Part 5

“It’s simple,” Pam said seriously. “Oscar Stalkey was wondering whom to get for the understudy, and I’m the fair-haired girl who came up with the right name. Is he ever impressed!”

Peter held up his right hand. “That’s the truth,” he assured Peggy. “He thinks Pam’s the greatest casting director in New York.”

“Well, not quite,” Pam said with a grin. “But at least he doesn’t think I’m a silly girl butting in where I don’t have any business to be.”

She turned to Peggy with a sudden movement of annoyance. “Honestly, Peggy, you wouldn’t believe the cold shoulders I’ve been given! I used to think it was hard for a girl to get established as an actress, but believe me, that’s a cinch compared to finding a good job in production. Producers,” she continued, warming up to her topic, “are all alike. In the first place, they’re nearly all men—”

“And that’s the way they want to keep it,” Peter finished with a smile.

“That’s right.” Pam nodded vigorously. “That’s exactly the trouble.” She turned and appealed to Peggy. “What’s the matter with a woman being a producer?” she demanded.

“Nothing. There are some very successful women producers.”

Pam brushed this aside. “They’re exceptions—”

“Whoa! Slow down a bit,” Peter said good-naturedly. “This is her favorite topic,” he told Peggy. “The poor girl’s always telling us what a hard life she leads.”

Pam subsided with a sheepish grin. “I guess you’re right. But it still makes me mad to think—”

“Watch it,” Peter warned.

Pam stuck her tongue out at him and they both laughed. “The reason I can give orders to the terrible-tempered Miss Mundy,” Peter said, “is that I am now officially her boss.”

“I thought you worked for Mr. Stalkey,” Peggy said.

“We both work for Oscar Stalkey,” Peter explained, “but Pam works for me. You see, I’ve been made company manager for the first road production of _Innocent Laughter_, and Pam was just made my assistant.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Peggy cried excitedly. “That means we’ll be going on tour together.”

“That’s right,” Peter answered. “And now, if my assistant will kindly shut up for five minutes, maybe we can talk about the road tour for a change. After all, that’s why we’re here.” He leaned forward. “First of all, are there any questions?”

“Hundreds,” Peggy assured him. “So many I don’t know which one to ask first. But how about this one? Why did I get the part?”

Peter looked surprised. “That’s easy. You read better than anyone else.”

Peggy shook her head in amazement. “I was so scared, my knees were all wobbly. I thought I was terrible.”

Peter grinned. “You sure were scared,” he conceded. “We could practically hear your teeth chattering. But you had the quality we were looking for.”

“But what about the other girls?” Peggy said. “The ones that Craig Claiborne worked with for a while.”

“They were almost right. Claiborne thought with a little help he could make them give a performance. But then you came along and you were perfect. And that was that!”

“I still can’t understand it,” Peggy marveled. “He cut me off so soon.”

“He didn’t have to hear any more.”

Peggy smiled. “That’s just what Amy said.”

“Well, she was right.” Peter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheaf of mimeographed papers. “Here,” he said, spreading them out over the coffee table, “this is an outline of the tour as far as we know it.”

Peggy leaned over the table and watched Peter check off each stopping place. “We open in Baltimore on the twelfth of next month. That’s just five weeks away. We move south to Washington, swing west for a series of performances through Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, up to Ohio, over to Indiana, and eventually to Chicago. It’s a rugged tour. A lot of one-night stands in theaters that haven’t been properly used since the days of vaudeville. Oscar Stalkey believes in bringing live theater to all parts of the country—even if it kills all his actors.”

“How long will we be in Chicago?” Peggy asked.

“As long as they’ll keep us,” Peter answered with a wry smile. “Actually, we’re the Chicago company of _Innocent Laughter_, but we’re taking the long way around before we get there.”

“Is there another road company?”

“Oh, yes. It hasn’t been formed yet, though. They’ll play the Southwest and California and probably settle in Los Angeles.”

“How do we travel?”

Peter and Pam exchanged glances and grinned. “You name it,” Peter said. “We’ll be using every means of transportation known to man except the ox-cart.”

“Don’t be too sure.” Pam laughed. “We may use that yet.”

“True,” Peter admitted. “Bus, hired car, trains, of course, planes. Everything you can think of.”

“And hotel space?”

“That’s one of our headaches,” Pam said. “You see, moving a dozen people and three tons of theatrical scenery around the country on a split-second schedule is quite a chore.”

