“No. It’s the what-you-might-call Upper Class of Oklahoma. The oil-wealthy families who try to keep up a sort of capitalist aristocracy in the midst of desolation. No background, no backbone—nothing but dry rot and too much money to spend while you’re rotting. Start drinking at ten in the morning because there’s nothing else to do. Lose enough money in an afternoon’s bridge to rehabilitate a dust-destroyed farm. On stage this complete futility, this decadence without even the effete charm of the old aristocratic decadence, and off stage the constant ground bass of the Dust Bowl and the Indians and the other true Oklahoma problems which this cream of Oklahoma doesn’t so much as recognize.”
“Hm. And no plot? No action? Just a picture of decadence? The Chekhov approach?”
“Who says Chekhov has no plot or action? But what this is more like—look, do you know a play of Lillian Hellman’s called Days to Come? Action, yes, but action that hampers itself because the class that is acting no longer has in itself the power to act. On-stage decay heightened by vigor off stage.”
Carruthers reflectively tapped a pencil against the desk. “Yes,” he said. “I know Days to Come. An admirable work—in its way, a masterpiece. It was also the only complete failure which Miss Hellman has had.”
“You mean,” Norman tried to keep his voice impersonal and indifferent, “you don’t think it’ll do?”
Carruthers answered indirectly. “How do you happen to know this rotting wealth so intimately, Mr. Harker? Are your own people—?”
“My father worked on oil development back in Territory days. Mother moves around with that crowd, but not any more than she can help.” (There was no use mentioning Chloe’s father, or the bank, or …)
“I see. So at least your background should guarantee a certain authenticity. Please leave the script with me, Mr. Harker.”
“You’ll read it?” Despite himself, there was eagerness in Norman’s voice.
“I shall give it my most careful attention and also have Mr. Fennworth and particularly Mr. Andrews look it over.”
“And when can I know?”
Carruthers smiled and let the werewolf brows rise almost imperceptibly. “We are very much pressed for time at the moment, what with preparations for the Jordan play. I really can hardly say when—But if you’d care for a snap reaction—?”
“If it’s not too much trouble. I like to know where I stand.”
“Then I could—Let me see … today is Tuesday. Either tonight or tomorrow I should have time for a hasty reading. Say we make it Thursday morning.”
“Here?”
“I may be working on my fire experiments; the prologue of this current show is costing a devil of a lot of trouble. If I’m not here in the office, go on out to the workshop in back, the converted garage; you’ll be sure to find me there. And since I have to take a rehearsal that morning, you’d best make it early—say around eight-thirty. Is that convenient?”
“The big city hasn’t corrupted me so much but what I can still get up early.”
“Splendid. May I have the script now? Thank you. And will you ask Miss Weaver to come in?”
“How’d he strike you?” Fergus demanded sharply after Betsy had gone into the office.
“Fergus! It looks like maybe he’ll do the play.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll bet he tells that to all the girls. But what did you think of him?”
Norman hesitated. He had concentrated so hard on what Carruthers might think of his play that he had never stopped to wonder what he thought of Carruthers. “Damned if I know,” he said at last. “He’s plausible, God knows, terribly plausible. He’s got an easy manner about him, and he makes you think he’s equally interested in you and in the theater.”
“But …?” Fergus prompted.
“Exactly. But. There’s a but in it somewhere. It isn’t just his face, though that is pretty eerie. But there’s something about him, when you come to look back on it that—I don’t know—that makes you feel as though a whole parade was doing goose step over your undug grave.”
“What did he say about money?”
“Not a thing. Just that I was investing my talent and he was investing his setup here. That is, if anything comes of it.”
“If anything comes of it, my fine fettled friend, I’ll lay any odds you want that you invest a damned sight more than talent.”
“Have you ever heard,” asked Norman, “about blood and turnips?”
