PEGGY IN HOLLYWOOD

Wairarapa Times-Age, 6 March 1939, Page 10

PEGGY IN HOLLYWOOD

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

MRS PATRICK MACGILL.

CHAPTER IX (Continued).

Suddenly, Opal floated into his consciousness in her capacity as hostess, and he experienced a genuine if not very deep pang of remorse. After all, he could not have come to Hollywood to look after Peggy had it not been for this queer, hectic, hungry-for-sen-sation woman, he told himself. Turning to Opal with the frank smile that made him so many friends, David said: “It’s a wonderful experience. Shall we dance?” “I’d love it,” was the prompt, enthusiastic reply. David was neither a good nor bad dancer, but Opal was satisfied merely to be touched by the man to whom she had given her heart, unasked. She felt passion surging through her, submerging her in it’s heady sweetness, sounding t|ie very depths of her being. She wanted David Whitley and she would have him, she told herself fiercely. She wanted a screen career —to be a great star —she would have that, too, she told herself, glancing over David's shoulder at Finklesteen, who gave her the merest suspicion of a wink and nod. , “Don't let us dance the encore, David. It will be very short, anyway. I can see Numa is just aching to give her dance. There she is, look, behind that bank of palms, near the orchestra.” Guiding her to the table, and following the direction of her eyes, David saw and met Jne eyes of the Nautch girl and was rewarded with a look of such violent hatred that he wondered what he had done. After a few moments, Numa Tahore glided into the centre of the floor, the lights were switched off, and her dancing space illumined solely by the torch flares that she brandished above her head, twirling, twisting, raising, lowering, with a perfect rhythm and technique that kept her slim, apparently boneless figure lighted all the time, enabling her audience to watch every tiniest movement with no strain whatsoever. It was a purely barbaric exhibition and one well suited to the minds and moods of the majority of the onlookers. To David who watched with every sense alert, his young man’s blood strangely stirred by something that only his innate perception of the drama translated to his consciousness, the Nautch girl was like a symbol of evil, fearful in her fascination, relentless in her hold over the spirits of men. He would certainly pigeon-hole her in his mind for future use in a play. “Some' baby, I’ll tell the world!” volunteered- one of the two men who, with David and Sam Finklesteen, made up Opal Orth’s party. “She’s booked for a sequence in the “Flame of- Life,” observed Finklesteen, with apparent casualness, blit a close watcher would have noted that the hand which took the cigar from his mouth trembled slightly, and that his jaws tensed a little as if he might be bracing himself for some secret, inner purpose. It was deliberately designed to bring Peggy’s name into the conversation but David forbore from comment though he knew- that “The Flame of Life” was the picture on which Peggy was engaged under Finklesteen’s direction. David Whitley was no male prude; born and brought up in the greatesl metropolis in the world, he had not reached the age of 25 without some sort of contact with life. But, as to I most young men, the beloved must be guarded and kept from all contact with evil, even if absent in the flesh, merely to mention Peggy’s name in such surroundings and to such as Opal Orth and her guests, would be sacrilege. There was a pause for the merest second, giving David the opportunity of bringing Peggy’s name into the conversation an opportunity purposely disregarded. As if sensing the reason, Opal suddenly bit her lip, flashing a challenging glance at Finklesteen as she did so, who in turn fidgeted and permitted himself a meaning side-glance at Jerry Jackson, as the elder of the two other men was called. A curious unease crept into the atmosphere surrounding the group around the table. As if suddenly feeling the strain, Opal got up and, excusing herself on the murmured plea of “powdering her nose,’ left the four men together. The purple clad waitress glided over to take orders for any' drinks that the gentlemen might like. “Miss Orth’s instructions,” she added as David, who had not taken anything except iced water, shook his head. Finklesteen and Jerry Jackson had their glasses nearly filled with raw whisky and drained them almost to the bottom. Inspired by the spirit-creat-ed courage, the two presently began a conversation aimed at, but not including David. “Sweet girls you had on the ‘Flame of Life’ set today, Sam,” offered Jerry Jackson with a leer that made David want to punch his head, since that was Peggy’s picture and she must be included amongst the girls meant. “You bet!” agreed Finklesteen, with considerably more force than intelligence. “1 got a date with the best looker of the whole lot —little Irish kid, name of Peggy Rooney,” volunteered Jerry Jackson, between puffs at his cigar. At the mention of Peggy’s name, to say nothing of the foul lie about having an appointment with her, David Whitley became as much an atavism as if all the centuries of civilisation had not been; dancing and wavering, the little, sensual, animal-like eyes of the man who had the advantage of himself in weight and years, seemed to mock and goad, torturing and challenging every shred of manhood he possessed. For a moment his lips bared his teeth in a dreadful, unsmiling grin, and his eyes, smouldering with a curious redness in their sockets, had in them the terrible look of one who has passed the boundary line between rage and madness. “You foul swine!” A girl—one of the paid entertainers — at a near-by table, set down her glass of creme-de-menthe and gave a little squeak. “Gee! They are going to fight!” she screamed, jumping up hurriedly from her table and spilling her green liqueur all over her white lace frock in her hurry. Jerry Jackson lurched to his feet.

