Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (22 page)

'What's the idea?' he demanded hotly. 'What's the matter
with you? Stop it immediately, and give me that sword.'

The temperamental star emitted another 'Ah-h-h-h-h!' but it
was but a half-hearted one. The old pep had gone. She allowed
the weapon to be snatched from her grasp. Her eyes met Wilmot's.
And suddenly, as she gazed into those steel-hard orbs, the
fire faded out of her, leaving her a mere weak woman face to face
with what appeared to be the authentic caveman. It seemed to
her for an instant, as she looked at him, that she had caught a
glimpse of something evil. It was as if this man who stood before
her had been a Fiend about to Seize Hatchet and Slay Six.

As a matter of fact, Wilmot's demeanour was simply the
normal one of a man who every morning for four days has
taken an orange, divided it into two equal parts, squeezed on a
squeezer, poured into a glass or cup, and drunk; who has sipped
the juice of an orange in the midst of rollicking lunchers doing
themselves well among the roasts and hashes; and who, on
returning to his modest flat in the evenfall, has got to work
with the old squeezer once more. But Hortensia Burwash, eyeing
him, trembled. Her spirit was broken.

'Messing about with ink,' grumbled Wilmot, dabbing at his
legs with blotting-paper. 'Silly horse-play, I call it.'

The star's lips quivered. She registered Distress.

'You needn't be so cross,' she whimpered.

'Cross!' thundered Wilmot. He pointed wrathfully at his
lower limbs. 'The best ten-dollar trousers in Hollywood!'

'Well, I'm sorry.'

'You'd better be. What did you do it for?'

'I don't know. Everything sort of went black.'

'Like my trousers.'

'I'm sorry about your trousers.' She sniffed miserably. 'You
wouldn't be so unkind if you knew what it was like.'

'What what was like?'

'This dieting. Fifteen days with nothing but orange-juice.'

The effect of these words on Wilmot Mulliner was stunning.
His animosity left him in a flash. He started. The stony look in
his eyes melted, and he gazed at her with a tender commiseration,
mingled with remorse that he should have treated so
harshly a sister in distress.

'You don't mean you're dieting?'

'Yes.'

Wilmot was deeply stirred. It was as if he had become once
more the old, kindly, gentle Wilmot, beloved by all.

'You poor little thing! No wonder you rush about smashing
ink-pots. Fifteen days of it! My gosh!'

'And I was upset, too, about the picture.'

'What picture?'

'My new picture. I don't like the story.'

'What a shame!'

'It isn't true to life.'

'How rotten! Tell me all about it. Come on, tell Wilmot.'

'Well, it's like this. I'm supposed to be starving in a garret, and
they want me with the last remnant of my strength to write a letter
to my husband, forgiving him and telling him I love him still.
The idea is that I'm purified by hunger. And I say it's all wrong.'

'All wrong?' cried Wilmot. 'You're right, it's all wrong. I never
heard anything so silly in my life. A starving woman's heart
wouldn't soften. And, as for being purified by hunger, purified
by hunger my hat! The only reason which would make a woman
in that position take pen in hand and write to her husband would
be if she could think of something nasty enough to say to make it
worth while.'

'That's just how I feel.'

'As a matter of fact, nobody but a female goof would be
thinking of husbands at all at a time like that. She would
be thinking of roast pork ...'

'... and steaks ...'

'... and chops ...'

'... and chicken casserole ...'

'... and kidneys
sautés ...'

'... and mutton curry...'

'... and doughnuts ...'

'... and layer-cake ...'

'... and peach pie, mince pie, apple pie, custard pie, and pie
à la mode,'
said Wilmot. 'Of everything, in a word, but the juice
of an orange. Tell me, who was the half-wit who passed this
story, so utterly alien to human psychology?'

'Mr Schnellenhamer. I was coming to see him about it.'

'I'll have a word or two with Mr Schnellenhamer. We'll soon
have that story fixed. But what on earth do you want to diet for?'

'I don't want to. There's a weight clause in my contract. It says
I mustn't weigh more than a hundred and eight pounds. Mr
Schnellenhamer insisted on it.'

A grim look came into Wilmot's face.

'Schnellenhamer again, eh? This shall be attended to.'

He crossed to the cupboard and flung open the door. The
magnate came out on all fours. Wilmot curtly directed him to
the desk.

'Take paper and ink, Schnellenhamer, and write this lady out
a new contract, with no weight clause.'

'But listen ...'

'Your sword, madam, I believe?' said Wilmot, extending the
weapon.

'All right,' said Mr Schnellenhamer hastily. 'All right. All
right.'

