Pat Hobby’s Christmas Wish, F. Scott Fitzgerald

I

It was Christmas Eve in the studio. by eleven o’clock in the morning, Santa Claus had called on most of the huge population according to each one’s deserts.

Sumptuous gifts from producers to stars, and from agents to producers arrived at offices and studio bungalows; on every stage one heard of the roguish gifts of casts to directors or directors to casts; champagne had gone out from publicity office to the press. And tips of fifties, tens and fives from producers, directors and writers fell like manna upon the white collar class.

In this sort of transaction there were exceptions. Pat Hobby, for example, who knew the game from twenty years’ experience, had had the idea of getting rid of his secretary the day before. They were sending over a new one any minute but she would scarcely expect a present the first day.

Waiting for her, he walked the corridor, glancing into open oflices for signs of life. He stopped to chat with Joe Hopper from the scenario department.

“Not like the old days,” he mourned. “Then there was a bottle on every desk.”

“There’re a few around.”

“Not many.” Pat sighed. “And afterwards we’d run a picture—made up out of cutting-room scraps.”

“I’ve heard. All the suppressed stuff,” said Hopper.

Pat nodded, his eyes glistening.

“Oh, it was juicy. You darned near ripped your guts laughing—

He broke off as the sight of a woman, pad in hand, entering his office down the hall recalled him to the sorry present.

“Gooddorf has me working over the holiday,” he complained bitterly.

“I wouldn’t do it.”

“I wouldn’t either except my four weeks are up next Friday, and if I bucked him he wouldn’t extend me.”

As he turned away Hopper knew that Pat was not being extended anyhow. He had been hired to script an old-fashioned horse-opera and the boys who were “writing behind him” that is working over his stuff—said that all of it was old and some didn’t make sense.

“I’m Miss Kagle,” said Pat’s new secretary.

She was about thirty-six, handsome, faded, tired, efficient. She went to the typewriter, examined it, sat down and burst into sobs.

Pat started. Self-control, from below anyhow, was the rule around here. Wasn’t it bad enough to be working on Christmas Eve? Well less bad than not working at all. He walked over and shut the door—someone might suspect him of insulting the girl.

“Cheer up,” he advised her. “This is Christmas.”

Her burst of emotion had died away. She sat upright now, choking and wiping her eyes.

“Nothing’s as bad as it seems,” he assured her unconvincingly. “What’s it, anyhow’? They going to lay you off?”

She shook her head, did a sniffle to end sniffles, and opened her note book.

“Who you been working for?”

She answered between suddenly gritted teeth.

“Mr. Harry Gooddorf.”

Pat widened his permanently bloodshot eyes. Now he remembered he had seen her in Harry’s outer office.

“Since 1921. Eighteen years. And yesterday he sent me back to the department. He said I depressed him—I reminded him he was getting on.” Her face was grim. “That isn’t the way he talked after hours eighteen years ago.”

“Yeah, he was a skirt chaser then.” said Pat.

“I should have done something then when I had the chance.”

Pat felt righteous stirrings.

“Breach of promise? That’s no angle!”

“But I had something to clinch it. Something bigger than breach of promise. I still have too. But then, you see, I thought I was in love with him.” She brooded for a moment. “Do you want to dictate something now?”

Pat remembered his job and opened a script.

“It’s an insert,” he began. “Scene 114 A.”

Pat paced the office.

“Ext. Long Shot of the Plains,” he decreed. “Buck and Mexicans approaching the hyacenda.”

“The what?”

“The hyacenda—the ranch house.” He looked at her reproachfully. “114 B. Two Shot: Buck and Pedro. Buck: ‘The dirty son-of-a-bitch. I’ll tear his guts out!’”

Miss Kagle looked up, startled.

“You want me to write that down?”

“Sure.”

“It won’t get by.”

“I’m writing this. Of course, it won’t get by. But if I put ’you rat’ the scene won’t have any force.”

“But won’t somebody have to change it to ‘you rat’?”

He glared at her—he didn’t want to change secretaries every day.

“Harry Gooddorf can worry about that.”

“Are you working for Mr. Gooddorf?” Miss Kagle asked in alarm.

“Until he throws me out.”

“I shouldn’t have said—”

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “He’s no pal of mine anymore. Not at three-fifty a week, when I used to get two thousand … Where was I?”

He paced the floor again, repeating his last line aloud with relish. But now it seemed to apply not to a personage of the story but to Harry Gooddorf. Suddenly he stood still, lost in thought. “Say, what is it you got on him? You know where the body is buried?”

“That’s too true to be funny.”

