“My dear, this is weak-minded,” protested Lee. “The sooner you overcome it the better. Gavin wouldn’t have liked to hear you speak like that.”
Cynthia thought it over. “Perhaps you’re right,” the said. “Very well, I’ll be glad to go with you.”
“That’s better.”
WHEN Lee Mappin’s cab came to a stop in front of the Townley Theatre, the sidewalk was jammed from curb to wall with a pushing throng of people, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the arrivals. Two perspiring policemen were with difficulty keeping a lane open for the playgoers to enter the theatre. The gapers who were unable to get a place on the sidewalk, ran out into the street and peered through the outer windows of the arriving cars. As Lee and Cynthia passed through the lane to the entrance they could hear people whispering to each other: “Who are they? Who are they?” As neither Lee nor Cynthia was a regular first-nighter, no reply was forthcoming.
Inside the theatre they saw Emmett Gundy at a distance but he was unable to reach their sides because of the crowd. And Alan Talbert, beautifully arrayed, who prided himself on knowing everybody. On the other side of the house rose the handsome head of Siebert Ackroyd inches above the surrounding heads. He was accompanied by a flamboyant girl who was determined to be looked at. Cynthia looked once and not again.
The curtain was late, as usual. Every place in the house was occupied except the two stage boxes. At the last moment a woman entered the box on the left, but sat so far back behind the curtain that they could see only her silken knees. Something in the house below attracted her attention; she leaned forward and they had a glimpse of Gail Garrett’s drawn, white face. After the curtain had risen, Mack Townley and several of the members of his staff quietly entered the box on their right.
The play opened very quietly. The setting represented the living-room of a somewhat dilapidated Maryland manor-house, with tall windows open to the summer night. There was a scene between a middle-aged man and a handsome youth, his adopted son. They were deeply attached to each other. The boy was leaving home to be married. Lee approved of the play from the start; an atmosphere was created; tender, charming, yet faintly portentous. He glanced at Cynthia to see how she was taking it, and was surprised to find her leaning forward with parted lips, drinking in every word. So far as he could see, nothing had happened on the stage to account for such excitement.
From time to time he glanced at her. Her excitement increased. She had lost herself completely. An intensity had come into her gaze at the stage that was almost like pain. Her hands were gripping the arms of her seat. Lee became very uneasy.
When the curtain fell on the first act there was a buzz of comment through the house; very little applause. The sophisticated first night audience saves that for the end. When the lights went up Cynthia seemed to experience a slight collapse. She went limp all over and her head dropped. She then looked around her in a slightly shamed manner to see if her emotion had been noticed. “Like it?” asked Lee casually.
“No! … Yes! … I don’t know,” she answered uncertainly. “But of course I liked it!” she went on a little feverishly. “It’s wonderful! It did things to me. It frightens me a little. As if .. as if .. how can I explain it? as if it was written by somebody who knew too much about me? It was like echoes out of my own past.”
Lee patted her hand. He thought her language overstrained.
In the intermission many of the people got up to join the crush at the back, in order to see or to be seen, but Lee and Cynthia remained in their comfortable seats. Out of the tail of his eye Lee saw Siebert Ackroyd striding up the aisle. Siebert cast a savage glance at Cynthia. They had several visitors, including the good-looking Alan Talbert who, while he was talking, looked all around to see who was noticing him. He was excited about the play. “A smash hit!” he cried.
“Isn’t it a little too soon to tell?” suggested Lee.
“No, sir! You can feel it in the air. And Mack Townley is too wily to give them a first act that is not held up by what follows. Tomorrow morning the author will be famous.”
“Does anybody know anything about him?” asked Cynthia softly.
“No. I happen to know that that’s not just press agent stuff. Up to now he has really kept under cover. But you can depend on it he’ll appear as soon as he knows he has a hit on his hands.”
