There was a tremendous burst of handclapping in which Mack Townley, always the diplomatist, joined. On the outskirts of the crowd Cynthia’s eyes fired up dangerously, and Lee could almost see the words shaping on her lips: “You lie!” He pressed her hand. “Quiet!” he whispered. “This is not the place.”
Cynthia relaxed. “I got tired of rushing my plays around to the managers’ offices and having them fired back at me with insincere praises,” Talbert was saying. “You all know what people say about me; ‘Alan Talbert? Sure! Nice lad, but he can’t write for a damn!’ That was my label. When you get a label it’s useless to struggle. So when a real bang-up, number one idea for a play came to me I said nothing about it. And when it was finished I invented this John Venner in order to get a fresh hearing. And as it has turned out I seem to have been justified …”
More applause.
“Lee, that is the man!” murmured Cynthia.
“I am not convinced of it,” said Lee.
She looked at him in surprise. “He could have done it. Lee. He was a frequent visitor at Dad’s place. He is tall enough to have worn the yellow overcoat. He had plenty of opportunities to steal the key to the garden door and have a duplicate made.”
“Sure,” said Lee. “But think it over. If he had stolen the play he would have been watching you last night. When he saw you leave the theatre he would have known you suspected something. He would never have had the courage to stand up and claim the play to your face to-night.”
“But he has claimed it.”
“There is a possibility that when the author failed to turn up to-night, Talbert figured that he never would acknowledge his play. So Talbert may have decided to claim the credit. Even though the deception is quickly discovered, Talbert will have had his day in the news.”
“Let’s get out of this,” whispered Cynthia.
As they were making their way through the foyer, they saw Mack, suave, smiling, never at a loss, dealing with a knot of reporters. “Do you believe in this claim of Alan Talbert’s?” one asked him bluntly.
“Certainly I believe in it,” said Mack. “Talbert is a friend of mine.”
“Has his work in the past shown the promise that would justify you in thinking he wrote Sin?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read his other plays.”
“Won’t you require him to present documentary proof of the authorship of Sin?”
“No,” said Mack with an air of surprise. “Why should I?”
“Well, there’s the question of paying the royalties.”
“That doesn’t concern me,” said Mack. “The play was sent me by an agent. I pay the royalties to the agent. It’s up to him to decide who they belong to.”
“Who is the agent?”
“Siebert Ackroyd. He’s here somewhere.”
Cynthia’s grasp of Lee’s arm tightened painfully. ” O, let’s get away!” she whispered.
THE story of what happened at Mack Townley’s party broke too late to make the morning papers. Lee had to wait for the first afternoon editions which come out in the middle of the morning. In addition to what Mack had told the reporters, Alan Talbert had given out a flamboyant interview in which he described how he had written Sin and Siebert Ackroyd, talking more cautiously, told how the play had come to him by mail with a covering letter. He had had a number of letters from the author since, but had never laid eyes on the man. He had transmitted the advance payment by post office money order, according to the author’s instructions. He refused to give the author’s address. As to Alan Talbert, Siebert said that he saw no reason to question his claim, but that of course as a business man, he must await legal proof before paying him any royalties.
Subsequent editions of the papers described how busily Mr. Alan Talbert was making hay while the sun shone. He displayed no reluctance to talk to the press. Before the day was out he had sold options on two of his earlier plays to other New York producers, and had banked the advance payments. These producers stipulated that the plays must be billed with the name of John Venner as author, to which Talbert had cheerfully agreed. Talbert had signed a contract to go to Hollywood later at a handsome salary, and in the meantime had accepted a radio engagement. The Hollywood producers were bidding against each other for the rights of Sin.