Sarah was still in rehearsal; so Norman lit up his cherry-root pipe, took out his precious file of clippings, and settled down to further contemplation of the Randolph case. That was an interesting point which Fergus had started to make last night. If there had been an error (to put it kindly) in the testimony given regarding the time of Mrs. Randolph’s last meal, then it followed that …
At last the auditorium door opened, and Hardy Norris and Carol Dayton emerged arm in arm, a splendid pair of bodies surmounted by cheerily vacuous faces. In the auditorium Hilary Vane’s shrill voice could be heard arguing with the stage manager. As Sarah stepped forth, Norman set murder aside and quickly crossed to her.
“Hello.” He took her arm. “I just wanted to know where you’d like to eat tonight.”
Gently Sarah detached herself. “I’m tired, darling. See you later.”
“Oh no. You don’t go vanishing like that. Where are we going tonight?”
Her face was flushed from hours of rehearsing on a hot morning. “We’re not going anywhere. I’ve got an afternoon ahead of me yet—I’m in the prologue too, and that’s hellish—and when that’s through I’m going to spend a quiet and restful evening in bed. So good-by.”
Norman puffed with hot disregard for the care of a pipe bowl. “Madam, I have civilly invited you—”
“But you haven’t. That’s just it. You’ve told me. You think because a nice thing happened last night it gives you some sort of power over me and you can tell me what to do. No thank you. I need my rest.”
“I’m sorry. I had no intention of being domineering. I simply thought that last night was too nice a thing to stop there. So if you please, Mata—”
They fell silent as Hilary Vane left the auditorium, with a curt nod in their direction. Apparently he had lost whatever his argument had been with Andrews; he seemed in a pettish mood.
“No,” said Sarah firmly, as the sandaled footsteps died away. “That’s just it. Last night was nice, but this is today. We met cute, as they say in story conferences; but people don’t live cute. You can’t be high-romantical all day, not if you’re trying to work. Of course you’re a writer; that’s—”
“Oho!” Norman snapped. “So you have that sweet little notion too—that writers lead a lovely lotus-eating existence while other people sweat. Let me tell you, Mata my love—”
“And stop calling me Mata! It’s silly now in the daytime.”
“Very well, Saaaaarah. For the last time, will you have dinner with me?”
“For the nth time, no.”
“I should if I were you, Sarah,” said a quiet voice behind them.
Sarah Plunk whirled around. “My! You scared me.”
The elderly man smiled behind his white beard. “I apologize, my dear. But truly I should.”
For a long minute Sarah looked into his kindly old eyes. “Poor man,” she said. “You keep wanting life to make sense, and good sense at that. Can we help it if it doesn’t?”
“Sometimes.”
She leaned back against the wall. “I’m hot and I’m tired and I’m nobody’s prize package. You can pick me up at six, Norman.”
She was gone so abruptly that Norman all but looked for a trap in the floor. He turned back to the older man and said, “You’re Lewis Jordan.” There was wonder, almost awe in his voice.
The bronzed man nodded and extended his left hand. “I am. And you, young man? I believe you are new to the theater here.”
“My name’s Harker. I’m afraid I write plays too. Mr. Carruthers has one on his desk now.”
<
br /> So this was the Jordan whom Fergus had derided, the Jordan whose execrable prose Norman had heard in the auditorium. This incredibly bad writer, this figure of fun, was Lewis Jordan, the major hero of Norman’s adolescence.
It was a long story, the saga of Lewis Jordan, but the high points glimmered now before Norman’s eyes. Jordan, the young hero of Santo Toribio in ’98, refusing honors and promotion and suddenly retiring from military service. Jordan, the arctic explorer, lost for over a year in Baffin Land, given up for dead, then returning hale and vigorous with invaluable information on arctic fauna and meteorology. Jordan, the pacifist in 1917, reviled, interned, burned in effigy—the national hero who had betrayed the nation’s trust. Jordan, the administrator in the early twenties, restored to public esteem and sent to Europe at Nansen’s own request as assistant in the terrifying problems of millions of refugees. Jordan, whose famous temper was as uncertain as his ideals were constant; who had stood unmoved under a nation’s contumely, but broken the jaw of a reporter who accused him of being on the German pay roll. Jordan the patron of lost causes, the uncanonized Rita of Cassia, the saint of the impossible; Jordan who had fought to abolish the Harlems of our great cities, Jordan who had won partial recognition of the human rights of the Indian (it was thus that Norman had first heard of him in Oklahoma, heard sneers and contempt from his mother’s friends and known that the man must be great to inspire such hatred); Jordan of whom Vanzetti had said, “Let that man speak for me; he knows what is truth.”
