Chapter Four. PETER waited for Borden to come out of the synagogue

PETER waited for Borden to come out of the synagogue. The synagogue on lower Broadway was the morning meeting-place for many of the important independent picture men. He fell into step with him as he walked down the street.

"Morning, Willie," he said.

Borden looked over at him, "Peter," he said, smiling, "how's geschaft?"

"No complaints," Peter answered. "I want to talk to you. Got time for a cup of coffee?"

Borden took out his watch and looked at it importantly. "Sure," he said. "What's on your mind?"

"You read yesterday's papers?" Peter asked as they sat down at a table in a near-by restaurant.

"Sure," Borden answered. "To what are you referring?"

"Specifically," Peter said, "the Bernhardt picture and Quo Vadis?'

"Yeah, I saw it." Borden was wondering what Peter wanted.

"You think bigger pictures are coming?" Peter asked.

"Could be," Borden answered cautiously.

Peter was silent while the waitress put down the coffee and left. "Johnny wants me to make a six-reeler."

Borden was interested. "A six-reeler, huh? About what?"

"He wants me to buy a play and make a picture out of it and hire the leading man to play in it."

"Buy a play?" Borden laughed. "That's silly. Who ever heard of such a thing? You can get all the stories you want for nothing."

"I know," Peter said, sipping at his coffee, "but Johnny says the play's name means customers at the box-office."

Borden could see the sense in that. His interest quickened. "How will you get around the combine's regulations?"

"Johnny says we should save enough film to make the picture and then do it secretly. They won't know about it until the picture comes out."

"If they find out they can put you out of business."

"Maybe," Peter said. "Maybe they will and maybe they won't. But somewhere we got to draw the line and fight them. Otherwise we'll still be making two-reelers when the rest of the world is making bigger pictures. Then the foreign producers will come in and take over our market. When that happens we'll suffer more than the combine. We've been feeding on the crumbs from their table long enough. It's time we independents got together to fight them."

Borden thought that over. What Peter had said was the com­mon sentiment of all the independent producers, but none of them had the desire to buck the combine. Even he would not want to take a chance on a venture as risky as this promised to be. But if Peter was willing to do it, he could see the benefits

that would accrue to him if Peter should succeed. "How much would a picture like that cost?" he asked.

"About twenty-five thousand."

Borden finished his coffee. He was trying to figure out just how much money Peter had. After a few moments of silent calculation he arrived at the conclusion that Peter had about ten thousand dollars. That meant he would have to borrow the rest. He put a quarter on the table and stood up. "You going to make the picture?" he asked when they reached the street.

"I'm thinking about it," Peter replied, "but I ain't got enough money. Maybe if I could see my way clear on that, I might take a chance."

"How much you got?"

"About fifteen thousand," Peter answered.

Borden was surprised. Peter must have been doing better than he had figured. He looked at him with a new respect. "I can let you have about twenty-five hundred," he said im­pulsively. It was a small amount for him to risk on a venture that might lead to as much opportunity for him as this prom­ised. He felt very smug about it. It would be better for him if Peter took the chance.

Peter looked at him appraisingly. This was what Peter wanted to know—whether Borden liked the idea enough to risk his money on it. The small amount that Borden had offered made no impression on Peter; the fact that Borden could advance him the balance of the money needed if he wanted to was lost to him. "I haven't made up my mind yet," he said. "I'll let you know if I decide to do it."

Now Borden wanted Peter to do it. "That's right," he said slyly. "If you don't do it, let me know. Maybe I'll do it. The more I think about it, the more I like it."

"I don't know yet," Peter answered quickly. "Like I said, I got to make up my mind. But I'll let you know."

Johnny looked at the door. The lettering on the glass read: "Samuel Sharpe," and underneath it in smaller letters: "Theatri­cal Representative." He turned the knob and went in.

The room he entered was a small one. Its walls were covered with pictures, all of them inscribed to "Dear Sam." Johnny looked closely at them. They all seemed to be in the same hand­writing. He smiled to himself.

A girl came into the room from another door and sat down at a desk near the wall. "What can we do for you, sir?" she asked.

