in a loud, clear voice,scrambling out of his chair. "Welcome! I'm just ordering myself a drink.Will you have something?"
Erika looked at him with startled suspicion. "No, and neither will you,"she said. "How many have you had already? Nick, if you're drunk at atime like this--"
"And no shilly-shallying," Martin said blandly into the mike. "I want itat once, do you hear? A Helena Glinska, yes. Perhaps you don't know it?Then listen carefully. Take the largest Napoleon you've got. If youhaven't a big one, a small punch bowl will do. Fill it half full withice-cold ale. Got that? Add three jiggers of creme de menthe--"
"Nick, are you mad?" Erika demanded, revolted.
"--and six jiggers of honey," Martin went on placidly. "Stir, don'tshake. Never shake a Helena Glinska. Keep it well chilled, and--"
"Miss Ashby, we are very busy," St. Cyr broke in importantly, makingshooing motions toward the door. "Not now. Sorry. You interrupt. Go atonce."
"--better add six more jiggers of honey," Martin was heard to addcontemplatively into the mike. "And then send it over immediately. Dropeverything else, and get it here within sixty seconds. There's a bonusfor you if you do. Okay? Good. See to it."
He tossed the microphone casually at St. Cyr.
Meanwhile, Erika had closed in on Tolliver Watt.
"I've just come from talking to Gloria Eden," she said, "and she'swilling to do a one-picture deal with Summit _if_ I okay it. But I'm notgoing to okay it unless you release Nick Martin from his contract, andthat's flat."
Watt showed pleased surprise.
"Well, we might get together on that," he said instantly, for he was afan of Miss Eden's and for a long time had yearned to star her in aremake of _Vanity Fair_. "Why didn't you bring her along? We couldhave--"
"Nonsense!" St. Cyr shouted. "Do not discuss this matter yet, Tolliver."
"She's down at Laguna," Erika explained. "Be quiet, St. Cyr! I won't--"
A knock at the door interrupted her. Martin hurried to open it and as hehad expected encountered a waiter with a tray.
"Quick work," he said urbanely, accepting the huge, coldly sweatingNapoleon in a bank of ice. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
St. Cyr's booming shouts from behind him drowned out whatever remark thewaiter may have made as he received a bill from Martin and withdrew,looking nauseated.
"No, no, no, no," St. Cyr was roaring. "Tolliver, we can get Gloria andkeep this writer too, not that he is any good, but I have spent alreadythirteen weeks training him in the St. Cyr approach. Leave it to me. InMixo-Lydia we handle--"
Erika's attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard inthe uproar. St. Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as was well known inHollywood. Martin sighed, lifted the brimming Napoleon and sniffeddelicately as he stepped backward toward his chair. When his heeltouched it, he tripped with the utmost grace and savoir-faire, and verydeftly emptied the Helena Glinsak, ale, honey, creme de menthe, ice andall, over St. Cyr's capacious front.
St. Cyr's bellow broke the microphone.
* * * * *
Martin had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combinedthe maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness and pungency.
The drenched St. Cyr, shuddering violently as the icy beverage delugedhis legs, snatched out his handkerchief and mopped in vain. Thehandkerchief merely stuck to his trousers, glued there by twelve jiggersof honey. He reeked of peppermint.
"I suggest we adjourn to the commissary," Martin said fastidiously. "Insome private booth we can go on with this discussion away from the--therather overpowering smell of peppermint."
"In Mixo-Lydia," St. Cyr gasped, sloshing in his shoes as he turnedtoward Martin, "in Mixo-Lydia we throw to the dogs--we boil inoil--we--"
"And next time," Martin said, "please don't joggle my elbow when I'mholding a Helena Glinska. It's most annoying."
St. Cyr drew a mighty breath, rose to his full height--and thensubsided. St. Cyr at the moment looked like a Keystone Kop after thechase sequence, and knew it. Even if he killed Martin now, the elementof classic tragedy would be lacking. He would appear in the untenableposition of Hamlet murdering his uncle with custard pies.