And here was Lewis Jordan—a shabby old man who had written a bad play. Norman prayed that his face might not reveal the shock he felt at this abrupt betrayal of hero worship.
“You have heard then that Mr. Carruthers is doing my play?” Jordan was quietly proud. “No commercial manager would consider it; but it says what I have to say. And that is why a man writes, is it not, Mr. Harker? And why he must know that what he writes reaches an audience.”
“I’m afraid, sir, I’m not quite so pure in my motives as all that. I have things I want to say, yes, even if they’re not terribly ripe yet; but I also have an optimistic hope of somehow making a living out of them.”
Jordan smiled. “Then you must be careful what you say. For myself, I live so simply that I can write what I must and not fear lest I speak against the best interests of my belly.”
Norman wanted to utter all the thoughts that Jordan’s very presence brought to his mind. He wanted to say how intensely he admired the man’s life and actions, the disinterested nobility of his struggles. But such words as these are not easy to find, and once found they do not readily pass the lips. Instead he knocked the ashes from his pipe and asked flatly, “You live in Hollywood now?”
“I am getting old, and the climate is bland. You know the course of American life—from the cradle to Southern California. And the means of speech are here to hand if I can use them. I know, young man; you are thinking that this is an anticlimax to my life. Perhaps. But most men talk and talk until at last they persuade themselves that it is time for action. All my life I have acted; now I realize the time has come to talk.”
“If your words, sir, can do as much good as your actions—”
“Good!” A sudden anger flared up in the quiet old man. “Look at the world about you, and ask what good my actions have done! An action is dead the instant it is accomplished. In itself it is nothing. Only the continued actions of others can make it seem to live. An action is in three dimensions only. A word, an idea exists in time itself and lives, and from that living word come the actions of the future.”
“I still like your actions. Especially,” Norman smiled, “your intervention with Sarah.”
“Arnold spoke,” Jordan meditated. “He did not give the whole answer—can any man?—but he gave a part of it. You know Dover Beach? The naked shingles of the world are even more drearly bared now than when he wrote. The ignorant armies clash by night and day, and from the confused alarms of struggle there seems at times to be no flight. But his urgent plea remains: Ah, love, let us be true to one another! That is a little hope, a little sureness to hold on to. And from this small love may come the great love, the true loving knowledge of mankind.” He paused and smiled. “Let us be true to one another,” he repeated gently.
“You’re a romantic, sir. A dinner date is not even a little sureness against the alarms of the darkling plain.”
“Isn’t it?”
And Norman was not quite certain.
Sarah’s rooming house was, if anything, even shabbier than Norman’s own. He waited for her in the neatly desolate parlor (the landlady had silently expressed her opinion of young men who calmly try to walk up to a girl’s room). After he had read the front page and the theater section of the evening paper and inspected for as long as was possible the Maxfield Parrish on the wall, he walked over to the ancient upright piano. Almost of its own accord, one finger began to pick out Harvest Moon.
Why that, of all songs? he wondered. He hadn’t heard it or thought of it since that outrageous Metropolis musical (what was it called?—Jazzalcade?) in which Rita La Marr had given it her all. Still, it was a good song, rich and tuneful, strong on emotion but surprisingly lacking in sentimentality. No mawkish maunderings about the moon, simply the direct statement that
I ain’t had no lovin’ since
January, February, June, or July …
He sat down on the bench and let both hands go at it—not hot, he couldn’t play hot worth a damn, but with full enjoyment of rhythm and tune. In his mind he heard a voice carrying the song on.