“We’re still worrying about the scenery,” Peter said. “When we get that settled, we’ll start to think about the people.”

“Oh, I wasn’t complaining,” Peggy said hastily. “I’m sure everything will be all right.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Peter said dryly. “I wish everyone was as easy to please.”

“Why? Whom do you mean?”

“None other than that great lady of the theater, Katherine Nelson.”

Peggy felt a funny sinking sensation in her stomach. “Is she in the cast?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Oh, yes. She’s the mother.”

“The romantic lead!”

“Yep.” Peter grinned at her. “Don’t look so surprised. What did you expect her to play? The grandmother?”

Peggy shook her head. “I’ve only seen that woman twice, but I don’t think she liked me.”

“Bingo!” Peter cried. “You’re so right. What did you do to her?”

“Nothing. Really, I didn’t do a thing. Why?”

“She saw you at the theater this morning and came storming up to Oscar Stalkey. She wanted to know if you were being considered for the understudy.”

“What did he say?”

“What could he say? Yes, naturally. She bounced around the theater like an old bag of bones, she was so angry. I wonder why she’s taken such a dislike to you.”

“I don’t know,” Peggy said. “I’ll just have to stay out of her way as much as I can.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” Pam said. “Don’t forget, you’re playing a small part in the first act. You’re playing the schoolgirl friend of the daughter.”

“True,” Peggy said. “Does she know about it?”

“Not yet.”

“I bet there’ll be an explosion.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter counseled. “Oscar Stalkey can handle her pretty well. He doesn’t let her get away with too much.”

“What was that fight about in the office the other day?” Peggy asked. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

Peter shrugged carelessly. “No big secret. She’d just finished explaining to Stalkey that she should play the lead in the Broadway production and not out in the sticks, as she put it.”

“Mr. Stalkey put her in her place soon enough,” Pam added with evident satisfaction.

“And that’s why she was screaming,” Peter added. “She’s got to have her own way or she throws a temper tantrum. Just like a child. I sometimes wonder what ails that woman.”

Pam looked at him sharply. “Don’t be dumb, Peter. She simply can’t face the fact that she’s not the romantic star she used to be.”

“Well, I wish she’d act her age,” Peter said moodily. “It’d be a lot easier all around. Let’s change the subject. Any more questions, Peggy?”

“One or two. Who’s the rest of the cast?”

“Let’s see now. The grandmother—a wonderful part—is Emily Burckhardt. The daughter is Marcy Hubbard. Do you know Marcy? She’s about your age, I guess. A little older.”

Peggy shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard of her.”

“She’s nice. You’ll like her.”

“What about the grandfather?”

“Now that,” Peter said, “is a ticklish question.” He pushed a paper across the table to Peggy. “You’d better hang on to that. It’s the first of many to come. Before we start on tour, you’ll have mimeographed sheets telling everything you’ll want to know—times of departures and arrivals, accommodations assigned to you, absolutely everything. That’s my headache.”

“And mine,” Pam said.

“Right,” Peter acknowledged with a grin. “But to get back to your question about the grandfather. You heard our conversation in the office?”

“You mean when you suggested Tom Agate?”

“That’s right.”

“Exactly who is Tom Agate? I think I know the name, and I remember your saying he was a famous performer back in the days of vaudeville. But I’m afraid I’m still not clear about—”

“That’s not surprising,” Peter interrupted. “Tom Agate retired from the stage fifteen years ago.”

“Why did he retire?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Maybe he couldn’t get a job any more.”

“Tom Agate!” Peter said incredulously. “Don’t you believe it! Don’t forget, that was just when television was starting. They were using a lot of old-time vaudeville performers then, and Tom could have had any number of jobs. I’ve spoken to several producers who wanted him, but they couldn’t find him.”

“What do you mean—couldn’t find him?”

“Exactly that. He’d disappeared. Vanished.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

Peter paused and sat back in his chair. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t. But I think there’s a chance of tracing him.”

“How?”

“I ran into somebody the other day who says he’s positive that Tom is still in New York. If he is, we’re going to find him.”

“Remember,” Pam pointed out, “you’ve only got two days.”

“I know, and that’s the trouble.”

“Where are you going to look first?” Peggy asked.

“I know a man, a friend of my father’s,” Peter said, “who’s been with the drama department of the _Chronicle_ for the last forty years. He knows more about the history of the American theater than anyone I’ve ever met.” He looked straight at Peggy. “I thought we’d go down tomorrow and talk to him.”