"Do nothing until I return!" he commanded, and with a final glare atMartin plunged moistly out of the theater.
The door crashed shut behind him. There was silence for a moment exceptfor the soft music from the overhead screen which DeeDee had caused tobe turned on again, so that she might watch her own lovely form flickerin dimmed images through pastel waves, while she sang a duet with DanDailey about sailors, mermaids and her home in far Atlantis.
"And now," said Martin, turning with quiet authority to Watt, who wasregarding him with a baffled expression, "I want a word with you."
"I can't discuss your contract till Raoul gets back," Watt said quickly.
"Nonsense," Martin said in a firm voice. "Why should St. Cyr dictateyour decisions? Without you, he couldn't turn out a box-office successif he had to. No, be quiet, Erika. I'm handling this, my prettycreature."
Watt rose to his feet. "Sorry, I can't discuss it," he said. "St. Cyrpictures make money, and you're an inexperien--"
"That's why I see the true situation so clearly," Martin said. "Thetrouble with you is you draw a line between artistic genius andfinancial genius. To you, it's merely routine when you work with theplastic medium of human minds, shaping them into an Ideal Audience. Youare an ecological genius, Tolliver Watt! The true artist controls hisenvironment, and gradually you, with a master's consummate skill, shapethat great mass of living, breathing humanity into a perfectaudience...."
"Sorry," Watt said, but not, bruskly. "I really have no time--ah--"
"Your genius has gone long enough unrecognized," Martin said hastily,letting admiration ring in his golden voice. "You assume that St. Cyr isyour equal. You give him your own credit titles. Yet in your own mindyou must have known that half the credit for his pictures is yours. WasPhidias non-commercial? Was Michaelangelo? Commercialism is simply alabel for functionalism, and all great artists produce functional art.The trivial details of Rubens' masterpieces were filled in byassistants, were they not? But Rubens got the credit, not his hirelings.The proof of the pudding's obvious. Why?" Cunningly gauging hislistener, Martin here broke off.
"Why?" Watt asked.
"Sit down," Martin urged. "I'll tell you why. St. Cyr's pictures makemoney, but you're responsible for their molding into the ideal form,impressing your character-matrix upon everything and everyone at SummitStudios...."
* * * * *
Slowly Watt sank into his chair. About his ears the hypnotic bursts ofDisraelian rhodomontade thundered compellingly. For Martin had the manhooked. With unerring aim he had at the first try discovered Watt'sweakness--the uncomfortable feeling in a professionally arty town thatmoney-making is a basically contemptible business. Disraeli had handledtougher problems in his day. He had swayed Parliaments.
Watt swayed, tottered--and fell. It took about ten minutes, all in all.By the end of that time, dizzy with eloquent praise of his economicability, Watt had realized that while St. Cyr might be an artisticgenius, he had no business interfering in the plans of an economicgenius. Nobody told Watt what to do when economics were concerned.
"You have the broad vision that can balance all possibilities and showthe right path with perfect clarity," Martin said glibly. "Very well.You wish Eden. You feel--do you not?--that I am unsuitable material.Only geniuses can change their plans with instantaneous speed.... Whenwill my contract release be ready?"
"What?" said Watt, in a swimming, glorious daze. "Oh. Of course. Hm-m.Your contract release. Well, now--"
"St. Cyr would stubbornly cling to past errors until Summit goes broke,"Martin pointed out. "Only a genius like Tolliver Watt strikes when theiron is hot, when he sees a chance to exchange failure for success, aMartin for an Eden."
"Hm-m," Watt said. "Yes. Very well, then." His long face grew shrewd."Very, well, y
ou get your release--_after_ I've signed Eden."
"There you put your finger on the heart of the matter," Martin approved,after a very brief moment of somewhat dashed thought. "Miss Eden isstill undecided. If you left the transaction to somebody like St. Cyr,say, it would be botched. Erika, you have your car here? How quicklycould you drive Tolliver Watt to Laguna? He's the only person with theskill to handle this situation."
"What situa--oh, yes. Of