by Jane Allen
I notice by my memo pad that Mr. Anders is expected on the noon plane from New York today. I phone Publicity and remind them to meet our new star at the airport and give him the royal welcome. I also leave a message for Jim to be ready to report to Mr. Brand as soon as the boss arrives. I then plunge into a mass of work, hoping a vain hope to clear the decks and be ready for action, but too soon the royal dog-cart rolls up to the bungalow and ejects the great Brand.
He is in unusually fine fettle so I think perhaps he has broken his seven years of bad luck on the turf. He is hardly in the door when he yells for our racing expert to come into his office. The budding executive squares his padded shoulders and bounces in importantly. I begin to think maybe there is really a method to Bud’s angles.
I phone Publicity and invite Jim to join us. He seizes the opportunity to be personal with me, but I am frigid. Since his nocturnal visit to me at Christmas I have not been very intimate with him, for although my ruinous sense of humor permitted me subsequently to laugh it off, I think it is perhaps best to discourage a gentleman whose behavior is so eccentric.
When Jim appears, Bud is still conferencing about equine matters with S. B.
“The emininent publicist,” I says loftily, “will have to take a back seat until the boss has decided definitely on how to lose a few thousand dollars.”
“Haven’t I been punished enough?” pleads Jim. Never, he adds, in his wayward life has he crawled to a femme as he has to me.
“It is most complimentary,” I say coldly, “but why step out of character for me?”
He is willing, he assures me recklessly, to do more than that to cull my favor.
“My favors,” I say fractiously, “are definitely not in the market. I am fed up on being treated like a lady of joy.”
“You misunderstand me,” he says.
“That would be impossible,” I cut in. “I have met a few gentlemen in my time and I know how to sort the lambs from the wolves and, James Palmer, despite your insidious charm, you are really a wolf.”
“And, Madge Lawrence, you are a prig!”
“Huh!” I snort. “That is the usual comeback. It leaves me cold.”
“And what is more,” he goes on as though I hadn’t interrupted, “you are definitely on the smug side.”
I seethe. “If we must play truth,” I say heatedly, “I can get off to a few myself. You are the type of man who…”
But I never get a chance to finish for Bud and the boss breeze out.
“Madge,” barks S. B., “get Max on the phone and place these bets.” He hands me a list.
The horse question settled for the day, S. B. condescends to attend to business. My ex-admirer and I are summoned into the office. It seems Mr. Brand has some inspired ideas on how Mr. Palmer can deliver Mr. Anders into the hearts and homes of every woman in America. Mr. Palmer is for him unusually apathetic but lends an ear.
Last night at dinner, Mr. Brand confides in us, he and Selma enjoyed a profound discussion on the peculiar cycles of audience reaction regarding screen heroes. There was, he expounds, the Valentino cycle, when women went mad about the Latin type and wore Spanish shawls, then came the fresh guy who sassed the heroine and even went so far as to bounce grapefruits in her face; then came the whimsy boys who built up the screwy tradition. We are now, says Mr. Brand imposingly, reaching the tail-end of that cycle. A new leading man must come into vogue.
So last night Selma said had Sidney noticed how Viennese waltzes were coming back into style and how women’s clothes were so romantic? After all, clothes and cycles go hand in hand. All her friends, said Selma, were feeling this new rhythm of things keenly so it was bound to be significant. The time is ripe for something new. Women no longer want the sleek Latin or the fresh guy and they are getting fed up on the screwballs. What they want is the romantic gallant. That man is Bruce Anders!
Inwardly I am crowing. I am thinking Fate is putting the “last word” into the innocent mouth of Mr. Brand. I look at Jim but his eyes are guarded.
“Isn’t that peculiar?” he drawls to Mr. Brand. “It is the very substance of what I discussed with a girl I used to know.”
I do not miss the significance of the past tense.
“You know,” goes on Jim, “it just goes to show you that it isn’t really men who are polygamous. It is women. That is why there are so many dissatisfied spinsters.” He grins evilly.
At this point I would like to do something undignified, like beating him over the head with the ink bottle.
“There is something in what you say,” says Mr. Brand thoughtfully. “However, it is women whom we are trying to please. It is women who are responsible for paid admissions. Therefore, I want you to give Anders a terrific romantic build-up to keep him manly so the men won’t think he’s a pansy.”
Mr. Anders, I am sure, will be very pleased to know all this about himself.
“Take some notes, Madge,” commands the boss. “First I think it would be a good idea, Jim, if you get Carsons to do a spiel about how women are hungry for a new type of love. Second…”
The phone rings. “You answer it, Madge,” says S. B.
It is Mr. Blank at Metro, so I turn it over to the boss.
Ordinarily at a time like this, Jim and I would seize the opportunity for a little private tête-à-tête. But today we avoid each other’s eyes and pretend avid interest in Mr. Brand’s operations. Apparently the call is unimportant. Probably Mr. Blank had nothing else to do and thinks it would be a good idea to keep up with his good friend Sidney for we hear bits of casual gossip about the races, golf and the baby. Then suddenly Sidney jerks upright in his chair and his optics distend to the popping point.