“We?” Peggy said in surprise.

Peter nodded. “I was hoping you’d be willing to help.”

“Well, sure,” Peggy said, “but how—”

“You see,” Peter went on excitedly, “I can’t get away during the day, and neither can Pam. There’s just not enough time before the tour. We both have to stick pretty close to the office. But I thought that maybe you—” He trailed off and looked at Peggy hopefully.

“Could act as the bloodhound?” Peggy finished.

“That’s it. Will you?”

“I don’t even know what he looks like.”

Peter brushed this aside. “That’s no problem. We can go down to the newspaper office first thing tomorrow morning and talk to my friend. His name, by the way, is Johnny Dwyer. Johnny has a room full of old clippings and photographs, and I bet he can give us a lead on Tom. Then you can follow it up and let me know tomorrow evening. How about it?”

Peggy smiled. “Well, I once discovered a hidden theater. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find a hidden actor.”

Peter bounced to his feet with a broad smile. “Good girl!” he said. “Can you meet me on the fourth floor of the _Chronicle_ building at nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll be there,” Peggy said.

“Good.” Peter gathered his papers and stuffed them in his pocket. “We’ll have your contract prepared tomorrow, and when I meet you I’ll give you a copy, and you can look it over. Then, if everything’s satisfactory, you can sign it and deliver it back to us. Okay?”

Peggy sighed. “Sounds wonderful to me.”

“Sounds pretty good to us, too,” Peter replied. “I think we’re signing on a first-class actress.”

VIII The Search

“Tom Agate? Sure, what can I tell you?”

Johnny Dwyer settled back in his chair and waved a hand invitingly at a pair of battered office chairs. Peggy sat down in one of them and looked at the figure in front of her with interest. Johnny Dwyer was a small, birdlike man with a cheerful, pink face, snow-white hair and the bushiest eyebrows Peggy had ever seen. At the moment, he was perched in front of an old-fashioned rolltop desk in a musty corner of the big metropolitan newspaper office, his coat off and the sleeves of his shirt held up by a pair of elastic armbands. Outside of actors in costume and old photographs, Peggy had never seen anyone wear armbands. But Johnny Dwyer did, and it gave him the appearance of someone out of a turn-of-the-century tintype. Despite his age—and Peggy guessed that he was over seventy—Johnny Dwyer moved with a quick, catlike grace. But when he walked, it was with the help of a cane.

On the way in to his office that morning, Peter had told Peggy a little about Johnny Dwyer. Johnny had been a gay blade in his younger days, a rising popular star in the New York music halls. But a tragic horseback accident had broken his leg in three places and cut short his career as a song-and-dance man.

The publisher of the _Chronicle_, then a new and struggling newspaper in New York, liked Johnny, felt sorry for him, and offered him a job keeping records for the drama department. It turned out to be a satisfactory arrangement for both sides. Johnny moved in and stayed.

For nearly half a century he watched the American theater parade through his bulging scrapbook and file cabinets. His memory was phenomenal and his list of acquaintances was as wide as the theater itself. In his own time, Johnny Dwyer had become sort of a legend, a living museum whose memory was a storehouse of theatrical lore. If anyone needed any information on the theater, they usually tried the public library first and then, if they couldn’t find it there, they came to Johnny. Sometimes, if they knew Johnny well, they didn’t even bother with the library. According to Peter, if anybody in New York knew where Tom Agate was, it would be Johnny Dwyer.

“Tom used to be a good friend of mine,” Johnny said, leaning back comfortably. “Many’s the night we’ve sat around and swapped stories.”

“Used to?” Peter asked in a troubled voice. “Is he dead?”

Johnny looked at Peter shrewdly. “Some people think so.”

“Do you?” Peter obviously didn’t know what to make of this strange reply.

Johnny stared up at the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Look here, young fellow,” he said at last. “Tom Agate retired a long time ago.”

“I know that,” Peter said. “But we want to find him.”

Johnny Dwyer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has it occurred to you that he doesn’t want to be found?”

“Oh, come on now, Johnny,” Peter said in a pleading voice. “You know a lot more than you’re telling us. How about a break? We don’t want to bite the man. We just want to offer him a job.”

Johnny seemed startled. “A job? But he’s retired!”

“He’ll come out of retirement for this part,” Peter said confidently.

