have been cast out; some of us eased, some of us rudely ejected.”
Harker pushed back his chair, standing tall and towering.
“They say we’re finished. They say times have changed—there’s no longer a place for a great director, a great character actor, a great comedian, a distinguished leading lady, a talented writer, a famous leading man. It’s not that we’re too old, it’s merely that we’re inarticulate. And when we would speak, they tell us to be silent, say that we belong to silence and therefore to the past.
“But we can, we will be heard. The time has come for us to speak up!”
So that’s what it’s all about, I thought. A signed protest to the trade papers.
“Less than ten years ago, Hollywood history was made when the Big Four—Pickford, Fairbanks, Chaplin and Griffith—formed the United Artists Corporation. Theirs was a great dream; to assemble the top talent of the screen in the finest productions.
“I call upon that dream once again—tonight—and I tell you we have the power to bring it into reality!”
Harker stood silent for a moment, hands folded. His voice was brisk, matter-of-fact. “What I propose is this. We, all of us, will incorporate as an independent motion picture production company. We will produce, release and distribute our own films through regular outlets in the United States and abroad.
“We’ll start with sound—not talking pictures, but films with a musical background and sound effects. As we develop our technique, learn the new dimension of dialogue, we will produce talking pictures; perhaps within a year. I have spent much time analyzing the problem and I feel this is the correct solution, to make a graceful transition.
“Others have plunged in blindly, produced trash. We will not make their mistakes. We will make pictures, meanwhile, instead. Great pictures. Great pictures with great names. We still have a public, a world-wide audience. We are not alone.”
Jackie Keeley opened his mouth. Harker glanced at him and nodded. “I know what you’re going to say. This costs money.
“I’ve done more than study this proposition. I have taken it before the proper people in New York. And I waited to call you until tonight—because I can now assure you of financial support. Unlimited financial support. We have our backing, guaranteed in writing. I lack nothing now but your cooperation and consent. What do you say—are you with me?”
What did we say? Were we with him? No cheerleader could have asked for a better response. Suddenly there was a babble of voices, a milling mêlée of handclasps, backslapping, smiles, gestures.
Everybody wanted a drink, now. Harker wandered from group to group; answering questions, resolving problems, anticipating arguments, stating solutions.
The moneyman’s name was Breck. Reginald Breck. One of the biggest brokerage houses in the country. Distribution? Of course the big companies would fight
us, but we could book through at least two chains already, and if necessary we’d set up our own. Studio? Build our plant, of course, as soon as we found a suitable location. We could break ground in November, get into limited production after the first of the year. Executive staff? That was important, there would be future conferences on just that point. Publicity? Of course, it was no secret—but for the present, not a word. Best to tie in the announcement with the location, once we found it. Besides, we could buy the land at a lower price if the purpose wasn’t revealed. Technical men? That would be the next step—
I wandered through it all, sensing the overtones of elation, the summoning of hope, the parting with the past, the fixation upon the future.
“. . . hardly believe it. I wouldn’t want this to get around, but when he called I was just talking to the bank. I’m down to my my last three hundred dollars. It’s like a miracle.” So said Mona Lisa, Milady with the graying hair.
“. . . got to hand it to the old boy. They can’t write him off so easily. Wait until Parsons and Glint and the rest of them hear about this deal!” Thus Jackie Keeley.
“. . . like old times again. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Griffith came in on this, and Chaplin? I had been thinking of Europe as a last resort. But this is perfect.” According to Lozoff.
“. . . given up hope. They didn’t have anything for me anywhere. You know why. This man Salem and his vicious rumors, they’re all whispering about me behind my back, don’t think I haven’t realized. He thought he could put me out of pictures. But he’ll see. He and Morris. There’ll be a day of reckoning now. It’s coming, soon. We’re going to be back where we belong when Salem is burning in hell. Just remember that.” Karl Druse speaking, his voice subdued, his eyes unleashed.
“. . . thought I was all through with this business, but now I can see it’s only the beginning. This is what I want to do, this is where I belong.” Myself talking, and meaning it.
And Harker, the walking silhouette, the silent shadow, smiling and moving about the room; truly the Great Director now, with an All-Star Cast assembled, ready to embark on his biggest production . . .
The night sped past, and the days sped by.
There was so much to do.
I went out to the San Fernando Valley with Druse and Lozoff and looked over the site Harker purchased for the studio. A hundred acres, plus an option on fifty more—twenty-five adjoining, on either side.
“A little off the beaten track,” Lozoff commented, “but I have confidence in Harker’s judgment. He seems to think some of the big companies will be moving out this way as they expand. We’ll have room to grow, here.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to start in January?” Druse asked.
“Well, you know how it always goes,” I told him. “Bound to be some delays. Harker’s out East now—he’ll bring Mr. Breck back with him before the first of the month. But I think we’re safer if we plan on the first of February as our tentative target date.”
“I hope so.” Druse gave me a wry smile. “Why it’s over a year since I made my last picture.” The smile disappeared. “Last picture! That’s what Salem and Morris thought it would be, too. I can’t wait to see the look on their faces when they find out.”
Lozoff nodded. “I know how you feel, Karl. But this is a constructive move, not an act of revenge.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m not turning the other cheek. Not after what they did to me, saying that I’m a drunkard, whispering about me as if I were some kind of freak. Do you want to know something? I haven’t taken a drink since that night at Harker’s house. And I won’t take one until my first picture is released—until I see the look on their smug, stupid faces! You’re the last person who should talk that way, after what they did to your reputation.”