In the second act the tension increased as the audience perceived the devilish net that was spread for the hapless youth. The men were more important than the women in this play, and it was not until the second scene of the second act that Bea Ellerman made her appearance. She took the part of a young girl, the youth’s fiancee. Her perplexity and dismay at the subtle change that had come over her lover were touching in the extreme. Cynthia was breathing fast and her face had become agonised as she watched the scene. Lee touched her arm. “My dear, it’s only a play.” he whispered.
She turned her strained eyes on him, dark and enormous. “Can’t you hear it?” she whispered. “Hear what?”
“My father’s voice.”
He stared at her, too startled to speak. “This is Dad’s play, Lee.”
“No! No!” he whispered. “It’s only your fancy.”
She obstinately shook her head. “He is speaking to me through all the lines of the play. These are his thoughts, his feelings, his very words! That is what moves me so!”
Lee, gazing in her face, half believed it. He was a logical man, but he knew there was that in the human consciousness which transcends logic. Pressing her hand, he whispered: “Get a grip on yourself! Draw a mask over your face. If you are right, it is certain that the thief who stole Gavin’s play is watching us now.”
“I’ll try,” she whispered.
A revolving stage had been installed for the production of Sin, and in each act the scenes succeeded each other without any pause. In the third scene of the second act the wrecked youth, robbed of everything that makes life worth living, crawled home to his foster-father’s house. The recognition was heart-breaking. Cynthia’s shoulders were shaking. “Lee, I’ve got to go,” she whispered. “I can’t bear any more!”
But if you go the guilty one will know that we have discovered his guilt,” he protested.
“If I stay he will see it in my face when the lights go up. I cannot hide it!”
Fearful that she might break down in the middle of a scene, he hurried her up the aisle. As they passed through the lobby the curtain fell on the second act and they heard the audience forgetting its sophisticated nonchalance, break into wild applause. “You go back,” whispered Cynthia. “You might learn something.”
“I won’t leave you,” he said.
In the cab Cynthia broke down completely. He held her close. “O, what a relief to get away from people,” she wept. “I’m sorry you were disappointed in me, but I couldn’t stand any more!”
“It’s no matter,” said Lee.
“Lee,” she said, “that man in the play felt towards his boy just as my father felt towards me. My father talked to me in just that way. Hiding his deepest feelings under a joke!”
“That may be a coincidence,” said Lee.
“No! No! There are too many coincidences! … Listen! My father lived in New York for so many years that everybody has forgotten he was raised in Tidewater, Virginia. There were a hundred references to Virginia. It’s true they called it Maryland in the play, but that was just a stall. The scent of the wild grape flower in June-notice the word scent. Lee; anybody but Dad would have said perfume-the song of the mocking-bird; the haze that broods on the Chesapeake in summer; the trumpet flowers and the wild blackberries in the hedges; the buzzards wheeling against the blue!”
“Anybody who knew Virginia might speak of these things,” said Lee.
“All right. Take the peculiar sense in which he used the word spontaneity. My father loved that quality and that word. You must have noticed it. And the word inveigle used in place of intrigue. Besides many others of his pet words. And his speaking o
f how a good man was always at a disadvantage in the presence of a wicked man. Can’t you see his smile when he said it? Lee, if I had the script of the play before me I believe I could point out all the places where some clumsy hand has changed and cheapened it! Think of the title; the right name of that play is The Changeling; Sin is a vulgar substitution!”
“You need go no further,” said Lee. “I am convinced.”
“When we find John Venner,” he said presently, “we will have Gavin’s murderer.”
As Alan Talbert had foretold, the name of John Venner was famous in New York next day. All the newspapers joined in lavishing praises on his play. The Times said: “It is obviously not the work of a prentice hand. The wise, humorous lines bespeak a long experience of life, and a ripe understanding. My guess is, that the author of Sin is a practised literary hand-perhaps in some other field of writing, because the play reveals certain gaucheries in dramatic technique-who has chosen the expedient of anonymity in order to make a completely new start, and to get an unbiased line on himself.”
