Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1938)

mini .jML+AuJu^ What! IN THE HEART OF A GREAT CITY? Incredible!.. Yet this scene of rest and play was sketched on part of the Ambassador's Twenty-two Acre playground ... at the hub from which radiates the greatest social and quality merchandising area on the Pacific Coast. Two minutes from one of the world's busiest traffic corners. . . . Wilshire and Western . . . Eight easy minutes from Los Angeles' financial center . . . and fourteen miles from the blue Pacific. /hej-ol -finaelei AMBASSADOR With its great, new flowerlined forecourt and auto patio and highly modernized hotel and bungalows . . . with grounds that provide Tennis.. .Golf ... Crystal Pool . . . and Cabana-studded Sun-tan Beach. And the WORLD-FAMOUS WOMDTGROW Presenting more famous orchestras and entertainers . . . and catering to more celebrities . . . than any other center for dining and dancing on earth. This year Hollywood pays tribute to this rendezvous for leaders of stage, screen and society with the great productions "Cocoanut Grove" and "Garden of the Moon". . . but two of a sequence of motion pictures in which "The Grove" and its atmosphere are emphasized. Come This Summer for an Ideal Vacation • 3400 Wilshire Blvd., Los AngeIes,Calif. Write for rates and Chef's book of Calif. Recipes "She has been my secretary for three years," Mr. Foley said, his eyebrows coming down. "She lives in an apartment house on West Center Street with a young woman whose name I don't know. I know nothing of her private life." "What's her address on West Center Street?" "I don't know." "It's funny you don't know nothing about her." Mr. Foley said acidly, "I fail to see anything funny about it. If you're quite finished, I have some dictation." The detective slid from the edge of the desk, spilled ashes from his cigarette. He said, "I may want to talk with you again after I see her," and barged out of the office. "I I TRIED to keep him out of the private office," I said, "but . . . ." "Don't mention it," he told me. "One look at the man is enough to gauge his character. Incidentally, notice his voice. The habit he has of drawing out the last word of anything he's saying indicates the bully." I couldn't restrain my curiosity. "How does it happen," I asked, "that you are so interested in voices?" "I was a court reporter," he told me, "and, I flatter myself, a good one." "I can understand how that would give you a thorough knowledge of shorthand," I said, puzzled, "but how does it enable you to judge character from voices?" He laughed, "A court reporter has to study voices as well as shorthand. Suppose you're reporting a committee hearing with half a dozen people asking questions. You have to get those questions down and list the persons who ask them. You don't have time to look up from your shorthand book to see who's talking. Or suppose you're in a murder case with half a dozen lawyers on each side. Mostly, you're dealing with people who are strangers to you. A few minutes before the trial starts, you ask their names and office addresses. You don't give a hang about what their answers are. You just want to hear and catalogue their voices." "Coming back to this morning," I said, interested, "you told me Miss Crane was afraid to take a competitive test. How did you know?" "She was afraid of herself. That means she was afraid of a test. She coughed nervously before she started to speak — a half-cough, half throat-clearing. People who have that mannerism lack self-confidence. That's simple." I said, "It seems uncanny to me. It's as though you had a microphone mind. I wonder if I could develop my own powers of listening." "You'll have a good chance to try in about twenty minutes," he told me. "Mr. Frank G. Padgham is on his way up here. Notice his voice. It's good. And if you really study voices, you'll be surprised at what you learn. A person tries to put his best foot forward with everything except his voice. He neglects that. "A man will go to a great deal of trouble to improve his general personal appearance. Sometimes it fools people. A man's haircut may make a great deal of difference. So may the shape of a woman's eyebrows. And a good tailor certainly can accomplish wonders. People don't bother to tailor voices." I didn't want him to think I was trying to take undue advantage of the opening the detective's visit had given (Continued from page 19) me, so I said, "Thanks, I'll try out on Mr. Padgham, and in the meantime I'll get back to my work." Mr. PADGHAM arrived about fifteen minutes later. I placed him at about forty-eight or nine, inclined to flesh and dignity. He carried a cane, and wore an expensive suit. His iron-gray hair had been carefully trimmed, his face had emerged pink and smooth from a barber shop. From the way he looked me over, I knew that he still made passes at women. "I have an appointment with Mr. Foley," he said. "My name is Padgham, Frank G. Padgham." "Mr. Foley is expecting you, Mr. Padgham. I'll tell him you're here." I plugged in on Mr. Foley's line, said, "Mr. Frank G. Padgham is here for his appointment," and heard Mr. Foley say, "Send him right in." I glanced up at Mr. Padgham as I was snapping the switch button and said, "You may go right in, Mr. Padgham." "I thank you." He made a gravely