We regret to inform you that on account of the war we shall not be able
to renew our advertising contract for the current year.
We are,
Yours faithfully,
(Signed) SIMOON, GOLBRITH & CATHPELL, LTD.
There was not a word of sympathy with the unfortunate publicity agent
for his loss, no touch of humanity or pity, merely a bare announcement,
and Angell Herald felt he was justified in saying, as he did say with a
great deal of emphasis, "Damn the war!"
He fell to brooding over this letter. Publicity agents had been very
badly hit by the war, and he foresaw the time when--well, anything might
happen. He was awakened from his gloom by Pearl.
"I've got a friend, sir----"
"I know you have, Pearl," was the response. "You have too many friends.
That's the infernal part of it. You are always marrying or burying
them."
"I have a friend," continued Pearl, imperturbably, "who says that new
conditions demand new methods."
Angell Herald sat up straight, and looked at Pearl. Knowing him as his
employer did, this was a most extraordinary utterance. There was in it
just a spark of originality.
"Pearl," said Angell Herald, "you've been drinking."
"No, sir," he replied, seriously, "I never take any alcoholic stimulant
until after dinner."
"Then you have a funeral in mind," was the reply. "Something has
intoxicated you."
Pearl seemed to deliberate for a moment and then replied,
"Well, sir, I was going to tell you that my aunt's second husband has
had a stroke, and he is not expected to live. We are planning the
funeral for Thursday week."
Angell Herald felt that the loss of the Simoon contract had, as far as
business was concerned, done him for the day, so he went out, bought a
rose, and got his hat ironed. He then turned into "The Turkey Trot" and
played a game of dominoes with his friend Harry Trumpet, who represents
the old school of publicity men: he calls himself an advertising agent.
He is a dull and stereotyped fellow, and, when Angell Herald feels at
all depressed, it always puts him in countenance with himself to come in
contact with Harry Trumpet.
"Harry is an ass," Angell Herald had once said; "but the amusing thing
is that he doesn't know it. I once met his wife and his wife's sister,
and they don't seem to know it either."
Having evaded Trumpet's very obvious readiness to be invited to lunch,
Angell Herald went to his favourite place and did himself as well as he
could. He was just drinking the last drop of claret, when Pearl's
remark came back to him. He remembered the old French saying "autre
temps, autre moeurs." It was the only piece of French that he could
recollect, save the words "cocotte" and "tres femme."
His mind wandered back to that "interview" with Mr. Llewellyn John, who
had given him such infinite instruction in the art of advertising.
It was, however, the agony column of _The Age_ that gave him his
inspiration. There he saw an advertisement, which read:--
"A lady of considerable wealth desires introduction into Society. A
stranger to London. Apply in the first instance in strict confidence to
X.Q. Box 38432. The office of _The Age_, Paper Buildings Quadrangle,
E.C."
"A munition fortune," Angell Herald muttered to himself. "She has made
her money, the old dear, and now she wants to get into high society, and
wash away the taste of Guinness in the flavour of Moet and Chandon. In
other words, she wants publicity."
The word "publicity" suggested himself. Here was a woman desirous of
publicity, here was Angell Herald wanting nothing better than to get for
people publicity.
He returned to his office.
"Pearl," he said, "you can have that half holiday on Thursday week. I
think you have given me an idea."
"Thank you, sir," was his reply, and Pearl proceeded to ask for a rise,
which was instantly refused, his chief telling him that time was money.
Angell Herald wrote a guarded letter to the lady desiring entry into
high society, telling her that he thought he might possibly be of some
assistance if she would kindly allow him the privilege of calling upon
her. He received an equally guarded reply, making an appointment at the
office of a certain firm of solicitors in Lincoln's Inn.
*II*
Three days later Angell Herald was sitting in a room in the offices of
Messrs. Robbe & Dammitt, the well-known society solicitors, awaiting the
arrival of his fair client--as he hoped. He was meditating upon the
old-fashioned methods of solicitors as he gazed round the room with its
dusty volumes of law books, its hard, uncompromising chairs, and its
long, stamped-leather covered office table, when the door opened, and
there sailed in--sailed is really the only expression that conveys the
motion--a heavily veiled female figure. As he rose and bowed he
recalled Dick Grassetts' description of his mother-in-law, "All front
and no figure served up in black silk."
"Mr. Herald?" she interrogated in a husky voice, flopping down into a
chair with a gasp.
Angell Herald bowed.
For fully a minute she sat panting. Evidently the short flight of
stairs had been too much for her.
"You saw my advertisement?" she queried.
Again Angell Herald bowed.
"Well, what about it?" she enquired. Her attitude was one of extreme
arrogance, which was oddly out of keeping with the inflection of her
voice and the directness of her speech. Obviously she was determined to
assume the attitude of the theatrical duchess. It was necessary to put
her in her place.
