I
_The Break of a Lifetime_
With a grateful sigh Peggy Lane lowered her aching feet into the
delicious warmth of a dishpan filled with hot water, bath crystals, and
Epsom salts. In other rooms exactly like hers throughout the big
brownstone house near New York’s Gramercy Park, half a dozen hopeful,
equally tired, but determined young girls about Peggy’s age were doing
the same thing.
At the Gramercy Arms, a rooming house for young actresses in the middle
of Manhattan, this was a daily ritual known lightheartedly as the
“cocktail hour.”
Peggy sighed a second time, wiggled her toes in the steamy water, and
flopped back on the studio couch.
“What a life,” she murmured darkly.
As if in answer to her complaint, the lights of New York began coming
on. One by one, they twinkled through her window, throwing a spangle of
diamonds across her dressing-table mirror.
New York had been home for a year now, but the big city never failed to
thrill her—especially at dusk. Without taking her feet from the water,
Peggy turned to one side and gazed at a few faint tinges of red in the
west where the sunset was fighting a losing battle with the fabulous
illumination of the New York skyline.
Propping a meditative chin in her hand, Peggy watched the magic
spectacle of Manhattan change gradually from a bustling city of towering
gray buildings and concrete canyons into the jeweled finery of a million
lights. It was like the shimmering moment in the fairy tale when the
drab little kitchen maid turns into a beautiful princess. Or at least
that was the way Peggy always thought of it.
Once, when she was still new in New York, she had made the mistake of
trying to explain all this to a very serious young man who was a
second-year student at a nearby college. The young man had stared at her
uncomfortably for a moment, then changed the subject. But Peggy wasn’t
disturbed. She was fond of her own version, even though she knew it was
hopelessly romantic.
Well, why not? Half-lying on the bed with her feet stuck into what was
now a lukewarm basin of water, she was convinced that she was right and
he was wrong. She thought of the young man’s earnest face and broke into
a grin. Despite herself she laughed out loud.
The cheerful sound filled the darkening room. Paddling her feet happily
in the water, she threw her head back against the pillow and sighed a
third time.
“What a life!” She breathed ecstatically. Suddenly full of vitality
again, she sat up and leveled a pair of clear hazel eyes over the city,
now throbbing with the muted sounds of early evening traffic. “New
York,” she announced in a grave voice to the open window and empty room,
“you don’t care about me right now. You’ve never even heard of me. But
some day you will. You’ll see!”
It was quite a dramatic speech for her to make, but then Peggy Lane was
very young and very determined to become a great actress.
Outside her window, the city took the news of Peggy’s intended conquest
calmly. Somewhere a lone taxicab gave a derisive toot on its horn as it
squealed to a stop to pick up a fare. Peggy mentally stuck out her
tongue at the driver and settled back to make plans for tomorrow. But
before she could get really comfortable, an enthusiastic spatter of
applause came from the doorway.
“I declare, honey,” drawled a familiar voice, “that’s the prettiest
speech I ever did hear. You always talk to yourself in the dark like
that?”
Light flooded the room, and Peggy saw her friend, Amy Shelby Preston,
framed in the door. Amy, a striking ash blonde and a product of Pine
Hollow, North Carolina, had been pulled to New York by the same magnet
that had drawn Peggy. The two girls had met on their first day in the
city, liked each other on sight, and decided to room together this year.
Peggy struggled to a sitting position and blushed furiously. “I—I was
just going over some lines for a play,” she explained lamely.
Amy flashed her a knowing smile as she went over to a tiny sink hidden
from the rest of the room by a Japanese screen. “What’s the name of the
play?” she asked. “_Stage-Struck?_”
Peggy bunched up a throw pillow, but Amy raised her hands in surrender.
“Don’t shoot,” she pleaded. “You heave that thing at me and I’ll never
get up, I’m that tired.”
Peggy hitched herself to the edge of the studio couch and began to towel
her legs vigorously. “You relax,” she ordered. “I’ll fix everything.”
Amy collapsed wearily on the bed, content to watch Peggy wait on her.
“Well?” Peggy demanded eagerly. Amy had just finished a job filming a
television commercial for the Bob Jordan show. “Did you get to meet Bob
Jordan?”
Amy threw back her head and laughed. “Bob Jordan’s already done the show
in Hollywood. It’s just the commercial they’re doing in New York.”
“But doesn’t he want to see it?” Peggy asked as she poured bath crystals
into Amy’s dishpan.
Amy shook her head. “Not this one. Even if he wanted to, he’d never be
able to find the studio.” Studio space in New York was at a premium, and
as a result, many television commercials were filmed in the most
unlikely places.
Peggy laughed. “Where’d they do it?”
“You won’t believe this,” Amy said wonderingly, “but I don’t know. I
couldn’t find it again for worlds. All I know is that I had to take a
subway for hours and then a bus till I got to the end of the line.
Finally I had to wait for a Transcontinental Broadcasting Company car to
pick me up and take me to something that looked like a converted garage
way out at the end of Brooklyn.”
“I know the place,” Peggy interrupted. “That’s the Greenside Studio. I
did an audition there once. It’s a converted stable.”
“It’s still a stable as far as I’m concerned,” Amy replied. She hugged
her arms closer to her body. “Brrr! Was it ever cold!”
“Get into something warm,” Peggy urged. She looked at Amy critically.
“Why did you wear that thin dress? You know what those television
studios are like.”
“It’s the best dress I own,” Amy said as she rummaged through her
closet. “I wanted to make an impression.”
Peggy shook her head and tossed over a bulky woolen bathrobe. “Here,
take this,” she commanded. “It belongs to my cousin David, but I
borrowed it. And hurry up! I want to hear what happened.”
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, honey,” Amy said as she
struggled out of her dress. “But you just won’t give me a chance.”
Peggy sat down and tucked her legs under her. “All right, go on,” she
said patiently. “I’m listening.”
“Well, first of all,” Amy said, poking a tentative foot into the dishpan
on the floor, “it was only a thirty-second commercial. My, that feels
good. I declare, I’m ten degrees warmer already.” She looked around
vaguely. “Now where was I....”
“You were saying it was only a thirty-second spot.”
“That’s right. With General Refrigerator sponsoring the Bob Jordan show,
I counted on having a couple of lines to say. Something like, ‘Oh, Edna!
I’ve got the most exciting news! General Refrigerators now come in a
whole sunburst of dreamy colors from pastel pink to leafy green!’” Amy
dropped the rapturous look on her face and stared solemnly over at
Peggy. “You know the kind of thing they make you say.”
Peggy nodded wordlessly.
“Anyway,” Amy went on, “soon as I got there, they sent me over to
make-up. I got in the chair, closed my eyes, and waited for them to put
cold cream over my face.”
“Never mind that,” Peggy said, “get on with the rest of it!”
“But that’s the important part!” Amy protested. “That’s when I knew it
was the beginning of the end!”
“Goodness,” Peggy said. “It sounds serious. What happened when you had
your eyes closed?”
“I heard somebody tell me to stick out my arm.”
“What!”
“It’s the living truth, honey. Honestly, I thought they were going to
give me a vaccination or something. But then the make-up girl rubbed
cream on my hand and took the polish off my fingernails. When she was
through, I asked if she wasn’t going to do anything else, and she said
no. She said I was ready to go on camera.”
“But only your arm was made up?”
Amy nodded emphatically. “Up to my elbow.”
“Then what was your part in the commercial?”
“A _hand_!” Amy wailed. She looked as though she were about to burst
into tears. “I played the part of a _hand_ on the Bob Jordan commercial.
All they wanted me to do was open the refrigerator door!” Amy thumped
the couch in frustration. “Here I thought they wanted an actress who
could read lines and all, and all they wanted was a hand! Why, anybody
with five fingers could have done it!” She paused and looked sheepishly
at Peggy. “Oh, Peggy, I’m so ashamed!”
Peggy jumped up and went over to her roommate. “Whatever for?” she
asked. “It was just a job.”
Amy shook her head and blinked. “You don’t understand—Oh, Peggy!”
“Come on, now,” Peggy soothed. “Tell me the whole story.”
Amy sat perfectly still for a moment, trying to fight back the tears.
Suddenly both tears and story came out in a rush. “When I first heard
about getting a part in the commercial”—Amy gulped—“I got all excited. I
wrote home and told Mama to watch me on the Bob Jordan show.”
Suddenly Peggy understood. She knew Pine Hollow, North Carolina, was a
tiny place. Amy’s mother was almost sure to tell everyone about her
daughter’s big television debut. Next week at air time, half the
population would be glued in front of their sets, waiting to see Amy’s
face.
“Everyone will be looking for me,” Amy went on mournfully. “And all
they’re going to see is my—my hand! What am I going to tell them?”
“The truth,” Peggy said simply.
Amy looked up in despair. “Oh, I couldn’t!” she breathed. “Mama would be
the laughingstock of Pine Hollow.” Another thought seemed to strike her.
“Oh, my goodness!” she wailed.
“What’s the matter now?”
“Daddy!” Amy cried, jumping to her feet. “What’s _he_ going to say? You
know Daddy wasn’t too keen on my coming to New York in the first place.”
Peggy smiled, remembering the endless discussions that had gone on in
her own family. “Fathers are funny that way,” she observed.
Amy threw her a trapped look. “You don’t have any idea! He’s always
thought my wanting to be an actress was silly. What’s he going to say
now?”
An idea began working in Peggy’s mind. Grinning mischievously, she
scrambled to her feet and held out her hands. “Don’t tell me,” she
begged. “Let me guess.” Clasping her hands firmly behind her back, Peggy
started to pace back and forth. Her usually cheerful face was lined with
a severe scowl.
Amy burst into laughter at the sight and collapsed back on top of her
bed. “Oh, Peggy! Daddy doesn’t look like that at all. He’s really much
nicer.”
Peggy raised a hand threateningly. “Quiet!” she thundered in her best
imitation of a man’s voice.
Amy subsided obediently. “Yes, sir,” she said meekly.
Peggy cleared her throat and rumbled ahead. “This is disgraceful,” she
intoned. “Here my daughter has spent a year in New York. She’s gone to
dramatic school and she’s been in summer stock. What does she have to
show for it, eh? I ask you.” Peggy gave a fierce tug on an imaginary
mustache. “One year of solid work and the best she can do is to play the
part of a hand on a television commercial!” Peggy stomped down to the
far end of the room. “A hand!” She snorted. “If it’s taken her a year to
get her hand on a television show, how long d’you suppose it’ll take to
get the rest of her on? Eh? I ask you!”
Peggy wanted to continue, but Amy was laughing too hard. “You’re almost
right.” Amy gasped between giggles. “Only he’d never come right out and
say it like that.”
“Then why don’t you do it yourself?” Peggy cried gaily.
“Me?” Amy seemed astonished by the idea.
“Sure,” Peggy said eagerly. “Tell them exactly what happened, but treat
the whole thing as a joke. Get them on your side.” Peggy sat down beside
Amy and spoke seriously. “I really mean it, Amy,” she said. “If you
laugh about it, they will too. And besides,” she added, “they’ll admire
you for your determination.”
Amy looked at her hopefully. “You think so?”
“Of course,” Peggy assured her.
Amy began giggling again.
“Now what?”
“I just thought of something Daddy once said to me. He said the
important thing was to get my foot in the door. Now I can tell him that
maybe I haven’t got my foot in yet, but at least my hand’s there.”
The two girls laughed together. “That’s the spirit!” Peggy chuckled.
“Don’t give up the ship! That’ll be our motto!”
“Rah! Rah! Rah!” Amy cheered, applauding excitedly.
“Sssh!” Peggy cautioned. “We’re making too much noise.”
“You sure are,” came a resonant voice from the door. “When does the
plane leave for Hollywood?”
“Hollywood?” Amy asked blankly, whirling around to stare at the
commanding figure before her.
May Berriman closed the door and advanced into the room. Years ago, May
had been a successful character actress on Broadway, but when she had
left the stage she had taken over the management of the Gramercy Arms.
The girls who stayed at the Gramercy Arms were, for the most part,
struggling young actresses like Peggy and Amy. With her wide knowledge
of the theater and her vast common sense, May was more than just a
landlady to “her girls.” She was almost a second mother to them,
presiding over their hopes and fears, their triumphs and failures, their
good times and their squabbles with an even-handed justice that combined
equal doses of a sharp tongue and a soft heart.
