A Pint of Half-and-Half said it didn't sound much of a job.
'Not very exalted,' agreed Mr Mulliner. 'It is a position which you might say, roughly, lies socially somewhere in between that of the man who works the wind-machine and that of a writer of additional dialogue. There is also a class of Untouchables who are know as Nodders' assistants, but this is a technicality with which I need not trouble you. At the time when my story begins, my distant connection Wilmot was a full Nodder. Yet, even so, there is no doubt that he was aiming a little high when he ventured to aspire to the hand of Mabel Potter, the private secretary of Mr Schnellenhamer, the head of the Perfecto-Zizz-baum Corporation.
Indeed, between a girl so placed and a man in my distant connection's position there could, in ordinary circumstances, scarcely have been anything in the nature of friendly intercourse. Wilmot owed his entry to her good graces to a combination of two facts – the first, that in his youth he had been brought up on a farm and so was familiar with the customs and habits of birds; the second, that before coming to Hollywood, Miss Potter had been a bird-imitator in vaudeville.
Too little has been written of vaudeville bird-imitators and their passionate devotion to their art: but everybody knows the saying, Once a Bird-Imitator, Always a Bird-Imitator. The Mabel Potter of to-day might be a mere lovely machine for taking notes and tapping out her employer's correspondence, but within her there still burned the steady flame of those high ideals which always animate a girl who has once been accustomed to render to packed houses the liquid notes of the cuckoo, the whip-poor-will, and other songsters who are familiar to you all.
That this was so was revealed to Wilmot one morning when, wandering past an outlying set, he heard raised voices within and, recognizing the silver tones of his adored one, paused to listen. Mabel Potter seemed to be having some kind of an argument with a director.
'Considering,' she was saying, 'that I only did it to oblige and that it is in no sense a part of my regular duties for which I draw my salary, I must say...'
'All right, all right,' said the director.
'... that you have a nerve calling me down on the subject of cuckoos. Let me tell you, Mr Murgatroyd, that I have made a lifelong study of cuckoos and know them from soup to nuts. I have imitated cuckoos in every theatre on every circuit in the land. Not to mention urgent offers from England, Australia and ...'
'I know, I know,' said the director.
'... South Africa, which I was compelled to turn down because my dear mother, then living, disliked ocean travel. My cuckoo is world-famous. Give me time to go home and fetch it and I'll show you the clipping from the St Louis Post-Democrat where it says ...'
'I know, I know, I know,' said the director, 'but, all the same, I think I'll have somebody do it who'll do it my way.'
The next moment Mabel Potter had swept out, and Wilmot addressed her with respectful tenderness.
'Is something the matter, Miss Potter? Is there anything I can do?'
Mabel Potter was shaking with dry sobs. Her self-esteem had been rudely bruised.
'Well, look,' she said. 'They ask me as a special favour to come and imitate the call of the cuckoo for this new picture, and when I do it Mr Murgatroyd says I've done it wrong.'
'The hound,' breathed Wilmot.
'He says a cuckoo goes Cuckoo, Cuckoo, when everybody who has studied the question knows that what it really goes is Wuckoo, Wuckoo.'
'Of course. Not a doubt about it. A distinct "W" sound.'
'As if it had got something wrong with the roof of its mouth.'
'Or had omitted to have its adenoids treated.'
'Wuckoo, Wuckoo ... Like that.'
'Exactly like that,' said Wilmot.
The girl gazed at him with a new friendliness.
'I'll bet you've heard rafts of cuckoos.'
'Millions. I was brought up on a farm.'
'These know-it-all directors make me tired.'
'Me, too,' said Wilmot. Then, putting his fate to the touch, to win or lose it all, 'I wonder, Miss Potter, if you would care to step round to the commissary and join me in a small coffee?'
She accepted gratefully, and from that moment their intimacy may be said to have begun. Day after day, in the weeks that followed, at such times as their duties would permit, you would see them sitting together either in the commissary or on the steps of some Oriental palace on the outskirts of the lot; he gazing silently up into her face; she, an artist's enthusiasm in her beautiful eyes, filling the air with the liquid note of the Baltimore oriole or possibly the more strident cry of the African buzzard. While ever and anon, by special request, she would hitch up the muscles of the larynx and go 'Wuckoo, Wuckoo.'
