Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  “Mr. Vernon?” Kathie questioned.

  “Our director,” the secretary amplified, as she led them into a palatial office that reflected the decorating scheme on view at The Castle.

  Once more it was a matter of no one meeting anyone’s eyes as the full glory of peacock blue walls painted with golden tigers with red stripes burst upon them. An immense desk lacquered in Chinese red and ornamented with gold at all four corners further stunned them and minimized the effect of two huge turquoise blue Fu dogs positioned at either side of a couch covered in red leather. In front of the couch was a low table inlaid with mother of pearl. A tiger and a leopard skin were spread on the oriental carpet, and close beside a wide peacock chair stood a small table balanced on elephant’s tusks. An African shield hung on the wall behind the couch.

  The monarch of all he surveyed was seated in a gold and scarlet thronelike chair behind his desk. He had wide shoulders and a plump body, at least as far as they could see which was only to his waist. However he rose immediately proving himself to be about five feet six. His round face was lighted by large sparkling blue eyes, much enlarged by the thick rimless glasses balanced on his short nose. His mouth was small and full, his head bald, his expression benign. He was clad in a white linen suit that, along with a black string tie, called to mind mint juleps on a Southern veranda, but his speech was coated with a heavy German accent.

  “Ach, you are here.” He smiled expansively, the while his eyes narrowed. “And how the house are you liking?” He looked surprised but gratified by their assurances that they were delighted with it. “And disturbed you’ve not been?”

  “It’s very quiet and peaceful,” Kathie said.

  “It can be,” he allowed. “I am glad you are finding it to your taste.” He gave them another side glance. “And you find it quiet?”

  “Very quiet.” Septimus nodded.

  “Gut, gut, please to sit down.” He waved an arm at the various seating accomodations in the room. Turning his eyes on Miss Fiske, he suddenly barked, “Pictures! Their pictures I will need.”

  “I have made appointments with the photographer, sir,” she said.

  “Gut.” He looked back at them. “You have the story of this picture read?”

  “They have not yet received the synopsis, sir,” Miss Fiske put in quickly. “If you will recall, it was finished only yesterday. I have copies here.”

  “Ach, then I must explain. You,” he pointed at Kathie, “are the wife of the magician Cagliostro, who is the villain. Ach, a Satanist he is and controls half of Paris. The ladies come to him for séances and for the black masses he conducts in the cellars of Versailles.”

  Septimus, with Cagliostros’ benign freemasonry in mind, was about to contradict the producer, but Mr. Goldbaum’s voice flowed on carrying the unspoken protest away on the current of his enthusiasm. “Cagliostro is old and ugly, ja? His wife is his victim, poor young girl, who of him is so afraid. He looks at her and she trembles. Brrrr. Also under his thumb are the Queen and King of France. The beautiful Marie Antoinette has a son who is sick, ja? Always he is bleeding, bleeding, bleeding—prick his finger and he bleeds like a pig who is stuck. The magician Cagliostro makes the hocus-pocus and cures this bleeding son, and so Marie Antionette protects him even though she knows he is no gut!” Mr. Goldbaum frowned and pounded the table. “No gut, but she thinks he is gut, and the King, he is a numbskull so he goes along with it. Why worry? He on Zizi depends. Zizi is his name for his Queen.” Again Septimus would have spoken, mentioning the recently murdered Nicholas II of Russia, his Empress and Rasputin, but again he was defeated by the power and thrust of Mr. Goldbaum’s storytelling.

  “Then comes this Grand Duke and he does not trust the magician, especially since he has the eye on Madame Cagliostro, the beautiful young girl. Also he is at court out of favor and cannot go to the big parties they throw at Versailles. So this diamond necklace he buys and wishes Cagliostro to hand it over to the Queen because they are such good friends, ja? Cagliostro has the influence and he don’t have any. So Cagliostro will do it for a big sum of money, but he is one smart cookie and doesn’t want to get involved so he sends his beautiful wife to deliver the necklace and on the way she is captured by Danton, who has found out about it.”

  “Danton?” Septimus managed to question.

