“You’ve been reading too many art books, sonny. The way artists suffer is a different thing entirely. Selling cartoons is much worse than peddling fancy pictures. You’ve got to be a salesman in this business, as much as a cartoonist.” He leaned toward Raleigh confidentially. “You see that dame over on the couch there?”
Raleigh followed the nod. On the other side of the lobby sat a woman dressed in tweeds who fiddled with a long cigarette holder.
“The one with the cigarette holder?”
“Yes. Know who she is?”
Raleigh shook his head dumbly. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Guess.”
Raleigh shook his head dumbly and exhaled through his nose. “I can’t imagine. Who is she?”
“Ever hear of Sue Bates?”
The leech stiffened, awestruck. “You mean the Sue Bates?” This was a name that rang a bell in any cartoonist’s brain. Sue Bates was the leading woman humorist in America—in the world for that matter. She was a fixture in the columns of The Country where her drawings appeared every week in a special spot reserved for her use exclusively.
“Like her work, Raleigh?”
“Wonderful! The tops!” gasped the neophyte.
“Cut it. You really like her work?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
Alfonte laughed in his throat. “You’ve got a lot to learn, sonny, if you’ve got a yen for the sort of junk that dame draws. Everybody in the business knows it’s pure corn. That dame is a living example of foul art and good salesmanship. Know how many years she’s been drawing for The Country?”
“I thought she started with them.”
“Not quite. She started drawing for them when Earl Chance was made the editor. That was six years ago, after Charley Barnett died.”
Sue Bates put away her cigarette holder and minced out of the lobby.
“She’s probably waiting for Chance,” said Alfonte. “Nothing on earth but Earl Chance would bring that dame down to a meeting of fellow cartoonists. She’s not in our class, you know. You mean to say you haven’t read some of her publicity? It’s a riot. Sue Bates is the greatest woman cartoonist who ever lived. Sue Bates is a genius at expressing the female angle in humor. Sue Bates is this, that and the other thing. I wonder what would have happened to that dame if she hadn’t met Earl Chance. I’ll bet anything she’d be down in Macy’s selling art supplies along with the other great female geniuses.”
Sue Bates reentered the lobby and walked to a phone booth.
“Probably checking up on little Earl,” sneered Alfonte. “The smart talk has it that he’s ready to slip her a Mickey. I think he’s found himself another great woman genius somewhere. The woods are full of dame cartoonists now. Maybe he’s got his eye on Helen Dodd, or Marcia Prentiss.”
Sue Bates came out of the phone booth frowning. She returned to her couch. She fumbled in her bag for her holder and a cigarette.
“Nervous,” said Alfonte. “She looks worried, all right. I’d give fifty bucks for a squint at her pan if Earl Chance walks through that door with a doll on his arm.”
Raleigh Peters saw another cartoonist leaving the bar, ahead of a cluster of big names. He jerked to his feet, shook Alfonte’s hand nervously. “Well, thanks, Mr. Alfonte,” he mumbled. “I’ve got to go now.”
“Not at all. Glad to have seen you, sonny.”
He watched the youth scurry across the lobby. He saw Raleigh corner another professional, shake hands and move toward the meeting room. Then Alfonte turned his head and spat diagonally toward a nearby cuspidor.
“Damn little leech!” he said to the cuspidor.
Sim Simonson also entered the lobby of the Danton and turned to the left toward the cigarette stand. He bought a package of Camels and slowly worked off the cellophane.
Sim, unlike Alfonte, was a studious cartoonist and a quiet one. His little eyes studied the lobby, counted the small groups of cartoonists who stood around exchanging talk of the trade.
He saw Dino Bragiotto enter and stride toward the bar. Dino walked with the air of a successful man. He carried himself stiffly erect, not bothering to notice the others in the lobby. This was typical of Dino’s work, Sim reflected. He drew his cartoons with a firm, hard line. He was a master of the direct approach.
