The Dream Merchants Part 44

The light in Marian Andrews's room was still on when the sun began to rise over the horizon. She sat in front of her typewriter. A cigarette lay burning in a tray next to it. There was a soft smile on her face.

She was thinking about that young doctor she had met a few weeks ago when she had gone to have her finger lanced. It had become infected and she had gone to see Dr. Gannett. She was surprised that instead of Dr. Gannett this young man had lanced her finger.

She had asked where Dr. Gannett was. He was on vacation, getting a much needed rest, the young man told her. He was pinch-hitting for him until Dr. Gannett returned. He introduced himself.

"Haven't you a practice?" she had asked. He shook his head. He was looking for a place to settle down. Why not here, she had asked. Again he had shaken his head. "I don't like the people," he had said. "Too many hypochondriacs, too few real ailments." He had laughed. Maybe it was better that way.

She had seen him several times after that. For practically no reason at all, either. He had always been very polite and considerate. Never said anything to her that would let her know he knew she really didn't have to see him.

Until that day she had laughingly said that he must think she was as bad a hypochondriac as the rest. Then he had looked at her, his gray eyes suddenly laughing. No, he had said, he didn't think she was.

Then what was it, she asked, feeling more and more foolish. His gray eyes had darkened seriously. "We're in love," he had said.

"Why, that's ridiculous," she had answered.

"Is it?" he had asked, taking her hand. "You're a very powerful woman, Marian," he had said. "Maybe you think you can't fall in love?"

"That's not it," she had insisted.

He had laughed again and let go of her hand. "All right, then," he had said, "you tell me what it is. You won't admit it because I'm one person your power can't help."

She had gone away wondering at what he had said.

She picked up the cigarette and puffed at it. Maybe he was right, maybe they were in love. But he was wrong about one thing. When they were married he would find out she could help him.

She smiled and looked down at the page in her typewriter. She began to type with a sure quick-fingered touch. She didn't look down at the page as her fingers flew across the keys. Quickly the words began to appear on the sheet of paper.

MARIAN ANDREWS'S LETTER FROM THE STARS Sat.u.r.day, Aug. 22, 1925 Dear Reader, I went to Peter Kessler's party last night in honor of the Warren Craigs and it was the most wonderful party. I'll never forget it. Everybody, but everybody, was there....

5.

Carroll Ragin's face was wrinkled with worry as he walked wearily into Johnny's office carrying a bundle of papers in his arms. He stopped in front of the desk and dropped the papers on it. His voice was tired and discouraged. "There they are, Johnny," he said. "Another hundred and twenty of them in the morning mail."

Johnny looked up at him. "More cancellations?" he asked.

Ragin nodded. "Look at them," he told Johnny. "Some of our best accounts are in there."

"Sit down, Carrie," Johnny said. "You look beat."

Ragin dropped into the chair opposite him. "I am beat," he admitted. "I've been on the phone talking to every one of those guys this morning and all I get is the same answer from each. 'Come out of the dark ages,' they say. 'When are you fellers going to make talking pictures? Sound is here to stay.'"

Johnny didn't answer. He picked up a contract and looked at it. Written across the face of it in big red pencil were the words: "Rejected, Sept. 10, 1929." Under it was the name of the exhibitor. Johnny recognized it as one of Magnum's earliest customers.

"You talked to him too?" he asked Ragin, tapping the contract.

"Yeanh," Ragin grunted. "He said the same as the others. He was very sorry but-" He paused, shaking his head unhappily.

Johnny thumbed his way through some of the other contracts. He recognized more names. He looked up at Ragin as he came to another familiar signature. "What did Morris say?" he asked.

Ragin closed his eyes wearily. "He was nicer than most of the others, but it added up to the same thing."

"He was the first exhibitor to play The Bandit, back in '12," Johnny said bitterly.

Ragin opened his eyes and looked at Johnny. "I know," he said, "I even reminded him of it, and he said: 'What do you want me to do? The public wants talkies and every time I book a silent the house is empty like I got a plague sign on the door.'" He laughed angrily. "Everybody wants talking pictures except Peter." He leaned forward, his voice grew vehement. "I tell you, Johnny, you gotta talk Peter into it or I won't give two cents for our chances to stay in business through next year!"

