him. Flane thought it was swell.”
“I think it’s swell too,” said the Saint soothingly. “I was only mentioning that it didn’t happen.”
“Look here,” said Lazaroff suspiciously, “are you trying to set us right about your life?”
“We’ve got to have some dramatic license,” explained Kenнdricks. “But we’ll do right by you. You’ll see. We’ll give you the best life story any guy ever had.”
“As Byron is always saying,” insisted Lazaroff, “you gotta cooperate. Aren’t you going to cooperate?”
Simon added his feet to the collection on the desk, and lighted a cigarette.
“Tell me more about the great Byron,” he said.
Lazaroff ruffled his untidy gray locks.
“What, his life story? He changes it every time he tells it. Actually he’s a retired racketeer. Well, not retired, but he’s changed his racket. Now his strong-arm men don’t walk in and say ‘How about buyin’ some protection, bud?’ They say ‘How about lendin’ us your yacht for a coupla days for some location shots?’-in the same tone of voice.”
“Byron Ufferlitz is his real name, too,” supplied Kendricks. “It’s on his police record.”
“It’s on our checks every Saturday,” said Lazaroff, “and the bank honors it. That’s all we have to worry about.”
“How do you get on with him?”
“I get on fine with anyone who gives me a check every Saturday. In this town, you have to, if you want to eat. He isn’t any more ignorant than a lot of other producers we’ve worked for who didn’t have police records. We rib him plenty, and he doesn’t get too sore. Just now and again he gets a look in his eye as if he’s just ready to say ‘Okay, wise guy, howja like to get taken for a ride?’ Then we lay off him for a bit. But we don’t have to steal anything more illegal than ideas, so what the hell? At that, I’d rather work with him than Jack Groom.”
“The trouble is,” said Kendricks, “we don’t have the choice. We have to work with both of ‘em.”
“Who’s Jack Groom?” Simon asked.
“The genius who’s going to condescend to direct this epic. Art with a capital F. You’ll meet him.”
Simon did, a little later.
Mr. Groom was tall and thin and stoop-shouldered. He had pale hollow cheeks and lank black hair that fell forward to meet his thick black brows. He had a rich deep voice that never seemed as if it could be produced by such a sepulchral creature.
He inspected Simon with complete detachment, and said: “Could you grow a moustache in ten days?”
“I should think so,” said the Saint. “But what would I do with it? Is there a market for them?”
“You should have a moustache in this picture. And your hair should be slicked down more. It’ll give you a smoother appearance.”
“I used to slick it down once,” said the Saint, “but I got tired of it. And I never have worn a moustache, except in character.”
Mr. Groom shook his head, and swept his forelock back with long tired fingers. It promptly fell down again.
“The Saint would wear a moustache,” he stated impregнnably. “I’ve got a feeling about it.”
“You remember me?” said the Saint, with a slight floating sensation. “I’m the Saint.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Groom patiently. “I visualise you with a moustache. Get one started right away, won’t you? Thanks.”
He waved a limp hand and drifted away, preoccupied with many responsibilities.
Eventually Simon found his way back to Byron Ufferlitz’s outer office, where Peggy Warden looked up from a clatter of typewriting with her fresh friendly smile.
“Well,” she said cheerfully, “did you meet everybody?”
“I don’t know,” said the Saint. “But if there are any more of them, I’ll wait till tomorrow. I don’t want to spoil the flavor by being gluttonous. The Wardrobe Department will probнably want to check the cut of my jockstrap, and I expect the Prop Department will tell me what sort of gun I prefer.”
“We’ll
“I think it’s swell too,” said the Saint soothingly. “I was only mentioning that it didn’t happen.”
“Look here,” said Lazaroff suspiciously, “are you trying to set us right about your life?”
“We’ve got to have some dramatic license,” explained Kenнdricks. “But we’ll do right by you. You’ll see. We’ll give you the best life story any guy ever had.”
“As Byron is always saying,” insisted Lazaroff, “you gotta cooperate. Aren’t you going to cooperate?”
Simon added his feet to the collection on the desk, and lighted a cigarette.
“Tell me more about the great Byron,” he said.
Lazaroff ruffled his untidy gray locks.
“What, his life story? He changes it every time he tells it. Actually he’s a retired racketeer. Well, not retired, but he’s changed his racket. Now his strong-arm men don’t walk in and say ‘How about buyin’ some protection, bud?’ They say ‘How about lendin’ us your yacht for a coupla days for some location shots?’-in the same tone of voice.”
“Byron Ufferlitz is his real name, too,” supplied Kendricks. “It’s on his police record.”
“It’s on our checks every Saturday,” said Lazaroff, “and the bank honors it. That’s all we have to worry about.”
“How do you get on with him?”
“I get on fine with anyone who gives me a check every Saturday. In this town, you have to, if you want to eat. He isn’t any more ignorant than a lot of other producers we’ve worked for who didn’t have police records. We rib him plenty, and he doesn’t get too sore. Just now and again he gets a look in his eye as if he’s just ready to say ‘Okay, wise guy, howja like to get taken for a ride?’ Then we lay off him for a bit. But we don’t have to steal anything more illegal than ideas, so what the hell? At that, I’d rather work with him than Jack Groom.”
“The trouble is,” said Kendricks, “we don’t have the choice. We have to work with both of ‘em.”
“Who’s Jack Groom?” Simon asked.
“The genius who’s going to condescend to direct this epic. Art with a capital F. You’ll meet him.”
Simon did, a little later.
Mr. Groom was tall and thin and stoop-shouldered. He had pale hollow cheeks and lank black hair that fell forward to meet his thick black brows. He had a rich deep voice that never seemed as if it could be produced by such a sepulchral creature.
He inspected Simon with complete detachment, and said: “Could you grow a moustache in ten days?”
“I should think so,” said the Saint. “But what would I do with it? Is there a market for them?”
“You should have a moustache in this picture. And your hair should be slicked down more. It’ll give you a smoother appearance.”
“I used to slick it down once,” said the Saint, “but I got tired of it. And I never have worn a moustache, except in character.”
Mr. Groom shook his head, and swept his forelock back with long tired fingers. It promptly fell down again.
“The Saint would wear a moustache,” he stated impregнnably. “I’ve got a feeling about it.”
“You remember me?” said the Saint, with a slight floating sensation. “I’m the Saint.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Groom patiently. “I visualise you with a moustache. Get one started right away, won’t you? Thanks.”
He waved a limp hand and drifted away, preoccupied with many responsibilities.
Eventually Simon found his way back to Byron Ufferlitz’s outer office, where Peggy Warden looked up from a clatter of typewriting with her fresh friendly smile.
“Well,” she said cheerfully, “did you meet everybody?”
“I don’t know,” said the Saint. “But if there are any more of them, I’ll wait till tomorrow. I don’t want to spoil the flavor by being gluttonous. The Wardrobe Department will probнably want to check the cut of my jockstrap, and I expect the Prop Department will tell me what sort of gun I prefer.”
“We’ll
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