New Britain Herald Newspaper, August 18, 1930, Page 10

NEW BRITAIN DAILY HERALD, MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 1930. M@HO” COPVYRIGHT 1030 ¢ Y NEA SERVICE /AC. R wooda Stor ,}/ ERNEST LYNN CHAPTER I had beert in HnH\\\mrd two weeks when ggy Young in New York. he was occupying Rorimer had recent- cenario-writing job t up to his room and on and Paul Col- » when the clerk uck it in ht pull-on some gin- ty, and I'm not e I clean out the 1 1t over to aid. “What's our talent ‘Grim Holiday. cing job as a old him, “that of your story. at they pro- vood.” He sighed. m parched.” ssed him. “Here's He picked up his e bed. ndeéd mechanically, 5 (an }Ia \\ar.': me to Mmk up 'n:a and try to get her a job Her nmame is Anne have been just like learne r Holly- tion to he was nothing lots of freckles. If never will be, and, dinner whenever be you can get her ‘ve got some kind of a pull or vourself. And those big stars like Del Whozis can't last forever, so n flinging the letter down t1 ml' a lot of . I should pend my ng nice to d of Ziggy Young's “You haven't got a 1l bet Ziggy's 1 be expecting time he saw to give her a on Holly- in, and then, at Z}gg\ s 1|m the closet am‘ an- but Collier said, ** . The old boy would do as rt as big as—' " said Rorimer. vou can't throw Ziggy down. fld 22 ephone and, after getting there was no number. sted telephone, I suppose,” said Rori- mer a ‘mm bitterly stuff! Every extra girl in Holly- wood has one.” He ob: at it hadn’t taken Anne Win- ter long to m the ropes and that it would mean extra trouble to drive out to her address to look her up. “Send a t ram,” said Collier. “Tell her to call you up and leave | hone number.” “All right. And I'll send Ziggy Young a telegram, too.’ They went downstairs. At the telegraph desk Rorimer wrote a message for Anne Winter, explaining that he was a friend of Ziggy Young's and would like her to get in touch She learns that the chances for success are slim and that few from the vast army of extras ever achieve it, with him at the Roosevelt. To Ziggy Young he wrote: “Am looking up Miss Win- ter stop I hope you get murdered in a speakeas) Then he and Collier, two slim, well-molded young mien in golf togs, proceeded to their game. It was half-past six or later when Rorimer got back to the hotel. There was a message for him at the desk when he asked for his key. Miss Winter had called in and had left her telephone number, Gladstone 5855. Upstairs, changing clothes again, Dan gave the matter some thought. He was still indignant at Ziggy Young's habit of taking everything for granted and he didn't relish the idea of chaperoning some movie-struck girl afound Hol- lywood. Why in thunder did people come to Hollywood, any- way, if they didn’t have a job lined up? They only added to an already aggravated unemployment problem. PR He certainly wouldn't have come out here, he told him- self as he kicked off his shoes, if he hadn't been given a con- tract. And he hadn't asked for his job, either. If he had, he probably wouldn't have got it. It had been a case of Con- tinental Pictures liking a couple of his published stories and buying one and taking an option on the other. And then the executive at their New York office had talked about the opportunities for good dialogue writers. And then the contract. Ziggy Young had called him a lucky dog and Rorimer supposed he was. He grinned in recollection of the party he had thrown for some of his newspaper friends. His farewell party. To a man they wished him well, but not one would admit it. They made dire prophecies: they predicted he would be back in New York before summer, with a pair of 10ked glasses and a tin cup. And they had sort of poured 1 onto the train. . . . Oh, well, it was a good party. His d went back to Anne Winter. The slip of paper bearing her message lay on the little stand beside his bed. Paul Collier had said, in parting, “Don't forget to call Miss Anne Winter Came From Tulsa to Break Into the Movies Winter. And if she has a girl friend I'm out of town.’ (c 1ad said he was going to Long Beach. Rorimer picked up the slip of paper and read it again. He thought: ‘I don't have to call her up—not tonight, anyway.” Still, committed himself to Ziggy Young, and he had ng to do tonight. e g for some ginger ale and finished dressing. It Feb. 15 and just like summer. Probably snowing n Ne rk, he thought. He hoped Ziggy Young was knee {eep in slush, covering a fire or something. When the bellboy came Rorimer filled ass, drank it and picked up the telephone. “Gladstone 5855, he said. V ing for the connection, he reminded himself that he ne did have any luck on blind dates. Just a big sap, he thought, and ferven cursed Ziggy Young again. “Hello,” he said, “‘is this Miss Anne Winter?” It was. . s is Dan Rorimer—Ziggy Young's friend. telegram, I see.” Miss Winter said she had and that.it was kind of him to take the trouble. She added that it was nice to hear from one of Ziggy Young's friends. . x x Her voice was pleasing. Rorimer was altogether unpre- pared to find it so. Nice and low, and