Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (20 page)

A deadly stillness had fallen on the room. Eleven authors sat
transfixed in their chairs, as if wondering if they could believe
their twenty-two ears. Mr Schnellenhamer uttered a little gasp.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him before in his long
experience.

'What did you say?' he asked incredulously. 'Did you say that
I ...
I
... was wrong?'

Mabel met his gaze steadily. So might Joan of Arc have faced
her inquisitors.

'The cuckoo,' she said, 'does not go "Cuckoo, cuckoo" ... it
goes "Wuckoo, wuckoo." A distinct "
W"
sound.'

A gasp at the girl's temerity ran through the room. In the eyes
of several of those present there was something that was not far
from a tear. She seemed so young, so fragile.

Mr Schnellenhamer's joviality had vanished. He breathed
loudly through his nose. He was plainly mastering himself
with a strong effort.

'So I don't know the low-down on cuckoos?'

'Wuckoos,' corrected Mabel.

'Cuckoos!'

'Wuckoos!'

'You're fired,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

Mabel flushed to the roots of her hair.

'It's unfair and unjust,' she cried. 'I'm right, and anybody
who's studied cuckoos will tell you I'm right. When it was a
matter of burgeons, I was mistaken, and I admitted that I was
mistaken, and apologized. But when it comes to cuckoos, let me
tell you you're talking to somebody who has imitated the call of
the cuckoo from the Palace, Portland, Oregon, to the Hippodrome,
Sumquamset, Maine, and taken three bows after every
performance. Yes, sir, I know my cuckoos! And if you don't
believe me I'll put it up to Mr Mulliner there, who was born
and bred on a farm and has heard more cuckoos in his time than
a month of Sundays. Mr Mulliner, how about it? Does the
cuckoo go "Cuckoo"?'

Wilmot Mulliner was on his feet, and his eyes met hers with
the love-light in them. The spectacle of the girl he loved in
distress and appealing to him for aid had brought my distant
connection's better self to the surface as if it had been jerked up
on the end of a pin. For one brief instant he had been about to
seek safety in a cowardly cringing to the side of those in power.
He loved Mabel Potter madly, desperately, he had told himself
in that short, sickening moment of poltroonery, but Mr Schnellenhamer
was the man who signed the cheques: and the thought
of risking his displeasure and being summarily dismissed had
appalled him. For there is no spiritual anguish like that of the
man who, grown accustomed to opening the crackling envelope
each Saturday morning, reaches out for it one day and finds that
it is not there. The thought of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum cashier
ceasing to be a fount of gold and becoming just a man with a
walrus moustache had turned Wilmot's spine to Jell-o. And for
an instant, as I say, he had been on the point of betraying this
sweet girl's trust.

But now, gazing into her eyes, he was strong again. Come
what might, he would stand by her to the end.

'No!' he thundered, and his voice rang through the room like
a trumpet-blast. 'No, it does not go "Cuckoo." You have fallen
into a popular error, Mr Schnellenhamer. The bird wooks, and,
by heaven, I shall never cease to maintain that it wooks, no
matter what offence I give to powerful vested interests. I endorse
Miss Potter's view wholeheartedly and without compromise.
I say the cuckoo does not cook. It wooks, so make the most of it!'

There was a sudden whirring noise. It was Mabel Potter
shooting through the air into his arms.

'Oh, Wilmot!' she cried.

He glared over her back-hair at the magnate.

'"Wuckoo, wuckoo!"' he shouted, almost savagely.

He was surprised to observe that Mr Schnellenhamer and Mr
Levitsky were hurriedly clearing the room. Authors had begun
to stream through the door in a foaming torrent. Presently, he
and Mabel were alone with the two directors of the destinies of
the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation, and Mr Levitsky was carefully
closing the door, while Mr Schnellenhamer came towards
him, a winning, if nervous, smile upon his face.

'There, there, Mulliner,' he said.

And Mr Levitsky said 'There, there,' too.

'I can understand your warmth, Mulliner,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.
'Nothing is more annoying to the man who knows
than to have people making these silly mistakes. I consider the
firm stand you have taken as striking evidence of your loyalty to
the Corporation.'

'Me, too,' said Mr Levitsky. 'I was admiring it myself.'

'For you are loyal to the Corporation, Mulliner, I know. You
would never do anything to prejudice its interests, would you?'

'Sure he wouldn't,' said Mr Levitsky.

'You would not reveal the Corporation's little secrets, thereby
causing it alarm and despondency, would you, Mulliner?'

'Certainly he wouldn't,' said Mr Levitsky. 'Especially now
that we're going to make him an executive.'