May picked her way through the clutter of the girls’ room and sat down
on Peggy’s bed. Peggy never tired of watching May’s movements. They were
so unconsciously graceful, so sure and poised. They were, Peggy knew,
the result of years of training and hard, disciplined work.
“Of course,” May was saying to Amy, “from the hall you two sounded like
the cheering section at a football game. I couldn’t imagine what had
happened. I was sure it was a Hollywood screen test at the very least.”
“Not yet.” Peggy smiled. “That’s a long way off.”
Amy looked out the window dreamily. “You never can tell,” she said
hopefully. “Why, the phone could ring any minute!” She turned to May for
support. “Isn’t that true?” she demanded. “A big producer can see you
one day and the next day you’re out in Hollywood. It happens all the
time.”
“Only in your imagination, dear,” May said dryly. “I’d advise you not to
hold your breath until that phone call comes. Oh, by the way,” she
added, turning to Peggy, “somebody tried to get you about an hour ago.”
Peggy straightened up. “Was there a message?” she asked.
May shook her head. “No message, but she left a name.”
“Oh. A she?”
An amused smile softened May’s face. “I hope it’s not too much of a
shock. It was a girl named Pam Mundy. She said she knew you from summer
stock.”
“Pam!” Peggy cried excitedly. “I had no idea she was in New York. What
fun! Is she going to call back?”
“She said she’d get in touch with you this evening. Is she an actress?”
“Not really,” Peggy said. “She’s more interested in the production end.
She saw some of our shows up at Lake Kenabeek last summer, and often
discussed the problems with Richard Wallace, our producer.”
“A lady producer!” Amy exclaimed in surprise. “I thought all producers
were men.”
“Most of them are,” May said. “But there’s no law against a girl trying
it.”
“Maybe she’s doing a show,” Amy cried suddenly, “and she’s got a part in
it for you.”
Before Peggy could answer, the buzzer over their door let out a squawk.
“Telephone!” Amy breathed, hurling herself at the door. “Who’s it for?”
she yelled down the hall. Each floor of the Gramercy Arms was serviced
by a single telephone shared by all the girls on the floor.
“For Peggy!” came the answer. “It’s a man!”
“Well, at least we know it isn’t Pam Mundy,” Peggy said, as she drew on
her bathrobe.
“It’s probably Randy,” Amy said.
Peggy nodded and disappeared into the corridor. Randy was Randolph Clark
Brewster. Peggy had met him when she first came to New York and had been
seeing him ever since. In the early days he had more or less taken her
under his wing and had guided her first faltering steps in that actor’s
nightmare known as “the rounds.”
Doing the rounds meant mapping out a systematic campaign of personally
seeing every producer, actor’s agent, and casting director in town. It
was tedious, foot-wearying work, but it was necessary. Peggy learned
soon enough that you couldn’t simply send a picture and a note, and then
sit back, and expect the calls to come in. You had to keep knocking on
doors, reminding people of your existence, hoping that sooner or later
somebody would remember you and say, “Why don’t we try that girl who was
in here this morning? She might be right for the part.”
She still remembered the morning she had made her first rounds with
Randy. They had agreed to meet outside the Gramercy Arms at
eight-thirty. Right on the dot, she saw Randy’s tall, lanky figure swing
along the sidewalk, move toward her, and stop in undisguised dismay.
In her eagerness to make a good impression, Peggy had put on a dress
that was far too sophisticated for her. She had plastered make-up all
over her face, complete with mascara, and covered her eyelids with a
heavy film of dark green, which she fancied went well with her coloring
and dark chestnut hair.
Randy took one look and shook his head. “No, Peggy. That won’t do at
all,” he had said gently.
“Why not?” Peggy had replied. “You said the important thing was for them
to notice me.”
Randy tried to cover up a grin by rubbing a hand over his jaw. “They’ll
notice you all right,” he said. “In fact, they’ll never forget you.” He
took her hand and led her up the steep steps of the brownstone house.
“Let’s go inside and sit down awhile,” he suggested.
Peggy followed him obediently to the tiny sitting room off the entrance
hall. She listened carefully as Randy told her how important it was to
let her fresh young beauty speak for itself. He explained that she was
not yet ready to play sophisticated, older women, and that it was
useless to try. He got her to go upstairs, rub off the make-up, and
change into a simpler dress. At first Peggy had been furious, but later
she learned that he was right.
Now Peggy hurried eagerly down the corridor. It would be good to talk to
Randy again. She picked up the telephone. “Hello.”
A man’s voice came from the other end. It wasn’t Randy. “Hello. Is this
Miss Peggy Lane?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Peter Grey. I’m with the Oscar Stalkey office. Miss Pam
Mundy suggested I give you a ring.”
Peggy caught her breath. Oscar Stalkey was one of the biggest producers
in New York. His new play, _Innocent Laughter_, had opened to rave
reviews a few weeks earlier. Already it was impossible to get tickets.
Everyone in New York wanted to see it.
“Yes?” Peggy answered in a shaking voice.
“Well, it’s quite simple, really.” The voice went on in a matter-of-fact
tone. “We’re getting ready to cast the road companies of _Innocent
Laughter_, and Miss Mundy suggested you for a general understudy.
There’d also be a small speaking part. It’s a national tour and you’d be
expected to sign for a minimum of six months. Will you be available?”
For a moment Peggy couldn’t speak. She just sat and stared helplessly at
the telephone two inches from her nose.
“Hello, hello?” came the voice from the other end. “Are you still
there?”
“Yes,” Peggy said in a voice she didn’t recognize.
“We’re trying out a number of people tomorrow. Can you be at the Stalkey
office at ten?”
“At ten,” Peggy repeated mechanically.
“Yes. Then we can expect you?”
“Oh, yes,” Peggy said. “I’ll—I’ll be there.”
“Thanks. Good-by.”
The phone went dead in her hand. It took Peggy several seconds to lift
the receiver back into its cradle.
“_Innocent Laughter!_” she murmured to herself. “Me, in _Innocent
Laughter_!” Suddenly she couldn’t stand it another minute. She raced
back to her room at the far end of the hall, laughing as she ran. If she
could land the part, it was the break of a lifetime!
II
Katherine Nelson
It took a touch of May’s common sense to bring Peggy back to reality.
“You don’t have the part yet,” she cautioned. “So don’t count on it.”
“Oh, but, May,” Amy protested, “why else would they call her? I’m sure
Peggy’s got it.”
“Did he come right out and make you an offer?” May asked.
“No,” Peggy admitted. “He said they were interviewing a number of girls
tomorrow. That’s all.”
“Well, then,” May said. “You see?”
“I don’t care,” Amy declared stoutly. “This it still the biggest break
either one of us has had in a year.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” May said. “I’m just trying to get Peggy to
realize what she’s up against. Nobody’s going to hand her that part on a
silver platter. She’s got to go in there tomorrow and earn it.”
Peggy moved nervously to the window and pulled back the curtain. “If
only I knew a little more about the play,” she murmured. “I don’t even
know what kind of a part I’m supposed to try out for.” She walked over
to her bed and sat down despairingly. “I should have asked when I had
the chance, but I guess I was too excited. I didn’t even think!”
“Now, now,” May said soothingly. “Don’t work yourself up into a fit. How
much do you know about _Innocent Laughter_?”
“Nothing,” Peggy said dispiritedly. “Absolutely nothing except that it’s
the biggest hit of the season.”
“What time is it?” Amy cried suddenly. “Maybe we could see it tonight!”
“Not a chance,” May said emphatically. “You wouldn’t be able to get
tickets.”
“Standing room?” Amy suggested hopefully.
May looked at her watch and shook her head. “Too late.”
“Oh dear!” Peggy started to get up, but May pushed her firmly back down
on the studio couch.
“You sit down, young lady,” she ordered. “There’s no point in worrying
about something you can’t help. Besides, I think I can give you some
idea of the play.”
“You can?” Peggy cried eagerly. “Oh, May, you’re an angel!”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” May said. “Just sit back and listen.”
Peggy and Amy settled down obediently and waited.
“First of all,” May began, “_Innocent Laughter_ has only four parts for
women.” She ticked them off one by one. “There’s the lead, a brilliantly
successful career woman living in New York, who decides one day to try
to recapture her youth. Then there’s a wonderful part—the woman’s
mother, a shrewd old gal who’s made a fortune in real estate out West,
and who hasn’t seen her daughter in years. The third big part is the
career woman’s daughter. She’s a young girl who’s been sent to finishing
school in Europe, and hasn’t seen _her_ mother in years, except for
brief vacations.” May looked around inquiringly. “All clear so far?”
“You mean there are three generations—the grandmother, the mother, and
the daughter?” Amy asked.
May nodded. “You’ve got the picture.”
“What happened to all the men?” Peggy asked.
“Ah, now we’re getting to it,” May said. “The grandfather—that’s the old
gal’s husband—disappeared years ago. He left home because he said he
couldn’t stand his wife’s domineering ways. The mother’s husband is
dead, and the daughter, of course, doesn’t have any husband yet.”
“How about the story?” Amy demanded. “What’s that all about?”
“The situation is simple,” May explained. “The three generations meet in
New York. The grandmother wants a last fling. She’s after good times and
plenty of them. The mother, as I’ve said, is trying to find romance
again.”
“And the young daughter?” Amy asked.
May shrugged. “The daughter isn’t sure what she wants. She’s in a sort
of experimental mood about life. Very young, very sweet, and full of
vitality.”
“What happens after they all get together?” Amy asked.
“Oh, they make a mess of everything,” May said. “Things go from bad to
worse until suddenly, out of the blue, who should turn up but the
grandfather!”
“The one who disappeared years ago!” Amy said.
“Right,” said May.
“What’s he been doing all those years?”
“Oh, this and that,” May replied airily. “He’s been knocking around the
world a good deal and making a lot of money. Anyway, he walks in on the
three women and takes over. He straightens out the mother’s life, saves
the young daughter from marrying a dull man, and makes his wife fall in
love with him all over again.”
“It sounds like a great part,” Peggy remarked.
“Doesn’t it?” May agreed. “Anyway, that’s about all there is to it. Not
a second _Hamlet_, I’ll admit, but a good, solid comedy.”
“Wait a minute,” Amy interrupted. “You’ve only mentioned three women.
Who’s the fourth?”
“A tiny part,” May said. “A schoolgirl friend of the young daughter. She
appears in one scene in the first act.”
“And that’s Peggy?” Amy asked.
May nodded. “Probably. That and understudying the daughter.”
Amy sighed. “Oh my,” she said. “Wouldn’t you just love to play the
daughter?”
“Stop dreaming,” May counseled. “Oscar Stalkey couldn’t afford to take a
chance with an unknown in a part like that.” May turned and walked over
to Peggy. “Now look, Peggy,” she said in a quiet, reassuring voice,
“when you walk into that office tomorrow, don’t try to pretend you’re an
experienced actress. Oscar Stalkey’s been around a long time and he’d be
able to see right through your pose.”
The older woman sat down and folded her hand over Peggy’s. “Do you
remember that time when Randy told you to be yourself and not try to act
as if you were ten years older?”
Peggy smiled and nodded.
“It was the best advice you could get,” May went on. “If you follow it
tomorrow, the rest will take care of itself. You’re a good actress,
Peggy. You have a lot of promise. He’ll be able to see that.” May got up
slowly and drifted over to the window. “I used to know Oscar Stalkey
pretty well,” she said. “He’s a strange mixture of a hard-boiled
Broadway producer and a sentimental little boy. He’s been in show
business over thirty years, and he still thinks the theater is the most
wonderful thing in the world.”
“So do I!” Peggy breathed.
May turned and smiled. “Good. Then you two ought to get along
beautifully. Now,” she said, moving to the door in a brisk, businesslike
manner, “have you had dinner yet?”
“Oh, no, May!” Peggy pleaded. “I’m too excited. I couldn’t eat a bite.”
May’s smile vanished. She pointed to the door commandingly. “Out you
go,” she said. “We can’t have you meeting Oscar Stalkey looking pale and
haggard. The program for the rest of the evening includes a good dinner,
a long hot bath, and early to bed.” May paused and advanced a step
toward Peggy. “And try not to worry too much.”
Peggy smiled and nodded. “All right,” she said. “I’ll try.”
“Good. When you push open the door of Oscar Stalkey’s office tomorrow, I
want you to look like a million dollars—rested and confident you’re
going to get the part.”
