CHAPTER FIVE

It was not long before Grace learned to disregard time in all connections with Broadway, but this first morning she took Harry Strauss's warnings to heart and saw with astonishment that, in spite of them, the office was closed. It stayed closed till nine-thirty. Then the stenographer sauntered in. Grace was still afraid to leave even for a moment to get herself a cup of coffee (she had avoided breakfast with her mother), but she used the chance to throw a little light on her job through the stenographer. She knew that Mr. Strauss publicized an occasional movie for one of the big motion-picture companies, and an occasional show; that he had, usually, theatrical clients. What sort of accounts was Mr. Strauss handling now? The stenographer thought that the office would be busy with the young widow of a famous dancer who was about to "stage a comeback" in a night club. Grace also wished to find out whether any girl had had her job previously. Miss MacAlister, who showed that she admired Grace's face and clothes, said that only Mr. Epstein had worked for Mr. Strauss, so far as she knew. This encouraged Grace; there would be no standard of comparison to live up to.

Mr. Strauss made his appearance at ten o'clock and did not seem to be in the least impressed to find her waiting. What a fascinating crop of silver hair he had! She felt at home with him. She knew he liked her looks and she liked his. He said without prelude, "Now Annabella Arden is to be at Ontalvo's at ten-thirty to take new pictures. Go over there and wait for her, and when you're through, both of you come back here. Know where Ontalvo's is, my dear?" He took it for granted that she knew who Annabella Arden was.

This time she understood that she had not to hurry. She enjoyed the luxury of breakfast alone in a restaurant. She called up Letty to bolster her courage, and even so, when she got to Ontalvo's, Annabella Arden was absent. Learning that she came from Mr. Strauss's office, the girl at the desk made herself extraordinarily pleasant. The photographer left the studio for a moment to shake her hand. Grace realized that it would be good policy to put herself on cordial terms with these people from the start. She liked them too. It was all being very nice.

She waited an hour. Still no Annabella Arden. She chanced a telephone call to Mr. Strauss's stenographer to learn where Miss Arden lived.

A sweet, blonde voice, infinitely naïve, spoke to her over the wire. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry you had to wait. But I _told_ Harry I didn't want any more pictures. I have loads and loads, dear." The voice grew a whit sharper. "Harry didn't tell me how much the pictures would cost, dear. Can you find out?"

The girl at the desk evaded. "We make special prices for Mr. Strauss." And Grace understood that Mr. Strauss got his percentage from them. She was amused. He certainly didn't miss a thing!

"I believe--Mr. Strauss arranges that," she said carefully through the phone. "I wouldn't know about that."

"Oh, then I think I'll talk to Harry first. Don't you think that would be wise, dear?"

"Then will you be at the office soon?" said Grace.

"I'm leaving this _very_ minute, honey."

Grace hurried back, worrying. Did Mr. Strauss expect her to insist on new pictures? Was that part of her job? Mr. Strauss's door was shut and a new air hung over the office, a business air, at once abstracted and intent. The stenographer was typing with such speed that she did not even pause to look up at Grace.

"Mr. Epstein's in with him now," she said over her shoulder.

Feeling very much out of it, Grace took a chair and waited again.

Mr. Strauss's office opened simultaneously with the appearance of Annabella Arden. She carried out the promise of her voice. She was a blonde with round eyes, a sharp, pretty little face, the flat, charming torso and long legs of a dancer. About her neck she had flung a scarf made up of innumerable tails of animals.

"Come in, both of you," called Mr. Strauss. By his desk sat a short, sloppy young man, chewing gum with wide motions of his lips, round and round. Mr. Epstein. Harry Strauss made the introductions suavely and Grace noticed, as he questioned her and she answered, how well in hand he had Annabella. He treated her like an employee, not a client.

"Now, let's get down to business. Where's Russell?" Russell was Miss Arden's new dancing partner.

"Why, Russell didn't think he could afford you, Harry," said Miss Arden with great pathos.

Mr. Strauss sneered.