'An executive?' said Mr Schnellenhamer, starting.

'An executive,' repeated Mr Levitsky firmly. 'With brevet
rank as a brother-in-law.'

Mr Schnellenhamer was silent for a moment. He seemed to
be having a little trouble in adjusting his mind to this extremely
drastic step. But he was a man of sterling sense, who realized
that there are times when only the big gesture will suffice.

'That's right,' he said. 'I'll notify the legal department and
have the contract drawn up right away.'

'That will be agreeable to you, Mulliner?' inquired Mr
Levitsky anxiously. 'You will consent to become an executive?'

Wilmot Mulliner drew himself up. It was his moment. His
head was still aching, and he would have been the last person to
claim that he knew what all this was about: but this he did know
– that Mabel was nestling in his arms and that his future was
secure.

'I ...'

Then words failed him, and he nodded.

A
SUDDEN
cat shot in through the door of the bar-parlour of
the Angler's Rest, wearing the unmistakable air of a cat which has just been
kicked by a powerful foot. At the same moment there came from without sounds
indicative of a strong man's wrath: and recognizing the voice of Ernest Biggs,
the inn's popular landlord, we stared at one another in amazement. For Ernest
had always been celebrated for the kindliness of his disposition. The last
man, one would have thought, to raise a number eleven shoe against a faithful
friend and good mouser.

It was a well-informed Rum and Milk who threw light on the
mystery.

'He's on a diet,' said the Rum and Milk. 'On account of gout.'

Mr Mulliner sighed.

A pity,' he said, 'that dieting, so excellent from a purely
physical standpoint, should have this unfortunate effect on the
temper. It seems to sap the self-control of the stoutest.'

'Quite,' said the Rum and Milk. 'My stout Uncle Henry ...'

And yet,' proceeded Mr Mulliner, 'I have known great happiness
result from dieting. Take, for example, the case of my
distant connection, Wilmot.'

'Is that the Wilmot you were telling us about the other
night?'

'Was I telling you about my distant connection Wilmot the
other night?'

'The fellow I mean was a Nodder at Hollywood, and he found
out that the company's child star, Little Johnny Bingley, was a
midget, so to keep his mouth shut they made him an executive,
and he married a girl named Mabel Potter.'

'Yes, that was Wilmot. You are mistaken, however, in supposing
that he married Mabel Potter at the conclusion of that story.'

'But you distinctly said she fell into his arms.'

'Many a girl has fallen into a man's arms,' said Mr Mulliner
gravely, 'only to wriggle out of them at a later date.'

We left Wilmot, as you very rightly say (said Mr Mulliner) in
an extremely satisfactory position, both amatory and financial.
The only cloud there had ever been between himself and Mabel
Potter had been due, if you recollect, to the fact that she considered
his attitude towards Mr Schnellenhamer, the head of the
Corporation, too obsequious and deferential. She resented his
being a Nodder. Then he was promoted to the rank of executive,
so there he was, reconciled to the girl he loved and in receipt of a
most satisfactory salary. Little wonder that he felt that the happy
ending had arrived.

One effect of his new-found happiness on my distant connection
Wilmot was to fill him with the utmost benevolence and
goodwill towards all humanity. His sunny smile was the talk of
the studio, and even got a couple of lines in Louella Parsons's
column in the
Los Angeles Examiner.
Love, I believe, often has
this effect on a young man. He went about the place positively
seeking for ways of doing his fellow human beings good turns.
And when one morning Mr Schnellenhamer summoned him to
his office Wilmot's chief thought was that he hoped that the
magnate was going to ask some little favour of him, because it
would be a real pleasure to him to oblige.

He found the head of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation
looking grave.

'Times are hard, Mulliner,' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

'And yet,' replied Wilmot cheerily, 'there is still joy in the
world; still the happy laughter of children and the singing of
blue-birds.'

'That's all right about blue-birds,' said Mr Schnellenhamer,
'but we've got to cut down expenses. We'll have to do some
salary-slicing.'

Wilmot was concerned. This seemed to him morbid.

'Don't dream of cutting your salary, Chief,' he urged. 'You're
worth every cent of it. Besides, reflect. If you reduce your salary,
it will cause alarm. People will go about saying that things must
be in a bad way. It is your duty to the community to be a man and
bite the bullet and, no matter how much it may irk you, to stick
to your eight hundred thousand dollars a year like glue.'

'I wasn't thinking of cutting my salary so much,' said Mr
Schnellenhamer. 'Yours, more, if you see what I mean.'