  “He is for the people of Paris. He is also a handsome young man like Richard Barthelmess or Ramon Navarro or Rudy Valentino and he falls in love with the beautiful young wife. Ach, she is so beautiful!” The producer gazed at Kathie for a moment. “He finds out that the necklace is for the Queen and it has all these big diamonds so it is worth lots of money. He decides to sell it so that the people of Paris can have bread. He will put a fake one in its place.”

  Richard’s astonished gaze fell upon Miss Fiske’s face but found that the secretary’s attention was riveted to the notebook she held in her lap.

  “Meanwhile,” the producer continued, “he and Madame Cagliostro are in love at first sight. He detains her while they are the necklace copying. Danton and Madame Cagliostro go in for a little innocent smooching but nothing more because immediately he sees her, he respects her. But Cagliostro looks into his crystal ball and finds out what is happening. Ach, he is angry. He goes off in his coach and separates the young couple. In the Bastille he throws Danton. He gets back the necklace and puts it in his safe and gives the copy to the queen who thinks it is the real thing and is very grateful. Diamonds she likes a lot. Meanwhile, the beautiful Madame Cagliostro sneaks away from her husband and gets to the Bastille where she gives a rope ladder to Danton and he climbs out. He incites the people of Paris and there is a big revolution and the Bastille is knocked down. Ach, what a scene that will be! Cagliostro is guillotined and so is the Duke and the King and the Queen and Danton marries this beautiful girl.”

  “Ah,” Septimus was the first to break the slight silence that ensued upon the conclusion of Mr. Goldbaum’s narrative. “An ingenious plot.”

  “Yes, a few departures from history are made, but the audiences must have someone for whom they can root, ja? And so there is handsome young Damon and beautiful young Madame Cagliostro.”

  “Who live happily ever after?” Kathie murmured.

  “As far as we know,” shrugged Mr. Goldbaum. “As far as the audiences know. And do you not see the opportunities for spectacle? The court of Versailles? The fall of the Bastille? Cagliostro in the cellars with all those beautiful ladies? The black mass? Danton on his big white horse waylaying the coach of the beautiful young Madame Cagliostro? It will be bigger than The Birth of a Nation’. Spectacular! Stupendous. It has everything, ja? Orgies, battle scenes, the guillotine, the mobs of Paris, a thousand extras will we use! And in the theater they will play on two pianos the Marseillaise!” He rubbed his hands together, adding gleefully, “Even Griffith will not be able to top this, ja?”

  “I shouldn’t think he could,” Septimus agreed.

  More congratulatory comments were obviously being invited but the Grenfalls were fortunately spared from inventing them by the abrupt entrance of a tall dark young man who was breathless and disheveled. There was a trickle of blood running down his forehead from his hairline. “My apologies, sir,” he addressed Mr. Goldbaum in a clipped British accent. “I am sorry I am late, but I was caught in the French-Indian wars on the back lot and sustained a slight wound from the arrow.”

  “An arrow, Matt?” Ruth Fiske rose swiftly. “I do hope you weren’t hurt badly?”

  “Not at all. No more than a scratch, Ruthie.” He smiled at her reassuringly.

  “I have some first aid material in my desk,” she said. “What were you on the back lot doing?” Mr. Goldbaum demanded severely.

  “I thought I’d take a shortcut, sir.”

  “Ach, haste makes waste.”

  “And lays waste,” Vernon quipped.

  Two members of the Grenfall family had listened to the brief exchange between Miss Fiske and Mr. Vernon with definitely heightene
d interest. Kathie, of course, had recognized the director immediately and with an odd little flutter of the heart had also noticed his astonishing resemblance to Colin or to Lord Byron as the case might be. She had also noted his familiarity with Miss Fiske as well as the latter’s evident concern over the rather deep scratch he had sustained. It was borne in upon Kathie that Miss Fiske was really a very pretty girl, who undoubtedly saw a great deal of Mr. Vernon at the studio and possibly away from it. She discovered within herself an astonishing and embarrassing antipathy toward the secretary, whom, heretofore, she had liked.

  Much the same feelings were passing through Richard, try as he did not to glower at Mr. Vernon whose exchange with Miss Fiske had not pleased him. The concern reflected on her face for what was, after all, no more than the merest pinprick had annoyed him. It had also added a new dimension to his thinking. The lovely Miss Fiske must meet many directors and actors every day which was a sobering and disquieting notion. He had never realized that her job was replete with such temptations.

