Johnny was tired. His leg ached and he massaged it reflectively. Where was it all going to lead to? He didn’t know. He was worried. The business had changed a great deal since they had entered it. It was changing more every day. They had to be ready to change with it. What was needed was a rare combination of experience and adaptability. He knew of no one in the company that had it. Peter had experience, but lacked flexibility. Mark was flexible, entirely too flexible, but lacked experience. That left only himself.
And there was nothing he could do. Peter was running the show. But even if he had the chance, he wondered if he could do the job that had to be done. It would be a dirty job. When it was over, a man wouldn’t have many friends left. The whole company had to be put through the wringer, from the top down.
Unconsciously he shrugged his shoulders. Why was he thinking about it? It was Peter’s headache, not his. Peter had told him the exact extent of his responsibilities. Peter had made it plain that he would stand for no interference. It had been almost four years, ever since they had got into trouble, since Peter had asked him for his opinion.
A sigh escaped his lips. Yet he knew that Peter liked him, still thought highly of him. Then what had gone wrong between them? Was it that Peter had suddenly grown conscious of his power and decided to show it? Or was it that Peter had decided he was growing old and was afraid that Johnny would cheat Mark of his inheritance?
Johnny didn’t know, but his heart hung heavy in him. The old days when they had struggled toward a common goal were warm in his memory. Things were better then; all they had to worry about was the business. They weren’t afraid to trust each other.
Johnny shook his head and picked up the phone. Jane answered it. “You better send that letter out tomorrow, Janey,” he said into it, and hung up the phone.
Peter had said to get the pay-cut announcement out right away. Friday was still three days off. Peter wouldn’t like his holding it up until then.
2
Mark emptied the champagne bottle into their glasses. The softly lit room had already taken on a rose-colored hue for him. He looked over at her wonderingly. God, she was even more beautiful than he had remembered, than any woman he had ever known. No wonder Johnny couldn’t hold on to her, he wasn’t man enough for a woman like this. It was funny the way he had met her again.
He had been at his table at the Trocambo with a few friends. He had just started to get out of his seat to go and talk to a friend he had seen at the bar. As he stood up and turned around, his shoulder had bumped into a woman who was passing behind him. He had grabbed her arm to steady her. “So sorry. Such little room between these damn tables,” he had apologized when he recognized her.
She had looked up at him, an amused smile on her face. “That’s all right,” she had said. “No harm done.”
He smiled down at her. Her blond hair shimmered in the blue lights of the night club. She didn’t know how wrong she was when she said that. The harm had been done, but not to her. “’Straordinary was to meet again, Miss Warren,” he said.
“Hollywood is really a small town, Mark,” she had replied still smiling.
A pleased look came onto his face that she knew his name. He forgot about the friend at the bar he had wanted to see. Instead he persuaded her to join his table for a drink.
That had been about six weeks ago, just after his father had gone to New York to see if he could stimulate the sales department into greater efforts.
With a smile he remembered how Johnny had argued with his father over his appointment as production boss. Johnny thought he did not have the necessary experience and that Gordon should have the job, but the old man had put his foot down. He did not trust Gordon, he had told Johnny flatly, Gordon had quit in a huff when he heard the news, and Johnny was left without an argument.
Last week his father had left for Europe, having done all he could in New York. With his domestic market in the condition it was, he thought he might be able to get more results over there. Magnum’s foreign offices were always among the best in the industry.
Since he had first met her in the night club, Mark had called Dulcie several times and had gone out with her once. And each time he saw her, he became more enchanted with her.
In Paris many years ago he had learned that there were only two basic types of women: those who appealed to the flesh and those who appealed to the spirit. He had long ago made up his mind that those who appealed to the spirit were not for him. He preferred the tangible to the intangible. Dulcie Warren was a very tangible woman.
This was the first time he had ever been to her home. He had been very happily surprised when he had called her that afternoon and she had said she was much too tired to go out that evening and suggested that he drop in for a few drinks afterward.
The few drinks had added up to two bottles of champagne up to the present moment. She had greeted him at the door in a black velvet hostess gown tied with a red silk sash. Her blond hair framed her tanned golden heart-shaped face, and her white teeth shone at him as she smiled.
He thought the smile was for him, but he was wrong. It was a smile of amusement that he should be here. She took a peculiar delight in the fact that he was Peter’s son—the son of the man who had so righteously fired her, using the morals clause as an excuse. She didn’t dare fight the contract at the time because it would have meant bringing the whole business out into the open, but she had promised herself that one day she would even the score.
She looked at Mark. His eyes were slightly glazed, he was a little bit drunk, she thought. Maybe she would get even through him, she didn’t know. She had listened to him talk about the company. It hadn’t been easy for them the past few years. And now Peter had gone off on a begging trip to try to raise some money and had left Mark in charge of the studio.
Mark had tried to persuade his father to let him make some of the ideas he had into pictures, but Peter had firmly refused. They were too impractical at the moment, he had said, they would cost too much. Peter had told him to proceed with the pictures that had been already scheduled. Those were his orders, and Mark grumblingly obeyed them.
