The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (19 page)

It transpired that her name was Madame Saumur, who was staying there with a great friend, the Comtessa Bartelozzi, and for the next few days he was frequently with either one or the other. Indeed, so charming did he find them both, that his secretary was amazed at his expansiveness. Now it happened one evening that, in the course of the conversation, a film showing at one of the local cinemas was under discussion. And in criticising the performance Sir Edward delivered himself of some scathing comments on the actor playing the principal role.

“Had I been playing it,” he remarked, “I should have given a totally different rendering. His conception of the part was all wrong.”

Madame Saumur paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.

“Have you ever done any film-work, Sir Edward?” she asked.

“My dear lady,” he answered, with a tolerant smile, “I’m afraid my life has been too busy for frivolities of that sort. At the same time, had it been cast along different lines, I feel moderately confident that my name would not have been entirely unknown to what I believe are called film fans.”

“I’m sure of it,” she said quietly. “Why don’t you try in your spare time?”

He waved the suggestion away with an indulgent hand: not even to this lovely creature would he admit that her suggestion was one that had obsessed him for years. But as the days passed she returned to the subject more than once.

“I’m in earnest, Sir Edward,” she said. “I have some knowledge of film requirements myself, and I have been studying your features. And I believe that for certain roles you possess a marvellous film face.”

Again he waved a deprecating hand, but it was clear that he was not displeased at the idea.

“Now I am going to make a suggestion to you,” she continued. “I have an American friend – a Mr Hardcastle – who is coming here in a day or two and staying a week. He is closely in touch with the film business, and, what is far more important, he could give you a candid and truthful opinion at once. Not that it would be of more than academic interest,” she added. “Naturally, to a man like yourself such a matter is too trivial. But all the artist in me cries out in protest against features such as yours being wasted.”

And Sir Edward was even less displeased: most certainly as a matter of academic interest he would be delighted to hear Mr Hardcastle’s unbiased opinion. The trouble was that Mr Hardcastle’s opinion would have been more unbiased but for an interview which took place before the meeting: an interview at which the financier was not present.

It occurred in Madame Saumur’s sitting-room, and speech was frank.

“See here, Tom,” she said. “I’ve got nothing worked out yet, but the details will come later. We’ve been in this hole a fortnight now sitting in that slob-eyed skate’s pocket, and all we’ve got out of him is an orangeade he forgot to pay for. But he’s got a hunch that he can act for the films. It doesn’t matter that his face would empty any cinema in a minute, if it hadn’t cracked the machine first: you’ve got to guy him good and hearty.”

“Put me wise, honey, and I’ll do what I can,” said Hardcastle amiably.

“You’re one of the big noises in the American film world,” she explained. “A power behind the throne: a man with unrivalled experience in spotting winners for the screen. Goldwyns and Paramount never engage anyone without you giving him the once over.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “What comes next?”

“You’ve got to give an opinion on his face.”

“Suffering Sam!” he cried “Have you got the necessary for a high ball?”

“You’ve got to tell him that his features fulfil every known requirement for a successful film career. Don’t try any funny stuff: he knows he wouldn’t beat Ronald Colman in a competition for looks, and he’s no fool. Character parts – that’s the line to take.”

“I get you, honey,” said Hardcastle. “Lead me to him.”

“And don’t forget you’re a big noise in America.”

“It would be easier to remember that bit if you could part with the equivalent of a ten-dollar bill. I’m broke.”

“Here you are, Tom.” She pressed some money into his hand. “You go down and take a walk. We’ll join up with Sir Edward in the lounge. Then when you come in we’ll meet for the first time. Don’t rush things: he’s a wary bird.”

And twenty minutes later, Hardcastle, with a large cigar in the corner of his mouth, entered the hotel. For a few moments he stood looking round him; then, with a sudden start of recognition, he crossed to Madame Saumur.

“This is a real pleasure,” he remarked, “though not unexpected. Lord Downingham told me you were here. And you, Comtessa. Well, well – this is bully.”

“Mr Hardcastle, I don’t know if you’ve ever met Sir Edward Greatorex?”

