Part 3

Peter put his hand over his heart melodramatically. “Even if they were crying inside.”

Stalkey nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. It sounds real corny today, but they actually did it, and Tom Agate was one of the greatest.” As he walked back and forth, from one corner of the room to the other, his eyes shining with excitement, Peggy suddenly saw what May Berriman meant when she said that Oscar Stalkey had all the enthusiasm of a little boy. He was in love with the theater, after thirty years still as stage-struck as a newcomer.

“Tom Agate,” Oscar Stalkey was saying. “Why, I’ve seen that man hold an entire audience in the palm of his hand for more than an hour.”

“What did he do?” Pam asked.

“Do?” Stalkey frowned. “He was a performer. He sang songs, danced a little.”

“Actually, he danced badly,” Peter Grey said with a smile.

Stalkey was forced to agree. “Yes, I guess he did. But that didn’t make any difference. He was a personality and the audience loved him.” Stalkey made another tour of his office. “That was his secret,” he said. “He understood people. He knew what made them laugh, and he knew how to move them.” Stalkey stopped abruptly as if struck by a thought. He cocked his head to one side as if trying to recall something. “What was the name of that song he always sang—it was his theme song, an Irish ballad, I think—ah, yes, ‘Kathleen Aroon’ it was. He used to play the banjo along with it.”

“Yes, but Oscar,” Craig Claiborne objected, “he was just a song-and-dance man. Even the movies he did were just filming his vaudeville routines. He’s never had any acting experience.”

“Acting experience, my foot!” Stalkey said. “What the dickens does that mean? The man’s been on the stage for most of his life!”

“You’ve got to admit,” Claiborne replied patiently, “that playing a sustained role is a lot different from coming out for a few minutes every night with a song or two and some jokes.”

“Oh, I know, I know.” Stalkey brushed him away. “You may be right. But I still think it’s worth a chance. I’d like to hear him read for the part.”

“I don’t know,” Claiborne said dubiously. “It’s taking a big chance.”

“Not as much as you think,” Stalkey said earnestly. “Besides, I bet there are people all over this country who still remember Tom Agate and would come to see him. His old vaudeville admirers, his movie and radio audiences, the men he entertained during the war. He might be quite a drawing card.” He hopped over to Peter and clapped him on the back.

“Peter,” he chortled, “I think you’ve hit it.”

“If you can find him,” Claiborne added.

Stalkey nodded. “Do you think you can track him down?” he asked Peter anxiously.

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll certainly try.”

“You’ll have to locate him within the next three days,” Stalkey warned.

“Meanwhile,” Claiborne said, “we’d better contact Eddie Jarmin or Jim Donohue. If this Agate fellow doesn’t pan out, we’ll have to fall back on one of them.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Stalkey said mournfully. “Will you see to it, Pam?”

Pam made a note of the request and then cleared her throat. “There’s another matter you’ve got to attend to,” she said.

Stalkey stopped in surprise. “What’s that?”

Pam pointed to the door. “You’ve got about two dozen young ladies cooling their heels out there. Don’t you think you’d better see them?”

Stalkey clapped his hand over his forehead. “What a waste of time!” he groaned. He turned and walked over to the door.

“Wait a minute,” Pam called out. “What about Peggy Lane?”

Stalkey stopped and looked at Peggy for the first time since the phone call. “Oh,” he said, blinking at her as if she were a complete stranger. “Oh, well, tomorrow morning, then,” he said airily.

“For what?” Peggy asked timidly.

Stalkey wrung his hands impatiently. “For what?” he muttered. “To read, of course,” he said. “We want you to read for the general understudy.” He glanced over at Claiborne. “What time are we holding tryouts?” he asked.

“Nine-thirty,” the director answered.

“Nine-thirty,” Stalkey said. “Be at the Elgin Theater at nine-thirty tomorrow morning to read a scene from _Innocent Laughter_. Is that clear?”

Peggy nodded numbly. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Good.” Stalkey went over to the door and threw it open. “Thank you very much,” he said briskly. “That’ll be all for now.”

Peggy gathered her purse and gloves, made her way unsteadily to the door, passed down a double line of curious, envying stares, and finally found herself outside by the elevator door. As she waited for it, she wondered if she could get back to the Gramercy Arms without screaming for joy. She had passed the first test.

