“I got on all right. I got on fine. You see, I remembered a funny little point. The gums shrink a lot after death.”
“Do they indeed? And do you stop with that cryptic remark or do you tell me what it means?”
“Figure it out. It’s easy.”
Norman stabbed a vicious fork into the ham. “Look. Either you tell me why I should get excited about gums shrinking or I up and leave you stranded here. You’ve got to behave today. You’re helpless.”
“Blackmail, that’s what it is. All right, it means this: the dentist can identify the false teeth. Sure. But he can’t identify the jaw. Whether it’s Carruthers’ mouth or not, those teeth wouldn’t fit exactly on the morning after death. So the teeth, for all they sound so impressive, mean just nothing as identification of the body.”
“But that was only part of the identification.”
“I know. But it was the only part that didn’t come, directly or indirectly, from Adam Fennworth. And with the teeth discounted, the whole case hangs or falls positively and solely on Fennworth’s testimony. Now you see why I had to get out this morning?”
Norman saw.
Mark Andrews and Betsy were standing in front of the theater when the yellow roadster drove up.
“Hi!” Fergus cried as Norman helped him from the car. “Out of the valley of death rides The O’Breen!”
“Good,” said Andrews. “I thought you’d come.”
“Oooooo!” Betsy burbled. “What happened to you, Mr. O’Breen? I wondered what was the matter when you didn’t call for me last night but I thought maybe on account of Mr. Carruthers dying and Miss Plunk going away like that you were busy because I know you must do something besides just be an actor and I’ve always thought maybe it was a detective only how did you hurt yourself?”
“Smart child, Betsy,” said Fergus. “Why don’t we go inside?”
“Fennworth hasn’t showed. He warned me he’d keep us locked out.”
Fergus hobbled up to the door on his cane and stood there a moment, his back hiding his hand and the lock. “You just didn’t try the door,” he said turning. “It’s open.”
Andrews looked at Norman, pushed back his rumpled hat, and half-grinned. “Fennworth won’t like that. Well, if it’s open, let’s go in.”
Then came a wait. The shabby little auditorium was dull and lifeless. The bare stage looked like an empty toothless mouth, incapable of ever articulating another sound. The only life in the room was the agile choreography of the dust motes in the sunlight. This was the stage, Norman thought, on which his play might have been enacted, on which Sarah might have attracted the attention of an important producer; but now the stage was dead along with its venal and scheming master, his play was on the shelf again, and Sarah … He turned his thoughts away from that track.
Fran had come in by now, looking rather better than she usually did so early in the morning, and Hilary followed her shortly. There was a desultory interval of small talk and shop talk, with a sedulous avoidance of such words as disappearance, death, or murder.
At last Andrews pulled himself up on the stage. “We’d better start in, I guess,” he announced, twisting at the hat in his hands, “even though this isn’t much of a cast for a mass meeting. I expected Fennworth to boycott us, though at that he might possibly have come to heckle, and I imagine Miss Plunk doesn’t know about it. And I must say I’m just as glad Mr. Jordan didn’t accept my invitation. It may make things easier. After which unintelligible preamble, I’ll plunge into the business of the meeting.” He paused, looked down at the hat, seemed to find it offensive, and tossed it into the wings. “Why I called you all here—”
A noise at the back of the auditorium heralded the entrance of Carol Dayton, with Hardy Norris trailing behind her. You could almost see the leash. The group by the stage turned to her and with one voice called out, “Am I late?”
“Well,” said Carol unperturbed, “am I? I’m so sorry if I am, but you know how things are.” She described “things” with a large and meaningless sweep of the hand.
“That’s all right, Miss Dayton,” said Andrews. “If you’ll both sit down, we’ll get on with the meeting. Now the question is this: …” He paused, cleared his throat, and looked regretfully after the rejected hat. “I begin to see now why people start off with ‘Unaccustomed as I am …’ Believe it or not, I’ve got one sweet attack of stage fright at this moment. I’ve known you all for some time now. I’ve taken rehearsals and I’ve ordered you around and thought nothing of it. But when it comes to standing up here and telling you what’s damned close to my heart—Well, it isn’t easy. Anyway, here’s the idea.” He made another noise in his throat, and his eyes roamed in helpless search for something to lean on.
