The Return Of Bulldog Drummond

by Sapper

  “What happens if I find out anything?” demanded the other.

  “If I’m in the club you can come and tell me about it; and if I’m not, drop me a line to the flat.”

  “Right you are, old boy. Laura and I are having a bite somewhere, so I’ll push off.”

  The door swung to behind him, and Drummond ordered a whisky and soda. The big man had presumably been Penton: why had he changed his mind over engaging Algy Longworth? Was it that he genuinely did want to fill two minor parts; if so, there were scores of actors with experience from whom he could make a selection. So why Algy? It was possible that the two of them going in together had influenced him, but if that were so why didn’t he think of it at once? And he was still cogitating over the problem when an hour later he switched off his bedroom light.

  Chapter 7

  Sir Edward Greatorex was enjoying himself. Stretched at ease in the most comfortable chair of his luxurious suite at the Ritz Carlton, he had permitted himself the extravagance of a cigar. On a small table at his side stood a shaded reading-lamp and a bottle of Vichy water, on his knees were some typewritten sheets of paper clipped together at one corner.

  The title of the document he was reading was “High Finance,” an eminently suitable one for the great financier, but one which, strangely enough, from time to time caused him to laugh, or at any rate give vent to a noise which was as close to laughter as he ever got. Occasionally, too, he frowned, making little clucking sounds indicative of displeasure.

  But if any onlooker who had been privileged to intrude on Sir Edward’s privacy had imagined that these manifestations were due to scorn or disapproval of the financial opinions expressed by the writer, he would have been sadly wrong. If, further, he had peeped over the reader’s shoulder, he would have been hard put to it to reconcile the title with the script. What, for instance, had the following paragraph to do with the finer points of international exchanges?

  “Paula enters the room, and believing for the moment that it is empty, allows her utter despair to show on her features. Ruin stares the man she loves in the face: foolishly, perhaps, but not fraudulently, he has been dabbling in interests which were too big for him, and now he has lost everything…”

  “Serves the damned fool right,” came a mutter from the chair.

  “‘Is there nothing to be done?’ she asks herself again. Must she stand by and see Jack go down and out? Distraught, she turns towards the window, and for the first time she sees that the man principally responsible for her lover’s ruin is in the room watching her with an amused smile.”

  Once again Sir Edward laid the typescript on his knee: that, he reflected, was the stuff to give ’em. He fancied himself in that part, and with a cautious glance towards the next room, where his secretary was going through the evening mail, he got up and stood in front of the glass. Amused smile – slightly contemptuous, but slightly pitying. He rehearsed two or three effects, and Gardini, entering the room noiselessly, retreated badly shaken. Mercifully Sir Edward had not seen him, and after a quick drink to restore his nerves he gave a short cough and returned.

  “Are you ready, sir, for your mail?” he asked deferentially.

  Sir Edward reseated himself.

  “In a minute or two,” he said. “I like this stuff, Benito.”

  The secretary breathed more freely: ‘Benito’ evenings were all right: ‘Gardini’ ones were a toss up: ‘you damned infernal idiot’ ones distinctly trying.

  “I think it’s very good, Sir Edward,” he agreed. “It’s got punch in it, the action is rapid, and the love interest holds one.”

  Sir Edward snorted contemptuously.

  “Far too much of it,” he cried. “I shall speak to Hardcastle about that. Some of it might be cut, and the part in the office in Paris where Sir John is making up his mind whether to crush Bessonia or not should, I think, be considerably strengthened.”

  “Perhaps so, sir,” said the other tactfully. “Of course, one has to remember that the film-going public insist on having love, and you won’t have a success unless you give it to them.”

  At which point the intelligent reader will guess that the document was not concerned with the flight of the dollar, but was a brief scenario of the film being made at the Blackwater studio. But what the intelligent reader will find a little difficult to understand is why the said scenario should have found its way into the hands, and the interested hands, of a man like Sir Edward Greatorex. And to make that clear it is necessary to reveal a secret, jealously guarded save from the very few, of Sir Edward’s mentality.