IV “Innocent Laughter”

“Ground floor.”

The elevator bumped to a halt and discharged its load of passengers into the busy lobby. Still numb from the half hour she had spent in Oscar Stalkey’s office, Peggy allowed herself to be pulled along by the crowd that surged toward the building entrance.

The big clock above the main doors registered a little after eleven—too early for lunch and too late to make any more appointments for the morning. Peggy idly wondered what to do next. Her first impulse had been to go directly to the Gramercy Arms with the news. But Amy was out and May was probably busy. Besides, at eleven o’clock on a weekday morning, the big house would be almost deserted. The girls nearly all were on jobs or were out busily hunting them.

Suddenly, Peggy felt strangely lonely. The need for someone to talk to became overwhelming. She paused by the public telephone booths near the revolving door and thought of calling home to Rockport, Wisconsin. She could almost hear her mother at the other end of the line, excited and happy to hear the good news. It would be good to hear her familiar voice again.

On the other hand, wasn’t it silly to call now before she really knew about the part? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until she was sure and not make the same mistake Amy had made with her mother?

Peggy was still standing indecisively beside the telephone booth when the elevator behind her clanged open to release a second wave of people. The flood engulfed her and flowed on to the door.

“Watch it, lady,” growled an irritated voice. “You’re blocking the road.”

Hastily Peggy moved out of the way. “Sorry,” she said, backing into a delivery boy on his way into the building with a full load of packages.

“Why don’tcha look where yer going?” the delivery boy muttered, glaring balefully at her over the top of his packages.

“Sorry,” Peggy murmured again. She decided she’d better get out of the line of traffic, but as she turned toward one of the side doors, a hand reached out and held her back.

“Excuse me,” said a familiar voice, “but can you use the services of a good, reliable Boy Scout? I’m kind, honest, trustworthy, true—”

Peggy spun around with a gasp of surprise. “Randy! What are you doing here?”

The tall, lean figure of Randolph Brewster, the young playwright Peggy had met when she first came to New York, hovered over her. “I sent my spies out early this morning.” He laughed. “They tracked you down to this place.” He moved closer and took her arm. “Well?” he asked expectantly.

Peggy looked at him sharply. “Who told you about _that_?” she demanded. “Honestly, Randy, can’t a girl have any secrets?”

“Nope,” he answered good-naturedly. “Not from me, anyway. All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you how I know. Amy told me.”

“Amy!”

“Sure. She was on the phone at a quarter past eight this morning, talking thirteen to the dozen. She was convinced that you’d get a chance to read for the part. Did you?”

Peggy’s breathless nod gave him the answer. Randy grinned and gave her arm an enthusiastic squeeze. “That’s wonderful, Peggy! When do you audition?”

“Tomorrow morning at nine-thirty.”

Randy pushed her ahead of him into the revolving door. “Where are we going?” she asked over her shoulder, but the door had already closed behind her. The next instant she found herself on the street, waiting for Randy. “You seem in an awful hurry,” she said as Randy emerged. “What’s up?”

“You’ll see,” Randy said as he reclaimed her arm. “Amy’s got a surprise lined up for you.”

“Can’t you tell me what it is?”

Randy smiled. “I suppose so. Amy’s been waiting in line outside the Elgin Theater since nine o’clock this morning. She’s determined to get standing-room tickets for this afternoon’s performance of _Innocent Laughter_.”

Peggy stopped. “Not really!” She gasped.

“Yes, really.” Randy urged her on. “Come on, let’s tell her the good news.”

A few moments later, they turned the corner and walked down one of the side streets that run into Broadway. They were now in the heart of New York’s theater district, where famous names stared down at them from every side. When Peggy first had come to New York, she had envisioned theaters stretching along the entire length of Broadway. It had been quite a surprise to discover that nearly all of New York’s theaters were actually located on rather shabby-looking side streets. But there they were, with one block housing as many as half a dozen play-houses, each with its tremendous sign and a marquee jutting out over the pavement.

Under one of the marquees, about halfway down the block, stood Amy. She saw them coming and ran toward them, waving a small envelope triumphantly.

