The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (21 page)

“Excellent!” said Sir Edward. “He’s doing it well, Benito: very well.”

“Strict orders have been given, sir, at the studio, that your name is not to be mentioned. It is bound to leak out in time, of course, but he is very anxious that the air of mystery should be maintained as long as possible. So we have arranged that you should always drive up to a special private entrance, and just come on the stage for your own scenes.”

The other nodded.

“Very wise. What is the exact programme for tomorrow?”

“He is first of all going to run through what has been done already. You will realise, sir, that that will be quite disjointed. I mean we shall dodge from scene to scene, as no film is ever taken consecutively. Then he wants to do your three scenes in the room in Paris.”

“I know them: I’ve been reading them tonight.”

“Then, if there is time for any more, he proposes to tackle the ones in the London office.”

“I must get on to them. Do you think, Benito” – and for the first time in their association his voice was almost diffident – “that I shall do all right?”

“Of course, Sir Edward,” cried the other. “Who could possibly doubt it? You may feel a little nervous to start with, but that will soon pass off.”

“It’s a damned good story,” said the financier. “The more I read it, the more I like it.”

“And it might have been written specially for you,” remarked the secretary suavely.

“It shows rare insight into the world of finance,” said Sir Edward. “By the way, have you seen my understudy?”

“No, sir. But I gather they found a suitable man today.”

“Do you really think it is essential to have one?”

“I don’t, as things have turned out,” answered Gardini. “But it was a wise precaution, I think. Anything might have occurred. Even now, sir, you may find yourself unable to go down some morning, in which case he can double you in certain of your smaller scenes where you do not figure prominently, thus saving everyone standing about idle. You see, sir, it is practically only your scenes now that are left to take, certainly as far as interiors are concerned.”

“Anyway, he’s there if he’s wanted,” said Sir Edward. “Well, good night, Benito: I shall be ready by half-past nine tomorrow.”

And as the secretary bowed and retired, the millionaire again picked up the scenario and started to study his own scenes.

“You know, old soul, I think Hugh is on a stumer this time. The whole show here seems to me to be perfectly genuine.”

Algy Longworth was seated beside Laura Mainwaring on a pile of old planks in a corner of the studio. In the centre the scene was set for the morning’s work, but no one had yet started. The producer Haxton was talking earnestly to Jake Slingsby: the cameramen, in their shirt-sleeves, lounged about aimlessly.

“What are they waiting for anyway?” demanded the girl.

“Haven’t you heard?” he cried. “The loud noise is performing: they are going to shoot Sir John Harborough’s scenes this morning.”

“Who is he?” she said indifferently.

“That’s where the hush-hush part comes in,” he explained. “If you ask me, they’ve got a pretty cute boost across. It was in the evening papers yesterday. Mysterious individual known as Mr X.”

“I never saw it,” she cried. “Algy – how exciting! Do you know who it is?”

“I haven’t an earthly,” he answered. “But he’s somebody who is pretty well known.”

“Excuse me, miss, but a couple of these ’ere planks are wanted.”

A hefty-looking stage-hand came up, and they both rose.

“When are we beginning?” asked Longworth.

“Dunno, sir. They’ve got ’is nibs in the theatre showing ’im wot’s been done up to date.”

“Who is it? D’you know?”

The man lowered his voice confidentially.

“Sir Hedward Greatorex,” he said. “But nobody hain’t supposed to let on. I only know through over’earing Mr ’Axton.”

“And who the hell is Sir Edward Greatorex?” demanded Longworth blankly.

“Hask me another, sir. If it was ’Obbs, now, or ’Ammond, I could ’ave hunderstood it. But this ’ere bloke beats me. Financier, they calls ’im.”

He went off with his planks, and they sat down again as Haxton strolled up.

“’Morning, Miss Mainwaring,” he said affably. “We’ll probably be shooting one of your scenes later on.”

“Who is Sir Edward Greatorex, Mr Haxton?” she asked.

“So you’ve heard, have you? I told Slingsby it was hopeless trying to keep it dark. He’s a multi-millionaire, and he’s got a hunch he can act for the films.”

“Can he?”

“God knows! I’ve never seen him. But he’s so keen on trying that he’s put up the necessary dough for the whole of this outfit.”

“What happens if he’s a complete frost?” demanded Longworth.

