Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (24 page)

'Now, listen,' he said. 'I've just remembered I'm wrong. Silly
mistake to make, and I don't know how I made it. There
is
a
certain amount of the stuff in the house, but I'm sure you dear
chaps don't want to cause any unpleasantness. You're broadminded.
Listen. Your name's Murphy, isn't it?'

'Donahue.'

'I thought so. Well, you'll laugh at this. Only this morning
I was saying to Mrs Schnellenhamer that I must really slip down
to head-quarters and give my old friend Donahue that ten
dollars I owed him.'

'What ten dollars?'

'I didn't say ten. I said a hundred. One hundred dollars,
Donny, old man, and I'm not saying there mightn't be a little
over for these two gentlemen here. How about it?'

The sergeant drew himself up. There was no sign of softening
in his glance.

'Jacob Schnellenhamer,' he said coldly, 'you can't square me.
When I tried for a job at the Colossal-Exquisite last spring I was
turned down on account you said I had no sex-appeal.'

The first patrolman, who had hitherto taken no part in the
conversation, started.

'Is that so, Chief?'

'Yessir. No sex-appeal.'

'Well, can you tie that!' said the first patrolman. 'When I tried
to crash the Colossal-Exquisite, they said my voice wasn't right.'

'Me,' said the second patrolman, eyeing Mr Schnellenhamer sourly,
'they had the nerve to beef at my left profile. Lookout, boys,' he said, turning,
'can you see anything wrong with that profile?'

His companions studied him closely. The sergeant raised a
hand and peered between his fingers with his head tilted back
and his eyes half closed.

'Not a thing,' he said.

'Why, Basil, it's a lovely profile,' said the first patrolman.

'Well, that's how it goes,' said the second patrolman moodily.

The sergeant had returned to his own grievance.

'No sex-appeal!' he said with a rasping laugh. 'And me that
had specially taken sex-appeal in the College of Eastern Iowa
course of Motion Picture Acting.'

'Who says my voice ain't right?' demanded the first patrolman.
'Listen. Mi-mi-mi-mi-mi.'

'Swell,' said the sergeant.

'Like a nightingale or something,' said the second patrolman.

The sergeant flexed his muscles.

'Ready, boys?'

'Kayo, Chief.'

'Wait!' cried Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Wait! Give me one more
chance. I'm sure I can find parts for you all.'

The sergeant shook his head.

'No. It's too late. You've got us mad now. You don't appreciate
the sensitiveness of the artist. Does he, boys?'

'You're darned right he doesn't,' said the first patrolman.

'I wouldn't work for the Colossal-Exquisite now,' said the
second patrolman with a petulant twitch of his shoulder, 'not if
they wanted me to play Romeo opposite Jean Harlow.'

'Then let's go,' said the sergeant. 'Come along, lady, you show
us where this cellar is.'

For some moments after the officers of the Law, preceded by
Vera Prebble, had left, nothing was to be heard in the silent
sitting-room but the rhythmic beating of Mr Fishbein's head
against the wall and the rustling sound of Mr Zizzbaum rolling
round the floor. Mr Schnellenhamer sat brooding with his chin
in his hands, merely moving his legs slightly each time Mr
Zizzbaum came round. The failure of his diplomatic efforts
had stunned him.

A vision rose before his eyes of Mrs Schnellenhamer waiting
in their sunlit patio for his return. As clearly as if he had been
there now, he could see her swooning, slipping into the goldfish
pond, and blowing bubbles with her head beneath the surface.
And he was asking himself whether in such an event it would be
better to raise her gently or just leave Nature to take its course.
She would, he knew, be extremely full of that stormy emotion of
which she had once been queen.

It was as he still debated this difficult point that a light
step caught his ear. Vera Prebble was standing in the doorway.

'Mr Schnellenhamer.'

The magnate waved a weary hand.

'Leave me,' he said. 'I am thinking.'

'I thought you would like to know,' said Vera Prebble, 'that
I've just locked those cops in the coal-cellar.'

As in the final reel of a super-super-film eyes brighten
and faces light up at the entry of the United States Marines, so
at these words did Mr Schnellenhamer, Mr Fishbein and
Mr Zizzbaum perk up as if after a draught of some magic
elixir.

'In the coal-cellar?' gasped Mr Schnellenhamer.

'In the coal-cellar.'

'Then if we work quick ...'

Vera Prebble coughed.

'One moment,' she said. 'Just one moment. Before you go,
I have drawn up a little letter, covering our recent agreement.
Perhaps you will all three just sign it.'

