It was this syren that had interrupted the tense scene which I have been describing.
For some moments after the last note had died away, it seemed as though the splendid discipline on which the Perfecto-Zizzbaum organization prided itself was to triumph. A few eyeballs rolled, and here and there you could hear the sharp intake of breath, but nobody moved. Then from without there came the sound of running footsteps, and the door burst open, revealing a haggard young assistant director with a blood-streaked face.
'Save yourselves!' he cried.
There was an uneasy stir.
'She's heading this way!'
Again that stir. Mr Schnellenhamer rapped the desk sharply.
'Gentlemen! Are you afraid of an unarmed woman?'
The assistant director coughed.
'Not unarmed exactly,' he corrected. 'She's got a sword.'
A sword?'
'She borrowed it off one of the Roman soldiery in "Hail, Cæsar." Seemed to want it for something. Well, good-bye, all,' said the assistant director.
Panic set in. The stampede was started by a young Nodder, who, in fairness be it said, had got a hat-pin in the fleshy part of the leg that time when Miss Burwash was so worried over 'Hearts Aflame.' Reckless of all rules of precedence, he shot silently through the window. He was followed by the rest of those present, and in a few moments the room was empty save for Wilmot, brooding with folded arms; Mabel Potter, crouched on top of the filing cabinet; and Mr Schnellenhamer himself, who, too stout to negotiate the window, was crawling into a convenient cupboard and softly closing the door after him.
To the scene which had just concluded Wilmot Mulliner had paid but scant attention. His whole mind was occupied with the hunger which was gnawing his vitals and that strange loathing for the human species which had been so much with him of late. He continued to stand where he was, as if in some dark trance.
From this he was aroused by the tempestuous entry of a woman with make-up on her face and a Roman sword in her hand.
'Ah-h-h-h-h!' she cried.
Wilmot was not interested. Briefly raising his eyebrows and baring his lips in an animal snarl, he returned to his meditations.
Hortensia Burwash was not accustomed to a reception like this. For a moment she stood irresolute; then, raising the sword, she brought it down with a powerful follow-through on a handsome ink-pot which had been presented to Mr Schnellenhamer by a few admirers and well-wishers on the occasion of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum's foundation.
'Ah-h-h-h-h!' she cried again.
Wilmot had had enough of this foolery. Like all the Mulliners, his attitude towards Woman had until recently been one of reverence and unfailing courtesy. But with four days' orange-juice under his belt, he was dashed if he was going to have females carrying on like this in his presence. A considerable quantity of the ink had got on his trousers, and he now faced Hortensia Burwash, pale with fury.
'What's the idea?' he demanded hotly. 'What's the matter with you? Stop it immediately, and give me that sword.'
The temperamental star emitted another 'Ah-h-h-h-h!' but it was but a half-hearted one. The old pep had gone. She allowed the weapon to be snatched from her grasp. Her eyes met Wilmot's. And suddenly, as she gazed into those steel-hard orbs, the fire faded out of her, leaving her a mere weak woman face to face with what appeared to be the authentic caveman. It seemed to her for an instant, as she looked at him, that she had caught a glimpse of something evil. It was as if this man who stood before her had been a Fiend about to Seize Hatchet and Slay Six.
As a matter of fact, Wilmot's demeanour was simply the normal one of a man who every morning for four days has taken an orange, divided it into two equal parts, squeezed on a squeezer, poured into a glass or cup, and drunk; who has sipped the juice of an orange in the midst of rollicking lunchers doing themselves well among the roasts and hashes; and who, on returning to his modest flat in the evenfall, has got to work with the old squeezer once more. But Hortensia Burwash, eyeing him, trembled. Her spirit was broken.
'Messing about with ink,' grumbled Wilmot, dabbing at his legs with blotting-paper. 'Silly horse-play, I call it.'
The star's lips quivered. She registered Distress.
'You needn't be so cross,' she whimpered.
'Cross!' thundered Wilmot. He pointed wrathfully at his lower limbs. 'The best ten-dollar trousers in Hollywood!'
'Well, I'm sorry.'
'You'd better be. What did you do it for?'
'I don't know. Everything sort of went black.'