Johnny walked over to her. She was pretty. This Sharpe could pick them. He threw a card down on the desk in front of her. "Mr. Edge to see Mr. Sharpe," he said.

The girl picked up the card and looked at it. It was a simple card, carefully engraved. "John Edge, Vice-President—Magnum Pictures." She looked up at Johnny with a quick respect. "Won't you take a seat, sir?" she said. "I’ll see if Mr. Sharpe is free."

Johnny smiled at her as he sat down. "You ought to be in pictures."

Her face was flushed as she left the room. She was back in a moment. "Mr. Sharpe will see you in a few minutes," she said. She sat down at the desk and tried to look busy.

Johnny picked up a copy of Billboard and glanced through it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her watching him. He put the paper down. "Nice day, isn't it?" he asked pleas­antly.

"Yes, sir," she answered. She put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and began to type.

Johnny got out of his seat and walked over to her. "Do you believe that your handwriting will reveal your character?" he asked.

She looked puzzled. "I never thought of it." Her voice was pleasant. "But I guess it could."

"Write something on a sheet of paper," he told her.

She took a pencil in her hand. "What shall I write?"

He thought for a moment. "Write: 'To Sam from'—whatever your name is." He smiled at her disarmingly.

She scribbled on a sheet of paper and handed it to him. "There it is, Mr. Edge, but I don't know what you can make of it."

Johnny looked at the sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up at her in sudden surprise. She was laughing. He grinned back at her and read the writing on the paper again.

"You could have asked me," it read. "Jane Andersen. Further details upon request."

He joined her laugh. "Jane," he said, "I might have known you were wise to me." She started to answer, but

a buzzer sounded next to her desk. "You may go in now," she said, smiling. "Mr. Sharpe is free."

He started toward the inner door. At the door he stopped and looked back at her. "Tell me something," he said in a stage whisper. "Was Mr. Sharpe really busy?"

She tossed her head indignantly, then a bright smile crossed her face. "Of course he was," she replied in the same kind of whisper. "He was shaving."

Johnny laughed and went into the other room. The second room was a duplicate of the first, only a little larger. The same pictures were on the wall, but the desk was a bigger one. A small man in a bright gray suit sat behind it.

As Johnny came into the room, he got up and held out his hand to him. "Mr. Edge," he said in a thin, not unpleasant voice, "I'm glad to meet you."

They exchanged greetings and Johnny came right to the point. "Magnum Pictures is purchasing the motion-picture rights to The Bandit and we would like Warren Craig to play the lead in the motion picture."

Sharpe shook his head sadly and didn't answer.

"Why do you shake your head, Mr. Sharpe?" Johnny asked.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Edge," Sharpe replied. "If it had been any one of my clients other than Warren Craig, I would say you might have a chance of getting him. But Warren Craig—" He didn't finish his sentence, but spread his hands expressively on the desk.

"What do you mean, 'But Warren Craig'?"

Sharpe smiled at him soothingly. "Mr. Craig comes from one of the first families of the theater, Mr. Edge, and you know how they feel about the flickers. They look down upon them.

"And besides, from a more practical point of view, they don't pay enough money."

Johnny looked at him speculatively. "How much money docs Warren Craig rate, Mr. Sharpe?"

Sharpe returned the look. "Craig gets one hundred and fifty dollars per week and you flicker people won't pay more than seventy-five."

Johnny leaned forward in his seat; his voice dropped to a

confidential tone. "Mr. Sharpe," he said, "what I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence."

Sharpe looked interested. "Sam Sharpe will respect that con­fidence, sir," he said quickly.

"Good." Johnny nodded, and pulled his chair closer to Sharpe's desk. "Magnum does not intend to make an ordinary flicker out of The Bandit. Magnum is going to make a brand-new high-type production, something that is so new it will be fit to take its place among the finest works of the theater. That is why we want Warren Craig to play the role he created on the stage." He paused impressively.

"For playing that role we are prepared to pay him four hundred dollars a week, with a minimum guarantee of two thousand dollars." Johnny leaned back in his chair and watched the effect of his words on Sharpe.

