It has sometimes seemed to me (said Mr Mulliner, thoughtfully sipping his hot Scotch and lemon) that to the modern craze for dieting may be attributed all the unhappiness which is afflicting the world to-day. Women, of course, are chiefly responsible. They go in for these slimming systems, their sunny natures become warped, and they work off the resultant venom on their men-folk. These, looking about them for someone they can take it out of, pick on the males of the neighbouring country, who themselves are spoiling for a fight because their own wives are on a diet, and before you know where you are war has broken out with all its attendant horrors.
This is what happened in the case of China and Japan. It is this that lies at the root of all the unpleasantness in the Polish Corridor. And look at India. Why is there unrest in India? Because its inhabitants eat only an occasional handful of rice. The day when Mahatma Gandhi sits down to a good juicy steak and follows it up with roly-poly pudding and a spot of Stilton you will see the end of all this nonsense of Civil Disobedience.
Till then we must expect Trouble, Disorder ... in a word, Chaos.
However, these are deep waters. Let us return to my distant connection, Wilmot.
In the brief address which he had made when prescribing, the doctor, as was his habit, had enlarged upon the spiritual uplift which might be expected to result from an orange-juice diet. The juice of an orange, according to him, was not only rich in the essential vitamins but contained also mysterious properties which strengthened and enlarged the soul. Indeed, the picture he had drawn of the soul squaring its elbows and throwing out its chest had done quite a good deal at the time to soothe the anguish that had afflicted Wilmot when receiving his sentence.
After all, the young man had felt, unpleasant though it might be to suffer the physical torments of a starving python, it was jolly to think that one was going to become a sort of modern St Francis of Assisi.
And now, as we have seen, the exact opposite had proved to be the case. Now that he had been called upon to convert himself into a mere vat or container for orange-juice, Wilmot Mulliner had begun to look on his fellow-man with a sullen loathing. His ready smile had become a tight-lipped sneer. And as for his eye, once so kindly, it could have been grafted on to the head of a man-eating shark and no questions asked.
The advent of a waitress, who came to clear away his glass, and the discovery that he was alone in the deserted commissary, awoke Wilmot to a sense of the passage of time. At two o'clock he was due in Mr Schnellenhamer's office, to assist at the story-conference to which the latter had alluded in his talk with Mr Levitsky. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was time to be moving.
His mood was one of sullen rebellion. He thought of Mr Schnellenhamer with distaste. He was feeling that, if Mr Schnellenhamer started to throw his weight about, he, Wilmot Mulliner, would know what to do about it.
In these circumstances, the fact that Mr Schnellenhamer, having missed his lunch that day owing to the numerous calls upon him, had ordered a plateful of sandwiches to be placed upon his desk takes upon itself no little of the dramatic. A scenario-writer, informed of the facts of the case, would undoubtedly have thought of those sandwiches as Sandwiches of Fate.
It was not at once that Wilmot perceived the loathsome objects. For some minutes only the familiar features of a story-conference penetrated to his consciousness. Mr Schnellenhamer was criticising a point that had arisen in connection with the scenario under advisement.
'This guy, as I see it,' he was saying, alluding to the hero of the story, 'is in a spot. He's seen his wife kissing a fellow and, not knowing it was really her brother, he's gone off to Africa, shooting big game, and here's this lion has got him down and is starting to chew the face off him. He gazes into its hideous eyes, he hears its fearful snarls, and he knows the end is near. And where I think you're wrong, Levitsky, is in saying that that's the spot for our big cabaret sequence.'
'A vision,' explained Mr Levitsky.
'That's all right about visions. I don't suppose there's a man in the business stronger for visions than I am. But only in their proper place. What I say is what we need here is for the United States Marines to arrive. Aren't I right?'
He paused and looked about him like a hostess collecting eyes at a dinner-party. The Yessers yessed. The Nodders' heads bent like poplars in a breeze.
'Sure I am,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Make a note, Miss Potter.'
And with a satisfied air he reached out and started eating a sandwich.
