“When I phone it in?” retorted Hugh Vann. “My complete story is already, if I know Despatch speed, coming off press! And contains only facts—of the murder, the robbery, and the arrest—and baloney. The latter being this fellow’s ‘hypno-mesmeric amnesia’—and the ‘hopeful alibi witnesses’! And now I rush forth to view my masterpiece in print. See you later, Louis. Good-by.”
CHAPTER XXIII
400 Words
Rutgers Allstyn, tilted back in his swivel chair, surveyed first the title of the contract which had just been proffered him by Mr. Piffington Wainwright of the roughed cheeks, and self-confessed author of the “Tiny Tot Bed-Time Tales,” who straightened his flowing black Windsor tie fussily and troubledly watched the examination of his paper through his delicate eyeglasses fixed by their broad black ribbon to his vest.
The contract began, as so often was the case, with a plethora of capital letters:
CONTRACT
[of date September 6th, 1939]
FOR EXCLUSIVE WRITING SERVICES
between P. Wainwright (and his assigns if any) and ADLAI, COLLERMAN AND GRIM-SHAWSTER, Suite 1921-1941 Radio City, New York City (and their heirs and assigns if any)
Allstyn looked up from the single foolscap sheet.
“First, Mr. Wainwr—but as I am quite a lot older than you, I am going to call you Piffington. Do you object?”
“Not at all, Mr. Allstyn. I detest formality.”
“Good! Well, Piffington, just who are Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawst—”
“They are the largest radio program purveyors in New York. They provide, in short, proven radio programs for sponsors. They are a selling organization as well as a creative one—for they often actually go out and sell some new type of program to sponsors. As a rule, however, they have more eager advertising departments for nationally known products trying to obtain programs through them—than they have worth-while programs to offer. They own their own sound studios—and also, incidentally, a radio broadcasting station of their own. And they control many writers and dramatists—also actors—and innumerable so-called ‘radio-rights’ on otherwise copyrighted material.”
“I see.”
And Allstyn looked down at the paper again.
P. Wainwright, in consideration of $1000 cash in hand to him paid, receipt of which is hereby acknowledged, agrees that his employment in all forms of writing and dramatic construction, whether for radio, stage, magazine or book publishers, motion-picture screen, or television—either in the U. S. A. or any other country on the globe—shall be exclusive with Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster for a period of 20 years from the date of this instrument.
Allstyn looked up, And whistled.
“Whew? Why on earth, Piffington, did you tie yourself up—for 20 long years?”
“Why? Because at the time I did so I didn’t dream but that I had talent only for writing darnfool bedtime stories. A talent the possession of which I only stumbled on—by pure accident. For I’d submitted a couple of tales of that category in the beginning. Which were taken. But I had another reason yet. A friend of mine, working as a clerk in a stock and bond concern, had shown me—by a set of remarkable curves and tables of statistics—how one could, in the next 30 days, make $50,000 through investing only a round thousand. He really proved it, as I say, in black and white. And so, anxious to make myself independent for life—my frank idea was, to be candid, to have a Rolls-Royce automobile with three trailers trailing after it—a sort of de luxe traveling suite, don’t you know?—anyway, I went to these radio people who had been Buying my bedtime stories regularly. And which stories were pulling like the deuce—thousands of kids listening in. Though I didn’t dream that. No. For I never tuned in on my own radio. I—I detest radio. Well, they offered to give me $1000 and no questions asked—not a bonus, you understand, but a sum to be subtracted at the rate of $1 for every future acceptable radio script I should turn in—if I’d tie up to them exclusively for 20 years. I was not forced, of course, to work for them—yet could not, under the contract—at least presumably—work for other similar Firms. Well, Mr. Allstyn, I was so—so darned glad that I was able to get a thousand dollars—just like that—” And Piffington Wainwright gave a careless flirt of his hand, “—and at the same time get probably a long-time writing berth, that I seized the chance. Avidly. And signed the contract they drew up.”