“We here,” he made a fresh start, “we people in this room, are the Carruthers Little Theater. That’s the main point. We might as well be frank now and admit what we’ve known all along: that Rupert Carruthers couldn’t direct for sour apples. At least I’ve known it, and I’m sure Vane and Miss Owen and possibly O’Breen have seen through him too. We’ve stuck with him despite that because it was our chance to work and make our work known. We couldn’t afford, most of us, the few really good professional schools, and the completely amateur setups weren’t to our purpose. This makeshift was the best compromise.
“But I’ve been thinking. What was there in the Carruthers Little Theater that isn’t in us, right as we sit here? Look at us. It isn’t boasting to say that I can direct at least as well as Carruthers. Vane knows make-up backwards and forwards, plus a little about set design. Miss Owen knows costumes. The rest of you are actors and, with a little training, there’s no reason why you couldn’t be carpenters and stagehands as well. What did Carruthers give us beyond that?”
He paused. It was a rhetorical pause, but Carol Dayton broke in with an answer. “Executive ability and financial backing,” she said shrilly.
Mark Andrews smiled slowly. “I’m afraid, Miss Dayton, you didn’t see much of the executive side. I’d hate to tell you how much of that fell into my hands while Mr. Carruthers put on a good front. And where did that financial backing come from? It came from our money.
“Not one of us here is well off, excepting Miss Dayton. Some of us, like me, earn what we can; others, like Vane, have a minute income and try to stretch it as far as it’ll go. But we’ve all of us put everything we could into this theater, and that’s what’s kept it going.
“Now Carruthers is out of the picture. There’s two ways this theater can go, and it’s up to you to choose between them. One is the way it’s always been, but with Fennworth pushed up from business manager to head man. The other is my way, or, to put it better, your way.”
“What’s that?” Betsy interrupted eagerly.
“To go right ahead, take this money we’ve been paying to Carruthers, and pay it to ourselves. Rent this building, if Carruthers’ lease lapsed with his death; and if not, find another. Bring in a few more people—probably each of us knows two or three candidates—and go on just as before, with this difference: that our money goes solely and absolutely for putting forward our abilities where they can be seen, and not a cent of it goes for private profit.”
Mark Andrews seemed relieved that his speech was over. He sat down again on the edge of the stage, mopped his brow with a deliberately overplayed gesture, and said, “All right. I’ve had my say. Now you talk.”
Hilary Vane rose first. “Mr. Chairman.”
“None of that. I wouldn’t know from nothing how to run a parliamentary meeting, so we’d better just skip it. Go ahead and talk.”
“Very well.” Hilary’s manner was now superficially that of the posing young artist, but underlying it was an intense sincerity which recalled the other self he had revealed at the door of the workshop. “I’d like to say just this in support of Andrews’ idea. I’m with him every step of the way as far as he goes; but I think he doesn’t go far enough. It’s true that we can run this theater as it stands for
our own benefit far better than Carruthers did. But it’s also true that we could make a far better theater of it. What we have here is a stepping stone, a showcase, an auction block. It aims to accomplish nothing in itself, but merely to sell us to pictures.
“Why can’t we go further? Why not create, out of ourselves, a true co-operative theater, aiming not only at our individual success but at the real end of all theater activity—the presentation of a show worthy of an audience? It can be done, by intensive slaving, and it’s worth doing.”
Mark Andrews nodded. “You’re dead to rights, Vane. That was in the back of my mind, too. But that’s uphill sledding, and I was putting it the easy way first. If this business works at all, that’s what we’ll try to develop into; but first let’s see if we’re going to have a group before we fix on what we’re to do with it. Anybody else?”
Norman found himself deeply excited. This brave and high emprise was the most thrilling piece of theatrical history that he had heard in Hollywood. Carruthers’ death seemed, for a moment, a Good Thing, the causes of which should not be too carefully investigated. He was about to rise and proclaim his enthusiasm when Carol Dayton forestalled him.