A minute later Herb Merritt walked in. Herb was different. Here was a gentleman of the high-pressure school of art. Good old Herb—an artist who would have made good in any other trade. A salesman.
When Herb saw him at the cigarette stand Sim smiled and met him half way.
“Well, hello, Herb,” said Simonson in that bashful whisper he saved for old friends. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Herb, the perennial salesman, pumped his hand and slapped his shoulder. “Simee! I’ll be double-damned! It’s great to see you again, you little stinker! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you so we could sit down over a couple of beers and chew the fat.”
Sim smiled at the lie. “Any magazine office would have given you my—”
“Of course—what a nut I am!” Herb slapped his brow. “I should have thought about that. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer! You want a beer? Let’s go into the bar right now!”
He tugged Simonson’s sleeve and they entered the bar together. The bar was full of cartoonists gathered in knots at small tables. A group in the corner waved to them and Merritt headed for their table, still tugging his companion’s sleeve.
Dino Bragiotto made them welcome. “The meeting’s going to be a big success, gents. Who would have thought we’d suck in Herb Merritt? I didn’t know you were the clubman type, Herb.”
Herb slapped the table and closed his eyes. He was registering humorous impatience, a stock emotion. “Don’t tease me, Dino—don’t tease me! Who was it first said the idea for a cartoonist’s club was a wow? Who was it got all excited up at Collier’s? Tell the boys, Dino, or I’ll tear your heart out!”
“The guy’s better than Garbo,” said Sim, in his quiet way.
“A study in righteous indignation,” said Dino. “Quick, Watson, the sound camera.”
John Hedge turned a glass in his hand, spoke into the suds. “Of course, the fact that Earl Chance is talking tonight had nothing to do with it. You wouldn’t be interested in goosing Earl Chance, now would you, Herb?”
“Chance? Don’t make me laugh. Why should I come down here for Chance? You think little Herbie expects Chance to buy his tripe for The Country?” Merritt began to laugh. “Not that my stuff isn’t good enough for his lousy magazine, mind you. It’s just that I’m not interested, that’s all. I’ve been in this business for fifteen years—”
“—sold every magazine in the country,” whispered Sim.
“—from Maine to California,” added Bragiotto.
“—and made damn good dough at it,” said Hedge.
All this, reflected Simonson, was the truth. Every man in the group was upper bracket magazine cartoon society. Each earned his living by contributing humorous drawings to almost every magazine in the country. Almost, but not quite. None of these men had ever sold a drawing to The Country. None had ever entered the inner sanctum of Earl Chance’s office to deliver a finished drawing for publication.
Sim Simonson knew the reason. It was Earl Chance.
Once he had talked to Earl Chance. Earl was very pleasant. He came out from behind his desk to grasp Sim’s hand. He made Sim comfortable with a small, sweet-smelling cigar—a two-bit cigar. His sleek and handsome face was full of sympathy and understanding. His voice purred soothing phrases in an oily monotone. “Mr. Simonson, I want you to understand that I have a high regard for your art work,” he had said. “Your drawing is professional—technically finished. But, after all, Mr. Simonson, drawing isn’t the most important thing to the editors of The Country.” He dropped the statement into thin air and awaited a question
from Sim.
Sim studied his cigar while the editor leaned far back in his chair, clasped his long fingers behind his head and closed his eyes.
“No, it’s not your drawing that holds you back up here—it’s your point of view.” Then he began a rambling dissertation. He talked about the members of his staff of artists and the type of humor each had made his specialty. He talked on and on. Twenty minutes of this sort of talk left gentle Simonson in a pleasant haze of cigar smoke and involved rhetoric. He walked out of the office full of a strange variety of emotions. He liked Chance. Chance was all right. The magazine was all right. He liked the cigar. The cigar was all right. He couldn’t understand what Chance had said but felt that this was his own fault. He was too quiet, perhaps, too meek for editorial conversation. He would try again, someday soon.
But he never did.
CHAPTER 4
Outside the bar, in the lobby of the Hotel Danton, two men sat and talked. They were well dressed. They might have been business men. They were clean shaven. They might have been politicians. They were soft spoken. They might have been morticians. They were good looking. They might have been actors.
