Evarts on the following day that he had not been working on his play. She took the situation in hand. “You just sit in the room,” she said, “and write the play, and Mildred-Rose and I will walk up and down Fifth Avenue, so you can be alone.”
Evarts tried to work, but the telephone began to ring again and he was interrupted regularly by jewelry salesmen, theatrical lawyers, and laundry services. At about eleven, he picked up the phone and heard a familiar and angry voice. It was Murchison. “I brought you from Wentworth,” he shouted, “and I made you what you are today. Now they tell me you breached my contract and double-crossed me with Sam Farley. I’m going to break you, I’m going to ruin you, I’m going to sue you, I’m—” Evarts hung up, and when the phone rang a minute later, he didn’t answer it. He left a note for Alice, put on his hat, and walked up Fifth Avenue to the Hauser offices.
When he turned the bifurcated eagle of the double doors and stepped into the manor hall that morning, he found Mr. Leavitt there, in his shirt sleeves, sweeping the carpet. “Oh, good morning,” Leavitt said. “Occupational therapy.” He hid the broom and dustpan behind a velvet drape. “Come in, come in,” he said, slipping into his jacket and leading Evarts toward the inner office. “This afternoon, you’re going to meet Sam Farley and Susan Hewitt. You’re one of the luckiest men in New York. Some men never see Sam Farley. Not even once in a lifetime—never hear his wit, never feel the force of his unique personality. And as for Susan Hewitt …” He was speechless for a moment. He said the appointment was for three. “You’re going to meet them in Sam Farley’s lovely home,” he said, and he gave Evarts the address.
Evarts tried to describe the telephone conversation with Murchison, but Leavitt cut him off. “I asked you one thing,” he shouted. “I asked you not to worry. Is that too much? I ask you to talk with Sam Farley and take a look at Susan Hewitt and see if you think she’s right for the part. Is that too much? Now, have a good time. Take in a newsreel. Go to the zoo. Go see Sam Farley at three o’clock.” He patted Evarts on the back and pushed him toward the door.
Evarts ate lunch at the Mentone with Alice and Mildred-Rose. He had a headache. After lunch, they walked up and down Fifth Avenue, and when it got close to three, Alice and Mildred-Rose walked with him to Sam Farley’s house. It was an impressive building, faced with rough stone, like a Spanish prison. He kissed Mildred-Rose and Alice goodbye and rang the bell. A butler opened the door. Evarts could tell he was a butler because he wore striped pants. The butler led him upstairs to a drawing room.
“I’m here to see Mr. Farley,” Evarts said.
“I know,” the butler said. “You’re Evarts Malloy. You’ve got an appointment. But he won’t keep it. He’s stuck in a floating crap game in the Acme Garage, at a Hundred and Sixty-fourth Street, and he won’t be back until tomorrow. Susan Hewitt’s coming, though. You’re supposed to see her. Oh, if you only knew what goes on in this place!” He lowered his voice to a whisper and brought his face close to Evarts’. “If these walls could only talk! There hasn’t been any heat in this house since we came back from Hollywood and he hasn’t paid me since the twenty-first of June. I wouldn’t mind so much, but the son of a bitch never learned to let the water out of his bathtub. He takes a bath and leaves the dirty water standing there. To stagnate. On top of everything else, I cut my finger washing dishes yesterday.” There was a dirty bandage on the butler’s forefinger, and he began, hurriedly, to unwrap layer after layer of bloody gauze. “Look,” he said, holding the wound to Evarts’ face. “Cut right through to the bone. Yesterday you could see the bone. Blood. Blood all over everything. Took me half an hour to clean up. It’s a miracle I
Evarts tried to work, but the telephone began to ring again and he was interrupted regularly by jewelry salesmen, theatrical lawyers, and laundry services. At about eleven, he picked up the phone and heard a familiar and angry voice. It was Murchison. “I brought you from Wentworth,” he shouted, “and I made you what you are today. Now they tell me you breached my contract and double-crossed me with Sam Farley. I’m going to break you, I’m going to ruin you, I’m going to sue you, I’m—” Evarts hung up, and when the phone rang a minute later, he didn’t answer it. He left a note for Alice, put on his hat, and walked up Fifth Avenue to the Hauser offices.
When he turned the bifurcated eagle of the double doors and stepped into the manor hall that morning, he found Mr. Leavitt there, in his shirt sleeves, sweeping the carpet. “Oh, good morning,” Leavitt said. “Occupational therapy.” He hid the broom and dustpan behind a velvet drape. “Come in, come in,” he said, slipping into his jacket and leading Evarts toward the inner office. “This afternoon, you’re going to meet Sam Farley and Susan Hewitt. You’re one of the luckiest men in New York. Some men never see Sam Farley. Not even once in a lifetime—never hear his wit, never feel the force of his unique personality. And as for Susan Hewitt …” He was speechless for a moment. He said the appointment was for three. “You’re going to meet them in Sam Farley’s lovely home,” he said, and he gave Evarts the address.
Evarts tried to describe the telephone conversation with Murchison, but Leavitt cut him off. “I asked you one thing,” he shouted. “I asked you not to worry. Is that too much? I ask you to talk with Sam Farley and take a look at Susan Hewitt and see if you think she’s right for the part. Is that too much? Now, have a good time. Take in a newsreel. Go to the zoo. Go see Sam Farley at three o’clock.” He patted Evarts on the back and pushed him toward the door.
Evarts ate lunch at the Mentone with Alice and Mildred-Rose. He had a headache. After lunch, they walked up and down Fifth Avenue, and when it got close to three, Alice and Mildred-Rose walked with him to Sam Farley’s house. It was an impressive building, faced with rough stone, like a Spanish prison. He kissed Mildred-Rose and Alice goodbye and rang the bell. A butler opened the door. Evarts could tell he was a butler because he wore striped pants. The butler led him upstairs to a drawing room.
“I’m here to see Mr. Farley,” Evarts said.
“I know,” the butler said. “You’re Evarts Malloy. You’ve got an appointment. But he won’t keep it. He’s stuck in a floating crap game in the Acme Garage, at a Hundred and Sixty-fourth Street, and he won’t be back until tomorrow. Susan Hewitt’s coming, though. You’re supposed to see her. Oh, if you only knew what goes on in this place!” He lowered his voice to a whisper and brought his face close to Evarts’. “If these walls could only talk! There hasn’t been any heat in this house since we came back from Hollywood and he hasn’t paid me since the twenty-first of June. I wouldn’t mind so much, but the son of a bitch never learned to let the water out of his bathtub. He takes a bath and leaves the dirty water standing there. To stagnate. On top of everything else, I cut my finger washing dishes yesterday.” There was a dirty bandage on the butler’s forefinger, and he began, hurriedly, to unwrap layer after layer of bloody gauze. “Look,” he said, holding the wound to Evarts’ face. “Cut right through to the bone. Yesterday you could see the bone. Blood. Blood all over everything. Took me half an hour to clean up. It’s a miracle I
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