Blandings Castle and Elsewhere Read online

  'You're dern tooting she spurned my love,' said Wilmot. 'Spurned it good and hard. Some spurning!'

  'Well, that's how it goes,' said the child star. 'What a world!'

  'You're right, what a world.'

  'I shouldn't wonder if it didn't make your heart heavy.'

  'You bet it makes my heart heavy,' said Wilmot, crying softly. He dried his eyes on the edge of the table-cloth. 'How can I shake off this awful depression?' he asked.

  The child star reflected.

  'Well, I'll tell you,' he said. 'I know a better place than this one. It's out Venice way. We might give it a try.'

  'We certainly might,' said Wilmot.

  'And then there's another one down at Santa Monica.'

  'We'll go there, too,' said Wilmot. 'The great thing is to keep moving about and seeing new scenes and fresh faces.'

  'The faces are always nice and fresh down at Venice.'

  'Then let's go,' said Wilmot.

  It was at eleven o'clock on the following morning that Mr Schnellenhamer burst in upon his fellow-executive, Mr Levitsky, with agitation written on every feature of his expressive face. The cigar trembled between his lips.

  'Listen!' he said. 'Do you know what?'

  'Listen!' said Mr Levitsky. 'What?'

  'Johnny Bingley has just been in to see me.'

  'If he wants a raise of salary, talk about the Depression.'

  'Raise of salary? What's worrying me is how long is he going to be worth the salary he's getting.'

  'Worth it?' Mr Levitsky stared. 'Johnny Bingley? The Child With The Tear Behind The Smile? The Idol Of American Motherhood?'

  'Yes, and how long is he going to be the idol of American Motherhood after American Motherhood finds out he's a midget from Connolly's Circus, and an elderly, hard-boiled midget, at that?'

  'Well, nobody knows that but you and me.'

  'Is that so?' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Well, let me tell you, he was out on a toot last night with one of my Nodders, and he comes to me this morning and says he couldn't actually swear he told this guy he was a midget, but, on the other hand, he rather thinks he must have done. He says that between the time they were thrown out of Mike's Place and the time he stabbed the waiter with the pickle-fork there's a sort of gap in his memory, a kind of blurr, and he thinks it may have been then, because by that time they had got pretty confidential and he doesn't think he would have had any secrets from him.'

  All Mr Levitsky's nonchalance had vanished.

  'But if this fellow – what's his name?'

  'Mulliner.'

  'If this fellow Mulliner sells this story to the Press Johnny Bingley won't be worth a nickel to us. And his contract calls for two more pictures at two hundred and fifty thousand each.'

  'That's right.'

  'But what are we to do?'

  'You tell me.'

  Mr Levitsky pondered.

  'Well, first of all,' he said, 'we'll have to find out if this Mulliner really knows.'

  'We can't ask him.'

  'No, but we'll be able to tell by his manner. A fellow with a stranglehold on the Corporation like that isn't going to be able to go on acting same as he's always done. What sort of a fellow is he?'

  'The ideal Nodder,' said Mr Schnellenhamer regretfully. 'I don't know when I've had a better. Always on his cues. Never tries to alibi himself by saying he had a stiff neck. Quiet ... Respectful ... What's that word that begins with a "d"?'

  'Damn?'

  'Deferential. And what's the word beginning with an "o"?'

  'Oyster?'

  'Obsequious. That's what he is. Quiet, respectful, deferential, and obsequious – that's Mulliner.'

  'Well, then, it'll be easy to see. If we find him suddenly not being all what you said ... if he suddenly ups and starts to throw his weight about, understand what I mean ... why, then we'll know that he knows that Little Johnny Bingley is a midget.'

  'And then?'

  'Why, then we'll have to square him. And do it right, too. No half-measures.'

  Mr Schnellenhamer tore at his hair. He seemed disappointed that he had no straws to stick in it.

  'Yes,' he agreed, the brief spasm over, 'I suppose it's the only way. Well, it won't be long before we know. There's a story-conference in my office at noon, and he'll be there to nod.'

  'We must watch him like a lynx.'

  'Like a what?'

  'Lynx. Sort of wild-cat. It watches things.'