Now, the head of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Motion Picture Corporation was not one of those men who can eat sandwiches aloofly and, as it were, surreptitiously. When he ate a sandwich there was no concealment or evasion. He was patently, for all eyes to see, all ears to hear, a man eating a sandwich. There was a brio, a gusto, about the performance which stripped it of all disguise. His sandwich flew before him like a banner.
The effect on Wilmot Mulliner was stupendous. As I say, he had not been aware that there were sandwiches among those present, and the sudden and unexpected crunching went through him like a knife.
Poets have written feelingly of many a significant and compelling sound ... the breeze in the trees; the roar of waves breaking on a stern and rockbound coast; the coo of doves in immemorial elms; and the song of the nightingale. But none of these can speak to the very depths of the soul like the steady champing of beef sandwiches when the listener is a man who for four days has been subsisting on the juice of an orange.
In the case of Wilmot Mulliner, it was as if the sound of those sandwiches had touched a spring, releasing all the dark forces within him. A tigerish light had come into his eyes, and he sat up in his chair, bristling.
The next moment those present were startled to observe him leap to his feet, his face working violently.
'Stop that!'
Mr Schnellenhamer quivered. His jaw and sandwich fell. He caught Mr Levitsky's eye. Mr Levitsky's jaw had fallen, too.
'Stop it, I say !' thundered Wilmot. 'Stop eating those sandwiches immediately!'
He paused, panting with emotion. Mr Schnellenhamer had risen and was pointing a menacing finger. A deathly silence held the room.
And then, abruptly, into this silence there cut the shrill, sharp, wailing note of a syren. And the magnate stood spellbound, the words 'You're fired!' frozen on his lips. He knew what that sound meant.
One of the things which have caused the making of motion pictures to be listed among the Dangerous Trades is the fact that it has been found impossible to dispense with the temperamental female star. There is a public demand for her, and the Public's word is law. The consequence is that in every studio you will find at least one gifted artiste, the mere mention of whose name causes the strongest to tremble like aspens. At the Perfecto-Zizzbaum this position was held by Hortensia Burwash, the Empress of Molten Passion.
Temperament is a thing that cuts both ways. It brings in the money, but it also leads to violent outbursts on the part of its possessor similar to those so common among the natives of the Malay States. Every Hortensia Burwash picture grossed five million, but in the making of them she was extremely apt, if thwarted in some whim, to run amok, sparing neither age nor sex.
A procedure, accordingly, had been adopted not unlike that in use during air raids in the War. At the first sign that the strain had become too much for Miss Burwash, a syren sounded, warning all workers on the lot to take cover. Later, a bugler, blowing the 'All Clear,' would inform those in the danger zone that the star had now kissed the director and resumed work on the set.
It was this syren that had interrupted the tense scene which I have been describing.
For some moments after the last note had died away, it seemed as though the splendid discipline on which the Perfecto-Zizzbaum organization prided itself was to triumph. A few eyeballs rolled, and here and there you could hear the sharp intake of breath, but nobody moved. Then from without there came the sound of running footsteps, and the door burst open, revealing a haggard young assi
stant director with a blood-streaked face.
'Save yourselves!' he cried.
There was an uneasy stir.
'She's heading this way!'
Again that stir. Mr Schnellenhamer rapped the desk sharply.
'Gentlemen! Are you afraid of an unarmed woman?'
The assistant director coughed.
'Not unarmed exactly,' he corrected. 'She's got a sword.'
A sword?'
'She borrowed it off one of the Roman soldiery in "Hail, Cæsar." Seemed to want it for something. Well, good-bye, all,' said the assistant director.
Panic set in. The stampede was started by a young Nodder, who, in fairness be it said, had got a hat-pin in the fleshy part of the leg that time when Miss Burwash was so worried over 'Hearts Aflame.' Reckless of all rules of precedence, he shot silently through the window. He was followed by the rest of those present, and in a few moments the room was empty save for Wilmot, brooding with folded arms; Mabel Potter, crouched on top of the filing cabinet; and Mr Schnellenhamer himself, who, too stout to negotiate the window, was crawling into a convenient cupboard and softly closing the door after him.
