The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb, page 19
“The only news you brought me is about a script Rudell has written in which I won’t be, and therefore the script won’t ever be written since Rudell has told you that if I don’t play in it, he won’t wri—”
“Von’t—be in it!” echoed Izzy, the words just dawning on him. “But goot Gott—vy not?—alvays you are by me hollaring—make Rudell, you hollar, write me a script—any gottdam script—unt alvays hass he refused because he haf too much money—unt here he comes forvard mitoud being asked, unt lays dot script on my lap—on your very knee—unt den you say, midout eefen seeing it elaborated, you are not inderested nor bleased.”
“So I fervently echo once more—and let’s drop the subject.”
“Bot—bot iss dot you are mad dot Rudell dry to make big sdory in only two hun’ert nit fifty vorts? I haf alvays sait, Clarke, dot two hun’ert unt fifty vorts uf a cheenius—”
“Genius was the word I always used,” said the other caustically. “Not ‘cheenius.’ For, of course, you’re grabbing my own famous dictum: that 250 words from a genius has more box-office value than 25,000 words from a hack. Which is 100 per cent true. And Rudell, to boot, is a genius. And so everything is conceded Q.E.D.”
“Q? E? Ah—” And now Izzy was nodding his head sagaciously.
“Ah,” he repeated, “I now see! Vot a fool I vass. ’Tis der ending? You don’t like der self-sacrifice—unt sending a willain out to be willain some more—you dink your fans vill belief dot sacrifice vas chust silly unt useless! All right!—ve fix dot—unt how!—after a soul sdruggle, you kill him deat. You—”
“Now hold it! How can I kill him dead when I won’t be in it to kill him dead, and, not being in it, there won’t be any play for anybody to kill anybody dea—”
“Aha!” said Izzy, light at last really dawning on him. ‘You vant, for change from chee-man, to be der willain?—goat!—you vill be Al Hart—ve vill get efery dedail of his life for you from der cradle to der grafe—unt ve vow ’em out of der seats mid a new character bortrayal—”
“For God’s sake, man, do you always imitate a mountain torrent? I said I wouldn’t be in it—and that there’ll be no play for your historical department to look up Hard Al’s life from the cradle to the gra—”
“Now vait—vait! I am nonblussed. Vill you, for Gott’s sake, dell me exactly vy you won’t blay in it?”
“Gladly. Me no like! You catchee? Me no like!”
“Ach Gott, Clarke, since ven vass dot a reason? Efery production you haf efer been in you have said ‘me no like’—yet you dit consent to blay. Unt dit blay. Tvice you’ve played chee-men—” Taylor winced again “—unt—vell, wasn’t Chee-man—unt For Uncle Sam—your greatest soccesses?”
“Yes. But this won’t go down on record as No. 3.”
“Iss,” asked Izzy plaintively, “you dink dot ve rely too much on using dot cheap islant—unt spendink no money? Unt getting virtually a B-picture? I assure you ve vill haf inderiors, unt sets, dot vill mage it a half-million-dollar super-A production.”
“I don’t doubt that,” returned Clarke Taylor. “God knows you never skimp on making pictures. They don’t call you Super-Izzy for nothing! But the point remains that I won’t be wandering in and out of the prop doors of those super-interiors—so why build ’em?”
“I am crestfallenish,” said Izzy Wilnatsch helplessly. “But, not discouraged.”
“Well, you’d better be,” warned the great man coldly.
“But I’m not,” proclaimed Izzy. “For Izzy Wilnatsch nefer says die. Now I get down to brass hardtacks! Ven Rudell, Clarke, vants to do me a script, I—I don’t get demperamental. Clarke, mein poy, you got demperament today—no, no, quite all right, my poy—I realize dot it iss der sbark uf demperament vot makes a acdor—but now I’m going to make it much vort your vile to blay in dis biece. Clarke, der ain’d nodding in your gondract dot say ve can’t pay you a bonus for such and such a bicture—unt so, because diss vun is by Rudell, I celybrate—unt dell you you catch $50,000 bonus for blaying in it.”
“Oh, hell with the $50,000 bonus. I’m in the upper income brackets now where I’d only have to pony over half of it to Uncle Sam.”