he had expected a strident sound, full of freckles and long legs. It had poise. It made him think that its owner knew exactly what to do with it. For an awkward moment he paused. Then he said, “Well, how do you like Hollywoed?”" And thought immedi- ately that jt sounded very ssly. “I'm in Jove with what I've seen of it,” said Miss Win- ter. “You see, I've had a rather bad cold and have had to stay in. I'm not,” she hastened to add, “blaming it on your was wa You got 7 ~manner. climate. T caught it on the train coming out.” . Rorimer laughed. “I'm not a Californian,” he said. “I'm a stranger here too.” “Oh, really? That encourages me.” Rorimer said he felt a little courage himself and glanced toward the tray on the writing desk. ‘“‘Are you busy this evening ?” he ventured. She was not. “That's fine,” Rorimer said. “If you haven't eaten, per- haps you'd like to dine with me. If you're at all like me, vou're not crazy about eating alone.” “1 think that would be lovely,” said Miss Winter. “I was m\l about to go nut to dinner when you called.” “It's a date then,” said Rorimer. *“And later maybe we can dance—unless you think your cold. 2 ‘Oh, I'm entirely over it now. AndJ'd hke to, very much.” Rorimer said he would be over as soon as she was ready. “We needn’t dress unless you want to.” “Then I'll be ready whep you arrive.” He hung up the receiver feeling decidedly better. He even felt friendly once more toward Ziggy 'Young. Standing before his dresser mirror he gave a final careful adjustment to his tie and yith military brushes did a little unnecessary work on his hair. It was brown hair, rather wavy and of a slightly coarse texture that, once combed, required little attention. But Rorimer brushed it anyway—straight back above the ears— and glanced critically at the part. A tanned reflection looked back at him from the glass, strong-mouthed, firm of chin and blue of eye. A not unpleasing .face, especially with re- gard to the eyes, which had little lauchter wrinkles at the sides and were intense in their blueness. Rorimer's watch showed a quarter after seven. He slipped on his coat and selected a fresh handkerchief and stood tall and straight before the glass while he put on the hat that he wore only a night. His days since coming to southern California were bareheaded ones. A block away from the hotel was the garage where he Dan Rorimer came from New York to write scenarios, kept his car, a sturdy roadster of low price but sporty lines. The evening, he reflected, climbing in bhehind the wheel, might turn out rather well after all. A girl with a voice like Anne Winter's, he told himself, would have to possess more than ordinary charm or else the whole world was wrong. He hummed a few bars from the theme song of a new picture as he drove. P He brought his car to a;stop presently in front of a small apartment building and found, after looking at the letter boxes in the vestibule, that Miss Anne Winter lived in Number Two. A door opened half way down the ground floor corridor in answer to his ring an \3 the “blind date” came advancing to meet him.” She said, “Hello, Mr. Rorimer,” in a nice comradely “You see I was ready.” Dan, feeling her warm handclasp and noting the bril- liant perfection of teeth revealed by her smiling lips, vowed that he would send Ziggy Young a couple of the finest ties on Hollywood boulevard. His “How do you do, Miss Win- ter?” sounded stiffly formal to him and entirely inadequate. Holding the street door open for her to pass through ahead of him, he murmured something about hoping he hadn’t kept her waiting too long for dinner. “Of course not,” she assured him. quickly you must have flown.” Rorimer said, “Well, here’s my airplane—hop in.” “Are you a good px]ot 7" she asked. "Pelfecl]} trustworthy as long as my mind is on my work,” he assured her, and was rewarded by the pleasant sound of her low-pitched laugh which told him that none of the implications of his remark had escaped her. “Now then,” Rorimer said, climbing in beside her, “where away? Any choice in the matter of eating places?” “You got out here so Rorimer learns a few things about this girl from Tulsa and he gives her an idea of what she may expect. She told him she preferred to leave the choice to him. “I really haven't been around much—honestly. You don't know what a conscientious invalid I have heen. I've obeyed the doctor’s orders absolutely—in bed every night by nine for a whole week. . . . But I mustn’t bore you, talking about a cold in the head. Am\wa) I'm feeling yorgeous now. Rorimer resisted a temptation to tell her that she looked the same way. He eyes, dark and wide and vivid, shone brightly in the gloom of the car and her hair, he suspected, “must be coal black beneath the tight-fitting, helmet-shaped hat. He said, “Havg you been to the Brown Derby ?” “Just once—for lunch.” “Let me see, now. Would you like to go to the Blossom Room at the Roosevelt? That’s a good place to eat and dance, but it's a little early. 