“I got them!” she cried. She came to a stop beside Peggy and stared at her hopefully, eyes sparkling in anticipation. “Now, honey,” she said, “you’ve got to tell me it’s been worth it, standing all this time. You’re going to read for the part, aren’t you?”

Peggy smiled and nodded. “Tomorrow morning,” she said. “I can’t believe it yet—”

Amy let out a whoop and grabbed Peggy’s hands. “Oh, honey, I could kiss you, I’m so happy.” She looked at Randy proudly. “You see!” she demanded. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You sure did,” Randy admitted with a grin. “Even at a quarter past eight this morning. I could have cheerfully wrung your neck for waking me up!”

“It did you good to get up,” Amy told him. “Now you’ve got to tell me all about it,” she said to Peggy. “Let’s take a walk, have a nice lunch, and then get to the theater early.”

“But aren’t you tired, Amy?” Peggy protested. “You’ve been standing here all morning.”

Amy laughed her tinkling, infectious laugh. “After a year of looking for work in New York,” she said, “my feet are used to it.” She wedged between Peggy and Randy, took both of them by the arm, and swung down the street toward Broadway. “Come on, you all,” she said cheerfully. “I want to hear everything that happened....”

At six o’clock that evening, the three of them were sitting in Tony’s Place, a postage stamp-sized restaurant near the Gramercy Arms that specialized in heaping plates of spaghetti, smothered with rich, aromatic meat sauce. The spaghetti was ordered and on its way. Meanwhile, they were munching on crusty Italian bread with sweet butter.

“Whew!” Amy exclaimed wearily, as she speared a pat of butter from the iced butter dish in the center of the table. “It sure is good to sit down. What did you think of the play?”

Peggy shook her head enviously. “Diana Peters was awfully good, wasn’t she? The way she played that scene with the old grandfather, you could tell what she was thinking and what she was feeling every minute. I don’t think I could ever do that—”

“Oh, don’t talk silly,” Amy said, biting into a piece of bread. “That’s exactly the kind of part you _can_ play.”

“I don’t know,” Peggy replied dubiously. “What do you think, Randy?”

Randy had been absorbed in thought ever since they left the matinee. At that moment, he was chewing moodily on a crisp stalk of green celery. “I wouldn’t worry about that scene too much,” he said. “You just said yourself you knew what she was thinking and feeling every minute.”

“Yes, but—”

Randy leaned forward, jabbing the stalk of celery in Peggy’s direction. “What _was_ she thinking?” he queried. “That girl in the play. Now don’t forget, she’s in New York for the first time. She doesn’t know her mother very well and she’s never even met her grandmother. What’s she looking for?”

Peggy shrugged. “Excitement, I suppose. Life.”

Randy nodded emphatically. “That’s it,” he said. “In her mind, she sees New York as a romantic fairy-tale city where people can live exciting lives—”

“If they know how,” Amy interrupted.

“Exactly,” Randy said. “And the daughter in the play doesn’t know how. When she first comes on stage, she’s hoping that her mother will tell her. But her mother is too preoccupied with her own life to spend much time with her daughter’s problems. In fact, it never even occurs to her that she has any.”

“And later on,” Amy chimed in, “the daughter turns to her grandmother—the one she’s never met before. Again, the same thing happens.”

“At that point,” Randy said, taking charge of the conversation, “the daughter realizes she’s on her own. She decides the thing to do is to fall in love. Unfortunately, the first man she meets is all wrong for her. But she can’t see it and neither can the others.”

“But the grandfather sees it,” Amy said brightly.

“Yes,” Randy nodded. “He knows what she’s doing and has a long talk with her. On the surface it’s very light and funny, but actually it goes deeper than that. His granddaughter means a lot to the old man, and he’s trying the best way he knows how to give her the experience of his years. He knows he can’t lecture her—she’s too stubborn for that, and so they just sit by the fire and talk. They talk about life and growing up. About families and the tremendous joy that life offers. All of that.”

“You mean,” Peggy said, “that the grandfather and the young girl are getting to know each other as people, not just as relatives.”

Bandy slapped his hand down on the table. “That’s exactly it,” he said approvingly. “It’s a scene where two people start out as comparative strangers and end up as close friends. Despite all the laugh lines, it’s a very tender moment—and that’s the way it should be played.”

