Part 4

All empty theaters had the same unmistakable odor. It was a combination of stale air and fish glue. The glue, Peggy knew from many long hours in summer stock, was called “sizing,” and was used over canvas flats to keep them stretched tight on their frames. Its odor was barely noticeable at the back of the house, but farther on down, close to the stage, it was quite strong. Backstage, of course, it was strongest, but there it was mixed with countless other odors of theatrical life—the sweet, oily smell of grease paint, the acrid cloud that was generated by the electrician’s lighting board—all so familiar to Peggy. They were an integral part of her life, just as the smell of printer’s ink was of her father’s.

Blinking her eyes until they were adjusted to the shadowy darkness, Peggy was aware that the curtain was up. In the middle of the stage stood a plain worklight—an ugly, bare iron pole topped with a single, powerful electric light bulb. It shed a harsh, uncompromising light that threw grotesque shadows over the back of the set and down into the orchestra. Near the rail that separated the orchestra pit from the audience, Peggy could see three or four men, deep in earnest, low-voiced conversation. In various parts of the auditorium, girls were sitting in groups or singly. Nobody noticed her and nobody came up to tell her what to do, so Peggy slipped unobtrusively into one of the seats off a side aisle.

In a few moments, one of the men down front stood up and consulted his watch. From his tall, loose-limbed movements, Peggy recognized him as Craig Claiborne, the director of _Innocent Laughter_.

Claiborne moved up the center aisle, scanned the house, and apparently was satisfied with what he saw. He turned and cupped his hands over his mouth.

“Frank!” he yelled. “Let’s have some lights.”

From somewhere backstage a muffled voice shouted, “Okay!” The next instant the stage was flooded with a soft yellow light. A moment later an electrician shuffled over to the worklight, unplugged it, and dragged it off to the wings. As he made his ungraceful exit, a tall, wiry man in his shirt sleeves stepped on stage. In his hand, he carried two scripts. He sat down behind a small, wooden table near the footlights and proceeded to light a cigarette despite the No Smoking signs that covered the theater walls. No one objected.

Claiborne turned and mounted some steps that led to the stage. Shading his eyes against the glare, he advanced toward the audience and cleared his throat for attention.

“Good morning,” he began. “I’ll skip the preliminaries because we all know why we’re here. The scene I want you to read this morning is in the second act of _Innocent Laughter_. It takes place between the young daughter and her grandfather. You understand that you’re not reading for the part of the daughter, but for the general understudy. Let me quickly describe the action for you, and we’ll start.”

In a long-legged stride, Claiborne moved to a doorway at stage left. “The daughter comes through this door into the living room. She thinks it is deserted, but actually her grandfather is sitting in that wing chair by the fire. The audience can see him, but she can’t. At this point in the play, the daughter has just decided to marry the young man. She’s excited at the prospect and also a little unsure of herself. She goes over to the window here”—Claiborne walked to a set of double French doors—“and looks out. She sighs once, then the grandfather speaks. She turns around in surprise, and they begin their conversation.”

Claiborne returned to the footlights. “I want each of you to go through the entrance. Mr. Fox”—he indicated the man puffing on a cigarette—“will read the scene with you. Mr. Fox, incidentally, is our assistant stage manager.”

The man at the table acknowledged the introduction by lifting one hand and then letting it drop.

“Now then,” Claiborne said, “we’ll have Miss Celia Forrester.” As a blond girl in a very tight dress got up to take her place on the stage, Claiborne continued, “Keep on reading until I tell you to stop. When you’re excused, please return the script to Mr. Fox and leave the theater by the stage door. You’ll find it out beyond stage right.”

Miss Forrester, meanwhile, had collected her copy of the playscript from Mr. Fox and was already disappearing behind the door. “All right, Miss Forrester,” Claiborne called out. “We’re ready whenever you are. Remember to take your time.”

There was an expectant hush as everyone in the theater settled back to wait for the girl’s entrance. It came in a rush. The door flew open and Miss Forrester leaped out on stage, clutching the manuscript in one hand. Looking a little like some hunted animal, she darted over to the window and groaned ecstatically. That was the cue for Mr. Fox to read his line, but he was so fascinated by the girl’s entrance, he merely stared at her. The young actress flashed him a peremptory glance and heaved her sigh a second time. The assistant stage manager started guiltily and quickly found the place.