Her voice was even higher than usual, and her overpainted features gleamed with rage. “I want to say,” she burst forth, “that I think you’re all a bunch of ridiculous fools. Who ever heard of the people in a theater running the theater themselves? It’s—it’s just Communism, that’s what it is. It goes against all the principles that have made this country what it is today. What do you think you can do without a man like Mr. Carruthers to run the whole thing? It’s absurd nonsense, that’s all I have to say, and I’m not having any part of it.”
“That’s too bad, Miss Dayton,” said Andrews quietly. “But we can’t all see things the same way, can we? Who else?”
“I think Carol’s right,” said Hardy Norris heavily. “What do we know about how to run a theater?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Fran Owen.
“You don’t have to know anything, Mr. Norris,” Andrews explained. “As far as you’re concerned, you’ll hardly know there’s been a change of management. All you want is some place to be seen, isn’t it? Well, this’ll be it.”
“But how do I know that? Mr. Carruthers had studio contacts. He had agents and scouts here. How can you arrange that independently?”
Andrews nodded at Fergus. “Mr. O’Breen.”
Fergus rose, propped on his cane. “Norris, I hate to shatter your illusions; but it’s a pretty well checked fact that nobody of any importance ever covered Carruthers’ shows. He made you think so because that was what you paid for. Now you’re screen material. You know that. You don’t have any dreams about your acting ability, but you do know that you’ve got what it takes to pull in the fan mail. And you’re right.”
“You mean,” Hardy stammered pitifully, “that all these months nobody’s been seeing me?”
“Exactly. But in the future—Here’s an inside tip. I don’t know about the other studios, but I’m in a position to guarantee that a scout from Metropolis will cover at least the first production under Andrews’ setup.”
“Gosh,” said Norris. “Well, in that case …” He sat down and avoided looking at Carol.
“Miss Weaver?” Andrews asked.
“It’s fine by me and I think it’s a wonderful idea and all that about Communism is just silly and if it is then I think Communism’s a swell thing only I don’t really because this isn’t but what I mean is—well, how can I? I haven’t got any money at all.”
Mark Andrews smiled. “We can talk that over later. Miss Owen?”
“Swell. I don’t see a thing the matter. Except”—Fran made a stage pause out of lighting a cigarette—“except where the hell are we going to get a play?”
“I was just going to bring that up myself,” Hilary added. “Fran’s right. That’s our stumbling block. If we do anything contemporary, there’s the royalty to worry about. Revivals are parlous things anyway, and there’d be sets and costumes to pay for. Certainly you aren’t thinking of going on with the Jordan opus?”
“No,” said Andrews slowly. “No, I’m not. I like Jordan. I admire him. He’s a fine man and he thinks fine thoughts, and, Miss Dayton, if you put as much spirit into your acting as into that raspberry you’d get somewhere. But the fact remains that he’s a damned bad writer, and that we’d be wasting our time if we went on with The Soul Has Two Garments. But it so happens we’ve got a play.”
“What?” Fran asked eagerly.
“Mr. Harker here”—Norman started with thrilled and incredulous delight—“has turned out what I think is a good job. It’s timely, it’s soundly written, it has commercial possibilities, the parts are good for showing off material, and maybe most important of all at the moment, it has a small cast, street costumes, and one simple set. You’d be willing to let us use this script, Mr. Harker?”
“Would I be willing?” Norman felt all the eyes of the group upon him. This was the turning point. After the endless round of bootlessly proffering his talents, now someone was asking him for them. This was it. “To put it briefly, you’re damned right I would. And you can count me in,” he added rather recklessly, “on the Communism, too.”
“I’m not asking you,” Andrews resumed, “to take this script on my say-so. We can have a reading early next week and decide if you’re all willing to tackle it. It’s not an easy show, apart from its being inexpensive; it’ll take hard work in both directing and acting. But if we do it, we’ll have something worth seeing.”