"All right. Now, Al, you and Miss Kline get together and plan your campaign. Break the story Monday. We must get a lot of space before the opening. Now, you can have five tables Thursday night for the newspapers. Now, Al," he said sharply, "you and Miss Kline work together but don't get in each other's way. You let her take the _Times_. She knows the people there."

"Does she know Deering?" said Al quickly.

"No, but she knows Tommy Manship and all that gang."

Al glanced at Grace but kept quiet and chewed his gum. He took a sheet of paper and wrote "Times" in pencil. He added slowly a "K."

"Al, you take the _American_ and the _Journal_. Let Miss Kline have the _World_, too. She's a friend of Mildred Nelson. Divide the other papers between you."

"Yeh," said Al. He chewed gum omnisciently. Nothing was beyond him.

"Now, what have you got planned?" demanded Mr. Strauss. Grace made a nervous contraction of her throat. Al said to her at once, as if taking a cue, "Now, we gotta get pictures taken right away. Go out and plant 'em in the roto sections for next Sunday."

"_This_ Sunday. What about this Sunday?" rapped out Mr. Strauss.

And Miss Arden piped up, "Oh, but I think I ought to have my picture in this Sunday."

A slight look passed between Al and Harry.

Al said, "All right. I might be able to make the _Times_ this Sunday."

Grace knew he couldn't. It was Thursday and the _Times_ weekly picture section was sure to be already made up. She thought she might as well help in the propitiation of Annabella. "I know--Hector Valley," she said. "I'll go right over and see him."

Al interposed, "I know him very well, too. Very good friendamine, Heck Valley. I was out on a drunk with him till two in the morning yesterday."

He went back to his gum and his paper. "Now we'll give a tea for her," he added. "Ask all the newspapermen. I got a great stunt for her."

"All right." Mr. Strauss raised a finger. "Now--you--Al," he said with emphasis, "don't get in Miss Kline's way. Miss Kline, you stick to your papers." He turned to Miss Arden. "Now, Annabella, one thing more. These people are working for you, Mr. Epstein and Miss Kline. Now, I want you above all never to break any appointments they make for you with newspaper people. Make the appointments at your convenience; their time is yours. But once you've made an appointment, don't break it, or you'll get them in wrong with the papers. They'll work for you faithfully if you keep up your end. But if you get them in wrong with the papers, they'll lose interest and you'll lose publicity. Isn't that so?"

Grace and Al said together, "Yes, that's so."

Al turned to Miss Arden. "Where you gonna be this afternoon? I'm gonna have some pictures made."

"Oh, and Miss Arden said something about the dresses she used to wear with Gene Arden," interrupted Grace. "I thought--there would be a good feature story in her giving a few away to girls who need new evening dresses and can't afford them." She went on nervously. "I mean--the idea would be that they held too many memories now that Mr. Arden was--dead."

"But I gave them away already, honey. I sold them," said Annabella hastily.

"Well, you don't really have to give them away. We--can manage that."

Mr. Strauss nodded at Grace as if to say, "You're learning." He handed her a folder full of pictures.

As Al rose, Grace rose too and followed him into the outer office. At once Al took the folder of pictures away from her. There wasn't a consecutive thought in her mind, nothing but a jumble of feverish beginnings. By an effort of will she kept her voice, at least, from trembling. They sat down on chairs near the door, and Al began to scrawl on his piece of paper.

"We better figure out who we're gonna ask to the tea. And the opening, too. I thought of an old stunt," said Al. "Old, but it always works. I'm gonna have her legs insured."

Grace began: "How about----" and he snatched the words from her lips: "How about a new dance step?" Feverishly, "New dance step" was written on the sheet of paper.

Al bit his pencil and said thoughtfully, "I don't know what we'll do about a typewriter for you. I use Miss MacAlister's. I wanted Harry to get one for you this morning, but he won't. I never liked to work with a night club," he added, sighing. "It's hard to get stuff in--and then the late hours. I had the Gaga Club when it opened and I gave it to Benny Best. You know Benny Best, nice fella? Now we gotta figure out all the people we're gonna ask to the opening."

The door opened for Annabella.