“‘Why did you come in so quietly?’” Mr. Fox read. “‘You’re as furtive as a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’”

He had a high-pitched nasal voice without a trace of expression.

Miss Forrester whirled around with a gasp. “‘Oh!’” she cried in a simpering tone. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”

“‘I’ll go if you like,’” Mr. Fox continued.

Miss Forrester tripped over to him girlishly. “‘Oh, no! Please don’t,’” she said breathlessly. “‘There’s—there’s something I want to talk to you about.’” For some reason, Miss Forrester decided that a laugh would be effective at this point. It rang clear and loud through the hollow stillness of the empty theater.

Peggy saw Craig Claiborne slump deeper into his seat and bury his head in his hands. After a few more moments he unwound himself and stood up. “Thank you—thank you very much, Miss Forrester. We’ll call you.”

Miss Forrester, who had been stopped in mid-sentence, closed her mouth and returned the playscript to Mr. Fox. Flashing Claiborne a smile, she left the stage.

“Miss Palmers, please,” Claiborne announced. “Miss Ruth Palmers.”

Ruth Palmers turned out to be an extremely self-assured young woman who took the script from Mr. Fox as though she were doing him a favor. She glided haughtily to the door and closed it behind her.

“All right,” Claiborne called. “Any time.”

The door opened slowly, and Miss Palmers was revealed leaning languorously against the frame. Keeping her eyes fixed on some distant point in space, she stepped on stage and floated over to the window. Collecting herself, she arched her back and breathed a tiny bored sigh.

“‘Why did you come in so quietly?’” read the faithful Mr. Fox. “‘You’re as furtive as a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’”

Miss Palmers gave a little pout of surprise and turned to regard him coldly. “‘Ahh,’” she drawled. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”

“‘I’ll go if you like,’” came the answering line, as the scene got under way for the second time.

Miss Palmers lasted a little longer than Miss Forrester before she too was dismissed. The third girl was allowed to read the entire scene. Peggy saw she was a good, competent actress. Claiborne even worked with her on some of the lines.

The fourth candidate was banished before she could read two lines. She departed from the stage looking thoroughly defeated—as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time.

Both of the next two girls read well. Peggy noticed they had bright, attractive personalities which shone especially when they came to the laugh lines. It would be her turn soon. She only hoped that Randy was right in his diagnosis of the scene. She was determined to play it with tenderness.

Peggy was jolted back to reality by Craig Claiborne’s voice calling, “Miss Lane. Miss Peggy Lane, please.”

Peggy lifted herself out of her seat and walked down the aisle on rubbery legs. Suddenly her throat became as dry as a lump of cotton wool. But somehow she managed to get on stage, take the script from Mr. Fox, and move through the door.

At last she was backstage at the Elgin Theater. All around her, coils of wire and rope snaked across the floor. Above her, high over the stage, she could see rows of heavy sandbags used as counterweights whenever scenery was “flown.” Behind her, by the electrician’s board, a heavy-set stagehand was tipped back in a chair, reading the morning paper. He didn’t even bother to give her a glance.

“All right,” came Claiborne’s voice. “Any time.”

Peggy forced herself to relax. She drew a deep breath and expelled every drop of air from her lungs. Then she took a second breath and pushed open the door.

It’s night, Peggy thought to herself. The room is probably dark except for the glow of the fire. She moved quietly, tentatively, and closed the door softly. She stood for a moment, as if she were listening for something, then walked quickly over to the big double window. Very gently, she pulled back a curtain. New York was supposed to be stretched out there in front of her, and Peggy tried to remember what it was like to see the lights of New York in real life. She conjured them up and sighed. The lights of New York....

“‘Why did you come in so quietly? You’re as furtive as a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’”

The line was totally unexpected. Of course, Peggy knew the words would be spoken, but they still came as a surprise. She turned in genuine astonishment. “‘Oh!’” she exclaimed. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”

“‘I’ll go if you like.’”

Peggy moved down to the wing chair, trying to envision an old man sitting there. A kind old man with a strong, salty sense of humor, whom she didn’t know too well.

“‘Oh, no! Please don’t,’” Peggy read. There was real conviction in her voice. “‘There’s—there’s something I want to talk to you about.’”