Johnny looked at him sympathetically. He had a right to grow excited and vehement. He was Magnum's domestic sales manager and until this year had an enviable record. Now, no matter how he tried or how hard he worked, he was helpless.

If only Peter had listened to him at that party two years ago. There was talk about sound then, but Peter had laughed at him. "It won't work," he had said. And then when Warner's opened The Jazz Singer later the same year with Jolson singing and talking but one line of dialogue in the whole picture, Peter had declared: "A novelty. It won't last." But Peter had been wrong. The Mammy singer had turned the movie business inside out.

One picture after another came out with singing and talking. Several all-talking pictures had been made and still Peter had clung to his att.i.tude. It was over a month ago that Fox had come out with banner headlines in the trade and even the daily newspapers that he had discontinued the making of silent pictures and henceforth his product would be all in sound. Borden had followed with the same announcement the very next day and the others soon after. It was then that it really began to hurt.

By the end of that week they had received over forty contract cancellations, the following week over one hundred, and now they were coming in at the rate of almost one hundred a day. Johnny calculated swiftly. At that rate, Ragin was right. It wouldn't take long for the nine thousand contracts they had to evaporate.

"All right, Carrie," he said at last. "I'll talk to him again, but I don't know what good it will do. You know Peter, and when he gets an idea in his head-" He left the sentence unfinished meaningfully.

Ragin stood up and looked down at Johnny. "I know him," he said darkly, "and you can tell him if he don't change his mind I'm goin' out and look for another job, because there won't be one here."

"You really think that?" Johnny asked.

"Yeanh," Ragin replied. "I'm not kidding myself even if Peter is." He walked to the door and stopped there. "I'm goin' back to my office and see what the second mail brought in. I'll be there if you want me."

Johnny nodded at him and he left. Johnny began to leaf through the papers on his desk again. At last he put them down. A feeling of dismay began to seep through him as the implications of what was happening crystallized in his mind.

It wasn't a simple matter of getting Peter to change his mind any more; it had become more a matter of whether they could afford the change-over if Peter should change his mind. The time lag between the production of a picture and its appearance in the theater was almost six months and in some cases even longer. There were many reasons. After a picture had finished shooting, it had to be edited and t.i.tled, which took almost three months. Then advertising plans had to be drawn up and prints had to be made and shipped to the different exchanges throughout the country and the world. In addition to these problems there were the problems of the various censorship boards in the different cities and foreign countries. Each had its own regulations and ideas, which often forced the picture to be withdrawn and re-edited, and sometimes some scenes had to be retaken. It was a long and hazardous road with many strange and tortuous turnings that a picture traveled before it appeared in a local movie house.

So the industry began to keep a backlog of pictures on hand. Magnum was no exception. There were sixteen pictures in the cans, completed and awaiting release. There were five pictures in work at the studio.

Johnny's lips tightened as he thought about them. Ordinarily it was a situation that every picture-maker wished he were in: to have enough pictures to guarantee releases over the next six months. There was only one thing the matter with them. They were all silent pictures.

He picked up a pencil and scratched some figures on a piece of paper. Four pictures at about one million dollars apiece. Six pictures at an average of five hundred thousand apiece. Eleven pictures at an average of about eighty thousand apiece. He stared down at the paper. The total came to seven million eight hundred and eighty thousand dollars, not counting anything else, such as shorts, Westerns, and serials. All tied up in silent pictures, which, according to the public's opinion, were not worth paying admissions to see.

Eight million dollars' worth of junk, he thought. If they switched over to sound pictures, that was what they would become. Every one of these pictures would have to be remade.

He picked up the phone. "Get me Fred Collins," he told Jane. Idly his pencil scratched on the paper while he waited. Collins was the company treasurer and controller.

"h.e.l.lo, Johnny," Collins's voice came on.

Johnny held the phone away from his ear. Collins was a big man with a big voice and in ordinary conversation you could hear him a half mile away without trying. Except when he was talking to Peter. Then in some strange way his voice became soft and meek. "Fred, what's yesterday's bank balance?" Johnny asked.

Collins's voice boomed in Johnny's ear. "Nine hundred thousand one forty-two dollars and thirty-six cents," he answered promptly.