Meanwhile, from early morning, Lee, leaving Siebert Ackroyd aside for the moment, had been checking up on his office force. Siebert employed five persons; a secretary, a woman assistant, a male office manager, a second stenographer and a messenger to tote manuscripts around. Lee, from amongst his wide connections, chose operatives here and there and assigned one to make contact with each of the Ackroyd employees. It was the stenographer who proved to be the weak sister. She fell hard for the lively and attractive young man who was put on her trail, and by one o’clock on Friday morning (the Townley party was on Wednesday night) Lee was in possession of all the gossip of the Ackroyd office concerning their mysterious client, John Venner. The story was as follows:
The original script of Sin as received by Siebert Ackroyd had been typed on an old machine with a worn ribbon. This had occasioned a good deal of ill temper in those who read it, because of the eye-strain involved. It contained many typographical errors which had been laboriously corrected on the machine. Thus the author’s handwriting appeared nowhere in the script. The arrangement of speeches, business, etc., indicated that the author was not familiar with the customary way of preparing a playscript. The agency’s first act was to have some fair copies typed. The original script was filed. The letter which accompanied the script had been typed on the same machine, but it was signed by hand with a scrawly and imperfectly formed signature which looked as if it might be that of a very old man. Subsequent letters were all signed in the same way. For an address they gave a post-office box in Newark, New Jersey.
The latest letter from “John Venner” had been received on Wednesday. This one bore no address at the top. The writer implied that he had seen the first performance of Sin the previous night, but showed no pleasure at its success. He was writing, he said, to inform his agent that he was “travelling,” and to instruct him to hold all communications, remittances, etc., until further notice. Obviously he had not travelled far, because the envelope bore the postmark of Stamford, Connecticut, which is only thirty miles from New York. He enclosed a power of attorney to enable Siebert Ackroyd to act for him in all ways.
Lee immediately had a watch put on the Newark post office box, but it was never visited again. Siebert Ackroyd’s last letter to his client lay in it unclaimed. Clearly, John Venner had taken alarm.
The Ackroyd office received another letter from him on Friday, angrily repudiating Alan Talbert’s claim to the play. Venner undertook to prove that he had written the original script by describing the errors and corrections on a certain page. He suggested that Siebert should invite Alan Talbert to submit to a similar test. Venner said that he had a carbon copy of the script in his possession which he would produce “at the proper time.”
Siebert sent copies of this letter to the press and it was printed in the afternoon editions. Thus, after twenty-four hours of sunshine, young Mr. Talbert went into eclipse. But not altogether. He had made the headlines; his name had become news. Once a name is news New Yorkers are prone to forget how it first got that way.
On Friday night after dinner, Lee, Cynthia and Fanny Parran were discussing these things in Lee’s apartment. Cynthia’s eyes were dark with pain. She said with extreme bitterness: “It was Siebert. That is clear.”
“Nothing is proved,” said Lee.
Cynthia shook her head impatiently. “Don’t try to soften the blow. I’ve got to take it. It was Siebert. The power of attorney proves it. John Venner will never be heard of again. Siebert will collect the royalties under his power of attorney. I will never believe in anybody again.”
“It might just as well have been Mack Townley,” insisted Lee. “Venner’s stipulation that the play must first be offered to Townley sugge
sts that.”
“Mack is a business man,” said Cynthia. “You know he wouldn’t hand over a fortune in royalties and movie rights just for a gesture.”
“He might think that it was worth it for the sake of diverting suspicion from himself.”
Cynthia shook her head again. “What’s the next move?” she asked.
“I will have them put under surveillance,” said Lee. “I will have a look at Venner’s letters and at the original script.”
“How will you go about that?”
He smiled at her.
Cynthia was still in his apartment when there was a ring at the door and a package was handed in. Lee brought it into the living-room and opened it. It contained the original script of Sin, and all Venner’s letters to Siebert Ackroyd. “How did you get them?” demanded Cynthia, opening her eyes to their widest.
“A little act of burglary,” said Lee blandly. “I have arranged for photostat copies to be made, and they will be back in the Ackroyd files before morning.”
Cynthia regarded the untidy script with sombre eyes. “My father’s murderer filled those pages,” she murmured.