In the Herald-Tribune: “A new kind of play. The unthinking will call it a ‘horror’ play, but there is no grisly monster exhibited on the stage, no bloody head on a charger, nor clutching hands in space. Nothing is named in the play. The horror evoked is a silent horror of the spirit, which I need hardly point out is much more horrible than anything which could be produced by stage properties.”
In the World-Telegram: “The theme is the oldest in the world; viz., the struggle between good and evil; the battlefield being a young man’s soul. In nearly all such plays the probabilities are violently wrenched in order to bring about a happy ending with Virtue triumphant. The author of Sin does not beg the question. He shows the struggle as a terrific one with odds on the side of the Evil one, and the issue always in doubt. He rescues this particular young man, and restores him to those who love him, but Evil is not overcome. Evil stalks on grinning, and on the watch for new victims.”
In the Sun: “A completely original play; it cannot be referred to any other play ever written.. Story, characters and atmosphere; all are new. The whole play is a succession of slight surprises; the product of a highly individual mind. It has the inexplicable quality of Nature itself. Like Nature, its processes are sometimes obscure, but like Nature it works out consistently in the end…. The final scenes in their quiet way .. terrific! .. left the audience gasping.”
The success of the play in connection with the non-appearance of the author warranted a news story in most of the papers, in addition to the dramatic review. It was told how Mack Townley, the producer, had sent Venner a telegram after every act, but had received no word in reply. However, Mr. Townley was giving a party in his apartment after the performance tomorrow night, for the Sin company, the gentlemen of the press and his friends generally, and he fully expected the mysterious John Venner to be present.
Cynthia Dordress, busy at her desk in the hospital, was surprised to hear the voice of Mack Townley over the wire at noon. The great man rarely condescended to use the phone. Having had time to gather her forces, Cynthia answered him calmly. “How are you my dear?” asked Mack.
“Quite well, thanks.”
“Somebody told me that you were forced to leave the theatre in the middle of the show last night.”
“Yes. Wasn’t it silly of me to be taken sick at such a moment? The worst of it was, it made Lee miss the play, too. I was all right an hour afterwards, and I’m anxious to go again as soon as possible.”
“How about tomorrow night?”
“I’d love it, if it’s convenient.”
“Surely! You’ll find two seats waiting for you at the box-office.”
“Thanks so much. I’ll try to get Lee.”
“Afterwards perhaps you’ll both come to our apartment. Bea and I are giving a little shindig at midnight. We hope to have the mysterious John Venner on view, but can promise nothing.”
“How kind!” said Cynthia, “but I don’t feel that I have any business amongst all the celebrities!”
“What!” said Mack, “the daughter of my oldest friend who was the greatest light of the American stage! What nonsense! Come, and uphold the name of Dordress, my dear.”
“Very well,” said Cynthia, ” and thank you.”
She immediately called up Lee and repeated her conversation with Mack. “What do you think of it?” she asked anxiously.
“Hum,” said Lee. “I prefer not to say over the phone.”
“Well, we can talk about it later.”
“Do you really feel able to sit through the play again?”
“Surely. I am braced for it now. I must see this play through. It was the shock of discovery that upset me last night.”
“And the party afterwards?”
“Surely.”
“He won’t come,” said Lee.
“He might,” said Cynthia.
Cynthia sat through the third performance of Sin without an outward tremor. “It gives me pleasure now,” she said to Lee. “It’s a beautiful play. It is only the changes in it that anger me. I’d like to see it every night.”
Lee pressed her hand. “Do you think it was Mack Townley who stole it?” she asked coolly.
“I’m not prepared to say,” growled Lee. “If he had, it would have been like him to call you up yesterday. Mack plays poker. But give me a little more time.”
Mack and Bea Townley welcomed their guests at the door of their big living-room. Bea, in white and gold brocade with her diamonds and emeralds, looked queenly, but Lee, glancing from one woman to another, considered that Cynthia’s white skin and pure profile, set off by a dull black evening gown, was the more beautiful. Bea, pressing Cynthia’s hand between both of hers, murmured: “Darling, I’m so glad you could come. They told me you were ill.”
“I was better in an hour,” said Cynthia.