Suddenly Peggy knew how the girl in the play would feel. She would be a little afraid of her grandfather, even though she recognized all his good qualities. The girl would be unsure of how to start the conversation.

Mr. Fox, playing the grandfather, read the encouraging lines. Peggy answered him. The pieces were beginning to fall into place now. She read with mounting conviction and assurance until, abruptly, a voice shattered the illusion.

“Thank you, Miss Lane. We’ll be in touch with you.”

It couldn’t be over yet! Peggy stopped in stunned amazement. Just when it was going so well! She felt the script being taken out of her hand and realized that she had been dismissed. Fighting back the tears, Peggy moved over to the right of the stage and ran off into the wings.

She was grateful there was no one backstage to see her. She turned the corner that led to the stage entrance and thudded against somebody coming into the theater.

Peggy blinked the tears away and looked up to see Katherine Nelson standing in front of her. Katherine Nelson opened her mouth to speak, but Peggy didn’t stop to listen.

Murmuring apologies under her breath, she brushed past the star and threw open the heavy door. All she wanted was to get out of the theater and as far away from _Innocent Laughter_ as she could. She barely heard the steel door clang shut behind her as she walked quickly down the street—away from Broadway.

VI “Why Don’t You Quit?”

“Peggy, honey, it just can’t be as bad as all that!”

“You don’t know!” Peggy was in her dressing gown, stretched across her bed, still thinking about the audition that morning. “I hardly got out five lines before he stopped me. Honestly, I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

“You can’t tell,” Amy said. “Maybe he didn’t have to hear any more.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Peggy replied bitterly. “I’m sure he heard all he wanted. More than he wanted.” She got up and walked distractedly over to the window. “Whatever made me think I could be an actress! I ought to have my head examined!”

“You _are_ an actress,” Amy said stoutly. “And a darned good one.”

Peggy whirled on her angrily. “You wouldn’t say that if you could have heard me. I must have sounded like an old crow!”

Amy shook her head. “You certainly are taking this hard,” she said. “I can’t do a thing to cheer you up.”

“Oh, Amy.” Peggy went over to her roommate and took her by the hand. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just that—that—oh, I don’t know.”

“I wish I’d seen you,” Amy declared.

Peggy looked at her in surprise. “Why? What could you have done?”

“I just think you’re exaggerating, that’s all. But I can’t convince you because I wasn’t there.”

“Well, thanks anyway, but I’m not.” Peggy sat down and closed her eyes.

“You’d better get dressed,” Amy said after a pause.

Peggy opened one eye. “What for?”

“You have to eat, don’t you? I bet you didn’t have any lunch.”

“I had a bite,” Peggy said listlessly. “But I’m not hungry right now. You go on.”

“Not without you.”

“No, please go.” Peggy sat up and looked at Amy earnestly. “Really, I wouldn’t mind being alone for a little while. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

“Sometimes two heads are better than one.”

Peggy shook her head doubtfully. “Not on this problem,” she said. “I’ve got to decide whether to stay in New York.”

Amy jumped to her feet. “Peggy!” she cried. “That’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“But what’s the sense in beating my brains out?”

“Oh, Peggy!” It was Amy’s turn to look distracted. “What would you do? Where would you go?”

“Do?” Peggy said vacantly. “I guess I’d go back home and do what Dad wanted me to do all along. Be a schoolteacher.”

“You wouldn’t be happy,” Amy said gently.

“No,” Peggy admitted. “I suppose I wouldn’t. But it would be better than this.”

Amy crossed the room with firm strides and sat down on the bed beside Peggy. Her usually cheerful face was set in a serious line. “Now you listen to me, Peggy Lane,” she said severely. “I don’t know how you read today and I don’t care. The important thing is that this was your very first audition for an important play. Of course, you were nervous. Who wouldn’t be? Maybe you didn’t do as well as you thought you could, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. Two nights ago, I was the one who wanted to quit, and remember what you said to me then. You told me to face up to what happened and not let it get me down. And now here you’re doing the very thing you warned me against.”

“Yes, but Amy,” Peggy said, “tell me something, frankly.”

“What is it?”

Peggy paused to choose her words with care. “Supposing—just suppose now, you discovered you didn’t have any talent—”

Amy tossed her head angrily. “Oh, Peggy!” she cried reproachfully.