  Most male children have yearned passionately to drive a railway engine: to be a drum major: even perchance to draw a gun on sight and shoot apples flung in the air into a thousand pieces. And since most male children do none of these things in later life, presumably the yearning ceases with advancing years.

  In Sir Edward’s case, however, the yearning had been a different one and had not ceased. From the moment when he had first seen Douglas Fairbanks slaying thousands, and had watched Charlie Chaplin’s magic feet twinkling over the screen, he had had but one real ambition, beside which a few odd millions more or less counted for nothing at all. And that ambition had been to play a leading part in a big film.

  He had realised that he could hardly hope to compete against either of them in their own particular line: in fact, he had not wished to. A strong and silent role was what he passionately desired to play: a great statesman, calm and unruffled, steering the national ship through troubled waters; a great surgeon with life and death in his steady hand; a great financier with the destinies of hundreds in his control. A rugged and even ruthless type of part was what he saw himself in…

  Now, beyond question, had he so wished he could have gratified his desire at any time. With a week’s income he could have bought studios, camera men, authors, and even bribed the public to come and see the result. But two things prevented him. The first was a certain diffidence caused by the thought that it was just possible he might not be quite so successful as, say, John Barrymore; the second was the question of the money involved. It would cost a lot, and that was as gall and wormwood to the soul of Edward Greatorex. And so, but for a strange turn of the wheel, his secret ambition would in all probability have remained a secret till his death.

  It had occurred six months previously, when he was taking the waters at Baden. Seated next to him one day in the lounge was an extremely pretty woman; and though he liked to pose as a misogynist, in reality he was far from being one. At heart he was a sensualist, and it was only the fact that women cost a lot of money that kept him in the straight and narrow path. However, there was no charge for a little mild conversation, and when she dropped her handkerchief he retrieved it for her.

  It transpired that her name was Madame Saumur, who was staying there with a great friend, the Comtessa Bartelozzi, and for the next few days he was frequently with either one or the other. Indeed, so charming did he find them both, that his secretary was amazed at his expansiveness. Now it happened one evening that, in the course of the conversation, a film showing at one of the local cinemas was under discussion. And in criticising the performance Sir Edward delivered himself of some scathing comments on the actor playing the principal role.

  “Had I been playing it,” he remarked, “I should have given a totally different rendering. His conception of the part was all wrong.”

  Madame Saumur paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.

  “Have you ever done any film-work, Sir Edward?” she asked.

  “My dear lady,” he answered, with a tolerant smile, “I’m afraid my life has been too busy for frivolities of that sort. At the same time, had it been cast along different lines, I feel moderately confident that my name would not have been entirely unknown to what I believe are called film fans.”

  “I’m sure of it,” she said quietly. “Why do
n’t you try in your spare time?”

  He waved the suggestion away with an indulgent hand: not even to this lovely creature would he admit that her suggestion was one that had obsessed him for years. But as the days passed she returned to the subject more than once.

  “I’m in earnest, Sir Edward,” she said. “I have some knowledge of film requirements myself, and I have been studying your features. And I believe that for certain roles you possess a marvellous film face.”

  Again he waved a deprecating hand, but it was clear that he was not displeased at the idea.

  “Now I am going to make a suggestion to you,” she continued. “I have an American friend – a Mr Hardcastle – who is coming here in a day or two and staying a week. He is closely in touch with the film business, and, what is far more important, he could give you a candid and truthful opinion at once. Not that it would be of more than academic interest,” she added. “Naturally, to a man like yourself such a matter is too trivial. But all the artist in me cries out in protest against features such as yours being wasted.”

