Except in great scandals like the Arbuckle case the industry protects its own--and the industry included Pat, however intermittently. He was let out of prison next morning without bail, wanted only as a material witness. If anything, the publicity was advantageous--for the first time in a year his name appeared in the trade journals. Moreover he was now the only living man who knew how the shell got into Claudette Colbert's (or Betty Field's) trunk.
'When can you come up and see me?' said Mr Banizon.
'After the inquest tomorrow,' said Pat enjoying himself. 'I feel kind of shaken--it gave me an earache.'
That too indicated power. Only those who were 'in' could speak of their health and be listened to.
'Woll really did tell you?' questioned Banizon.
'He told me,' said Pat. 'And it's worth more than fifty smackers. I'm going to get me a new agent and bring him to your office.'
'I tell you a better plan.' said Banizon hastily, 'I'll get you on the payroll. Four weeks at your regular price.'
'What's my price?' demanded Pat gloomily. 'I've drawn everything from four thousand to zero.' And he added ambiguously, 'As Shakespeare says, "Every man has his price."'
The attendant rodents of R. Parke Woll had vanished with their small plunder into convenient rat holes, leaving as the defendant Mr Smith, and, as witnesses, Pat and two frightened cigarette girls. Mr Smith's defence was that he had been attacked. At the inquest one cigarette girl agreed with him--one condemned him for unnecessary roughness. Pat Hobby's turn was next, but before his name was called he started as a voice spoke to him from behind.
'You talk against my husband and I'll twist your tongue out by the roots.'
A huge dinosaur of a woman, fully six feet tall and broad in proportion, was leaning forward against his chair.
'Pat Hobby, step forward please . . . now Mr Hobby tell us exactly what happened.'
The eyes of Mr Smith were fixed balefully on his and he felt the eyes of the bouncer's mate reaching in for his tongue through the back of his head. He was full of natural hesitation.
'I don't know exactly,' he said, and then with quick inspiration, 'All I know is everything went white!'
'What?'
'That's the way it was. I saw white. Just like some guys see red or black I saw white.'
There was some consultation among the authorities.
'Well, what happened from when you came into the restaurant--up to the time you saw white?'
'Well--' said Pat fighting for time. 'It was all kind of that way. I came and sat down and then it began to go black.'
'You mean white.'
'Black and white.'
There was a general titter.
'Witness dismissed. Defendant remanded for trial.'
What was a little joking to endure when the stakes were so high--all that night a mountainous Amazon pursued him through his dreams and he needed a strong drink before appearing at Mr Banizon's office next morning. He was accompanied by one of the few Hollywood agents who had not yet taken him on and shaken him off.
'A flat sum of five hundred,' offered Banizon. 'Or four weeks at two-fifty to work on another picture.'
'How bad do you want this?' asked the agent. 'My client seems to think it's worth three thousand.'
'Of my own money?' cried Banizon. 'And it isn't even his idea. Now that Woll is dead it's in the Public Remains.'
'Not quite,' said the agent. 'I think like you do that ideas are sort of in the air. They belong to whoever's got them at the time--like balloons.'
'Well, how much?' asked Mr Banizon fearfully. 'How do I know he's got the idea?'
The agent turned to Pat.
'Shall we let him find out--for a thousand dollars?'
After a moment Pat nodded. Something was bothering him.
'All right,' said Banizon. 'This strain is driving me nuts. One thousand.'
There was silence.
'Spill it Pat,' said the agent.
Still no word from Pat. They waited. When Pat spoke at last his voice seemed to come from afar.
'Everything's white,' he gasped.
'What?'
'I can't help it--everything has gone white. I can see it--white. I remember going into the joint but after that it all goes white.'
For a moment they thought he was holding out. Then the agent realized that Pat actually had drawn a psychological blank. The secret of R. Parke Woll was safe forever. Too late Pat realized that a thousand dollars was slipping away and tried desperately to recover.
'I remember, I remember! It was put in by some Nazi dictator.'
'Maybe the girl put it in the trunk herself,' said Banizon ironically. 'For her bracelet.'
For many years Mr Banizon would be somewhat gnawed by this insoluble problem. And as he glowered at Pat he wished that writers could be dispensed with altogether. If only ideas could be plucked from the inexpensive air!