“Now don’t interrupt,” Peggy said. “Just let me finish and answer my question. If you found out you didn’t have any talent as an actress, would you still try to break into the theater? Or would you give it up, much as you loved it?”

Amy stared at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Peggy,” she said. “I honestly don’t know. What made you think of that?”

“I saw a girl today,” Peggy said. “She read at the audition. Craig Claiborne stopped her before she could say three words—”

“There, you see!” Amy interrupted triumphantly. “You did better than that!”

Peggy smiled wanly. “Yes, but not much. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that Claiborne was right in stopping her. She was no good at all.” She tucked her legs underneath her and leaned forward. “Now here’s a girl,” Peggy went on, “who obviously thinks she’s got ability. But actually she doesn’t. Isn’t she just deluding herself by going on?”

Amy shrugged. “You never know. She might get better.”

Peggy shook her head emphatically. “Not a chance in the world. You can tell about some people. And, in a strange sort of way, I think she knew it, too. You should have seen her face when Claiborne told her she could go. It was as if she had heard the same thing so many times.”

“Well, how does all this apply to you?” Amy asked.

“I’m getting to that. How many girls want to be actresses, do you think?”

Amy thought for a moment. “Thousands, I guess.”

“And a lot of them have some talent,” Peggy continued eagerly. “They take part in school plays and church pageants and all that sort of thing. Everybody tells them how good they are, and pretty soon they begin to believe them. But Amy! What a difference between being the best actress in your home town and competing in New York!”

“Don’t I know it!” Amy sighed.

“Well, then,” Peggy said, “supposing I’m one of those girls—” She held up her hand. “Now don’t interrupt again,” she warned. “One of those girls who has a certain amount of ability, but not enough to make the grade in the professional theater. In that case, I think I owe it to myself to go back home. Let me act if I want to, but in the local little theater group—not as a starving outsider in New York. Right?”

“I guess so,” Amy agreed quietly. “But only if you’re convinced you don’t have the talent.”

“And that’s what I have to figure out,” Peggy said. “I’m just not sure.”

Further discussion was interrupted by a soft knock.

“Come in,” the girls chorused. The door swung open to reveal May Berriman standing in the hall with a tray in her hands.

“Room service,” she announced as she shouldered her way inside. “Would you mind clearing off that dresser so I can put down the tray?”

“May!” Peggy cried. “What’s all this for?”

“Custom of the house,” May replied loftily as she set down her tray. “We do it whenever a girl has her first big audition. We figure that she’s too exhausted to go out and eat afterward.”

“I don’t believe it,” Peggy said.

“Well, you’re right,” May replied dryly. “But I heard you had a fit of the blues, and I thought this might help. How do you feel?”

“She feels terrible,” Amy answered. “She’s the original Calamity Jane.”

“Uh huh.” May nodded. “Feeling sorry for yourself, eh? Here, try some of this soup.” She looked at Peggy sharply. “What’s the matter? Did you walk out on the stage with two left feet?”

Peggy smiled briefly. “That’s just about it. I did a dreadful job.”

May put a plate of soup on Peggy’s lap. “Who said so?” she demanded brusquely.

“Nobody had to tell me,” Peggy said. “I was there. He stopped me after five lines.”

May whistled admiringly. “Five lines! Say, that’s pretty good. I remember my first audition—they didn’t even let me take a deep breath.”

“Come on!”

“I’m not joking. Tell me, were your legs shaking?”

Peggy laughed. “I didn’t think I could make it to the stage.”

“I know the feeling. It’s like trying to walk across a plate of Jello. Well,” May said cheerfully, “you’ve got all the right symptoms. You should recover in a day or two.”

“In a day or two she might be gone,” Amy blurted out.

“What?” May turned to Amy in blank amazement. “What do you mean?”

“She’s thinking of going back home,” Amy said. “She doesn’t think she’s got enough talent.”

May’s expression hardened as she stared at Peggy. “Well!” she said at last. “Maybe she’s right.”

“May!” came Amy’s shocked voice.

“I mean it,” May said coldly. “There’s no room for anyone in the theater without confidence.” She stalked over to the dresser and began taking dishes off the tray. Amy and Peggy looked at each other in surprise.