"Say, where you gonna be practising this afternoon?" called Al.

Annabella gave them the address. "I'll be there till four o'clock, honey. We're going over the routine." Her eyes lingered on Grace. It was part of Grace's luck that women were attracted by her looks as well as men. They wondered at her skin and at the suction of her eyes; couldn't keep their glances away, wishing to find the secret. Annabella bestowed a special smile on Grace.

"She likes you," said Al suspiciously. "Know her before?"

"No."

Al looked at his watch. It was nearly two. "Well, let's go out and grab some lunch. Let's see now, I gotta call the photographer and I gotta go to the bank. And, say, I gotta get ahold of an insurance man I know who'll stand for the fake policy. I'm gonna insure her legs for half a million. Come on."

So many small errands which Al had to do developed on the way that it was three o'clock before they finally sat down at a lunch counter and swallowed a sandwich and a cup of coffee apiece. Two nervous spots burned on Grace's cheeks, under her skin.

"Now listen," said Al. "You run over to the _Times_ and see if you can plant a picture. I'll go on to the studio. Show up there at four, will ya? Listen, are those pictures backed? Harry said she opens Thursday, didn't he? What's her name, Annabelle or Annabella?"

Al insisted on "backing" all the pictures himself--that is, writing a description on the back. She let him take the lead. With many frowns and chewings of his pencil he composed at last a paragraph ornate enough to suit him.

"We don't have to bother with her partner--that's one good thing," said Al. "Harry isn't working for him. It's no cinch getting space for a girl dancer in a night club, but a man--Jesus Christ!"

Whatever he said Grace listened to intently and absorbed.

She hurried over to the _Times_. The head of the rotogravure section was, as she expected, in the composing room. She left a picture without much hope, then went into the Dramatic Department to see Tommy Manship. When she had had her job on the Brooklyn _Press_, she had been very careful to meet and make friends with as many people on the New York papers as possible. She had gotten the press agents of the shows whose openings she sometimes covered to point out and introduce her to dramatic editors and critics. Sometimes she had been invited by the press agents to parties where these might be present. Her foresight was now rewarded. Tommy Manship, the assistant dramatic editor, knew and liked her. He placed a chair by his desk for her, heard her story, and puckered his lips.

"I'd help you if I could, Grace," he said. "But you know how much space we have for dramatic notes week days. We haven't got enough for the regular shows, let alone night clubs. I might try to slip in something next Sunday. Send me a note and I'll see."

Watching her big disappointed eyes, he added, "They're running a dance column now on Sundays. I'll find out who does it and you get in touch with him. Maybe he'll do something for you."

He telephoned about and wrote down a name and number for her. It was nice to have her sitting there, such a pretty girl. Not pretty exactly. Both less and more than pretty. He had been a press agent himself and he told her when various people on the papers were apt to be in and advised her how to proceed.

In return she took him into her confidence, with grave eyes fixed on him.

"I'm--really working for Harry Strauss. But I'm supposed to be working by myself because Mr. Strauss isn't so well liked by the papers."

He nodded and grinned.

"I'll see you around now, Grace, won't I?"

"Very--pos-sibly." She always halted in this way between words and sometimes syllables. People thought it an affectation, but really there was a catch in her throat that made it necessary.

She went down into the street, soothed by admiration, not feeling so much of a petitioner. Walking past a window with a clock, she realized suddenly that it was four. For the first time in a year she had forgotten to anticipate this hour. For the first time in a year, an affair of her own--this job--had to take precedence of Blake's affairs. Always, heretofore, she had attuned herself to his wishes, arranged her day to suit the convenience of the hour between four and five for him. It did not occur to her even to question the fact that her job must come first now. She did not dare not to appear at the studio. And, although she ached to see Blake, she felt with a start that she was smiling a little, not hurrying to the telephone. The air seemed to widen a bit in front of her; she had a returning taste of freedom, the old freedom she had known and lost. It was the merest taste and gone on the instant. But it was pleasant.

She was even more pleased to find Blake waiting for her call in Fred's office, to hear the disappointed droop of his voice. And he couldn't blame her. It did not occur to him either to question the inevitable precedence of a job.