As the liquor took hold, he began to tell her about his plans and how his father had refused him permission to make the pictures. He knew that his ideas were new and would be far superior to what they were making, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He told her of one of the pictures he had in mind.
She listened to the story. Something inside her made her refrain from laughing at the idea. It was not only too expensive and impractical; it was downright stupid. She knew almost immediately that Mark had no more conception of what made a picture than he had of flying to the moon. She looked at him speculatively. Maybe this was the opportunity she had been waiting for.
She smiled slowly at him. Her eyes widened slightly. “Why, Mark,” she said in an impressed tone of voice, “what a wonderful idea! How foolish of your father not to see it!” She shrugged her shoulders prettily and tilted her head to one side. “But then, it’s not unusual out here,” she added. “They haven’t the appreciation for subtlety and finesse that you have. What is it they say about a prophet being without honor in his own country?”
Mark had difficulty in framing his words. “That’s jutht it,” he answered, lisping lightly. “They resent ideas. They’re alwayth afraid of something new.” He stared down at his glass dejectedly.
She leaned toward him, her gown parting a little. She turned his face toward her. “Maybe there’s some way you could manage to make the picture anyhow,” she said encouragingly.
His eyes were on the cleft of her bosom, revealed by the parting garment. “How?” he asked. “There’s only enough money to make the pictures he wants.”
Her hand stroked his cheek lightly. “There are some ways you might be able to manage it. I heard of a case over at another studio where the production manager wanted to make a certain picture and they didn’t want to let him do it, so he made it anyway and hid it on the produc
tion reports of a picture they wanted him to make. When it was all over, the picture was a tremendous hit and everybody thought he was a genius.”
“Do you think I could do it?” he looked questioningly at her.
“I don’t know,” she said carefully. “I’m only mentioning it as an idea. After all, you’re in charge of the studio while your father is away.”
He straightened up, a thoughtful look on his face. His hand reached out for another bottle of champagne and he unsteadily filled his glass again and drank it. He looked at her. “Maybe I can do it,” he said unsteadily.
“Of course you can, Mark,” she said softly, leaning back against the couch. “You’re smart enough to find a way.”
He bent toward her. She let him kiss her, let his hands roam over her. Suddenly she caught them, held them.
“How are you going to do it, Mark?” she asked.
He looked at her stupidly. “Do what?” he asked her.
She tossed her blond head impatiently. “Make the picture without them knowing about it,” she said sharply, restraining an impulse to ridicule him.
He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t say I was going to do it,” he said, a look of cunning coming into his face, “I only said I would think about doing it.”
She watched him take another drink. “I thought you were going to do it,” she pouted. “I didn’t think you were afraid.”
He got to his feet dizzily. The fumes of the alcohol were running around in his brain. He drew himself up proudly. “Who’s afraid?” he asked drunkenly. “I’m not afraid of nobody.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Then you are going to show them?”
He looked down at her. He weaved gently in front of her. Doubt came back into his face. “I thure would like to,” he lisped. “But the work reportsth we thend to New York would show it up.”
“You could always say it’s a title change. They’d never know the difference until it was all finished,” she suggested sagaciously.
He stood there a moment thoughtfully, then his face broke into a wide smile. “Thay, Dulthie!” he exclaimed. “That’th a good idea!”
She got up and stood very close to him. “Of course it’s a good idea, Mark.” She pressed against him and kissed him.
He put his arms around her and buried his face against her throat. She let him kiss her until she could feel the tenseness of his body against her, his lips more demanding; then she broke loose from his grip. “Mark, don’t!” she said sharply.
He looked at her bewildered. “Why, Dulcie?” he asked in an anguished voice. “I thought you liked me.”
She smiled dazzlingly at him. “I do like you, darling,” she said softly, coming close to him and kissing him lightly on the lips. “But I have to work tomorrow and you know what those cameras can see.”
He tried to hold her, but she grabbed his hands and gently steered him toward the door. He went docilely with her. At the door he turned and kissed her again.
His cry of pain was like a strange music to her ears. “Dulcie, I want you so much I hurt!” His eyes were wild and glazed with a drunken passion.
She opened the door and pushed him through it gently. “I know, darling,” she said softly. Her eyes were filled with many promises. “Later, maybe.”
She closed the door behind him and leaned against it smiling. Absently she rearranged the front of her parted gown, then she slowly crossed the room and lit a cigarette. She stared at the closed door, still smiling softly. There were many ways….
3
Peter sat quietly in the chair, appraising the man who sat opposite him. He shifted his position slightly. These British had no idea of what comfort meant. If a man’s behind was comfortable, he could work better, think better. He looked quickly around the office. It was dark and dull and looked exactly like what it was, the British sales manager’s office.
He turned his face back to the man, Philippe X. Danvere. A month ago he had never even heard of him but, concurrently with his arrival in London, the trade papers were filled with that name.
