Том Годвин - Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

If only I could get in...

It turned out to be very easy.

A car drove out from the house and stopped on the other side of the gate. The guy in it looked like some way-out conception of a movie producer; loud clothes, beard, dark glasses, beret...

“Hello,” I said. “Is Miss Brookson home?”

“She was expecting you?”

He sounded a little surprised — and I was a little surprised that he spoke plain, ordinary English.

“No,” I said. “I’m here to do a story about her — assignment from the Republic.”

Which wasn’t quite true — but it sounded impressive.

“So you’re a reporter?” He sounded thoughtful.

“Free-lance, except on special assignments. Name is Don Steele.”

“Hmmrn — I don’t believe I’ve read any of your stuff.”

“Oh, I use a pen name for that,” I said.

Which was true — Don Steele. My own name of Elmer Dunkengerfer seemed to lack something...

He thoughtfully stroked his beard. “Do you have any other appointments this afternoon — anyone to come hunting you up while you wait to see Miss Brookson?”

“I’m free as a bird.”

“Good.” He got out and unlocked the gate. “I’m a talent scout for the Adventures of Gloria show and we’re here to give Miss Brookson a screen test. Did you ever do any acting?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I used to be very active in the small theatres.”

Well... actually, it was a high school play, once, in which I was the masked burglar with no speaking part and the boy who played the lead role slugged me over the head with a real baseball bat instead of the balsa wood fake he was supposed to use. He was the jealous type and had caught me smooching his girl a couple of hours before...

“Fine — fine!” the talent scout said. “Our little caste is one member short — I’m afraid the young fellow I hired must have stopped at a bar — and I was just going out to find someone else.” He stroked his beard again. “I’m glad you came along, Don.”

He swung the gate open and I drove through with the creepy feeling up my backbone that Smith and Jones would be along any moment. I parked my car as well-hidden as possible, saw that the tire with the slow leak was almost completely flat, and we went into the house.

It was a large room, furnished with expensive furniture, and three people were sitting at a big mahogany table.

One was a tall, sallow-faced man of about thirty, slouched in his chair with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. One was a dark-haired woman about the same age, wearing some kind of a semi-formal gown, a long, ivory cigarette holder in one white-gloved hand. She was good looking in a cool, impersonal way.

And one was Joan Brookson; golden-haired and gray-eyed, her face flushed with excitement, looking like seventeen instead of twenty-two. She would have been a knock-out in a bikini...

The talent scout introduced us:

“Folks, meet Don — he’s had acting experience. You recognize Joan, of course, Don. This is Jack, my camera man, and Sophia, Jack’s wife and my script writer for these bits we’re about to do. And I’m Dave — we won’t bother with formality here.”

“Yeah,” Jack said around the cigarette in his mouth. “We’re just a friendly little group, here to give Joan her big chance. Sophia, hand Don a drink.”

“Bourbon and water would be fine,” I said to her questioning glance.

“Sit down by Joan,” Dave said to me. “You two might as well get acquainted.”

I did so and Sophia handed me a tall drink. Joan smiled at me, so warm and friendly that I suspected she had had several more drinks than just the one she held in her hand.

“Isn’t this thrilling, Don!” she exclaimed.

I took a long drink — Sophia had certainly been liberal with the bourbon — and said, “I suppose so, Miss Brookson — Joan. I’m a little hazy as to what it’s all about, though.”

Dave spoke before Joan could answer:

“Unless I’m mistaken, Don, you’re sitting beside the future star of a new show my sponsor is starting — Big City Girl. ”

“Joan has a marvelous stage presence,” Sophia said, putting another cigarette in the ivory holder, “but we have to have her on sound-track film to show the producer what she can do.”

“Imagine!” Joan said excitedly. “I did Joan of Arc in our little theatre last night and I didn’t even know these talent scouts were watching me!”

“Big City Girl will call for a variety of roles,” Dave said. “A society girl, wealthy and aristocratic — which Joan already is — who has another side: that as the girl who is an FBI man’s secret helper. Which means anything might happen, including gun battles with killers.”

Jack spoke again. “Found anybody for the FBI part yet, Dave?”

“Ah... some that can act well enough but they don’t have the hard, masculine look that the producer wants.”

“How about him?” Sophia asked, pointing her cigarette holder at me. “Wuth that square jaw, scarred face and broken nose, he certainly looks masculine.”

“He looks the part,” Dave agreed. “If he can act it, he can have it.”

“Oh, good!” Joan almost clapped her hands with delight. “You can do it, Don — I’ll bet you’ve fought a lot of battles in your life!”

I drained my glass and said modestly, “Well, I didn’t get this face by playing tiddly-winks.”

Which was true. I acquired it by getting drunk one night and falling down a flight of concrete steps.

“Let’s bring in the equipment,” Dave said to Jack. “Sophia, fix Don and Joan another drink then come out and pick out the script we want.”

Sophia poured us each another drink, then all three of them went outside.

“Nice place you have here, Joan,” I said.

She made a face. “I hate it!”

I saw the poor-little-rich-girl story going down the drain.

“You mean you prefer a life of high society, deluxe parties, and big business?”

“High society and de luxe parties bore me. And I have a law firm, an accounting firm, and a batch of managers to take care of business for me.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To act!” She took another drink. “Did you ever want something more than anything in the world? I’ve always wanted to be an actress; to make people laugh, and cry, and hold their breath with suspense, and say, ‘Isn’t she wonderful!’ Didn’t you ever want something very much like that?”

“Well — I’ve always wanted people to say of me, ‘That Don Steele is certainly a good writer.’ ”

“And they never did, did they?”

She patted my hand sympathetically and I took another drink of bourbon. Damn it, she wasn’t following the script... or something.

“Nobody ever heard of me, either, Don” — I winced again — “but now I’ll get my big chance. They came to me backstage last night and asked me if I would be interested in a film test out here today.”

“And you were, obviously.”

“I could hardly wait. I was here at daylight and told my caretaker and his wife to take the rest of the week-end off. Then I paced the floor until Dave and the others showed up.”

She sighed with ecstasy and I rearranged my plans for the future. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could ever be an actor but if she passed the test, I would still have a good story — the beautiful, talented rich girl who scorned Society and Wealth for her Art...

Sophia came in with a brief case and Dave and Jack followed with a compact — and evidently very expensive — soundtrack movie camera complete with tripod, floodlight, and all the trimmings.

As Jack set up the camera, Dave said, “These will all be just short bits, but very important. They will call for everything from loving glances up through jealousy, hatred, and even murderous rage.” He looked at Sophia. “Fill their glasses again and give them their scripts.”