“I remember those early Benny shorts,” I said. “We used to call him Benny the Jerk.”
“Animation,” said Noyes. “The animation was horrible, but this was because the understructure of the bear was poorly drawn. You see, each cartoon figure must be rationalized into a simple pattern before it is ready for animation. This basic drawing is then broken down into a formula diagram which can be adapted by the animators it was this formula that Dick lacked. As a matter of fact, he was about to abandon Benny when P.D.Q. came along and solved the riddle.”
“Stout fellow,” said Homer.
Barton Noyes didn’t answer. We had reached the small concrete clearing before the main entrance. Homer turned his back on it and let his eyes wander across the lot. “A masterpiece of layout,” he said. “Where did it all begin?”
“It all began right on this spot, Homer. Legend has it that this main building housed a pioneer blacksmith, and Dick bought it because it reminded him of another more distant stable on a street in New Jersey. Dick’s father was a blacksmith, you know. But the stable lost its identity a long time ago. New small buildings were attached to the original barn and connected by dark and narrow halls. You can walk for an hour inside this main building without once sniffing fresh air.”
“Let’s take a deep breath and go in,” I said.
We went inside. Noyes led us through the dim halls, pointing out the dark retreats of “Management,” “Personnel,” “Production” and “Accounting.” Further back, in the southernmost section, we reached the inner sanctum of the Piper domain.
“This is Dick’s section of the building,” said Noyes. “Beyond that door is his office, which forms a special south wing and ends at the parking lot. No need to take you inside. You’ll see only a few modest doors marked ‘Dick,’ ‘Mark,’ and ‘Clark.’ These offices house Mark Richmond, who is Dick’s first lieutenant, and Clark Threadgill, the personal attorney for Dick and the studio.” He made a right about-face. “We’ll take this exit now and examine a few sweatboxes.”
A sweatbox is a smallish room, full of chairs, a small screen and a projection booth. The one we entered was empty, save for a light veil of cigarette smoke and the smell of men recently departed.
“It is in rooms like this that all shorts are previewed,” Noyes explained. “You can understand, of course, the reason for the name. Men enter sweatboxes to sweat, you see. The raw film is flashed on the screen. After the final fade-out, the conference begins. Gags are pulled apart, discussed, and put together again. Many cigarettes are smoked. The air turns thick with argument, criticism and bad breath. After an hour or so of life in a sweatbox, a man is ready to commit suicide or resign.”
“Then these rooms are reserved for the gagging departments?”
“Not at all. Animators use these holes as often as gag men—perhaps more often. The animation director calls his men to account in here. Faulty animation sometimes can be spotted only after thousands of drawings are photographed.”
Homer sniffed. “Why aren’t they air-conditioned?”
Noyes shrugged. “You aren’t acquainted with fan magazine publicity, I see. Dick Piper makes a fetish of frugality.”
“Does the great man himself use these rooms?”
“Yes, indeed, Dick uses these sweatboxes along with the rest of the staff. He—ah—believes firmly in the democratic system. Nobody in the studio has special privileges.”
“If this be democracy, give me air-conditioned fascism,” moaned Homer. “Let’s get out.”
Out on the lawn we paused for a cigarette, while Noyes traced the historical pattern of Dick Piper’s rise to success, from his early struggles to the day when a certain wealthy clothing merchant named Albert Essig took Piper under his wing and financed his first effort.
The first office in the second building was labelled “Publicity.” When Noyes opened the door, a horn-rimmed gent with a wide bay window almost collided with us. High blood pressure ran riot on his flabby cheeks.
“Terrible! Terrible!” he said in a shrill voice “It’s happened again. Hello, Barton.”
Barton Noyes introduced us. The roly-poly was Hugh Pentecost, director of publicity.
He waved a news-clipping under our noses. “Terrible! Our Eastern office can’t be releasing this stuff! This is the third time—no, the fourth time this week. Dick’ll be furious—I can’t imagine who is responsible.”
I read the clipping. It was an item from a gossip column in a movie trade journal:
“… Contract trouble will be responsible for the slowing up of production on Dick Piper’s new Benny the Bear short. This makes the fifth break in Piper production. Who’s throwing the monkey wrench? And what happens when the exhibitors don’t get the new shorts they signed for?”
Pentecost grabbed the clipping. “Where’s Dick? I must see him! Try him on the phone, Ellen! Good Lord, this’ll be a bombshell! Excuse me! Excuse me, men!”
He ran out of the office. I saw Noyes’ lips curl, then drop limp into his deadpan again.
Ellen Tucker said, “You ought to explain, Barton, that this isn’t the usual routine in the publicity department.”