  Ah,' said Mr Schnellenhamer, 'I get you now. What confused me at first was that I thought you meant golf-links.'

  The fears of the two magnates, had they but known it, were quite without foundation. If Wilmot Mulliner had ever learned the fatal secret, he had certainly not remembered it next morning. He had woken that day with a confused sense of having passed through some soul-testing experience, but as regarded details his mind was a blank. His only thought as he entered Mr Schnellenhamer's office for the conference was a rooted conviction that, unless he kept very still, his head would come apart in the middle.

  Nevertheless, Mr Schnellenhamer, alert for significant and sinister signs, plucked anxiously at Mr Levitsky's sleeve.

  'Look!'

  'Eh?'

  'Did you see that?'

  'See what?'

  'That fellow Mulliner. He sort of quivered when he caught my eye, as if with unholy glee.'

  'He did?'

  'It seemed to me he did.'

  As a matter of fact, what had happened was that Wilmot, suddenly sighting his employer, had been enable to restrain a quick shudder of agony. It seemed to him that somebody had been painting Mr Schnellenhamer yellow. Even at the best of times, the President of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum, considered as an object for the eye, was not everybody's money. Flickering at the rims and a dull orange in colour, as he appeared to be now, he had smitten Wilmot like a blow, causing him to wince like a salted snail.

  Mr Levitsky was regarding the young man thoughtfully.

  'I don't like his looks,' he said.

  'Nor do I,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

  'There's a kind of horrid gloating in his manner.'

  'I noticed it, too.'

  'See how he's just buried his head in his hands, as if he were thinking out dreadful plots?'

  'I believe he knows everything.'

  'I shouldn't wonder if you weren't right. Well, let's start the conference and see what he does when the time comes for him to nod. That's when he'll break out, if he's going to.'

  As a rule, these story-conferences were the part of his work which Wilmot most enjoyed. His own share in them was not exacting, and, as he often said, you met such interesting people.

  To-day, however, though there were eleven of the studio's weirdest authors present, each well worth more than a cursory inspection, he found himself unable to overcome the dull listlessness which had been gripping him since he had first gone to the refrigerator that morning to put ice on his temples. As the poet Keats puts it in his 'Ode to a Nightingale,' his head ached and a drowsy numbness pained his sense. And the sight of Mabel Potter, recalling to him those dreams of happiness which he had once dared to dream and which now could never come to fulfilment, plunged him still deeper into the despondency. If he had been a character in a Russian novel, he would have gone and hanged himself in the barn. As it was, he merely sat staring before him and keeping perfectly rigid.

  Most people, eyeing him, would have been reminded of a corpse which had been several days in the water: but Mr Schnellenhamer thought he looked like a leopard about to spring, and he mentioned this to Mr Levitsky in an undertone.

  'Bend down. I want to whisper.'

  'What's the matter?'

  'He looks to me just like a crouching leopard.'

  'I beg your purdon,' said Mabel Potter, who, her duty being to take notes of the proceedings, was seated at her employer's side. 'Did you say "crouching leopard" or "grouchy shepherd"?'

  Mr Schnellenhamer started. He had forgotten the risk of being overheard. He felt that
he had been incautious.

  'Don't put that down,' he said. 'It wasn't part of the conference. Well, now, come on, come on,' he proceeded, with a pitiful attempt at the bluffness which he used at conferences, 'let's get at it. Where did we leave off yesterday, Miss Potter?'

  Mabel consulted her notes.

  'Cabot Delancy, a scion of an old Boston family, has gone to try to reach the North Pole in a submarine, and he's on an iceberg, and the scenes of his youth are passing before his eyes.'

  'What scenes?'

  'You didn't get to what scenes.'

  'Then that's where we begin,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'What scenes pass before this fellow's eyes?'

  One of the authors, a weedy young man in spectacles, who had come to Hollywood to start a Gyffte Shoppe and had been scooped up in the studio's drag-net and forced into the writing-staff much against his will, said why not a scene where Cabot Delancy sees himself dressing his window with kewpie-dolls and fancy note-paper.

  'Why kewpie-dolls?' asked Mr Schnellenhamer testily.

  The author said they were a good selling line.