He was drunk, but not too drunk to Torget his mission on the gambling ship. “Don't worry, honey,” he pleaded, "no mammy’s boy can call Jerry Jackson a name ana get away with it. Middle-weight champion Columbia University, 1 was. Watch my smoke!” Finklesteen made a feeble, halfhearted effort to pull the fellow back to his seat, but. David knocked him sprawling across the table with a neat blow beneath the chin. His real opponent might have been a Columbia boxing champion, as he boasted, but so was David the pride of the London Polytechnic where he had received his training as a boxer. He struck the. first blow, and his fist, having the precision of a piston rod and the force of a sledge-hammer, sent Jerry Jackson reeling across the floor, colliding with the creme-de-menthe beauty and falling to the ground. But he was up immediately and just as swiftly closed with David. “Don’t clinch!” advised a squareshouldered man, getting up on a chair to be out of the way. The moment was one of’ intense action. The crowd drew apart, leaving the arena clear, and David, filled with fury, seeing nothing of his surroundings, conscious of nothing but the urgent, blinding necessity to batter the face before him to a bleeding jelly, drove his man slowly but inevitably across the room. “He sure can handle them!” said the man on the chair, but the words came to a sudden halt as the ship lurched, and the speaker, losing his balance, dropped to the floor. This was the moment when the unforseen happened. The fighters were still hard at it, and David, seizing his opportunity, shot under his opponent’s guard and landed a terrific left to Jerry’s jaw. The man suddenly stiffened, then crumpled to the floor like a pricked air-ball. “You’ve knocked the guy out! I’ll give you a kiss for'that big boy! The creme-de-menthe girl flung excited arms round David’s neck, and looking dazedly at the motionless figure on the floor, he found himself too spent to resist. He was spent physically, but in no other sense. Within him rage still burned and rankled and he felt his vengeance unappeased. He approached the figure lying on the floor, and, looking down on the curiously still, deathly white face, addressed it as one might speak to a dog. • “Get up!” he ordered. Still no answer. Suddenly: “You’ve killed him! He’s dead!” screamed the creme-de-menthe girl. The words seemed to create a panic amongst the crowd who had witnessed the fight. There was a rush for coats and wraps; the sound of oars rowing fiercely in obedience to the commands of those in the boats mingled with the arguing male and female voices that got fainter and fainter as they neared the shore. Within two minutes the saloon was empty, except for Opal Orth, who was sitting looking white and frightened, but uttering no sound, at one of the tables; Finklesteen, who was on his knees, pouring a little raw whisky down the throat of the unconscious man, and a good deal more over his shirt-front, and David, still gazing fiercely down at his own handiwork. There was a movement near the door The captain, wno had buttoned a big topcoat over his musical comedy uniman who carried a bag in his right ma nwho carried a bag in his right hand and his profession in his face and manner even before he spoke. “This is Doctor Martin,” announced the captain briefly. The doctor, kneeling at once beside the unconscious man, motioned Finklesteen out of the way. The captain touched David on the arm. “You can do nothing, Mr Whitley. Leave him in the doctor’s hands. Come into my cabin and wait- You, too, Mr Finklesteen —and you also, of course, Miss Orth,” he added, turning with a gallant little bow to Opal, and offering her his arm. They went into the captain’s cabin, where, as if in readiness, it seemed, a pot of steaming coffee, liquers, cigars and cigarettes were waiting on the table. “I was on deck when the row started, Mr Whitley. What was it all about?” asked the captain, suavely. David did not answer. He was suddenly seized with a violent nausea for anything and everything connected with Hollywood and the making of motion pictures. He would force, compel Peggy to abandon the idea of a career as a movie actress. They would His meditations were interrupted by the opening of the door and the appearance of the doctor. His face was stern, his voice sterner. “The police had better be sent for,” he announced. “The man is dead!” A student of humanity would have been interested in the various reactions of the group assembled in the overheated little cabin. Opal clutched the collar of her mink coat around her throat, registered horror, and screamed, rather than exclaimed, in typical Hollywood fashion, “Dead? My God! You can’t mean it, Doctor!” and subsided in a shuddering heap of fur and blonde hair on the red velvet seat that ran the length of the wall. The captain rose, drew himself up stiffly to his full height and stood facing the doctor without speaking; watching David out of the corner of his eye. Finklesteen reacted as Jews generally react to a dramatic situation; that is, dramatically. With tears streaming down his cheeks he uttered an agonising wail, and rising, flung an arm around David’s shoulder as if he had been a beloved child needing protection and support. “Ah, my poor boy! Why did you have to quarrel so fiercely that you killed Jerry? He was a nice boy —a bit silly—fond of the girls like all boys ...” The Jew’s voice broke on a note of passionate protest. David shook the hand off his shoulder as if it had been the hand of a leper, Inwardly, he recoiled upon himself, his I heart seeming to sink into the pit of i his stomach where, as the truth peneI trated his understanding, it turned over j and over, producing a sensation of nau- I I sea that threatened to become physi- I cal.

Thus for one miserable moment that seemed an eternity. Then something that had its root in centuries of clean-living, God-fearing, upstanding Whitleys—the willingness to abide by the result of every action, good or ill, the courage which forms the essence of the true manhood of any country, regardless of race, colour, or creed —came to David’s aid. He pulled himself together mentally. The captain and the doctor were speaking in low, agitated tones. “The ship . . . give it a bad name.” “Sorry, Captain, but a business like this is bound to come out ”

“Give me time —it will ruin this boy to be put on trial for murder.” It was Finklesteen who used the ugly word. It stung David into action. His voice was crisp, compelling. “This is no question of murder. The man insulted my future wife by lying about, her and provoked a fight. He was killed by accident. At the worst it can only be manslaughter. Call the police, please, Captain.” Opal Orth screamed at the top of her lungs and genuine panic showed in her face. (To be Continued).