Mummers in Mufti/Chapter 17

T a certain moment just after six o'clock, when electric lights still compete with the fag-end of daylight, when the working crowds have gone home and the pleasure crowds have not yet returned, when provident souls have perfected their plans for the evening and improvident souls have not yet been forced to make up their minds, when, in short, early dinners are not completed and late dinners are not begun, there comes a curious, vacant "patch" in the routine of a provincial theater, a little odd moment of emptiness hardly equalled in all the rest of the day. It was in this vacant moment, before the slow stir which begins again in the early evening, that Arnold Bellsmith, riding wildly on the momentum of his boast to the doctor, burst into the lobby of the Leicester Lyceum.

The sight which met him was rather chilling for such a fantastic flight. The lobby was empty except for a chance young man in a very tight, high-waisted overcoat who was walking out, holding his tickets in one hand and counting his change in the other. With his eyes cast down, he and Bellsmith almost collided, made mutual apologies, then each stepped aside, and Bellsmith was left alone in what was apparently an empty, echoing vault.

A janitor came through the swinging doors from the theater proper, clamped the doors open, and, whistling gaily, began to brush up the dust, cigarette ends, obsolete seat checks and other litter left by the steady flow of the afternoon's box-office business. Through the doors he had opened Bellsmith could see the dim rows of seats in the main part of the house, now lighted only by the red lamps at the exits, and, beyond them, a huge bleak wall of curtain marked in big letters, "Asbestos." The janitor disappeared for a moment, came back, bearing in each hand one of the tall tin receivers, like ballot-boxes, in which the doorkeepers put the torn-off tickets, and dropped them with a slam at each side of the door.

Bellsmith approached him timidly.

"I beg your pardon—," he began, but the janitor, like most persons who occupy insignificant positions in public life had a manner in which good-natured indifference and studied insolence were nicely balanced. He continued to sweep as if Bellsmith had not been in existence and Bellsmith repeated, with even more hesitation:

"I beg your pardon. Can you tell me where I can find the manager?"

The janitor stopped sweeping, leaned on his long-handled brush as a farmer might lean on his hoe and surveyed him from head to foot. Before he could answer, a sharp and officious voice came from, behind them both:

"What do you want? Who are you looking for?"

As if that relieved him from any further responsibility, the janitor began sweeping again, and Bellsmith looked vaguely for the owner of the voice. It was a moment before he placed it as coming from a thick-set young man with hair parted mathematically in the middle, whose head and shoulders had suddenly appeared behind the window of the box-office. An opened book which he had been reading was placed face downward in front of him.

Bellsmith walked over to the window. "I am looking for the manager," he said.

"What manager?" snapped the thick-set young man.

"Why—why—the business manager," began Bellsmith indefinitely, but the ticket-seller broke in:

"The manager of the theater or the manager of the show?" "The—I guess it is the manager of the show," replied Bellsmith, but the thick-set young man did not stir.

"What do you want to see him about? Something about seats?"

"No, it is nothing about seats," replied Bellsmith. "I—I want to see him on business."

He could hardly know that nine out of every ten theatrical parasites used exactly that phrase, but, on the other hand, something about his dress and manner, something in the courteous timidity of his attitude, was puzzling to the man behind the window. He hesitated a moment, but finally turned and spoke into a telephone at his elbow.

"Hello! Mr. Israels there? Some one to see him."

Without another word, he picked up his book and continued reading. With a queer, gulpy feeling, like that of a country boy in search of his first job, Bellsmith turned to the empty lobby where now even the janitor had finished his sketchy and superficial sweeping. He gazed around with assumed casualness. On the walls were huge and dusty framed portraits of Lillian Russell, Sir Henry Irving, and William Gillette, all signed in compliment to the owner of the house but all taken, obviously, in a day when photography was not the art which it later became. Gillette, in particular, wore the big "Ascot" tie and the odd, high-cut waistcoat of the nineties.

On the floor, under these classic notables, stood a big wicker easel bearing a large display frame filled with photographed groups from "Eleanor"—a little group of three principals in front of a trellised inn, a single large picture of Maida Maine, a double octet of chorus men standing in line and chorus girls kneeling before them, a closely packed group of girls, all displaying set smiles through heavily painted lips which stood out with unnatural harshness in the cold black and white of the photographs. In all the pictures the one girl who was a little taller than all the others was always smiling a little harder than the rest, as if her extra size demanded the extra effort. A hundred show frames, advertising a hundred musical shows, in the lobbies of a hundred theaters, could have been substituted for this one, and the casual observer would hardly have known that a change had been made. Even Bellsmith could establish no particular connection of reality between those pictures and his present errand.