“You remember that advertisement that brought you here in the first instance? That was to try and get somebody who could be made up sufficiently to double him. Well, we got a fellow yesterday afternoon. And if the worst comes to the worst, we’ll have to shoot all Sir John Harborough’s scenes twice.”

“But he’s bound to spot it when he sees ’em being run through.”

Mr Haxton winked.

“He’ll see his own in the run through. Then later, when he’s out of it, we’ll substitute the others. And if he gets angry when he sees the final result we’ll have to spin him some yarn about his length of film having got spoiled. But don’t forget,” he continued, “we’ve all got to play the game. Whatever he’s like we’ve got to pretend that he’s the goods. And another thing too: don’t go shouting it all round London that he’s playing this part. We want to keep it dark as long as we can for the sake of the ad.”

He wandered away, and Algy Longworth lit a cigarette.

“So that’s the scheme, is it?” he said. “But I’m blowed if I see what’s the object of all this mystery. Hullo! there he is, presumably. Come on, old bean: let’s go and inspect the blighter from a close up.”

They sauntered over towards a small group that had just emerged from the theatre. It consisted of Hardcastle and Penton, who were deferentially talking to a man with a fair beard accompanied by a dark-skinned, foreign-looking individual.

“So you approve of it up to date, Sir Edward,” Hardcastle was saying.

“Very much indeed,” answered the bearded man.

“Good! Then I should like you to meet our producer – Mr Haxton. And this is Miss Gayford – our leading lady: Mr Montrevor – our junior lead.”

“I must congratulate you,” said Sir Edward. “The scenes I have just been looking at are admirable.”

“And now, Sir Edward, I will show you to your dressing-room,” went on Hardcastle. “There is someone there to make you up.”

The group passed on, and Mr Montrevor contemplated Miss Gayford thoughtfully.

“Lettice, darling,” he remarked, “that bloke is going to act us off the stage – I do not think. Paul, old warrior, what’s the great idea?”

Paul Haxton grinned.

“Just this, my boy. D’you know whose pocket your hundred a week is coming out of? His. He’s paying for the whole outfit, and that being so, he considers he’s entitled to play a part.”

Jack Montrevor shrugged a pair of exquisitely tailored shoulders.

“He can play forty, old boy, so long as his cheques ain’t stumers.”

“Not much fear of that,” laughed Haxton. “His passbooks have to be specially printed with seven spaces in the pounds column. Now then, boys: set it alight. Scene 84. Let’s get the set dressed before he comes. Lettice – you’re here, darling: Wentworth – just sit there where Sir John is going to be. Jack, you’re up left by the window.”

He examined the grouping for a moment or two; then he nodded.

“OK. All right, Wentworth, thank you. I’ll probably take yours and Miss Mainwaring’s next. 93, isn’t it? Ah! here comes Sir Edward. Lights, please.”

The arcs hissed and sizzled, then held steady as the financier stepped on to the stage.

“Now, Sir Edward,” he went on, “we’re taking Scene 84. It’s the sitting-room in your hotel in Paris. Switch off some of those lights for the present, while we try it through. Jack and Lettice are here waiting for you, having come to plead for mercy. He is ruined as the result of having speculated foolishly in schemes controlled by you, and as a forlorn hope they have come to beg you to stay your hand. Their marriage cannot take place: their whole future is finished unless, perchance, you will relent. After all, you have countless millions: what are a few beggarly thousands? Everything to them: nothing to you. That is their reaction: what is yours? Amused contempt. If you did it for them, you’d have to do it for everybody in like position. And do they really imagine that you’ve got nothing better to do than to trot round after a bunch of damned fools, returning them money they ought never to have lost? That all clear? Good: let’s start. You come in through that door, Sir Edward, holding in your hand some document. They are both here, but for a moment or two you do not see them: you are engrossed in what you are reading – something that evidently pleases you. Then some little sound makes you look up, and you realise you are not alone. You frown indignantly: who are these people who have forced their way into your private sitting-room? Then you realise that Lettice is an extraordinarily pretty girl, and the frown disappears: you like pretty girls. You close the door, and standing with your back to it you say, ‘May I ask what you are doing in my private sitting-room?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, you cross to the desk, sit down, and, still looking at Lettice, you say, ‘Well, I am waiting for an answer.’ Let’s try as far as that. You go off, Sir Edward, and try your entrance.”