To the scene which had just concluded Wilmot Mulliner had paid but scant attention. His whole mind was occupied with the hunger which was gnawing his vitals and that strange loathing for the human species which had been so much with him of late. He continued to stand where he was, as if in some dark trance.
From this he was aroused by the tempestuous entry of a woman with make-up on her face and a Roman sword in her hand.
'Ah-h-h-h-h!' she cried.
Wilmot was not interested. Briefly raising his eyebrows and baring his lips in an animal snarl, he returned to his meditations.
Hortensia Burwash was not accustomed to a reception like this. For a moment she stood irresolute; then, raising the sword, she brought it down with a powerful follow-through on a handsome ink-pot which had been presented to Mr Schnellenhamer by a few admirers and well-wishers on the occasion of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum's foundation.
'Ah-h-h-h-h!' she cried again.
Wilmot had had enough of this foolery. Like all the Mulliners, his attitude towards Woman had until recently been one of reverence and unfailing courtesy. But with four days' orange-juice under his belt, he was dashed if he was going to have females carrying on like this in his presence. A considerable quantity of the ink had got on his trousers, and he now faced Hortensia Burwash, pale with fury.
'What's the idea?' he demanded hotly. 'What's the matter with you? Stop it immediately, and give me that sword.'
The temperamental star emitted another 'Ah-h-h-h-h!' but it was but a half-hearted one. The old pep had gone. She allowed the weapon to be snatched from her grasp. Her eyes met Wilmot's. And suddenly, as she gazed into those steel-hard orbs, the fire faded out of her, leaving her a mere weak woman face to face with what appeared to be the authentic caveman. It seemed to her for an instant, as she looked at him, that she had caught a glimpse of something evil. It was as if this man who stood before her had been a Fiend about to Seize Hatchet and Slay Six.
As a matter of fact, Wilmot's demeanour was simply the normal one of a man who every morning for four days has taken an orange, divided it into two equal parts, squeezed on a squeezer, poured into a glass or cup, and drunk; who has sipped the juice of an orange in the midst of rollicking lunchers doing themselves well among the roasts and hashes; and who, on returning to his modest flat in the evenfall, has got to work with the old squeezer once more. But Hortensia Burwash, eyeing him, trembled. Her spirit was broken.
'Messing about with ink,' grumbled Wilmot, dabbing at his legs with blotting-paper. 'Silly horse-play, I call it.'
The star's lips quivered. She registered Distress.
'You needn't be so cross,' she whimpered.
'Cross!' thundered Wilmot. He pointed wrathfully at his lower limbs. 'The best ten-dollar trousers in Hollywood!'
'Well, I'm sorry.'
'You'd better be. What did you do it for?'
'I don't know. Everything sort of went black.'
'Like my trousers.'
'I'm sorry about your trousers.' She sniffed miserably. 'You wouldn't be so unkind if you knew what it was like.'
'What what was like?'
'This dieting. Fifteen days with nothing but orange-juice.'
The effect of these words on Wilmot Mulliner was stunning. His animosity left him in a flash. He started. The stony look in his eyes melted, and he gazed at her with a tender commiseration, mingled with remorse that he should have treated so harshly a sister in distress.
'You don't mean you're dieting?'
'Yes.'
Wilmot was deeply stirred. It was as if he had become once more the old, kindly, gentle Wilmot, beloved by all.
'You poor little thing! No wonder you rush about smashing ink-pots. Fifteen days of it! My gosh!'
'And I was upset, too, about the picture.'
'What picture?'
'My new picture. I don't like the story.'
'What a shame!'
'It isn't true to life.'
'How rotten! Tell me all about it. Come on, tell Wilmot.'
'Well, it's like this. I'm supposed to be starving in a garret, and they want me with the last remnant of my strength to write a letter to my husband, forgiving him and telling him I love him still. The idea is that I'm purified by hunger. And I say it's all wrong.'
'All wrong?' cried Wilmot. 'You're right, it's all wrong. I never heard anything so silly in my life. A starving woman's heart wouldn't soften. And, as for being purified by hunger, purified by hunger my hat! The only reason which would make a woman in that position take pen in hand and write to her husband would be if she could think of something nasty enough to say to make it worth while.'