“Oh, it’s a play?”

Peter nodded. “A wonderful chance.”

Johnny shook his head and smiled. “Tom Agate’s heard that so many times. Believe me, he won’t listen. He’s finished with the theater.”

“Do you know why?” Peggy asked.

“I don’t have the slightest notion,” Johnny replied blandly. Despite his innocent expression, Peggy was almost certain the old man was lying to Peter. “All I know,” he went on smoothly, “is that fifteen years ago, Tom Agate told me he was quitting the stage. He didn’t give any reason and I didn’t ask. After all, you don’t stick your nose into someone else’s affairs.”

“Have you seen Tom lately?” Peter persisted.

“The last time I saw Tom was”—the old man cocked his head to one side—“oh, it must have been four years ago.”

“And he’d been retired then for eleven years?”

Johnny smiled briefly. “If my arithmetic isn’t off, I guess you’re right.”

“How was he?”

“Fine.” Johnny folded his hands and waited patiently for the next question. Peggy suddenly felt herself caught up in a mystery she didn’t understand. It was clear to her that Johnny Dwyer was not going to co-operate even though he had the information Peter wanted so desperately. She waited for the next move anxiously.

Peter leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “Johnny,” he said with quiet sincerity, “let me explain why we want to get in touch with Tom Agate.” He proceeded to tell Johnny about _Innocent Laughter_ and the part reserved for Tom. “It’s a wonderful opportunity for him,” he concluded. “And, of course, I’m convinced that Tom would be ideal in the part.”

Johnny Dwyer sat perfectly still for several seconds after Peter had finished talking. At last he lifted himself to his feet, picked up his cane, and walked over to the window. Peggy noticed again how tiny and fragile he looked. “Peter, my boy,” he said finally, “I’m glad you feel that way about Tom. It’s nice to know that somebody still remembers him.”

“I’m sure that thousands of people all over the country remember him!” Peter interrupted excitedly.

Johnny smiled and nodded. “Perhaps. But Tom had his reasons for leaving when he did, and I don’t think anybody has the right to force him back. It’s a decision he’s got to make.”

Peter got up and walked over to Johnny. “I agree with you,” he said. “But we’re not going to force him. All I want is a chance to talk to him. He can make up his own mind.”

The two men—one old, the other young—stood staring at each other. Johnny Dwyer looked into Peter’s eyes as though he were trying to read his mind, then turned away. “No,” he said. “Get somebody else.”

Peter sighed and returned to his chair. “You say you saw Tom four years ago?”

“Mm-hm.” Johnny gave a little birdlike bob with his head.

Peter looked up abruptly. “Tell me something, Johnny. Was he happy?” The question was sharp and unexpected. For the first time Johnny seemed uncertain of his answer. “Or did he miss the theater?”

Johnny groped his way over to his chair and sank down. There was a troubled expression on his face. “Yes,” he said in a very quiet voice. “He missed the stage.” He looked over at Peggy and Peter. “You two,” he said, “you’ve been working in the theater for how long? Two years? Four years? Five years? Well, Tom Agate spent thirty years of his life on stage. It was everything he knew—and almost everything he loved.”

“_Almost_ everything?” The question came almost automatically, before Peggy had a chance to think about it. Johnny looked at her oddly. It was the first time she had spoken during the interview.

“Don’t ask me any more,” he said. “Just leave Tom alone.”

Peter shook his head stubbornly. “Why don’t you help us give Tom a chance to find happiness again?”

“By coming back to the theater?”

“Yes.”

“He’d never do it. I told you that.”

“Maybe he’s changed his mind.”

Johnny smiled and shook his head regretfully. Suddenly Peggy was on her feet, talking quickly and earnestly.

“Mr. Dwyer,” she said, “we don’t want to pry into Mr. Agate’s personal life. You said yourself no one should poke his nose into someone else’s business. Well, I agree. But at the same time you just admitted that he was unhappy and missed the theater. You said it was his whole life. Sometimes, Mr. Dwyer, people need help. They need to have their eyes opened so they can see the life they’re missing. The life that belongs to them if only they reach out and take it. Doesn’t Mr. Agate deserve a second chance? I—I don’t know what happened fifteen years ago. I don’t know why he left the stage and I wouldn’t dream of asking him.”

“Then what _do_ you want to ask him?”

“I want to ask him to come back to the life he loves,” Peggy said simply.