From the look on his face Johnny could tell that he was interested, that it was the kind of deal Sharpe would like to make. Sharpe sighed heavily. "I must be honest with you, Mr. Edge," he said regretfully. "Your offer seems to me a most generous one, but I don't believe I can persuade Craig to ac­cept it. I repeat again, he does not approve of the flickers. He even goes so far as to despise them. He believes them beneath the dignity of his art."

Johnny stood up. "Madame Sarah Bernhardt does not be­lieve them beneath the dignity of her art, and if she is making a picture in France, maybe Mr. Craig will consent to make one here."

"I had heard about that, Mr. Edge, but I didn't believe it," Sharpe said. "Is it really true?"

Johnny nodded his head. "You can believe it," he lied. "Our representative in France was very close to the deal and he assured us it is signed, sealed, and delivered." He hesitated for a moment, then added as if it were an afterthought: "Of course we would pay you the same sort of bonus that Madame Bernhardt's agent received. Ten per cent over the guarantee for yourself."

Sharpe stood up and faced Johnny. "Mr. Edge, you have been most convincing. You have sold me on the idea, but you will have to sell Mr. Craig. On a matter of this type he would never listen to me. Will you talk to him?"

"Any time you say," Johnny answered.

Johnny walked out of the office with an understanding that Sharpe would call him as soon as an appointment with Craig could be arranged.

He stopped at the girl's desk as he left. He smiled down at her. "About those further details, Jane," he said.

She handed him a typewritten sheet of paper. He looked at it. Her name, address, and telephone number were neatly typed on it.

"Don't call later than eight o'clock, Mr. Edge," she smiled. "It's a boarding house and the landlady doesn't approve of telephone calls later than that."

Johnny grinned. "I'll call you here, sugar. Then we won't have to worry about the landlady."

He left the office whistling jauntily.

Johnny didn't get to the studio until late in the afternoon. Peter looked up from his desk as he came in.

"Where were you?" he asked. "I been looking for you all day."

Johnny perched himself on the edge of Peter's desk. "I had a busy day," he said, smiling. "First thing this morning I saw Warren Craig's agent. Then I thought I'd have lunch with George since he was in town today."

"What did you go to lunch with George for?" Peter asked.

"Money," Johnny replied blithely. "It looked like we're going to get Craig this morning, so I thought it wouldn't hurt to start getting some dough for the picture. He's going to let us have a thousand."

"But I didn't say we were going to make the picture," Peter said.

"I know," Johnny replied. "But if you don't somebody else will." He looked down at Peter challengingly. "And I don't aim to be on the outside looking in when it's all over."

Peter looked up at him for a few minutes. Johnny looked back at him steadily. At last Peter spoke. "Your mind's made up?"

Johnny nodded. "My mind's made up. I'm through horsin' around."

The phone rang. Peter picked it up and answered it. He

turned to Johnny and held the phone toward him. "It's for you."

Johnny took the phone. "Hello."

The voice crackled over the phone a few minutes while Johnny listened. He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and spoke to Peter while the voice crackled on. "It's Borden. Did you speak to him about the picture this morning?"

"Yes," Peter said. "What does he want?"

Johnny didn't answer him, for the voice over the phone stopped talking. Johnny spoke into the phone. "I don't know, Bill." He looked at Peter questioningly. "He hasn't made up his mind yet."

The voice spoke rapidly for a few minutes.

"Sure, Bill, sure," Johnny said, " I'll let you know." He hung up the receiver.

"What did he want?" Peter repeated suspiciously.

"He wanted to know if you had made up your mind. He said if you decided against it, for me to see him."

"The gonif!" Peter exploded indignantly. He put a cigar in his mouth and chewed on it furiously. "Only this morning I spoke to him and already he's trying to steal my ideas. What did you tell him?"

"You heard me," Johnny answered. "I told him you hadn't decided."

"Well, call him right back and tell him I decided," Peter said excitedly. "We're going to make the picture!"

"You'll do it?" Johnny was grinning.

"I'll do it," Peter said. He was still angry. "I'll show that Willie Bordanov he can't steal a man's ideas."

Johnny picked up the phone.

"Wait a minute," Peter stopped him. "I'll call him. There's a little matter of twenty-five hundred dollars he promised to lend me if I make this picture and I want him to send it right over."