Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) (300 page)

‘I can write it from memory,’ she said. ‘This was a letter he typed
himself
on February 3rd, 1921. He sealed it and gave it to me to mail--but there was a blonde he was interested in, and I wondered why he should be so secret about a letter.’

Helen had been typing as she talked, and now she handed Pat a note.

To Will Bronson
First National Studios
    Personal

Dear Bill:

We killed Taylor. We should have cracked down on him sooner. So why not shut up.

Yours, Harry     

‘Get it?’ Helen said. ‘On February 1st, 1921, somebody knocked off William Desmond Taylor, the director. And they’ve never found out who.’

III

For eighteen years she had kept the original note, envelope and all. She had sent only a copy to Bronson, tracing Harry Gooddorf’s signature.

‘Baby, we’re set!’ said Pat. ‘I always thought it was a
girl
got Taylor.’

He was so elated that he opened a drawer and brought forth a half-pint of whiskey. Then, with an afterthought, he demanded:

‘Is it in a safe place?’

‘You bet it is. He’d never guess where.’

‘Baby, we’ve got him!’

Cash, cars, girls, swimming pools swam in a glittering montage before Pat’s eye.

He folded the note, put it in his pocket, took another drink and reached for his hat.

‘You going to see him now?’ Helen demanded in some alarm. ‘Hey, wait till I get off the lot.
I
don’t want to get murdered.’

‘Don’t worry! Listen I’ll meet you in “the Muncherie” at Fifth and La Brea--in one hour.’

As he walked to Gooddorf’s office he decided to mention no facts or names within the walls of the studio. Back in the brief period when he had headed a scenario department Pat had conceived a plan to put a dictaphone in every writer’s office. Thus their loyalty to the studio executives could be checked several times a day.

The idea had been laughed at. But later, when he had been ‘reduced back to a writer’, he often wondered if his plan was secretly followed. Perhaps some indiscreet remark of his own was responsible for the doghouse where he had been interred for the past decade. So it was with the idea of concealed dictaphones in mind, dictaphones which could be turned on by the pressure of a toe, that he entered Harry Gooddorf’s office.

‘Harry--’ he chose his words carefully, ‘do you remember the night of February 1st, 1921?’

Somewhat flabbergasted, Gooddorf leaned back in his swivel chair.

‘What?’

‘Try and think. It’s something very important to you.’

Pat’s expression as he watched his friend was that of an anxious undertaker.

‘February 1st, 1921.’ Gooddorf mused. ‘No. How could I remember? You think I keep a diary? I don’t even know where I was then.’

‘You were right here in Hollywood.’

‘Probably. If you know, tell me.’

‘You’ll remember.’

‘Let’s see. I came out to the coast in sixteen. I was with Biograph till 1920. Was I making some comedies? That’s it. I was making a piece called
Knuckleduster--
on location.’

‘You weren’t always on location. You were in town February 1st.’

‘What is this?’ Gooddorf demanded. ‘The third degree?’

‘No--but I’ve got some information about your doings on that date.’

Gooddorf’s face reddened; for a moment it looked as if he were going to throw Pat out of the room--then suddenly he gasped, licked his lips and stared at his desk.

‘Oh,’ he said, and after a minute: ‘But I don’t see what business it is of yours.’

‘It’s the business of every decent man.’

‘Since when have you been decent?’

‘All my life,’ said Pat. ‘And, even if I haven’t, I never did anything like that.’

‘My foot!’ said Harry contemptuously.
‘You
showing up here with a halo! Anyhow, what’s the evidence? You’d think you had a written confession. It’s all forgotten long ago.’

‘Not in the memory of decent men,’ said Pat. ‘And as for a written confession--I’ve got it.’

‘I doubt you. And I doubt if it would stand in any court. You’ve been taken in.’

‘I’ve seen it,’ said Pat with growing confidence. ‘And it’s enough to hang you.’

‘Well, by God, if there’s any publicity I’ll run you out of town.’

‘You’ll run
me
out of town.’

‘I don’t want any publicity.’

‘Then I think you’d better come along with me. Without talking to anybody.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I know a bar where we can be alone.’