Lee handed it first to Fanny, who was an expert in typing. She studied it word by word under a magnifying glass, while Lee with another glass spread the dozen letters on the table. He gave attention first to the signature. After making some experiments with a pen held in his left hand, he said: “These letters appear to have been signed by a man writing with his left hand. All the signatures show the same characteristics but the letters are better formed towards the last. He has been practising writing with his left hand.”
“As to the letters,” said Lee, ” they are all brief and they are expressed in a rather dictatorial or peremptory style. He issues his orders as if his agent were a servant,” Lee looked at Cynthia affectionately. “My dear, a man would hardly take that tone if he were writing to himself.”
Cynthia refused to be impressed. “If he was clever enough to have thought of the rest, he could assume that, too.”
Fanny said: “He used a Royal typewriter of an old model. The type is badly worn, the alignment of letters has become uneven through neglect, and the rubber platen so hardened with age that the period made a hole in the paper every time it was struck.”
“Good work!” said Lee.
After further study of the script. Fanny went on: “The person who wrote this was accustomed to typing. He wrote rapidly, but he keeps making the same mistakes all through. It looks as if he had been accustomed to a different keyboard, but that can hardly be, since all makes of typewriters adopted a standardised keyboard some years ago. I can’t explain it.”
“I can’t see the great Mack Townley typing rapidly,” said Cynthia.
“He wasn’t always great.” said Lee. “He used a typewriter in college.”
“Here’s a funny thing!” exclaimed Fanny. “Though the type generally is so worn, there is one character that is clear and sharp. It’s the exclamation point.” She shoved the script over for Lee to see.
“Fine!” said Lee. “That is something definite to go on. The exclamation point is not included in the standard keyboard. The man who used the old typewriter had it put in place of some character he didn’t use. He required exclamation points on every page of his play, you see. He would naturally go to one of the Royal service shops to have this done. Such a request cannot be a common one. Perhaps we can trace the old typewriter through this means.”
REPORTS OF A. W. (“THIS is a new man I have got,” remarked Lee to Cynthia; “An actor temporarily out of a job. He’s good.”)
December 20th. As soon as I received word from you that Mrs. Mack Townley had applied to the— Agency for an English butler, I went to the Agency to register. The woman in charge merely glanced at my fake English testimonials. My appearance and my answers to her questions were more important to her. Of course, I have never been a butler except on the stage, but I had prepared myself for this interview by studying a butler’s manual, and I passed muster all right. When she asked for a New York reference I gave her General Harrington’s name, according to your instructions.
I was sent first to a Mrs. Frelinghuysen on Fifth Avenue, and I had considerable difficulty in getting away, because she wanted to engage me. I said I was addicted to snuff, and she let me go. This interview gave me more assurance in facing Mrs. Townley, to whom I was next sent. Mrs. T is a very beautiful woman but she is not a lady born, and she has an arrogant and disagreeable manner towards servants. However, that was nothing to me. I made the right answers and was instructed to come to work yesterday afternoon.
On my arrival at the apartment I was turned over to the other servants. Mrs. Townley prefers male help; besides myself there is a cook, a houseman and Mr. Townley’s valet. The only female servant is Mrs Townley’s maid, an attractive young-woman called Antoinette, of French nationality. All the servants dislike their masters and gossip about them freely. Mrs. T., I was told, is unreasonable and overbearing while her husband is subject to violent rages. More than once he has had to settle handsomely after beating up a servant. Although they pay the best wages, none of their present servants has been with them longer than six weeks except Adolph Braun, Mr. T.’s valet. I tried to ingratiate myself with Braun, but he’s a surly man, the only one of the lot who is not inclined to talkativeness.
There was a lot of gossip among the servants about the play Sin, but of course they don’t know anything-except, perhaps, Antoinette, who accompanies her mistress to the theatre every night. Antoinette said very mysteriously that Townley knows who really wrote the play, and so does Mrs. T., and that she is holding the knowledge over his head. However, they expect to make a quarter of a million out of it, and neither is going to say or do anything which will jeopardise that.
