“Well—” said Pat fighting for time. “It was all kind of that way. I came and sat down and then it began to go black.”
“You mean white.”
“Black AND white.”
There was a general titter.
“Witness dismissed. Defendant remanded for trial.”
What was a little joking to endure when the stakes were so high—all that night a mountainous Amazon pursued him through his dreams and he needed a strong drink before appearing at Mr Banizon’s office next morning. He was accompanied by one of the few Hollywood agents who had not yet taken him on and shaken him off.
“A flat sum of five hundred,” offered Banizon. “Or four weeks at two-fifty to work on another picture.”
“How bad do you want this?” asked the agent. “My client seems to think it’s worth three thousand.”
“Of my own money?” cried Banizon. “And it isn’t even HIS idea. Now that Woll is dead it’s in the Public Remains.”
“Not quite,” said the agent. “I think like you do that ideas are sort of in the air. They belong to whoever’s got them at the time—like balloons.”
“Well, how much?” asked Mr Banizon fearfully. “How do I know he’s got the idea?”
The agent turned to Pat.
“Shall we let him find out—for a thousand dollars?”
After a moment Pat nodded. Something was bothering him.
“All right,” said Banizon. “This strain is driving me nuts. One thousand.”
There was silence.
“Spill it Pat,” said the agent.
Still no word from Pat. They waited. When Pat spoke at last his voice seemed to come from afar.
“Everything’s white,” he gasped.
“WHAT?”
“I can’t help it—everything has gone white. I can see it—white. I remember going into the joint but after that it all goes white.”
For a moment they thought he was holding out. Then the agent realized that Pat actually had drawn a psychological blank. The secret of R. Parke Woll was safe forever. Too late Pat realized that a thousand dollars was slipping away and tried desperately to recover.
“I remember, I remember! It was put in by some Nazi dictator.”
“Maybe the girl put it in the trunk herself,” said Banizon ironically. “For her bracelet.”
For many years Mr Banizon would be somewhat gnawed by this insoluble problem. And as he glowered at Pat he wished that writers could be dispensed with altogether. If only ideas could be plucked from the inexpensive air!