All of these things they were not. They were cartoonists. They were met tonight to strengthen the foundation of The Comic Arts Club.
The tall, blond youth was Lincoln Winters. Lincoln was a leader in his field. He was the greatest cartoonist of children in the land. His work appeared every week in a special box in the greatest magazine in America … The Country. This was an enviable spot for any artist to own. It meant that Lincoln Winters was assured a fat weekly check for his drawing. It also meant that Lincoln’s work was seen regularly by more than three million readers—the largest cartoon audience in the world.
All this glory had left its mark upon Winters. He was a simple man, and his long, thin face was a simple face. He had the blue eyes of a Norse god, wore his hair in the crew style, dressed smartly, spoke smartly and smiled a sharp and knowing smile. He drew his cartoons with a simplicity that was at once laugh provoking and full of a rare naivety.
For all these reasons Lincoln Winters was a man to be envied in the cartooning trade. His conduct, unaffected and straightforward, had made many friends in the editorial sanctums. He stood alone at the top of the heap, simple, smiling and secure.
Ned Rush, his idea man, fingered the current issue of The Country, studied the latest Lincoln Winters cartoon and spoke with high ardor to the great man.
“This drawing’s ten times better than your pen and ink stuff, Link,” he said. “This technique ought to bring you much more fan mail from now on.”
“You really like it?” Lincoln Winters leaned over to examine his handiwork. “It does seem to snap up the drawings, doesn’t it? I never thought I could do wash as well as that after all my years with pen and ink. It’s my first try at it, you know.”
“No kidding? Well, gosh, Link, I’d say it’s damned near perfect. Seems to me you do this stuff better than your pen and inks. I like the way you’ve handled your backgrounds. Did Chance say whether he’d continue ’em this way?”
For an instant Lincoln’s impassive face clouded. “Oh, you know Chance. He’s a little bit on the screwball side sometimes. He says ‘yes’ one day and ‘no’ the next.”
The gag man smiled grimly. “He says ‘no’ to most of the boys every day, Link. You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“Don’t I? Most of the boys forget how hard I struggled to get that spot in the magazine, Ned. He’s a very erratic sort of bird. Do you know that it took me almost six months to get him to give me a weekly spot?”
“Really? That must have been some time ago. He rejects ideas much quicker now. The boys are plenty burned up about his wholesale rejections. Nobody can figure out what he wants.” Ned Rush shrugged. “But that was never my worry. Gag men don’t expect promises of any sort from editors.”
Lincoln lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “It’s very hard to get a promise out of the guy, Ned. Last time I spoke to him he sounded as though he’d run my stuff in wash forever. Then again, if I think back and remember things he’s said, I get the feeling that the weekly drawing might be taken out anytime—without warning.”
Ned Rush was amazed. “You mean to tell me that Chance isn’t completely sold on your stuff? After running your kid panel on the same page, in the same spot for over three years?”
“It could be.”
“Nonsense! The readers would make a stink he’d never forget if he took out your panel. You still getting letters?”
“Oh, yes, the fan mail pours in as regularly as ever. Last week I got over fifty letters.”
Rush whistled. “That’s a lot of mail for a cartoon, Link. You haven’t got a worry in the world.”
“I’m not worried, Ned. Looks like the organization will have quite a turnout tonight. I just saw a few of the boys in the bar.”
A bell-hop approached and asked: “Is one of you gents Mr. Winters?”
“I’m Winters. Who wants to know?”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. There’s a call at the main desk for you. Some man …”
Lincoln Winters frowned and two little muscles worked in his jaw. “Where is he?” He stood up.
“I don’t know, sir. If you will go to the main desk—”
The cartoonist excused himself and walked rapidly toward the main desk.
The man with the lumpy nose walked along Forty-Seventh Street. He walked slowly and with a measured step. He carried himself poorly, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward, hands deep in his coat pockets. He wore a black felt hat bent far down over his right eye.