1” tell you; let’s have dinner at the Brown Derby and then go to the Blossom Room to dance.” She nodded her head vigorously. “Check!” “We're taking off. Stand by for a loop,” he said, and swung the car around in the street in a tight are. x % * Some minutes later, as they were being shown to a table in the restaurant, Rorimer heard someone call, “Hello, Dan,” and he turned to see a young man waving to him from one of the tables along the wall. Rorimer said, “Hello, Johnny,” and saluted, and when he helped Anne Winter with her coat he informed her: “That’s Johnny Riddle. He's a free lance press agent. And the girl with him is Olivia \Ialdcn “I'saw her as we came in,” Anne Winter said. “I've heard a lot about her, of course. I think she’s just lovely. I'm tempted to turn and stare.” “Lots of people do,” Rorimer said. “Bll have to tell you about Johnny later. He's quite a boy. You see, he has a bunch of movie stars for clients—Olivia Marden is one— and he falls in love with every one in turn. ... Shall I order for you?” A She nodded. “I'd love to have you. It's so comforting to have someone do it for you.” “It's a gift,” said Rorimer, laughing. “I merely choose what I want myself and then double the order.” Nevertheless, she noted, he studied the menu with con- siderable care and turned now and then to ask a question of the waiter. When he had finished and offered her a cigaret, which she declined with a murmured “No thanks—not, before meals,” she leaned across the table toward him and said, “And now you'll have to tell me all about yourself.” Rorimer smiled, and his nose exuded thin streams of smoke. “All?” he said. “Well, all you discreetly can.” “Well, I'll give you a tabloid version. Born in Knoxville, Tenn. Went to school at Vanderbilt. Worked on a paper in Nashville, and another one in Detroit. Went to New York and worked on a couple of more there. Met Ziggy Young on the Herald-Tribune and roomed with him for a while, When I went over to the Telegram we split up, Ziggy hav- ing night hours and 1 working days. Not so good for sleeping, if you know what I mean.” She nodded and smiled. Rorimer continued: ‘Wrote a short stm\ while T was on the Telegram, based on a murder story I covered. Much to my surprise, it was accepted. Wrote another one about a certain high-hat prizefighter and that was accepted. Then I got a swelled head and listened too attentively to my liter- arwagent, who advised me to give up newspaper work and devote my time to fiction. . . . In a little less than a year I wrote 12 short stories and a play. Two of the stories were accepted. The play is still kicking around quad\\a\ and by this time must have been turned down by every producer in New York.” He stopped. “‘Still interested?” She nodded eagerly. “All right, if you insist: Two out of 12 is not so good— especially at the prices T got.” He smiled wryly at some recollection ‘as he explained that more than once during his year of free-lancing he had regretted divorcing himself from a weekly payroll. Pride, he said, was the only thing that had kept him from going back to ask for his old news- paper job—pride and the good-natured razzing his old asso- cites would have given him, “They used to call me O. Henry and ask me if I was eat- ing regularly. Ialways did,” he said, studying the cigaret in his fingers, “but toward the last I was going without lunch and trying to kid myself that three meals a day was too much. “Then Miss Hunt—m\ agent—sold one of my stories to Continental Pictures.” He stopped abruptly and oxtlngu1=h- ed his cigaret at sight of their waiter returning. Anne Winter watched him attentively. She was a good listener. She rested her elbows on the table, supporting her chin in her hands. She leaned back now as the waiter placed dl:ne: before them, but said, when he had departed again: “You haven't finished. 1 can't eat until I hear the rest.” There was, Rorimer said, little else to tell. Someone at Continental had thought he ikcd Rorimer's stuff well enough to offer him a contract. “Someone \chout much judgment. . . . And that’s the end of the story.’ His deprecating way of telling it gave Anne Winter the inipression that he was not too fond of talking about him- self. She said gravely, “I'm sure that's not the end; it's just the beginning for you.” “You're very kind,” Rorimer said, "l)ut now that I'm here they don’t know what to do with me.” He added that he guessed he was lucky. “In fact,” he said, eyeing her with laughing but bold intentness, “] know I'm lucky.” She laughed delightedly, a pl}smg low ripple of sound, but ducked her head in pretendedconfusion. Rorimer liked the way her long lashes swept her cheeks when her eyes lowered. ‘Have they made a picture yet from your story?” she ‘asked. “What is the name of it?” Rorimer said that production was about to start. “Grim Holiday,” he said, was his story. “But Lord knows what| they’'ll call it when they’re through with it.” He spoke with a shade of resentment. Anne Winter,) watching him, thought she saw rebellion im his eyes and in] the set of his lcan jaw. ’ (To Be Continued.) In the next installment [ WILL ANNE WINTER ‘MAKE THE GRADE’ IN HOLLYWOOD? v 1