“Gable!” he ejaculates. “I can have Gable?”
This time Jim and I do look at each other.
“You’re a real friend,” the boss babbles hysterically. “I knew you’d come through!”
When Mr. Brand hangs up he slaps his thighs exuberantly.
“You know, there’s something in prayer! And believe me, I’ve been praying for this to happen. You know what this means? We’ve got Gable! We’ve got to get busy! Madge, get George Beck to draw up contracts for Gable immediately, before Metro changes its mind. Jim, promise an exclusive to Carsons—but hold her off for a few days. Madge, telephone Sarya. She’ll be dizzy with joy. Let Monk and the boys in on it, too. Now, we’re going to have a picture!”
In a very small voice I ask him what about Bruce Anders?
“Yeah,” corroborates Jim, “what about your romantic cycle?”
“Huh? What? Him? Oh God! I forgot all about Anders. What’ll we do? How can we get rid of him?”
“But, Mr. Brand,” I protest, “Mr. Anders will be here soon.”
“Well, do something. Stop him!”
“But,” I say patiently, “he is on the plane. The publicity men and cameramen are there to meet him. He will land any minute now.”
Mr. Brand deflates. I see I have rubbed the bloom off his glow.
“The tragedy of it,” he mourns. “Here I can have Gable and this guy Anders has to get in my hair.”
I am feeling sorry for him myself but his mourning period is brief.
“Jim!” he yells. “Don’t let Anders’s picture get in the papers. I don’t want a word about him printed. I don’t want to hear from him. We’ve got to get rid of him. We’ve got to fix it so that he’ll break his own contract. I know…we’ll give him the doghouse!”
He says this like a man conferring a boon.
“Even if he is a romantic pansy,” says Jim, “it is still a raw deal.”
“I know. But can I help it? This business is full of heartaches. I’m sorry that Anders has to get his before he has a chance, but it’s dog eat dog an
d I’ve got to show profits. And that in a nutshell is the difference between Gable and Anders. Gable is box-office. All right, Jim. Get busy. You know what to do.”
“Okay.” Jim shrugs and leaves.
“Get me Selma on the phone,” the boss orders. “I’ve got to tell her the good news. This will make the day for her.”
I am thinking when I return to my office that this may make the day for Selma, but what about Bruce Anders? I am sickened. No wonder Hollywood is ghost-ridden. No one, it seems, is too little or too big for security. I begin to feel a ghost sprouting on my own shoulders. I shudder. I wonder how men like Sidney can sleep nights.
But like a good little slave, I execute my orders and console myself with the thought that maybe this is a good deed in disguise. Maybe Bruce Anders is really lucky to be out of all this mess. After all it isn’t going to put him in the breadline. He is already a success in spite of Mr. Brand and the picture industry.
At this point Amanda tears in popping with excitement.
“Oh, he’s gorgeous! He’s stunning! He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. I’d give my soul to have a date with him!”
“If you’ll let me know who you’re talking about, Amanda, I’ll try to arrange it for you.”
“It’s Bruce Anders,” she sighs ecstatically.
I practically collapse but manage to ask that she usher him in. I haven’t the vaguest idea of what I am going to say. I am distraught. I am nervous but I don’t get a chance to think much before Mr. Anders steps in.
“How do you do,” he says quietly and I find myself shaking hands with a tall, well-built young man with eager, friendly eyes.
I introduce myself and we chat easily about the plane trip and the weather quite as though we were meeting at a party and found each other in a crowd. It is some minutes before I recall myself and realize the unpleasant duty on hand. I feel something like an executioner must before the fatal moment. I know instinctively that Bruce Anders is a decent sort and doesn’t rate the treatment he is to receive. I experience a crazy desire to blurt the whole thing out here and now, but manage to curb it, and instead make a stilted little speech about how sorry I am that Mr. Brand is not here to meet him and how I know he will be wanting to rest after his trip and can I help him locate a suitable hotel and after he has settled, the studio will send for him.
For the next three days it is my unpleasant duty to fabricate excuses, invent delays, and tell outrageous lies to a perfectly innocent young man who doesn’t know the score and who is shuffled about the studio from one department to another in a brutal attempt to befuddle and confound him into doing something that will be in violation of his contract.
The ironic part of it all is that Mr. Anders is so very conscientious and earnest about his work that he automatically lives up to the letter of his contract and simply won’t provide a loophole for legal juggling.
Mr. Beck sends S. B. a note in which he loudly protests Mr. Anders’s exemplary behavior. They just can’t trip the guy. Perhaps, suggests Mr. Beck, S. B. can think up some particularly effective piece of knavery which will turn the trick.
Mr. Brand can and does. “Every man,” he dictates in a memo to Mr. Beck, “has his Achilles heel. With an actor it is his professional pride. If we can make a monkey out of Anders in a screen test, I’m willing to give odds that he will pay us to break his contract. No weapon is stronger than ridicule!”