Philippe X. Danvere, one of the richest men in Europe, had gone into the picture business. How the man had got the idea no one seemed to know. Born in Switzerland, he had been sent to England to complete his education before the World War. The war had come along while he was still at Oxford and he had enlisted in the British army. His father, head of the world-famous Danvere Textile Company, had objected to this with typical hard-headed Swiss neutrality, to no avail. His father died when the war ended, and Philippe, then a captain, returned to his native land to take over as titular head of his father’s company. He had remained quietly in that position until a month ago.
The announcement that he had purchased controlling interest in several theater circuits on the Continent and finally that he had acquired the Martin Theaters Circuit, the largest in the British Isles, had startled the film world. Speculation was rife about his motives but Mr. Danvere kept his own counsel. He was a tall man with dark, wide eyes, a prominent nose, and a firm mouth and chin. His speech and mannerisms were more English than those of many a home-grown Briton.
Peter had immediately dispatched Charley Rosenberg, his London office manager, to see Mr. Danvere and try to secure the Martin circuit account for Magnum. It would be a great thing for Magnum to have four hundred guaranteed outlets for their product in the British Isles inasmuch as Great Britain represented one half of the foreign market for American pictures.
Mr. Danvere had been most polite to Rosenberg. He had also been most cautious. He explained to Mr. Rosenberg that as far as the picture business was concerned he was still a beginner and would not consider entering into any agreement with an American company for their product until he had assured himself of their complete reliability.
Mr. Rosenberg had pointed out to him that Magnum had been in the picture business since 1910 and was from the standpoint of age one of the oldest names in the business.
Mr. Danvere had indicated he was well aware of Magnum’s position, since his accountants had already made a study of the more prominent companies. He also indicated he would be most interested in coming to some kind of agreement with Magnum under the proper terms and auspices.
Mr. Rosenberg had inquired what he meant and had been told that as a textile merchant, mind you, not speaking as a member of the motion-picture industry, Mr. Danvere had found the most profitable sort of arrangement where the retailer had some close connection with the manufacturer.
Mr. Rosenberg then mentioned the fact that Mr. Kessler, the president of Magnum Pictures, happened to be in London at the moment and would welcome an opportunity to meet him, and a meeting was arranged to take place in Magnum’s London offices the following week.
The meeting had been delayed two weeks by the unexpected illness of Mr. Danvere, who had inconveniently taken cold, and Peter stayed in London until Mr. Danvere had recovered. Now they sat opposite each other, with Mr. Rosenberg hovering solicitously over them.
Mr. Danvere was speaking. “I must confess to a certain interest in your company, Mr. Kessler, ever since the war. I was an officer in His Majesty’s armed services then, and I can remember the motion pictures you supplied the armed services without charge with a great deal of personal gratification.”
Peter smiled slowly. Free motion pictures to the armies of the Allies had been one of his most treasured projects. He had realized that supplying entertainment for the soldiers would create a great deal of good will for motion pictures. “That’s something I felt very grateful for being able to do, Mr. Danvere.”
Mr. Danvere smiled, revealing his rather large teeth. “That’s why I suggested to Mr. Rosenberg when he came to see me that a meeting might be in order between us. I should like to be able to speak to you frankly and confidentially if I may.”
Peter looked at Charley Rosenberg, who immediately excused himself and left the room. Then he turned to Mr. Danvere inquiringly.
Mr. Danvere settled comfortably in his chair. “As
I understand it, Mr. Kessler, and please correct me if I am wrong in my assumption, you are the sole owner of your company.”
“For the most part you are correct, Mr. Danvere,” Peter explained. “That is, I own all but ten percent of the stock. That ten percent is owned by a Mr. Edge, who helped me found the company and is at present executive vice-president.”
“I see,” said Mr. Danvere, nodding his head. He paused for a moment, then continued. “I believe Mr. Rosenberg made my viewpoint clear to you in connection with the showing of your pictures in the Martin theaters?”
“Not exactly,” Peter replied cagily. “I would appreciate it if you would go over the idea with me.”
Mr. Danvere leaned forward in his chair. His manner was still elaborately casual. “You see, Mr. Kessler,” he said ingenuously, “basically I am nothing but a simple textile merchant. As such I have developed certain primary rules, which I endeavor to follow since they served me most successfully in the past. One of these rules applies to the sale of merchandise. I have found out by experience that an article is more successfully retailed when the retailer has an interest in the manufacture of the product itself. I believe that this same rule can be applied to the sale of motion pictures. For example, the Martin theaters would be more interested in securing the greatest grosses possible for Magnum pictures if they had an interest in the pictures themselves and could see the rewards for that additional effort being gainful in two ways. From the production as well as the exhibition of the pictures.”
Peter looked at him steadily. What Danvere meant in plain talk was “You cut me in and I’ll see that you do all right.” Back in the states they called it protection. “I take it then, Mr. Danvere,” he said gently, “you are interested in acquiring an interest in the Magnum company.”
Danvere smiled slowly. “Something of the sort, Mr. Kessler,” he admitted.
The Dream Merchants Page 46