“She was a bookkeeper in an importing house,” he interrupted.
“All right,” I said, “she was a bookkeeper. She had great beauty but no one recognized it. She was doing humdrum daily tasks, and then she heard of a contest for the queen of the National Hardware Association. Timidly she typed out an application. She found out it would be necessary to appear in a bathing suit. She hesitated for a while, and then decided to go ahead with it. She—”
“You said she timidly typed out an application?” he interrupted.
“That’s right.”
“Not that babe,” he told me. “As I remember it, she was the one who suspected one of the other girls had padding in her bathing suit and suggested that the judging should be done in such a manner that the judges would be satisfied no artificial aids to beauty were being used... My secretary can tell you a lot more about her. I don’t remember too much of the details. It was just another contest, and, frankly, we get damn good and tired of them.”
“I know,” I said, “but think of the follow-up — that’s what I’m coming to. She won. The elation, the—”
“The cash,” he said dryly.
“All right, the cash. And all the notoriety, the publicity, the chance to go to Hollywood. I suppose you provided for some sort of a screen test?”
“Oh, sure,” he said, “that’s what makes the thing attractive to the public. There s a photograph over there on the other wall showing me handing her the thousand-dollar check, the contract for a screen test, the television appearance as Miss American Hardware on a national hookup... it’s all part of a routine build-up these days. The newspapers will give you space on it — if they’re hard up for news.”
I walked over to the other side of the room and looked at the photograph of Jasper Diggs Calhoun trying not to look bored and the winner looking up at him with soulful eyes. She’d taken a full breath and pushed her chest out and her stomach in. The bathing suit fitted her like the skin on a. sausage. Down underneath was a caption: “Evelyn Ellis acclaimed Queen of American Hardware Wholesalers’ Convention.”
“You’re not in hardware?” I asked Calhoun.
He shook his head. “I’m in public relations.”
“I should think that the presentation would have been made by one of the officials of the Hardware Association.”
“That shows all you know about it,” he said. “Those birds are married. Their wives don’t like to have them photographed in public with bathing cuties.”
“Aren’t you married?”
“Sure, but that’s my business. My wife understands. I can show you a thousand photographs taken of me and cheesecake.”
“Then the hardware executives keep themselves aloof from the queen?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “They’re not photographed with her in public, but they brush up against her, they let their hands slide along the curves of the bathing suit. Some of them are always patting her on the fanny and telling her to be a good girl. What the hell! That’s part of the game. That’s what she got the thousand bucks for; that, and the opportunity to show off.”
“Well,” I said, “she could be great material. Think of what happened afterward — I suppose she attracted a lot of attention on television?”
“My God, but you’re naive,” Calhoun said.
“Well, what did happen?” I asked.
Calhoun said, “You’re taking up a lot of my time. Do I get anything out of this, Lam?”
“Sure you do,” I said. “If I can make a story out of this I’ll write it from the angle of the public relations expert. All this cheesecake thrills the public, but with us it’s a dime a dozen and—”
“Now, wait a minute,” he interrupted hastily. “Don’t pull that line. That disillusions the public. In public relations we don’t want the public disillusioned. Now, you just back up and begin all over. You sketch me as the enthusiastic guy who likes to see these girls make good, who has an eye for beauty — professionally, of course. I can see a girl as a bookkeeper or as a waitress or an usherette or something of that sort and tell right away if she’s got what it takes. I am as thrilled as the public is with the romantic opportunities for discovery and advancement. They’re Cinderellas. I’m a fairy godmother. I wave the wand of publicity and, presto, they’re made. That’s the kind of publicity I want.”
“I see your point,” I said. “Where is this woman now? What’s her name?”
“It’s on the caption there,” he said. “Evelyn something. I remember I had to make the check over because she spelled it with a y.”
“Evelyn Ellis,” I said, reading from the photograph. “Where is she now?”
“How would I know? The last I saw of her personally was when I gave her this check.”
“May I ask your secretary? Would she have the address?”
“Oh, I’ll dig it out for you. I’ll find it.”
He opened his desk, rummaged around among some cards, then opened another drawer, looked in some books, finally went to still a third drawer and pulled out a notebook.
“Evelyn Ellis,” he said, “at the time of her last television appearance was living at the Breeze-Mount Hotel.”
“I take it that after the Hardware Convention you dropped this bit of cheesecake and started thinking up other publicity stunts.”
That got a sparkle of response. “You’ve said it, Lam. We have to keep coming up with new ideas like this and this and this...”
He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers every time he said “this.”
I nodded. “I might be able to make quite a story out of that.”
“Would it do me any good?”
“Would it do you any harm?” I asked.
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
“Publicity,” I said, “is always good.”
“Well, this sort of publicity might not be too good — particularly if she isn’t happy or prosperous or... you know how it is with a girl of that sort. She expects to crash Hollywood just because she has a good figure and has won a contest. The woods are full of those girls. Usually they can’t stand the disappointment. After they’ve had the glamour and the adulation it’s difficult for them to settle down to routine work.”
“How about looking her up and letting me know where she is now?”
He said, “I’ll have to think this one over. Give me a ring tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that,” I promised. “Perhaps we can help each other.”
We shook hands again.
I went out and the automatic door-closing device clicked the door shut behind me.
I turned to the secretary, looked her over and said, “How in the world does it happen they don’t use you?”
“For what?” she asked.
“For Miss American Hardware at the convention of the National Hardware Association,” I said. “Good heavens, how did they pick Evelyn Ellis when you were around?”
She lowered her eyelids. “Mr. Calhoun never uses the personnel in the office.”
I looked her over again appraisingly. She registered becoming modesty under my glance.
“Where’s Evelyn Ellis now?” I asked casually.
She made a little gesture. “For a while she was on Cloud Seven, ringing up and wanting help getting bookings as a model, wanting us to help her crash the movies. She had a few television appearances and she thought she was the belle of the ball. She quit her job, couldn’t get up until one or two o’clock in the afternoon, spent a couple of hours a day in the beauty parlors.”
I nodded sympathetically. “I know the type.”