At precisely ten o’clock the following morning, Peggy Lane stood before
the plain frosted-glass door of Oscar Stalkey’s office, feeling rested,
alert—but not at all sure of herself. In fact, what she felt was dread.
It was exactly like the time when she was seven years old, and had to
appear in the school Christmas pageant as one of the angels who led the
shepherds to the manger. She still remembered her two lines: “This is
the place. See how the roof is bathed by the light of yonder star.”
Chattering with the cold, her throat all lumpy with fear, and lonelier
than she had ever been in her life, she had waited in the wings for the
words that would bring her out on the stage. She had been sure she would
forget everything. Now she remembered what it had been like when at last
she had stepped into the brilliant warmth of the stage, sensing the
audience out front and the magic of the set behind her. She had read her
lines beautifully, and only regretted that she didn’t have more of them.
At that moment, Peggy had decided to become an actress. That was a long
time ago. Smiling at the memory, she took a final breath and pushed
against the door.
She stopped on the threshold in numbed surprise.
Dozens of eyes swiveled around at her entrance. On all sides, the tiny
reception room was lined with young girls. There were tall, beautiful
girls with sleek hairdos and shiny patent leather hatboxes by their
sides. There were heavily made up girls whose eyes glittered coldly as
they surveyed the newcomer. There were a few girls she recognized.
Nobody was happy to see her.
Peggy knew that this was the fierce competition of the theater. It was
part of the price you had to pay if you wanted to come to New York.
Tilting her chin defiantly, Peggy closed the door and went over to a
peroxide blonde who sat listlessly behind a desk. The blonde reached out
a hand for a sheet of paper.
“Name?” she inquired in a bored voice. “Mr. Stalkey’s interviewing by
appointment only.”
“Lane,” Peggy replied in a clear voice. “Peggy Lane.”
The blonde ran a bright red fingernail down a list of names and stopped
about halfway. “Who sentcha?” she drawled with quick suspicion.
Peggy frowned. “I don’t ... what do you mean?” she stammered.
The blonde pursed her mouth in disapproval. “What I’m trying to find
out, dearie,” she said in a voice edged with the patient annoyance of
someone talking to a retarded child, “is how come you’re here. Who made
the appointment for you?”
Light dawned. “Oh! Mr. Grey. Mr. Peter Grey.”
The answer seemed to satisfy. “Okay.” The receptionist dismissed Peggy
with a wave. “Find a seat.” She returned to the magazine she had been
reading.
Still feeling ill at ease, Peggy backed away from the desk and looked
around for a place to sit down. The chairs along one wall were all
filled. Opposite them there was a bench with just enough room if one of
the girls would move over. Nobody budged an inch. The silence was
oppressive.
Suddenly making up her mind she was not going to stand around awkwardly,
Peggy moved over to the bench and planted herself in front of the small
space.
“Excuse me,” she said in her sweetest voice, “would you mind moving
over?”
The girl who filled the spot Peggy wanted drew herself up in an
exaggerated shrug and slowly opened a space.
“Thank you,” Peggy said as she sat down. Her neighbor didn’t even bother
to glance in her direction.
The silence continued.
Suddenly from behind the closed door that led into what Peggy assumed
was Stalkey’s private office, she could hear voices. There was a
high-pitched burst, then a deeper rumbling answer. A woman and a man
arguing, Peggy thought. A third voice cut in, a resonant baritone. Two
men and a woman.
There was a scream from the other room, followed by a crash, and the
woman’s voice shouting, “No! No! No!”
“None of that now,” thundered the first man’s voice. “I’m sick and tired
of your childish temper tantrums.”
“Temper tantrums!” came a screech. “How else can I act when you simply
refuse to listen to reason?”
“Oh, come off it, Katherine!” the second man said. “Act your age.”
There was a stunned silence during which Peggy had a chance to look
around. Every girl in the reception room had her eyes glued to the door.
An air of excited expectancy hung over the office. Even the blond
receptionist had put aside her magazine in favor of the real-life drama
going on in the next room.
Peggy heard the door bang open, and turning, saw before her one of the
great figures of the American stage. Katherine Nelson, a portrait of
elegance, stood framed in the doorway.
[Illustration: _Katherine Nelson had been world famous for many years._]
Katherine Nelson. Everyone knew of Katherine Nelson. She had been
world-famous for many years, at the very top of her profession. But
suddenly, about five years ago—nobody knew why—she had begun to slip.
For some reason, she chose her plays badly, and where once she had known
nothing but success, she had had to face the humiliation of failure. It
had been a long time since she had been on a stage in New York, or
anywhere else for that matter. She still had her great name, of course.
Katherine Nelson would always be a magnet, but there was no denying that
as a star she was fading. Other, younger actresses were moving up to
take the roles that would automatically have been hers a few years ago.
It was well known that Katherine Nelson did not wear her years
gracefully. References to age sent her into towering rages that were the
delight of all gossip columnists, and the despair of those who had to
work with her. She stood now, not ten feet from Peggy, her magnificent
eyes flashing daggers. At first, Peggy felt a thrill at being so near a
famous person, but surprisingly that passed almost at once. Instead of
staring at her face, Peggy caught herself looking at Katherine Nelson’s
hands as they gripped the door.
They were like claws, Peggy thought. They were the hands of an old
woman. With a start, Peggy realized that despite her youthful figure and
carefully made-up face, Katherine Nelson could no longer play romantic
parts.
All this passed through Peggy’s mind in a flash, before her train of
thought was evaporated by a throaty voice that rolled out in accents of
anger.
“You’ll remember whom you’re talking to, Oscar Stalkey! There’s only one
Katherine Nelson in the theater, and if you’re not aware of it, there
are hundreds and thousands of people who are. People who are prepared to
stand in line all night, if necessary, to get tickets to my plays. When
you’ve thought _that_ over and are willing to discuss matters more
intelligently, you may call me!”
Shrugging into a magnificent silk-and-fur coat, Katherine Nelson swept
down between the two lines of awed young girls, exactly as if she were
making a grand exit from a stage. As a matter of fact, this was just
what she _was_ doing. It would have been effective, too, except for one
thing. Katherine Nelson had a toy poodle on a leash, and the little dog
took a sudden playful liking to Peggy.
As his mistress passed Peggy, the tiny poodle wagged his tail and
trotted over. The unexpected shift in course forced Katherine Nelson to
stop. Frowning with annoyance, she yanked at the dog’s leash. But
instead of following obediently, the poodle gave a couple of shrill yips
and scrambled up on Peggy’s lap.
Blushing with embarrassment, Peggy tried to get up and dislodge the
animal. “Down, boy,” Peggy commanded, making a wild grab for her purse
which was slipping to the floor.
The next instant, leash, purse, Peggy, and the poodle were hopelessly
entangled. Peggy sensed a commanding figure hovering nearby. Katherine
Nelson was staring down at her in blazing fury.
Peggy attempted an apologetic laugh as she tried desperately to
straighten out the mess at her feet. Finally she got everything sorted
out and handed over the friendly poodle.
“I’m sorry,” Peggy said with a smile, offering the dog. “We sort of got
mixed up.”
Katherine Nelson jerked the poodle out of Peggy’s hands rudely. “Clumsy
idiot!” she muttered. Spots of dull red showed in her face.
Peggy felt herself coloring too, but for a different reason. “I really
didn’t—” she stammered. “I’m awfully—”
“Will you get out of my way?” Katherine Nelson blazed.
Peggy backed away hastily, catching her heel against the side of the
bench as she moved. She flailed the air clumsily to keep from falling,
then sat down heavily. Her purse slipped to the floor again.
Katherine Nelson threw her a disdainful look, swept on through the
reception room, and out the door.
Peggy had never been so embarrassed in her life. She knew that every
girl in the room was laughing at her predicament. She only hoped that
Oscar Stalkey hadn’t noticed. But when she stole a quick, shy glance at
the door, she saw a short, bald man staring at her owlishly through
heavy, horn-rimmed glasses. A cold cigar was clenched between his teeth.
Peggy recognized him at once from his pictures. It was Oscar Stalkey.
With a sinking heart, she realized numbly that she was ruined before she
even started. She had made a perfect fool of herself, and there wasn’t
any point in staying.
Staring straight ahead, Peggy got to her feet and headed for the door.
The walk seemed endless. She was about halfway there when a deep voice
growled out.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
Peggy stopped and turned slowly, her eyes widening in surprise.
Oscar Stalkey was still standing in the doorway, but now he was pointing
a finger in her direction. “Come in here,” he said. “I want to talk to
you.”
There were gasps of surprise from the other girls. Peggy swallowed once
and pointed to herself. “Me?” she asked in a voice that cracked.
“Well, who’d you think I meant?” came the gruff answer. “Come in. I
haven’t got all day.” He stepped aside and motioned her to hurry.
Still unable to believe what was happening, Peggy followed Oscar Stalkey
blindly into his office.
III
The Inner Sanctum
Four people were grouped in the office. There was Stalkey himself,
heavy-set and dynamic, hovering impatiently by the door. Behind him in a
corner lounged a rather disheveled man in his mid-forties who looked
vaguely familiar. A young man in his twenties, with a collegiate crew
cut, stood by the window. Beside him, behind the largest desk Peggy had
ever seen, sat Pam Mundy—the girl she had met during the summer.
Pam seemed even more surprised than Peggy. Her eyebrows shot up in twin
crescents of astonishment at the sight of her friend coming through the
door. But she quickly regained her composure and threw Peggy a
reassuring smile and wink.
Anyone seeing Pam perched behind the massive desk would have thought she
was the most important person in the room. Actually, she was Oscar
Stalkey’s secretary, using his desk because the veteran producer seldom
sat in a chair if he could avoid it. All his business was conducted on
the run, in a restless course of constant pacing that was a little hard
to get accustomed to. The only reason he tolerated the desk at all was
because his wife had given it to him as a surprise years ago, and he
could never bring himself to get rid of it. But at the time, Peggy
didn’t know this. She advanced into the room and looked around
uncertainly.
The untidy man in the corner unwound his long legs from one side of his
lounge chair, and stared at Peggy with undisguised interest. The young
man by the window straightened up and greeted her with a pleasant smile.
“Well, sit down, sit down,” came the gravelly voice of Stalkey. “What’s
your name?”
“Peggy Lane.” Peggy sat down on the edge of a chair near the desk.
“Had much experience?” Stalkey was prowling along a row of bookcases
that lined the far wall of his office.
There was a pause. Finally Peggy decided to be straightforward. “No, Mr.
Stalkey,” she replied with a smile. “I’m afraid not much. A year of
dramatic school, a season of summer stock, a good off-Broadway role, and
a few walk-on parts.”
“That’s all?”
Peggy nodded. The rumpled man in the corner looked at her with surprise.
Stalkey merely grunted. “How’d you get on our list for an appointment?”
Peggy glanced over at Pam. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I got a phone call
last night from a Mr. Grey.”
The young man at the window nodded. “I’m Peter Grey,” he announced. “I
got in touch with her, Oscar.”
“Why?”
“Pam Mundy suggested it.”
All attention was now focused on the girl behind the desk. Pam took the
stares in stride. “I saw Peggy in stock last summer,” she explained.
“I’ve seen what she can do, and I thought she might be right for the
understudy.”
Oscar Stalkey grunted a second time and padded over to the figure in the
chair. “What do you think, Craig?” he asked suddenly.
Craig Claiborne! Peggy finally recognized him. He was the director of
_Innocent Laughter_ and would probably perform a similar job for the
road company productions.
Claiborne shrugged noncommittally. “You were the one who asked her to
come in,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Well, at least she’s honest,” Stalkey grumbled as he shuffled off to
continue his endless pacing. He stopped and glared accusingly at Peggy.
“You’ve no idea,” he said mournfully, “how many girls try to tell me
they’ve had years of experience.” He threw up his hands in exasperation.
“They have the nerve—some of them—to stand up and tell me they’ve been
acting for twenty years when I know perfectly well they can’t be more
than eighteen years old. Oh, well—” He broke off abruptly and moved over
to a position in front of Peggy. “The reason I asked you to step in
here,” he said, “was because you looked like the most human person out
there.” He gestured to the reception room in disgust. “That’s the
biggest collection of artificial people I’ve seen in months. Where do
the casting agents dig them up?” He sighed and went on. “There was
something about your embarrassment when you had that run-in with
Katherine—”
Craig Claiborne interrupted with a chuckle. “Don’t tell me she tangled
with Katherine the Great?” he asked.
