Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1938)

sented him. I couldn't recall the name offhand, but there was a magazine stand in the drugstore. I left the telephone booth, bought a ■ copy of the magazine, and found the name I wanted. That name was listed in the telephone directory. I called the number. I hardly expected there'd be anyone at the office, but I thought Information would, perhaps, give me the number of . . . Someone answered the : telephone, a soothingly competent masculine voice which seemed to say, "All right, you've got me now. There's nothing to worry about. Tell me what it is." I didn't want Mr. Padgham to know I'd been telephoning. Time was short. 1 1 didn't have any opportunity to ask questions, and I certainly didn't want anyone to ask me questions. "Listen," I said, "your agency represents Bruce Eaton. I happen to have some informa: tion of the greatest importance to Mr. Eaton." "Yes," the voice said. "We represent him. Can you tell me who this is | talking?" "No," I said, "but I have a message which must get to Mr. Eaton right away." This time the voice seemed to have lost some of its cordiality. "What's the message?" it asked. "Please tell Mr. Eaton that the young woman who removed his gag recognized him, that her telephone number is . . ." That was making it sound like too much of a mash proposition so I added, hastily, "Please tell him that if he wants to get in touch with the young woman who removed his gag, he can call Miss Bell at the law office of William C. Foley, and j Miss Bell will see that any messages he ; desires to give are duly transmitted." "Can't you tell me something more about what you're referring to?" the I voice asked. "Can't you be a little more specific? After all, you know, there are lots of people who admire Mr. Eaton ' both as an individual and as an actor. Many of them try to get in touch with him. We have literally hundreds of ! messages which we simply can't trans, mit, because it wouldn't do any good. Mr. Eaton couldn't even begin to . . . ." "Listen," I interrupted. "This is a matter of life and death. You're interested in Mr. Eaton — in any event, you're interested in his earning capacity. If you don't do just as I say his earning capacity may take a nose dive, and I haven't time to argue about it." I slammed up the telephone receiver and walked from the telephone booth, conscious of the fact that the clerk had mistaken my smile for an invitation, and was smirking all over his fat face. After I'd left the drugstore, I walked just as fast as I could make my legs move. HALFWAY to the house I received a sudden shock. There was no automobile at the curb! I kept on walking, hoping against hope that my eyes had deceived me. I wondered what Mr. Padgham would think, wondered if, perhaps, he'd decide I knew more about the affair of the Spanish house than I'd disclosed to him. An automobile swung around the corner behind me, coming at high speed. As the car swayed on its springs and skidded slightly, the brilliant illumination of the headlights swung far over to the left, held me in their pitiless brilliance, then went over to the right and back again to the left. I heard the sound of tires protesting against the too sudden application of brakes. After what I'd been through, my nerves were ragged. I started to run. Then I heard Mr. Foley's voice calling. "What is it, Miss Bell?" I turned back toward the car. I don't think I was ever so glad to hear a voice in my life. "Has something happened?" he asked. "Yes," I told him. "What?" "Lots of things," I said. He glanced at the briefcase under my arm. "Do you still have the agreement?" "I held on to it through thick and thin," I said, laughing nervously. "Want to get in?" he asked. Did I? I ran around the car and climbed in beside him. "Tell me about it," he urged. So I started in and told him the whole thing from the beginning, from the time the car had tried to run over me until Mr. Padgham had sent me out to wait in his car. The only thing I held out on was Bruce Eaton and that key. Somehow I didn't exactly think it would be cricket to tell even Mr. Foley — at any rate, not until Bruce Eaton's agent had had an opportunity to tell him to communicate with me. "Then you don't know whether the man in that room had been murdered or had died a natural death?" "No, only what Mr. Padgham said." "You don't even know of your own knowledge whether he was dead or not?" "Certainly not," I said. "I didn't go in the room." "But Padgham left you in the automo "All right," Foley said. "Mimic the way he said it just as well as you can." "But," I protested, "I couldn't mimic Mr. Padgham." "I don't mean that particularly. What I mean is tell me how he did it. Was the accent on the 'Oh' or on the 'Lord,' or did he roll the r's in 'Lord'? Did . . . ." "He rolled the r's in 'Lord'," I said. "I remember distinctly. He said 'Oh — Good Lor-r-d!' " "And how about the 'Oh'? Was it accented?" "No, he soft-pedaled that and came down heavy on the last word." I HERE were several seconds of silence while my boss sat there thinking. At length, I gained the temerity to ask, "Does that signify anything, Mr. Foley?" He said thoughtfully, "I think it does," and then turning, smiled at me and said, "But, as yet, I don't know just what." "Do you want to go to the house?" I asked. "No," he said, shortly. "It's too late now." He swung his car in the middle of the block, and turned back toward the drugstore. "Did you," he asked, "notice whether there was a public telephone booth in the drugstore?" I knitted my forehead into a frown as though trying to recall and said, "Yes, GLAD TO SEE YOUR OACK Here are the answers to the picture spread found on pages 50 and 51 1. Ruby Keeler and Al Jolson 2. Doug Fairbanks, Jr. and Paulette Goddard 3. Tyrone Power 4. Arleen Whelan 5. Ritz Brothers 6. Don Ameche 13. Edward G. Robinson 7. Stuart Erwin 8. Betty Grable 9. Tyrone Power and Annabella 10. Eleanor