Mr Schnellenhamer clicked his tongue impatiently.

'No time for that now. Come to my office tomorrow. Where
are you going?' he asked, as the girl started to withdraw.

'Just to the coal-cellar,' said Vera Prebble. 'I think those
fellows may want to come out.'

Mr Schnellenhamer sighed. It had been worth trying, of
course, but he had never really had much hope.

'Gimme,' he said resignedly.

The girl watched as the three men attached their signatures.
She took the document and folded it carefully.

'Would any of you like to hear me recite "The Bells," by
Edgar Allan Poe?' she asked.

'No!' said Mr Fishbein.

'No!' said Mr Zizzbaum.

'No!' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'We have no desire to hear you
recite "The Bells," Miss Prebble.'

The girl's eyes flashed haughtily.

'Miss Nordstrom,' she corrected. 'And just for that you'll get
"The Charge of the Light Brigade," and like it.'

M
ONDAY
night in the bar-parlour of the Angler's Rest is
usually Book Night. This is due to the fact that on Sunday
afternoon it is the practice of Miss Postlethwaite, our literature-loving
barmaid, to retire to her room with a box of
caramels and a novel from the circulating library and, having
removed her shoes, to lie down on the bed and indulge in
what she calls a good old read. On the following evening she
places the results of her researches before us and invites our
judgment.

This week-end it was one of those Desert Island stories
which had claimed her attention.

'It's where this ship is sailing the Pacific Ocean,' explained
Miss Postlethwaite, 'and it strikes a reef and the only survivors
are Cyril Trevelyan and Eunice Westleigh, and they float ashore
on a plank to this uninhabited island. And gradually they find
the solitude and what I might call the loneliness drawing them
strangely together, and in Chapter Nineteen, which is as far as
I've got, they've just fallen into each other's arms and all around
was the murmur of the surf and the cry of wheeling sea-birds.
And why I don't see how it's all going to come out,' said Miss
Postlethwaite, 'is because they don't like each other really and,
what's more, Eunice is engaged to be married to a prominent
banker in New York and Cyril to the daughter of the Duke of
Rotherhithe. Looks like a mix-up to me.'

A Sherry and Bitters shook his head.

'Far-fetched,' he said disapprovingly. 'Not the sort of thing
that ever really happens.'

'On the contrary,' said Mr Mulliner. 'It is an almost exact
parallel to the case of Genevieve Bootle and my brother Joseph's
younger son, Bulstrode.'

'Were they cast ashore on a desert island?'

'Practically,' said Mr Mulliner. 'They were in Hollywood,
writing dialogue for the talking pictures.'

Miss Postlethwaite, who prides herself on her encyclopædic
knowledge of English Literature, bent her shapely eyebrows.

'Bulstrode Mulliner? Genevieve Bootle?' she murmured.
'I never read anything by them. What did they write?'

'My nephew,' Mr Mulliner hastened to explain, 'was not an
author. Nor was Miss Bootle. Very few of those employed in
writing motion-picture dialogue are. The executives of the studios
just haul in anyone they meet and make them sign contracts.
Most of the mysterious disappearances you read about are
due to this cause. Only the other day they found a plumber who
had been missing for years. All the time he had been writing
dialogue for the Mishkin Brothers. Once having reached Los
Angeles, nobody is safe.'

'Rather like the old Press Gang,' said the Sherry and Bitters.

'Just like the old Press Gang,' said Mr Mulliner.

My nephew Bulstrode (said Mr Mulliner), as is the case with
so many English younger sons, had left his native land to seek
his fortune abroad, and at the time when this story begins was
living in New York, where he had recently become betrothed to a
charming girl of the name of Mabelle Ridgway.

Although naturally eager to get married, the young couple
were prudent. They agreed that before taking so serious a step
they ought to have a little capital put by. And, after talking it
over, they decided that the best plan would be for Bulstrode to
go to California and try to strike Oil.

So Bulstrode set out for Los Angeles, all eagerness and
enthusiasm, and the first thing that happened to him was that
somebody took his new hat, a parting gift from Mabelle, leaving
in its place in the club car of the train a Fedora that was a size too
small for him.

The train was running into the station when he discovered his
loss, and he hurried out to scan his fellow-passengers, and
presently there emerged a stout man with a face rather like
that of a vulture which has been doing itself too well on the
corpses. On this person's head was the missing hat.

