A Hidden Danger
The area between the first row of seats and the Golden Girl set was
filled with a complicated maze of technical equipment. Judy nearly
tripped over a trailing cable on the way to join Irene on the studio
floor.
“Come on,” Judy urged Clarissa a second time.
Irene was waiting for them. She seemed completely at home on the studio
floor, moving through and around the pieces of equipment as easily as
she moved about in her kitchen at home. The girls were introduced. It
was all very informal and nice. Afterwards the floor manager suggested a
quick tour behind the scenes.
“I know you want to show your friends around, Irene,” he said with an
understanding twinkle in his eyes. “You have ten minutes.”
“Thank you, Si. I won’t take more than that. This doesn’t compare with
Radio City, of course,” Irene apologized, turning to Judy, “but perhaps
I can show you something you haven’t already seen.”
“What about the dressing rooms?” Judy thought of Clarissa’s request and
explained that they hadn’t seen them on their other tour. “It was
interrupted,” she began and then stopped as there was too much to tell
in ten minutes.
“How did that happen?” Irene asked.
“We’ll explain it later,” Judy promised. “Is there time to see the
dressing rooms?”
“They’re small and crowded tonight, but I guess we can take a quick
peek,” Irene agreed. “This way, girls! Be careful and don’t fall over
anything.”
The dusty, cluttered space behind the glittering curtain was a
disappointment to Clarissa. Judy could tell by the look on her face.
Backgrounds were folded one against the other. Props waited to be placed
inside make-believe rooms that were nothing but painted canvas stretched
on wooden racks. Beyond, a narrow corridor separated two rows of doors.
“Will we see Francine Dow?” Clarissa asked suddenly.
Pauline looked at Flo and said pointedly, “We had a little argument over
the color of her hair.”
“You can settle it when you see her,” Irene told them as they entered
the crowded dressing room. The girls who were to be good fairies on the
program were fluttering about in their filmy dresses. Two of them were
seated before a long dressing table putting on make-up that gave their
faces a yellowish tinge. A third girl, made up to look like an old
woman, was dipping a sponge into a bowl of green stuff and then applying
it to her face.
“She must be the witch,” Pauline whispered to Judy. “Doesn’t she _scare_
you?”
“Her hair is green, too,” Flo observed with a giggle. “How about washing
your hair with _green_ hair wash, Clarissa? You said you’d do anything
to get on TV. Would you play the part of an old witch?”
“I—I don’t know,” she faltered. “I’d hate to make myself any uglier than
I am.”
Obviously the witch could hear the whispered conversation behind her.
Making her voice sound old and cackling, she said without turning her
head, “So you think I’m ugly, my pretty? Wait until you see the curse I
put on the child! I hope I don’t scare any little kiddies who may be
watching—”
“You scare me,” Clarissa interrupted. “I can see your face in the
mirror.”
“It’s bad luck to look into a mirror over anyone’s shoulder,” the witch
warned her. “Why don’t you go away?”
“I’m sorry.” Clarissa, her eyes still fixed on the mirrored face of the
witch, was backing out into the corridor toward a closed door.
“Is that another dressing room, Irene?” asked Flo. “We didn’t see your
guest star, Francine Dow.”
“Would you know her?” asked Judy. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t. She’s appeared
in so many different roles. I don’t even know what color her hair is.”
“I’m afraid I don’t either,” Irene confessed. “She wore a black wig in
the _Mikado_ and looked quite like a Japanese schoolgirl. She is late,
but I’m sure she’ll be here in time to play the part of the Sleeping
Beauty. She doesn’t appear until the show is half over. Maybe she
planned to be late so she would have the dressing room to herself. We
had to rehearse without her this afternoon,” Irene continued, a worried
note creeping into her voice, “but she assured me, over the telephone,
that she knows the part.”
“The play would be ruined without Sleeping Beauty, wouldn’t it?”
Clarissa asked. “I hope I haven’t brought bad luck.”
“Of course you haven’t. That’s just a silly superstition,” Irene
declared. “Actually, it makes an actress nervous to have anyone look
over her shoulder when she’s applying make-up, so she’s apt to tell you
it brings bad luck.”
“I see.”
Judy wondered if she did. “You say this isn’t a dressing room? What is
behind this other door?” she asked curiously.
She could hear voices that made her even more curious. “It’s forbidden!”
someone was almost shouting. “This thing is still in the experimental
stage. It may be as dangerous as an atom bomb!”
“I don’t know what all the excitement is about. This is our film storage
room,” Irene explained, tapping on the door before she opened it. “Most
of our programs are on film or on kinescope, and they’re kept here. Mine
is one of the few live shows that originate in this studio.”
She was calm as she entered the small room that was still charged with
emotion. Rows of shelves and pigeonholes lined the walls. Two men were
glaring at each other across a high desk.
“You look like a couple of roosters ready for a fight,” Irene told them
amiably. “Can you forget your differences long enough to meet some
friends of mine? This is Mr. Lenz, our projectionist.”
“How do you do,” the older man said in an agitated voice as he was
introduced to the four girls.
Judy recognized the younger man as the one with the unruly lock of brown
hair.
“You were on the tour with us!” she exclaimed in surprise.
“You _are_ from our agency! Why did you tell the guide you were from
Hollywood?” Flo demanded.
“Usually,” said the brown-haired young man with an easy smile, “I tell
people what they want to hear. You want me to be Blake van Pelt, a
native New Yorker. Yes, my dear Miss Garner, that is my name. I already
know yours because, you see, I do work on Madison Avenue just as you
do—and for the same agency, so I think we understand each other. The
guide, another charming young lady, wanted me to be from out of town so
I gave her a line.”
“Did you say line or lie?” Flo was angry now and justifiably so, Judy
thought. Without in the least understanding what was going on, she felt
herself on the side of truth. Something Clarissa had said back in the
restaurant flashed across her mind. “Doesn’t anybody in New York care
about the truth?” Apparently there were a number of people who did,
among them the white-haired projectionist, Mr. Lenz.
“The word is lie,” he said icily. “So you tell people what they want to
hear, do you, Mr. van Pelt? I think the purpose of your agency is to
make them dissatisfied with what they have so they’ll buy what you have
to sell.”
The young man flashed another smile.
“You’ve put it very well. Advertising is a selling job. We’re not in
business to entertain people or to make them contented as they sit in
their living rooms watching TV. Contented people are like cows. It’s our
job to make them discontented. That’s no crime, is it, Mr. Lenz?”
“No, but this is! None of the other networks allow it. I have my orders
from the director of this program,” the projectionist declared. “Now,
suppose you take your film out of here.”
Young Blake van Pelt picked up a round gray can about an inch thick and
a foot across, and sauntered out of the room. Did it contain a roll of
film or something more sinister? Judy found herself wondering what Mr.
Lenz meant when he had shouted, “It may be as dangerous as an atom
bomb!” After he had calmed down a little the projectionist opened a can
similar to the one the younger man had taken away with him and said to
Irene, “This is the ad we’ll run on your show, Mrs. Meredith. It’s for a
tooth paste approved by dentists, and features a cute little girl
cleaning her teeth.”
“It may inspire little Judy,” Irene began and then stopped. “What was
the other ad?” she asked. “Why were you so angry about it, Mr. Lenz?”
“An old man’s temper,” he replied. “Don’t mind me, and good luck with
your show tonight.”