"I saw your advertisement," Angell Herald remarked, "and remembering
what Mr. Llewellyn John said to me the other day----"
"Mr. Llewellyn John," she gasped. "You know him?"
"Oh, yes," Angell Herald replied, airily. "As I was saying, he remarked
to me the other day, 'Without advertisement a man is doomed.' That gave
me the idea of writing to you."
"Yes, go on," she said eagerly, as she raised her veil.
"Well, madam," Angell Herald continued, "you require certain social
opportunities," she nodded her head vigorously and gasped like a fat pug
that sees tempting dainties it is too full to eat, "and I think I may be
able to be of some assistance."
Angell Herald did not like the woman. Her complexion was blue, her face
puffy, and she had innumerable chins, which billowed down to meet the
black silk of her gown. She was hung with jewellery, and her clothes
were most unsuitable to her years. In her hat was mauve and emerald
green. She was literally laden with sables, which must have
considerably increased her difficulty in breathing, and her feet were
pinched into the most ridiculously small patent hoots with enormous
tassels that bobbed about every time she moved. Although a man of the
world, Angell Herald was appalled at the shortness of her skirts.
She blinked at him through her lorgnettes.
"Well!" she said.
"May I enquire first of all," he enquired, "what methods you have
hitherto adopted? I may tell you that everything discussed between us
is in strict confidence."
This seemed to reassure her. After a slight hesitation she began to
tell her story. It appeared that her husband had made an enormous
fortune in the early days of the war by contracting for porous huts and
brown-paper boots for the Army. They had lived in Manchester, but now
they had come to London and taken what was literally a mansion in Park
Lane. She had set herself to work to get into Society, and apparently
had been very badly snubbed.
She had subscribed liberally to the Red Cross and similar charities, and
attended every charitable entertainment that had been given since her
advent. She had engaged, regardless of cost, a number of the most
famous artists in the country for a drawing-room concert in aid of a
certain hospital, and had sent out invitations lavishly to the whole of
Mayfair. The result was that the artists had turned up; but not the
audience.
She had to pay the fees and eat the leek. Then she had offered to drive
convalescent soldiers round the Park.
"And they sent me common soldiers," she remarked, "although I
particularly asked for officers, generals if possible." There was a
note of querulous complaint in her voice.
It was with something akin to horror that Angell Herald heard her say
she had written to _The Age_, asking what their terms would be to
publish a photograph of her daughter, together with a few personal
particulars.
"_The Age_, madam?" he almost shrieked. "_The Age_? They never publish
illustrations."
"No," she replied. "But they publish advertisements and theatrical
notices. My daughter (she pronounced it 'darter') is as good as a
music-hall actress, and a good sight better," she added.
She had left cards on everyone in Park Lane, (she called it "The Lane"),
and upon a number of people in other fashionable quarters, but had not
received a single call in return.
"Your only chance, madam," Angell Herald ventured, "is to get into the
public eye. These are the days of advertisement. You must get the
public to know you as they know our generals and our politicians."
"I know all about that," she replied, with a certain asperity. "But
how's it going to be done?"
"Well!" Angell Herald replied, "I will think it over and let you know.
Perhaps you will tell me to whom I can write."
For a moment she hesitated, and then saying, "Of course the whole
thing's strictly in confidence?" Angell Herald bowed--she handed him
her card. On it he read "Mrs. Biltox-Jones, 376, Park Lane, W.," and in
the corner "Third Thursdays." Angell Herald smiled inwardly as he
thought of the loneliness of this lady on her "Third Thursdays."
For a minute or two he gazed reflectively at Mrs. Biltox-Jones's card.
Through his mind was running the "interview" with Mr. Llewellyn John.
He remembered the suggestion of the accident in stepping into his car,
how the Prime Minister had suggested that he should be assaulted for
purposes of publicity, and finally he recalled the suggestion of the
abduction of his daughter. Without pausing to think, he turned to Mrs.
Biltox-Jones.
"You have a daughter, Mrs. Biltox-Jones?" he said, taking great care to
give her her hyphenated name.
She started.
"A daughter!" she said. "Of course I've got a daughter." Her tone was
that of someone accused of lacking some necessary member.
"Exactly," he said. "That may solve the difficulty. In these days," he
continued, "publicity is a very difficult matter." Angell Herald put
his fingers together in judicial fashion and proceeded, "There are two
things that the journalist recognises. One is 'copy,' Mrs.
Biltox-Jones, and the other is 'news.' Now news takes precedence over
'copy,' just as birth does over money, at least, it should do."
"I don't see what that's got to do with the matter at all," snapped Mrs.
