Read Blandings Castle and Elsewhere Online
Authors: P. G. Wodehouse
'You bet it makes my heart heavy,' said Wilmot, crying softly.
He dried his eyes on the edge of the table-cloth. 'How can
I shake off this awful depression?' he asked.
The child star reflected.
'Well, I'll tell you,' he said. 'I know a better place than this
one. It's out Venice way. We might give it a try.'
'We certainly might,' said Wilmot.
'And then there's another one down at Santa Monica.'
'We'll go there, too,' said Wilmot. 'The great thing is to keep
moving about and seeing new scenes and fresh faces.'
'The faces are always nice and fresh down at Venice.'
'Then let's go,' said Wilmot.
It was at eleven o'clock on the following morning that
Mr Schnellenhamer burst in upon his fellow-executive, Mr
Levitsky, with agitation written on every feature of his expressive
face. The cigar trembled between his lips.
'Listen!' he said. 'Do you know what?'
'Listen!' said Mr Levitsky. 'What?'
'Johnny Bingley has just been in to see me.'
'If he wants a raise of salary, talk about the Depression.'
'Raise of salary? What's worrying me is how long is he going
to be worth the salary he's getting.'
'Worth it?' Mr Levitsky stared. 'Johnny Bingley? The Child
With The Tear Behind The Smile? The Idol Of American
Motherhood?'
'Yes, and how long is he going to be the idol of American
Motherhood after American Motherhood finds out he's a midget
from Connolly's Circus, and an elderly, hard-boiled midget,
at that?'
'Well, nobody knows that but you and me.'
'Is that so?' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Well, let me tell you,
he was out on a toot last night with one of my Nodders, and he
comes to me this morning and says he couldn't actually swear he
told this guy he was a midget, but, on the other hand, he rather
thinks he must have done. He says that between the time they
were thrown out of Mike's Place and the time he stabbed the
waiter with the pickle-fork there's a sort of gap in his memory, a
kind of blurr, and he thinks it may have been then, because by
that time they had got pretty confidential and he doesn't think
he would have had any secrets from him.'
All Mr Levitsky's nonchalance had vanished.
'But if this fellow – what's his name?'
'Mulliner.'
'If this fellow Mulliner sells this story to the Press Johnny
Bingley won't be worth a nickel to us. And his contract calls for
two more pictures at two hundred and fifty thousand each.'
'That's right.'
'But what are we to do?'
'You tell me.'
Mr Levitsky pondered.
'Well, first of all,' he said, 'we'll have to find out if this
Mulliner really knows.'
'We can't ask him.'
'No, but we'll be able to tell by his manner. A fellow with a
stranglehold on the Corporation like that isn't going to be able to
go on acting same as he's always done. What sort of a fellow is he?'
'The ideal Nodder,' said Mr Schnellenhamer regretfully.
'I don't know when I've had a better. Always on his cues.
Never tries to alibi himself by saying he had a stiff neck. Quiet
... Respectful ... What's that word that begins with a "d"?'
'Damn?'
'Deferential. And what's the word beginning with an "o"?'
'Oyster?'
'Obsequious. That's what he is. Quiet, respectful, deferential,
and obsequious – that's Mulliner.'
'Well, then, it'll be easy to see. If we find him suddenly not
being all what you said ... if he suddenly ups and starts to throw
his weight about, understand what I mean ... why, then we'll
know that he knows that Little Johnny Bingley is a midget.'
'And then?'
'Why, then we'll have to square him. And do it right, too. No
half-measures.'
Mr Schnellenhamer tore at his hair. He seemed disappointed
that he had no straws to stick in it.
'Yes,' he agreed, the brief spasm over, 'I suppose it's the only
way. Well, it won't be long before we know. There's a story-conference
in my office at noon, and he'll be there to nod.'
'We must watch him like a lynx.'
'Like a what?'
'Lynx. Sort of wild-cat. It watches things.'
Ah,' said Mr Schnellenhamer, 'I get you now. What confused
me at first was that I thought you meant golf-links.'
The fears of the two magnates, had they but known it, were
quite without foundation. If Wilmot Mulliner had ever learned
the fatal secret, he had certainly not remembered it next morning.