“And the stock-pyramiding scheme, Piffington?” Allstyn queried. For he knew it was some pyramiding scheme. In fact, he already knew the answer to his question.
“All the stocks went downward,” said Piffington. “We—we never reached even a book value of $1000. Though I still say my friend’s curves and tables were correct—it was just that some adverse influences must have been at work.”
“No doubt,” declared Allstyn dryly. “The same old influences that always work—when a man is trading in the wrong direction. Yes—movement in the other direction! Oh, well, I did some of that myself in my day.” And Allstyn, undecidedly, fixed his attention once more on the document on his lap.
Both parties mutually agree that the above-described sum shall constitute an advance on earnings only, and shall be repayable to the firm of Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster in installments of $1 subtractable from the remuneration for future acceptable radio scrips, but at the rate of no more than $1 for each accepted script.
Allstyn looked up. “Well—at two scripts a week, Piffington—which is, as I recall it, the number of times per week that my friend’s little girl used to listen in on your—er—creation—your thousand dollars advance would, at least, be paid off in 10 years. But the contract goes on—for another 10 years, eh?”
“Right,” nodded Piffington Wainwright.
So Allstyn went on to the next paragraph.
P. Wainwright agrees to submit scrips in only such fields of radio entertainment as Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster shall dictate and decree. His rate of remuneration shall at no time be less than 1/2 cent per word. Adlai, Callerman and Grimshawster or their radio editors, shall, however, have the right to reject or accept any script whatsoever. P. Wainwright furthermore agrees that Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster may serve legal notice on all radio-agencies, individuals and agents representing same, and radio-studios, as well as magazine and book publishers, motion-picture and stage producers, and producers of television performances, that P. Wainwright’s writing and dramatic services are exclusively the property of Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster, and until September 6th, 1959; and that Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster may bring suit against any individual, company or corporation causing this provision to be violated, and may retain all damages secured.
This contract shall be terminable without notice by the firm of Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster, but not by P. Wainwright.
Subscribed to mutually this day of
September 6th, 1939, by Adlai,
Collerman and Grimshawster, and
P. Wainwright
per Sanford Adlai
Sam Collerman
Angus McForster Grimshauster
P. Wainwright.
Witnessed, September 6, 1939, by
Archibald Winters
Mrs. Mary Cartenson
Harry Eaclaire.
Allstyn, noting that the contract bore in addition, at the bottom, even the usual notary-public notarization, looked up, laying the paper down. “Well now, Piffington,” he began, puzzled, “inasmuch as all writing is a form of artistic expression—one form, no more, I should think, then another—why, may I ask, outside of perhaps the financial end—marriage to this girl who—who weighs coal—if, as and when, that is, you both agree as to whether to live in a house or in a flock of trailers!—yes—but which financial end, anyway, you suggested awhile back was not of the hugest importance—why do you even want to negotiate—hrmph!—attain cancellation of—of this contract?”
“Negotiate—” expostulated Piffington Wainwright. “Attain—cancellation? Bust it, you mean—high, wide and mighty! Yes. But why? My gracious, Mr. Allstyn—why? Because Adlai, Collerman and Etcetera refuses to give me even a chance to try my hand at anything else. Anything, outside of bedtime stories, that I submit to them, they claim is rot. I even tried them out—by a trick—and submitted a dramatic police-crook script done by a crack radio writer—a friend—which later actually went over the radio on the Dromedary Cigarette Hour. They—they said it was rot! And I was to do bedtime tales—or nothing. And—but why, you ask, do I even want to stop! Well, would you want to write, all your life, stories for tots—extending so far on into the future that eventually all the tots of the tots you first began to appeal to would be listening in to your damn foo—excuse me!—darn fool stories of how the Pussy With the Striped Tail—I dare not even, by Gracious, call it a skunk!—took a nut away from Mrs. Squirrel—oh the bad, bad striped pussy!—and ran off and off and off and off—into the big, deep, dark gloomy woods where—”
“Yes, I heard that very one,” said Allstyn grimly. “Told by—but who tells your creations?”