“Tangled is the word,” Stalkey said happily. “Peggy here ruined
Katherine’s exit.”
Claiborne shook his head in mock dismay. “Oh, oh.”
“That’s right.” Stalkey nodded. He turned back to Peggy. “Tell me
frankly. You didn’t know what to do when that happened, now did you?”
Peggy smiled. “No, I didn’t. I was a little frightened and terribly
embarrassed.”
“And a little awed, too?” Stalkey asked, almost eagerly.
“Yes,” Peggy admitted. “I guess I was.”
The producer rubbed his hands together with pleasure. “And that,” he
said exuberantly, “is exactly the quality we want for the young
schoolgirl friend in _Innocent Laughter_. The only question is, are you
good enough to play the daughter—even as an understudy?” Stalkey looked
at Peggy searchingly, almost as if a careful examination of her face
could reveal the extent of her talent.
It was an impossible question to answer. Peggy was saved from trying by
a telephone that jangled suddenly.
Pam swooped down on it. “Yes?” she said crisply. “Who’s calling?” She
listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “It’s
Max Borden from Talent Incorporated,” she said. “Do you want to speak to
him?”
Stalkey nodded wordlessly, and lunged for the phone. “Hello,” he rasped,
“Max?” He began to move agitatedly back and forth across the room,
cradling the telephone in his left hand. “Did you get him?” he asked
eagerly.
There was a pause, and a look of frustration crossed Stalkey’s face.
“Well, can’t he get out of his contract?” he said. “Yeah, well, I’m
sorry too.” Another pause. Stalkey used it to shift his cigar over to
the other side of his mouth. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Yeah, I know. No, I
don’t have the faintest idea. Think about it and call me back. If we get
any brain waves here at our end we’ll let you know. G’by.” He hung up
the receiver and stared moodily at the telephone as if it had done him
some personal injury.
“Charlie Forsythe can’t play the part,” he announced. “He’s tied up with
a movie contract.”
Charles Forsythe, Peggy knew, was one of the outstanding character
actors in America. Stalkey must have been trying to get him for the role
of the grandfather in _Innocent Laughter_. For the first time, she
realized it wasn’t always too easy to cast a play.
Oscar Stalkey apparently had forgotten Peggy’s existence. “Any ideas?”
he rapped out. “We’ve got to settle this in the next few days.”
“What about Eddie Jarmin?” Craig Claiborne suggested. “I remember he did
something similar in _Bed of Roses_ a couple of years back.”
“Yeah,” Stalkey said unenthusiastically. “He sure did and was he
terrible! No, thanks!”
“There’s always James Donohue,” Claiborne said.
“Yes, there is,” Stalkey admitted. “When he remembers to show up for
rehearsal.” He trotted over to the other side of the room in a burst of
agitation.
“Why is it,” he said to no one in particular, “that good, dependable
character actors are so hard to come by? I can reach out and put my hand
on half a hundred leading men and a thousand juveniles. But a character
actor!” He shook his head helplessly. “Oh, well....”
Over by the window Peter Grey stirred restlessly. “You know,” he said
with an almost apologetic laugh, “you may think I’m crazy, but I’ve got
an idea.”
“Let’s have it,” Stalkey shot back.
Peter advanced toward the center of the room, speaking with mounting
excitement. “What we want,” he said, “is a man with a sure sense of
comedy. Somebody with a breezy style and a good ear for laugh lines. But
even more than that, he’s got to be able to move the audience. There’s
that big scene with the daughter, for instance. That’s got to be done
beautifully, with a great deal of tenderness.”
Stalkey snapped his fingers impatiently. “Sure, sure,” he said. “We know
all that. But I’ll settle for someone who can get us the laughs.”
“Why not get somebody who can do both?”
Stalkey snorted. “Stop dreaming,” he said. “They don’t make them like
that any more.”
“There’s one person who just might be able to do it,” Peter said slowly.
“If we can get him.”
“Who?”
Peter grinned. “This is the crazy part,” he said. He paused as the
others waited expectantly. “Tom Agate,” he finally blurted out.
“Tom Agate!” Craig Claiborne said in a puzzled voice. “Isn’t he dead?”
Peter scratched the back of his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “The
last I heard he was still living here.”
“Tom Agate,” Oscar Stalkey murmured slowly. “Tom Agate.” He spoke the
name a second time as if relishing the sound, then looked up at Peter
sharply. “How do you know about Tom Agate?” he demanded. “I thought only
us old-timers remembered him.”
Peter laughed. “Oh, I used to be crazy about him. My father took me to
see Tom Agate every time he played a USO show anywhere near where my
father was stationed during World War II.”
“Who,” Pam asked almost shyly, “is Tom Agate?”
Oscar Stalkey waved a hand in Pam’s direction. “You see?” he demanded
with a wry smile. “There’s fame for you, Tom Agate,” he said, turning to
Pam, “was just about the most famous song-and-dance man in vaudeville.
You’ve heard stories about the good old days in the theater—about the
grand troupers who always went on to give a performance no matter how
they were feeling—”
Peter put his hand over his heart melodramatically. “Even if they were
crying inside.”
Stalkey nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. It sounds real corny today, but they
actually did it, and Tom Agate was one of the greatest.” As he walked
back and forth, from one corner of the room to the other, his eyes
shining with excitement, Peggy suddenly saw what May Berriman meant when
she said that Oscar Stalkey had all the enthusiasm of a little boy. He
was in love with the theater, after thirty years still as stage-struck
as a newcomer.
“Tom Agate,” Oscar Stalkey was saying. “Why, I’ve seen that man hold an
entire audience in the palm of his hand for more than an hour.”
“What did he do?” Pam asked.
“Do?” Stalkey frowned. “He was a performer. He sang songs, danced a
little.”
“Actually, he danced badly,” Peter Grey said with a smile.
Stalkey was forced to agree. “Yes, I guess he did. But that didn’t make
any difference. He was a personality and the audience loved him.”
Stalkey made another tour of his office. “That was his secret,” he said.
“He understood people. He knew what made them laugh, and he knew how to
move them.” Stalkey stopped abruptly as if struck by a thought. He
cocked his head to one side as if trying to recall something. “What was
the name of that song he always sang—it was his theme song, an Irish
ballad, I think—ah, yes, ‘Kathleen Aroon’ it was. He used to play the
banjo along with it.”
“Yes, but Oscar,” Craig Claiborne objected, “he was just a
song-and-dance man. Even the movies he did were just filming his
vaudeville routines. He’s never had any acting experience.”
“Acting experience, my foot!” Stalkey said. “What the dickens does that
mean? The man’s been on the stage for most of his life!”
“You’ve got to admit,” Claiborne replied patiently, “that playing a
sustained role is a lot different from coming out for a few minutes
every night with a song or two and some jokes.”
“Oh, I know, I know.” Stalkey brushed him away. “You may be right. But I
still think it’s worth a chance. I’d like to hear him read for the
part.”
“I don’t know,” Claiborne said dubiously. “It’s taking a big chance.”
“Not as much as you think,” Stalkey said earnestly. “Besides, I bet
there are people all over this country who still remember Tom Agate and
would come to see him. His old vaudeville admirers, his movie and radio
audiences, the men he entertained during the war. He might be quite a
drawing card.” He hopped over to Peter and clapped him on the back.
“Peter,” he chortled, “I think you’ve hit it.”
“If you can find him,” Claiborne added.
Stalkey nodded. “Do you think you can track him down?” he asked Peter
anxiously.
Peter shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll certainly try.”
“You’ll have to locate him within the next three days,” Stalkey warned.
“Meanwhile,” Claiborne said, “we’d better contact Eddie Jarmin or Jim
Donohue. If this Agate fellow doesn’t pan out, we’ll have to fall back
on one of them.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Stalkey said mournfully. “Will you see to it, Pam?”
Pam made a note of the request and then cleared her throat. “There’s
another matter you’ve got to attend to,” she said.
Stalkey stopped in surprise. “What’s that?”
Pam pointed to the door. “You’ve got about two dozen young ladies
cooling their heels out there. Don’t you think you’d better see them?”
Stalkey clapped his hand over his forehead. “What a waste of time!” he
groaned. He turned and walked over to the door.
“Wait a minute,” Pam called out. “What about Peggy Lane?”
Stalkey stopped and looked at Peggy for the first time since the phone
call. “Oh,” he said, blinking at her as if she were a complete stranger.
“Oh, well, tomorrow morning, then,” he said airily.
“For what?” Peggy asked timidly.
Stalkey wrung his hands impatiently. “For what?” he muttered. “To read,
of course,” he said. “We want you to read for the general understudy.”
He glanced over at Claiborne. “What time are we holding tryouts?” he
asked.
“Nine-thirty,” the director answered.
“Nine-thirty,” Stalkey said. “Be at the Elgin Theater at nine-thirty
tomorrow morning to read a scene from _Innocent Laughter_. Is that
clear?”
Peggy nodded numbly. “Yes, sir,” she said.
“Good.” Stalkey went over to the door and threw it open. “Thank you very
much,” he said briskly. “That’ll be all for now.”
Peggy gathered her purse and gloves, made her way unsteadily to the
door, passed down a double line of curious, envying stares, and finally
found herself outside by the elevator door. As she waited for it, she
wondered if she could get back to the Gramercy Arms without screaming
for joy. She had passed the first test.
IV
“Innocent Laughter”
“Ground floor.”
The elevator bumped to a halt and discharged its load of passengers into
the busy lobby. Still numb from the half hour she had spent in Oscar
Stalkey’s office, Peggy allowed herself to be pulled along by the crowd
that surged toward the building entrance.
The big clock above the main doors registered a little after eleven—too
early for lunch and too late to make any more appointments for the
morning. Peggy idly wondered what to do next. Her first impulse had been
to go directly to the Gramercy Arms with the news. But Amy was out and
May was probably busy. Besides, at eleven o’clock on a weekday morning,
the big house would be almost deserted. The girls nearly all were on
jobs or were out busily hunting them.
Suddenly, Peggy felt strangely lonely. The need for someone to talk to
became overwhelming. She paused by the public telephone booths near the
revolving door and thought of calling home to Rockport, Wisconsin. She
could almost hear her mother at the other end of the line, excited and
happy to hear the good news. It would be good to hear her familiar voice
again.
On the other hand, wasn’t it silly to call now before she really knew
about the part? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until she was sure and not
make the same mistake Amy had made with her mother?
Peggy was still standing indecisively beside the telephone booth when
the elevator behind her clanged open to release a second wave of people.
The flood engulfed her and flowed on to the door.
“Watch it, lady,” growled an irritated voice. “You’re blocking the
road.”
Hastily Peggy moved out of the way. “Sorry,” she said, backing into a
delivery boy on his way into the building with a full load of packages.
“Why don’tcha look where yer going?” the delivery boy muttered, glaring
balefully at her over the top of his packages.
“Sorry,” Peggy murmured again. She decided she’d better get out of the
line of traffic, but as she turned toward one of the side doors, a hand
reached out and held her back.
“Excuse me,” said a familiar voice, “but can you use the services of a
good, reliable Boy Scout? I’m kind, honest, trustworthy, true—”
Peggy spun around with a gasp of surprise. “Randy! What are you doing
here?”
The tall, lean figure of Randolph Brewster, the young playwright Peggy
had met when she first came to New York, hovered over her. “I sent my
spies out early this morning.” He laughed. “They tracked you down to
this place.” He moved closer and took her arm. “Well?” he asked
expectantly.
Peggy looked at him sharply. “Who told you about _that_?” she demanded.
“Honestly, Randy, can’t a girl have any secrets?”
“Nope,” he answered good-naturedly. “Not from me, anyway. All right,” he
said. “I’ll tell you how I know. Amy told me.”
“Amy!”
“Sure. She was on the phone at a quarter past eight this morning,
talking thirteen to the dozen. She was convinced that you’d get a chance
to read for the part. Did you?”
Peggy’s breathless nod gave him the answer. Randy grinned and gave her
arm an enthusiastic squeeze. “That’s wonderful, Peggy! When do you
audition?”
“Tomorrow morning at nine-thirty.”
Randy pushed her ahead of him into the revolving door. “Where are we
going?” she asked over her shoulder, but the door had already closed
behind her. The next instant she found herself on the street, waiting
for Randy. “You seem in an awful hurry,” she said as Randy emerged.
“What’s up?”
“You’ll see,” Randy said as he reclaimed her arm. “Amy’s got a surprise
lined up for you.”