Powell and Sterling Holloway I I . Franchot Tone I 2. Janet Gaynor bile and went up to that room." "That's where he said he was going." "How long ago was that?" "Perhaps ten minutes." "And what were you doing in the meantime?" "I ... I went down to the drugstore," I said. "I was coming right back." "You shouldn't have done that," he told me. "Padgham may have become worried about you." "I don't think he'll ever waste much time worrying about anyone except Padgham," I said. "Tell me about his emotional reactions when you told him about this dead man." "I think at first," I said, "when I answered the door and it was all dark inside, he was absolutely terror-stricken. He . . . ." "Yes, yes, I know," Foley interrupted impatiently. "That isn't what I meant. I want to know how he reacted when you were telling him about what you'd found in the house." "Well," I said, "it was dark, of course, and I couldn't see his facial expression, but . . . ." "Never mind his facial expression. You heard him talk. What about his voice?" "I'm sorry, Mr. Foley," I said, "but I couldn't tell a thing from his voice\ I haven't your ability to read characters and emotions from voices." "What did he say when you told him about a dead man in the room on the second floor? What words did he use?" "He said, 'Oh— Good Lord!' " "Now you're certain about that?" "Absolutely certain. I remember particularly that's what he said." there's a public telephone booth there." It was a species of white lie, but I hoped it would be justified under the circumstances. I knew that in order to protect Bruce Eaton I was going to have to tell plenty of white lies, and I might just as well get in practice ... I wondered if he'd call me ... Of course, it was too improbable to even consider, and yet . . . "Look here," Mr. Foley said, interrupting my thoughts. "Let's get one thing straight. Exactly when did the lights go out?" "Right after I'd discovered this dead man there in the room." Mr. Foley slid the car to a stop in front of the drugstore, but made no motion to open the door. "Now, tell me once more," he said, "about your conversation with Mr. Padgham. As nearly as you can remember, tell me what he said and what you said." Once more I related the conversation, and once more Mr. Foley sat staring straight ahead, his forehead furrowed in concentration. After several seconds of silence, I said, "Did you want to do something about a telephone?" He nodded, but still made no move to open the door or to get out. "Is there," I asked, "anything wrong with my conversation with Mr. Padgham? Did I say anything to him that I shouldn't have?" "No," he said, "that isn't what bothers me." "May I ask what it is?" "Yes," he said. "Hasn't it impressed you as being significant that Mr. Padgham didn't ask you at any time when the lights had gone out?" "That's right," I exclaimed. "He didn't." "You can appreciate how significant it is," Mr. Foley said. "The man drives up to a house where he has an appointment. He naturally expects to have someone answer his ring in a conventional manner. He doesn't know that the house is dark, but thinks probably that curtains across the diamond-shaped window in the front door keep him from seeing any illumination from within. All of a sudden, the door swings open. A tunnel of darkness looms ahead in place of the lighted corridor the man had expected to see. A woman tells him about finding a dead man on the upper floor. "Now one of the first questions a person would naturally ask is, 'Well, what's wrong with the lights? When did they go off?' Now, you're certain Mr. Padgham didn't ask you that question or something like it?" "Absolutely," I said. UO INTO that drugstore," Mr. Foley said. "Tell the clerk that you're too nervous to telephone. Ask him to telephone police headquarters and report a dead man at that address. Tell them that you have reason to believe the man may have been murdered. Then turn around and walk out." "What if he asks me questions?" I wanted to know. "Walk out," he said. "Shouldn't I telephone the police mvself?" "No, I don't want you to give them your name. If you telephone them, it will simply be an anonymous call, and if you ever find yourself in a position where you have to establish the fact that you placed that call, you can't do it. By going to the drugstore and asking the clerk to place the call you'll have an out if you need it." "I see your point," I told him. "Here goes." I didn't tell him that I'd already impressed my personality on the clerk, because I didn't want to tell him about that first telephone call I'd made. I jumped to the curb, crossed the sidewalk, and knew as soon as I saw the clerk's face that he thought he'd made a conquest, that I'd trumped up some excuse to come back and get acquainted. I had one satisfaction about delivering my message. It wiped the smirk off that man's face, and while he was standing there still dazed from the impact of the news I'd given him, I turned and went sailing out the door. He was still standing gawking at me with bulging eyes as the screen door slammed behind me and I dashed across the stretch of sidewalk to jump into Mr. Foley's car. He had it already in gear so that all he needed to do was to let in the clutch pedal. But he needn't have worried. The clerk was too dazed to have remembered the license number even if he'd seen it. "And now what?" I asked. "Now," he said, "you can deliver the agreement to me, and I'll deliver you to your home, and you'll try your level best to forget all about it." I handed him the brief case. He stopped the car, opened the brief case, then looked up at me with questioning eyes. I stared incredulously. The brief case was empty! Who stole the contract from the brief case? When? Why? What has Bruce Eaton to do with this? Will he answer the message? More tense and dramatic moments in the next installment oj this thrilling story by Erie Stanley Gardner — November Photoplay. OCTOBER 9 3 8 73