Haxton stepped off the stage and joined Hardcastle, who, with Penton, was watching in silence.

“All right, Sir Edward, you can begin. Take it slowly: that’s right. Now you’re reading. Register pleasure, Sir Edward – pleasure. My sainted aunt!” he muttered under his breath, “the man looks as if he’d eaten a dead rat. Now look up. Frown: that’s right. Close the door, and turn round. Now you see Lettice is a pretty girl. Yes, you can moderate that a little, Sir Edward: I mean – er – you don’t usually look at pretty girls like that, I’m sure. Now your sentence, sarcastic and coldly polite. Now over to your desk: slowly, Sir Edward, don’t run. Sit down. Second remark, still addressed to Lettice. Thank you: that will do for the moment.”

He turned to Hardcastle, and lowered his voice.

“Well, now we know,” he remarked. “It may be stage fright, which will wear off: let’s hope to Heaven it does. But he moves like a king penguin suffering from an acute attack of locomotorataxy; when he registered pleasure he looked like a deaf mute at a funeral who had fallen into the grave instead of the corpse; and the look he gave Lettice would have turned the butter rancid.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Hardcastle. “It can’t be helped. Thank God! we’ve got the understudy. Shoot the scenes as quickly as you can, and don’t let him see what you think.”

“All right, old boy,” answered the other. “But if one of the cameramen falls off the ladders from laughing and breaks his neck, don’t blame me.”

“But, Laura, my angel, he’s simply dreadful,” said Algy Longworth, as the scene proceeded. “Come with me into some remote corner, and make love to me: I need bucking up.”

“He’s pretty grim, Algy, isn’t he? Still, I suppose, as he’s paying for it, it’s his worry if he wastes everybody’s time and his own money.”

“Do you really suppose it’s being wasted?”

They both swung round: standing just behind them was a youngish man. He was smiling cynically, and they recognised him as one of the office staff, by the name of Tredgold.

“Well, the scenes will all have to be retaken,” said the girl.

“My dear Miss Mainwaring,” he replied, “that’s no answer to my question. I don’t mind telling you that there’s something deuced fishy going on here.”

“What do you mean?” cried Longworth quickly.

“There aren’t many flies on yours truly,” remarked the other. “I’ve been mixed up in this business for a good few years, and I tell you there’s the hell of a lot more in this affair than meets the eye.”

“What exactly are you driving at?”

“Never you mind,” said Tredgold, with a knowing grin. “I’m keeping my eyes open, and if I don’t find out something soon, my name ain’t Henry Tredgold.”

“Well, I haven’t seen anything,” remarked Longworth.

“Nor have I – yet,” said the other. “But you’re not in the office, and I am. And though I haven’t seen, I’ve heard. And you can take it from me this isn’t a
bona-fide
film studio. At least, it’s a film studio all right, but it’s not only that. Don’t say I said so, and keep it to yourself. But if I don’t spot what it is in the next two or three days I’ll eat my hat.”

“Now what the dickens is that bird getting at?” said Longworth, as the other moved off.

“If he’s right, Algy, it seems to show that your friend Captain Drummond is not mistaken after all,” answered the girl.

He lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

“That’s so,” he agreed. “But the only thing that beats me is what particular form of fun and laughter they can be up to. They might soak that man Greatorex in for a few odd thousands over expenses, but it seems a very elaborate scheme for such a small result, especially as I should think he’s the type of man that it’s mighty difficult to swindle.”

And at that moment their friend the stage-hand came up again.

“More planks,” he said. “Gaw lumme, Miss, ’ave you ever seen hanything to equal that there bloke? Why, I’d do it better myself.”

A sentiment which, as the morning proceeded, was cordially shared by everyone in the studio. There was no question of stage fright about it: the man could not act to save his life; he could not even walk naturally across the stage and sit down; he couldn’t make the most ordinary movement or remark without appearing self-conscious. In short, he completely wrecked every scene he came on in. And when he returned to London after lunch – it having been decided, for his benefit, not to take any scenes in the afternoon – a council of war was immediately held.

“It’s out of the question,” said Haxton firmly, “to use one foot of what was taken this morning. It is absolutely useless – the whole lot of it. I quite understand that we’ve got to keep up the pretence in front of him, and that we’ll have to waste every morning the same as we’ve done this. But in the afternoons we must shoot the morning scenes over again with the understudy. Where is he?”