Carol Dayton rose decisively. “I’m not going to listen to any more of this dangerous nonsense,” she announced. “If I’m going to be an actress, it’ll be in a real theater with a real man running it and not a lot of people who don’t know the first thing about business.”
“That’s as you please, Miss Dayton,” said Andrews restrainedly.
“And maybe you think I don’t know what you’re up to, Mark Andrews! All of us to put our money into it, indeed! Who has any money here but me? This is all just a scheme to fleece me, and don’t you think I can’t see through it!”
“Miss Dayton,” Andrews’ voice rose slightly, “you can take your money and … Well, you can take it, that’s all. You see, what you call our Communism involves pooling our talents as well; I’m not sure your money would be enough.”
“I’m not going to stay here and be insulted. Coming, Hardy?”
Hardy Norris half-rose and scratched his curly head hesitantly. “I don’t know, Carol. After all, if Fergus has influence with Metropolis—”
“So he says!”
“But I don’t know. It seems to me sort of—”
“Very well then. Good-by, all of you.” And Carol Dayton flounced her buxom self out of the auditorium.
Fergus leaned over to Norman. “And there goes the job that brought me here. Now that Carol’s up and quit the theater of her own free will, Papa will probably find some way of not paying me even expenses. She didn’t get her tight-fisted little soul from nowhere.”
“All right,” said Mark Andrews. “The rest of you are all agreed? We’ll try this venture?”
There were loud noises of assent.
“Fine. Now I’ve got to see Fennworth and the landlord and maybe a lawyer. None of you belong to Equity yet, do you? Well, there’s one thing we don’t have to worry about. I’ve got your phone numbers and I’ll call you before Monday and let you know when and where we’ll have that reading. Meanwhile keep an eye open for recruits. If we can locate Miss Plunk, we’ve got a cast of principals right here, but there’ll be three or four smaller parts.”
“Isn’t it thrilling?” Norman could hear Betsy burbling to Fran Owen as they left the auditorium. “For us to be a theater, I mean not just be in a theater but be a theater all by ourselves like. Aren’t you excited?”
“Am I?” said Fran. “I might even go on the wagon.”
Fergus approached Hilary. His first words brought N
orman sharply from the playwright basking in his first glory to the Watson sorely perplexed by a vexing case. “Seen Fennworth since yesterday at the Y?”
“No, I haven’t. I expected him to be here today; I know he said he had high plans for disrupting the meeting. I tried to talk him out of it; maybe I succeeded.”
“Look. I’d like to hear you do a little talking too. I think we’ve got a lot of things to tell each other. How’s about you and Norm and me dropping over to Joe’s for a quiet beer?”
“I don’t know what we’d have to say to each other.”
“Plenty, Herman,” said Fergus lightly.
Hilary measured him with cold eyes. “Herman? What an absurd confusion of names! Possibly I should … But no. On second thought, I’d like to see Fennworth again. I need to talk to him. After that, perhaps—”
“I’ll get that,” said Mark Andrews as the office phone rang. In a moment he looked out again and said, “For you, O’Breen.”
As the detective closed the office door behind him, Hilary turned to Norman. “Who is Fergus O’Breen?” he asked levelly.
“A young man with an active curiosity and an extraordinary ability to gratify it.”
“How charming. A pure amateur, of course?”
“Why should a professional be interested in you?”
“Why an amateur, if it comes to that? What is there about me, a simple actor, to excite so much curiosity? Surely—”
Fergus came out of the office. “We better get going to Joe’s,” he said.
“But I told you that I wanted another conversation first. I must talk to Fennworth.”
“Sorry,” said Fergus. “But I can’t wait that long.”
Norman felt the chill of suspicion. He looked reluctantly at Fergus, who nodded slowly. “That was Andy on the phone. Been trying to get me all morning. Thought I might like to know that Adam Fennworth was killed in an auto accident last night.”
“An accident?” Hilary was asking eagerly, but Norman could hear only Fergus’ voice at breakfast:
The Case of the Solid Key Page 15