“He knock somebody off?”

“Mr Hobby, I’m sorry I ever opened my mouth.”

“Just call me Pat. What’s your first name?”

“Helen.”

“Married?”

“Not now.”

“Well, listen Helen: What do you say we have dinner?”

II

On the afternoon of Christmas Day he was still trying to get the secret out of her. They had the studio almost to themselves—only a skeleton staff of technical men dotted the walks and the commissary. They had exchanged Christmas presents. Pat gave her a five dollar bill, Helen bought him a white linen handkerchief. Very well he could remember the day when many dozen such handkerchiefs had been his Christmas harvest.

The script was progressing at a snail’s pace but their friendship had considerably ripened. Her secret, he considered, was a very valuable asset, and he wondered how many careers had turned on just such an asset. Some, he felt sure, had been thus raised to affluence. Why, it was almost as good as being in the family, and he pictured an imaginary conversation with Harry Gooddorf.

“Harry, it’s this way. I don’t think my experience is being made use of. It’s the young squirts who ought to do the writing—I ought to do more supervising.”

“Or—?”

“Or else,” said Pat firmly.

He was in the midst of his day dream when Harry Gooddorf unexpectedly walked in.

“Merry Christmas, Pat,” he said jovially. His smile was less robust when he saw Helen, “Oh, hello Helen—didn’t know you and Pat had got together. I sent you a remembrance over to the script department.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Harry turned swiftly to Pat.

“The boss is on my neck,” he said. “I’ve got to have a finished script Thursday.”

“Well, here I am,” said Pat. “You’ll have it. Did I ever fail you?”

“Usually,” said Harry. “Usually.”

He seemed about to add more when a call boy entered with an envelope and handed it to Helen Kagle—whereupon Harry turned and hurried out.

“He’d better get out!” burst forth Miss Kagle, after opening the envelope. “Ten bucks—just ten bucks—from an executive—after eighteen years.”

It was Pat’s chance. Sitting on her desk he told her his plan.

“It’s soft jobs for you and me,” he said. “You the head of a script department, me an associate producer. We’re on the gravy train for life—no more writing—no more pounding the keys. We might even—we might even—if things go good we could get married.”

She hesitated a long time. When she put a fresh sheet in the typewriter Pat feared he had lost.

“I can write it from memory,” she said. “This was a letter he typed himself on February 3rd, 1921. He sealed it and gave it to me to mail—but there was a blonde he was interested in, and I wondered why he should be so secret about a letter.”

Helen had been typing as she talked, and now she handed Pat a note.

To Will Bronson
First National Studios
Personal
Dear Bill:

We killed Taylor. We should have cracked down on him sooner. So why not shut up.
Yours, Harry.

Pat stared at it stunned.

“Get it?” Helen said. “On February 1st, 1921, somebody knocked off William Desmond Taylor, the director. And they’ve never found out who.”

III

For eighteen years she had kept the original note, envelope and all. She had sent only a copy to Bronson, tracing Harry Gooddorf’s signature.

“Baby, we’re set!” said Pat. “I always thought it was a girl got Taylor.”

He was so elated that he opened a drawer and brought forth a half-pint of whiskey. Then, with an afterthought, he demanded:

“Is it in a safe place?”

“You bet it is. He’d never guess where.”

“Baby, we’ve got him!”

Cash, cars, girls, swimming pools swam in a glittering montage before Pat’s eye.

He folded the note, put it in his pocket, took another drink and reached for his hat.

“You going to see him now?” Helen demanded in some alarm. “Hey, wait till I get off the lot. / don’t want to get murdered.”

“Don’t worry! Listen I’ll meet you in ’The Muncherie’ at Fifth and La Brea—in one hour.”

As he walked to Gooddorf’s office he decided to mention no facts or names within the walls of the studio. Back in the brief period when he had headed a scenario department Pat had conceived a plan to put a dictaphone in every writer’s office. Thus their loyalty to the studio executives could be checked several times a day.

The idea had been laughed at. But later, when he had been “reduced back to a writer,” he often wondered if his plan was secretly followed. Perhaps some indiscreet remark of his own was responsible for the doghouse where he had been interred for the past decade. So it was with the idea of concealed dictaphones in mind, dictaphones which could be turned on by the pressure of a toe, that he entered Harry Gooddorf’s office.

“Harry—” he chose his words carefully, “do you remember the night of February 1st, 1921?”

Somewhat flabbergasted, Gooddorf leaned back in his swivel chair.

“What?”

“Try and think. It’s something very important to you.”

Pat’s expression as he