And, while you're at it,' said Wilmot, 'I'll take one, too,
restoring me to my former salary.'

'What was your former salary?' asked Hortensia Burwash.

'Fifteen hundred.'

'I'll double it. I've been looking for a business manager like
you for years. I didn't think they made them nowadays. So firm.
So decisive. So brave. So strong. You're the business manager of
my dreams.'

Wilmot's gaze, straying about the room, was attracted by a
movement on top of the filing cabinet. He looked up, and his
eyes met those of Mabel Potter. They yearned worshippingly at
him, and in them there was something which he had no difficulty
in diagnosing as the love-light. He turned to Hortensia
Burwash.

'By the way, my fiancée, Miss Potter.'

'How do you do?' said Hortensia Burwash.

'Pleased to meet you,' said Mabel.

'What did you get up there for?' asked Miss Burwash,
puzzled.

'Oh, I thought I would,' said Mabel.

Wilmot, as became a man of affairs, was crisp and businesslike.

'Miss Burwash wishes to make a contract with me to act as
her manager,' he said. 'Take dictation, Miss Potter.'

'Yes, sir,' said Mabel.

At the desk, Mr Schnellenhamer had paused for a moment in
his writing. He was trying to remember if the word he wanted
was spelled 'clorse' or 'clorze.'

T
HEY
had been showing the latest Minna Nordstrom picture
at the Bijou Dream in the High Street, and Miss Postlethwaite,
our sensitive barmaid, who had attended the premiere, was
still deeply affected. She snuffled audibly as she polished the
glasses.

'It's really good, is it?' we asked, for in the bar-parlour of the
Angler's Rest we lean heavily on Miss Postlethwaite's opinion
where the silver screen is concerned. Her verdict can make
or mar.

"Swonderful,' she assured us. 'It lays bare for all to view the
soul of a woman who dared everything for love. A poignant and
uplifting drama of life as it is lived to-day, purifying the emotions
with pity and terror.'

A Rum and Milk said that if it was as good as all that he didn't
know but what he might not risk ninepence on it. A Sherry and
Bitters wondered what they paid a woman like Minna Nordstrom.
A Port from the Wood, raising the conversation from the
rather sordid plane to which it threatened to sink, speculated on
how motion-picture stars became stars.

'What I mean,' said the Port from the Wood, 'does a studio
deliberately set out to create a star? Or does it suddenly say to
itself "Hullo, here's a star. What-ho!"?'

One of those cynical Dry Martinis who always know everything
said that it was all a question of influence.

'If you looked into it, you would find this Nordstrom girl was
married to one of the bosses.'

Mr Mulliner, who had been sipping his hot Scotch and lemon
in a rather distrait way, glanced up.

'Did I hear you mention the name Minna Nordstrom?'

'We were arguing about how she became a star. I was saying
that she must have had a pull of some kind.'

'In a sense,' said Mr Mulliner, 'you are right. She did have
a pull. But it was one due solely to her own initiative and resource. I have
relatives and connections in Hollywood, as you know, and I learn much of the
inner history of the studio world through these channels. I happen to know
that Minna Nordstrom raised herself to her present eminence by sheer enterprise
and determination. If Miss Postlethwaite will mix me another hot Scotch and
lemon, this time stressing the Scotch a little more vigorously, I shall be
delighted to tell you the whole story.'

When people talk with bated breath in Hollywood – and it is
a place where there is always a certain amount of breath-bating
going on – you will generally find, said Mr Mulliner, that the
subject of their conversation is Jacob Z. Schnellenhamer,
the popular president of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation.
For few names are more widely revered there than that of this
Napoleonic man.

Ask for an instance of his financial acumen, and his admirers
will point to the great merger for which he was responsible –
that merger by means of which he combined his own company,
the Colossal-Exquisite, with those two other vast concerns, the
Perfecto-Fishbein and the Zizzbaum-Celluloid. Demand proof
of his artistic genius, his
flair
for recognizing talent in the raw,
and it is given immediately. He was the man who discovered
Minna Nordstrom.

To-day when interviewers bring up the name of the world-famous
star in Mr Schnellenhamer's presence, he smiles quietly.

'I had long had my eye on the little lady,' he says, 'but for one
reason and another I did not consider the time ripe for her
début.
Then
I brought about what you are good enough to call the
epoch-making merger, and I was enabled to take the decisive
step. My colleagues questioned the wisdom of elevating a totally
unknown girl to stardom, but I was firm. I saw that it was the
only thing to be done.'

'You had vision?'

'I had vision.'