“Do come some day when we can have a little time together.”
“I work in the daytime,” said Cynthia, smiling; “some Sunday, perhaps.”
“Good! I’ll give you a ring.”
Lee listened to this with a dry expression. Both women were lying, and each knew it.
Mack’s handsome hard face wore its customary mask of scornful good humour. His courtesy was perfect.
The living-room was sixty feet long, and with the library at one end and a great dining-room opening at the side, the suite could accommodate two hundred people without crowding. Pink roses were banked between the windows. All the luminaries of New York professional and cafe society were present; millionaires, actresses, divorcees, play-boys and titles. The most popular persons present were the social commentators and press photographers, who were hailed with cries of welcome as they circulated with note-book and camera. “Such is modern society,” grumbled Lee.
Everybody was eating lobster salad and drinking champagne. Each plate had a little rack affixed to the rim to hold a glass, so that two-handed creatures could accomplish this feat while standing. Waiters threaded their way through the throng, filling the glasses as fast as they were emptied. A deafening clatter of conversation filled the rooms.
As Cynthia and Lee slowly made their way through, they met many acquaintances. Gail Garrett appeared to be the only member of Gavin Dordress’ old circle who was not present. Emmett Gundy attached himself to them. Emmett did not appear to advantage in the brightly-lighted room. The thinning hair on his crown was painfully apparent, his face was sourer and more pinched than usual. He said to Cynthia: “Disgusting mob! I’m surprised that you cared to come.”
“O, once in a while it’s amusing,” she answered.
Alan Talbert came up to them, pale and glassy-eyed with excitement. “Glorious occasion!” he said. “Drink with me. I’m on the threshold of a new life!”
At the moment his words didn’t seem to make sense. “It’s the champagne,” muttered Emmett as they passed on.
They came face to face with Siebert Ackroyd in the dining-room doorway. Emmett paled and ed
ged aside. Siebert, ignoring both Emmett and Lee, fixed his eyes on Cynthia with an expression both savage and full of pain. “You look handsome,” he said to her.
“Same to you,” said Cynthia, coolly meeting his glance.
“I’m glad to see you coming out of your shell,” said Siebert, ” but I don’t like your company.”
“I do,” said Cynthia, smiling and moving on.
“Damned impudence!” muttered Lee.
Later, Lee and Cynthia were standing against the wall of the big room watching the tail-coated men and the bejewelled women weaving and clustering in front of them. The noise had grown louder; one had to shout to make oneself heard. The free champagne had been downed too quickly, and many of the faces seemed to have softened like butter in a warm room. Cynthia said in Lee’s ear: “I wish we lived in the country.”
“I get you, my dear.”
There had been no new arrivals for some time, and Mack Townley was now circulating through the room pausing to say the right word to everybody. He said to Lee: “I’m looking around for an unexplained person who might be the playwright. But I seem to know everybody here.”
Lee said when Mack had passed on: “If he’s bluffing, it’s well done!”
Mack finally climbed on a chair at the end of the room and clapped his hands to command attention. “Friends, Romans, Countrymen,” he said smilingly, “I am sorry to say that I cannot produce my playwright. What has happened to him I don’t know. I am unable to picture an author who could pass up such an opportunity to receive the homage of the cream of New York. It may be that …”
“Wait a minute, Mack!” cried a voice below him. “He’s here!”
An excited murmur passed through the crowd. Everybody craned their necks. They saw Alan Talbert pushing up to Mack’s chair. “In me you see John Venner,” he cried, striking a mock attitude. ‘There was an astonished silence, followed by a burst of applause. Everybody pushed up towards the chair, leaving Lee and Cynthia on the outskirts of the crowd. Mack looked a little taken aback, but he smiled still. He stepped down from the chair, and Talbert, without waiting to be asked, climbed upon it, and turned his white face and punch-drunk eyes on the crowd. “I am the author of Sin, God forgive me,” he announced. “I wrote it on my little Corona!”
ALM02 The Death of a Celebrity Page 14