Pat considered. Out of the two hundred a week Jeff Manfred was advancing from his own pocket, he had naturally awarded himself a commission of sixty per cent.
“I’ll make it a hundred,” he said. “Now check yourself off the lot and meet me in front of Benny’s bar.”
At the hospital, Estelle Hobby Devlin sat up in bed, overwhelmed by the unexpected visit.
“I’m glad you came, Pat,” she said, “you’ve been very kind. Did you get my note?”
“Forget it,” Pat said gruffly. He had never liked this wife. She had loved him too much—until she found suddenly that he was a poor lover. In her presence he felt inferior.
“I got a guy outside,” he said.
“What for?”
“I thought maybe you had nothing to do and you might want to pay me back for all this jack—”
He waved his hand around the bare hospital room.
“You were a swell script girl once. Do you think if I got a typewriter you could put some good stuff into continuity?”
“Why—yes. I suppose I could.”
“It’s a secret. We can’t trust anybody at the studio.”
“All right,” she said.
“I’ll send this kid in with the stuff. I got a conference.”
“All right—and—oh Pat—come and see me again.”
“Sure, I’ll come.”
But he knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t like sickrooms—he lived in one himself. From now on he was done with poverty and failure. He admired strength—he was taking Lizzette Starheim to a wrestling match that night.
IV
In his private musings Harmon Shaver referred to the showdown as “the surprise party.” He was going to confront Le Vigne with a fait accompli and he gathered his coterie before phoning Le Vigne to come over to his office.
“What for?” demanded Le Vigne. “Couldn’t you tell me now—I’m busy as hell.”
This arrogance irritated Shaver—who was here to watch over the interests of Eastern stockholders.
“I don’t ask much,” he said sharply, “I let you fellows laugh at me behind my back and freeze me out of things. But now I’ve got something and I’d like you to come over.”
“All right—all right.”
Le Vigne’s eyebrows lifted as he saw the members of the new production unit but he said nothing—sprawled into an arm chair with his eyes on the floor and his fingers over his mouth.
Mr. Shaver came around the desk and poured forth words that had been fermenting in him for months. Simmered to its essentials, his protest was: “You would not let me play, but I’m going to play anyhow.” Then he nodded to Jeff Manfred—who opened the script and read aloud. This took an hour, and still Le Vigne sat motionless and silent.
“There you are,” said Shaver triumphantly. “Unless you’ve got any objection I think we ought to assign a budget to this proposition and get going. I’ll answer to my people.”
Le Vigne spoke at last.
“You like it, Miss Starheim?”
“I think it’s wonderful.”
“What language you going to play it in?”
To everyone’s surprise Miss Starheim got to her feet.
“I must go now,” she said with her faint poignant accent.
“Sit down and answer me,” said Le Vigne. “What language are you playing it in?”
Miss Starheim looked tearful.
“Wenn I gute teachers hдtte konnte ich dann thees rфle gut spielen,” she faltered.
“But you like the script.”
She hesitated.
“I think it’s wonderful.”
Le Vigne turned to the others.
“Miss Starheim has been here eight months,” he said. “She’s had three teachers. Unless things have changed in the past two weeks she can say just three sentences. She can say, ‘How do you do“; she can say, ‘I think it’s wonderful“; and she can say, ‘I must go now.“ Miss Starheim has turned out to be a pinhead—I’m not insulting her because she doesn’t know what it means. Anyhow—there’s your Star.”
He turned to Dutch Waggoner, but Dutch was already on his feet.
“Now Carl—” he said defensively.
“You force me to it,” said Le Vigne. “I’ve trusted drunks up to a point, but I’ll be goddam if I’ll trust a hophead.”
He turned to Harmon Shaver.
“Dutch has been good for exactly one week apiece on his last four pictures. He’s all right now but as soon as the heat goes on he reaches for the little white powders. Now Dutch! Don’t say anything you’ll regret. We’re carrying you in HOPES—but you won’t get on a stage till we’ve had a doctor’s certificate for a year.”
Again he turned to Harmon.
“There’s your director. Your supervisor, Jeff Manfred, is here for one reason only—because he’s Behrer’s wife’s cousin. There’s nothing against him but he belongs to silent days as much as—as much as—” His eyes fell upon a quavering broken man, “—as much as Pat Hobby.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Jeff.
“You trusted Hobby, didn’t you? That tells the whole story.” He turned back to Shaver. “Jeff’s a weeper and a wisher and a dreamer. Mr. Shaver, you have bought a lot of condemned building material.”
“Well, I’ve bought a good story,” said Shaver defiantly.
“Yes. That’s right. We’ll make that story.”
“Isn’t that something?” demanded Shaver. “With all this secrecy how was I to know about Mr. Waggoner and Miss Starheim? But I do know a good story.”
“Yes,” said Le Vigne absently. He got up. “Yes—it’s a good story…. Come along to my office, Pat.”
He was already at the door. Pat cast an agonized look at Mr. Shaver as if for support. Then, weakly, he followed.
“Sit down, Pat.”
“That Eric’s got talent, hasn’t he?” said Le Vigne. “He’ll go places. How’d you come to dig him up?”
Pat felt the straps of the electric chair being adjusted.
“Oh—I just dug him up. He—came in my office.”
“We’re putting him on salary,” said Le Vigne. “We ought to have some system to give these kids a chance.”
He took a call on his Dictograph, then swung back to Pat.
“But how did you ever get mixed up with this goddam Shaver. YOU, Pat—an old-timer like you.”
“Well, I thought—”
“Why doesn’t he go back East?” continued Le Vigne disgustedly. “Getting all you poops stirred up!”
Blood flowed back into Pat’s veins. He recognized his signal, his dog-call.
“Well, I got you a story, didn’t I?” he said, with almost a swagger. And he added, “How’d you know about it?”
“I went down to see Estelle in the hospital. She and this kid were working on it. I walked right in on them.”
“Oh,” said Pat.
“I knew the kid by sight. Now, Pat, tell me this—did Jeff Manfred think you wrote it—or was he in on the racket?”
“Oh God,” Pat mourned. “What do I have to answer that for?”
Le Vigne leaned forward intensely.
“Pat, you’re sitting over a trap door!” he said with savage eyes. “Do you see how the carpet’s cut? I just have to press this button and drop you down to hell! Will you TALK?”
Pat was on his feet, staring wildly at the floor.
“Sure I will!” he cried. He believed it—he believed such things.
“All right,” said Le Vigne relaxing. “There’s whiskey in the sideboard there. Talk quick and I’ll give you another month at two-fifty. I kinda like having you around.”