Biltox-Jones. Angell Herald could see that she had not formed a very
favourable opinion of him, or of his capabilities. "I don't understand
what you mean by 'copy' and 'news.'"
"Well," he continued, "I once heard a journalist define the two." Ha
was quite indifferent as to what Mrs. Biltox-Jones might think of him.
"A friend once asked him the same question, and his reply was, 'Now, if
a dog bit a man, that would be 'copy'; but, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, if a man
bit a dog, that would be 'news.'"
Mrs. Biltox-Jones was clearly annoyed. She made a movement to rise; but
to rise, with Mrs. Biltox-Jones, was a matter of several movements,
persistent and sustained.
"One moment, madam," Angell Herald continued. "In your own case, now,
in order to obtain the publicity you desire, you must endeavour to give
the Press something that it will regard as 'news' in distinction from
'copy.' Now, as far as I can see, there are two ways in which you can
achieve your object."
Mrs. Biltox-Jones began to look interested once more.
"First you might arrange to be seriously assaulted."
"Me?" she gasped. "Me, assaulted? What on earth do you mean, Mr.
Herald?"
"Well," he continued, "You might arrange for somebody to meet you in a
lonely place, and knock you down."
"Knock _me_ down?" The italics fail to do justice to Mrs.
Biltox-Jones's look and tone. "Are you mad?" she demanded.
"No," was the response. "I am endeavouring to help you. If you will
listen calmly, you will see what I'm driving at. The fact of a lady of
your position and wealth being publicly assaulted would appeal to the
journalistic mind, and would undoubtedly result in a great deal of Press
notice."
"But it would be so painful," she replied.
"Of course, there is always that. It might even be fatal. There is, of
course, an alternative measure, which I think, in your case, might be
even better: that is, the abduction of your daughter."
"The what?" she shrieked.
"The abduction of Miss Biltox-Jones. Imagine the sensation! Think of
the 'copy'! Millionaire's daughter abducted--I assume Mr. Biltox-Jones
is a millionaire. I believe all Army contractors who are business men
have become millionaires. Yes," Angell Herald added, "I think Miss
Biltox-Jones might be abducted."
"That shows you don't know Gertie," said Mrs. Biltox-Jones, smiling
grimly. At least, she made certain facial movements which were intended
to indicate a smile.
Mrs. Biltox-Jones seemed to be thinking deeply. After fully a minute's
silence she demanded, rather truculently,
"Will you abduct her?"
Angell Herald drew himself up with dignity.
"I am a publicity agent, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, not a professional abductor
of millionaires' daughters. Furthermore I have a reputation to
maintain."
"All right, don't get 'uffy," was her response.
Angell Herald shuddered.
Again there was silence between them.
"Gertie's always complainin' how dull she is," Mrs. Biltox-Jones
muttered to herself; "she might like it for a change. P'raps Martin
might arrange it. Martin's my butler, he does everythink for me. He's
been with the Duke of Porchester, and Prince Carmichael of
Dam-Splititz."
"Well," Angell Herald proceeded. "Let us see Miss Biltox-Jones
abducted. Imagine the Press the next morning. You would apply to the
police, you would intimate the terrible news to every newspaper, and
there would be scare headings. I merely offer this as a suggestion. As
a matter of fact, it is a little out of my usual line of business. New
conditions, however, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, demand new methods." Angell
Herald blessed Pearl for that exquisite phrase, and registered a vow not
to refuse his next application for a holiday in which to bury, marry or
bail-out a friend. He could almost see himself giving him a rise.
"But how could I do it?" she enquired.
"That," Angell Herald replied, "I must leave to you, Mrs. Biltox-Jones.
I should gather that you are not lacking in resource or originality. I
should try Martin. English butlers are wonderfully resourceful. Get
your daughter abducted and the result will be that your name will be
sounded throughout the British Empire. I may add, by the way, that I
should see she was abducted for at least a fortnight. That would give
time for a thorough Press campaign. You would find that all the
Colonial papers would copy the story, and if Miss Biltox-Jones happened
to be handsome, as I should imagine she would be"--Angell Herald looked
very pointedly at Mrs. Biltox-Jones, and she preened herself like a
second-hand peacock--"then the sensation created would be the greater.
"I am afraid, madam, that I can do nothing more than make this
suggestion; but you may be assured that if you act upon it, you will not
lack the publicity that I gather all ladies of your position seek."
For a few moments she was silent, then said, "And what's all this cost,
Mr. Herald?"
"Oh," he replied, "it's a very trifling matter. Let us say fifty
guineas, shall we, especially as I am not able to be of any practical
assistance to you."
"I'll send you a cheque." Her jaw snapped with a determined air that
convinced Angell Herald that in the very near future Miss Biltox-Jones
would be abducted.