“What did he want?”
“It was pathetic,” she said. “He wanted me to do a certain type of play which he said would be of great benefit to many people. He was so earnest that I couldn’t refuse to give him an audience. He said that he’d been one of my ardent admirers ever since I’d appeared on the screen. He’d seen me in every part I played.”
“Go on,” Selby said.
“He had a script which he’d written. He said that he’d been intending to come to Hollywood to present it to me personally.”
“Do you remember the title of this script?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“It was titled, Lest Ye Be Judged.”
“Did you read it?”
“I glanced through it.”
“Thoroughly?”
“No, just casually.”
“Why didn’t you read it thoroughly?”
“In the first place, I knew that it would be no use. In the second place, I could tell from almost the first glance that it was hopeless.”
“Why was it hopeless?”
“The way it was written, the theme of it, everything about it.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“In the first place, it was propaganda. It wasn’t a play, it was a sermon. People go to churches to hear sermons; they go to theaters to be amused.”
“Did he want to sell you this?”
“No, he wanted to give it to me... Well, I don’t know whether he would have put a price on it or not... You see, the conversation didn’t get that far. He told me that he had consecrated his life to the service of humanity and he thought that this was a duty I owed to my fellow beings. The conversation was all on that plane, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” Selby told her, “I know what you mean.”
“Well, he showed me this script and asked me if I wouldn’t take it and use it as my vehicle.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I explained to him that I was under contract to the studio; that I had absolutely nothing to say about plays; that the studio selected such plays as they thought would make good vehicles for me. They did that through a purchasing department which specialized upon that very thing. They didn’t allow me to even make suggestions, except minor suggestions at conferences where the continuity was being worked out.”
“Then what happened?”
“He tried to argue with me for a little while but he soon realized that I was telling him the truth, that I had absolutely no power to select the plays in which I was to appear, that a recommendation from me would be virtually valueless.”
“And what did you tell him to do?”
“I told him he would have to submit it to the Hollywood office.”
“Did you tell him you thought the Hollywood office would turn thumbs down on it?”
“No. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He was so earnest, so wrapped up in his play, it was really pathetic.”
The face of the actress showed an expression of sympathy, her voice was vibrant, with emotion.
Staring at her, Selby was gripped by conflicting emotions. He knew, on the one hand, that she was a skillful actress, fully capable of portraying any emotion she chose; on the other hand, he realized that it would be exceedingly difficult for anyone who was fabricating what had happened at that interview to simulate such an emotion. Her manner radiated complete sincerity and that warm, rich sympathy which a broad-minded woman of the world would have held for the pathetic little parson who had brought his hopeless scenario to her.
Moreover, everything she had said tallied with the facts as Selby knew them. He hesitated a moment, then said, “That’s a very beautiful purse you have, Miss Arden.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” she exclaimed at once. “It was given to me by the director who handled my last picture. I’m proud of it.”
“Do you mind if I look at it?”
“Not at all.”
She handed it over to Selby, who studied it, apparently lost in admiration for its beauty.
“How does it open?” he asked.
“This catch,” she said, “on top.” She snapped open the catch.
Selby peered inside, saw a roll of bills, lipstick, coin purse, handkerchief and compact.
“If you don’t consider I’m taking too much of a liberty,” he said, and before she could stop him, pulled out the handkerchief. He could hear her gasp as he raised the handkerchief to his nostrils.
Selby couldn’t tell the brand of perfume, but he did have a sufficiently discriminating sense of smell to know that this perfume was entirely different from that which had scented the five one-thousand-dollar bills which had been found in the envelope the dead man had left in the hotel office.
“What’s the matter?” she asked with cold enmity. “Were you looking for something?”
“I was,” he told her, “interested in perfumes. I think that perfumes are indicative of personality.”
“I’m so glad you feel free to be perfectly informal,” she said sarcastically.
There was an awkward silence as he restored the handkerchief to her purse and handed it back to her.
“Was there,” she asked at length, “anything else I could tell you about the man?”
“I don’t know. Is there?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Did he tell you where he was from?”
“Some little town in the northern part of the state, I think, but. I can’t remember that.”
Selby stiffened to attention and said, “You mean in Nevada?”
She raised her eyebrows, then shook her head and said quite definitely, “No, it wasn’t in Nevada, I’m certain of that. Some little town in California.”
“And you can’t remember the name of the place?”
“No, it was in northern California somewhere, a Riverdale, or something like that.”
“Riverview?” he asked.
She shook her head and said, “No, that wasn’t it, but there was a river in it, I think.”
“Your memory seems to be rather faulty, doesn’t it?”
Her laugh was throaty and musical. “The first time a fan stopped me to tell me how much he enjoyed my acting and asked for my autograph, I could tell you everything about him, what he had on, what he looked like, where he came from and all about him.
“Gradually I came to accept it as a part of the profession and now... Well, I won’t say that I’m bored, because one is never bored by expressions of appreciation from the public, but put yourself in my position. I’m called on to use every ounce of my energy in keeping fit, in acting, in being spontaneous and vivacious whenever I’m seen in public. I have to remember literally hundreds of newspaper men, cameramen, directors, supervisors, film executives and agents. Then there are quite a few people I meet whom I never expect to see again. They’re like... like telegraph poles whizzing by when you’re traveling on a Pullman train, if you know what I mean.”
“I see,” he said.
“They tell me things about themselves and I smile at them sympathetically and work my eyes; but all the time I’m thinking about my last income tax return, how long I’m apt to be working on this present picture, whether the director is going to listen to what I have to say about the way I should say ‘Farewell’ to my lover in the picture, or whether he’s going to insist on doing it according to some standard which don’t register with me.
“I give the fan my autograph and turn loose my best smile on him. I know I’m never going to see him again and he’s in sort of a daze anyway, dazzled by the mental concept of celebrity which he’s conjured up to wrap around me as an aura.”
Selby watched her narrowly and said, “You have rather a neat trick of turning phrases.”
“Have I?” she asked, smiling dazzlingly. “Oh, thank you so much.”
“I presume now,” he told her grimly, “if I’d only ask for your autograph the interview would be complete, and I could pass out of your life with the mental classification of a human telegraph pole whizzing by your Pullman car.”