But when at length Wilmot, emboldened, asked her to be his wife, she shook her head.
'No,' she said, 'I like you, Wilmot. Sometimes I even think that I love you. But I can never marry a mere serf.'
A what was that?'
A serf. A peon. A man who earns his living by nodding his head at Mr Schnellenhamer. A Yesman would be bad enough, but a Nodder!'
She paused, and Wilmot, from sheer force of habit, nodded.
'I am ambitious,' proceeded Mabel. 'The man I marry must be a king among men ... well, what I mean, at least a supervisor. Rather than wed a Nodder, I would starve in the gutter.'
The objection to this as a practical policy was, of course, that, owing to the weather being so uniformly fine all the year round, there are no gutters in Hollywood. But Wilmot was too distressed to point this out. He uttered a heart-stricken cry not unlike the mating-call of the Alaskan wild duck and began to plead with her. But she was not to be moved.
'We will always be friends,' she said, 'but marry a Nodder, no.'
And with a brief 'Wuckoo' she turned away.
There is not much scope or variety of action open to a man whose heart has been shattered and whose romance has proved an empty dream. Practically speaking, only two courses lie before him. He can go out West and begin a new life, or he can drown his sorrow in drink. In Wilmot's case, the former of these alternatives was rendered impossible by the fact that he was out West already. Little wonder, then, that as he sat in his lonely lodging that night his thoughts turned ever more and more insistently to the second.
Like all the Mulliners, my distant connection Wilmot had always been a scrupulously temperate man. Had his love-life but run smoothly, he would have been amply contented with a nut sundae or a malted milk after the day's work. But now, with desolation staring him in the face, he felt a fierce urge toward something with a bit more kick in it.
About half-way down Hollywood Boulevard, he knew, there was a place where, if you knocked twice and whistled 'My Country, 'tis of thee,' a grille opened and a whiskered face appeared. The Face said 'Well?' and you said 'Service and Cooperation, ' and then the door was unbarred and you saw before you the primrose path that led to perdition. And as this was precisely what, in his present mood, Wilmot most desired to locate, you will readily understand how it came about that, some hour and a half later, he was seated at a table in this establishment, feeling a good deal better.
How long it was before he realized that his table had another occupant he could not have said. But came a moment when, raising his glass, he found himself looking into the eyes of a small child in a Lord Fauntleroy costume, in whom he recognized none other than Little Johnny Bingley, the Idol of American Motherhood – the star of this picture, 'Baby Boy,' which you, gentlemen, have just been witnessing at the Bijou Dream in the High Street.
To say that Wilmot was astonished at seeing this infant in such surroundings would be to overstate the case. After half an hour at this home-from-home the customer is seldom in a condition to be astonished at anything – not even a gamboge elephant in golfing costume. He was, however, sufficiently interested to say 'Hullo.'
'Hullo,' replied the child. 'Listen,' he went on, placing a cube of ice in his tumbler, 'don't tell old Schnellenhamer you saw me here. There's a morality clause in my
contract.'
'Tell who?' said Wilmot.
'Schnellenhamer.'
'How do you spell it?'
'I don't know.'
'Nor do I,' said Wilmot. 'Nevertheless, be that as it may,' he continued, holding out his hand impulsively, 'he shall never learn from me.'
'Who won't?' said the child.
'He won't,' said Wilmot.
'Won't what?' asked the child.
'Learn from me,' said Wilmot.
'Learn what?' inquired the child.
'I've forgotten,' said Wilmot.
They sat for a space in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.
'You're Johnny Bingley, aren't you?' said Wilmot.
'Who is?' said the child.
'You are.'
'I'm what?'
'Listen,' said Wilmot. 'My name's Mulliner. That's what it is. Mulliner. And let them make the most of it.'
'Who?'
'I don't know,' said Wilmot.