'Like my trousers.'
'I'm sorry about your trousers.' She sniffed miserably. 'You wouldn't be so unkind if you knew what it was like.'
'What what was like?'
'This dieting. Fifteen days with nothing but orange-juice.'
The effect of these words on Wilmot Mulliner was stunning. His animosity left him in a flash. He started. The stony look in his eyes melted, and he gazed at her with a tender commiseration, mingled with remorse that he should have treated so harshly a sister in distress.
'You don't mean you're dieting?'
'Yes.'
Wilmot was deeply stirred. It was as if he had become once more the old, kindly, gentle Wilmot, beloved by all.
'You poor little thing! No wonder you rush about smashing ink-pots. Fifteen days of it! My gosh!'
'And I was upset, too, about the picture.'
'What picture?'
'My new picture. I don't like the story.'
'What a shame!'
'It isn't true to life.'
'How rotten! Tell me all about it. Come on, tell Wilmot.'
'Well, it's like this. I'm supposed to be starving in a garret, and they want me with the last remnant of my strength to write a letter to my husband, forgiving him and telling him I love him still. The idea is that I'm purified by hunger. And I say it's all wrong.'
'All wrong?' cried Wilmot. 'You're right, it's all wrong. I never heard anything so silly in my life. A starving woman's heart wouldn't soften. And, as for being purified by hunger, purified by hunger my hat! The only reason which would make a woman in that position take pen in hand and write to her husband would be if she could think of something nasty enough to say to make it worth while.'
'That's just how I feel.'
'As a matter of fact, nobody but a female goof would be thinking of husbands at all at a time like that. She would be thinking of roast pork ...'
'... and steaks ...'
'... and chops ...'
'... and chicken casserole ...'
'... and kidneys sautés ...'
'... and mutton curry...'
'... and doughnuts ...'
'... and layer-cake ...'
'... and peach pie, mince pie, apple pie, custard pie, and pie à la mode,' said Wilmot. 'Of everything, in a word, but the juice of an orange. Tell me, who was the half-wit who passed this story, so utterly alien to human psychology?'
'Mr Schnellenhamer. I was coming to see him about it.'
'I'll have a word or two with Mr Schnellenhamer. We'll soon have that story fixed. But what on earth do you want to diet for?'
'I don't want to. There's a weight clause in my contract. It says I mustn't weigh more than a hundred and eight pounds. Mr Schnellenhamer insisted on it.'
A grim look came into Wilmot's face.
'Schnellenhamer again, eh? This shall be attended to.'
He crossed to the cupboard and flung open the door. The magnate came out on all fours. Wilmot curtly directed him to the desk.
'Take paper and ink, Schnellenhamer, and write this lady out a new contract, with no weight clause.'
'But listen ...'
'Your sword, madam, I believe?' said Wilmot, extending the weapon.
'All right,' said Mr Schnellenhamer hastily. 'All right. All right.'
And, while you're at it,' said Wilmot, 'I'll take one, too, restoring me to my former salary.'
'What was your former salary?' asked Hortensia Burwash.
'Fift
een hundred.'
'I'll double it. I've been looking for a business manager like you for years. I didn't think they made them nowadays. So firm. So decisive. So brave. So strong. You're the business manager of my dreams.'
Wilmot's gaze, straying about the room, was attracted by a movement on top of the filing cabinet. He looked up, and his eyes met those of Mabel Potter. They yearned worshippingly at him, and in them there was something which he had no difficulty in diagnosing as the love-light. He turned to Hortensia Burwash.
'By the way, my fiancée, Miss Potter.'
'How do you do?' said Hortensia Burwash.
'Pleased to meet you,' said Mabel.
'What did you get up there for?' asked Miss Burwash, puzzled.
'Oh, I thought I would,' said Mabel.
Wilmot, as became a man of affairs, was crisp and businesslike.
'Miss Burwash wishes to make a contract with me to act as her manager,' he said. 'Take dictation, Miss Potter.'
'Yes, sir,' said Mabel.
At the desk, Mr Schnellenhamer had paused for a moment in his writing. He was trying to remember if the word he wanted was spelled 'clorse' or 'clorze.'