Mr. Townley came home about six and gave me a sharp look when I took his things. That’s just his way. He has no reason to believe that I am anything but what I appear to be. He went direct to his wife, who was in her boudoir, and Antoinette, who was with her, told me afterwards that his first words were that the movie rights of Sin had been sold to Paramount for a hundred thousand. “How much of that do you get?” Mrs. T asked. “Twenty-five thousand,” he said. “Damn!” said Mrs. T. “It goes hard to have to hand over three-quarters of it!”
Dinner passed off without any bad breaks on my part. Mrs. Townley called me down sharply for some little things, and I begged her to excuse me because of nervousness at the first meal. From the pantry I heard her husband say that I looked promising, and she oughtn’t to be so hard on me or they’d get worse. She was very agreeable to her husband through the meal. Antoinette says that means she is deceiving him. Her latest flame is Mr. Basil Hoare, the handsome Englishman who plays opposite her in Sin. Townley suspects nothing as yet.
The conversation of husband and wife throughout the meal was mostly about the play, the actors and the way they played their parts. Mrs. Townley complained bitterly about the actress who is her mother in the play, saying that she hogged every scene in which she appeared. Mr. Townley tried to smooth her down by saying that he could see that, but that it would be foolish to get rid of the woman so soon after the reviewers had given her such good notices. “Just wait a while, my dear,” he said.
She asked him if there was anything new in respect to the so-called John Venner. He said no, he thought they would hear no more about him. She said she hoped so for his sake, in such a funny tone that he immediately asked her what she meant by it. Her face was all innocence immediately. She said: “Nothing, dear, only it would be just too bad if the performances were halted on account of legal proceedings over the authorship.”
“Nobody is going to dose the play when it’s grossing twenty-five thousand a week,” he growled.
Shortly after eight o’clock Mr and Mrs. T departed for the theatre taking Antoinette with them, and I saw no more of them last night. Mrs. T sent Antoinette home after the performance and she herself didn’t come in until near four. Her hus
band was waiting for her, and there was a scene. There were no witnesses to it so I cannot give you any details.
December 21st (Sunday). Neither of them showed themselves yesterday until lunch. They appeared to be reconciled. Mr. Townley is crazy about his wife, and she can do pretty much what she likes with him. I am sorry that I can’t add much to my report of yesterday. Mr and Mrs. Townley are accustomed to be spied on by unfriendly servants and they have learned to keep a guard on their tongues when any of us are within hearing. Antoinette is my best source of information, but she only knows what she can pick up. There’s a kind of armed truce between her and her mistress. Antoinette has made herself indispensable to Mrs. T., but the latter doesn’t confide in her maid.
At the lunch table whenever Mrs. T had anything interesting to say to Mr. T she would say to me: “That will be all, Whiteley; if we require anything I’ll ring.” And I would have to beat it into the pantry. I might have heard something by listening at the door, but the houseman was in and out and I was afraid of arousing suspicion. In this household it’s every man for himself. The servants hate their master and mistress, but they would betray me to them in a minute if they thought there was anything in it for themselves.
After lunch they both went out. Mrs. Townley had to go to the theatre for the matinee, and Townley told her he was meeting Siebert Ackroyd at the Conradi-Windermere for the purpose of signing the movie contracts with the Paramount officials.
At dinner last night the following conversation took place between them. I don’t understand it, but pass it along for what it may be worth. Townley said: “I am considering a play by Jules Taschereau as a vehicle for you later on. She said: “Hadn’t you better let me read it before you make up your mind?” He said: “Surely! It isn’t a good play but it will make money. The woman’s part is the whole thing. Your part in Sin isn’t worthy of you. Now that you have created it, you could retire and do this other thing.” Mrs. Townley, leaning her chin on her palm, said with a dreamy air: “Of course, it’s not much of a part, but I love it! I hear his dear voice in every line!” Townley flew into a passion and pounded the table. “— ! Am I to have him thrown in my face forever!” She looked at him contemptuously and said: “Are you jealous of the dead?” Then she saw me and dismissed me from the room. A.W.”
ALM02 The Death of a Celebrity Page 15