“Uncle Griffy, the grand old man of radio. Thank the good God I don’t have to tell ’em! Every kid in the land can tell you about Uncle Griff. While not a kid could tell you about Piffington Wainwright!”
Allstyn shook his head. The proverbial clown, all right, capable in his own profession—but wanting to play Hamlet. It was sad—if not ludicrous.
“All right, then, Piffington,” he said. “I guess I get your stance—all right. So now—a number of questions. First—you read this contract—before you signed it?”
“Once more again, Mr. Allstyn, yes. They even had me read it aloud—before the witnesses.”
“Ah—that’s sagacity, to say the least! On their part, I mean. Now you weren’t—by any chance—when you signed it—drunk?”
“Drunk? Merciful heavens, no! A drink of the lightest wine makes me deathly sick.”
“I see. Well, now was the first approach—relative to a hinder—or an advance—and a long-time exclusive writing contract—made by you, or by them?”
“Oh, by me—I will admit.”
“I see. Any witnesses? To your approach?”
“We-ell—yes. A stenographer and a clerk—in Mr. Collerman’s office. Then, in turn, Mr. Grimshawster himself.”
“Did these witnesses, by any chance, hear you agreeing definitely to the terms—before the thing was put in actual writing?”
“We-ell—yes—they did.”
“Then the contract wasn’t shoved on you—out of the thin air?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, in endeavoring to get them to cancel it—as I presume you have—did you ever tell them you were willing to return their thousand dollars?”
“Did I? I’ll say! Not only that, but I actually tendered it! With a witness present. The witness was a writing friend of mine who has made huge money in the radio crime-story field. A thousand dollars is—is mere chicken feed to him. He was quite safe in the possible loan, moreover. For he knew that if I failed at doing his sort of stuff, I could easily repay him by my earnings on writing bedtime stories—for some other radio material outfit.”
“Yes. Well your thousand was, I take it, refused?”
“Unequivocally.”
“Have you tried to destroy Adlai, Etcetera and Etcetera’s faith in your abilities by submitting poor scripts?”
“Have I? I have indeed! I’ve written tosh. One was so—so toshy that they thought it was super-stuff, and put it on the air—5 weeks ahead of its turn. So I turned out one worse. It was about a new animal called the Eppy-kittynu. An animal with 5 legs. One was an elephant’s leg, and one a fish’s fin. And the fifth of the legs—believe me or not—wasn’t even a leg. It was an animated, jointed stovepipe—that could walk. Sound-effects there, of course. I couldn’t, of course, motivate the existence of the thing to mere kids by the truth: that an elephant had raped—raped, I say boldly, Mr. Allstyn—a dachshund in a dark alley, with the result that—No! I had to say that my Eppykittynu had been a rooster who had made some wishes to be something else in the hearing of a Good Fairy. With the result that—but you understand. Well, that—that was the daffiest thing ever put on the air! But the kids—they were enthusiastic. The chain got letters from them, all over the country. They wanted more Eppykittynu stories! My rate was raised to $15 a story. For I was then getting but $10. And the station assigned me an additional bedtime story a week—for a small sponsor called the Unbreakable Doll Company. Well, in desperation, I called in my Good Fairy—and wished the idiotic Eppykittynu back into a dachshund.”
Allstyn suppressed a grin with difficulty.
“But surely,” he commented, “it must be theoretically possible to do something so bad that—”
“Oh yes,” said Piffington Wainwright wearily. “It is. I did several such. The firm refused to buy them. And shifted another writer over to the series until I had—as they put it—‘recovered my wits!’”
Allstyn nearly grinned again,
“Well,” he asked, “did you ever tell them you would never write animal bedtime tales again?”
“Yes, I did. And moreover acted on it. I—I struck! But they just said I would get hungry eventually, if not during 1939, then later in 1941—or maybe even in 1951.”
“Have you tried offering your services elsewhere—though with, of course, a possible lawsuit attached?”