He gazed at his companion affectionately. It was a little difficult to focus him, because he kept flickering, but Wilmot could take the big, broad view about that. If the heart is in the right place, he reasoned, what does it matter if the body flickers?
'You're a good chap, Bingley.'
'So are you, Mulliner.'
'Both good chaps?'
'Both good chaps.'
'Making two in all?' asked Wilmot, anxious to get this straight.
'That's how I work it out.'
'Yes, two,' agreed Wilmot, ceasing to twiddle his fingers. 'In fact, you might say both gentlemen.'
'Both gentlemen is correct.'
'Then let us see what we have got. Yes,' said Wilmot, as he laid down the pencil with which he had been writing figures on the table-cloth. 'Here are the final returns, as I get them. Two good chaps, two gentlemen. And yet,' he said, frowning in a puzzled way, 'that seems to make four, and there are only two of us. However,' he went on, 'let that go. Immaterial. Not germane to the issue. The fact we have to face, Bingley, is that my heart is heavy.'
'You don't say!'
'I do say. Heavy, Hearty. My bing is heavy.'
'What's the trouble?'
Wilmot decided to confide in this singularly sympathetic infant. He felt he had never met a child he liked better.
'Well, it's like this.'
'What is?'
'This is.'
'Like what?'
'I'm telling you. The girl I love won't marry me.'
'She won't?'
'So she says.'
'Well, well,' said the child star commiseratingly. 'That's too bad. Spurned your love, did she?'
'You're dern tooting she spurned my love,' said Wilmot. 'Spurned it good and hard. Some spurning!'
'Well, that's how it goes,' said the child star. 'What a world!'
'You're right, what a world.'
'I shouldn't wonder if it didn't make your heart heavy.'
'You bet it makes my heart heavy,' said Wilmot, crying softly. He dried his eyes on the edge of the table-cloth. 'How can I shake off this awful depression?' he asked.
The child star reflected.
'Well, I'll tell you,' he said. 'I know a better place than this one. It's out Venice way. We might give it a try.'
'We certainly might,' said Wilmot.
'And then there's another one down at Santa Monica.'
'We'll go there, too,' said Wilmot. 'The great thing is to keep moving about and seeing new scenes and fresh faces.'
'The faces are always nice and fresh down at Venice.'
'Then let's go,' said Wilmot.
It was at eleven o'clock on the following morning that Mr Schnellenhamer burst in upon his fellow-executive, Mr Levitsky, with agitation written on every feature of his expressive face. The cigar trembled between his lips.
'Listen!' he said. 'Do you know what?'
'Listen!' said Mr Levitsky. 'What?'
'Johnny Bingley has just been in to see me.'
'If he wants a raise of salary, talk about the Depression.'
'Raise of salary? What's worrying me is how long is he going to be worth the salary he's getting.'
'Worth it?' Mr Levitsky stared. 'Johnny Bingley? The Child With The Tear Behind The Smile? The Idol Of American Motherhood?'
'Yes, and how long is he going to be the idol of American Motherhood after American Motherhood finds out he's a midget from Connolly's Circus, and an elderly, hard-boiled midget, at that?'
'Well, nobody knows that but you and me.'
'Is that so?' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Well, let me tell you, he was out on a toot last night with one of my Nodders, and he comes to me this morning and says he couldn't actually swear he told this guy he was a midget, but, on the other hand, he rather thinks he must have done. He says that between the time they were thrown out of Mike's Place and the time he stabbed the waiter with the pickle-fork there's a sort of gap in his memory, a kind of blurr, and he thinks it may have been then, because by that time they had got pretty confidential and he doesn't think he would have had any secrets from him.'
All Mr Levitsky's nonchalance had vanished.
'But if this fellow – what's his name?'
'Mulliner.'
'If this fellow Mulliner sells this story to the Press Johnny Bingley won't be worth a nickel to us. And his contract calls for two more pictures at two hundred and fifty thousand each.'
'That's right.'
'But what are we to do?'
'You tell me.'
Mr Levitsky pondered.
'Well, first of all,' he said, 'we'll have to find out if this Mulliner really knows.'
'We can't ask him.'