And, just as Bulstrode was about to accost this stout man
there came up a mob of camera-men, who photographed him
in various attitudes, and before Bulstrode could get a word in he
was bowling off in a canary-coloured automobile bearing on its
door in crimson letters the legend 'Jacob Z. Schnellenhamer,
President Perfecto-Zizzbaum Motion Picture Corp.'

All the Mulliners are men of spirit, and Bulstrode did not
propose to have his hats sneaked, even by the highest in the
land, without lodging a protest. Next morning he called at the
offices of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum, and after waiting four
hours was admitted to the presence of Mr Schnellenhamer.

The motion-picture magnate took a quick look at Bulstrode
and thrust a paper and a fountain pen towards him.

'Sign here,' he said.

A receipt for the hat, no doubt, thought Bulstrode. He
scribbled his name at the bottom of the document, and Mr
Schnellenhamer pressed the bell.

'Miss Stern,' he said, addressing his secretary, 'what vacant
offices have we on the lot?'

'There is Room 40 in the Leper Colony.'

'I thought there was a song-writer there.'

'He passed away Tuesday.'

'Has the body been removed?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then Mr Mulliner will occupy the room, starting from
to-day. He has just signed a contract to write dialogue for us.'

Bulstrode would have spoken, but Mr Schnellenhamer
silenced him with a gesture.

'Who are working on "Scented Sinners" now?' he asked.

The secretary consulted a list.

'Mr Doakes, Mr Noakes, Miss Faversham, Miss Wilson, Mr
Fotheringay, Mr Mendelsohn, Mr Markey, Mrs Cooper,
Mr Lennox and Mr Dabney.'

'That all?'

'There was a missionary who came in Thursday, wanting to
convert the extra girls. He started a treatment, but he has
escaped to Canada.'

'Tchah!' said Mr Schnellenhamer, annoyed. 'We must have
more vigilance, more vigilance. Give Mr Mulliner a script of
"Scented Sinners" before he goes.'

The secretary left the room. He turned to Bulstrode.

'Did you ever see "Scented Sinners"?'

Bulstrode said he had not.

'Powerful drama of life as it is lived by the jazz-crazed, gincrazed
Younger Generation whose hollow laughter is but the
mask for an aching heart,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'It ran for a
week in New York and lost a hundred thousand dollars, so we
bought it. It has the mucus of a good story. See what you can do
with it.'

'But I don't want to write for the pictures,' said Bulstrode.

'You've got to write for the pictures,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.
'You've signed the contract.'

'I want my hat.'

'In the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Motion Picture Corporation,' said
Mr Schnellenhamer coldly, 'our slogan is Co-operation, not Hats.'

The Leper Colony, to which Bulstrode had been assigned,
proved to be a long, low building with small cells opening on a
narrow corridor. It had been erected to take care of the overflow
of the studio's writers, the majority of whom were located in
what was known as the Ohio State Penitentiary. Bulstrode took
possession of Room 40, and settled down to see what he could
do with 'Scented Sinners.'

He was not unhappy. A good deal has been written about the
hardships of life in motion-picture studios, but most of it, I am
glad to say, is greatly exaggerated. The truth is that there is little
or no actual ill-treatment of the writing staff, and the only thing
that irked Bulstrode was the loneliness of the life.

Few who have not experienced it can realize the eerie solitude
of a motion-picture studio. Human intercourse is virtually
unknown. You are surrounded by writers, each in his or her little
hutch, but if you attempt to establish communication with them
you will find on every door a card with the words 'Working. Do
not Disturb.' And if you push open one of these doors you are
greeted by a snarl so animal, so menacing, that you retire hastily
lest nameless violence befall.

The world seems very far away. Outside, the sun beats down
on the concrete, and occasionally you will see a man in shirt
sleeves driving a truck to a distant set, while ever and anon the
stillness is broken by the shrill cry of some wheeling supervisor.
But for the most part a forlorn silence prevails.

The conditions, in short, are almost precisely those of such a
desert island as Miss Postlethwaite was describing to us just now.

In these circumstances the sudden arrival of a companion,
especially a companion of the opposite sex, can scarcely fail to
have its effect on a gregarious young man. Entering his office
one morning and finding a girl in it, Bulstrode Mulliner experienced
much the same emotions as did Robinson Crusoe on
meeting Friday. It is not too much to say that he was electrified.

She was not a beautiful girl. Tall, freckled and slab-featured,
she had a distinct look of a halibut. To Bulstrode, however, she
seemed a vision.

'My name is Bootle,' she said. 'Genevieve Bootle.'