“Can’t you tell me what it is?”
Randy smiled. “I suppose so. Amy’s been waiting in line outside the
Elgin Theater since nine o’clock this morning. She’s determined to get
standing-room tickets for this afternoon’s performance of _Innocent
Laughter_.”
Peggy stopped. “Not really!” She gasped.
“Yes, really.” Randy urged her on. “Come on, let’s tell her the good
news.”
A few moments later, they turned the corner and walked down one of the
side streets that run into Broadway. They were now in the heart of New
York’s theater district, where famous names stared down at them from
every side. When Peggy first had come to New York, she had envisioned
theaters stretching along the entire length of Broadway. It had been
quite a surprise to discover that nearly all of New York’s theaters were
actually located on rather shabby-looking side streets. But there they
were, with one block housing as many as half a dozen play-houses, each
with its tremendous sign and a marquee jutting out over the pavement.
Under one of the marquees, about halfway down the block, stood Amy. She
saw them coming and ran toward them, waving a small envelope
triumphantly.
“I got them!” she cried. She came to a stop beside Peggy and stared at
her hopefully, eyes sparkling in anticipation. “Now, honey,” she said,
“you’ve got to tell me it’s been worth it, standing all this time.
You’re going to read for the part, aren’t you?”
[Illustration: _Amy waved a small envelope triumphantly._]
Peggy smiled and nodded. “Tomorrow morning,” she said. “I can’t believe
it yet—”
Amy let out a whoop and grabbed Peggy’s hands. “Oh, honey, I could kiss
you, I’m so happy.” She looked at Randy proudly. “You see!” she
demanded. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“You sure did,” Randy admitted with a grin. “Even at a quarter past
eight this morning. I could have cheerfully wrung your neck for waking
me up!”
“It did you good to get up,” Amy told him. “Now you’ve got to tell me
all about it,” she said to Peggy. “Let’s take a walk, have a nice lunch,
and then get to the theater early.”
“But aren’t you tired, Amy?” Peggy protested. “You’ve been standing here
all morning.”
Amy laughed her tinkling, infectious laugh. “After a year of looking for
work in New York,” she said, “my feet are used to it.” She wedged
between Peggy and Randy, took both of them by the arm, and swung down
the street toward Broadway. “Come on, you all,” she said cheerfully. “I
want to hear everything that happened....”
At six o’clock that evening, the three of them were sitting in Tony’s
Place, a postage stamp-sized restaurant near the Gramercy Arms that
specialized in heaping plates of spaghetti, smothered with rich,
aromatic meat sauce. The spaghetti was ordered and on its way.
Meanwhile, they were munching on crusty Italian bread with sweet butter.
“Whew!” Amy exclaimed wearily, as she speared a pat of butter from the
iced butter dish in the center of the table. “It sure is good to sit
down. What did you think of the play?”
Peggy shook her head enviously. “Diana Peters was awfully good, wasn’t
she? The way she played that scene with the old grandfather, you could
tell what she was thinking and what she was feeling every minute. I
don’t think I could ever do that—”
“Oh, don’t talk silly,” Amy said, biting into a piece of bread. “That’s
exactly the kind of part you _can_ play.”
“I don’t know,” Peggy replied dubiously. “What do you think, Randy?”
Randy had been absorbed in thought ever since they left the matinee. At
that moment, he was chewing moodily on a crisp stalk of green celery. “I
wouldn’t worry about that scene too much,” he said. “You just said
yourself you knew what she was thinking and feeling every minute.”
“Yes, but—”
Randy leaned forward, jabbing the stalk of celery in Peggy’s direction.
“What _was_ she thinking?” he queried. “That girl in the play. Now don’t
forget, she’s in New York for the first time. She doesn’t know her
mother very well and she’s never even met her grandmother. What’s she
looking for?”
Peggy shrugged. “Excitement, I suppose. Life.”
Randy nodded emphatically. “That’s it,” he said. “In her mind, she sees
New York as a romantic fairy-tale city where people can live exciting
lives—”
“If they know how,” Amy interrupted.
“Exactly,” Randy said. “And the daughter in the play doesn’t know how.
When she first comes on stage, she’s hoping that her mother will tell
her. But her mother is too preoccupied with her own life to spend much
time with her daughter’s problems. In fact, it never even occurs to her
that she has any.”
“And later on,” Amy chimed in, “the daughter turns to her
grandmother—the one she’s never met before. Again, the same thing
happens.”
“At that point,” Randy said, taking charge of the conversation, “the
daughter realizes she’s on her own. She decides the thing to do is to
fall in love. Unfortunately, the first man she meets is all wrong for
her. But she can’t see it and neither can the others.”
“But the grandfather sees it,” Amy said brightly.
“Yes,” Randy nodded. “He knows what she’s doing and has a long talk with
her. On the surface it’s very light and funny, but actually it goes
deeper than that. His granddaughter means a lot to the old man, and he’s
trying the best way he knows how to give her the experience of his
years. He knows he can’t lecture her—she’s too stubborn for that, and so
they just sit by the fire and talk. They talk about life and growing up.
About families and the tremendous joy that life offers. All of that.”
“You mean,” Peggy said, “that the grandfather and the young girl are
getting to know each other as people, not just as relatives.”
Bandy slapped his hand down on the table. “That’s exactly it,” he said
approvingly. “It’s a scene where two people start out as comparative
strangers and end up as close friends. Despite all the laugh lines, it’s
a very tender moment—and that’s the way it should be played.”
“You don’t think I should try for comedy?” Peggy asked.
Randy shook his head emphatically. “Everybody will be doing that,” he
said. “If you offer them something a little different, they’ll notice
you. Besides, the play is so well written that the comedy can take care
of itself.”
“All right,” Peggy said. “I’ll do it. But that’s not the way Diana
Peters played it this afternoon.”
Randy frowned. “I know it,” he said. “And that’s been worrying me. Right
now _Innocent Laughter_ is being acted all wrong.”
Amy broke into a laugh. “Oh, Randy!” she cried. “Here’s the biggest hit
on Broadway, and you say it’s all wrong.”
“No, listen to me,” Randy said, hunching over the table earnestly.
“Who’s the central character?”
“The mother,” Amy replied promptly. “It’s the biggest part.”
“It may be the biggest part,” Randy said. “But the play doesn’t hang
together that way.”
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” Amy challenged.
“I think the emphasis should be shifted to the two older people,” Randy
replied.
“You mean the grandmother and the grandfather?”
“Right. Look at the mother. She’s shallow at the beginning and just as
shallow at the end. She hasn’t learned a thing. But the grandmother has.
After all, she decides to go back to the grandfather. You remember that
wonderful scene between the two of them in the second act?”
“Yes,” said Peggy. “I thought that was the best thing in the play.”
“I did too,” Randy said. “You see, _Innocent Laughter_ deals with three
women who are being very foolish about their lives. The grandfather is
brought in to straighten them out. He succeeds with two of them, but
fails with the third.”
“Then why didn’t they play it the way you think it should be done?” Amy
demanded.
Randy shrugged. “It’s hard to say, but my guess is they wanted a
glamorous star to play the part of the mother and had to tailor the
whole play around her. Don’t misunderstand me. I think it’s still a good
play, but it could be much, much better.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Amy said, brushing the bread crumbs to one side.
“But let’s have a short intermission. Soup’s on.”
Smiling genially, as he threaded his way past the tables in his crowded
restaurant, came Tony with the spaghetti.
“Ahhh!” breathed Amy contentedly. “What a beautiful sight. I’m so hungry
I could eat miles of it.”
“Eat all you want,” Randy told her airily. “Treat’s on me tonight.”
“Oh, no,” Peggy protested. “We’re going Dutch, same as always.”
“Nothing doing,” Randy said. “Tonight we celebrate.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early?” Peggy said.
Randy looked over at her and slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he
said, reaching out for her hand. “Frankly, I don’t think you can miss.”
Randy kept Peggy’s hand in his until Tony came up to their table,
looking for a place to put the cheese. Finally Randy drew his hand back
and gave Peggy a wordless smile.
It was nice to know everyone was so confident, Peggy thought to herself,
but she knew tomorrow wouldn’t be easy. She glanced up at the clock over
the open kitchen in the rear. It read six-thirty. In fifteen hours, she
would be on the stage of the Elgin Theater, reading for the part of the
general understudy in _Innocent Laughter_. Just fifteen short hours! The
thought sent a shiver of dread and almost unbearable excitement running
down her back. Telling herself that tomorrow was still a long way off,
Peggy picked up a fork and tried to concentrate on Tony’s wonderful
spaghetti.
Why, she wondered miserably, had she ever thought she could be an
actress? Why hadn’t she stayed home in Rockport and become a
schoolteacher as her father had wished?
V
Tryouts
Peggy was still thinking the same thing the following morning as she
walked up Broadway toward the Elgin Theater. The day had started off
badly with showers and sharp, gusty blasts of wind that sent a fine rain
spattering over the deserted streets. New York’s theater district was
like a ghost town in the early-morning hours. Except for a few familiar
faces—the blind newspaper dealer at the corner of Forty-fourth and
Broadway, the white-jacketed soda fountain clerk reading a magazine in
the window, and the inevitable knot of musicians clustered at the corner
of Forty-fifth street—no one was abroad. People in show business worked
late and slept late. But by noon, Peggy knew, the streets would be
crowded.
She hurried past the newspaper stand, her high heels beating a brisk
tattoo on the sidewalk. The dealer was sitting inside his tiny booth
behind neat stacks of newspapers. When he heard Peggy’s footsteps his
head came up and a smile crossed his face.
“Good morning, miss,” he said cheerfully. “You’re out early today.”
“Good morning,” Peggy called back. “Not a very nice day, is it?”
“Not for some,” the blind man replied. “But it’s a grand day for you.”
Peggy stopped in her tracks and stared at him. “What do you mean?” she
asked.
The newspaper dealer’s smile broadened. “Your audition this morning.” He
chuckled at Peggy’s obvious astonishment, even though he couldn’t see
her face. “Word gets around,” he assured her. “After all, you’ve passed
my stand nearly every morning for months now. I like to know my
customers. Good luck. We’re all pulling for you.”
“Who—” Peggy started to say, but he waved her on.
“You don’t have much time,” he told her. “But don’t be too surprised.
You’ve got more friends in New York than you think.”
Peggy said good-by and moved on, reflecting that New York wasn’t such a
big place after all. People said it was cold and impersonal, but maybe
it wasn’t as bad as they insisted.
[Illustration: _“Good luck. We’re all pulling for you,” the blind
newsdealer said._]
The soft-drink counter that fronted on Broadway was halfway down the
next block. A garish red-and-orange sign, bigger than the shop,
proclaimed that it specialized in a drink called PinaCola. Against a
violently colored scene of neon-lighted palm trees a second sign
advertised PinaCola as a “Refreshing, Tropical Fruit Drink—a Sparkling
Blend of Fresh Pineapple Juice and Cola.” The store also served hot dogs
and hamburgers, a limited menu of sandwiches, and hot tea and coffee. It
was built so that customers could get service directly from the street
without going inside. Peggy often stopped there in the morning for a cup
of tea, which was served by a friendly, gum-chewing attendant named
Harry.
Harry, as usual, sat near the front of the store, his starched white cap
perched on the back of his head. As Peggy passed by, he looked up from
his magazine and rapped on the sliding glass window that opened out on
the street.
Peggy heard the sound and smiled over at him. Harry broke into a huge
grin and crossed his fingers in what was obviously a good-luck sign.
Peggy waved and hurried ahead. Even Harry knew where she was going.
Before she had time to puzzle out the almost magical way news seemed to
get around on Broadway, she was stopped by a third well-wisher.
“Good luck, baby,” came a voice from a nearby doorway. “Belt it out real
cool, and knock ’em dead.” Three or four other men smiled and nodded.
They were musicians who congregated daily in the same place. No one
quite knew why they were there, but at practically any hour of the day
or night you could find them. The area was generally known as the
“musicians’ corner” and if anyone needed a trumpet player or a guitarist
on short notice, he could call the cigar counter in the lobby of the
building. The attendant was careful to hold all messages. It was one of
those informal arrangements that puzzled outsiders but was accepted
without question by those who lived and worked in that strange world in
New York called show business.
Peggy smiled back at the men and turned down the street that led to the
Elgin Theater. At the corner her progress was momentarily halted by a
line of sleepy-looking people boarding a chartered bus parked in front
of a sign that read: “Sight-seeing Tours Meet Here.” A brisk,
businesslike man in uniform was herding them aboard.