No, it wasn’t in his mind. It was a real voice, and in the room. He looked around. It was Sarah. She did not speak, but nodded that he should go on playing. His hands found fresh vigor. Her singing was like her speaking voice, untrained, but fresh and appealing—nothing fancy, just a good honesttogod rendition of the fine old tune. She crossed the room to him as she sang:
So shine on,
Shine on, Harvest Moon …
She stood behind him and leaned over so that the last words were a singing whisper in his ear:
For me and my gal.
She kissed his ear lightly and whirled back as he turned around.
“That was fun, darling,” she laughed. “You should tell people about these unexpected talents.”
“So should you. How was I to know you could make an entrance like that? And I like that dress. The white collar makes you look positively virginal.”
“And why not, I assure you? But it is nice to have a man who notices your dress.”
“Hungry?”
“Sort of. My, I’m glad Mr. Jordan told me where to get off. I was just in a silly nasty mood. And you have troubles enough, don’t you?”
“In my own quiet way.”
“What are they, Norman?” She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Or shouldn’t I know?”
Norman shrugged and let his hand run up a chromatic scale. “It’s nothing secret. Just foolish. I was a gallant hero, and that’s something nobody likes to boast about.”
Sarah seated herself beside him on the piano bench. “Maybe I ought to know. Maybe I ought to be jealous.”
“Jealous of an idiot with romantic ideals?”
“Now I know. That’s what I’ve been hunting for all my life, and I never knew it: an idiot with romantic ideals. Come on, tell Sarah.”
“It’s trite,” he said dryly. “It goes like this: Long years ago in Oklahoma Territory, my father and one J. K. Waterman decided that their children to be should get married. So fate was kind. My father had me and J. K. Waterman had Chloe. He also had a bank. When my father died, J. K. was swell. He helped me through college and he gave me a good job.”
“And Chloe?”
“If anything, sweller.”
There was a little frown on Sarah’s face. “You loved her?”
“I liked her a hell of a lot. We were engaged.”
“The boss’ daughter,” Sarah murmured. “Nothing like the great American t
radition. And then?”
“Then Chloe fell in love. Wildly and truly in love, with a young government lawyer. Nice guy, too. Sound taste in beer and burlesque shows.”
“And you?”
“You get the picture? If Chloe broke the engagement, you can imagine Papa’s wrath. And J. K.’s wrath is something to see, I assure you. There was only one thing to do, and I did it—me, the dope in the shining armor.”
“You broke it off yourself?”
“Sure. So J. K. fired me and Mother wouldn’t have anything to do with me and I scraped up what money I had and cleared out. And if I try to get a job, my previous employer is J. K., and you can just guess the kind of reference I get.”
“And Chloe?”
“She’s marrying Bill next month, and everybody’s thinking what a swell break she had somebody to console her for my caddish behavior.”
“Norman,” said Sarah, “you’re the sweetest dope I’ve ever known.” Her lips brushed his lightly. “I’m glad I made you tell me; if anything could make me like you even better …” But as his arm went around her, she deftly avoided it and sprang to her feet. “Let’s have dinner. And maybe a movie after, huh? Let’s see what’s playing …” She picked up the evening paper and stood scrutinizing the theater section.
“I think I’m glad I told you,” Norman said almost to himself. “I’ve known you—what is it?—only twenty-four hours and already I want to go telling you things … everything. It’s a hell of a note.”
Abruptly she dropped the paper. “Look, darling. I’ve got to make a phone call before we go. My agent wanted me to get in touch with him, and he leaves his office about now. Mind?”
“Not at all. Good luck.”
Norman returned to the piano. He wished that Sarah did not toss the term darling about with such indiscriminate blitheness. How was he ever to tell if she really … He felt differently about the Chloe business now that he’d told it. He hadn’t been quite a fool. It was best for both of them. And without that quixotic gesture he would not be here now, knowing Sarah and thinking of her and playing They Wouldn’t Believe Me.
The Case of the Solid Key Page 4