  'Listen!' said Mr Schnellenhamer brusquely. 'This Delancy never sold anything in his life. He's a millionaire. What we want is something romantic.'

  A diffident old gentleman suggested a polo-game.

  'No good,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Who cares anything about polo? When you're working on a picture you've got to bear in mind the small-town population of the Middle West. Aren't I right?'

  'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.

  'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.

  'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.

  And all the Nodders nodded. Wilmot, waking with a start to the realization that duty called, hurriedly inclined his throbbing head. The movement made him feel as if a red-hot spike had been thrust through it, and he winced. Mr Levitsky plucked at Mr Schnellenhamer's sleeve.

  'He scowled!'

  'I thought he scowled, too.'

  As it might be with sullen hate.'

  'That's the way it struck me. Keep watching him.'

  The conference proceeded. Each of the authors put forward a suggestion, but it was left for Mr Schnellenhamer to solve what had begun to seem an insoluble problem.

  'I've got it,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'He sits on this iceberg and he seems to see himself- he's always been an athlete, you understand – he seems to see himself scoring the winning goal in one of these polo-games. Everybody's interested in polo nowadays. Aren't I right?'

  'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.

  'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.

  'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.

  Wilmot was quicker off the mark this time. A conscientious employee, he did not intend mere physical pain to cause him to fall short in his duty. He nodded quickly, and returned to the 'ready' a little surprised that his head was still attached to its moorings. He had felt so certain it was going to come off that time.

  The effect of this quiet, respectful, deferential and obsequious nod on Mr Schnellenhamer was stupendous. The anxious look had passed from his eyes. He was convinced now that Wilmot knew nothing. The magnate's confidence mounted high. He proceeded briskly. There was a new strength in his voice.

  'Well,' he said, 'that's set for one of the visions We want two, and the other's got to be something that'll pull in the women. Something touching and sweet and tender.'

  The young author in spectacles thought it would be kind of touching and sweet and tender if Cabot Delancy remembered the time he was in his Gyffte Shoppe and a beautiful girl came in and their eyes met as he wrapped up her order of Indian bead-work.

  Mr Schnellenhamer banged the desk.

  'What is all this about Gyffte Shoppes and Indian beadwork? Don't I tell you this guy is a prominent clubman? Where would he get a Gyffte Shoppe? Bring a girl into it, yes – so far you're talking sense. And let him gaze into her eyes – certainly he can gaze into her eyes. But not in any Gyffte Shoppe. It's got to be a lovely, peaceful, old-world exterior set, with bees humming and doves cooing and trees waving in the breeze. Listen!' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'It's spring, see, and all around is the beauty of Nature in the first shy sun-glow. The grass that waves. The buds that ... what's the word?'

  'Bud?' suggested Mr Levitsky.

  'No, it's two syllables,' said Mr Schnellenhamer, speaking a little self-consciously, for he was modestly proud of knowing words of two syllables.

  'Burgeon?' hazarded an author who looked like a trained seal.

  'I beg your pardon,' said Mabel Potter. 'A burgeon's a sort of fish.'

  'You're thinking of sturgeon,' said the author.

  'Excuse it, please,' murmured Mabel. 'I'm not strong on fishes. Birds are what I'm best at.'

  'We'll have birds, too,' said Mr Schnellenhamer jovially. All the birds you want. Especially the cuckoo. And I'll tell you why. It gives us a nice little comedy touch. This fellow's with this girl in this old-world garden where everything's burgeoning ... and when I say burgeoning I mean burgeoning. That burgeoning's got to be done right, or somebody'll get fired ... and they're locked in a close embrace. Hold as long as the Philadelphia censors'll let you, and then comes your nice little comedy touch. Just as these two young folks are kissing each other without a thought of anything else in the world, suddenly a cuckoo close by goes "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" Meaning how goofy they are. That's good for a laugh, isn't it?'

  'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.

  'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.

  'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.

  And then, while the Nodders' heads – Wilmot's among them – were trembling on their stalks preparatory to the downward swoop, there spoke abruptly a clear female voice. It was the voice of Mabel Potter, and those nearest her were able to see that her face was flushed and her eyes gleaming with an almost fanatic light. All the bird-imitator in her had sprung to sudden life.