“Step lively, folks,” he was saying. “New York’s a big city and we’ve
got a lot to see.” He gave Peggy a good-natured wink as she went by, as
if acknowledging the presence of another insider—a greeting from one New
Yorker to another. It made Peggy feel that she belonged in the big city
and that she was really a part of Manhattan. She swung down the street
with renewed confidence.
In front of the theater, a row of shiny glass doors blocked her
entrance. A small printed sign over the center door informed the public
that “Box Office Opens at 10 A.M.” Peggy tried the door and found it
locked.
Moving to the next door, she was met by a gray-haired man who opened it
a crack. “Sorry,” he said. “Box office won’t be open for another half
hour.” Off to her right, Peggy noticed that a line had already formed.
The early birds watched her with interest.
“I have an appointment,” Peggy said. “With Mr. Stalkey.”
The doorkeeper immediately stepped back and motioned her inside. “Just a
minute,” he said, reaching for a list on a clipboard. “Your name,
please?”
“Peggy Lane.”
The man checked off her name with a flourish. “Right. Go inside,
please.”
Peggy nodded at him absent-mindedly and pushed her way into the dark
interior of the theater.
There was something about a deserted theater that was both lifeless and
exciting. It was a strange, gloomy world of silent rows of seats that
looked almost like headstones in a cemetery.
And then there was the smell.
All empty theaters had the same unmistakable odor. It was a combination
of stale air and fish glue. The glue, Peggy knew from many long hours in
summer stock, was called “sizing,” and was used over canvas flats to
keep them stretched tight on their frames. Its odor was barely
noticeable at the back of the house, but farther on down, close to the
stage, it was quite strong. Backstage, of course, it was strongest, but
there it was mixed with countless other odors of theatrical life—the
sweet, oily smell of grease paint, the acrid cloud that was generated by
the electrician’s lighting board—all so familiar to Peggy. They were an
integral part of her life, just as the smell of printer’s ink was of her
father’s.
Blinking her eyes until they were adjusted to the shadowy darkness,
Peggy was aware that the curtain was up. In the middle of the stage
stood a plain worklight—an ugly, bare iron pole topped with a single,
powerful electric light bulb. It shed a harsh, uncompromising light that
threw grotesque shadows over the back of the set and down into the
orchestra. Near the rail that separated the orchestra pit from the
audience, Peggy could see three or four men, deep in earnest, low-voiced
conversation. In various parts of the auditorium, girls were sitting in
groups or singly. Nobody noticed her and nobody came up to tell her what
to do, so Peggy slipped unobtrusively into one of the seats off a side
aisle.
In a few moments, one of the men down front stood up and consulted his
watch. From his tall, loose-limbed movements, Peggy recognized him as
Craig Claiborne, the director of _Innocent Laughter_.
Claiborne moved up the center aisle, scanned the house, and apparently
was satisfied with what he saw. He turned and cupped his hands over his
mouth.
“Frank!” he yelled. “Let’s have some lights.”
From somewhere backstage a muffled voice shouted, “Okay!” The next
instant the stage was flooded with a soft yellow light. A moment later
an electrician shuffled over to the worklight, unplugged it, and dragged
it off to the wings. As he made his ungraceful exit, a tall, wiry man in
his shirt sleeves stepped on stage. In his hand, he carried two scripts.
He sat down behind a small, wooden table near the footlights and
proceeded to light a cigarette despite the No Smoking signs that covered
the theater walls. No one objected.
Claiborne turned and mounted some steps that led to the stage. Shading
his eyes against the glare, he advanced toward the audience and cleared
his throat for attention.
“Good morning,” he began. “I’ll skip the preliminaries because we all
know why we’re here. The scene I want you to read this morning is in the
second act of _Innocent Laughter_. It takes place between the young
daughter and her grandfather. You understand that you’re not reading for
the part of the daughter, but for the general understudy. Let me quickly
describe the action for you, and we’ll start.”
In a long-legged stride, Claiborne moved to a doorway at stage left.
“The daughter comes through this door into the living room. She thinks
it is deserted, but actually her grandfather is sitting in that wing
chair by the fire. The audience can see him, but she can’t. At this
point in the play, the daughter has just decided to marry the young man.
She’s excited at the prospect and also a little unsure of herself. She
goes over to the window here”—Claiborne walked to a set of double French
doors—“and looks out. She sighs once, then the grandfather speaks. She
turns around in surprise, and they begin their conversation.”
Claiborne returned to the footlights. “I want each of you to go through
the entrance. Mr. Fox”—he indicated the man puffing on a cigarette—“will
read the scene with you. Mr. Fox, incidentally, is our assistant stage
manager.”
The man at the table acknowledged the introduction by lifting one hand
and then letting it drop.
“Now then,” Claiborne said, “we’ll have Miss Celia Forrester.” As a
blond girl in a very tight dress got up to take her place on the stage,
Claiborne continued, “Keep on reading until I tell you to stop. When
you’re excused, please return the script to Mr. Fox and leave the
theater by the stage door. You’ll find it out beyond stage right.”
Miss Forrester, meanwhile, had collected her copy of the playscript from
Mr. Fox and was already disappearing behind the door. “All right, Miss
Forrester,” Claiborne called out. “We’re ready whenever you are.
Remember to take your time.”
There was an expectant hush as everyone in the theater settled back to
wait for the girl’s entrance. It came in a rush. The door flew open and
Miss Forrester leaped out on stage, clutching the manuscript in one
hand. Looking a little like some hunted animal, she darted over to the
window and groaned ecstatically. That was the cue for Mr. Fox to read
his line, but he was so fascinated by the girl’s entrance, he merely
stared at her. The young actress flashed him a peremptory glance and
heaved her sigh a second time. The assistant stage manager started
guiltily and quickly found the place.
“‘Why did you come in so quietly?’” Mr. Fox read. “‘You’re as furtive as
a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’”
He had a high-pitched nasal voice without a trace of expression.
Miss Forrester whirled around with a gasp. “‘Oh!’” she cried in a
simpering tone. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”
“‘I’ll go if you like,’” Mr. Fox continued.
Miss Forrester tripped over to him girlishly. “‘Oh, no! Please don’t,’”
she said breathlessly. “‘There’s—there’s something I want to talk to you
about.’” For some reason, Miss Forrester decided that a laugh would be
effective at this point. It rang clear and loud through the hollow
stillness of the empty theater.
Peggy saw Craig Claiborne slump deeper into his seat and bury his head
in his hands. After a few more moments he unwound himself and stood up.
“Thank you—thank you very much, Miss Forrester. We’ll call you.”
Miss Forrester, who had been stopped in mid-sentence, closed her mouth
and returned the playscript to Mr. Fox. Flashing Claiborne a smile, she
left the stage.
“Miss Palmers, please,” Claiborne announced. “Miss Ruth Palmers.”
Ruth Palmers turned out to be an extremely self-assured young woman who
took the script from Mr. Fox as though she were doing him a favor. She
glided haughtily to the door and closed it behind her.
“All right,” Claiborne called. “Any time.”
The door opened slowly, and Miss Palmers was revealed leaning
languorously against the frame. Keeping her eyes fixed on some distant
point in space, she stepped on stage and floated over to the window.
Collecting herself, she arched her back and breathed a tiny bored sigh.
“‘Why did you come in so quietly?’” read the faithful Mr. Fox. “‘You’re
as furtive as a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’”
Miss Palmers gave a little pout of surprise and turned to regard him
coldly. “‘Ahh,’” she drawled. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”
“‘I’ll go if you like,’” came the answering line, as the scene got under
way for the second time.
Miss Palmers lasted a little longer than Miss Forrester before she too
was dismissed. The third girl was allowed to read the entire scene.
Peggy saw she was a good, competent actress. Claiborne even worked with
her on some of the lines.
The fourth candidate was banished before she could read two lines. She
departed from the stage looking thoroughly defeated—as if this sort of
thing happened to her all the time.
Both of the next two girls read well. Peggy noticed they had bright,
attractive personalities which shone especially when they came to the
laugh lines. It would be her turn soon. She only hoped that Randy was
right in his diagnosis of the scene. She was determined to play it with
tenderness.
Peggy was jolted back to reality by Craig Claiborne’s voice calling,
“Miss Lane. Miss Peggy Lane, please.”
Peggy lifted herself out of her seat and walked down the aisle on
rubbery legs. Suddenly her throat became as dry as a lump of cotton
wool. But somehow she managed to get on stage, take the script from Mr.
Fox, and move through the door.
At last she was backstage at the Elgin Theater. All around her, coils of
wire and rope snaked across the floor. Above her, high over the stage,
she could see rows of heavy sandbags used as counterweights whenever
scenery was “flown.” Behind her, by the electrician’s board, a heavy-set
stagehand was tipped back in a chair, reading the morning paper. He
didn’t even bother to give her a glance.
“All right,” came Claiborne’s voice. “Any time.”
Peggy forced herself to relax. She drew a deep breath and expelled every
drop of air from her lungs. Then she took a second breath and pushed
open the door.
It’s night, Peggy thought to herself. The room is probably dark except
for the glow of the fire. She moved quietly, tentatively, and closed the
door softly. She stood for a moment, as if she were listening for
something, then walked quickly over to the big double window. Very
gently, she pulled back a curtain. New York was supposed to be stretched
out there in front of her, and Peggy tried to remember what it was like
to see the lights of New York in real life. She conjured them up and
sighed. The lights of New York....
“‘Why did you come in so quietly? You’re as furtive as a lady burglar
tonight. What’s wrong?’”
The line was totally unexpected. Of course, Peggy knew the words would
be spoken, but they still came as a surprise. She turned in genuine
astonishment. “‘Oh!’” she exclaimed. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”
“‘I’ll go if you like.’”
Peggy moved down to the wing chair, trying to envision an old man
sitting there. A kind old man with a strong, salty sense of humor, whom
she didn’t know too well.
“‘Oh, no! Please don’t,’” Peggy read. There was real conviction in her
voice. “‘There’s—there’s something I want to talk to you about.’”
Suddenly Peggy knew how the girl in the play would feel. She would be a
little afraid of her grandfather, even though she recognized all his
good qualities. The girl would be unsure of how to start the
conversation.
Mr. Fox, playing the grandfather, read the encouraging lines. Peggy
answered him. The pieces were beginning to fall into place now. She read
with mounting conviction and assurance until, abruptly, a voice
shattered the illusion.
“Thank you, Miss Lane. We’ll be in touch with you.”
It couldn’t be over yet! Peggy stopped in stunned amazement. Just when
it was going so well! She felt the script being taken out of her hand
and realized that she had been dismissed. Fighting back the tears, Peggy
moved over to the right of the stage and ran off into the wings.
She was grateful there was no one backstage to see her. She turned the
corner that led to the stage entrance and thudded against somebody
coming into the theater.
Peggy blinked the tears away and looked up to see Katherine Nelson
standing in front of her. Katherine Nelson opened her mouth to speak,
but Peggy didn’t stop to listen.
Murmuring apologies under her breath, she brushed past the star and
threw open the heavy door. All she wanted was to get out of the theater
and as far away from _Innocent Laughter_ as she could. She barely heard
the steel door clang shut behind her as she walked quickly down the
street—away from Broadway.
VI
“Why Don’t You Quit?”
“Peggy, honey, it just can’t be as bad as all that!”
“You don’t know!” Peggy was in her dressing gown, stretched across her
bed, still thinking about the audition that morning. “I hardly got out
five lines before he stopped me. Honestly, I’ve never been so
embarrassed in my life.”
“You can’t tell,” Amy said. “Maybe he didn’t have to hear any more.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” Peggy replied bitterly. “I’m sure he heard all he
wanted. More than he wanted.” She got up and walked distractedly over to
the window. “Whatever made me think I could be an actress! I ought to
have my head examined!”
“You _are_ an actress,” Amy said stoutly. “And a darned good one.”
Peggy whirled on her angrily. “You wouldn’t say that if you could have
heard me. I must have sounded like an old crow!”
Amy shook her head. “You certainly are taking this hard,” she said. “I
can’t do a thing to cheer you up.”
“Oh, Amy.” Peggy went over to her roommate and took her by the hand.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just that—that—oh, I don’t know.”
“I wish I’d seen you,” Amy declared.
Peggy looked at her in surprise. “Why? What could you have done?”