“I tried that myself,” Johnny said. “It didn’t work.”

Peggy pulled a chair over beside Johnny and looked into his face. “Sometimes,” she said gently, “the wrong person does the asking.”

Johnny stared at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Peggy was flushed and embarrassed at what she was about to say, but she held her ground. “We’re young,” she said as kindly as she could. “We’re still part of the theater he misses so much. If _we_ want him back, that’s different from....” Her voice trailed off in confusion as she anxiously watched Johnny’s reaction.

Johnny nodded in comprehension. “Different from an old fellow like me doing the asking. Somebody who’s through, himself. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” Peggy said almost in a whisper. “Except for one thing. You’re not through. You’ve still got your work. People need you—the newspaper needs you. Nobody needs Tom Agate, and he probably thinks nobody wants him.” She stood up and looked down at him. “But we want him.”

Johnny passed a hand over his face and rested his chin on the head of his cane. Slowly his head began to nod. “You’re right,” he said at last. “By gollies, I think you are.” He turned to Peter with an appreciative chuckle. “You should have let her do the talking right from the start.”

“Then you’ll help us?” Peggy cried eagerly.

Johnny got up and hobbled energetically over to a pile of scrapbooks. “I’ll do all I can,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s not going to be much.”

“Johnny!” Peter was over beside the old man, clapping him enthusiastically on the back.

“Take it easy, now,” Johnny protested. “Frankly, I’d give a lot to see Tom Agate back on the stage. Remember that old song of his, ‘Kathleen Aroon’?”

Johnny was chuckling happily now, as if he had been relieved of a great burden of responsibility.

“Hold on.” Peter laughed. “He won’t be doing any songs in _Innocent Laughter_. It’s a straight play.”

“What a pity,” Johnny sighed. “Did you ever hear him sing?” he asked Peggy. “I guess not,” he said before she could answer. “You’d be too young. But that was his theme song. He used to sing it everywhere. I think he included it in every show he ever played.”

“How does it go?” Peggy asked.

“Like this.” Johnny turned and faced them.

_“Why should we parted be, Kathleen Aroon, When thy fond heart’s with me, Kathleen Aroon? Come to these golden skies, Bright days for us may rise, Oh! dry those tearful eyes, Kathleen Aroon.”_

Even though Johnny sang with the thin voice of an old man, Peggy found herself listening to every phrase. When he finished, she held out her hands to him.

“That was beautiful,” she breathed. “I never knew that such a simple song could be so lovely.”

Johnny smiled modestly. “You should have heard Tom do it,” he said. “It always seemed to have a special meaning for him.”

Beside her, Peggy could feel Peter fidgeting restlessly. “Say, I’m sorry to break this up,” he said, “but I’ve got to get back to the office. Can we have Tom Agate’s address?”

Johnny shook his head regretfully. “That’s just the trouble. I’m afraid he may have moved. All I’ve got is the place where he lived four years ago.”

“But mightn’t he still be there?” Peter asked anxiously.

Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. You can try.”

“Well, where is it?”

Johnny wrote out an address that Peggy recognized as a place out in the suburbs beyond the city.

“That’s the best I can do,” Johnny said. “You can inquire there.”

“Great.” Peter took the paper and handed it over to Peggy. “That’s your job, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s hope you find him.”

“Wait a minute,” Peggy said, grabbing Peter by the arm. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“That’s easy,” Johnny said. “I’ve got a million photographs. Let me get you one. I’ll try to get the best likeness for you.” He disappeared down a narrow aisle of file cases. A moment later he was back, blowing the dust from a large glossy photo. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “That’s just about the way he looks today. It was taken during the war.”

The picture showed a rather ordinary-appearing man. At first glance there was nothing particularly unusual about Tom Agate. But a closer look revealed a quality of gentle, almost melancholy, humor that seemed to dominate his face. Peggy held it out at arm’s length. “He looks so sad,” she said. “Somehow I expected him to be gay.”

“What did you think he’d be like?” Johnny asked quietly. “A circus clown?”

“No,” Peggy said. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Johnny said hastily. “All great clowns are sad. Or didn’t you know that?” He took the photograph from her, slipped it into a plain Manila envelope and returned it. “Here you are,” he said. “And good luck to you. I hope you find him.”

Peggy tucked the envelope under her arm and extended her hand. “Thanks a lot,” she said warmly. “We’ll let you know how we make out.”