As he walked his pig eyes measured the other side of the street. He was looking for something, waiting for something.
He paused, finally, opposite an office building and reached into his inner pocket for a cigarette. He lit the cigarette, peered through the match light at the entrance opposite, blew out the match and crossed the street.
For a moment he leaned against a mailbox and allowed himself a quick survey of the lobby. Then he walked past the building and entered a narrow alley alongside.
In the alley his manner changed. Now he moved with a quick, sure step. He walked faster, no droop in his shoulders. His big hands were out of his pockets.
He went quickly to a metal door and tried the knob. When the door opened he grunted and smiled an evil smile.
Inside, he made for the stairway and began to climb with animal agility, pausing only on the floor landings for an instant of caution.
He climbed to the third floor. Here he waited a long time before opening the door to the corridor. He slid the door open slowly, listening. Somebody was walking down the hall.
When the footsteps died, he entered the third floor corridor and went quickly to a door marked: MEN.
Nobody saw him enter.
The quiet-mannered Simonson had moved from the bar to the lobby of the Danton.
He was cornered. But Sim didn’t mind the open-faced youth who barraged him with questions. Raleigh Peters was obviously an amateur in search of help.
“I guess you think I’m a nut, Mr. Simonson,” said Raleigh, “but I’m very serious about my cartooning. I like to get to the bottom of things, to find out how other guys in the business work. That way I can improve my stuff and maybe sell more.”
“Good,” said Sim. “What seems to be your main difficulty?”
Raleigh searched for an opening phrase. “A fellow just doesn’t know how to begin, if you get what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take you, for instance. Did you go to art school?”
“I never learned to cartoon at art school,” said Sim softly.
“No? Do you think art school is important to a cartoonist?”
Sim smiled. “Maybe. It depends on the artist. There are som
e cartoonists who have an art content in their work. Daumier, for instance—he was a great cartoonist—probably the greatest ever. You might say that Dino Bragiotto has the same approach to his work as Daumier had. He sort of studies people for his sketches.”
“I know.” Raleigh became thoughtful. “But I’m not sure that I want to be that kind of cartoonist, Mr. Simonson. I go for the comic stuff, you know—comic strips and stuff like that. My idea of a great cartoonist is, well—”
“Yes, Peters?”
“My idea of a great cartoonist, a great comic artist, is Lincoln Winters.”
“Lincoln Winters is a good cartoonist,” said Simonson.
“Well, now, that helps me. Do you think I’ll get anywhere by following Lincoln Winters’ stuff as a model?”
“Lincoln got pretty far.”
“Yes, he sure did. But, well—now that I’ve got my ideal, what do I do next?”
“You copy him.”
“Copy him?” Raleigh was incredulous. “But that’s stealing—isn’t it?”
“Not at all. Everybody must first copy before he can call his work his own. Haven’t you ever noticed in The Metropolitan Museum how art students copy the works of the masters?”
“That’s true. I never thought of it that way.”
“But you must. These young art students copy the great painters for only one reason. They’re anxious to discover the secrets of the past. You should do the same thing in your work, Peters. I’d suggest that you begin at once to study Winters’ work.”
“But—won’t my stuff look too much like his?”
“And if it does?” Sim flipped open an issue of The Country. He turned the pages and paused at the latest drawing by Lincoln Winters. “Do you think you could copy this cartoon exactly? I mean without actually tracing it?”
“It’d be a tough job, at that.”
“You bet it would. Nobody could do it. I doubt whether Lincoln himself could make another one just like this. You see, when one artist copies another man’s work he always manages to inject a little of his own personality into the sketch. It’s impossible to do otherwise. That’s why I’m telling you to begin as soon as possible to copy Lincoln Winters. You’ll find that after a while you’ll be drawing in a style that doesn’t resemble his at all. Then, still later, you’ll drop his work altogether because you’ll have a new technique that’ll be all your own.”
The Man with the Lumpy Nose Page 3