“I just think you’re exaggerating, that’s all. But I can’t convince you
because I wasn’t there.”
“Well, thanks anyway, but I’m not.” Peggy sat down and closed her eyes.
“You’d better get dressed,” Amy said after a pause.
Peggy opened one eye. “What for?”
“You have to eat, don’t you? I bet you didn’t have any lunch.”
“I had a bite,” Peggy said listlessly. “But I’m not hungry right now.
You go on.”
“Not without you.”
“No, please go.” Peggy sat up and looked at Amy earnestly. “Really, I
wouldn’t mind being alone for a little while. I’ve got some thinking to
do.”
“Sometimes two heads are better than one.”
Peggy shook her head doubtfully. “Not on this problem,” she said. “I’ve
got to decide whether to stay in New York.”
Amy jumped to her feet. “Peggy!” she cried. “That’s the most outrageous
thing I’ve ever heard!”
“But what’s the sense in beating my brains out?”
“Oh, Peggy!” It was Amy’s turn to look distracted. “What would you do?
Where would you go?”
“Do?” Peggy said vacantly. “I guess I’d go back home and do what Dad
wanted me to do all along. Be a schoolteacher.”
“You wouldn’t be happy,” Amy said gently.
“No,” Peggy admitted. “I suppose I wouldn’t. But it would be better than
this.”
Amy crossed the room with firm strides and sat down on the bed beside
Peggy. Her usually cheerful face was set in a serious line. “Now you
listen to me, Peggy Lane,” she said severely. “I don’t know how you read
today and I don’t care. The important thing is that this was your very
first audition for an important play. Of course, you were nervous. Who
wouldn’t be? Maybe you didn’t do as well as you thought you could, but
that doesn’t mean you can’t. Two nights ago, I was the one who wanted to
quit, and remember what you said to me then. You told me to face up to
what happened and not let it get me down. And now here you’re doing the
very thing you warned me against.”
“Yes, but Amy,” Peggy said, “tell me something, frankly.”
“What is it?”
Peggy paused to choose her words with care. “Supposing—just suppose now,
you discovered you didn’t have any talent—”
Amy tossed her head angrily. “Oh, Peggy!” she cried reproachfully.
“Now don’t interrupt,” Peggy said. “Just let me finish and answer my
question. If you found out you didn’t have any talent as an actress,
would you still try to break into the theater? Or would you give it up,
much as you loved it?”
Amy stared at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Peggy,” she said. “I
honestly don’t know. What made you think of that?”
“I saw a girl today,” Peggy said. “She read at the audition. Craig
Claiborne stopped her before she could say three words—”
“There, you see!” Amy interrupted triumphantly. “You did better than
that!”
Peggy smiled wanly. “Yes, but not much. Anyway, the point I’m trying to
make is that Claiborne was right in stopping her. She was no good at
all.” She tucked her legs underneath her and leaned forward. “Now here’s
a girl,” Peggy went on, “who obviously thinks she’s got ability. But
actually she doesn’t. Isn’t she just deluding herself by going on?”
Amy shrugged. “You never know. She might get better.”
Peggy shook her head emphatically. “Not a chance in the world. You can
tell about some people. And, in a strange sort of way, I think she knew
it, too. You should have seen her face when Claiborne told her she could
go. It was as if she had heard the same thing so many times.”
“Well, how does all this apply to you?” Amy asked.
“I’m getting to that. How many girls want to be actresses, do you
think?”
Amy thought for a moment. “Thousands, I guess.”
“And a lot of them have some talent,” Peggy continued eagerly. “They
take part in school plays and church pageants and all that sort of
thing. Everybody tells them how good they are, and pretty soon they
begin to believe them. But Amy! What a difference between being the best
actress in your home town and competing in New York!”
“Don’t I know it!” Amy sighed.
“Well, then,” Peggy said, “supposing I’m one of those girls—” She held
up her hand. “Now don’t interrupt again,” she warned. “One of those
girls who has a certain amount of ability, but not enough to make the
grade in the professional theater. In that case, I think I owe it to
myself to go back home. Let me act if I want to, but in the local little
theater group—not as a starving outsider in New York. Right?”
“I guess so,” Amy agreed quietly. “But only if you’re convinced you
don’t have the talent.”
“And that’s what I have to figure out,” Peggy said. “I’m just not sure.”
Further discussion was interrupted by a soft knock.
“Come in,” the girls chorused. The door swung open to reveal May
Berriman standing in the hall with a tray in her hands.
“Room service,” she announced as she shouldered her way inside. “Would
you mind clearing off that dresser so I can put down the tray?”
“May!” Peggy cried. “What’s all this for?”
“Custom of the house,” May replied loftily as she set down her tray. “We
do it whenever a girl has her first big audition. We figure that she’s
too exhausted to go out and eat afterward.”
“I don’t believe it,” Peggy said.
“Well, you’re right,” May replied dryly. “But I heard you had a fit of
the blues, and I thought this might help. How do you feel?”
“She feels terrible,” Amy answered. “She’s the original Calamity Jane.”
“Uh huh.” May nodded. “Feeling sorry for yourself, eh? Here, try some of
this soup.” She looked at Peggy sharply. “What’s the matter? Did you
walk out on the stage with two left feet?”
Peggy smiled briefly. “That’s just about it. I did a dreadful job.”
May put a plate of soup on Peggy’s lap. “Who said so?” she demanded
brusquely.
“Nobody had to tell me,” Peggy said. “I was there. He stopped me after
five lines.”
May whistled admiringly. “Five lines! Say, that’s pretty good. I
remember my first audition—they didn’t even let me take a deep breath.”
“Come on!”
“I’m not joking. Tell me, were your legs shaking?”
Peggy laughed. “I didn’t think I could make it to the stage.”
“I know the feeling. It’s like trying to walk across a plate of Jello.
Well,” May said cheerfully, “you’ve got all the right symptoms. You
should recover in a day or two.”
“In a day or two she might be gone,” Amy blurted out.
“What?” May turned to Amy in blank amazement. “What do you mean?”
“She’s thinking of going back home,” Amy said. “She doesn’t think she’s
got enough talent.”
May’s expression hardened as she stared at Peggy. “Well!” she said at
last. “Maybe she’s right.”
“May!” came Amy’s shocked voice.
“I mean it,” May said coldly. “There’s no room for anyone in the theater
without confidence.” She stalked over to the dresser and began taking
dishes off the tray. Amy and Peggy looked at each other in surprise.
Amy was the first to break the silence. “But, May,” she faltered,
“couldn’t you—I mean, don’t you think—”
“That she should stay?” May shook her head disdainfully. “Not if _she_
doesn’t think so.” The older woman turned and faced the two girls. “Look
here, you two. Whenever an actor or actress gets up on a stage in front
of thousands of people, he’s simply got to have confidence in himself.
He’s got to think that he’s the only person in the world who can play
the part. If he didn’t”—May threw up her hands—“he’d have no business
being in the theater.”
May walked over to Amy’s bed and sat down. “That doesn’t mean you have
to be vain and egotistical. Somebody like Katherine Nelson, for example.
She thinks the sun rises and sets for her own personal enjoyment.
Personally, I think her acting suffers because of her attitude, and
certainly she’s not a very attractive human being. No, what I’m talking
about is something quite different. It’s a quiet pride in your own craft
and ability. That’s the quality you need.”
May fixed Peggy with a steady stare. “I know what’s wrong with you,
young lady. You just want somebody to tell you how good you are. Well,
that’s not surprising. We all need approval. But in the theater, we
don’t always get it when we want it, and that means we’ve got to be
tough enough to keep on going no matter what people say. I didn’t say
hard, I said tough. There’s a big difference. Peggy, look at me.”
The young girl raised her eyes. “I think you’re a good actress. I can’t
tell you how good, because that depends on you. It depends on how hard
you’re willing to work and how fast you learn. But you have the basic
equipment to make it.”
May raised a finger to emphasize her point. “Even so, that’s still not
enough. You have to want to do it and you have to have a deep faith that
you can do it. Tell me, Peggy, do you think you could play the part of
the daughter in _Innocent Laughter_ if you had to? Tell me honestly
now.”
Peggy nodded briefly. “Yes,” she said with quiet conviction. “I know I
could.”
May sighed and stood up. “Then why do you want to leave New York?
_Innocent Laughter_ isn’t the only play you’re ever going to audition
for. And the next time you’ll do better. Let’s have a little backbone,
Peggy.”
Peggy sat staring at May for a moment, then flung herself into the older
woman’s arms. “Oh, May!” she said. “You’re right. I was being—I don’t
know what.”
“There, there,” May said soothingly, stroking the girl’s hair. “You’re
all right, Peggy. You just needed somebody to talk tough.” She put her
hands on Peggy’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “No more of this
talk about going home. Promise?”
Peggy nodded. “I promise,” she said with a laugh.
“Good girl. Go ahead and have a cry if you want. It’ll do you good. But
don’t forget to eat some supper.” She started to pat Peggy’s hand, but
stopped as the telephone buzzer squawked unexpectedly.
“Oh, oh,” May said. “Better not have that cry after all. Somebody wants
to talk to you.”
“I’ll go,” Amy cried, going toward the door. They could hear her
footsteps echoing down the hallway. The next instant, it seemed, they
heard them running back to the room at what sounded like full speed.
Amy appeared at the doorway, her face flushed with excitement and her
eyes bright. “Peggy!” she almost screamed. “You got it! You got it!”
For a moment it didn’t register. “Got what?” Peggy stammered.
“The part!” Amy danced into the room and made a grab for Peggy. “Hurry
up! It’s Peter Grey! He’s downstairs in the living room with Pam Mundy.
He told me to tell you that they’re ready to offer you the part of
general understudy in _Innocent Laughter_. He wants to talk to you about
it right now. Oh, Peggy, Peggy! All that worrying for nothing. You got
the part!”
VII
Peggy Turns Detective
Peggy found Pam Mundy and Peter Grey sitting on one of the sofas in the
big living room of the Gramercy Arms. When Peggy walked through the
door, Peter jumped up and held out his hand.
“Congratulations,” he said. “We thought we’d come around and tell you
the good news personally.”
Peggy took the offered hand and smiled. “I still don’t believe it,” she
said. “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”
“Absolutely certain.”
Peggy smiled a second time and went over to sit beside Pam. “And you’re
the one who started it all,” she said.
Pam, who was a petite brunette with a quick, vivacious manner, leaned
her head back against the sofa and laughed. “That,” she said, “was what
they call a stroke of genius.”
“Well, whatever it was, I’ve got you to thank.”
Pam sat up suddenly. “Oh, no,” she said. “It’s the other way around. I’m
the one who should thank you.”
Peggy looked at her in surprise. “Whatever do you mean?”
“It’s simple,” Pam said seriously. “Oscar Stalkey was wondering whom to
get for the understudy, and I’m the fair-haired girl who came up with
the right name. Is he ever impressed!”
Peter held up his right hand. “That’s the truth,” he assured Peggy. “He
thinks Pam’s the greatest casting director in New York.”
“Well, not quite,” Pam said with a grin. “But at least he doesn’t think
I’m a silly girl butting in where I don’t have any business to be.”
She turned to Peggy with a sudden movement of annoyance. “Honestly,
Peggy, you wouldn’t believe the cold shoulders I’ve been given! I used
to think it was hard for a girl to get established as an actress, but
believe me, that’s a cinch compared to finding a good job in production.
Producers,” she continued, warming up to her topic, “are all alike. In
the first place, they’re nearly all men—”
“And that’s the way they want to keep it,” Peter finished with a smile.
“That’s right.” Pam nodded vigorously. “That’s exactly the trouble.” She
turned and appealed to Peggy. “What’s the matter with a woman being a
producer?” she demanded.
“Nothing. There are some very successful women producers.”
Pam brushed this aside. “They’re exceptions—”
“Whoa! Slow down a bit,” Peter said good-naturedly. “This is her
favorite topic,” he told Peggy. “The poor girl’s always telling us what
a hard life she leads.”
Pam subsided with a sheepish grin. “I guess you’re right. But it still
makes me mad to think—”
“Watch it,” Peter warned.
Pam stuck her tongue out at him and they both laughed. “The reason I can
give orders to the terrible-tempered Miss Mundy,” Peter said, “is that I
am now officially her boss.”
“I thought you worked for Mr. Stalkey,” Peggy said.