His reverie was broken by the sharp voice of the ticket-seller behind him.

"There you are! There's your man!"

Bellsmith pulled himself up with a start and saw that a round, swarthy young man had come in silently through a door at the end of the lobby and was standing waiting. He was dressed in black as complete as deep mourning, even to the black derby hat which accentuated his heavy eyebrows and full, olive skin. While waiting he made continuously a clucking sound through his closed lips as if he were accustomed to having a toothpick in his teeth, although no toothpick was actually there.

In his diffidence Bellsmith had not made a move, and the new-comer looked pleasantly enough toward the box-office.

"Some one to see me, Oliver?"

The young man in the box-office made a silent gesture toward Bellsmith, and the manager's attitude stiffened, as it probably did toward all strangers.

"Do you want to see me?"

"Are you the manager of this—this musical comedy?"

The gross ineptness of Bellsmith's words put the manager still further on his guard. He nodded cautiously, as if reluctant to admit even that much, and Bellsmith found himself unable to continue. He hesitated so long that the manager fully decided that, after all, he was merely one more of the well-dressed hangers-on who infest managers' offices. He broke in gruffly:

"Come, come, mister. What do you want?"

It was that one word "mister" which caught hold of something in Bellsmith deeper than his own cultivated weakness. As Margaret had learned, it was a very foolish way to speak to Bellsmith.

"I wanted to know," he said abruptly, "whether you wanted to sell this show?"

"What?" gasped the man in front of him. "What in the devil do you mean?"

"I wanted to know," repeated Bellsmith quietly, "whether you wanted to sell this show."

Behind him Bellsmith was aware that the young man in the box-office had closed his book and was listening intently. The swarthy young man before him was so thunderstruck that he even forgot to bluster. He looked at Bellsmith, wholly at sea.

"I don't just get you," he said, in a more human voice. "This show? 'Eleanor'? Is 'Eleanor' for sale?"

Bellsmith nodded. "Yes. Is it?"

The manager put his hand to his chin and continued to stare, his brow puckering.

"Say, what is this, anyway?" he began, querulously. "Are you trying to string me or something?"

Bellsmith merely smiled. "No," he replied, "I am asking as a simple business proposition. I want to know whether one could buy this show."

"Who wants to buy it?"

"I do."

The manager looked him slowly over from head to foot. In that long scrutiny details of Bellsmith's appearance which had passed unobserved in his first careless glance were made plain to him and his attitude changed.

"Say, wait a minute," he said, pleasantly enough. He turned to the box-office. "Hey! Oliver! come out here a minute, will you?"

The door of the box-office opened and the thick-set young man came out, shedding his official character as he came. At the same moment the janitor turned on the full lights of the lobby. It gave a much pleasanter, more cheerful atmosphere to the whole proceeding, and Bellsmith's spirits went up accordingly. The thick-set young man in particular appeared a much more friendly figure outside his cage. Seen in his private life, as it were, he was not really belligerent or supercilious at all—not even thick-set.

"Say, Oliver," began the manager, "this—this gentleman's got me guessing. He says he wants to buy the show. What does he mean?"

The ticket-seller turned, politely, but equally puzzled, to Bellsmith.

"Your face is familiar," he said, "but I am afraid that I don't know your name."

"My name is Bellsmith—Arnold Bellsmith."

"Oh!" said the ticket-seller, raising his eyebrows. A smile flickered over his lips, to which even Bellsmith responded. He looked at Bellsmith with humorous eyes, and then at the manager.

"I don't know what the joke is," he said, "but if Mr. Bellsmith wants to buy the show, I guess he can do it."

The respect in his tone conveyed enough to the manager to make him still more polite but not enough to make him confidential. He suddenly jerked his head. "Say, Oliver, come here a minute, will you? Will you excuse us, Mr.—Grossmith?"

The two disappeared together through the door by which the manager had entered, while Bellsmith waited, amused. It was not hard to guess what they were talking about. In a moment they reappeared with the air of a family party.

"Mr. Bellsmith," said the ticket-seller, "shake hands with Mr. Israels."

"Pleased to meet you," said the manager, solemnly offering his hand as if they had never spoken a word before. Bellsmith bowed slightly with the nice formality which the occasion seemed to demand. He was vaguely aware that this sudden interview, with its air of intimate business, gave him a little glow, a sense of importance which was really fascinating.

"I was going to say, Mr. Grossmith—," began the manager.

"Mr. Bellsmith," corrected the ticket-seller.

"My mistake," said the manager. "I was going to say, Mr. Bellsmith, that you've still got me guessing, but I am willing to listen to anything once. Suppose we go into the office. Will you come with us, Oliver?"