'No, but we'll be able to tell by his manner. A fellow with a stranglehold on the Corporation like that isn't going to be able to go on acting same as he's always done. What sort of a fellow is he?'
'The ideal Nodder,' said Mr Schnellenhamer regretfully. 'I don't know when I've had a better. Always on his cues. Never tries to alibi himself by saying he had a stiff neck. Quiet ... Respectful ... What's that word that begins with a "d"?'
'Damn?'
'Deferential. And what's the word beginning with an "o"?'
'Oyster?'
'Obsequious. That's what he is. Quiet, respectful, deferential, and obsequious – that's Mulliner.'
'Well, then, it'll be easy to see. If we find him suddenly not being all what you said ... if he suddenly ups and starts to throw his weight about, understand what I mean ... why, then we'll know that he knows that Little Johnny Bingley is a midget.'
'And then?'
'Why, then we'll have to square him. And do it right, too. No half-measures.'
Mr Schnellenhamer tore at his hair. He seemed disappointed that he had no straws to stick in it.
'Yes,' he agreed, the brief spasm over, 'I suppose it's the only way. Well, it won't be long before we know. There's a story-conference in my office at noon, and he'll be there to nod.'
'We must watch him like a lynx.'
'Like a what?'
'Lynx. Sort of wild-cat. It watches things.'
Ah,' said Mr Schnellenhamer, 'I get you now. What confused me at first was that I thought you meant golf-links.'
The fears of the two magnates, had they but known it, were quite without foundation. If Wilmot Mulliner had ever learned the fatal secret, he had certainly not remembered it next morning. He had woken that day with a confused sense of having passed through some soul-testing experience, but as regarded details his mind was a blank. His only thought as he entered Mr Schnellenhamer's office for the conference was a rooted conviction that, unless he kept very still, his head would come apart in the middle.
Nevertheless, Mr Schnellenhamer, alert for significant and sinister signs, plucked anxiously at Mr Levitsky's sleeve.
'Look!'
'Eh?'
'Did you see that?'
'See what?'
'That fellow Mulliner. He sort of quivered when he caught my eye, as if with unholy glee.'
&nbs
p; 'He did?'
'It seemed to me he did.'
As a matter of fact, what had happened was that Wilmot, suddenly sighting his employer, had been enable to restrain a quick shudder of agony. It seemed to him that somebody had been painting Mr Schnellenhamer yellow. Even at the best of times, the President of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum, considered as an object for the eye, was not everybody's money. Flickering at the rims and a dull orange in colour, as he appeared to be now, he had smitten Wilmot like a blow, causing him to wince like a salted snail.
Mr Levitsky was regarding the young man thoughtfully.
'I don't like his looks,' he said.
'Nor do I,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.
'There's a kind of horrid gloating in his manner.'
'I noticed it, too.'
'See how he's just buried his head in his hands, as if he were thinking out dreadful plots?'
'I believe he knows everything.'
'I shouldn't wonder if you weren't right. Well, let's start the conference and see what he does when the time comes for him to nod. That's when he'll break out, if he's going to.'
As a rule, these story-conferences were the part of his work which Wilmot most enjoyed. His own share in them was not exacting, and, as he often said, you met such interesting people.
To-day, however, though there were eleven of the studio's weirdest authors present, each well worth more than a cursory inspection, he found himself unable to overcome the dull listlessness which had been gripping him since he had first gone to the refrigerator that morning to put ice on his temples. As the poet Keats puts it in his 'Ode to a Nightingale,' his head ached and a drowsy numbness pained his sense. And the sight of Mabel Potter, recalling to him those dreams of happiness which he had once dared to dream and which now could never come to fulfilment, plunged him still deeper into the despondency. If he had been a character in a Russian novel, he would have gone and hanged himself in the barn. As it was, he merely sat staring before him and keeping perfectly rigid.
Most people, eyeing him, would have been reminded of a corpse which had been several days in the water: but Mr Schnellenhamer thought he looked like a leopard about to spring, and he mentioned this to Mr Levitsky in an undertone.
'Bend down. I want to whisper.'
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