“Put it there, Sir Edward,” he said cordially, holding out his hand. “I have not had that honour, though it would be idle to pretend that I don’t know who you are. The penalty of fame, sir: the penalty of fame. Now may I offer you ladies a little light refreshment, or is it forbidden by the rules of the cure?”

“And what have you been doing since I last saw you?” asked Madame Saumur, as the waiter departed with an order.

“Trotting around,” he said. “I was down in Hollywood for a couple of months.”

He turned to Sir Edward.

“My line of business, sir, is a humble one compared to your great interests. I am in the film trade.”

“Most interesting, Mr Hardcastle,” said the financier. “And what particular branch of that business? Do you produce?”

“No, sir: at least not as a general rule. I have produced: two years ago I did one of the Metro super films for them. But my principal line is not that: it’s something which very few people know exists.”

He leaned forward confidentially.

“Now take this lounge at the present moment. Subconsciously I am taking in everyone’s face from the point of view of screen work. There are many very good-looking people, Sir Edward, who are useless for film purposes: others, not so good looking, would be an instant success. Instinctively when I go into a room I find myself putting everyone I meet into one or other category. And because I don’t make a mistake once in a hundred times, I have more or less specialised in that branch. Variety, sir: that’s what the public wants. We’re looking for new people all the time. Of course there will always be great popular favourites; but they’ve got to be supported by others. Ladies, your very good health. Sir Edward, I’m pleased to meet you.”

“I find you most interesting, Mr Hardcastle,” said the other. “Let us hear your criticisms on the people in this lounge.”

Hardcastle shifted his chair slightly so as to get a better view.

“Wal,” he said, “there are about forty one can dismiss at once. Ah! wait – here’s a good example. You see that pretty girl who has just come in. Good figure: good mover: exactly the type which throngs round studio doors believing they are second Mary Pickfords. Whereas I can see in a moment that that girl would be useless on the screen. It’s a gift, Sir Edward, which I happen to possess. Once again – take that rather big ugly guy over by the door: in certain roles that man would be bully.”

“What about me, Mr Hardcastle?” asked Madame Saumur, with a smile.

“I’ll answer you seriously, Madame,” he said. “And as a matter of fact here is a very interesting example, Sir Edward, of my job. Take these two ladies: both equally beautiful in their different ways. And yet I say, without a shadow of doubt, that whereas Madame Saumur would be a success on the screen, the Comtessa would not.”

“That’s one for me,” laughed the Comtessa. “Now we’ll put Sir Edward through it: what about him?”

“Sir Edward! Why, he was sorted out in my mind as soon as I saw him.” He tapped the table with his finger impressively. “If Sir Edward had not been who he is, and I had happened to meet him nine months ago, it would have saved me weeks of frenzied search. And when I think of what I finally managed to get hold of…”

He lifted despairing hands to heaven.

“No, sir,” he continued quietly, “if you weren’t who you are, I should be tempted to make you an offer on the spot. At the most you could only turn it down. You are one of the finest examples of a type that is in great demand, but which for some reason or other is the hardest to find. Film face! Gee whizz! If ever you lose your money, Sir Edward” – and he laughed heartily at the bare idea – “you just cable Tom Hardcastle, Hollywood. He’ll find you your weekly pocket money.”

“You really mean that you think I’m suitable, Mr Hardcastle,” said the financier.

“Believe me, Sir Edward, in my profession we get out of the habit of wasting time. And paying compliments to a woman, or telling lies to a man
is
waste of time. In jest the Comtessa asked me what I thought of you: I’ve told you. If the necessity arose in your case, you could earn big money – very big money. Wal! I guess I must be getting along; and I hope I may see something of you during the time I’m here.”

He bowed to them all and sauntered out of the hotel – a typical, prosperous American businessman.

“What did I tell you, Sir Edward?” said Madame Saumur, with a smile. “The question of academic interest has been answered in the way I knew it would be.”

“Undoubtedly a most interesting and intelligent man,” he remarked. “I should like to have another talk with him on the subject.”