"That's a bit low, isn't it?" Johnny queried.

"Yes," Collins answered, his voice making Johnny wince. "But we're getting that million and a half from the Bank of Independence today."

"That brings our loans to six million dollars, doesn't it?" Johnny asked.

"Yep," Collins answered. "That's the maximum we can borrow under our agreement with the bank. We can't get any more now until we reduce the borrowings to three million."

"Okay, Fred." Johnny thanked him and hung up the phone. His ears were still ringing with Collins's voice despite his precaution of holding the phone away from his ear. Why did Peter have to hire a foghorn for a treasurer, Johnny thought. Then he smiled for a moment. Collins was all right, he did a good job. The smile disappeared from his face as his mind went back to the problem.

He picked up the phone again. "Ed Kelly," he said into it.

A few seconds later Kelly's quiet voice came on the phone. "Yes, Mr. Edge."

"How many approved contracts have we got on the twenty-nine/thirty program as of yesterday, Ed?"

"Just a moment Mr. Edge," Kelly replied. "I'll check and see. Can I call back?"

"I'll hold on," Johnny told him. He heard the sound of the phone being put down. Kelly was the head of the contract department. It was his job to record and send out the billings according to the sales contracts. It was the custom of the industry to sell a whole year's program in advance before many of the pictures were made, even before some of the pictures were decided upon. This was done by listing as many of the pictures on the contract as they knew about at the time the contracts were drawn and covering the balance of the program by cla.s.sifications. These cla.s.sifications bore such names as "Specials," "Double A's (AA)," "Single A's (A)," "Exploitation Pictures," "Idea Pictures," "Westerns," "Serials," and "Shorts." The rental paid by the exhibitor for each picture he played was very often determined by the manner in which the picture was cla.s.sified. Statistical summaries based upon these contracts would be prepared under Kelly's supervision, and they enabled Magnum to know approximately how much revenue would be forthcoming on each year's program.

"h.e.l.lo," Kelly's voice came back on the phone.

"Yes, Ed."

"As of last night's closing, there were eight thousand one hundred and twelve contracts." Kelly's voice was dry and matter-of-fact. "I understand Mr. Ragin received some additional cancellations this morning. The figure I gave you is before deducting them."

"I understand, Ed," Johnny said. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Mr. Edge," Kelly replied politely.

Johnny put down the phone and wrote some additional figures on a scratch pad and then sat back in his chair and looked at them. It didn't look so good.

They had lost almost a thousand exhibition contracts in the past month. Each contract represented an average of fifty dollars a week business. The loss in business as a result of the cancellations would amount to over two and a half million dollars for next year.

Johnny turned his chair toward the window and looked out. It was a beautiful fall day, but he didn't notice it; he was still calculating. If the cancellations kept pouring in at the present rate for another three months, they would have to close up shop. There wouldn't be enough coming in to carry the overhead, much less continue production of new pictures.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead again. No one could predict what might happen in the next few months but there was one thing he did know. Whether Peter liked it or not they would have to switch to talking pictures. But where would they get the money? They couldn't get any more from the banks. The pictures they had on the shelf would not bring in the money to make the change-over at this rate. He wondered whether Peter had enough money of his own to do it. No, he decided, Peter couldn't have. It would cost close to six million dollars to do it and Peter couldn't possibly have that kind of money of his own.

That still left the problem where it was. They would have to switch to talking pictures even if they didn't have the money to do it. He would have to find a way.

6.

He took his hat and coat from the closet, walked into the outer office, and stopped at Jane's desk. "I'm going to lunch," he announced.

She looked up at him in surprise. He was going out early. He usually left about one o'clock and it was only twelve thirty now. She looked at her calendar pad. "Don't forget, you have an appointment with Rocco at two." She smiled.

He smiled for a moment. "I won't forget with you around to remind me."

She grinned back at him. "Gotta keep the guy busy," she replied. "After all, he is my husband."

For a moment he envied them. There was something about the proud way in which she spoke that betokened a closeness, an understanding, between them. Dulcie and he never felt like that. He supposed it was because they were apart so much. If they could spend more time together, maybe things would be different. He sighed almost unnoticeably. Maybe some day. "What should I get?" he asked her, still smiling slightly. "Just a haircut?"