'Oh, mine?' cried Wilmot buoyantly. 'Ah, that's different.
That's another thing altogether. Yes, that's certainly an idea. If
you think it will be of assistance and help to ease matters for all
these dear chaps on the P-F lot, by all means cut my salary.
About how much were you thinking of?'

'Well, you're getting fifteen hundred a week.'

'I know, I know,' said Wilmot. 'It's a lot of money.'

'I thought if we said seven hundred and fifty from now on ...'

'It's an awkward sort of sum,' said Wilmot dubiously. 'Not
round, if you follow me. I would suggest five hundred.'

'Or four?'

'Four, if you prefer it.'

'Very well,' said Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Then from now on
we'll put you on the books as three. It's a more convenient sum
than four,' he explained. 'Makes less book-keeping.'

'Of course,' said Wilmot. 'Of course. What a perfectly lovely
day it is, is it not? I was thinking as I came along here that I had
never seen the sun shining more brightly. One just wanted to be
out and about, doing lots of good on every side. Well, I'm
delighted if I have been able to do anything in my humble way
to make things easier for you, Chief. It has been a real pleasure.'

And with a merry 'Tra-la' he left the room and made his way
to the commissary, where he had arranged to give Mabel Potter
lunch.

She was a few minutes late in arriving, and he presumed that
she had been detained on some matter by Mr Schnellenhamer,
whose private secretary, if you remember, she was. When she
arrived, he was distressed to see that her lovely face was overcast,
and he was just about to say something about blue-birds when
she spoke abruptly.

'What is all this I hear from Mr Schnellenhamer?'

'I don't quite understand,' said Wilmot.

'About your taking a salary cut.'

'Oh, that. I see. I suppose he drafted out a new agreement for
you to take to the legal department. Yes,' said Wilmot, 'Mr
Schnellenhamer sent for me this morning, and I found him
very worried, poor chap. There is a world-wide money shortage
at the moment, you see, and industry is in a throttled state and so
on. He was very upset about it. However, we talked things over,
and fortunately we found a way out. I've reduced my salary. It
has eased things all round.'

Mabel's face was stony.

'Has it?' she said bitterly. 'Well, let me tell you that, as far as
I'm concerned, it has done nothing of the sort. You have failed
me, Wilmot. You have forfeited my respect. You have proved
to me that you are still the same cold-asparagus-backboned
worm who used to cringe to Mr Schnellenhamer. I thought,
when you became an executive, that you would have the soul of
an executive. I find that at heart you are still a Nodder. The man
I used to think you – the strong, dominant man of my dreams –
would have told Mr Schnellenhamer to take a running jump up
an alley at the mere hint of a cut in the weekly envelope. Ah, yes,
how woefully I have been deceived in you. I think that we had
better consider our engagement at an end.'

Wilmot tottered.

'You are not taking up my option?' he gasped.

'No. You are at liberty to make arrangements elsewhere. I can
never marry a poltroon.'

'But, Mabel ...'

'No. I mean it. Of course,' she went on more gently, 'if one day
you should prove yourself worthy of my love, that is another
matter. Give me evidence that you are a man among men, and
then I'm not saying. But, meanwhile, the scenario reads as I have
outlined.'

And with a cold, averted face she passed on into the commissary
alone.

The effect of this thunderbolt on Wilmot Mulliner may
readily be imagined. It had never occurred to him that Mabel
might take this attitude towards what seemed to him an action
of the purest altruism. Had he done wrong, he asked himself.
Surely, to bring the light of happiness into the eyes of a motion-picture
magnate was not a culpable thing. And yet Mabel
thought otherwise, and, so thinking, had given him the air. Life,
felt Wilmot, was very difficult.

For some moments he debated within himself the possibility
of going back to his employer and telling him he had changed
his mind. But no, he couldn't do that. It would be like taking
chocolate from an already chocolated child. There seemed to
Wilmot Mulliner nothing that he could do. It was just one of
those things. He went into the commissary, and, taking a solitary
table at some distance from the one where the haughty girl
sat, ordered Hungarian goulash, salad, two kinds of pie, icecream,
cheese and coffee. For he had always been a good trencherman,
and sorrow seemed to sharpen his appetite.

And this was so during the days that followed. He found
himself eating a good deal more than usual, because food seemed
to dull the pain at his heart. Unfortunately, in doing so, it
substituted another in his stomach.

The advice all good doctors give to those who have been
disappointed in love is to eat lightly. Fail to do this, and the
result is as inevitable as the climax of a Greek tragedy. No
man, however gifted his gastric juices, can go on indefinitely
brooding over a lost love and sailing into the starchy foods
simultaneously. It was not long before indigestion gripped Wilmot,
and for almost the first time in his life he was compelled to
consult a physician. And the one he selected was a man of drastic
views.