All that Mr Schnellenhamer had, however, on the evening
when this story begins was a headache. As he returned from the
day's work at the studio and sank wearily into an arm-chair in
the sitting-room of his luxurious home in Beverly Hills, he was
feeling that the life of the president of a motion-picture corporation
was one that he would hesitate to force on any dog of
which he was fond.

A morbid meditation, of course, but not wholly unjustified.
The great drawback to being the man in control of a large studio
is that everybody you meet starts acting at you. Hollywood is
entirely populated by those who want to get into the pictures,
and they naturally feel that the best way of accomplishing their
object is to catch the boss's eye and do their stuff.

Since leaving home that morning Mr Schnellenhamer had
been acted at practically incessantly. First, it was the studio
watchman who, having opened the gate to admit his car, proceeded
to play a little scene designed to show what he could do in
a heavy rôle. Then came his secretary, two book agents, the
waitress who brought him his lunch, a life insurance man, a
representative of a film weekly, and a barber. And, on leaving at
the end of the day, he got the watchman again, this time in
whimsical comedy.

Little wonder, then, that by the time he reached home the
magnate was conscious of a throbbing sensation about the
temples and an urgent desire for a restorative.

As a preliminary to obtaining the latter, he rang the bell and
Vera Prebble, his parlourmaid, entered. For a moment he was
surprised not to see his butler. Then he recalled that he had
dismissed him just after breakfast for reciting Gunga Din in a
meaning way while bringing the eggs and bacon.

'You rang, sir?'

'I want a drink.'

'Very good, sir.'

The girl withdrew, to return a few moments later with a
decanter and siphon. The sight caused Mr Schnellenhamer's
gloom to lighten a little. He was justly proud of his cellar, and
he knew that the decanter contained liquid balm. In a sudden
gush of tenderness he eyed its bearer appreciatively, thinking
what a nice girl she looked.

Until now he had never studied Vera Prebble's appearance to
any great extent or thought about her much in any way. When
she had entered his employment a few days before, he had
noticed, of course, that she had a sort of ethereal beauty; but
then every girl you see in Hollywood has either ethereal beauty
or roguish gaminerie or a dark, slumberous face that hints at
hidden passion.

'Put it down there on the small table,' said Mr Schnellenhamer,
passing his tongue over his lips.

The girl did so. Then, straightening herself, she suddenly
threw her head back and clutched the sides of it in an ecstasy of
hopeless anguish.

'Oh! Oh! Oh!' she cried.

'Eh?' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

'Ah! Ah! Ah!'

'I don't get you at all,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

She gazed at him with wide, despairing eyes.

'If you knew how sick and tired I am of it all! Tired ...
Tired ... Tired. The lights ... the glitter ... the gaiety... It is
so hollow, so fruitless. I want to get away from it all, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!'

Mr Schnellenhamer retreated behind the Chesterfield. That
laugh had had an unbalanced ring. He had not liked it. He was
about to continue his backward progress in the direction of the
door, when the girl, who had closed her eyes and was rocking to
and fro as if suffering from some internal pain, became calmer.

'Just a little thing I knocked together with a view to showing
myself in a dramatic role,' she said.

'Watch! I'm going to register.'

She smiled.

'Joy.'

She closed her mouth.

'Grief

She wiggled her ears.

'Horror.'

She raised her eyebrows.

'Hate.'

Then, taking a parcel from the tray:

'Here,' she said, 'if you would care to glance at them, are a few
stills of myself. This shows my face in repose. I call it "Reverie".
This is me in a bathing suit ... riding ... walking ... happy
among my books ... being kind to the dog. Here is one of
which my friends have been good enough to speak in terms of
praise – as Cleopatra, the warrior-queen of Egypt, at the Pasadena
Gas-Fitters' Ball. It brings out what is generally considered
my most effective feature – the nose, seen sideways.'

During the course of these remarks Mr Schnellenhamer had
been standing breathing heavily. For a while the discovery that
this parlourmaid, of whom he had just been thinking so benevolently,
was simply another snake in the grass had rendered him
incapable of speech. Now his aphasia left him.

'Get out!' he said.

'Pardon?' said the girl.

'Get out this minute. You're fired.'

There was a silence. Vera Prebble closed her mouth, wiggled
her ears, and raised her eyebrows. It was plain that she was
grieved, horror-stricken, and in the grip of a growing hate.

'What,' she demanded passionately at length, 'is the matter
with all you movie magnates? Have you no hearts? Have you no
compassion? No sympathy? No understanding? Do the ambitions
of the struggling mean nothing to you?'

'No,' replied Mr Schnellenhamer in answer to all five
questions.

Vera Prebble laughed bitterly.

