Evening Star Newspaper, October 20, 1935, Page 91

-e Magazine Section . repeated itself . .. swelled.“Maximilian." Tommy and the officer belabored a path. No need now to drop pennies. The crowd grew of its own momentum. Across the Square to the Century Building. Max's hat was knocked off. A hand at his side (Tommy's jerked violently at his coat. It tore. A police siren screamed. Into the lobby now with cops beating back the mob. The two friends struggled toward the elevators, squeezing in, fighting off the crowd. Then the elevator doors clanged shut. Max sagged against the side, sweat pouring from his face, his hair disheveled, one sleeve hanging by a thread. “What the — the —" he gasped. Tommy gasped, too, and grinned. “That, Maxie, is your panting public — your raise in pay. “Imperial Pictures — fifteenth floor, operator.” In the office of Thomas J. Traphagen, Public Relations Council and Personal Repre- sentative, also in the Century Building, Miss Snowden heard the screaming of the police sirens. She leaned out of the eighth floor window; she saw the milling mob and, in the center, the two struggling figures. She won- dered what was the matter, who . . . She heard a name — ‘“Maximilian."” THIS WEEK Presently she went back to work, pasting clippings. CARLOTTA TOLNARO SUES FEARLESS FRANCINE FOR $50,000; MOUSE FUNERAL STOPS BROADWAY TRAFFIC; ‘MY NERVES ARE RUINED — RUINED,"’ CRIES LION TAMER FROM HOSPITAL BED Miss Snowden feit the thrill of one who has been behind the scenes and watched the puppet master pull the strings. It had all happened just as Mr. Traphagen had planned. She looked up from her work when, nearly an hour later, Hazel — alias Carlotta Tolnaro — entered the office. ‘““Thank heaven," she said, ‘‘this mice job's nearly over. One of them ate a hole in my best chiffon gown last night. It's reached the stage where —"' She broke off as the door was flung open, and Tommy burst into the office. He had in tow a greatly bewildered and very handsome blond giant. ‘“‘Hazel,” he said, “get us a drink.” He grabbed her with platonic exuberance. “This is Max. Max, this is Hazel. I just struck Imperial for $3000 and a five-year contract — and got it. They took one look at that mob and changed their minds about Maxie's following." Glasses clinked—Maxie's, Hazel's, Tommy's. ‘‘Publicity — applause — ballyhoo — banana oil.” Tommy paced the room, waving his glass. “Even if you're good, you can’t do without them. Get yourself talked about. Even your best friends won't notice you until you're on the front page.” Glasses clinked again. The three of them were gay and very, very merry. It was almost six before Maximilian left. - “Now," said Tommy, as the door closed on the actor, “now that we're rid of that heel, come on out to dinner with me, Hazel.” A few minutes later Tommy and Hazel left. At the door he paused. “Oh, good mght Miss — uh — Miss White."” Miss Snowden was alone in the ofiice. Her hands rested idly on the clipping book. Her - —— Tommy went over to Hazel. “I struck for $3000 — and got it!” eyes sought a photograph on the opposite wall, a photograph marred somewhat by the presence of two glamorous ladies of the screen. It was the central figure that really mattered —a dark young man with an im- pudent, audacious grin on his face — Mr. Traphagen. Miss Snowden sighed. “They've threatened,” said the young lady, her voice weighted with tragic rebellion, ‘‘to take me to Palm Beach or the Riviera.” “Ghastly!”” Tommy was horrified. “You've got to do something. I can’t bear another winter in some awful sun-baked re- sort. I'll go wild if I have to stay.” Tommy was soothing, very soothing. After all, her father had millions of dollars. “Are you quite sure,” he said thoughtfully, “that you want to go on the stage?”’ “It’s the only way I can get — get —'' ‘“Away from it all,” he suggested. “Yes, that's it, That's what I mean." “But tell me, can you do anything?” . 9 The girl’s face went blank. ‘Do anything>"’ “Sing — dance — play the xylophone?" “‘Oh — is that necessary?" “No. It helps, though; but forget about it."’ Presently, when the Junior Leaguer had left, Tommy was thoughtful. Miss Snowden at her typewriter tapped quietly. “Lousy with money,” he explained to Hazel. “And bored. Wants to get on the stage, and she can’t even recite ‘Gunea Dhin.’ So —" o Hazel apparently sensed the implications of that ““So.” “So you got to get her on the front page to do it.” He nodded. “Why don’t you have her die and her dog mourn over her grave and won't eat and all that? That always goes good.” “I want her alive to pay me."” “Well, there's always suicide in Central Park Lake.” “Just an elephant, aren’t you? You never forget that one. I have to think." “I know,” he said, a few minutes later. “We'll locate a sweat shop. Bribe the owner to say she’s working there for three dollars a week. She faints at work. Then it all comes out. She’s working under a false name. Won't take help from the family — wants to be in- dependent. Then we'll have Giskind put a special number in ‘Miss Cheerio.’ The ‘Sweat Shop Blues.’ And she'll sing.” “I thought,”" Hazel put in with dampening practicality, “you said she couldn't sing.” “A mere detail. Go out and find a sweat shop.” He turned to Miss Snowden. ‘‘And you, Miss — Whoosis — call up the Waldorf and reserve a table. Telephone our new client to meet me there for dinner. Send gardenias.” After they were gone, Miss Snowden put through the calls to florist and hotel and stage-struck Junior Leaguer. She finished her typing and filed letters. She paused as she straightened Mr. Traphagen’s desk. She sat down in his chair and let her hands fall idly among the cluttered papers. Dinner at the Waldorf . . . rich, heavy carpets . . . gardenias . . . soft music . . . soft lights . . . and across the table — Mr. Trap- hagen. She sighed enviously. Tommy sat with his feet up on his desk and the telephone at his ear. JYes, the ‘Sweat Shop Blues.’ And make the dance routine simple. This society girl’s not up to much. Yesterday when I had the newspaper men down, she almost . “YHe hung up, yawned and looked at his watch. Ten o'clock. “Hazel,” he bawled, “where is the kid? Call up her home and find out what's the matter.” Hazel reluctantly abandoned her manicur- ing operations and put in a call. *“Thelandlady at the place where she rooms up on 170th Street says she ain't there,” Hazel reported. Tommy started to open his mail, trying to bring some order out of the chaos of his desk. *‘Get me the correspondence with the man who wanted me to promote that big-game picture,” he said a few minutes later. ‘His name’s — uh — Thomas.” Hazel searched thoroughly, if lazily, among the T's. ““There ain’t any Thomas." ‘“Well then, try — let me sec — Thompson. That's it. Thompson.” But there weren't any Thompsons, either. Tommy frowned. “What was the name? The kid would know. Call up her house again.” Hazel called, but the report was the same, As the morning wore on, Tommy'’s irrita- tion increased. The climax came when Hazel essayed to type a letter for him with two fingers and her own ideas on spelling. - ‘Good heavens!” said Tommy, as he flung the offending letter into the wastebasket. ‘“Where, oh, where is that girl?"” Then he grew thoughtful. “Funny, she doesn't telephone. It's not like her. She's efficient. She’s so efficient you hardly notice she's around. She's —" He fiddled with a- letter opener. It was almost noon when the two reporters, Nye and Hone, sauntered in. They looked at him, and shook their heads sadly. “Tragic, isn't it?"’ said Nye. *Just losing his grip,”’ agr‘ed Hone. “Every picture tells a story."” “Not the man he once was.” “Fatty degeneration of the brain.” “I knew him when —" p (Continued on nest page)