Picturegoer (1922)

60 THE PI CTU RE-GOE-R JUNE 1922 AN INNOCENT IN MOVIELAND. \Cutitiuited '/■"'! Pttgt /<V.) Mi Browne," came the voice of Mr Cooper, conic and meet Mr. Douglas, moneylender and miser." At lirsi this seemed to me a somewhat ungraceful method of referring to one who doubtless did his best lor himself according to his lights ; then it filtered through to my understanding that Mr. Cooper's breezy resume of Mr. Douglas's activities referred only to my story and not to Mr. Douglas's private life; and habits. I hastened to meet Mr. Douglas, and contrived to shake him by the hand. I was anxious to do this, because it is not every man who can sav that he has shaken hands with one of his own characters. "Mr. Douglas," said Mr. Cooper brightly, " you are to be murdered very shortly." " Is that so ? " said Mr. Douglas, unmoved. ' That's the second time this week. I've died quite a lot latelyLast month it was heart disease. I had to die live times before we got it right." I looked at him with increased respect. A man who can die five times from heart disease and look forward with equanimity to his own murder seemed to possess certain attributes which are allowed, as a rule, only to the common or garden cat. I endeavoured to shake his morale. " You'll be murdered with a paperweight," 1 said ghoulishly ' That's good." said Mr. Douglas. " I'm glad it's not knives. It's easy enough to wash your face, but it's the devil when it gets on your clothes. That's why I like heart disease." I gave him up. A man who likes heart disease because it doesn't make a mess of your clothes is no ordinary being. " And here,' said Mr. Cooper, " is Mr. Folker, the murderer I greeted Mr. Folker with reserve. It is a little embarrassing to meet a man who in a few minutes is due to commit a murder. 1 felt rather guilty about it, because Mr. Folker did not look the sort of man who would commit a murder unless I had forced him to it. I felt very near tears as I watched the murderer chatting affably with his victim. What, I wondered, was he saying ? Some few words of regret, perhaps, that such a thing must be ? An assurance that the murder would be as gentle as possible ? I strained an ear. It's a good thing you've got a bald head," Mr. Folker was saying. " It always show's up so much better." Callous ! Callous ! Want to see the rat ? " said Mr. Cooper. 1 did want to see the rat. I should, perhaps, explain first, however, that a rat plays a very prominent part in my story. In fact, the chief part. No rat, no story. I remember that 1 thought it a very neat idea when 1 wrote it." " Is it a real rat ? " I asked. "Of course it's a real rat," said Mr I no[)cr. " We've got two, in tact, in case one of them catches cold or dies." I hoped neither of them would die. I had quite enough on my conscience already, what with the murder of Mr. Douglas and the inevitable hanging of Mr, Folker, without being responsible for the death of a rat. They were very nice rats. White all over, except their eyes, which for some reason which I have never understood were bright pink. A charming couple. Mr. Cooper lifted one of them by the scruff of the neck and deposited it upon the moneylender's desk. " Now, Mr. Douglas," he said, " we'll just run through the first few scenes. Remember, you're a soulless, heartless old man — mean, hard, living only for money. Very fond of your white rat, but fond of nothing else but money. Your favourite hobby is selling people's homes over their heads." Mr. Douglas received this symposium of his character without flinching, and took a seat at his desk. He then staggered me by altering his face. Up to then it had been quite a nice face, a face that 1 should have liked to have myself. He now, with no visible effort, altered it into the kind of face I wouldn't touch with a six-foot pole. A miser's face ; a hard, grasping, mercenary face ; the face of a man whose favourite hobby is selling people's homes over their heads. It was marvellous, and stirred me to applause. " Bravo ! " I said, clapping. " Quiet, please," said Mr. Cooper. I was quiet. For the following half-hour I remained quiet, watching my story grow to life before my eyes. It was an uncanny sensation, because it grew just as I imagined it should. One reads a great deal about authors who gibber and froth at the mouth because of the manner in which their works suffer at the hands of film producers, but nothing like that happened to me. I did not froth once ; I uttered no single gibber. It seemed to me that this was just right. Possibly this w.is because I am not a real author, but only one who makes unpleasant marks with a pen upon unoffending pieces of paper, and am therefore less prone to gibber But I don't believe that even . Bernard Shaw could have gibbered here. Suddenly there appeared at my side the murderer. He gave me what is colloquially known as " quite a turn,' because his face was now a peculiar yellowish colour. Was this, I wondered, remorse ? Was conscience already getting down to the job ? It transpired, however, that such was not the case. The bilious tinge was due, not to remonstrance trom the soul, but to make-up, "We can't take anything yet," said the murderer, " because we're photographing breath. The place will warm up soon." This, of course, was pure, unadulterated Greek to me. As far as I was aware, no one had asked him to take anything. Perhaps 1 ought to have done so, but 1 had already had a quick one before entering the studio, to keep my courage up. And then, what was this about photographing breath ? It sounded like an attempt to out-Conan Doyle's spirit fairy photographs. But there were no fairies in my story when last I heard of it. I pressed for explanations. The murderer was very gentle with me. "In the mornings," he said, this place is cold at first, and so people's breath shows up. It would show up ten times worse on the film, so we have to wait till it gets warm. Come with me, and I'll show you." He led me upstairs into a room hung entirely with strips of film, took a small piece of film from a box and showed me. I saw a girl's head with what appeared to be a couple of horns emerging from her nose. " Breath," said the murderer. He led me away again. Downstairs I looked at my watch and found that Time, as is its custom, had been occupied in flying. It was time for me to go. 1 approached Mr. Cooper, who was experimenting with the face of Mr. Douglas, and expressed my regret at having to tear myself away Mr. Cooper was very nice about it, but I do not doubt that inwardly he sighed with relief " Now," very likely he said to himself. " we can really do some work ' To me, however, he said — " Must you go ? Come down again. won't you, and give us your advice? " So perhaps 1 wronged him after all. No man who really knows me for what I am ever asks for my advice. I shook hands with Mr. Douglas, promising to send flowers, and with Mr. Folker, promising to turn up at the Old Bailey. The Editor of " Picturegoer," who all this time had been sitting quietly in a corner, wearing the expression of a man who has seen all this sort of thing before, remembered that he had to edit a paper, and rose also. And so we took our leave. As we emerged into the clear, bright air of uncharted Clapham, I felt as if I had just returned from some other planet. I felt so burdened with guilty knowledge that it was with the utmost difficulty that the Editor of " Picturegoer " restrained me from informing the 'bus-conductor that I had but a moment ago been chatting with a potential murderer and his intended victim. Even if I had done so, I doubt if the bus-conductor would have believed me.