  And Sir Edward was even less displeased: most certainly as a matter of academic interest he would be delighted to hear Mr Hardcastle’s unbiased opinion. The trouble was that Mr Hardcastle’s opinion would have been more unbiased but for an interview which took place before the meeting: an interview at which the financier was not present.

  It occurred in Madame Saumur’s sitting-room, and speech was frank.

  “See here, Tom,” she said. “I’ve got nothing worked out yet, but the details will come later. We’ve been in this hole a fortnight now sitting in that slob-eyed skate’s pocket, and all we’ve got out of him is an orangeade he forgot to pay for. But he’s got a hunch that he can act for the films. It doesn’t matter that his face would empty any cinema in a minute, if it hadn’t cracked the machine first: you’ve got to guy him good and hearty.”

  “Put me wise, honey, and I’ll do what I can,” said Hardcastle amiably.

  “You’re one of the big noises in the American film world,” she explained. “A power behind the throne: a man with unrivalled experience in spotting winners for the screen. Goldwyns and Paramount never engage anyone without you giving him the once over.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said. “What comes next?”

  “You’ve got to give an opinion on his face.”

  “Suffering Sam!” he cried “Have you got the necessary for a high ball?”

  “You’ve got to tell him that his features fulfil every known requirement for a successful film career. Don’t try any funny stuff: he knows he wouldn’t beat Ronald Colman in a competition for looks, and he’s no fool. Character parts – that’s the line to take.”

  “I get you, honey,” said Hardcastle. “Lead me to him.”

  “And don’t forget you’re a big noise in America.”

  “It would be easier to remember that bit if you could part with the equivalent of a ten-dollar bill. I’m broke.”

  “Here you are, Tom.” She pressed some money into his hand. “You go down and take a walk. We’ll join up with Sir Edward in the lounge. Then when you come in we’ll meet for the first time. Don’t rush things: he’s a wary bird.”

  And twenty minutes later, Hardcastle, with a large cigar in the corner of his mouth, entered the hotel. For a few moments he stood looking round him; then, with a sudden start of recognition, he crossed to Madame Saumur.

  “This is a real pleasure,” he remarked, “though not unexpected. Lord Downingham told me you were here. And you, Comtessa. Well, well – this is bully.”

  “Mr Hardcastle, I don’t know if you’ve ever met Sir Edward Greatorex?”

  “Put it there, Sir Edward,” he said cordially, holding out his hand. “I have not had that honour, though it would be idle to pretend that I don’t know who you are. The penalty of fame, sir: the penalty of fame. Now may I offer you ladies a little light refreshment, or is it forbidden by the rules of the cure?”

  “And what have you been doing since I last saw you?” asked Madame Saumur, as the waiter departed with an order.

  “Trotting around,” he said. “I was down in Hollywood for a couple of months.”

  He turned to Sir Edward.

  “My line of business, sir, is a humble one compared to your great interests. I am in the film trade.”

  “Most interesting, Mr Hardcastle,” said the financier. “And what particular branch of that business? Do you produce?”

  “No, sir: at least not as a general rule. I have produced: two years ago I did one of the Metro super films for them. But my principal line is not that: it’s something which very few people know exists.”

  He leaned forward confidentially.

  “Now take this lounge at the present moment. Subconsciously I am taking in everyone’s face from the point of view of screen work. There are many very good-looking people, Sir Edward, who are useless for film purposes: others, not so good looking, would be an instant success. Instinctively when I go into a room I find myself putting everyone I meet into one or other category. And because I don’t make a mistake once in a hundred times, I have more or less specialised in that branch. Variety, sir: that’s what the public wants. We’re looking for new people all the time. Of course there will always be great popular favourites; but they’ve got to be supported by others. Ladies, your very good health. Sir Edward, I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I find you most interesting, Mr Hardcastle,” said the other. “Let us hear your criticisms on the people in this lounge.”

  Hardcastle shifted his chair slightly so as to get a better view.