  Mr. Goldbaum said, “Now that you are here, Matthew, may I introduce Miss Katherine, Mr. Septimus and Mr. Richard Grenfall?”

  Matthew Vernon, acknowledging the introductions, turned an appreciative eye on Kathie saying, “Miss Grenfall, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!” He immediately flushed a deep red, adding hastily, “I mean...”

  “He means,” Kathie said with admirable if icy composure, “that we met while I was waiting in the wings to be sawed in half by Papa—in tights.”

  The laughter that followed fortunately cleared the air, and after the introductions the Grenfalls were given the script and Vernon’s rehearsal schedule.

  “I would like to do a reading of the first scene which will take place in the Paris apartment of the Cagliostros, so please study that portion of your script.” Vernon told them in crisp businesslike tones.

  “Will we be introduced to the rest of the cast?” Kathie asked.

  “Not all of them, Miss Grenfall. Some are still working on other films. We hope to stage the final scenes first. These will need a great many people, and while they are still shooting the French-Indian wars, we will be able to use the extras for the toppling of the Bastille. Then there is the question of Mr Conover Bliss, who will be performing the role of Danton Mr. Bliss is due to star in Sinister Sisters at Grand Films so we will have to do your scenes with him first. Consequently I would like you to pay close attention to the Danton-Madame Cagliostro scenes and Mr. Grenfall,” he turned his eyes on Septimus, “I would like to speak to you about Cagliostro. I understand you are an authority on the subject.”

  “I have been,” Septimus mumured.

  “Good.” Mr. Vernon did not appear to notice the irony implicit in his tones. “Now perhaps you would like to see Paris?”

  “Paris?” Richard questioned.

  “The set,” Mr. Goldbaum put in. “It is nearly completed.”

  “That would be lovely,” Kathie said.

  ❖

  After the tour was completed, a taxi was called for the three Grenfalls. Bidding farewell to Mr. Goldbaum, Miss Fiske and Mr. Vernon, they clutched their scripts and solemnly walked out of Mr. Goldbaum’s office, making their way back to the studio gates. It was not until they were in the taxi that Richard broke the silence by saying, “Paris... plaster of Paris!”

  Their loud and sustained laughter startled the driver enough for him to eschew the roundabout route he had been happily contemplating. He drove them straight to their destination and breathing a deep sigh of relief, sped away. After living in Hollywood for a number of years, he could recognize lunatics when he saw them.

  Chief among the supper clubs that were springing up in the vicinity of Hollywood and further West was a little-known-to-the-general-public but extremely well-patronized nightery called simply “Kitty’s.” It had the reputation of being considerably more than a mere dine-and-dance spot. Kitty, its proprietress, was a rambunctious lady of fifty-odd with a whiskey voice and a face she cheerfully described as a “clock-stopper.” In addition to providing the best food and booze in town, she took the name “club” seriously enough to provide several upstairs rooms which could be booked from one to eight hours a night. The cost was exorbitant but the facilities, running to ceiling mirrors and black satin sheets on extra-wide beds were, as many guests agreed, worth the price of admission.

  It was an open secret that many film deals were consummated in Kitty’s upstairs quarters. The boxoffice blockbuster, Roman Nights, brainchild of Frankie Farrell of Fair burn Films, Inc, occurred to that youthful genius after he saw Gloria Gower spread-eagled on Kitty’s shiny black sheets. Those same sheets were the inspiration of Palette Productions’ The Downfall of Dee-Dee, loosely based on Shakespeare’s Othello. King leer, another Palette production, also found its inspiration at Kitty’s.

  Consequently, everybody who was anybody in filmdom and lots who were merely hopefuls, considered an appearance at Kitty’s a must. The trade up the stairs resulted in carpet and treads needing to be replaced at least once a fortnight. Its owner did not cavil at the cost of replacing expensive Oriental runners nor did she mind the wear and tear on sheets that sometimes did not last an hour. A well-stocked linen cupboard at the far end of the hall was often empty by sunrise, but Kitty could expect a percentage of what she called “ceiling contracts.”

