The screen writer (Apr-Oct 1948)

SHIRLEY COLLIER AGENCY (FOR WRITERS EXCLUSIVELY) 204 South Beverly Drive ■ BEVERLY HILLS ■ CRestview 6-3115 New York Representative: SIDNEY SATENSTEIN, 75 Varick Street WAIker 5-7600 and watched Bill Paine, now neatly encased in the white coat and loud checkered trousers, stroll up to his pet and scratch his mane. Moe the lion licked Paine's hand. "Yes, sir," said Cobb. "I think I heard Trepple drive up. Bring him out here." "Yes, sir." MR. TREPPLE of Television had the contract all read}' and held his fountain pen out. "How d'ya like my new pet?" asked Paine, stroking Moe. "Fine, Mr. Paine," said Trepple. "Now about the contract for the fourth television rights to your 1947 short short story The Dark NightV Paine signed and waved Trepple off the grounds. "Cobb!" Paine called out. But there was no reply. He turned and heard two shots. Moe growled and ducked behind Paine. For a moment the master was rooted to the ground — then he cautiously went into the house, Moe tailing him just as cautiously. Bill Paine gasped. On the floor were his wonderful butler, Joe Cobb — and a stranger — a stranger who looked familiar. "Must've been a suicide pact," Paine was saying over the phone. "I figure that Cobb killed this guy and then killed himself. I know it was a pact because when I found 'em dead they were still shaking hands. It must've been a pact." "Who was the other guy?" asked Paine's agent. "I don't know. I saw a bedbug exterminator bag in the kitchen. Maybe he was the exterminator." "Sounds wonderful, Bill. Think you can build from there?" "I think so; at least I got a swell beginning. Who do you figure can play it?" "Eve got a package all lined up for you, Bill. Just tell me how long a lease you want on this one." "Six months," said Paine flatly. "I think Ell call it Bedbug. Like the title? Yeah, it's got something. It's about time we went back to one-word titles." "It's wonderful. We can rake in at least thirty grand every two years on that one. Bill, you got another annuity. Should I phone the police now?" "No, maybe in half an hour. I want to go through this other guy's bag. He's got all kinds of funny equipment inside it — and anyway, he looks familiar. Maybe I'll remember his name." Bill Paine hung up and looked at the dead man and stroked Moe's mane. "If I could only get a good finish to this one, Moe, that's all, just a good finish. . . ." • • * * Guy Morgan {Continued from Page 9) sucking his moustache. "National Nicht ma fut!" he said. "Ah've an awfu' lot o' richt guid overmatter yet fra Burns Nicht in the Glesga edition. That'll dae ye noo fine, ah'm thenkin'." ' I 'HE Editor patted me on the ■* shoulder. "I really think we're getting somewhere. You get the idea now? Just go home and think it over." The months passed pleasantly. My telephone rang. "Morgan," said the Editor, "I want you to write me a good adult news story about real people." "I have it here," I said. The Editor skimmed through the top page of my manuscript. "I should forget about that one for the moment," he said. "As a matter of fact I've got Priestly working it up, with Bridie for the Scots dialogue, Cronin on the mining background, and Barbara Hutton for the woman's angle. We're bidding for Mason to take care of the Siamese cat side." Two weeks later two men removed the Persian carpet and left me a small Indian rug. I overheard them saying something about Bernard Shaw. Two years later the story was printed. No one read it. I was fired. I didn't mind. Bare floors are chilly. 24 The Screen Writer, June-July, 19 4 S