Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1938)

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"No, of course not." "Do you have any suspicion?" She said, "Well, my . . . No, I won't say that . . . No, I haven't even any suspicion." Mr. Foley said, with an air of finality, "Mrs. Temmler, I think you should go to the district attorney. Tell him your story in detail. Ask him to see that your identity is guarded." She got to her feet and pointed angrily at Mr. Foley, "I thought I could count on you for help. I thought that's what an attorney was for." "A lawyer," Mr. Foley said, "is obligated to co-operate with law enforcement, not to conspire to thwart it." "Both," she said, as she sailed through the door. "That's a perfectly Mid-Victorian outlook on life! I thought you were resourceful." The slamming of the door punctuated her departure. I knew that Mr. Foley would be looking at me, and, for the life of me, I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes. Should I have told him about that key to the safe-deposit box? There it was in my purse right this minute . . . But it was Bruce Eaton's property. He'd said so himself. He'd told me I wasn't to mention it to anyone. I was to return it to him personally. Mr. Foley said, "If you're interested in voices, Miss Bell, make a note of that woman's. Don't ever trust the judgment of a woman who forms her word sounds on the roof of her mouth. You can trust the integrity of persons who talk that way, but you can never trust their judgment. If you follow their suggestions, they'll always get you into trouble." "It impressed me," I said, "that she was lying." Mr. FOLEY laughed. "Of course, she was lying. That stuck out all over her. The question arises as to where the truth left off and where fabrication began. Doubtless I could have discovered it, if I'd taken the trouble to crossexamine her, but I didn't want to have any connection with her in any way." "Why can't you trust people who talk with the roofs of their mouths?" I asked. "I don't know," Mr. Foley said, "but you can't — not in ninety per cent of the cases. Such people may have imagination. Usually they're quick, intelligent and highly versatile, but you can't trust their judgment. If you want someone who has good mental perspective — which is, after all, a necessity to judgment— pick someone who talks with his diaphragm. Persons who talk with high-pitched rapidity and seem to push the words out from no farther back than the roofs of their mouths are not to be trusted so far as suggestions are concerned. They'll get you in the damnedest messes — and then leave you holding the bag." I wanted to get away, wanted to be where I could think things over. After all, I was working for Mr. Foley. He'd been simply splendid to me, and. . . . "I'm going out," he said. "I'll be in the office for a few minutes just before one o'clock and then I'm going out and will be out all afternoon." "Yes, Mr. Foley." "If you don't have any particular plans for lunch," he said, "you might wait until after I leave at one o'clock, then you can take the afternoon off." I felt myself color. "Oh . . . I. . . ." He glanced at me sharply. "You wanted to leave at twelve?" he asked. "I have a luncheon engagement I'm very anxious to keep," I said. "Some day," he said, his eyes twinkling, "I'll tell you about the little trick of vocal expression which means that a woman's thinking of the man of whom she's very, very fond . . . Yes, Miss Bell, by all means, leave a little before twelve if you want. You've had rather a strenuous time of it so you don't need to come back at all this afternoon — and I hope you have a very nice luncheon with a very fascinating young man," and he walked out of the door leaving me standing there, blushing like a schoolgirl. I FELT self-conscious standing on the corner with the hordes of luncheongoers streaming past me. I wondered what they'd think if someone had pointed me out and said, "There's the little secretary waiting on the corner for Bruce Eaton to come and take her to lunch." I could fancy their pitying smiles, the manner in which they'd exchange glances. My heart thumped wildly as a big, blue automobile slid in close to the curb. It was he! At that moment, someone recognized him. I heard the name "Bruce Eaton" rush through the crowd like wind through mountain treetops. People stopped, turned to stare. One or two women snatched bits of paper from purses and crowded forward for autographs. The traffic cop blew his whistle. Bruce Eaton smiled at me and raised his hat. Feeling that strange sense of unreality which comes in dreams, I pushed forward. He opened the door and I found myself seated beside him. The grinning traffic cop came forward, waving the crowd back with one hand, motioning for Eaton to go on with the other. Eaton slid the gearshift lever back into place and the big automobile, its powerful engine running as smoothly as a sewing machine, shot across the street, while open-mouthed spectators stared at the star — and at the young woman who had been whisked out of Humdrum into Romance. "So it really was you, after all," he said. "What was?" I asked. "The young woman who telephoned my agent. I was afraid it was some sort of a racket." My laugh was nervous. "I was afraid . . . oh, skip it." "After the way I treated you last night," he said, "I suppose you expect almost anything from me. I'm si but circumstances made it necessa for me to act as I did. I'm hoping you give me the opportunity to explain." "You don't need to," I told him, "b( cause there's nothing to explain. Aft all, you're not entirely your own ager you know. You have your studio think of as well as your own caree "That's a mighty sensible way to K at it," he said, nickering his eyes fr traffic to look at me. "I always try to look at things way." "You're too good-looking to be se sible," he laughed. "That is, I mea most beautiful women become ve: much a law unto themselves. Beii sensible comes with considering pro lems from the other's viewpoint. Bea> tiful women rarely do that." I DIDN'T have any answer to that. I wanted to be calm and sensible and i was quivering all over. I could ha' ' simpered and perhaps led him on flattery — perhaps not. He impress) me as saying what he meant, meanii what he said. When I didn't answer, he lapsed in I silence, driving on through traffic, leai ing me free to study surreptitiously tl profile which I'd admired so much ( the screen. He was just as he appeared in piii tures, magnetic, handsome and intense1 masculine, not in the hard-boileii coarse, two-fisted way, but with a cei tain mental virility which, to my min was largely responsible for his sera success. While we were waiting for a trafi signal, he turned to me and said al ruptly, "How about that property > mine? You have it?" I started to hand over the key ar then changed my mind. After all, had to talk with him about somethir; and banter about that key was betti than bromides about pictures. Ai then he might lose interest in me affct he got the key. "I'm afraid," I told him, "you'll hai to identify it. After all, you know, J finder is responsible for the proper \ until he's surrendered it to its rightf|i owner." He was silent. "Go ahead and describe it," I invite I saw then that he was silent becau! I had hurt him. Evidently, down uri derneath that vigorous exterior the ma was sensitive. I laughed and said, "I'm only jokin you know." HOW WELL DO you KNOW YOUR HOLLYWOOD? Check your answers to the stateme nts on pa< je 68 with these correct ones: i. Greg ory Ratoff 4. Greta Gar bo 8. Charles Chaplin 2. Magg 'eSullavan, 5. "Dawn Pat rol" in "City Lights" Jean Chatburn 6. Tea cart 9. Wayne Morris 3. Gary Cooper 7. DanielleDarrieux 10. Bette Davis "Well," he said, "where is it?" "Where is what?" "My stickpin." "Your stickpin!" I exclaimed in di. may. "Yes. I lost it last night in the scui fle which immediately preceded my er . . . predicament." I fumbled in my purse, took out tl long, flat key. "Then just what is this?" I demande He barely took his eyes from the roa< "Looks like a key i a safe-deposit bo: Where did you g< it?" No movie scenar, ever demanded moi action and quie thinking on the pa; oj Bruce Eaton tha the events that wei to jollow that tete-'a tete luncheon. Don miss the next thrillit installment of Er\ Stanley Gardner' mystery — Decembi Photoplay. 80 PHOTOPLA'