"Sorry, thank you," replied the ticket-seller. "I've got to get back into jail."

He turned with a nod to them both and disappeared behind the grilled window, while Israels opened a swinging door into a large, dim space which could apparently be made part of the lobby when extra crowds were to be handled. At the end of this twilight zone an oblong of brilliant light cut the darkness from an open doorway, and to this Israels led the way.

In a theater, space is as valuable a consideration as it is in a sleeping-car, and the private office was nothing but a cubbyhole tucked under a flight of stairs. A desk occupied almost the whole of it, leaving scarcely two feet of space where a man could have stood erect. Red burlap covered the walls, while scattered over the burlap was an indiscriminate mass of photographs of actors and actresses not important enough to be framed in the lobby but still important enough to be tacked up under the stairs. The place needed only a fish-net and a pair of hockey skates to make it look like a room in a boarding-school.

Israels took the swivel chair at the desk, threw one leg across it, and shoved his hat back on his head. "Have a cigar, Mr. Grossmith?"

The cigar was one which even Bellsmith could not despise. Lighting it, he sat down and, by some strange impulse, shoved his own hat back on his head, as his companion had done. Instantly he felt foolish for having done it, began to put it on straight again, then felt that that would be more foolish still and left it as it was, acutely aware of it for minutes after.

Even men accustomed to public life, like Israels, grow strangely human when placed in an unfamiliar position. The young manager picked up a tiny fragment of paper and began rolling it absently in his fingers, while his face assumed an expression of grave deliberation. By some odd flash of intuition Bellsmith felt that Israels had read somewhere a book on office management, or command of men, or something of that kind, and was unconsciously putting himself into the proper pose.

"Now, Mr. Grossmith—Bellsmith is it?" began Israels, "I don't doubt but what you 're serious enough in this business. Oliver, out there, tells me that you could buy all the shows on Broadway if you wanted to, but, frankly, what is the big idea? Have you ever had anything to do with the show business?"

Bellsmith shook his head, now amazingly at ease. The doctor was right. It really was astounding what could happen to one in ten minutes if one gave it half a chance. Here he was talking as if one bought and sold comedies as casually as one bought a horse.

"No," he replied with a little laugh which showed his enjoyment of the other man's perplexity, "I have never been nearer the—the show business than a seat in the orchestra."

The answer naturally brought no more enlightenment to Israels.

"But just what do you want to do? What is your object? Do you want to put some money into it—buy an interest, so to speak?"

"No," said Bellsmith, "I want to take over the whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel."

Israels whistled. It was evident that his visitor had not the slightest idea of what he was undertaking.

"You don't mean to manage it yourself, do you?"

"Oh, no," replied Bellsmith. "I frankly don't know anything about the business. I just want control."

That word had a ring about it which was not new to the show business, and Israels began to see light. "You know some one in the company, don't you?"

Bellsmith hesitated. Little as he had contemplated being a stage-door Johnny, still less had he contemplated figuring as a theatrical "angel."

"Yes," he confessed, "I know several of the company—but just casually."

Israels was too old a hand to press that point. After all, an angel was an angel. "See much of the show in New York?"

Bellsmith shook his head. "I never heard of it until last week. I 've only seen it once."

Israels looked at him with a grin of amazement. "You 've only seen it once?" he repeated. Here was a fast worker.

He sat for some minutes thinking it over. "Well, just how much money are you prepared to put into it?"

"How much do you want?"

Israels did not reply at once, and when he did it was with an air of notable caution.

"You understand," he began, "that I don't own this show myself. I'm merely the manager on the road. It belongs to Harcourt & Gay. To give you any answer I'd have to get in touch with them, and even then I don't know that they'd be prepared to talk about it. You'd probably have to go to New York and see them."

"That would n't do," replied Bellsmith firmly. "I want to buy it to-night or never."

"Holy Moses!" exclaimed Israels. "You are in a hurry, are n't you?"

A sudden new suspicion came to him. "Look here. You 're not acting somebody else, are you?"

"Not a soul."

Israels was still unconvinced. "We don't want to wake up and find we 've sold our booking to the A. & E. crowd or something of that kind. The Holberts would wring our necks. Why won't to-morrow do?"

Bellsmith suddenly let himself go. "If you really want to sell," he remarked frankly, "I would advise you to do so now. I'd lose my nerve entirely by to-morrow."

The manager grinned. "There's something in that.

"Just the same—," he began again.

"Could n't you call them up, to-night—now?" suggested Bellsmith.

"Why—why, yes," replied Israels. "I think so."