  'I beg your purdon, Mr Schnellenhamer, that's wrong.'

  A deadly stillness had fallen on the room. Eleven authors sat transfixed in their chairs, as if wondering if they could believe their twenty-two ears. Mr Schnellenhamer uttered a little gasp. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before in his long experience.

  'What did you say?' he asked incredulously. 'Did you say that I ... I ... was wrong?'

  Mabel met his gaze steadily. So might Joan of Arc have faced her inquisitors.

  'The cuckoo,' she said, 'does not go "Cuckoo, cuckoo" ... it goes "Wuckoo, wuckoo." A distinct "W" sound.'

  A gasp at the girl's temerity ran through the room. In the eyes of several of those present there was something that was not far from a tear. She seemed so young, so fragile.

  Mr Schnellenhamer's joviality had vanished. He breathed loudly through his nose. He was plainly mastering himself with a strong effort.

  'So I don't know the low-down on cuckoos?'

  'Wuckoos,' corrected Mabel.

  'Cuckoos!'

  'Wuckoos!'

  'You're fired,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

  Mabel flushed to the roots of her hair.

  'It's unfair and unjust,' she cried. 'I'm right, and anybody who's studied cuckoos will tell you I'm right. When it was a matter of burgeons, I was mistaken, and I admitted that I was mistaken, and apologized. But when it comes to cuckoos, let me tell you you're talking to somebody who has imitated the call of the cuckoo from the Palace, Portland, Oregon, to the Hippodrome, Sumquamset, Maine, and taken three bows after every performance. Yes, sir, I know my cuckoos! And if you don't believe me I'll put it up to Mr Mulliner there, who was born and bred on a farm and has heard more cuckoos in his time than a month of Sundays. Mr Mulliner, how about it? Does the cuckoo go "Cuckoo"?'

  Wilmot Mulliner was on his feet, and his eyes met hers with the love-light in them. The spectacle of the girl he loved in distress and appealing to him for aid had brought my distant connection's better self to the surface as if it had been jerked up on the end of a pin. For one brief instant he had been about to seek safety in a cowardly cringing to t
he side of those in power. He loved Mabel Potter madly, desperately, he had told himself in that short, sickening moment of poltroonery, but Mr Schnellenhamer was the man who signed the cheques: and the thought of risking his displeasure and being summarily dismissed had appalled him. For there is no spiritual anguish like that of the man who, grown accustomed to opening the crackling envelope each Saturday morning, reaches out for it one day and finds that it is not there. The thought of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum cashier ceasing to be a fount of gold and becoming just a man with a walrus moustache had turned Wilmot's spine to Jell-o. And for an instant, as I say, he had been on the point of betraying this sweet girl's trust.

  But now, gazing into her eyes, he was strong again. Come what might, he would stand by her to the end.

  'No!' he thundered, and his voice rang through the room like a trumpet-blast. 'No, it does not go "Cuckoo." You have fallen into a popular error, Mr Schnellenhamer. The bird wooks, and, by heaven, I shall never cease to maintain that it wooks, no matter what offence I give to powerful vested interests. I endorse Miss Potter's view wholeheartedly and without compromise. I say the cuckoo does not cook. It wooks, so make the most of it!'

  There was a sudden whirring noise. It was Mabel Potter shooting through the air into his arms.

  'Oh, Wilmot!' she cried.

  He glared over her back-hair at the magnate.

  '"Wuckoo, wuckoo!"' he shouted, almost savagely.

  He was surprised to observe that Mr Schnellenhamer and Mr Levitsky were hurriedly clearing the room. Authors had begun to stream through the door in a foaming torrent. Presently, he and Mabel were alone with the two directors of the destinies of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation, and Mr Levitsky was carefully closing the door, while Mr Schnellenhamer came towards him, a winning, if nervous, smile upon his face.

  'There, there, Mulliner,' he said.

  And Mr Levitsky said 'There, there,' too.

  'I can understand your warmth, Mulliner,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Nothing is more annoying to the man who knows than to have people making these silly mistakes. I consider the firm stand you have taken as striking evidence of your loyalty to the Corporation.'

  'Me, too,' said Mr Levitsky. 'I was admiring it myself.'