  “Wal,” he said, “there are about forty one can dismiss at once. Ah! wait – here’s a good example. You see that pretty girl who has just come in. Good figure: good mover: exactly the type which throngs round studio doors believing they are second Mary Pickfords. Whereas I can see in a moment that that girl would be useless on the screen. It’s a gift, Sir Edward, which I happen to possess. Once again – take that rather big ugly guy over by the door: in certain roles that man would be bully.”

  “What about me, Mr Hardcastle?” asked Madame Saumur, with a smile.

  “I’ll answer you seriously, Madame,” he said. “And as a matter of fact here is a very interesting example, Sir Edward, of my job. Take these two ladies: both equally beautiful in their different ways. And yet I say, without a shadow of doubt, that whereas Madame Saumur would be a success on the screen, the Comtessa would not.”

  “That’s one for me,” laughed the Comtessa. “Now we’ll put Sir Edward through it: what about him?”

  “Sir Edward! Why, he was sorted out in my mind as soon as I saw him.” He tapped the table with his finger impressively. “If Sir Edward had not been who he is, and I had happened to meet him nine months ago, it would have saved me weeks of frenzied search. And when I think of what I finally managed to get hold of…”

  He lifted despairing hands to heaven.

  “No, sir,” he continued quietly, “if you weren’t who you are, I should be tempted to make you an offer on the spot. At the most you could only turn it down. You are one of the finest examples of a type that is in great demand, but which for some reason or other is the hardest to find. Film face! Gee whizz! If ever you lose your money, Sir Edward” – and he laughed heartily at the bare idea – “you just cable Tom Hardcastle, Hollywood. He’ll find you your weekly pocket money.”

  “You really mean that you think I’m suitable, Mr Hardcastle,” said the financier.

  “Believe me, Sir Edward, in my profession we get out of the habit of wasting time. And paying compliments to a woman, or telling lies to a man is waste of time. In jest the Comtessa asked me what I thought of you: I’ve told you. If the necessity arose in your case, you could earn big money – very big money. Wal! I guess I must be getting along; and I hope I may see somethin
g of you during the time I’m here.”

  He bowed to them all and sauntered out of the hotel – a typical, prosperous American businessman.

  “What did I tell you, Sir Edward?” said Madame Saumur, with a smile. “The question of academic interest has been answered in the way I knew it would be.”

  “Undoubtedly a most interesting and intelligent man,” he remarked. “I should like to have another talk with him on the subject.”

  A wish, had he known it, that there was every promise of being fulfilled. The only trouble was that it was a little difficult to decide what the next move was going to be. And at a council of war held that afternoon in Madame Saumur’s sitting-room not much progress was made.

  “I reckon I played my part pretty well, girls,” said Hardcastle. “But for the life of me I don’t see what good it’s going to do us. We’ve made that guy believe that his dial bears some resemblance to a face, but where’s it lead to? If he went incognito to any studio and asked for a job they’d set the dog on him.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Tom,” said Madame Saumur: “we’ve taken the first step. He’s interested in you, and if we can’t find some method of making him part, we must have lost our cunning. Keep him going: we’ll think of something.”

  “All right, honey,” he answered. “I’ll do my best. By the way, as I came in there was a man asking for Sir Edward’s letters – a foreign-looking chap. Who is he?”

  “Gardini – the private secretary. Why?”

  Hardcastle shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth.

  “Watch him,” he said tersely. “I didn’t like the look he gave me. Yours truly may know nothing about film faces, but he knows the hell of a lot about ordinary ones. So watch him.”

  For the next three or four days nothing happened, if the inconceivable fact that Sir Edward invited Hardcastle to dinner can be regarded as nothing. But as far as coming to any decision as to how to relieve the financier of any dough, the situation remained unchanged. It became increasingly obvious that the trout had swallowed the fly – time after time he brought the conversation back to films in general and himself in particular – but at that it stuck, and at that it would have stuck, in all probability, for good, but for a very unexpected development.