  She received more than a mere percentage from her “cellar contracts.” These involved servings of that popular white powder affectionately termed “coke” or pipes filled with opium or heroin injections. There was much more camaraderie in the two long cellar rooms. These were supervised by Kitty’s silent partner and supplier Ah Hung Low, whose face, if not his activities, was famous. For one reason and another it was always on Ah Hung Low that producers and directors called when an extra Chinaman was needed to glower from the screen. Naturally, with so much going on at Kitty’s, the aura of dope and hope was so vivid it was a wonder it did not shine like an extra electric light at the top of Kitty’s small red sign. If it could not be seen, however, it could be felt.

  In the past 135 years, Colin and Juliet had become peculiarly adept at recognizing the effluvium of evil. It was an unavoidable aspect of their condition. This nose for the noisome had resulted in some unique and enlightening experiences. Sometimes when they were in the mood for reminiscing Colin would recall the time they visited the cellars of Malmaison to watch a defrocked priest celebrate the Black Mass that was supposed to bring Napoleon back to his Josephine even on the eve of his wedding to Princess Marie-Louise of Austria. Though the ceremony was not immediately effective, they agreed that it filled the Emperor with a false sense of power, one that culminated in his ill-advised effort to conquer Russia.

  In 1893, they had visited Paris in time to see the notorious. Marquis de Guaita slay a rival by means of a Black Mass, and they had returned to that city for the famous “Paris Working” of Aleister Crowley in which he committed sodomy for Satan. Currently they were thinking of joining Crowley at his so-called Abbey of Thelema, actually a Sicilian farmhouse in the vicinity of Celafu. Though his sorcery was open to question, he was always amusing and both had reached the stage where they felt far more comfortable with the rogues and rascals of this world. As Juliet was wont to say, “Evil is always so marvelously entertaining.”

  Consequently, when they saw the spurious Spanish outlines of Kitty’s Place rising on a cliff overlooking the sea, they were both enchanted by its promise. That they themselves exuded a similar promise as they entered the establishment was immediately apparent. There was a definite lull in the conversation as Colin, wearing the extremely well-fitting tuxedo acquired during a midnight stroll through one of the better men’s shops in the area, escorted Juliet, a vision in silver lame sparkling with jet and crystal beads on a low cut bodice and edging the hem of a skirt that showed a great deal more of her shapely legs than was strictly fashionable in this year of 1921. Her short hair was banded with a silver ribbon and her slender feet were
encased in high-heeled silver pumps.

  Juliet was scarcely aware of the effect she was creating. She was listening to the loud strains of the jazz band and wishing it was even louder. After rising from the dawn-to-dusk oblivion that was never disturbed by a single dream, she craved the gaiety and laughter that helped her forget that she had missed seeing some 53,730 suns, she who still remembered how much she had loved those beneficent rays. In fact, it was her memory of leaning out the window of her room at the Hold to see the eastern horizon turning red that brought her plight home to her even more than that which she must do to sustain herself. For reasons she could not quite fathom, she had been feeling a little melancholy this night, to the point that when Colin came to lift her from her coffin, he had said knowingly, “Cobwebs, love?”

  “Cobwebs,” she had acknowledged defensively. There was no use trying to keep anything from her brother.

  But now, entering Kitty’s Place, she could not retain her cobwebs, not with the orchestra playing a tune that made her long to dance.

  The proprietress, a huge woman, looking even larger in a bright red dress sparkling with sequins and with diamond bracelets traveling up to the elbows of both her brawny arms, came forward, a scowl on a wide face amply powdered and heavily rouged. Her eyes, small and gimlet sharp, accorded her would-be guests with a lowering suspicious stare. “Kinda young, ain’t ya?” she snapped, her gaze wandering up and down Juliet’s slender shining figure.

  Juliet returned her stare calmly. “I am older than I appear,” she purred.

  “Would you care to see our birth certificates?” Colin extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, placing it on the hostess’s plump palm. He was amused to see her beringed fingers close on it with the mechanical rapidity of a steel trap.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” she boomed. “Mack,” she bawled to a slender man in black tie and tails, “show these here kids to a table, huh?”

  “We’ve already dined,” Colin said. “We’d like to dance and...”