“Bot goot Gott, man, ain’d half of fifty dousand dollars dwendy-five dous—but skip it. Now I blay der ace! Der ace of hearts—not to make a pun on dot man Hart. For I’m sbeakink now uf der dender bassion. Luf! Clake, vot you say eef I dell you dot today I took ofer der condract, from Modernistic Fillums, uf Myra Donaire, whoom you luf so bad like nobody ever luffed nobody—oh, yes you do, Clarke, eferypody knows dot—unt I know it efen by more means—I efen know dot because of dot quarrel she von’t see you—von’t read no letters from you—von’t led you get into a mile uff her. Vell, Clarke, catch a load of diss: I am ready to put Myra into diss Bleeker Islant floot unt Al Hart bicture as der feminine lead—to blay your lady luf—vedder you are cheeman, or vedder you decide to blay a romanticized Hart. Unt dink, Clarke, Myra’s lips vill half to resd against yours—her cheek vill haf to lay against yours—your vords will drickle into her shell-like ears—unt, now unt den, mit only de sboiling of a few feet of cellyloid, can you drickle a few dender vorts of your own, delling her how you lufe her unt vant her. Mein Gott, Clarke, don’d you realize—by der end of der blay, iff not der rehearsals, she vill be yours vunce more as she vunce vass?”
Clarke Taylor’s face grew strained with a great struggle. His Adam’s apple went up and down in his throat. He sighed audibly. “No—no can play,” he said gruffly, “in said pic. Because me no li—” He broke off, as one realizing that objection sounded spurious. “No can do,” he said stubbornly and sepulchrally.
“Mein Gott,” said Izzy. “In all mein life vass I nefer confronded mid like siduation. Here, I gif you Rudell—voom you vant; I gif you Super-A picture; I gif you bonus; I gif you choice of two endings—choice of two barts; I gif you redurn of luv of voman you luf so gottam bad you dittn’t even bodder to deny it—I gif you—vott in hell,” he half screamed, “can I gif you—dot you say ‘I play in dot piece’? Vott?”
“You can’t give me anything,” grunted Clarke Taylor. “And for the last time—and the last, so help me God—I’m telling you I won’t play in this Bleeker’s Island plus flood plus bankrobber plus G-man plus whatnot picture.”
“Then iss off,” said Izzy with dignity. “For Rudell says bositifly dot iss you or—”
A sharp rap came on the dressing-room door. And the high voice of a young callboy could be heard saying:
“They’re ready to shoot the scene, Mr. Taylor—your stand-in is standing in now.”
“Sorry, Izzy,” said Taylor, jumping up, “but I got to go now.” And, accompanied by his make-up man, he departed from his dressing-room, and, about two seconds later, Izzy saw them both going past the narrow window which looked out on the narrow passageway which led to that door.
Izzy dropped wearily down on the chair whose seat was still warm from the impress of the rump of America’s No. 1 Screen Lover and Hero. And wearily raised the cradle phone which stood there.
“Gif me der hysterical—historical,” he corrected himself, “department.”
And, about five seconds later, was ordering:
“Cut der assignment to get Al Hart’s endire life for a Rudell screen-story. For der ain’d going to be no Rudell screen-sto—what?—Rudell’s in there now?—put him on—yes—” About four seconds’ pause. “Hello?—Rudell?—Rudell, he says no—yes, he says no—mitt a loud accent an der ‘no’—yes, he says he von’t blay in it, unt—”
“O-kay,” said Risdon Rudell. “My burst of inspiration is now completely off. And I couldn’t do the story now for 12 Clarke Taylors. In fact, I’m free now to go into hibernation for another year—though between you and me, Izzy, I think I’ll just take my yacht and run down to the South Seas with a new blonde secretary I’ve got—so no hard feelings from this lad. But listen—you didn’t tell me just what was Taylor’s reason for refusing to play in? Was it money? Or what?”
“Gott no—not money. Nor you—for he dinks you are a cheenius. Fact is, I offered him a bonus—a choice of two endings und two barts—a big production—unt, had but not leasd, I offered to put Myra Donaire into the prod—”
“For God’s sake! He’s nuts about her. He could have won her back, working at close range like that. He—well, what in hell’s-bells was the damfool’s reason for saying nix?”
“Eef I knew,” wailed Izzy Wilnatsch, head of Super Films, “I voot go into der mysdery-nofel wriding business—unt be a huge success. Insdead of hafing to manage a gottam enigma of a acdor who—goot Gott!—comes der great man back, Rudell—der camera must half go blink—der—der door iss openink—yes, yes, yes, Mrs. Brown, der cosdumes for dot musical Ropin Hood are green—but dey most be uf Lincoln Green—Lincoln—L for Elephant—I for Eyeball—N for Ennat’ing—”
CHAPTER XX
PETITION TO THE COURT
As the Sheriff, on bleak Bleeker’s Island, came to the end of his conclusive “May God have mercy on your soul,” the man in the tight-fitting clothing and yellow derby winced, as though kicked squarely in the face. And quick reply poured forth from him.
“But wait! Wait! You—you haven’t even heard how I happen to be on this isl—”
“Haven’t, heh? You said you was on yo’re way to Hollywood, and—”
“Oh, I don’t mean that desperate impromptu explanation that I handed you—as I stood with your gun poked in my stomach. I mean the truth.”
“The truth?” The Sheriff regarded him helplessly, “Then at least you admit yo’re name ain’t Montmorency van Harringdale, heh?”
“Of course. I got that name out of a book I read recently—’twas the first name that sprung to my lips this morning.”
“I suppose,” said the Sheriff sardonically, “that the book was one of the many books you undoubt’ly et up whilst you was living in that damned woman crook’s attic, heh?”
“No.”
“And I suppose—now that the showdown’s here—you ain’t from Boston, nuther!”
“Of course not! That also slipped from my lips this morning—before I had time to think. In fact, Boston was the city where the character in the book I read was from. I’ve never been within 500 miles of the city myself.”
“And what,” asked the Sheriff, frankly curious, “ef I had questioned you ’bout Boston and all its p’ints?”
The man in the tight-fitting suit gave the veriest shadow of a mirthless laugh. “You couldn’t have. ’Twas easy to see that you’d never been east of Big River in all your life.”
The Sheriff bristled up. “Jest a small-town hick, heh? Well, jest what do you now claim yo’re name is, heh?”
The other made a curious gesture with his hands.
“You wouldn’t accept it—without proof—if I gave it?”
“Yo’re damned tootin’,” agreed the Sheriff emphatically. He sized the other up irately. “Well, you can save all yo’re fake names—and keep ’em to yo’rese’f. I ain’t forgot for a minute, my fine bucko, Mr. Al Hart, how once before in yo’re career you bleached yo’re hair—like it is now!—an’ wore tight-fittin’ clothes like as you are now—and successfully pretended to be a kentryman and all that—and then shot somebody plumb through the guts! Which, however, you’ll not be doing this time—sence I’m totin’ the bullets t’day. No, Hart, I ain’t fo-got one word o’ what that broadcaster told us. And that coschume yo’re wearing tallies just about to the last detail with one of the get-ups we heerd Hart once assumed. Fact is, I know jest what happened today. When you seed you was cotched by a man who was a small-town man hisse’f, you didn’t dare pose as a hick. And so you done some fast thinking—and explained away your coschume with that Boston stuff. But the p’int is, yo’re clad in a coschume like Hart once used—you admit yo’re story is a lie—and that the name you give was phoney—and last, but fur from least, yo’re the on’y man who ain’t proved hisse’f—”
“Wait! Don’t facts prove anything?”
“Facts? Why, shore, facts prove things. But you ain’t—”
“All right. Then let me at least give the facts. Of how I happen to be here. For—”
“That might entertain you, Hart, on the eve of yo’re legal ex’cution by Mother Nature, but I ain’t in the mood, see, to go trailing you all over the solar system listenin’ to a lot o’ loose-connected phoney facts jest designed to delay th’ distributin’ o’ them belts so’s you—”
“But wait! My facts aren’t loosely connected facts. And besides—they’re not laid all over the solar system. They’re all laid in one spot.”
“They are, heh? And whar’ might that spot be?”
The eyes of the other man rested, for a full quarter of a minute, cryptically, troubledly on the Sheriff’s face. And at last he made reply. “The spot,” he said quietly, “happens to be—the city of Chicago!”
CHAPTER XXI
GAUNTLET TO THE SHERIFF
The Sheriff’s mouth fell open.
“The city of Chy—” he essayed to say. “In Chy—” he again essayed. And again ceased midword. “By God, Hart,” he bit out, “you ain’t jest the demon poker-player that that Calyforny warden told that broadcaster you was—yo’re th’ sperrit of all the gamblers that run this river in Civil War days come back to ’arth in the body of a crim’nal. Fur in the face o’ what that broadcaster told us all about Al Hart, Esquire, on’y Al Hart hisse’f would ever play Al Hart’s own special kyards to prove hisse’f not Hart! Hart, you have, in one sense, my admiration!” And admiration there was, at the second, in the Sheriff’s voice.
“How can I help it,” said the other, “if my facts are laid in Chicago?”
“Oh,” said the Sheriff sardonically, “you cain’t he’p it. Fact is, you couldn’t he’p them not being!—for offering to lay some alleeged ‘facts’ in Chycago was the greatest poker-playin’ bluff ever pulled in the history of this river! But the best o’ bluffs sometimes falls flat. Beca’se it’s too slick—too bold—too owdacious! And this is one o’ them cases. And we even cain’t go on with the game no longer. In view of the fact that yo’re down on the reco’ds as one of the most amazing pathical liars—and juggler of so-called facts laid in that town of Chycago—as ever was spawned. And the reason that the game cain’t go on no fu’ther is—” But he broke off and turned, halfway, anyway, to the man with the dollar-studded sombrero. “Montesquez, you ever b’en in Chy-cago?”
“No—never woz.”
He turned to the man across from him.
“You, Blake?”
“Never,” the other returned.
“Well, the same goes fur me,” grunted the Sheriff. “And so—sence there happens—” He returned his gaze to the man in the rustic habiliments. “—sence there happens to be no Chygagoan on this island to check no pipe dreams thereof, we’ll—”
“But wait—Sheriff,” expostulated the object of the Sheriff’s sour gaze. “Aren’t you discerning enough to know a pathological lie—or any kind of a lie!—if you hear one?”
The Sheriff scratched his head.
His own opinion—which he didn’t quite know whether or not to set forth here openly—was that he could quickly spot an ordinary kind of a lie, but that the kind of a lie which had been set forth and openly discussed on that Eclat Club microphone was something which would be beyond his analytical powers.
He decided, however, a second later, that he did not need to cover his potential weaknesses in front of a man who had just admitted to being an impostor.
“Well,” the Sheriff said, “that brain speci’list, ’r mind specialist, or whatever he was, who spoke in that lunch club, said ’twasn’t poss’ble fur even a expert on a subjec’ to pierce a pathical lie; an’—”
“But he said,” persisted the other, “that any ordinary person—a layman—could.”
“Shore—shore—shore! By the fact that sich a lie would have too much—too much—what was that word—‘color’—that was the word!—and an’body knows what he meant by that: he meant cunning tetches like—like puttin’ a black mustache and beard on ev’ry Frenchman and makin’ him say wee-wee, and—but the p’int is that now, Hart, that there has been publycized on Bleeker’s Island suttin’ little weaknesses in yo’re mendic’ncy, you’ll—”
“My—mendicancy? I’m no begg—oh, you mean my mendacity?”
The Sheriff’s lips closed into a tight hurt line. He made no retort.
“—now that suttin little weaknesses,” he corrected his last statement coldly, “in yo’re goddanged lying has b’en publycyzed on this island, you’ll jest pull yo’re punches, and—”
“If I were Al Hart, I’d be too much of an—an artist—to pull my punches, and—”
“That’s a neat kyard,” said the Sheriff, sarcastically. ‘That deuce you jest played!”
“I grasp what you mean,” replied the other. “But the point is, again, that I’ve said I would give facts to prove myself legitimate—and if they’ve got the color of Chicago in them I can’t help it.”
The Sheriff put up one hand to his brow.
“I’ God, a man who can pretend to be holdin’ four aces like you—when he’s got a bobtail straight—he prob’ly w’ud, a’right. He—”
“But when you hear my facts, you’ll know that they must have happened; that never could I have invent—”
“Now wait,” said the Sheriff. “And I’ll tell one! And this ’un will be true.” He paused and raised a warning finger. “While I ain’t never been in Chycago myse’f, I happen to have a half-brother who lives there.” And the Sheriff wasn’t bluffing at all, either. He did have such, and the half-brother had lived there for 20 long years! “And,” the Sheriff went on, “I have heerd enough leetle details—inconsequenc’al details, mebbe—but details, jest the same!—about that famous town—as ’tis right today—in my half-brother’s letters to me—that, ef you dish out any ‘facts’ to me, and you slip by so much as—as one little hair on an’thing that I puss’enly know about—then yo’ve jest hung yo’re death-noose on yo’re own head yo’rese’f. So—do you still want to waste good prayin’ time trying to aliby yo’rese’f out of this jam—by laying so-called facts in that town—of all towns?”