“Oh yes, But nobody in New York will touch me. All interested parties have been notified that I’m Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster’s tied-up writer.”
“I see. Have you tried submitting elsewhere as a brand new newcomer? Under another name? Not legal, I confess, in the face of your contract but—I’m curious to know?”
“Mr. Allstyn, a writer today for screen, magazine or microphone has to virtually give—and substantiate—the entire story of his life, and what his grandmother died of, before they will accept his material. So afraid they are, you see, of plagiarisms.”
“I see. Have you tried any tiny independent radio stations?”
“Yes. But not one but has been notified and warned. Oh, I’m not the only exclusive writer, you know, that Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster have.”
“No, I daresay not. Well, have you at any time thought to go to some sponsor—and try to sell him on yourself, so as to make him demand, of Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster, that if he comes on with them as their client, they in turn will put you to writing his stuff?”
“Not a chance, Mr. Allstyn! Unless, that is, that sponsor had some sort of a kid product to sell. And I did try it—yes—with the Bristle-Cut Electric Razor people—and the Quadruple-Distilled English Gin people—but the moment they learned I had never had anything commercially put on the air but bedtime tales—well—the interview was over.”
“Yes, I daresay it was. Well now, last but not least, have you had a talk with either Adlai, Collerman or Grimshawster?”
“With the latter two I had audiences. They were tough! I’d write, they told me, what I’d proven a success at—or nothing. Look, they said, how successfully Boris Karloff had played apes all his life. Would I, they asked, have Boris Karloff play Romeo?”
“They—would!” laughed Allstyn. “And the head of the firm, Adlai? Or is he the head?”
“Oh, yes. For he’s the chief stockholder. Owning 62 per cent of the stock. When he delivers an order—which, however, is but once in a blue moon—that order is followed—for it’s virtually the decree of a combined stockholders’ and directors’ meeting! Him I never managed to meet personally, because he spends all his time in Pittsburgh, where his own products are manufactured. And the few times—or vice versa!—I’ve shuffled from New York to the hometown—he was in Miami. And so—”
“Just a minute, Piffington,” interrupted Allst
yn with a frown. “You introduce, I fear, more questions than you answer. First, how does Sanford Adlai run his radio entertainment company in New York—if living for the most part in Pittsburgh? And—his own products? What are they?”
“Answering your first question,” replied Piffington Wainwright, “Sanford Adlai is a sort of second—or would-be—James O’Donnell Bennett. Loves to pull the wires—you know?—hire?—and fire?—and make orders?—by telegraph only. Listens in, however, on every performance controlled by his New York company—and jacks Collerman and Grimshawster up plenty, on the other end, if things aren’t just exactly right. But about your second question. His products. Yes, he has several of his own. For instance, he owns Shavene. Made in Pittsburgh. And he owns Glisteno Toothpaste. And I even recently heard that he’s practically sole owner in a new electric razor that’s going to be put out there, and to be called The Morning Glider—or something. Anyway, you queried, impliedly, back there, in asking about him—whether I’d ever had an interview with him. Not personally, no—but I did write to him. During one of the times he was in Miami. And he wrote me back, personally. Said he was sorry, but he’d tuned in on my stuff and knew that I couldn’t do anything one hundredth as well as the stuff I was doing. He even wrote me that his good friend, Samuel Goldwinner, of Metric-Goldwinner and Steuer, the Hollywood screen magnates, had just that day told him of how Nickelplate Films, Limited, had recently made the great error of having a Chinese scenarioist do the Sharley Shan stories—with the result that the audiences walked out on the last one.”
“I must have seen that one myself!” declared Allstyn.
“Sharley Shan at the Oberammergau Play it was called. It—it was awful. Every molecule of the ashes of Wiggers Deerly, the original author, must have revolved 90 degrees once about their own axes—in his urn!” Allstyn reflected a moment. “Well, did you try to substantiate your claim to Adlai—epistolarly made, of course—by submitting him a dramatic crime-story script?”
The Man with the Crimson Box Page 19