11 THE RISE OF MINNA NORDSTROM
THEY had been showing the latest Minna Nordstrom picture at the Bijou Dream in the High Street, and Miss Postlethwaite, our sensitive barmaid, who had attended the premiere, was still deeply affected. She snuffled audibly as she polished the glasses.
'It's really good, is it?' we asked, for in the bar-parlour of the Angler's Rest we lean heavily on Miss Postlethwaite's opinion where the silver screen is concerned. Her verdict can make or mar.
"Swonderful,' she assured us. 'It lays bare for all to view the soul of a woman who dared everything for love. A poignant and uplifting drama of life as it is lived to-day, purifying the emotions with pity and terror.'
A Rum and Milk said that if it was as good as all that he didn't know but what he might not risk ninepence on it. A Sherry and Bitters wondered what they paid a woman like Minna Nordstrom. A Port from the Wood, raising the conversation from the rather sordid plane to which it threatened to sink, speculated on how motion-picture stars became stars.
'What I mean,' said the Port from the Wood, 'does a studio deliberately set out to create a star? Or does it suddenly say to itself "Hullo, here's a star. What-ho!"?'
One of those cynical Dry Martinis who always know everything said that it was all a question of influence.
'If you looked into it, you would find this Nordstrom girl was married to one of the bosses.'
Mr Mulliner, who had been sipping his hot Scotch and lemon in a rather distrait way, glanced up.
'Did I hear you mention the name Minna Nordstrom?'
'We were arguing about how she became a star. I was saying that she must have had a pull of some kind.'
'In a sense,' said Mr Mulliner, 'you are right. She did have a pull. But it was one due solely to her own initiative and resource. I have relatives and connections in Hollywood, as you know, and I learn much of the inner history of the studio world through these channels. I happen to know that Minna Nordstrom raised herself to her present eminence by sheer enterprise and determination. If Miss Postlethwaite will mix me another hot Scotch and lemon, this time stressing the Scotch a little more vigorously, I shall be delighted to tell you the whole story.'
When people talk with bated breath in Hollywood – and it is a place where there is always a certain amount of breath-bating going on – you will generally find, said Mr Mulliner, that the subject of their conversation is Jacob Z. Schnellenhamer, the popular president of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation. For few names are more widely revered there than that of this Napoleonic man.
Ask for an instance of his financial acumen, and his admirers will point to the great merger for which he was responsible – that merger by means of which he combined his own company, the Colossal-Exquisite, with those two other vast concerns, the Perfecto-Fishbein and the Zizzbaum-Celluloid. Demand proof of his artistic genius, his flair for recognizing talent in the raw, and it is given immediately. He was the man who discovered Minna Nordstrom.
To-day when interviewers bring up the name of the world-famous star in Mr Schnellenhamer's presence, he smiles quietly.
'I had long had my eye on the little lady,' he says, 'but for one reason and another I did not consider the time ripe for her début.Then I brought about what you are good enough to call the epoch-making merger, and I was enabled to take the decisive step. My colleagues questioned the wisdom of elevating a totally unknown girl to stardom, but I was firm. I saw that it was the only thing to be done.'
'You had vision?'
'I had vision.'
All that Mr Schnellenhamer had, however, on the evening when this story begins was a headache. As he returned from the day's work at the studio and sank wearily into an arm-chair in the sitting-room of his luxurious home in Beverly Hills, he was feeling that the life of the president of a motion-picture corporation was one that he would hesitate to force on any dog of which he was fond.
A morbid meditation, of course, but not wholly unjustified. The great drawback to being the man in control of a large studio is that everybody you meet starts acting at you. Hollywood is entirely populated by those who want to get into the pictures, and they naturally feel that the best way of accomplishing their object is to catch the boss's eye and do their stuff.
Since leaving home that morning Mr Schnellenhamer had been acted at practically incessantly. First, it was the studio watchman who, having opened the gate to admit his car, proceeded to play a little scene designed to show what he could do in a heavy rôle. Then came his secretary, two book agents, the waitress who brought him his lunch, a life insurance man, a representative of a film weekly, and a barber. And, on leaving at the end of the day, he got the watchman again, this time in whimsical comedy.