'No is right!' she said. 'For months I besieged the doors of the
casting directors. They refused to cast me. Then I thought that if
I could find a way into your homes I might succeed where I had
failed before. I secured the post of parlourmaid to Mr Fishbein
of the Perfecto-Fishbein. Half-way through Rudyard Kipling's
"Boots" he brutally bade me begone. I obtained a similar position
with Mr Zizzbaum of the Zizzbaum-Celluloid. The opening
lines of "The Wreck of the
Hesperus"
had hardly passed my
lips when he was upstairs helping me pack my trunk. And now
you crush my hopes. It is cruel ... cruel ... Oh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!'

She rocked to and fro in an agony of grief. Then an idea
seemed to strike her.

'I wonder if you would care to see me in light comedy? ...
No? ... Oh, very well.'

With a quick droop of the eyelids and a twitch of the muscles
of the cheeks she registered resignation.

'Just as you please,' she said. Then her nostrils quivered and
she bared the left canine tooth to indicate Menace. 'But one last
word. Wait!'

'How do you mean, wait?'

'Just wait. That's all.'

For an instant Mr Schnellenhamer was conscious of a twinge
of uneasiness. Like all motion-picture magnates, he had about
forty-seven guilty secrets, many of them recorded on paper. Was
it possible that ...

Then he breathed again. All his private documents were
secure in a safe-deposit box. It was absurd to imagine that this
girl could have anything on him.

Relieved, he lay down on the Chesterfield and gave himself
up to day-dreams. And soon, as he remembered that that morning he had put
through a deal which would enable him to trim the stuffing out of two hundred
and seventy-three exhibitors, his lips curved in a contented smile and Vera
Prebble was forgotten.

One of the advantages of life in Hollywood is that the
Servant Problem is not a difficult one. Supply more than equals
demand. Ten minutes after you have thrown a butler out of the
back door his successor is bowling up in his sports-model car.
And the same applies to parlourmaids. By the following afternoon
all was well once more with the Schnellenhamer domestic
machine. A new butler was cleaning the silver: a new parlourmaid
was doing whatever parlourmaids do, which is very little.
Peace reigned in the home.

But on the second evening, as Mr Schnellenhamer, the day's
tasks over, entered his sitting-room with nothing in his mind
but bright thoughts of dinner, he was met by what had all the
appearance of a human whirlwind. This was Mrs Schnellenhamer.
A graduate of the silent films, Mrs Schnellenhamer had
been known in her day as the Queen of Stormy Emotion, and
she occasionally saw to it that her husband was reminded of this.

'Now see what!' cried Mrs Schnellenhamer.

Mr Schnellenhamer was perturbed.

'Is something wrong?' he asked nervously.

'Why did you fire that girl, Vera Prebble?'

'She went ha-ha-ha-ha-ha at me.'

'Well, do you know what she has done? She has laid information
with the police that we are harbouring alcoholic liquor on
our premises, contrary to law, and this afternoon they came in a
truck and took it all away.'

Mr Schnellenhamer reeled. The shock was severe. The good
man loves his cellar.

'Not all?' he cried, almost pleadingly.

'All.'

'The Scotch?'

'Every bottle.'

'The gin?'

'Every drop.'

Mr Schnellenhamer supported himself against the
Chesterfield.

'Not the champagne?' he whispered.

'Every case. And here we are, with a hundred and fifty people
coming to-night, including the Duke.'

Her allusion was to the Duke of Wigan, who, as so many
British dukes do, was at this time passing slowly through Hollywood.

'And you know how touchy dukes are,' proceeded Mrs
Schnellenhamer. 'I'm told that the Lulubelle Mahaffys invited
the Duke of Kircudbrightshire for the week-end last year, and
after he had been there two months he suddenly left in a huff
because there was no brown sherry.'

A motion-picture magnate has to be a quick thinker. Where a
lesser man would have wasted time referring to the recent Miss
Prebble as a serpent whom he had to all intents and purposes
nurtured in his bosom, Mr Schnellenhamer directed the whole
force of his great brain on the vital problem of how to undo the
evil she had wrought.

'Listen,' he said. 'It's all right. I'll get the bootlegger on the
'phone, and he'll have us stocked up again in no time.'

But he had overlooked the something in the air of Hollywood
which urges its every inhabitant irresistibly into the pictures.
When he got his bootlegger's number, it was only to discover
that that life-saving tradesman was away from home. They were
shooting a scene in 'Sundered Hearts' on the Outstanding
Screen-Favourites lot, and the bootlegger was hard at work
there, playing the role of an Anglican bishop. His secretary
said he could not be disturbed, as it got him all upset to be
interrupted when he was working.