II
It was too early to go to Felder and Hunterman’s, and Inigo was in no mood for exploring London. Besides, the streets were being slashed with cold rain. One minute a pale sun would creep out and set everything glittering, and the next minute the rain would come sweeping down, up would go overcoat collars and umbrellas, and the streets would be full of people running as if for their very lives. A lunatic city. Inigo went into a teashop not far from the station, and there ordered a cup of coffee he did not want. This teashop had the air of still being in the hands of charwomen. There were no charwomen to be seen but the place seemed to smell damply and cheerlessly of their labours, and Inigo felt that at any moment a number of them would come trooping back to dry it off. The waitresses looked as if they had not yet recovered from a bitter reveille that had dragged them out of their little bedrooms, miles away in East Ham and Barking, and brought them sniffing in cold buses and trams and tubes to this teashop. Every customer, every order, was to them an affront. Their day had not really begun; they had hardly washed themselves yet; and as a protest against being disturbed so early they banged down sugar-basins and cruets on the little damp marble-topped tables. At close range they used the sniff, and at a distance the yawn. Such patrons as they had, however, seemed completely indifferent, in no way affected by these marks of contempt. They sat lumpishly, unstirring, at their little tables, as stolid and incurious as the bags they had dumped down beside them. The one exception was Inigo, who found himself compelled to order, receive, and sip his coffee with an apologetic air. There was, however, an Inigo inside, the skipper on the bridge, who was already indignant and protesting. There appeared to be a general conspiracy to pretend that he was feeble, of no account. And this tiny bristling Inigo inside asked everybody and everything in this huge lunatic warren of a London to wait, that’s all, just wait.
It is true that when he was actually on the way to Felder and Hunterman‚Äôs he suddenly felt ridiculous. The whole enterprise lost its sanity, seemed daft and hollow. What was he doing here with his parcel of silly songs? He ought to be going to Newman and Watley, the scholastic agents. They were solid and sensible. Their talk of French, History, C. of E., some games, ¬£150 Resident was reasonable, and not at odds with these offices and shops and buses and policemen. But Felder and Hunterman? Jingling songs? ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner‚Äù? Preposterous, absolutely! He was making a fool of himself. Everything he saw in the streets announced that there was probably no such person as Mr.¬ÝPitsner. The very name shattered conviction. By the time Inigo had reached Charing Cross Road, he was troubled by a little hollow place somewhere in the region of his stomach. He did not want to go any further.
There was still plenty of time, so he allowed himself to loiter. He began to look at shops. That saved him. Mr.¬ÝPitsner became real again. He had strolled into a little world in which the silliest jingle of a song was more important than Newman and Watley and all their clients. He had now no excuse for believing that his visit was ridiculous. Charing Cross Road was bursting with songs. If the shops were not filled with sheets of music, then they were filled with gramophones and records and saxophones and drums and banjos. The place seemed to be a Jazz Exchange. Moreover, he saw rows of songs that he had already played himself and dismissed as poor stuff. He marched into one shop and glanced through about twenty of its newest songs, and most of them were so bad that he found himself gleefully whispering ‚ÄúTripe, tripe!‚Äù His self-confidence returned with a rush. These people thought day and night about these jingles, and even then they could only bring out this muck. He hesitated no longer, but marched upon Felder and Hunterman with all colours flying. He would show them.
‚ÄúI want Mr.¬ÝPitsner please,‚Äù he said sternly, handed over a card, and then without paying any more attention to the assistant, looked about him with a nonchalant, faintly contemptuous air. He refused to be impressed, though there could be no doubt that Mr.¬ÝMilbrau had been right when he had said that his firm was the biggest in the trade. The place was fantastic. It was a vast bustling warehouse of sugary sentiment and cheap cynicism. Lost sweethearts‚ÅÝ‚Äîin waltz time and the key of E flat‚ÅÝ‚Äîwere handled here by the hundredweight. Bewildering rows of smiling Negroes implored you, in spite of the fact that they were clearing anything from two hundred pounds a week upward in London and occupying luxurious suites of rooms and riding about in gigantic cars, to take them back to their shack in Southland. ‚ÄúJust Little Miss Latchkey!‚Äù one wall screamed at you. ‚ÄúS‚ÄôImpossible!‚Äù another replied. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs a Blonde on Saturdays,‚Äù one row sneered, only to be answered, two hundred times over, by a companion row that cried: ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs All I‚Äôve Got.‚Äù And these were not merely songs. The least of them were Gigantic Successes. They were Hits, Whirlwinds, Riots, Ear-Haunters, Red Hots, Stormers. Messrs. Felder and Hunterman announced they were ‚ÄúHanding You Another.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝFelder told you, in large crimson type, to ‚ÄúGet It Now and Watch it Grow!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝHunterman promised that it would be ‚ÄúThe Sensation This Season at Douglas and Blackpool!‚Äù And together they implored you to believe them when they said: ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs the Big Hit They‚Äôll Ask to Have Plugged at Them!‚Äù They told you frankly they were compelling every dance band in the country to play it, they were sweeping the North, they were sending the West End crazy. And they were proud of it.