I am writing this choice little communication early that afternoon, when I am holding the fort alone as S. B. has, after his Mephistophelean thrust, taken the rest of the day off for the races. I am properly incensed by this foul play and gloomily ruminate that I am keeping bad company.
“Hello, Miss Lawrence.”
I look up. It is Mr. Anders holding a paper sack. Very shyly he proffers it. The afternoon is hot. He thought I might like some ice-cream. I am touched. It is the first instance that anyone has taken time out of his life to think of my stomach.
We manage, in spite of the fact that we eat off my desk amid a tangle of telephone coils and papers, to make it a festive affair.
Isn’t it odd, Mr. Anders comments, that though he has made many makeup and costume tests, he has never been permitted to see himself on the screen. He would like so much to do so in order to correct any imperfections of speech and gestures. (I gulp.) It is making him nervous the way people put him off when he asks questions. But he knows he can be frank with me, for I am the only person in the studio who has been openly considerate and friendly.
I continue to nibble at the ice-cream, acutely conscious of the fact that I have been more active than most in the cabal against Mr. Anders, but there is nothing I can say. He must interpret my silence as sympathy, for he goes on to unburden himself.
“You see,” he says, “this is important to me. I am not content with being a one-play success. I want seriously to make good in pictures with Super Films. Back in New York we think that Mr. Brand has created a new frontier for pictures. He is the only man with the vision and integrity to break down old taboos and forge ahead to new horizons.”
I choke. It only goes to show the power of the press. I think how Jim Palmer would crow to hear all this for it proves his favorite theory that Mr. Brand is his Frankenstein and that his veins run with printer’s ink.
“That is why,” Mr. Anders goes on, “I was so keen to accept Mr. Brand’s contract. I would have taken much less money just to have the chance to be with Super but Mr. Lord would not permit it. He said that in Hollywood your value is judged solely by your purchase price.”
This is too much for me. I throw all discretion to the winds.
“Mr. Lord is absolutely correct,” I say. “However, that is beside the point. I am going to tell you something, Mr. Anders. It is most indiscreet of me and may cost me my job, but I feel you should know that you are being given the runaround. In other words they have no intention of using you in Sinners. They wanted Gable and when they couldn’t get him they contracted you. Just before you arrived they learned they could have Gable. The reason you can’t see your tests is because there are none—so far. They were made on pink film and pink film, Mr. Anders, means no film in the camera. A cute dodge, isn’t it?”
Mr. Anders is bewildered.
“And moreover, Mr. Anders, when they do make an actual test they mean to brutalize your appearance and mannerisms so, by bad lighting and makeup, that you will be horrified into releasing them from your contract.”
“But this is incredible!” he bursts out. “It isn’t possible.”
“I could have no motive in telling you this, other than to give you a chance to help yourself.”
“Please believe me,” he reassures me, “I think you’re swell to do this. I’m not mistaking your motives but it’s all so fantastic to me. What do I do now?”
“Wire Hayworth Lord everything I’ve told you and leave it up to him. He is one man who can put the fear of God into Brand. In the meantime go on just as you have and let no one get an idea that you’re on to them.”
“I don’t know how to thank you…”
“Well, when I’m on the breadline and your name is up in lights, you can give me a handout.”
“We won’t wait for that to happen. You’ll have dinner with me tonight.”
“But,” I protest, “I can never make engagements ahead. I never know when I’m free so I take my meals whenever I get them.”
“That’s good enough for me,” says Mr. Anders grinning. “I’ll have dinner with you if it has to be at midnight.”
He takes my hand and I think how Amanda would envy me. I must admit it is nice.
LOS ANGELES TIMES
HAYWORTH LORD
ON RECORD-BREAKING FLIGHT
New York, January 14. Hayworth Lord, socialite-artis
ts’ manager, took off from Roosevelt Field at 6 A.M. today in an attempt to break the existing cross-country record….
* * *
—
Mr. Lord never procrastinates. He acts in the big manner, and while he is acting he manages to do something spectacular. He is in the Blue Book which should be distinction enough in his racket, but he also flies his own plane and manages to contribute his bit to aviation.
The headlines create a stir in Hollywood circles but Mr. Anders and I are the only people who know just why Mr. Lord is flying to Hollywood. Even S. B., who is ordinarily suspicious, takes time out to root for his enemy totally unsuspecting. He forgets about the race track long enough to place bets with his pals on Lord’s flight. He has a radio set up in the office so he can hear hourly reports and works up considerable steam over the affair. This pleases me enormously, though I admit a pang because I have been disloyal to my employer.
However, I am really shameless over the whole issue for I am in something of a rosy fog since my late supper with Bruce—yes, it is already Bruce and Madge. The usual crop of office irritations glances off my back like the proverbial water off a duck. I plow through my routine mechanically, enjoying the while a sharp, private excitement. I find myself remembering things Bruce said and looked—innocent enough in themselves but in the light of retrospect enormously significant. Nothing can disturb my brand-new mood or so I think until Jim Palmer breaks in on my haze.
“And how is the girl scout today?” he asks in a vinegary tone.
I give him a dazzling smile for response.