He had woken that day with a confused sense of having
passed through some soul-testing experience, but as regarded
details his mind was a blank. His only thought as he entered Mr
Schnellenhamer's office for the conference was a rooted conviction
that, unless he kept very still, his head would come apart in
the middle.
Nevertheless, Mr Schnellenhamer, alert for significant and
sinister signs, plucked anxiously at Mr Levitsky's sleeve.
'Look!'
'Eh?'
'Did you see that?'
'See what?'
'That fellow Mulliner. He sort of quivered when he caught
my eye, as if with unholy glee.'
'He did?'
'It seemed to me he did.'
As a matter of fact, what had happened was that Wilmot,
suddenly sighting his employer, had been enable to restrain a
quick shudder of agony. It seemed to him that somebody had
been painting Mr Schnellenhamer yellow. Even at the best of
times, the President of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum, considered as an
object for the eye, was not everybody's money. Flickering at the
rims and a dull orange in colour, as he appeared to be now, he
had smitten Wilmot like a blow, causing him to wince like a
salted snail.
Mr Levitsky was regarding the young man thoughtfully.
'I don't like his looks,' he said.
'Nor do I,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.
'There's a kind of horrid gloating in his manner.'
'I noticed it, too.'
'See how he's just buried his head in his hands, as if he were
thinking out dreadful plots?'
'I believe he knows everything.'
'I shouldn't wonder if you weren't right. Well, let's start the
conference and see what he does when the time comes for him to
nod. That's when he'll break out, if he's going to.'
As a rule, these story-conferences were the part of his work
which Wilmot most enjoyed. His own share in them was not
exacting, and, as he often said, you met such interesting people.
To-day, however, though there were eleven of the studio's weirdest
authors present, each well worth more than a cursory inspection, he found
himself unable to overcome the dull listlessness which had been gripping him
since he had first gone to the refrigerator that morning to put ice on his
temples. As the poet Keats puts it in his 'Ode to a Nightingale,' his head
ached and a drowsy numbness pained his sense. And the sight of Mabel Potter,
recalling to him those dreams of happiness which he had once dared to dream
and which now could never come to fulfilment, plunged him still deeper into
the despondency. If he had been a character in a Russian novel, he would have
gone and hanged himself in the barn. As it was, he merely sat staring before
him and keeping perfectly rigid.
Most people, eyeing him, would have been reminded of a
corpse which had been several days in the water: but Mr Schnellenhamer
thought he looked like a leopard about to spring, and
he mentioned this to Mr Levitsky in an undertone.
'Bend down. I want to whisper.'
'What's the matter?'
'He looks to me just like a crouching leopard.'
'I beg your purdon,' said Mabel Potter, who, her duty being to
take notes of the proceedings, was seated at her employer's side.
'Did you say "crouching leopard" or "grouchy shepherd"?'
Mr Schnellenhamer started. He had forgotten the risk of
being overheard. He felt that he had been incautious.
'Don't put that down,' he said. 'It wasn't part of the conference.
Well, now, come on, come on,' he proceeded, with a pitiful
attempt at the bluffness which he used at conferences, 'let's get at
it. Where did we leave off yesterday, Miss Potter?'
Mabel consulted her notes.
'Cabot Delancy, a scion of an old Boston family, has gone to
try to reach the North Pole in a submarine, and he's on an
iceberg, and the scenes of his youth are passing before his eyes.'
'What scenes?'
'You didn't get to what scenes.'
'Then that's where we begin,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.
'What scenes pass before this fellow's eyes?'
One of the authors, a weedy young man in spectacles, who
had come to Hollywood to start a Gyffte Shoppe and had been
scooped up in the studio's drag-net and forced into the writing-staff
much against his will, said why not a scene where Cabot
Delancy sees himself dressing his window with kewpie-dolls
and fancy note-paper.
'Why kewpie-dolls?' asked Mr Schnellenhamer testily.
The author said they were a good selling line.
'Listen!' said Mr Schnellenhamer brusquely. 'This Delancy
never sold anything in his life. He's a millionaire. What we want
is something romantic.'
A diffident old gentleman suggested a polo-game.
'No good,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Who cares anything
about polo? When you're working on a picture you've got to
bear in mind the small-town population of the Middle West.