courteous bow. "You're Mr. Foley's new secretary?" "Yes. I'm Miss Bell." "It's a source of gratification to me," he said, "that Mr. Foley has at last secured a secretary whose personal appearance is . . . er . . . ah . . . commensurate with Mr. Foley's position in his profession." And he walked past me, through the door into Mr. Foley's private office, walking with the short, deliberate steps of a man who carries a little too much weight and takes no exercise. A few minutes later Mr. Foley sounded the buzzer which called me into his office. "Miss Bell," he said, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to work tonight. I'm going to dictate an agreement in shorthand. In typing it, you will take the greatest precautions to prevent anyone's seeing any part of it. I'm going to leave the office as soon as I finish dictating. You will transcribe your notes and bring the finished agreement to an address I will give you, where you will meet Mr. Padgham and me. You will be there with the agreement promptly at eight-thirty tonight . . . Do you have a brief case?" "No," I said. He took out his billfold, extracted a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it to me. "Get yourself a brief case, pay for your dinner, and take a taxi to the place where you're to meet me." I took the money. "This won't interfere with any of your plans for the evening, Miss Bell?" As a matter of fact, it was going to necessitate postponing a dinner date, but a job's a job, and I could see from Mr. Foley's manner that this was important. I've worked long enough to know that while the boss may become interested in his secretary, he is seldom interested in her personal affairs, particularly when they may interfere with business; so I merely said, "It will be quite convenient, Mr. Foley." He started to dictate then. Frank G Padgham was the party of the first part; a Mr. Carter Wright was the party of the second part. Wright agreed to place his dramatic services under the management of Padgham. Padgham, in turn, guaranteed him a sum of five thousand dollars in cash, and to see that he "obtained a position carrying a salary of two hundred and fifty dollars weekly so long as Woodley Page was employed under his present studio contract or any renewal or renewals thereof pursuant to any option clauses there in contained." Moreover, Carter Wrigl agreed to do everything in his power i further the dramatic career of the sa! Woodley Page. I gathered from the agreement th; Mr. Padgham was one of those talei promoters who discover talent, develc it, and place it in pictures; that he rs a literary agency on the side. I sa that he was very much concerned aboi this agreement. While Mr. Foley dictated, Padgha, paced back and forth with his sho paddle-footed steps, listening intent] to the dictation. On occasion, he pause in his pacing as though about interpose some comment, then, aft< listening for a moment, would nod an resume his slow, steady pacing of tr floor. There were several peculiar pan graphs couched in legal phraseolog which I couldn't exactly understan As the dictation progressed, I gathere the impression that the agreement w; being used in some way as a fab "front," a decoy behind which some thing more sinister might be lurking. It was nearly three o'clock when M Foley finished. "When will you have that typed?" r asked. "Approximately four o'clock," I sail He wrote an address on a loose-le; notebook, tore out the page. "Vei well. Close up the office at five. Gi dinner, and be at this address at eight thirty on the dot. Take a taxica'l Don't let this document out of your pos session. Put it in the brief case, loc the brief case, and keep it in your pos session." I nodded. "You understand the ... er ... a . . . imperative importance of being dis creet?" Padgham asked. "I'm quite certain I do," I told hin and, turning to Mr. Foley, asked, "Whs is this address, a private residence, a apartment house, or . . .?" "Private residence," Mr. Foley sai< "You will simply walk up the stairs t the porch and ring the bell. It won be necessary for you to give your nami You will be expected. I will meet yo there. I won't be back to the office th afternoon." They had been gone less than te minutes when the detective came bacl He seemed to think Mr. Foley had le; simply to avoid answering questions, showed my impatience. The detectiv decided he'd wait, this time in the oute office. He picked up a magazine ani started to read. I propped my noteboo on the stand in front of me and bega typing. The detective moved his chair, ap parently trying to get better light, didn't pay any particular attention t him until, on glancing up, I saw his eye weren't on the magazine, but were rest ing on my shorthand notebook. I'd bee carefully turning the pages of the agree( ment down as I typed; but, of course hadn't expected him to be snoopin: from my shorthand notebook. I jerked the book out of the holde and slammed it flat on the desk. The action registered. He put dow the magazine, said, "Well, I won't wai any longer," and strolled out. A GIRL who has to live on her salar and make that salary cover rent, fooc clothes, cleaning, and an occasiona beauty treatment simply isn't geared t spending money unnecessarily. Despit the fact that I was on an expense ac (Continued on page 82 80 PHOTOPLAv