“We both work for Oscar Stalkey,” Peter explained, “but Pam works for
me. You see, I’ve been made company manager for the first road
production of _Innocent Laughter_, and Pam was just made my assistant.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Peggy cried excitedly. “That means we’ll be
going on tour together.”
“That’s right,” Peter answered. “And now, if my assistant will kindly
shut up for five minutes, maybe we can talk about the road tour for a
change. After all, that’s why we’re here.” He leaned forward. “First of
all, are there any questions?”
“Hundreds,” Peggy assured him. “So many I don’t know which one to ask
first. But how about this one? Why did I get the part?”
Peter looked surprised. “That’s easy. You read better than anyone else.”
Peggy shook her head in amazement. “I was so scared, my knees were all
wobbly. I thought I was terrible.”
Peter grinned. “You sure were scared,” he conceded. “We could
practically hear your teeth chattering. But you had the quality we were
looking for.”
“But what about the other girls?” Peggy said. “The ones that Craig
Claiborne worked with for a while.”
“They were almost right. Claiborne thought with a little help he could
make them give a performance. But then you came along and you were
perfect. And that was that!”
“I still can’t understand it,” Peggy marveled. “He cut me off so soon.”
“He didn’t have to hear any more.”
Peggy smiled. “That’s just what Amy said.”
“Well, she was right.” Peter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out
a sheaf of mimeographed papers. “Here,” he said, spreading them out over
the coffee table, “this is an outline of the tour as far as we know it.”
Peggy leaned over the table and watched Peter check off each stopping
place. “We open in Baltimore on the twelfth of next month. That’s just
five weeks away. We move south to Washington, swing west for a series of
performances through Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, up to Ohio, over
to Indiana, and eventually to Chicago. It’s a rugged tour. A lot of
one-night stands in theaters that haven’t been properly used since the
days of vaudeville. Oscar Stalkey believes in bringing live theater to
all parts of the country—even if it kills all his actors.”
“How long will we be in Chicago?” Peggy asked.
“As long as they’ll keep us,” Peter answered with a wry smile.
“Actually, we’re the Chicago company of _Innocent Laughter_, but we’re
taking the long way around before we get there.”
“Is there another road company?”
“Oh, yes. It hasn’t been formed yet, though. They’ll play the Southwest
and California and probably settle in Los Angeles.”
“How do we travel?”
Peter and Pam exchanged glances and grinned. “You name it,” Peter said.
“We’ll be using every means of transportation known to man except the
ox-cart.”
“Don’t be too sure.” Pam laughed. “We may use that yet.”
“True,” Peter admitted. “Bus, hired car, trains, of course, planes.
Everything you can think of.”
“And hotel space?”
“That’s one of our headaches,” Pam said. “You see, moving a dozen people
and three tons of theatrical scenery around the country on a
split-second schedule is quite a chore.”
“We’re still worrying about the scenery,” Peter said. “When we get that
settled, we’ll start to think about the people.”
“Oh, I wasn’t complaining,” Peggy said hastily. “I’m sure everything
will be all right.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Peter said dryly. “I wish everyone was as easy
to please.”
“Why? Whom do you mean?”
“None other than that great lady of the theater, Katherine Nelson.”
Peggy felt a funny sinking sensation in her stomach. “Is she in the
cast?”
Peter nodded grimly. “Oh, yes. She’s the mother.”
“The romantic lead!”
“Yep.” Peter grinned at her. “Don’t look so surprised. What did you
expect her to play? The grandmother?”
Peggy shook her head. “I’ve only seen that woman twice, but I don’t
think she liked me.”
“Bingo!” Peter cried. “You’re so right. What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. Really, I didn’t do a thing. Why?”
“She saw you at the theater this morning and came storming up to Oscar
Stalkey. She wanted to know if you were being considered for the
understudy.”
“What did he say?”
“What could he say? Yes, naturally. She bounced around the theater like
an old bag of bones, she was so angry. I wonder why she’s taken such a
dislike to you.”
“I don’t know,” Peggy said. “I’ll just have to stay out of her way as
much as I can.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” Pam said. “Don’t forget, you’re playing a
small part in the first act. You’re playing the schoolgirl friend of the
daughter.”
“True,” Peggy said. “Does she know about it?”
“Not yet.”
“I bet there’ll be an explosion.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Peter counseled. “Oscar Stalkey can handle her
pretty well. He doesn’t let her get away with too much.”
“What was that fight about in the office the other day?” Peggy asked.
“Or shouldn’t I ask?”
Peter shrugged carelessly. “No big secret. She’d just finished
explaining to Stalkey that she should play the lead in the Broadway
production and not out in the sticks, as she put it.”
“Mr. Stalkey put her in her place soon enough,” Pam added with evident
satisfaction.
“And that’s why she was screaming,” Peter added. “She’s got to have her
own way or she throws a temper tantrum. Just like a child. I sometimes
wonder what ails that woman.”
Pam looked at him sharply. “Don’t be dumb, Peter. She simply can’t face
the fact that she’s not the romantic star she used to be.”
“Well, I wish she’d act her age,” Peter said moodily. “It’d be a lot
easier all around. Let’s change the subject. Any more questions, Peggy?”
“One or two. Who’s the rest of the cast?”
“Let’s see now. The grandmother—a wonderful part—is Emily Burckhardt.
The daughter is Marcy Hubbard. Do you know Marcy? She’s about your age,
I guess. A little older.”
Peggy shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard of her.”
“She’s nice. You’ll like her.”
“What about the grandfather?”
“Now that,” Peter said, “is a ticklish question.” He pushed a paper
across the table to Peggy. “You’d better hang on to that. It’s the first
of many to come. Before we start on tour, you’ll have mimeographed
sheets telling everything you’ll want to know—times of departures and
arrivals, accommodations assigned to you, absolutely everything. That’s
my headache.”
“And mine,” Pam said.
“Right,” Peter acknowledged with a grin. “But to get back to your
question about the grandfather. You heard our conversation in the
office?”
“You mean when you suggested Tom Agate?”
“That’s right.”
“Exactly who is Tom Agate? I think I know the name, and I remember your
saying he was a famous performer back in the days of vaudeville. But I’m
afraid I’m still not clear about—”
“That’s not surprising,” Peter interrupted. “Tom Agate retired from the
stage fifteen years ago.”
“Why did he retire?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Maybe he couldn’t get a job any more.”
“Tom Agate!” Peter said incredulously. “Don’t you believe it! Don’t
forget, that was just when television was starting. They were using a
lot of old-time vaudeville performers then, and Tom could have had any
number of jobs. I’ve spoken to several producers who wanted him, but
they couldn’t find him.”
“What do you mean—couldn’t find him?”
“Exactly that. He’d disappeared. Vanished.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
Peter paused and sat back in his chair. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t.
But I think there’s a chance of tracing him.”
“How?”
“I ran into somebody the other day who says he’s positive that Tom is
still in New York. If he is, we’re going to find him.”
“Remember,” Pam pointed out, “you’ve only got two days.”
“I know, and that’s the trouble.”
“Where are you going to look first?” Peggy asked.
“I know a man, a friend of my father’s,” Peter said, “who’s been with
the drama department of the _Chronicle_ for the last forty years. He
knows more about the history of the American theater than anyone I’ve
ever met.” He looked straight at Peggy. “I thought we’d go down tomorrow
and talk to him.”
“We?” Peggy said in surprise.
Peter nodded. “I was hoping you’d be willing to help.”
“Well, sure,” Peggy said, “but how—”
“You see,” Peter went on excitedly, “I can’t get away during the day,
and neither can Pam. There’s just not enough time before the tour. We
both have to stick pretty close to the office. But I thought that maybe
you—” He trailed off and looked at Peggy hopefully.
“Could act as the bloodhound?” Peggy finished.
“That’s it. Will you?”
“I don’t even know what he looks like.”
Peter brushed this aside. “That’s no problem. We can go down to the
newspaper office first thing tomorrow morning and talk to my friend. His
name, by the way, is Johnny Dwyer. Johnny has a room full of old
clippings and photographs, and I bet he can give us a lead on Tom. Then
you can follow it up and let me know tomorrow evening. How about it?”
Peggy smiled. “Well, I once discovered a hidden theater. Maybe I’ll be
lucky enough to find a hidden actor.”
Peter bounced to his feet with a broad smile. “Good girl!” he said. “Can
you meet me on the fourth floor of the _Chronicle_ building at nine
o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be there,” Peggy said.
“Good.” Peter gathered his papers and stuffed them in his pocket. “We’ll
have your contract prepared tomorrow, and when I meet you I’ll give you
a copy, and you can look it over. Then, if everything’s satisfactory,
you can sign it and deliver it back to us. Okay?”
Peggy sighed. “Sounds wonderful to me.”
“Sounds pretty good to us, too,” Peter replied. “I think we’re signing
on a first-class actress.”
VIII
The Search
“Tom Agate? Sure, what can I tell you?”
Johnny Dwyer settled back in his chair and waved a hand invitingly at a
pair of battered office chairs. Peggy sat down in one of them and looked
at the figure in front of her with interest. Johnny Dwyer was a small,
birdlike man with a cheerful, pink face, snow-white hair and the
bushiest eyebrows Peggy had ever seen. At the moment, he was perched in
front of an old-fashioned rolltop desk in a musty corner of the big
metropolitan newspaper office, his coat off and the sleeves of his shirt
held up by a pair of elastic armbands. Outside of actors in costume and
old photographs, Peggy had never seen anyone wear armbands. But Johnny
Dwyer did, and it gave him the appearance of someone out of a
turn-of-the-century tintype. Despite his age—and Peggy guessed that he
was over seventy—Johnny Dwyer moved with a quick, catlike grace. But
when he walked, it was with the help of a cane.
On the way in to his office that morning, Peter had told Peggy a little
about Johnny Dwyer. Johnny had been a gay blade in his younger days, a
rising popular star in the New York music halls. But a tragic horseback
accident had broken his leg in three places and cut short his career as
a song-and-dance man.
The publisher of the _Chronicle_, then a new and struggling newspaper in
New York, liked Johnny, felt sorry for him, and offered him a job
keeping records for the drama department. It turned out to be a
satisfactory arrangement for both sides. Johnny moved in and stayed.
For nearly half a century he watched the American theater parade through
his bulging scrapbook and file cabinets. His memory was phenomenal and
his list of acquaintances was as wide as the theater itself. In his own
time, Johnny Dwyer had become sort of a legend, a living museum whose
memory was a storehouse of theatrical lore. If anyone needed any
information on the theater, they usually tried the public library first
and then, if they couldn’t find it there, they came to Johnny.
Sometimes, if they knew Johnny well, they didn’t even bother with the
library. According to Peter, if anybody in New York knew where Tom Agate
was, it would be Johnny Dwyer.
“Tom used to be a good friend of mine,” Johnny said, leaning back
comfortably. “Many’s the night we’ve sat around and swapped stories.”
“Used to?” Peter asked in a troubled voice. “Is he dead?”
Johnny looked at Peter shrewdly. “Some people think so.”
“Do you?” Peter obviously didn’t know what to make of this strange
reply.
Johnny stared up at the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Look
here, young fellow,” he said at last. “Tom Agate retired a long time
ago.”
“I know that,” Peter said. “But we want to find him.”
Johnny Dwyer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has it occurred to you that
he doesn’t want to be found?”
“Oh, come on now, Johnny,” Peter said in a pleading voice. “You know a
lot more than you’re telling us. How about a break? We don’t want to
bite the man. We just want to offer him a job.”
Johnny seemed startled. “A job? But he’s retired!”
“He’ll come out of retirement for this part,” Peter said confidently.
“Oh, it’s a play?”
Peter nodded. “A wonderful chance.”
Johnny shook his head and smiled. “Tom Agate’s heard that so many times.
Believe me, he won’t listen. He’s finished with the theater.”
“Do you know why?” Peggy asked.
“I don’t have the slightest notion,” Johnny replied blandly. Despite his
innocent expression, Peggy was almost certain the old man was lying to
Peter. “All I know,” he went on smoothly, “is that fifteen years ago,
Tom Agate told me he was quitting the stage. He didn’t give any reason
and I didn’t ask. After all, you don’t stick your nose into someone
else’s affairs.”
“Have you seen Tom lately?” Peter persisted.
“The last time I saw Tom was”—the old man cocked his head to one
side—“oh, it must have been four years ago.”
“And he’d been retired then for eleven years?”
Johnny smiled briefly. “If my arithmetic isn’t off, I guess you’re
right.”
“How was he?”