Little wonder, then, that by the time he reached home the magnate was conscious of a throbbing sensation about the temples and an urgent desire for a restorative.
As a preliminary to obtaining the latter, he rang the bell and Vera Prebble, his parlourmaid, entered. For a moment he was surprised not to see his butler. Then he recalled that he had dismissed him just after breakfast for reciting Gunga Din in a meaning way while bringing the eggs and bacon.
'You rang, sir?'
'I want a drink.'
'Very good, sir.'
The girl withdrew, to return a few moments later with a decanter and siphon. The sight caused Mr Schnellenhamer's gloom to lighten a little. He was justly proud of his cellar, and he knew that the decanter contained liquid balm. In a sudden gush of tenderness he eyed its bearer appreciatively, thinking what a nice girl she looked.
Until now he had never studied Vera Prebble's appearance to any great extent or thought about her much in any way. When she had entered his employment a few days before, he had noticed, of course, that she had a sort of ethereal beauty; but then every girl you see in Hollywood has either ethereal beauty or roguish gaminerie or a dark, slumberous face that hints at hidden passion.
'Put it down there on the small table,' said Mr Schnellenhamer, passing his tongue over his lips.
The girl did so. Then, straightening herself, she suddenly threw her head back and clutched the sides of it in an ecstasy of hopeless anguish.
'Oh! Oh! Oh!' she cried.
'Eh?' said Mr Schnellenhamer.
'Ah! Ah! Ah!'
'I don't get you at all,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.
She gazed at him with wide, despairing eyes.
'If you knew how sick and tired I am of it all! Tired ... Tired ... Tired. The lights ... the glitter ... the gaiety... It is so hollow, so fruitless. I want to get away from it all, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!'
Mr Schnellenhamer retreated behind the Chesterfield. That laugh had had an unbalanced ring. He had not liked it. He was about to continue his backward progress in the direction of the door, when the girl, who had closed her eyes and was rocking to and fro as if suffe
ring from some internal pain, became calmer.
'Just a little thing I knocked together with a view to showing myself in a dramatic role,' she said.
'Watch! I'm going to register.'
She smiled.
'Joy.'
She closed her mouth.
'Grief
She wiggled her ears.
'Horror.'
She raised her eyebrows.
'Hate.'
Then, taking a parcel from the tray:
'Here,' she said, 'if you would care to glance at them, are a few stills of myself. This shows my face in repose. I call it "Reverie". This is me in a bathing suit ... riding ... walking ... happy among my books ... being kind to the dog. Here is one of which my friends have been good enough to speak in terms of praise – as Cleopatra, the warrior-queen of Egypt, at the Pasadena Gas-Fitters' Ball. It brings out what is generally considered my most effective feature – the nose, seen sideways.'
During the course of these remarks Mr Schnellenhamer had been standing breathing heavily. For a while the discovery that this parlourmaid, of whom he had just been thinking so benevolently, was simply another snake in the grass had rendered him incapable of speech. Now his aphasia left him.
'Get out!' he said.
'Pardon?' said the girl.
'Get out this minute. You're fired.'
There was a silence. Vera Prebble closed her mouth, wiggled her ears, and raised her eyebrows. It was plain that she was grieved, horror-stricken, and in the grip of a growing hate.
'What,' she demanded passionately at length, 'is the matter with all you movie magnates? Have you no hearts? Have you no compassion? No sympathy? No understanding? Do the ambitions of the struggling mean nothing to you?'
'No,' replied Mr Schnellenhamer in answer to all five questions.
Vera Prebble laughed bitterly.
'No is right!' she said. 'For months I besieged the doors of the casting directors. They refused to cast me. Then I thought that if I could find a way into your homes I might succeed where I had failed before. I secured the post of parlourmaid to Mr Fishbein of the Perfecto-Fishbein. Half-way through Rudyard Kipling's "Boots" he brutally bade me begone. I obtained a similar position with Mr Zizzbaum of the Zizzbaum-Celluloid. The opening lines of "The Wreck of the Hesperus" had hardly passed my lips when he was upstairs helping me pack my trunk. And now you crush my hopes. It is cruel ... cruel ... Oh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!'
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