A wish, had he known it, that there was every promise of being fulfilled. The only trouble was that it was a little difficult to decide what the next move was going to be. And at a council of war held that afternoon in Madame Saumur’s sitting-room not much progress was made.

“I reckon I played my part pretty well, girls,” said Hardcastle. “But for the life of me I don’t see what good it’s going to do us. We’ve made that guy believe that his dial bears some resemblance to a face, but where’s it lead to? If he went incognito to any studio and asked for a job they’d set the dog on him.”

“Doesn’t matter, Tom,” said Madame Saumur: “we’ve taken the first step. He’s interested in you, and if we can’t find some method of making him part, we must have lost our cunning. Keep him going: we’ll think of something.”

“All right, honey,” he answered. “I’ll do my best. By the way, as I came in there was a man asking for Sir Edward’s letters – a foreign-looking chap. Who is he?”

“Gardini – the private secretary. Why?”

Hardcastle shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth.

“Watch him,” he said tersely. “I didn’t like the look he gave me. Yours truly may know nothing about film faces, but he knows the hell of a lot about ordinary ones. So watch him.”

For the next three or four days nothing happened, if the inconceivable fact that Sir Edward invited Hardcastle to dinner can be regarded as nothing. But as far as coming to any decision as to how to relieve the financier of any dough, the situation remained unchanged. It became increasingly obvious that the trout had swallowed the fly – time after time he brought the conversation back to films in general and himself in particular – but at that it stuck, and at that it would have stuck, in all probability, for good, but for a very unexpected development.

They were all sitting despondently in Madame Saumur’s room one morning when there came a knock at the door and the secretary entered.

“Come right in, Mr Gardini,” said Hardcastle heartily, but with shrewd eyes fixed intently on the other’s face. “Take a seat.”

The Italian bowed and sat down.

“I do not propose,” he began, “to waste time by beating about the bush. To do so would be an insult to all our mentalities. Let us therefore come to the point. In the first place, it was no matter of health that brought any of you here, was it?”

It was not a question: it was a statement, and no one bothered to reply.

“I admit,” he continued, “that when Mr Hardcastle first came on the scene I was deceived. You ladies, if I may be forgiven for saying so, were comparatively easy: there was nothing original about you. But Mr Hardcastle was different. However, being of an inquiring turn of mind, I cabled a man I know very well in Los Angeles, who is one of the big people in the Metro firm. Here is his answer.”

He produced it from his pocket.

“‘Never heard of the man in my life.’ Once again,” he continued with a smile, “I will not insult your intelligence by asking you to what question that is an answer. All I want to know is what you are hoping to get out of it.”

And suddenly Hardcastle lay back in his chair and roared with laughter. Nothing criminal had been done; he could afford to laugh. And the humour of the situation struck him.

“That’s all
we
want to know, Mr Gardini,” he said.

“Then you have no plan?” said the other, puzzled.

“Devil a one,” cried Hardcastle. “It was just a chance shot, and it doesn’t really matter that you’re wise to it, because, as far as I can see, nothing could ever have come of it.”

“Then, my dear Mr Hardcastle,” said the Italian softly, “you are not as clever a man as I thought you to be.”

An instant silence settled on the room, and the three of them stared at the secretary. What was he driving at?

“I don’t quite get you, Mr Gardini,” said Hardcastle quietly. “You are presumably acting in Sir Edward’s interests.”

And the answer came before the Italian spoke a word. For there flashed over his face a look of such diabolical hatred as only a Southerner can give. There was murder in it – murder by torture – and the American whistled under his breath.

“In his interests?” hissed the other. “If I could see him lying dead at my feet, knowing that I had killed him, I would dance on his body.”

“Is that so?” remarked Hardcastle genially. “Have a drink, and tell us all about it.”

“For months he has treated me like a dog,” snarled the other, “generally in front of other people. And I, because I have no money, must put up with it.”

“Quite so,” said the American soothingly. “But shall we get to the point? The thought of you dancing on his dead body, though a charming picture, is not going to help us much. Now are we to understand that you have some scheme in your head which is likely to part Sir Edward from a considerable wad of money?”