She looked up at him mischievously. "You do and I'll quit." She laughed. "I won't settle for nothing less than the works. Don't forget my boy works on a sixty-forty split."

He held up a hand in mock terror. "Okay, okay, the works it is. I haven't got the time to break in a new girl. But I think it's blackmail, that's what it is."

She helped him on with his coat. "That's part of the price you have to pay for my services," she said, still laughing.

"I give up." He laughed. His laughter turned into a spell of coughing. The tears came into his eyes.

A look of concern crossed her face. "Be careful," she warned. "Keep your coat b.u.t.toned. You haven't got over that cold yet."

He could feel a pain in his chest. Suddenly he was warm and he knew he was sweating. He tried to smile at her. "It's those d.a.m.n cigarettes," he gasped.

"Be careful anyway, Johnny," she told him.

He nodded and left the office. The air was cool with the chill of fall, but the sun felt warm on his face. He loosened his coat and lit a cigarette. The smoke irritated his lungs and he coughed again. "G.o.d-dammit," he muttered, and began walking to the hotel.

He picked up a newspaper in the lobby of the hotel and went into the dining room. The head waiter came up to him.

"Alone, Mr. Edge?" he asked, bowing.

Johnny nodded. "Give me a nice quiet table," he told the man. He followed him to a table in the corner of the large dining room and sat down. He ordered lightly as he wasn't hungry, and looked around the restaurant. There was no one there to disturb him. That was why he had left early. He wanted to be alone, to have time to think quietly. It was too early for the regular crowd to be there.

He opened the paper and turned to the movie page. His glance fell upon Marian Andrews's column, "Letter from the Stars." The first paragraph caught his eye: The Warren Craigs are getting a divorce. I spoke to Cynthia Craig when I heard about it and asked her if it were true. "Yes," she told me, "it's true. Warren and I have come to an amicable parting of the ways. His work keeps him in Hollywood all the time and mine in New York and we decided that it was the best thing for both of us." I felt very badly about this news for I have known Warren and Cynthia ever since they came to Hollywood several years ago and they are such a charming couple. I do hope they will reconsider their decision, but I'm afraid they won't. Matters have gone too far and besides I hear that Warren is interested in another young lady, also a famous movie star, whose reputation as a heartbreaker is already the talk of Hollywood. Too bad, too bad.

He read further down the column, but there was nothing else that interested him. He turned the page, thinking that at least Dulcie and he were not too badly off. At least they had an understanding, and the fact that they were separated so much had not affected their relationship. Maybe they were not as close as Rock and Janey, but that would come in time.

The next page was filled with photographs of a Hollywood party. A large picture in the center of the page attracted his attention. It was a picture of Dulcie and Warren, seated at a table, holding hands and smiling at each other. The caption beneath it read: DULCIE WARREN and WARREN CRAIG, stars of MAGNUM'S latest production, Day of Mourning, caught in a moment of relaxation at the JOHN GILBERT party. Miss WARREN is married to MAGNUM'S affable executive, JOHNNY EDGE, and Mr. CRAIG has just announced his forthcoming divorce from CYNTHIA WRIGHT, prominent stage actress. Miss WARREN and Mr. CRAIG are first cousins.

Johnny smiled to himself as he looked at the picture. Dulcie had written to him and told him that the publicity department wanted them to be seen together. It was good publicity for their pictures. He nodded to himself. They were right. He had noticed quite a few pictures of them together in the papers lately.

Johnny folded his paper and turned to the plate of soup the waiter had just placed before him. The soup was hot and flavored just the way Johnny liked it, but he didn't finish it. His mind kept working on the situation he had left behind him in the office.

He felt sure that Peter would have no objections to making talking pictures after hearing what he had to tell him. But where would the money come from? There was a chance they could raise the money if they turned to Wall Street, but he knew that Peter would never do that. He put down his knife and fork and called for the check. He couldn't eat.

The head waiter hurried up. "Monsieur is not satisfied with the food?" he asked, glancing at Johnny's almost untouched plate.

"No," Johnny replied, "it's not that. I'm not hungry, that's all."