“You don’t think I should try for comedy?” Peggy asked.

Randy shook his head emphatically. “Everybody will be doing that,” he said. “If you offer them something a little different, they’ll notice you. Besides, the play is so well written that the comedy can take care of itself.”

“All right,” Peggy said. “I’ll do it. But that’s not the way Diana Peters played it this afternoon.”

Randy frowned. “I know it,” he said. “And that’s been worrying me. Right now _Innocent Laughter_ is being acted all wrong.”

Amy broke into a laugh. “Oh, Randy!” she cried. “Here’s the biggest hit on Broadway, and you say it’s all wrong.”

“No, listen to me,” Randy said, hunching over the table earnestly. “Who’s the central character?”

“The mother,” Amy replied promptly. “It’s the biggest part.”

“It may be the biggest part,” Randy said. “But the play doesn’t hang together that way.”

“Well, what’s wrong with it?” Amy challenged.

“I think the emphasis should be shifted to the two older people,” Randy replied.

“You mean the grandmother and the grandfather?”

“Right. Look at the mother. She’s shallow at the beginning and just as shallow at the end. She hasn’t learned a thing. But the grandmother has. After all, she decides to go back to the grandfather. You remember that wonderful scene between the two of them in the second act?”

“Yes,” said Peggy. “I thought that was the best thing in the play.”

“I did too,” Randy said. “You see, _Innocent Laughter_ deals with three women who are being very foolish about their lives. The grandfather is brought in to straighten them out. He succeeds with two of them, but fails with the third.”

“Then why didn’t they play it the way you think it should be done?” Amy demanded.

Randy shrugged. “It’s hard to say, but my guess is they wanted a glamorous star to play the part of the mother and had to tailor the whole play around her. Don’t misunderstand me. I think it’s still a good play, but it could be much, much better.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Amy said, brushing the bread crumbs to one side. “But let’s have a short intermission. Soup’s on.”

Smiling genially, as he threaded his way past the tables in his crowded restaurant, came Tony with the spaghetti.

“Ahhh!” breathed Amy contentedly. “What a beautiful sight. I’m so hungry I could eat miles of it.”

“Eat all you want,” Randy told her airily. “Treat’s on me tonight.”

“Oh, no,” Peggy protested. “We’re going Dutch, same as always.”

“Nothing doing,” Randy said. “Tonight we celebrate.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little early?” Peggy said.

Randy looked over at her and slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he said, reaching out for her hand. “Frankly, I don’t think you can miss.”

Randy kept Peggy’s hand in his until Tony came up to their table, looking for a place to put the cheese. Finally Randy drew his hand back and gave Peggy a wordless smile.

It was nice to know everyone was so confident, Peggy thought to herself, but she knew tomorrow wouldn’t be easy. She glanced up at the clock over the open kitchen in the rear. It read six-thirty. In fifteen hours, she would be on the stage of the Elgin Theater, reading for the part of the general understudy in _Innocent Laughter_. Just fifteen short hours! The thought sent a shiver of dread and almost unbearable excitement running down her back. Telling herself that tomorrow was still a long way off, Peggy picked up a fork and tried to concentrate on Tony’s wonderful spaghetti.

Why, she wondered miserably, had she ever thought she could be an actress? Why hadn’t she stayed home in Rockport and become a schoolteacher as her father had wished?

V Tryouts

Peggy was still thinking the same thing the following morning as she walked up Broadway toward the Elgin Theater. The day had started off badly with showers and sharp, gusty blasts of wind that sent a fine rain spattering over the deserted streets. New York’s theater district was like a ghost town in the early-morning hours. Except for a few familiar faces—the blind newspaper dealer at the corner of Forty-fourth and Broadway, the white-jacketed soda fountain clerk reading a magazine in the window, and the inevitable knot of musicians clustered at the corner of Forty-fifth street—no one was abroad. People in show business worked late and slept late. But by noon, Peggy knew, the streets would be crowded.

She hurried past the newspaper stand, her high heels beating a brisk tattoo on the sidewalk. The dealer was sitting inside his tiny booth behind neat stacks of newspapers. When he heard Peggy’s footsteps his head came up and a smile crossed his face.

