Jack and Susan in 1913 (27 page)

The new Cosmic Film Company building looked like a livery stable—in fact, it had been one until two weeks before. It not only had the outward aspect of a home for horses, but it smelled as if a few animals might still be in residence. The wide doors had been built to accommodate a double carriage. They were open and Jack stepped inside.

Little had been done in the way of conversion for use by a film company. Jack saw a great number of doors, none of them labeled, along both sides of a long whitewashed corridor. He opened several of these cautiously, but the rooms were empty. He discovered that this line of what was apparently the Cosmic Film Company offices were no more than the former horse stalls, cleaned out and whitewashed with doors set in where before there had been gates and windows. The place smelled of newly-sawed wood, varnish—and horses.

At the end of the corridor, Jack heard movement and muffled voices behind a door larger than the others. He decided not to investigate.

Instead, he opened one of the other doors, crept into the room, now occupied by a swivel chair, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a wastepaper basket made of twisted wire. He took off his jacket, removed his vest and folded it for a pillow. Then he put his jacket back on, lay down on the floor, and immediately fell asleep.

He was awakened by the barking of a dog. Tripod. Then after that came Susan's voice. “Oh, my lord,” she said, “what mischief are you doing here?”

“Sleeping,” said Jack groggily. He sat up, or rather, tried to sit up. It is not a pleasant or easy thing to sleep on a hard floor all night. “I was in jail, and all my money was stolen—”

“Jail! I'm glad to hear it,” said Susan. “Be quiet, Tripod. I'll let you loose in a minute.”

“I couldn't afford a hotel, and nobody in this town will rent to the movies—”

“This is my office,” Susan interrupted tartly. “And when I chose it, I wasn't told that it would also be used as a dormitory for ex-convicts.” She threw herself into the swivel chair so hard that it rolled across the floor and very nearly took off Jack's right ear.

He jerked his head out of the way just in time.

Despite the discomfort of the floor, Jack felt a little better than he had the morning before. This was to be expected since he'd managed to sleep for fifteen hours, and he'd recovered from his overindulgence in brandy. He'd had nothing to eat, however, and his stomach growled warningly. “You don't happen to have a sandwich, do you?” asked Jack. “And please keep that dog away. I don't want another bloody ankle.”

Junius Fane stuck his head in at the door. “Susan, I'd like you—” The director suddenly noticed Jack sitting on the floor, with his head against the wall and his feet beneath the desk. “Oh. You have me to thank for getting you out of jail,” Mr. Fane said, apparently not thinking it odd that Jack Beaumont was sitting on the floor of Susan Bright's brand-new office at eight-thirty in the morning. “I persuaded the management not to press charges—I owed you a favor for what you did for me in New York. Susan, could you come with me, please? Oh, and you too, I suppose, Mr. Beaumont, as long as you're here. There's something you might like to see down at the end of the hallway.”

After tying Tripod's leash to one of the handles of the filing cabinet, Susan followed Junius Fane out the door and down the corridor. She did not speak another word to Jack.

Staying out of range of Tripod's leash, Jack dragged himself upright with the assistance of Susan's desk and wandered out into the empty hallway in search of a bathroom. Finding one, he washed his face, shook out his shirt and trousers, and wiped off his dusty shoes. Then he went to find Junius Fane.

He found Fane, Susan, and several of the actors—including Ida Conquest and Miss Songar—in a darkened room at the end of the building. A projector had been set up and sun-drenched images were being shown on a canvas screen. The footage was of Jack, bravely interfering with a holdup.

In the darkness, he blushed, seeing himself so very tall and stern. He remembered what he had been thinking when these pictures were made—he had been contemplating putting bullets into the hearts of Mr. Perks and Mr. Westermeade, imagining them real bandits. How could he have been so foolish? Then on the screen Ida Conquest threw her arms around Jack, thanking him for saving her life, her virtue, and her diamonds. She even turned—just so—and the camera took full advantage of the grateful kiss she planted on Jack's mouth. Hosmer, filming from inside the train, had caught everything: Jack's stalwart behavior in the face of danger, his concern for the safety of the other passengers, his confusion at Ida's kiss, and finally, his unmistakable astonishment at discovering that the entire business had been only a setup.

The film then rolled on, showing shots of small towns and mountains and forests and deserts, taken from the windows of the train.

Junius Fane was not interested in this stock material. “Is Beaumont in here yet?” he called out, rising from his chair into the light from the projector.

“I'm here,” said Jack.

“Splendid stuff,” said Fane.

“Oh, yes,” murmured others in the room, “perfectly splendid.” Susan murmured other words.

“Have you ever acted before?” Fane asked. The projector whirred on. A snowcapped mountain peaked against Fane's neck.

“No,” replied Jack, “never.”

“Well, it doesn't matter,” said Fane easily. “Because you are a natural actor. I just wish that I had known this in New York. A true, natural hero—perfect to play opposite Miss Conquest here. Ida, didn't you think that you and Mr. Beaumont looked splendid together? Didn't he show you off to advantage?”

“Sure as sugar,” replied Ida.

“I'm going to hire you right now,” said Fane, “on the spot. Somebody fetch our standard contract. Doesn't matter what it says, as long as there's a place for him and me to sign. We'll worry about the details later, but I want him on the Cosmic payroll before some other studio gets to him.”

Jack stood speechless. Cactus whirred across Junius Fane's chest.