Aren't I right?'
'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.
'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.
'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.
And all the Nodders nodded. Wilmot, waking with a start to
the realization that duty called, hurriedly inclined his throbbing
head. The movement made him feel as if a red-hot spike had
been thrust through it, and he winced. Mr Levitsky plucked at
Mr Schnellenhamer's sleeve.
'He scowled!'
'I thought he scowled, too.'
As it might be with sullen hate.'
'That's the way it struck me. Keep watching him.'
The conference proceeded. Each of the authors put forward a
suggestion, but it was left for Mr Schnellenhamer to solve what
had begun to seem an insoluble problem.
'I've got it,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'He sits on this iceberg
and he seems to see himself- he's always been an athlete, you
understand – he seems to see himself scoring the winning goal in
one of these polo-games. Everybody's interested in polo nowadays.
Aren't I right?'
'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.
'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.
'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.
Wilmot was quicker off the mark this time. A conscientious
employee, he did not intend mere physical pain to cause him to
fall short in his duty. He nodded quickly, and returned to the
'ready' a little surprised that his head was still attached to its
moorings. He had felt so certain it was going to come off that
time.
The effect of this quiet, respectful, deferential and obsequious
nod on Mr Schnellenhamer was stupendous. The anxious look
had passed from his eyes. He was convinced now that Wilmot
knew nothing. The magnate's confidence mounted high. He
proceeded briskly. There was a new strength in his voice.
'Well,' he said, 'that's set for one of the visions We want two,
and the other's got to be something that'll pull in the women.
Something touching and sweet and tender.'
The young author in spectacles thought it would be kind of
touching and sweet and tender if Cabot Delancy remembered
the time he was in his Gyffte Shoppe and a beautiful girl came
in and their eyes met as he wrapped up her order of Indian
bead-work.
Mr Schnellenhamer banged the desk.
'What is all this about Gyffte Shoppes and Indian beadwork?
Don't I tell you this guy is a prominent clubman?
Where would he get a Gyffte Shoppe? Bring a girl into it, yes
– so far you're talking sense. And let him gaze into her eyes –
certainly he can gaze into her eyes. But not in any Gyffte
Shoppe. It's got to be a lovely, peaceful, old-world exterior set,
with bees humming and doves cooing and trees waving in the
breeze. Listen!' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'It's spring, see, and all
around is the beauty of Nature in the first shy sun-glow. The
grass that waves. The buds that ... what's the word?'
'Bud?' suggested Mr Levitsky.
'No, it's two syllables,' said Mr Schnellenhamer, speaking a
little self-consciously, for he was modestly proud of knowing
words of two syllables.
'Burgeon?' hazarded an author who looked like a trained seal.
'I beg your pardon,' said Mabel Potter. 'A burgeon's a sort
of fish.'
'You're thinking of sturgeon,' said the author.
'Excuse it, please,' murmured Mabel. 'I'm not strong on
fishes. Birds are what I'm best at.'
'We'll have birds, too,' said Mr Schnellenhamer jovially. All
the birds you want. Especially the cuckoo. And I'll tell you why.
It gives us a nice little comedy touch. This fellow's with this girl
in this old-world garden where everything's burgeoning ... and
when I say burgeoning I mean burgeoning. That burgeoning's
got to be done
right,
or somebody'll get fired ... and they're
locked in a close embrace. Hold as long as the Philadelphia
censors'll let you, and then comes your nice little comedy
touch. Just as these two young folks are kissing each other
without a thought of anything else in the world, suddenly a
cuckoo close by goes "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" Meaning how goofy
they are. That's good for a laugh, isn't it?'
'Yes,' said the senior Yes-man.
'Yes,' said the Vice-Yesser.
'Yes,' said the junior Yes-man.
And then, while the Nodders' heads – Wilmot's among them
– were trembling on their stalks preparatory to the downward
swoop, there spoke abruptly a clear female voice. It was the voice
of Mabel Potter, and those nearest her were able to see that her
face was flushed and her eyes gleaming with an almost fanatic
light. All the bird-imitator in her had sprung to sudden life.
'I beg your purdon, Mr Schnellenhamer, that's wrong.'