“Good morning, miss,” he said cheerfully. “You’re out early today.”

“Good morning,” Peggy called back. “Not a very nice day, is it?”

“Not for some,” the blind man replied. “But it’s a grand day for you.”

Peggy stopped in her tracks and stared at him. “What do you mean?” she asked.

The newspaper dealer’s smile broadened. “Your audition this morning.” He chuckled at Peggy’s obvious astonishment, even though he couldn’t see her face. “Word gets around,” he assured her. “After all, you’ve passed my stand nearly every morning for months now. I like to know my customers. Good luck. We’re all pulling for you.”

“Who—” Peggy started to say, but he waved her on.

“You don’t have much time,” he told her. “But don’t be too surprised. You’ve got more friends in New York than you think.”

Peggy said good-by and moved on, reflecting that New York wasn’t such a big place after all. People said it was cold and impersonal, but maybe it wasn’t as bad as they insisted.

The soft-drink counter that fronted on Broadway was halfway down the next block. A garish red-and-orange sign, bigger than the shop, proclaimed that it specialized in a drink called PinaCola. Against a violently colored scene of neon-lighted palm trees a second sign advertised PinaCola as a “Refreshing, Tropical Fruit Drink—a Sparkling Blend of Fresh Pineapple Juice and Cola.” The store also served hot dogs and hamburgers, a limited menu of sandwiches, and hot tea and coffee. It was built so that customers could get service directly from the street without going inside. Peggy often stopped there in the morning for a cup of tea, which was served by a friendly, gum-chewing attendant named Harry.

Harry, as usual, sat near the front of the store, his starched white cap perched on the back of his head. As Peggy passed by, he looked up from his magazine and rapped on the sliding glass window that opened out on the street.

Peggy heard the sound and smiled over at him. Harry broke into a huge grin and crossed his fingers in what was obviously a good-luck sign. Peggy waved and hurried ahead. Even Harry knew where she was going.

Before she had time to puzzle out the almost magical way news seemed to get around on Broadway, she was stopped by a third well-wisher.

“Good luck, baby,” came a voice from a nearby doorway. “Belt it out real cool, and knock ’em dead.” Three or four other men smiled and nodded.

They were musicians who congregated daily in the same place. No one quite knew why they were there, but at practically any hour of the day or night you could find them. The area was generally known as the “musicians’ corner” and if anyone needed a trumpet player or a guitarist on short notice, he could call the cigar counter in the lobby of the building. The attendant was careful to hold all messages. It was one of those informal arrangements that puzzled outsiders but was accepted without question by those who lived and worked in that strange world in New York called show business.

Peggy smiled back at the men and turned down the street that led to the Elgin Theater. At the corner her progress was momentarily halted by a line of sleepy-looking people boarding a chartered bus parked in front of a sign that read: “Sight-seeing Tours Meet Here.” A brisk, businesslike man in uniform was herding them aboard.

“Step lively, folks,” he was saying. “New York’s a big city and we’ve got a lot to see.” He gave Peggy a good-natured wink as she went by, as if acknowledging the presence of another insider—a greeting from one New Yorker to another. It made Peggy feel that she belonged in the big city and that she was really a part of Manhattan. She swung down the street with renewed confidence.

In front of the theater, a row of shiny glass doors blocked her entrance. A small printed sign over the center door informed the public that “Box Office Opens at 10 A.M.” Peggy tried the door and found it locked.

Moving to the next door, she was met by a gray-haired man who opened it a crack. “Sorry,” he said. “Box office won’t be open for another half hour.” Off to her right, Peggy noticed that a line had already formed. The early birds watched her with interest.

“I have an appointment,” Peggy said. “With Mr. Stalkey.”

The doorkeeper immediately stepped back and motioned her inside. “Just a minute,” he said, reaching for a list on a clipboard. “Your name, please?”

“Peggy Lane.”

The man checked off her name with a flourish. “Right. Go inside, please.”

Peggy nodded at him absent-mindedly and pushed her way into the dark interior of the theater.

There was something about a deserted theater that was both lifeless and exciting. It was a strange, gloomy world of silent rows of seats that looked almost like headstones in a cemetery.

And then there was the smell.