'That's just how I feel.'
'As a matter of fact, nobody but a female goof would be thinking of husbands at all at a time like that. She would be thinking of roast pork ...'
'... and steaks ...'
'... and chops ...'
'... and chicken casserole ...'
'... and kidneys sautés ...'
'... and mutton curry...'
'... and doughnuts ...'
'... and layer-cake ...'
'... and peach pie, mince pie, apple pie, custard pie, and pie à la mode,' said Wilmot. 'Of everything, in a word, but the juice of an orange. Tell me, who was the half-wit who passed this story, so utterly alien to human psychology?'
'Mr Schnellenhamer. I was coming to see him about it.'
'I'll have a word or two with Mr Schnellenhamer. We'll soon have that story fixed. But what on earth do you want to diet for?'
'I don't want to. There's a weight clause in my contract. It says I mustn't weigh more than a hundred and eight pounds. Mr Schnellenhamer insisted on it.'
A grim look came into Wilmot's face.
'Schnellenhamer again, eh? This shall be attended to.'
He crossed to the cupboard and flung open the door. The magnate came out on all fours. Wilmot curtly directed him to the desk.
'Take paper and ink, Schnellenhamer, and write this lady out a new contract, with no weight clause.'
'But listen ...'
'Your sword, madam, I believe?' said Wilmot, extending the weapon.
'All right,' said Mr Schnellenhamer hastily. 'All right. All right.'
And, while you're at it,' said Wilmot, 'I'll take one, too, restoring me to my former salary.'
'What was your former salary?' asked Hortensia Burwash.
'Fifteen hundred.'
'I'll double it. I've been looking for a business manager like you for years. I didn't think they made them nowadays. So firm. So decisive. So brave. So strong. You're the business manager of my dreams.'
Wilmot's gaze, straying about the room, was attracted by a movement on top of the filing cabinet. He looked up, and his eyes met those of Mabel Potter. They yearned worshippingly at him, and in them there was something which he had no difficulty in diagnosi
ng as the love-light. He turned to Hortensia Burwash.
'By the way, my fiancée, Miss Potter.'
'How do you do?' said Hortensia Burwash.
'Pleased to meet you,' said Mabel.
'What did you get up there for?' asked Miss Burwash, puzzled.
'Oh, I thought I would,' said Mabel.
Wilmot, as became a man of affairs, was crisp and businesslike.
'Miss Burwash wishes to make a contract with me to act as her manager,' he said. 'Take dictation, Miss Potter.'
'Yes, sir,' said Mabel.
At the desk, Mr Schnellenhamer had paused for a moment in his writing. He was trying to remember if the word he wanted was spelled 'clorse' or 'clorze.'
11 THE RISE OF MINNA NORDSTROM
THEY had been showing the latest Minna Nordstrom picture at the Bijou Dream in the High Street, and Miss Postlethwaite, our sensitive barmaid, who had attended the premiere, was still deeply affected. She snuffled audibly as she polished the glasses.
'It's really good, is it?' we asked, for in the bar-parlour of the Angler's Rest we lean heavily on Miss Postlethwaite's opinion where the silver screen is concerned. Her verdict can make or mar.
"Swonderful,' she assured us. 'It lays bare for all to view the soul of a woman who dared everything for love. A poignant and uplifting drama of life as it is lived to-day, purifying the emotions with pity and terror.'
A Rum and Milk said that if it was as good as all that he didn't know but what he might not risk ninepence on it. A Sherry and Bitters wondered what they paid a woman like Minna Nordstrom. A Port from the Wood, raising the conversation from the rather sordid plane to which it threatened to sink, speculated on how motion-picture stars became stars.
'What I mean,' said the Port from the Wood, 'does a studio deliberately set out to create a star? Or does it suddenly say to itself "Hullo, here's a star. What-ho!"?'
One of those cynical Dry Martinis who always know everything said that it was all a question of influence.
'If you looked into it, you would find this Nordstrom girl was married to one of the bosses.'
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