“Hosmer, stop the projector and run it back so that we can watch Beaumont's scene again. Susan, you pay particular attention, because I want you to concoct a script around this footage. Introduce Jack's character as the hero. He's in love with Ida, but too shy to tell her so. He follows her out west. He makes an advance. He is rebuffed in the dining car. Bandits attack the train. Ida's life is threatened. Her virtue is in danger. Jack saves her life and her virtue—”

“And her diamonds—” Ida prompted.

“And then let him save her life again. No, wait, change that. She should save
his
life. That's it. She has to make a choice between her virtue and her diamonds or Jack's life.”

“I know which I'd choose,” Susan muttered darkly. “In a minute.”

“She chooses to save Jack's life, of course,” said Fane. “And that proves she loves him. Let's have a scene at the beach, too. Maybe she chooses between her diamonds and saving Jack from being eaten by sharks. I'm sure you can come up with the details. And keep the titles down, Susan. With Jack and Ida up on the screen, we're not going to need words to tell the audience what is happening between them.”

“Does Mr. Beaumont die at the end?” Susan asked.

“Certainly not. This is a moving picture. We will leave unhappy endings to the stage, Miss Bright. And to bad novels, which is where they belong.”

S
OMEONE FOUND A blank contract, and Junius Fane pushed Jack into the nearest office to have him sign. “Have you a pen?” Fane asked.

“No,” replied Jack.

“Susan, please get Mr. Beaumont something to sign his name with.”

Susan wouldn't do it. “Junius,” she protested, “I am sure you know the story of how this man tricked me.”

Jack, who had been reading the contract, glanced up and smiled a little smile of apology at Susan Bright.

“Oh, of course. Everyone in the company knows,” returned Fane easily, insensitive to whatever additional pain this might afford Susan. He rummaged in a box of supplies and came up with a fountain pen for Jack.

“Well, then, do you really want to hire a man who is an inveterate liar? A man who makes up wild tales about anything? And everything?”

Jack blushed, but he did not look up from the contract.

“All actors are liars, Susan,” replied Junius Fane easily. “And the better the liar, the better the actor. Jack—may I call you Jack?” Jack nodded with a polite smile of acquiescence, then returned to the contract. Mr. Fane went on: “Jack showed a natural talent before the camera, and I am convinced that he will—with his disregard for danger and his own physical well-being—be a distinct asset to our little acting company. I was at a bit of a loss what to do when Mr. Fitcher decided to remain in New York with his parents. I had no one of the proper height to play against Ida. Ida looks best against someone who is quite tall, and as you see, Mr. Beaumont is exactly the right height. Besides, I'm not hiring Mr. Beaumont simply because of his splendid performance before the camera and his height. I'm also hiring him because of his mechanical abilities. It's not as easy to get things done in California, I'm told, as it is in New York. I'll feel safer having Mr. Beaumont around if things go wrong with the cameras or any other mechanical equipment.”

“But he's a stockbroker! He's not a professional mechanic, and he never was! He lied about that too!”

“That's as it may be, Susan, but then all I can say is that Mr. Beaumont is the best damned amateur mechanic I've ever come across.” Then turning to Jack, he said, “It's time to sign the contract.”

“I've inked in a few changes,” said Jack, handing the contract to Fane, who took it and looked it over.

“I should argue about these alterations,” the director said, “but I know that you are a man of independent means, and I suppose that if I do not agree to your stipulations, you will simply walk out the door. I don't want to lose you, so I will sign. Mr. Beaumont, you're an extortioner.”

With a nod to Jack, Fane signed the contract and blotted the signatures, then folded the document and put it into his pocket. Then, just before leaving, he said, “Susan, look for a place for Jack to live, would you?”

When he was gone, Jack smiled at Susan. Susan stared back at him with enraged astonishment and blurted, “Tripod is exploring the hillside, but I wish he were here to tell you what I think of you. I refuse to have anything to do with you.”

“You don't have to,” Jack said smugly. “You're a writer. I'm an actor. You can sit inside this dark office all day and write, and I'll be outside under the splendid sun, smelling the splendid air, standing in front of the camera being taller than Ida.”

“I won't work with this company while you're in it,” Susan went on.

“I'm given to understand there are other moving-picture companies in Hollywood. Perhaps, after a while, you could find employment in one of them.”

“That's what
you
should do,” said Susan. “I had this job first. You don't need the money anyway. The only reason you're doing this is in order to annoy me.”

“In the first place,” said Jack, “I do need the work, if I'm to sleep with a roof over my head, fill my stomach with food, and pay back the five hundred dollars you demanded of me, though it was, of course, mine to begin with. In the second place, you should remember that it was I who obtained this work for you. And, in the third place, I know my presence is an annoyance to you, so I will endeavor to stay out of your way. I wish you all joy in your married life. Hosmer will make a wonderful husband and father. Your children are sure to win prizes for beauty and intelligence.”

Junius Fane had been apprised of the difficulty of obtaining lodging for “movies” in Hollywood, for the town had not yet become reconciled to having a sinful industry take root within its boundaries. So, employing a sympathetic agent, Fane had rented a row of new, cheaply constructed two-bedroom furnished bungalows on the southern edge of Hollywood in which to house his little company. The tiny yards in back of these houses were fenced, and beyond the fences were massive flat fields with stately pumping oil wells and trolleys moving back and forth on their way to and from town. Bleaker dwellings could not be imagined; they were all of the same design and bore only rudimentary, machine-made ornamentation. The yards were dirt, and the sun shone blisteringly on the tile roofs. Nothing grew, nothing attracted the eye.