He reached uncertainly for the telephone on the desk, then drew his hand back. "Just what security do you mean to put up for this deal?"

"Cash," replied Bellsmith, "that is, of course, my personal check. I will hand it over as soon as we are able to agree on a price."

Still Israels hesitated. "Have you any idea how much a show costs? A great big successful musical offering like this one?"

Bellsmith smiled. "Apparently I am going to find out in a minute. Of course," he added, "I don't mean that I am going to pay you a million dollars."

His answer seemed to impress Israels more than anything he had yet said. Again to the manager's mind came the suspicion that something lay under this deal which was not apparent on the surface but, like Bellsmith, he was committed to it now and with an impulsive movement, curiously similar to that with which Bellsmith had launched himself from the doctor's office, he reached for the telephone. As he spoke into it his voice became once more that metallic snarl which apparently he assumed as a professional manner.

"Hello. Long-distance. … Long-distance? This is the Lyceum Theater. I want New York, Lenox four, eight, nine, six. FOUR, BIGHT, NINE, SIX, and I want to talk with Mr. Gay. G-A-Y, Gay. Same as 'merry.' No, no, no, Mr. Gay. And say, sister, if he is n 't there, tell them— O hell!"

Viciously he hung up the receiver and, with a grin, turned to Bellsmith.

"Are n't they the same the world over? Bone-head! I was going to tell her that if he was n't there, to have them find out where he was, but all she could say was, 'I 'll call you; I 'll call you.'" He puckered up his face and threw his voice into a simpering imitation of the telephone operator's. "I 'll call you!"

"Anyway," he concluded, "we 'll take a chance that he's there. That's his apartment. He sometimes stops in there on his way somewhere else."

Bellsmith made a motion to rise.

"Perhaps you had rather do your talking alone," he suggested.

"Well, perhaps it would be best," agreed Israels, "but wait and see if we get him, first."

Bellsmith sat back, but, not strangely, the interval left them nothing to talk about. The ears of both were strained for the ring of the bell. Even Israels seemed to be excited by the curious drama of the moment, but Bellsmith felt that he ought to say something.

"Have you been in this business long, Mr. Israels?"

Israels came back with a start. "Who? Me? Been in it twenty-two years."

Bellsmith's eyebrows showed his surprise, for the man did not look much more than thirty, and Israels explained:

"Sold candy when I was eleven. Was an usher when I was fourteen. Was out with a show of my own before I was twenty-one."

Bellsmith smiled. "I see that I am going into the business late in life."

"You 'll learn fast enough," replied Israels, "but you 've got to grow up in this business to understand it. Before—" A sudden shrill ring of the telephone bell interrupted him, but it was only Bone-head calling to say "On your call to New York, Mr. Gay is not in and is not expected." Israels slashed up the receiver and looked at his watch.

"Quarter of seven," he mused.

He drummed thoughtfully on the desk. "I tell you what I 'll do," he suggested. "Mr. Gay is likely to be at the Harcourt Theater any time after half-past seven. Suppose I leave a call there? Will you come back at that time?"

"Are you going to wait?" asked Bellsmith. "Oh, I 've got to wait. I don't want to miss him."

"Then I 'll wait, too."

"Good enough," said the manager, and as the two men leaned back and faced each other across the desk a slow smile broke over the face of each.

"Say, look here," broke out Israels, after a minute. "Have you had anything to eat? Let's go out and get a sandwich."

As they passed the box-office he leaned fraternally toward the grilled window.

"Oliver, Mr. Bellsmith and I are going out for a sandwich. If that New York call comes, hold it. I 'll be back in three minutes."

Outside the theater Bellsmith sent Keefe home rejoicing for the night and with Israels turned into the little restaurant next door. It was with a strange feeling that he realized suddenly that it was the same one that he had seen from the alley.

Fortified, not by pâte à la reine, as it proved, but by egg sandwiches and coffee from cups nearly half an inch thick, they returned to the little office and resumed their long vigil.

At twenty minutes to eight the telephone shrilled out again, and Israel grabbed the receiver, now as excited as Bellsmith.

"Hello!" he shouted. "That you, Mr. Gay? This is Israels speaking. Israels—with the 'Eleanor' company. I'm speaking from Leicester. Say, Mr. Gay, just wait a minute, will you?"

He turned suggestively toward Bellsmith, but Bellsmith was already on his feet. "I 'll wait for you in the lobby."

Inwardly trembling but outwardly amazingly calm, Bellsmith passed through the twilight zone outside the office. As his hand fell on the lobby door he heard the first words of the conversation behind him:

"Say, Mr. Gay, I've got a funny proposition put up to me."