Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

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IUt Six fragrances. $3, $1.75, $1 and 35c at de At ioc partment and drug stores._ .111 B&LSaIesCorp.,43E.OhioSt.,ChicagoDept.l2D Please send me trial USA-FOAM MILLION BUBBLE BATH in □ Pine n Lilac □ Jasmine □ Carnation D Gardenia Q Eau Dc Cologne. I enclose 10c each. Name Addrtss in projection room Number three, Mrs. Trent." She hummed as she walked along the bright, flower-bordered sidewalks, past the Administration Building, around a corner, through a heavy door and into the jewel-box luxury of the projection room. As she entered she heard a hum of conversation which ceased abruptly. Several people were there — Drew Sinclair, "Fashions' " director, some men she knew vaguely as assistant directors and script writers, Reggie Peabody, Mrs. Sinclair. Drew's face was grim. He glanced down at a page of sketches in his hand, then met her eyes directly. "Mrs. Trent, I've just seen the rushes on the night-club sequence. Did you design the costumes for those chorus girls?" "I — why, yes, Mr. Sinclair." What in the world was wrong, she wondered with a sinking heart. "I'd like you to see the rushes too," he said. "All right, Pearson." THE lights nicked off and at once ' bright-colored shadows were dancing on the screen. But Helen had watched only for a moment when she gave a choked gasp. There, instead of the charmingly impudent costume she had designed, was a hideous, drab creation, multiplied time and time again as the chorus girls, wearing identical dresses, capered and skipped and pirouetted. "Oh, stop it!" she cried. "Mr. Sinclair— that's not my costume the girls are wearing! That is — I made a sketch for a costume something like that, for another sequence, but I discarded it! It should never have been made up at all — " The lights went up; Drew Sinclair held the sheet of paper in his hand out to her. On it was a sketch for the dresses she had just seen, and on the corner of the page were the words "O.K. for night-club chorus girls — Helen Trent" in her own handwriting. She stared at them, unable to say a word. "You understand," Drew said coldly, "this means the whole sequence will have to be re-shot, at enormous expense. I can't allow a film like that, bearing my name, to go before the public. Those costumes . . . they're frightful! I couldn't believe you had designed them until I saw these sketches, with your okay." "I can't understand," Helen stammered, feeling as if she were going mad. "It's not possible . . ." "Didn't you see the completed dresses, after they were made up? Weren't you on the set when the scene was shot?" "Why, I ... I couldn't get to the set, because you were away, and Reggie was ill, and I was snowed under with work. But I should have seen the made-up costumes. . . ." She passed a trembling hand over her forehead, trying to think. And yet, in her confusion, one fact glared out. If her world was crashing down around her, it was not because the wrong costumes had somehow crept into the night-club sequence. That was bad enough, of course, but it was not what made her feel weak and ill, and as if she might faint at any moment. No — the worst thing, the heartbreaking thing, was the puzzled, hurt look in Drew Sinclair's eyes, the look that told her she had failed him. For the first time, she realized how much his friendship and consideration had flattered her. She had valued it deeply. And now . . . now he must be cursing her stupidity! For she remembered — she had not seen the made-up dresses. "They weren't brought to me. ... I should have insisted on seeing them," she said. "But it slipped my mind. . . ." "How it happened is beside the point," Drew said. "The thing we have to face is — that it did happen." He gave her a curt nod. "Well — thank you for coming in, Mrs. Trent. If I should need you again, I'll call." Dismissed. She walked, on legs that felt as if they were made of ice, out of the room. Drew Sinclair sat down in one of the huge, heavily upholstered armchairs and closed his eyes wearily for a moment. "I can't understand why Mrs. Trent did a thing like that," he said to Atkinson, the director. "A woman as intelligent as she is, with her talent . . ." "Isn't it plain enough, darling? It is to me." He looked up. His wife was standing above him, a faint smile on her full lips. "What do you mean?" "You're such a sweet innocent, Drew. You never look past the surface. Now, just think a minute. Where did this Mrs. Trent work before you hired her? Who gave her her big chance?" "Steinbloch — Consolidated." PRECISELY. And who is one of her r — shall I say very good friends — someone who takes her out every now and then to dinner or dancing? But you wouldn't know. Gordon Decker, Steinbloch's head set designer. And who is making a picture to compete with 'Fashions of 1939'? Oddly— Steinbloch. Does it make sense?" Drew didn't answer, so she turned to Reggie Peabody. "Reggie? What do you think?" "I think," Reggie said, "that it makes a great deal of sense, Sandra dear. Personally, I've never fully trusted that Trent woman. . . ." Drew Sinclair sighed deeply. "Miss Parker," he said heavily to his secretary, "take a memo ... to Mrs. Trent. Dear Mrs. Trent. I regret that owing to your unforgivable — " he paused, searching for a word — "unforgivable lapse in connection with the nightclub costumes for 'Fashions of 1939' I must request your resignation." 7s Helen herself responsible for the terrible mistake made in the costumes for "Fashions of 1939"? Or has someone else succeeded in ruining her career at Sentinal Studios — and ruining, too, her friendly relations with Drew Sinclair? Don't miss the next instalment of this fascinating novel of a woman's search for success and happiness in love — in the May Radio Mirror. Laugh With Henry Aldrich and at Him TooWa+ch for a hilarious story starring this radio Penrod in a coming issue 70 RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR