Читать книгу The Death of a Celebrity - Footner Hulbert - Страница 4

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Emmett Gundy, the novelist, and his friend, Louella Kip, were on their way to Gavin Dordress’ apartment in a taxicab. Emmett was bundled up in a blue rumble-seat coat belted around the waist, the only one of that color in New York, he claimed. With the collar turned up and his hat brim snapped down in front, all that could be seen of him were his glittering dark eyes, and small, carefully trained mustache. Louella was one of the army of free-lance writers who somehow manage to scrape a living without ever becoming known to the public. A little faded woman with a harassed expression, she looked twenty years older than Emmett, but they were in fact the same age. Emmett looked her over critically.

“That dress has seen better days,” he remarked.

“Well, you know the state of my wardrobe,” said Louella philosophically. “It’s the best I have. Mr. Dordress is a friendly man. He won’t care.”

“There will be others present.”

“If you are ashamed of my appearance you shouldn’t have brought me,” said Louella, plucking up spirit.

“Gavin invited you. I merely conveyed the invitation.”

“Were you hoping I would decline?” she asked quietly.

He did not answer her. “Gavin will be friendly enough if you flatter him,” he said bitterly. “He doesn’t care who it comes from.”

“He doesn’t need flattery,” said Louella. “He’s at the top of his profession.”

“You would say that. Just to be disagreeable. You mean that he makes more money than any other playwright of the day. Money isn’t everything. As a matter of fact, Gavin Dordress hasn’t a spark of original talent. What he has is a talent for publicity. He understands the politics of the theater. He knows what wires to pull. It is Gail Garrett and Mack Townley who have made him.”

“Everybody else says that it was Gavin Dordress who made them.”

“Oh, I dare say! Nothing succeeds like success. He’s got you going like all the other women. Gavin has made his way step by step through using women. A male charmer, that’s what he is.”

“How can you say such a thing?” she murmured.

“But he can’t fool me,” Emmett went on. “I’ve known him too long. I’ve known him since he was a half-baked frosh in college.”

“You were a freshman, too, then.”

“Sure; but I made good. I was famous before I graduated from college. My first book sold forty thousand copies. It was four or five years after that before Gavin even got a production. His first play was a complete flop.”

“I hate to hear you talk about him like that,” murmured Louella. “Your oldest friend!”

“Sure he’s my friend. So what?”

“It sounds as if you hated him.”

“Don’t be silly. I see him as he is, that’s all. He can’t pull any wool over my eyes.” Emmett laughed bitterly. “I’ve got to hand it to Gavin for his cleverness. I only wish I could get away with it. It doesn’t pay to be sincere. Tripe is what they want, and tripe is what they pay for!”

This started Louella’s thoughts in a new direction. “What did Middlebrook say about your novel?” she asked.

“He was keen to publish it,” said Emmett, “but I told him to go to hell.”

“Why?” she asked blankly.

“Because he suggested certain changes that showed he completely misunderstood it. I took the script and walked out.”

“Oh, Emmett!”

“Well, do you expect me to prostitute myself to an ignorant fool like Middlebrook? He’s a butcher, not a publisher. He buys and sells novels by the pound—like the tripe they are!”

“What will you do?” she murmured. “What will we both do?”

“Have you been turned down, too?” he asked sharply. “Your articles for the Metropolitan?”

“No,” she said sadly. “I give them what they want. I have no talent, so it doesn’t matter. But they have reduced my rate. There are so many younger writers in the field.”

“Middlebrook is not the only publisher,” growled Emmett.

“But the novel has been turned down so many times!”

“Gavin could help me if he wanted to,” said Emmett sorely. “With a recommendation from him any publisher would bring it out.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Sure! He’s read the script.”

“What did he say?”

“He intimated that he didn’t think much of it. Oh, very delicately, of course. Suggested that I try something else. Pure professional jealousy. He is enough of a writing-man to recognize real talent when he sees it. You can hardly blame him. Said that novels were a bit out of his line, and offered me a hundred to tide me over.”

“Another hundred?”

“Well, why not? What’s a lousy hundred to Gavin? He makes a hundred thousand a year.”

“But it mounts up so. How will you ever pay him back?”

“That’s the least of my troubles.”

“Emmett,” she said earnestly, “let’s start in on your script tomorrow and go over it chapter by chapter ...”

“So you think I can no longer write,” he said harshly. “You, too!”

“No, Emmett, no! I believe in you. I shall always believe in you.”

“You think you can teach me how to write!”

“No! I have no talent. I have never had any illusions about that. But I’ve been through a hard school. I know what the public wants. At least I know what they say the public wants. If we could just fix this novel up so you could get an advance on it, you could bring it out under another name if you were ashamed of it.”

“That would be artistic suicide.”

“But you must live! Gavin Dordress will get tired of lending you money. It’s only human nature.”

“Is that a way of saying that you’re getting tired of helping me out?”

Louella lowered her head. “Emmett, how can you say such things to me? After all these years!”

“For God’s sake, don’t turn on the waterworks,” he said irritably, “or you will look a sight when we get there.” He lit a cigarette.

Louella dried her eyes. After a moment or two she returned to the charge. “You see, if you could somehow wangle an advance on this novel, it would give you the time to write something really fine; something they would have to take.”

“I have never allowed anybody to tell me what I ought to write,” he said harshly, “and certainly I’m not going to begin now. Please change the subject.”

“If there could only be some understanding between us these troubles would be easy to bear,” she murmured. “What would we care if ... if ...”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t get emotional!” he said. “We’re almost there!”

After a silence Louella said, very low: “I suppose you look on me as a drag on you now. If I were strong enough I ought to leave you.”

“So you’re talking about deserting me now,” he said. “I thought we were leading up to that.”

She put her hand over his briefly. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll never leave you ... unless you wish me to.”

The car stopped. “Press photographers?” she said uneasily.

Emmett turned down the collar of his coat. “Gavin Dordress doesn’t often entertain,” he said. “Naturally it has news value.”

“How did they know about it?”

“Well, I tipped them off, if you must know. Won’t do me any harm to be shot as a guest of the great man.... You go in first. It’s me they want.”

The photographers glanced indifferently at Miss Kip and Mr. Gundy. Louella disappeared within the apartment house, while Emmett lingered on the step as if he wanted a last puff or two at his cigarette.

“Well, boys,” he said pleasantly. “Always on the job!”

“Are you a friend of Gavin Dordress’?” asked one.

“The oldest friend he’s got,” said Emmett with a careless air. “So what?”

They focused their cameras, and set off the flashes while Emmett nonchalantly flipped the ash from his cigarette.

“What name?” asked the young photographer who had first spoken.

“Emmett Gundy. Emmett with two t’s, please.”

“What’s your line, brother?” asked another photographer.

Emmett looked at him coldly. “Novelist,” he said. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

He went on into the apartment house and the four young men grinned at each other. The one whom Emmett had rebuked asked, “Is this guy Gundy such a muchness?”

“Nah,” said another. “I seem to remember that he wrote a novel of college life way back before the war. That was before I was breeched.”

“It’s always the way with these has-beens.”