Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1938)

(Continued from page 31) I sat there, in Padgham's car. half-thought in the back of crystallized into sudden determination A vague my mind surprised? Was he frightened? Or was he, perhaps, acting a part? I had the idea that the man was playing me as a cat plays a mouse. "Oh — Good Lord!" he exclaimed, and then after a moment added, "Where is this . . . er ... ah corpse?" "Upstairs," I said, "in a room which opens off behind the staircase." "And what were you doing up there?" he asked, sharply. "I heard something," I said. "A funny sound, and I climbed the stairs to see what it was and found. . . ." I stopped abruptly. Should I tell him what I'd found or should I tell that only to Mr. Foley — or, on the other hand, should I ever tell anyone? Bruce Eaton certainly didn't want anyone to know he'd been in the house, and it didn't take a great deal of imagination for me to understand why. Bruce Eaton was box-office in a big way. Not only was he my particular heartthrob, but I had some forty million feminine rivals. "Go ahead," he said, interrupting my thoughts. "You found what?" "Found this dead man," I finished inanely. "How did you know that he is dead?" "By looking at him." "Did you go into the room to see?" "No." "You didn't touch him?" "No." "You didn't . . . er . . . pick up anything?" "Pick up anything," I said, forgetting for the moment about that peculiar key. "Why, why should I pick up anything? What are you talking about, Mr. Padgham?" "Just a matter of precaution," he said quickly. "You understand the police are very strict about anyone touching things in a room where a man's been murdered." "Murdered!" I exclaimed. "Why yes," he said. "Didn't you say he was murdered?" And I think that was the first time I realized the man actually had been murdered. "No," I told him, "I thought he'd had a stroke or something while he was sitting there . . . Great heavens, you don't suppose. . . ." "Suppose what?" he asked. "Nothing," I said. "Look here, Miss Bell," he told me, dropping his friendly manner for the moment, and with his voice holding an ominous note, "if you're holding anything back, it's going to be . . . well, serious." "I'm not holding anything back," I told him — "that is, anything that I feel I should tell you." I HIS time there was no mistaking his tone. His voice was as cruel as the lash of a whip. "It isn't for you to decide what you're to tell me and what not," he said. "Tell me everything." "Well," I said, thinking fast and talking fast. "I came here with that agreement in my brief case. I was a little early, but I expected either to find you and Mr. Foley here, or at least to find someone at home." "There was no one in?" he asked. "No one answered the bell." "How did you get in?" "I walked in. The door was open." "Are you accustomed to walking into strange houses. . . ." "Stop it," I said. "Don't you try to cross-examine me. I'm accountable to Mr. Foley. I came here at his request, not yours." The anger in my voice stopped him. He was silent for a second or two, then said,' "I beg your pardon, Miss Bell. I was only trying to protect you." "Protect me from what?" I asked. "From the police." "I don't want to be protected from the police. The police are my friends." "The police," he said, "must never know that you were here." "That's what you think," I told him. "I am speaking on behalf of Mr. Foley." "I think Mr. Foley is quite able to do his own speaking." He hesitated as though thinking out a new plan of attack. His voice became solicitous— too solicitous, I thought. "My dear Miss Bell " he said. "I didn't realize what a terrifying experience you've been through. Certainly to a young woman who is unaccustomed to scenes of violence, this is a great shock, a very great ... er ... ah emotional shock. I want you to go out and wait in my car. I assure you you'll be quite safe there. Nothing will happen, and I'll go up and investigate. I think you're quite right. If you are to receive any instructions, they should come from Mr. Foley." "But you can't investigate," I told him. "The lights are off." "I know the house," he said. "I'll grope my way." "Well, I'm not going with you," I told him. "I don't want you to. I want to go out and sit in the car. I'll see what I can find." And he slipped quietly down the dark corridor. I started toward the automobile which was parked at the curb, then remembered my brief case. I ran back and retrieved it after some fumbling around, returned to the automobile, opened the door, climbed in, and sat there! thinking what a strange combination Frank G. Padgham was. I would never have expected him to develop the moral courage to go into that dark house to investigate. There was a drugstore down at the corner. I could see light shining through the windows. It occurred to me they'd have a telephone, and something which had been merely a vague halfthought in the back of my mind crystallized into sudden determination. I looked up at the dark house. The lights were still apparently off— judging by the diamondshaped window in the hallway. I knew from experience that the curtain and hangings over the other windows were so heavy it would be impossible to tell whether there were lights on in the other rooms. I opened the door and slipped out to the sidewalk. There seemed to be no one in sight. I started walking rapidly toward the drugstore. I HAD been in Hollywood long enough and had read newspapers enough to know what a precious thing a star's reputation is. Let him get in what is known as "a jam" and unfavorable publicity can ruin him, and I knew the studios were keenly alive to the situation. Once they have a contract with a star, they build him up. He represents the investment of a lot of money in actual expense, and a lot more in potential profits. I felt that Bruce Eaton should have an opportunity to defend himself. I entered the drugstore, gave one of my best smiles to the clerk, and walked across to the telephone booth. I looked for Bruce Eaton in the directory. He wasn't listed. It occurred to me then that he wouldn't be. I called Information and pleaded with her to give me Bruce Eaton's unlisted number. I told her it was a matter of life and death, something that was very, very important to Mr. Eaton, and my emotional storm was wasted against a wall of official reserve. I couldn't even make her get the smile out of her voice. And then I remembered reading an article in a motion-picture magazine about Bruce Eaton, only a few days ago. That article had mentioned the name of the agency which repre 72 PHOTOPLAY