Lozoff sighed. “Well, I can’t blame Morris for it. He had no choice. Since the last loan, Salem is running the Studio.”
“They’re all alike,” Druse spat. “Morris knew what he was doing—he and that son of his. They sold out to save their own skins. And they let Salem throw us all to the wolves. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you! Well, they’ll see. They thought they could run us out of the movies. But we are the movies. I’m not afraid of them and their threats. I’m not afraid. We’ll pull the whole rotten setup down around their ears.”
Druse entered his car, pulled away.
Lozoff shook his head. “I’m worried about Karl,” he said. “Something is very wrong.”
“Persecution complex,” I said. “He’ll snap out of it when we get started, though.”
“I hope so.” Lozoff smiled at me. “Tommy, this may be the opportunity we’ve always dreamed of.”
“That’s what we thought about Crime and Punishment,” I said.
“I know. I still regret what happened there. I keep thinking about the original, the master print, just gathering dust in the files.” We climbed into my car and I started the motor.
“You know something, Tommy? That film—I know just where it is. Exactly. The top shelf of the laboratory, down the corridor from the Executive office wing. Before this happened, I even had some idea of getting in there and . . .” His voice trailed off. “But that was crazy, of course. That’s the way Druse would think. I’m glad now I don’t have to think that way.”
We left the Valley, headed back. “Big things ahead,” Lozoff mused. “We’ll make the change, and perhaps it’s for the best. I’m no fanatic. The silent film wasn’t the final answer. It was only the first step, and a faltering one.”
“Glad to hear you say that,” I told him. “You know, Harker and some of the others aren’t really sold yet. They cling to the silents, no matter what they say. Why, twenty years from now, I’ll bet you’ll still find diehards who’ll claim the silents were the only thing. I can see a sort of cult springing up, the way it already has with Chaplin. His stuff will endure, of course, and I’m willing to bet that Fairbanks and Griffith and Keaton and Stroheim will stand inspection in the future. But there was a lot of bad stuff, let’s not fool ourselves. It isn’t just that the styles and the hairdos will seem funny in years to come. The hokum, the hamming and mugging, will be obvious. That’s going out now, thank goodness. Jannings and Veidt and Chaney will survive. Things like Crime and Punishment, in our version.”
I dropped Lozoff off at his house.
“See you in a few days,” I said. “Harker is due back on the 27th.”
Lozoff nodded, and we parted.
But Harker did not return from New York on the 27th. He did not return to Hollywood until November 8th.
That was ten days after the Crash.
TWENTY-SEVEN
WE CAME out to Harker’s place, most of us, early in the afternoon.
Maybelle Manners wasn’t there, and Druse was missing, but it didn’t matter. They already knew. Just as we knew, before we gathered in the dining room. And what could anyone do, what could anyone say?
“There is nothing to say,” Harker told us. “You have the story. The panic—you can scarcely believe some of the things I heard, saw with my own eyes. It’s incredible. But it’s true. Breck is wiped out. He has nothing left, nothing.”
“What about us?” Jackie Keeley stood up. “I thought I was a smart one. I pulled out of the market when this deal came up. Made a killing, too. And I sunk every dime into the corporation here. Now what?”
“Yes.” Emerson Craig paced the floor. “Where do we go from here? Couldn’t you find somebody else—?”
“I tried. But the way things are, nobody will make a move.” Harker shook his head. “We still have the land, though. It’s bought and paid for. We’re not beaten yet; we’ll make the rounds. Things are bound to straighten out. With what we have to offer, we’ll find backing.”
“Who? Somebody like Salem, who wants to make epics about the Horse Marines?” Craig looked down at the table. “Meanwhile, what are we supposed to do? What about Lozoff, here, who went into hock up to his neck on this proposition? How do we eat?”
They started to file out. I waited for Lozoff, who sat there staring out the window. I followed his gaze. He was looking at nothing. There was nothing to see except the swimming pool. Now, in November, it was utterly empty, except for a few dead leaves swirling on the bottom.
Harker came up beside me.
We watched the leaves blow across the bottom of the pool.
“I’m sorry,” he said. I don’t know if he was talking to me or to Lozoff.
“It was a dream, wasn’t it?” I murmured. “A great dream, but only a dream.”
“No.” Harker shook his head. “We’ll still do it. If I can only convince them, make them see it as I see it.”
“It’s useless. All for nothing.” Lozoff stood up, slowly. “Oh, I don’t mind about the money. It’s something more I have at stake. My name. Tommy knows what I’m talking about. If they’d only listened to me at the Studio, released Crime and Punishment for the silent houses, for Europe—”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re convinced there’s a profit in it. The original version is just sitting there. Maybe Salem wouldn’t release it himself, but he might be willing to sell it. If we could buy it ourselves and distribute it—”
“What’s all this?” Harker asked.
I told him.
I told him about the picture we had made, the picture I had written. I told him what it meant to us, what it meant to me. I told him why it was important—and not until the words came tumbling out did I realize just how important it was. It was my dream.
“Why not?” I said. “Suppose we could get it for fifty, even seventy-five thousand? Working through the regular exchanges we could still clear a profit of two or three hundred thousand, perhaps more. It wouldn’t be a loan, it would be an investment. We’d have money to get started with. And it’s a great picture. A world-wide showing would give us something to offer. It would give Lozoff back his reputation. Then we could go and ask for backing—can you see it?”