The Muncherie was in fact deserted, save for the bartender and Helen Kagle who sat at a table, jumpy with alarm. Seeing her, Gooddorf’s expression changed to one of infinite reproach.

‘This is a hell of a Christmas,’ he said, ‘with my family expecting me home an hour ago. I want to know the idea. You say you’ve got something in my writing.’

Pat took the paper from his pocket and read the date aloud. Then he looked up hastily:

‘This is just a copy, so don’t try and snatch it.’

He knew the technique of such scenes as this. When the vogue for Westerns had temporarily subsided he had sweated over many an orgy of crime.

‘To William Bronson, Dear Bill: We killed Taylor. We should have cracked down on him sooner. So why not shut up. Yours, Harry.’

Pat paused. ‘You wrote this on February 3rd, 1921.’

Silence. Gooddorf turned to Helen Kagle.

‘Did
you
do this? Did I dictate that to you?’

‘No,’ she admitted in an awed voice. ‘You wrote it yourself. I opened the letter.’

‘I see. Well, what do you want?’

‘Plenty,’ said Pat, and found himself pleased with the sound of the word.

‘What exactly?’

Pat launched into the description of a career suitable to a man of forty-nine. A glowing career. It expanded rapidly in beauty and power during the time it took him to drink three large whiskeys. But one demand he returned to again and again.

He wanted to be made a producer tomorrow.

‘Why tomorrow?’ demanded Gooddorf. ‘Can’t it wait?’

There were sudden tears in Pat’s eyes--real tears.

‘This is Christmas,’ he said. ‘It’s my Christmas wish. I’ve had a hell of a time. I’ve waited so long.’

Gooddorf got to his feet suddenly.

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘I won’t make you a producer. I couldn’t do it in fairness to the company. I’d rather stand trial.’

Pat’s mouth fell open.

‘What? You won’t?’

‘Not a chance. I’d rather swing.’

He turned away, his face set, and started toward the door.

‘All right!’ Pat called after him. ‘It’s your last chance.’

Suddenly he was amazed to see Helen Kagle spring up and run after Gooddorf--try to throw her arms around him.

‘Don’t worry!’ she cried. ‘I’ll tear it up, Harry! It was a joke Harry--’

Her voice trailed off rather abruptly. She had discovered that Gooddorf was shaking with laughter.

‘What’s the joke?’ she demanded, growing angry again. ‘Do you think I haven’t got it?’

‘Oh, you’ve got it all right,’ Gooddorf howled. ‘You’ve got it--but it isn’t what you think it is.’

He came back to the table, sat down and addressed Pat.

‘Do you know what I thought that date meant? I thought maybe it was the date Helen and I first fell for each other. That’s what I thought. And I thought she was going to raise Cain about it. I thought she was nuts. She’s been married twice since then, and so have I.’

‘That doesn’t explain the note,’ said Pat sternly but with a sinky feeling. ‘You admit you killed Taylor.’

Gooddorf nodded.

‘I still think a lot of us did,’ he said. ‘We were a wild crowd--Taylor and Bronson and me and half the boys in the big money. So a bunch of us got together in an agreement to go slow. The country was waiting for somebody to hang. We tried to get Taylor to watch his step but he wouldn’t. So instead of cracking down on him, we let him “go the pace”. And some rat shot him--who did it I don’t know.’

He stood up.

‘Like somebody should have cracked down on
you,
Pat. But you were an amusing guy in those days, and besides we were all too busy.’

Pat sniffled suddenly.

‘I’ve
been
cracked down on,’ he said. ‘Plenty.’

‘But too late,’ said Gooddorf, and added, ‘you’ve probably got a new Christmas wish by now, and I’ll grant it to you. I won’t say anything about this afternoon.’

When he had gone, Pat and Helen sat in silence. Presently Pat took out the note again and looked it over.

‘“So why not shut up?”‘ he read aloud. ‘He didn’t explain that.’

‘Why
not
shut up?’ Helen said.

A MAN IN THE WAY

Esquire
(February 1940)

I

Pat Hobby could always get on the lot. He had worked there fifteen years on and off--chiefly off during the past five--and most of the studio police knew him. If tough customers on watch asked to see his studio card he could get in by phoning Lou, the bookie. For Lou also, the studio had been home for many years.