“I was about to,” said Noyes, with a mock bow. “This, my friends, is usually the quietest spot in the studio. It is a shrine, this office. Here Hugh Pentecost, aided by Ellen Tucker, plots the deep and devious details of publicity.”
“Oh, Barton, stop!” said Ellen. “You make this place sound like a sweatbox.”
“A sweatbox doesn’t sound,” I said. “It smells.”
Homer said, “What was Pentecost excited about? Does bad publicity break into print often?”
“Often?” Ellen was astonished. “You’re kidding, Homer. Nobody likes bad publicity. It’s our job to see that no news of that sort ever leaves the studio. Matter of fact, it’s our job to supervise all publicity. Is there ever any bad publicity released by a company press-agent?”
“I wouldn’t know,” smiled Homer. “How did it get out, if you didn’t release it?”
“That’s what’s got Hugh worried. We don’t know. Neither Hugh nor I would ever send an item like that back East. We can’t ever admit to our exhibitors that we’re being slowed down by interoffice troubles.”
“I am a detective by instinct,” said Homer with mock seriousness. “I’ll ask you again. How did that news break reach the East? Somebody must have sent it there. Who’s the traitor?”
Ellen laughed, but not too long. “I wish we knew. Why don’t you find out? It’ll save the publicity department a lot of embarrassment.”
“To say nothing of ‘Personnel’,” said Noyes. “They’ll have the Gestapo working overtime now. Nobody will be safe from questioning.” He winked at Ellen. “Wait’ll Lloyd Griffin hears about this, eh, Ellen?”
She made a little face at him. “That’s not nice. You’ll be having these men think this place is honeycombed with an underground spy movement and it’s bad form to discover such things in the publicity department.”
“Touché!” said Noyes. “Gentlemen, let us move out into the hall, where I can explain.”
We moved. In the hall, Barton Noyes explained. For four months, the Piper Studios had been annoyed by adverse publicity of the sort we had just read. It meant that somebody in the studio was shipping the reports back to the various outlets in New York City. But who?
“Nobody knows yet,” said Noyes. “Such information must be ferreted out by the personnel department. The personnel department moves like the Gestapo, you know, slowly and in mysterious ways.”
Homer was incredulous. “Spies? You’re not serious, Noyes.”
“I’m always serious. That is a fault of mine.”
I said, “Fault? A good guide should always be serious.”
“Thank you. But I’m not a guide. I conduct tours because Lloyd Griffin likes my line of chatter.”
“Your double talk is enigmatic,” said Homer. “Aren’t you a part of personnel?”
“No. I’m a story man, Homer.”
“A story man?” I said.
Noyes smiled wryly. “I can see no reason for keeping you in the dark. You have just heard that mysterious scandals and bad breaks in publicity are leaking out to New York. Who is suspect? How would news of this sort leak out? From the higher-ups, of course. Every man in the studio who earns over forty dollars a week is a higher-up. None of the cheap help can hear such rumors. The next step is obvious. If a higher-up is spilling such vile yarns, he must be a disgruntled higher-up. Do you follow me?”
“You were a disgruntled higher-up?”
“One of many. Most of the story men have long been disgruntled. I am working, even now, on borrowed time. My contract wasn’t renewed last year. I may be fired at any moment. For that reason the big boys decided to try breaking my back. They demoted me.”
“I begin to understand,” said Homer. “They did the same to P.D.Q.”
“Precisely. They made me a member of personnel, at the same salary. They are quite aware that I am suffering in my new job. I didn’t come to Piper’s to be a guide. I’m a story man. If times were better, I’d have quit and tried another animation studio. But the war knocked too many of the others out of business. So I stay on here, hoping for a change, but never knowing just how it will come.”
“How long do you have to wait?”
“Nobody knows,” said Noyes wearily. “I suppose they’re waiting for the sudden metamorphosis from story man to stool-pigeon. I don’t feel the wings sprouting yet.”
“Queer,” murmured Homer. “The Piper democracy is built upon a strange Bill of Rights. Why not turn stool-pigeon in a harmless sort of way?”
Noyes stiffened. “Here’s Cianchini’s room, gentlemen. I hope you enjoy your first story conference.”
Buy He Died Laughing Now!
About the Author
Lawrence Lariar (1908–1981) was an American novelist, cartoonist and cartoon editor, known for his Best Cartoons of the Year series of cartoon collections. He wrote crime novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight and Marston la France.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
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Copyright © 1943 by Lawrence Lariar
This authorized edition copyright © 2018 by the estate of Lawrence Lariar and The Mysterious Press
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5639-7
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Death Paints the Picture Page 19