Amy was the first to break the silence. “But, May,” she faltered, “couldn’t you—I mean, don’t you think—”

“That she should stay?” May shook her head disdainfully. “Not if _she_ doesn’t think so.” The older woman turned and faced the two girls. “Look here, you two. Whenever an actor or actress gets up on a stage in front of thousands of people, he’s simply got to have confidence in himself. He’s got to think that he’s the only person in the world who can play the part. If he didn’t”—May threw up her hands—“he’d have no business being in the theater.”

May walked over to Amy’s bed and sat down. “That doesn’t mean you have to be vain and egotistical. Somebody like Katherine Nelson, for example. She thinks the sun rises and sets for her own personal enjoyment. Personally, I think her acting suffers because of her attitude, and certainly she’s not a very attractive human being. No, what I’m talking about is something quite different. It’s a quiet pride in your own craft and ability. That’s the quality you need.”

May fixed Peggy with a steady stare. “I know what’s wrong with you, young lady. You just want somebody to tell you how good you are. Well, that’s not surprising. We all need approval. But in the theater, we don’t always get it when we want it, and that means we’ve got to be tough enough to keep on going no matter what people say. I didn’t say hard, I said tough. There’s a big difference. Peggy, look at me.”

The young girl raised her eyes. “I think you’re a good actress. I can’t tell you how good, because that depends on you. It depends on how hard you’re willing to work and how fast you learn. But you have the basic equipment to make it.”

May raised a finger to emphasize her point. “Even so, that’s still not enough. You have to want to do it and you have to have a deep faith that you can do it. Tell me, Peggy, do you think you could play the part of the daughter in _Innocent Laughter_ if you had to? Tell me honestly now.”

Peggy nodded briefly. “Yes,” she said with quiet conviction. “I know I could.”

May sighed and stood up. “Then why do you want to leave New York? _Innocent Laughter_ isn’t the only play you’re ever going to audition for. And the next time you’ll do better. Let’s have a little backbone, Peggy.”

Peggy sat staring at May for a moment, then flung herself into the older woman’s arms. “Oh, May!” she said. “You’re right. I was being—I don’t know what.”

“There, there,” May said soothingly, stroking the girl’s hair. “You’re all right, Peggy. You just needed somebody to talk tough.” She put her hands on Peggy’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “No more of this talk about going home. Promise?”

Peggy nodded. “I promise,” she said with a laugh.

“Good girl. Go ahead and have a cry if you want. It’ll do you good. But don’t forget to eat some supper.” She started to pat Peggy’s hand, but stopped as the telephone buzzer squawked unexpectedly.

“Oh, oh,” May said. “Better not have that cry after all. Somebody wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll go,” Amy cried, going toward the door. They could hear her footsteps echoing down the hallway. The next instant, it seemed, they heard them running back to the room at what sounded like full speed.

Amy appeared at the doorway, her face flushed with excitement and her eyes bright. “Peggy!” she almost screamed. “You got it! You got it!”

For a moment it didn’t register. “Got what?” Peggy stammered.

“The part!” Amy danced into the room and made a grab for Peggy. “Hurry up! It’s Peter Grey! He’s downstairs in the living room with Pam Mundy. He told me to tell you that they’re ready to offer you the part of general understudy in _Innocent Laughter_. He wants to talk to you about it right now. Oh, Peggy, Peggy! All that worrying for nothing. You got the part!”

VII Peggy Turns Detective

Peggy found Pam Mundy and Peter Grey sitting on one of the sofas in the big living room of the Gramercy Arms. When Peggy walked through the door, Peter jumped up and held out his hand.

“Congratulations,” he said. “We thought we’d come around and tell you the good news personally.”

Peggy took the offered hand and smiled. “I still don’t believe it,” she said. “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

“Absolutely certain.”

Peggy smiled a second time and went over to sit beside Pam. “And you’re the one who started it all,” she said.

Pam, who was a petite brunette with a quick, vivacious manner, leaned her head back against the sofa and laughed. “That,” she said, “was what they call a stroke of genius.”

“Well, whatever it was, I’ve got you to thank.”

Pam sat up suddenly. “Oh, no,” she said. “It’s the other way around. I’m the one who should thank you.”

Peggy looked at her in surprise. “Whatever do you mean?”