'Mine is Mulliner. Bulstrode Mulliner.'

'They told me to come here.'

'To see me about something?'

'To work with you on a thing called "Scented Sinners." I've
just signed a contract to write dialogue for the company.'

'Can you write dialogue?' asked Bulstrode. A foolish question,
for, if she could, the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation
would scarcely have engaged her.

'No,' said the girl despondently. 'Except for letters to Ed, I've
never written anything.'

'Ed?'

'Mr Murgatroyd, my fiancé. He's a bootlegger in Chicago,
and I came out here to try to work up his West Coast connection.
And I went to see Mr Schnellenhamer to ask if he would
like a few cases of guaranteed pre-War Scotch, and I'd hardly
begun to speak when he said "Sign here." So I signed, and now
I find I can't leave till this "Scented Sinners" thing is finished.'

'I am in exactly the same position,' said Bulstrode. 'We
must buckle to and make a quick job of it. You won't mind if
I hold your hand from time to time? I fancy it will assist
composition.'

'But what would Ed say?'

'Ed won't know.'

'No, there's that,' agreed the girl.

'And when I tell you that I myself am engaged to a lovely girl
in New York,' Bulstrode pointed out, 'you will readily understand
that what I am suggesting is merely a purely mechanical
device for obtaining the best results on this script of ours.'

'Well, of course, if you put it like that ...'

'I put it just like that,' said Bulstrode, taking her hand
in his and patting it.

Against hand-holding as a means of stimulating the creative
faculties of the brain there is, of course, nothing to be said. All
collaborators do it. The trouble is that it is too often but a first
step to other things. Gradually, little by little, as the long days
wore on and propinquity and solitude began to exercise their
spell, Bulstrode could not disguise it from himself that he was
becoming oddly drawn to this girl, Bootle. If she and he had
been fishing for turtles on the same mid-Pacific isle, they could
not have been in closer communion, and presently the realization
smote him like a blow that he loved her – and fervently, at
that. For twopence, he told himself, had he not been a Mulliner
and a gentleman, he could have crushed her in his arms and
covered her face with burning kisses.

And, what was more, he could see by subtle signs that his love
was returned. A quick glance from eyes that swiftly fell ... the
timid offer of a banana ... a tremor in her voice as she asked if
she might borrow his pencil-sharpener ... These were little
things, but they spoke volumes. If Genevieve Bootle was not
crazy about him, he would eat his hat – or, rather, Mr Schnellenhamer's
hat.

He was appalled and horrified. All the Mulliners are the soul
of honour, and as he thought of Mabelle Ridgway, waiting for
him and trusting him in New York, Bulstrode burned with
shame and remorse. In the hope of averting the catastrophe,
he plunged with a fresh fury of energy into the picturization of
'Scented Sinners.'

It was a fatal move. It simply meant that Genevieve Bootle
had to work harder on the thing, too, and 'Scented Sinners' was
not the sort of production on which a frail girl could concentrate
in warm weather without something cracking. Came a day with
the thermometer in the nineties when, as he turned to refer to a
point in Mr Noakes's treatment, Bulstrode heard a sudden sharp
snort at his side and, looking up, saw that Genevieve had
begun to pace the room with feverish steps, her fingers entwined
in her hair. And, as he started at her in deep concern, she flung
herself in a chair with a choking sob and buried her face in her
hands.

And, seeing her weeping there, Bulstrode could restrain
himself no longer. Something snapped in him. It was his collar-stud.
His neck, normally a fifteen and an eighth, had suddenly
swelled under the pressure of uncontrollable emotion into
a large seventeen. For an instant he stood gurgling wordlessly
like a bull-pup choking over a chicken-bone: then, darting
forward, he clasped her in his arms and began to murmur all
those words of love which until now he had kept pent up in his
heart.

He spoke well and eloquently and at considerable length,
but not at such length as he had planned. For at the end of
perhaps two minutes and a quarter there rent the air in his
immediate rear a sharp exclamation or cry: and, turning, he
perceived in the doorway Mabelle Ridgway, his betrothed.
With her was a dark young man with oiled hair and a saturnine
expression, who looked like the sort of fellow the police are
always spreading a drag-net for in connection with the recent
robbery of Schoenstein's Bon Ton Delicatessen Store in Eighth
Avenue.

There was a pause. It is never easy to know just what to say on
these occasions: and Bulstrode, besides being embarrassed, was
completely bewildered. He had supposed Mabelle three thousand
miles away.