'On rising,' he told Wilmot, 'take the juice of an orange. For
luncheon, the juice of an orange. And for dinner the juice –' – he
paused a moment before springing the big surprise – 'of an
orange. For the rest, I am not an advocate of nourishment
between meals, but I am inclined to think that, should you
become faint during the day – or possibly the night – there
will be no harm in your taking ... well, yes, I really see no reason
why you should not take the juice of – let us say – an orange.'

Wilmot stared. His manner resembled that of a wolf on the
steppes of Russia who, expecting a peasant, is fobbed off with a
wafer biscuit.

'But aren't you leaving out something?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'How about steaks?'

'Most decidedly no steaks.'

'Chops, then?'

'Absolutely no chops.'

'But the way I figure it out – check my figures in case I'm
wrong – you're suggesting that I live solely on orange-juice.'

'On the juice of an orange,' corrected the doctor. 'Precisely.
Take your orange. Divide it into two equal parts. Squeeze on a
squeezer. Pour into a glass ... or cup,' he added, for he was not
the man to be finnicky about small details, 'and drink.'

Put like that, it sounded a good and even amusing trick, but
Wilmot left the consulting-room with his heart bowed down.
He was a young man who all his life had been accustomed to
take his meals in a proper spirit of seriousness, grabbing everything
there was and, if there was no more, filling up with
biscuits and butter. The vista which this doctor had opened up
struck him as bleak to a degree, and I think that, had not a
couple of wild cats at this moment suddenly started a rather
ugly fight inside him, he would have abandoned the whole
project.

The cats, however, decided him. He stopped at the nearest
market and ordered a crate of oranges to be dispatched to his
address. Then, having purchased a squeezer, he was ready to
begin the new life.

It was some four days later that Mr Schnellenhamer, as he sat
in conference with his fellow-magnate, Mr Levitsky – for these
zealous men, when they had no one else to confer with, would
confer with one another – was informed that Mr Eustiss Vanderleigh
desired to see him. A playwright, this Vanderleigh, of
the Little Theatre school, recently shipped to Hollywood in a
crate of twelve.

'What does he want?' asked Mr Schnellenhamer.

'Probably got some grievance of some kind,' said Mr Levitsky.
'These playwrights make me tired. One sometimes wishes the
old silent days were back again.'

'Ah,' said Mr Schnellenhamer wistfully. 'Well, send him in.'

Eustiss Vanderleigh was a dignified young man with tortoise-shell-rimmed
spectacles and flowing front hair. His voice was
high and plaintive.

'Mr Schnellenhamer,' he said, 'I wish to know what rights
I have in this studio.'

'Listen ...' began the magnate truculently.

Eustiss Vanderleigh held up a slender hand.

'I do not allude to my treatment as an artist and a craftsman.
With regard to that I have already said my say. Though I have
some slight reputation as a maker of plays, I have ceased to
complain that my rarest scenes are found unsuitable for the
medium of the screen. Nor do I dispute the right, however
mistaken, of a director to assert that my subtlest lines are – to
adopt his argot – "cheesy." All this I accept as part of the give and
take of Hollywood life. But there is a limit, and what I wish to
ask you, Mr Schnellenhamer, is this: Am I to be hit over the
head with crusty rolls?'

'Who's been hitting you over the head with crusty rolls?'

'One of your executives. A man named Mulliner. The incident
to which I allude occurred to-day at the luncheon hour in
the commissary. I was entertaining a friend at the meal, and, as
he seemed unable to make up his mind as to the precise nature
of the refreshment which he desired, I began to read aloud to
him the various items on the bill of fare. I had just mentioned
roast pork with boiled potatoes and cabbage and was about to go
on to Mutton Stew Joan Clarkson, when I was conscious of a
violent blow or buffet on the top of the head. And turning
I perceived this man Mulliner with a shattered roll in his hand
and on his face the look of a soul in torment. Upon my inquiring
into his motives for the assault, he merely muttered something
which I understood to be "You and your roast pork," and went on
sipping his orange-juice – a beverage of which he appears to be
inordinately fond, for I have seen him before in the commissary
and he seems to take nothing else. However, that is neither here
nor there. The question to which I desire an answer is this: How
long is this going on? Must I expect, whenever I enter the
studio's place of refreshment, to undergo furious assaults with
crusty rolls, or are you prepared to exert your authority and
prevent a repetition of the episode?'