Pat was forty-nine. He was a writer but he had never written much, nor even read all the ‘originals’ he worked from, because it made his head bang to read much. But the good old silent days you got somebody’s plot and a smart secretary and gulped benzedrine ‘structure’ at her six or eight hours every week. The director took care of the gags. After talkies came he always teamed up with some man who wrote dialogue. Some young man who liked to work.

‘I’ve got a list of credits second to none,’ he told Jack Berners. ‘All I need is an idea and to work with somebody who isn’t all wet.’

He had buttonholed Jack outside the production office as Jack was going to lunch and they walked together in the direction of the commissary.

‘You bring me an idea,’ said Jack Berners. ‘Things are tight. We can’t put a man on salary unless he’s got an idea.’

‘How can you get ideas off salary?’ Pat demanded--then he added hastily: ‘Anyhow I got the germ of an idea that I could be telling you all about at lunch.’

Something might come to him at lunch. There was Baer’s notion about the boy scout. But Jack said cheerfully:

‘I’ve got a date for lunch, Pat. Write it out and send it around, eh?’

He felt cruel because he knew Pat couldn’t write anything out but he was having story trouble himself. The war had just broken out and every producer on the lot wanted to end their current stories with the hero going to war. And Jack Berners felt he had thought of that first for his production.

‘So write it out, eh?’

When Pat didn’t answer Jack looked at him--he saw a sort of whipped misery in Pat’s eye that reminded him of his own father. Pat had been in the money before Jack was out of college--with three cars and a chicken over every garage. Now his clothes looked as if he’d been standing at Hollywood and Vine for three years.

‘Scout around and talk to some of the writers on the lot,’ he said. ‘If you can get one of them interested in your idea, bring him up to see me.’

‘I hate to give an idea without money on the line,’ Pat brooded pessimistically, ‘These young squirts’ll lift the shirt off your back.’

They had reached the commissary door.

‘Good luck, Pat. Anyhow we’re not in Poland.’

--Good
you’re
not, said Pat under his breath. They’d slit your gizzard.

Now what to do? He went up and wandered along the cell block of writers. Almost everyone had gone to lunch and those who were in he didn’t know. Always there were more and more unfamiliar faces. And he had thirty credits; he had been in the business, publicity and script-writing, for twenty years.

The last door in the line belonged to a man he didn’t like. But he wanted a place to sit a minute so with a knock he pushed it open. The man wasn’t there--only a very pretty, frail-looking girl sat reading a book.

‘I think he’s left Hollywood,’ she said in answer to his question. ‘They gave me his office but they forgot to put up my name.’

‘You a writer?’ Pat asked in surprise.

‘I work at it.’

‘You ought to get ‘em to give you a test.’

‘No--I like writing.’

‘What’s that you’re reading.’

She showed him.

‘Let me give you a tip,’ he said. ‘That’s not the way to get the guts out of a book.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve been here for years--I’m Pat Hobby--and I
know.
Give the book to four of your friends to read it. Get them to tell you what stuck in their minds. Write it down and you’ve got a picture--see?’

The girl smiled.

‘Well, that’s very--very original advice, Mr Hobby.’

‘Pat Hobby,’ he said. ‘Can I wait here a minute? Man I came to see is at lunch.’

He sat down across from her and picked up a copy of a photo magazine.

‘Oh, just let me mark that,’ she said quickly.

He looked at the page which she checked. It showed paintings being boxed and carted away to safety from an art gallery in Europe.

‘How’ll you use it?’ he said.

‘Well, I thought it would be dramatic if there was an old man around while they were packing the pictures. A poor old man, trying to get a job helping them. But they can’t use him--he’s in the way--not even good cannon fodder. They want strong young people in the world. And it turns out he’s the man who painted the pictures many years ago.’

Pat considered.

‘It’s good but I don’t get it,’ he said.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, a short short maybe.’

‘Got any good picture ideas? I’m in with all the markets here.’

‘I’m under contract.’

‘Use another name.’

Her phone rang.

‘Yes, this is Pricilla Smith,’ the girl said.

After a minute she turned to Pat.

‘Will you excuse me? This is a private call.’

He got it and walked out, and along the corridor. Finding an office with no name on it he went in and fell asleep on the couch.

II