"Then I won't see you to-day?" he repeated, as if he must have time to let this sink in, down into the slow depths of his mind. "I won't see you to-day.... What're you doing to-night?" he asked suddenly.

"I thought I might go to Let's for dinner."

"Well, I--I'll try to get away. Don't count on it. But I'll try to get up there."

She was smiling so widely that a man followed her out of the cigar store. He soon saw the smile was not for him. For the first time in twelve months Blake had, of his own free will and not by her exaction, planned to make room in his life, in his wife's life, to permit her to get in. All these months it had been her sole efforts, almost, which had nourished the hope between them. Now the hope sprang up greener, stronger. Blake was helping to cherish it of his own accord.

She took a street car to the dance studio. Small duties, moods, comments, questions beat on her exhausted mind as soon as she entered. Annabella, in a skimpy chiffon practise dress, was posing with bad temper. She had expected a string of cameras. There was only one--hired, though Annabella didn't know this. The partner, a keen, slick-haired youth, tried to insinuate himself into all the pictures.

"Aw, there you are," cried Al. "Look, Annabella don't understand that this man's from the I.N.S. that supplies pictures to all the papers. That's better than getting all the papers up here, Annabella. This man sees that they all get prints and they have to use 'em, don't they? They pay for 'em, don't they, Grace?"

Grace added her fervent assurances. "We must get pictures of her legs," she said. "Hasn't she stunning legs, Al?"

"That's just what I was going to do," said Al.

And, "Your own legs aren't so bad, honey," said Annabella with a gratified smile.

Between them, they got her on a table and pulled her practise dress even farther up. They shoved the partner away. They sat her on another table before the insurance man, pretending to sign a policy for her legs. They posed her with the partner in a presumably new dance step--Annabella, however, well to the fore. The photographer called, "Ready." There were flashes. The long bare room was filled with smoke. The studio instructor gave a lesson in one corner and growled at them, about the smoke, about the time they took. A piano tinkled.

"Now, one--two--three---- Say, you people have got to get out. Your time's up."

"Now, what'll we call this dance?" cried Al. "We got to get a name for it. What do you say, Grace?"

"The New Yorker, maybe," suggested Grace after a weary pause.

"Naw, that's too high-tone, too highbrow. Something snappy. Gee, I don't know about dancing."

"How about the Ritz?" said Annabella's partner.

"The Ritzy Ritz! That's what we'll call it! _That's_ swell. Say, when I get a hunch, Grace----"

"Now listen, when'll these pictures be ready? Now listen, Grace, you go down to his office and call for them to-morrow early. Nine o'clock. See? Good-bye, Annabella. The pictures'll be knockouts. I bet we make the front page. Now, I'll get in touch with you to-morrow morning. Good-bye, Annabella. I'll see you get your break, Karston. Say, you'll be the best-known insurance man in America to-morrow. See, Grace, you remember Karston. He insures all the actors and actresses, don't you, Karston? So long. Yeh, we won't forget to use your name."

Al was everywhere.

"Now listen, Grace, we got time to go down to the office and pound out some stories--just a short one, see?--so we'll have 'em on hand in the morning when we start making the rounds. I gotta go down to the _American_ now myself. Gee, I got that show to see about yet."

It was nearly six. Grace protested.

"Oh, we don't have to do the stories to-night. We have loads of time. I'll do them first thing--in the morning. Aren't you--tired?"

"Tired! Say, you ain't seen nothing yet. Wait till we start trotting around to the papers. You gotta hop, I tell you, when you work for Harry. But I'll get everything fixed up. Leave it to Friend Al."

He squeezed her arm. He seemed much jollier and not so suspicious, so she assumed that he was satisfied with her. They hadn't done a thing, it seemed to her, and she couldn't grasp any of it yet. She started out, with relief, for Letty's house. She was utterly tired--so tired. Her cheeks were lengthened; her eyes were holes. Her heart reached across a city to Blake, to feel him near her. But anyhow, at least for this day, the prospect looked bright.