Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1938)

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Murder is different in Hollywood — especially when a famous movie hero is involved in the mystery THERE were five of us crowded into the small interviewing room at the employment agency. As the last to arrive, my chair was in the least advantageous position. I looked the other applicants over, and they looked me over. I figured that if it was a job where the secretary was expected to go out with the boss, the blonde seated directly opposite the door had the inside track. I could see that she thought so, too. On a question of ability, the tall girl was going to give me competition; the redhead was nervous; the bony-featured one probably had plenty of ability, but she wouldn't be much of an office ornament, and she'd been trudging the dreary rounds of employment agencies until it had got her down. This was just one more tryout. She was already figuring where she'd go after it was over. My wrist watch showed exactly ten o'clock. Miss Benson, who ran the agency, opened the door and said, simply, "Mr. Foley." He was a tall man in the thirties, not too heavy, with a smile that I liked. He was holding the cards we'd filled out in his left hand, a pair of dark glasses in his right. "There are fiflNf of you," he said crisply. "I have studied your cards. I'll try to make the interview as brief as possible. Miss Blair, please." The blonde said, "I'm Miss Blair," and her voice was a cooing intimacy. Mr. Foley put the dark glasses over his eyes. From where I was sitting I could see behind the lenses. I saw a peculiar tightening of the muscles across the forehead, and suddenly it occurred to me the man's eyes were closed. He said, "I dictate very rapidly. Do you think you can take it?" "Oh, yes," she said, "I never have any trouble with dictation. I'm quite certain you'd be satisfied, Mr. Foley." "Miss Ransome," Mr. Foley said. That got the dejected girl who was sitting across from me. Miss Crane was the redhead and Miss Sharpe looked like the one who had what it takes. He asked each of them a quick question, listened to their answers, then said, "Miss Bell," and when I answered him, turned his head quickly as though he'd overlooked me sitting there in the corner; but he didn't open his eyes. "Do you," he asked, "think you can fill the position of secretary to a lawyer, Miss Bell?" "I think so," I told him. "Can you go to work right away?" "Yes." He took off his glasses. "Very well, you start at once." IT was just like that, no typing test, no talk about references. The other girls filed out, the blonde leading the procession with a dazed expression, Miss Sharpe with wooden features, the redhead indignant, the Ransome girl mechanically glancing at her watch, and lengthening her stride before she was out of the door. Evidently, she had another interview waiting. Foley turned to me and took off his dark glasses. "My secretary," he said, "was injured in an automobile accident. I need another one right away." I saw that his eyes were a light, clear blue. The pupils seemed very small and very black. DRAWING BY MARIO COOPER And then my curiosity got the better of my judgment. I blurted, "Do you always pick your secretaries with your eyes shut?" His pin-point pupils held my eyes. "You noticed that?" "Yes." "Observant," he said. "Yes, I always judge people by their voices." "How in the world can you judge people entirely by their voices?" I asked. "What can you possibly tell of a secretary's qualifications by listening to her talk?" "You forget," he said, "that I had the cards of the applicants. Naturally, they had all listed their qualifications as being adequate, otherwise Miss Benson wouldn't have selected them for an interview. It only remained for me to check their ability to judge their own qualifications." "And you feel you did that from our voices?" "Yes," he said, holding up his hand and checking us off on his fingers. "Blair, a cooing, seductive voice; her sex is her chief asset; no dice. Ransome, dispirited; has quit fighting after only two months of unemployment. That's too short a time. She's too easily discouraged. Crane, afraid to face a competitive test, yet forced to offer herself; Sharpe, confident, welltrained, a little too sure of herself; accustomed to being just a bit superior to her boss. She'd do fine for a man who needed his correspondence revised." "And Bell?" I asked, smiling. "Bell," he said, with the suggestion of a twinkle softening those blue eyes, "is a little too inclined to be a spectator of life, but calmly competent, and sure of her competency." Abruptly the personal, friendly note left his voice. He said, incisively, "I've left my office without a secretary. Are you ready?" I matched his manner, said, "Yes, Mr. Foley," and started for the door. Mr. FOLEY used dictating machines. There were three records in the rack under the transcriber when I reached the office, and, by the time he went out to lunch, there were three more. It's difficult working on a strange typewriter, so I ate rather a sketchy lunch and returned to the office. I was busily clacking away at about five minutes past one when the door opened, and a broad-shouldered man with arrogant eyes pushed his way toward the private office. 18