Inigo shrugged his shoulders. He still refused to be impressed. Oh, Mr.¬ÝPitsner would see him, would he? Very well. He stalked after the assistant, down the corridor, into the lift. Mr.¬ÝPitsner‚Äôs room appeared to be at the top of the building and so he had ample time to imagine what Mr.¬ÝPitsner would look like. He saw a sort of super Milbrau, older, fatter, and more Hebraic, with even blacker hair and pinker shirt. He braced himself to meet this loud, hearty, designing fellow.
He did not meet him, however. He met a thin grey man, very quiet in manner and dress, a man who looked as if nothing had surprised him for twenty years. He gave Inigo the impression that he was tired and that he knew a great deal. Possibly he was tired of knowing a great deal. There was no mistake, though. This was Mr.¬ÝPitsner.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm glad to see you, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù he said in a low and rather mournful voice. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not always here on Saturday. In fact, I‚Äôm nearly always at home. But this time you‚Äôve caught me. People don‚Äôt usually get into this room when they‚Äôve just brought a few new numbers to us. If they did, I should never be able to get into it myself. But I had Milbrau‚Äôs letter about your things, you see. And Milbrau‚Äôs a very smart man.‚Äù
Inigo, who had accepted one of the fat Egyptian cigarettes that Mr.¬ÝPitsner had silently offered him, agreed that Mr.¬ÝMilbrau was a very smart man.
‚ÄúYes,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPitsner continued sadly, ‚Äúhe‚Äôs one of our smartest young men. In fact, I‚Äôm thinking of taking him off the road. He‚Äôs got something of a flair, something. I‚Äôve backed his judgement once or twice and been rather fortunate. He seems to have been quite carried away by these things of yours. It‚Äôs surprising,‚Äù he added, in exactly the same mournful low tone, ‚Äúbut that doesn‚Äôt happen once in five years, really new work coming from‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, if you don‚Äôt mind my saying so‚ÅÝ‚Äîfrom an outsider. People think it‚Äôs always happening, but it isn‚Äôt. You‚Äôre a pianist, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù
Inigo briefly explained what he was and what he had done, and Mr.¬ÝPitsner listened politely but with a sort of quiet despair. When Inigo had done, Mr.¬ÝPitsner touched a bell and told the girl who answered to send Mr.¬ÝPorry in. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd like Porry to hear them,‚Äù he said, watching the smoke curl from his cigarette. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs our memory man. He never forgets a tune.‚Äù
Inigo was bold enough to say that he hoped Mr.¬ÝPorry would not remember these tunes too well. The moment he had spoken, he regretted having done so, but Mr.¬ÝPitsner, though it had been hinted to him that he might be a possible thief, showed no signs of resentment. He merely shook his head. ‚ÄúWe shan‚Äôt steal them, if that‚Äôs what you mean,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúIt wouldn‚Äôt pay us. Some people would, people in a small way. But it wouldn‚Äôt be worth our while. As a matter of fact, Porry‚Äôs here to prevent you stealing. No old stuff, you see, with a note or two altered. That won‚Äôt do. If we want anything like that, we can manufacture it here. Now would you like Porry to run through them on the piano or will you do it yourself?‚Äù
Inigo said he would do it himself, but he did not feel very cheerful about it. No worse audience than Mr.¬ÝPitsner could possibly be imagined. It was incredible that he could be connected in any way with the rows of silly songs and the photographs and the screaming placards below. It did not look as if earthquakes and revolutions could arouse in him the least interest, let alone a few jingles. Mr.¬ÝPorry, a nondescript middle-aged man, arrived and accepted one of those cynical Egyptian cigarettes, and then Inigo dashed into one of his later numbers. Having got through one, he did not wait to hear any comment from the two sitting behind him, but went straight on to the next, keeping that Going Home number of Susie‚Äôs and ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner‚Äù until the last. By the time he had come to these two, he had lost any feeling of diffidence. He was simply enjoying himself at the piano again, and if Messrs. Pitsner and Porry did not like it, they could jolly well lump it. He slipped round the corner with all his old mischievous spirit. The music was in front of him, just as a matter of form; he never looked at it. He let the old tune rip, and as he played, odd little images of people and places, from Mrs.¬ÝTarvin and Washbury Manor to Rawsley and Sandybay and Susie and Elsie, Miss Trant and Oakroyd, came glimmering and joggling through his mind.
“A-ha, a-ha!” a great voice roared in his ear. “What have we here? Listen to this, Monte. Tumpty-tum-tidee-dee. Don’t stop, ol’ man, don’t stop. Let her have it once more.”
Two other men were now in the room. The one who was imploring Inigo not to stop was a big fellow with a paunch, a swollen face, and a humorous eye. That was Mr.¬ÝTanker. The other, Monte, was no other than Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer, whose name was known even to Inigo, who did not pretend to much knowledge of the theatre, as a producer of revues. Mr.¬ÝMortimer was rather like a smallish, plump, and shaven Assyrian. He would have looked perfectly at home superintending the preparations for some gorgeous and possibly depraved entertainment at the Court of Nineveh. This life of big hits and gigantic successes had not left him so weary as it had Mr.¬ÝPitsner, but on the other hand he had nothing of Mr.¬ÝTanker‚Äôs gusto and good-fellowship.
‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to hear those things through,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer, after there had been introductions and explanations.
Mr.¬ÝPitsner nodded. ‚ÄúYou ought to. I‚Äôd thought about you before you came in. I rather think they‚Äôre what you‚Äôre looking for,‚Äù he added, in his usual tones of quiet despair.
‚ÄúTwo sure winners there at least, if you ask me,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPony put in, with the air of a man who knows the value of his opinion even though it has not been sought.
‚ÄúThat last is one, Porry,‚Äù cried the genial Mr.¬ÝTanker. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs tricky. It really is, by God it is. Tricky. You could plug that one till the roof went, Monte, and they wouldn‚Äôt mind. Not like most of the bitchy stuff we have to keep playing. Have you got the words there, ol‚Äô man? Good. Well, when you come round to that one again, I‚Äôll sing it. I will, I‚Äôll sing it. And don‚Äôt let anybody tell me after this that we baton-waggers are jealous. We don‚Äôt know what jealousy is. Now then, ol‚Äô man, let her have it again.‚Äù
Inigo did let her have it, and Mr.¬ÝTanker, who was Mortimer‚Äôs musical director and a composer of these things himself, stood by the piano, humming and tapping and beating time, putting in some amusing little saxophone, banjo, and trombone parts. When they came to ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner,‚Äù he produced a husky little tenor voice that battled manfully with the song. Inigo, who by this time had decided that he did not give a damn for any of them, darted and flashed among the keys, in which antics he was finally assisted by Mr.¬ÝTanker, who put in fantastic little variations, in the high treble. And now another voice was there, humming away. It had brought with it all the perfumes of Araby. Inigo was aware of a presence, somewhere near him, but until he had banged the final chord there was no time to make out what it was.
‚ÄúWhoa!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTanker, mopping his brow. ‚ÄúHello, Ethel! Isn‚Äôt that a beauty? They‚Äôre all damned good, but the last two are real hell-busters.‚Äù
“Don’t tell me you wrote that, Jimmy,” said the lady who had just arrived. She spoke in a strong metallic voice, and indeed she looked a strong metallic person. Inigo recognized her at once as Miss Ethel Georgia, the well-known revue and musical-comedy artiste. He had seen her on the stage once or twice, and had seen dozens of photographs of her. Behind the footlights she was a ravishing creature, but at close range everything about her, her face, her figure, her clothes, her voice, her whole personality, was overpowering, too stunning. Inigo felt as if he were being introduced to an amiable blonde tigress.
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs just popped in from Little Woozlum or Puddleton-on-the-Slag,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTanker explained, ‚Äúand brought in a bunch of winners. That‚Äôs one you‚Äôve just heard.‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat you have just heard, ladies and gentlemen,‚Äù Miss Georgia wheezed nasally, in a parody of those dance-band men who announce their tunes, ‚Äúis Ethel Georgia‚Äôs new number, to be featured with sensational success in Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer‚Äôs forthcoming revue Who Did?‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm not so sure about that, Ethel,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer called out.
“I am, Monte,” she retorted, with a flash of personality that was like a magnesium fire. “I want it.”
“We’ll see about that,” he replied easily. There was, however, a certain suggestion that he had tamed tigresses in his Assyrian days and could still do the trick, if necessary.
They all began talking at once, even the mournful Pitsner, who somehow contrived to hold his own with the others without raising his flat sad voice. Meanwhile, however, Inigo found himself talking to another new arrival who must have come in with Miss Georgia. He was a rotund fellow, most unwisely dressed in a plus-fours suit of glaring Harris tweed. As he peered at Inigo through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, Inigo felt that there was something familar about this rather droll face.
‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to have a look through those other numbers,‚Äù he said, ‚Äúbefore Ethel grabs the lot.‚Äù Miss Georgia was now in the middle of the room, arguing with Mortimer and Tanker. ‚ÄúIf she gets her lily-white hand on ‚Äôem, no earthly chance for yours truly. She‚Äôs a terror. I‚Äôll bet you‚Äôre wondering what the devil I‚Äôm doing here in these clothes. Well, I‚Äôll tell you. I ought to be just laying one nicely on the green now, out at Esher, but she rings me up, not ten minutes before I was due to start. And did I get my golf? Be yourself! Drags me round here, round everywhere. And I‚Äôve got a matin√©e this afternoon. I‚Äôve to be funny from ten to three until five to five. She‚Äôs all right, she‚Äôs not working till Monte puts on his new show. But look at me. Still working, rehearsing Monte‚Äôs show‚ÅÝ‚Äîor what there is of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then can‚Äôt get a round of golf in. Oh, she‚Äôs wicked! Here, even the wife‚Äôs frightened of her. ‚ÄòTell her you won‚Äôt go,‚Äô she says to me. ‚ÄòTell her yourself,‚Äô I says. And did she? What a hope! Now let‚Äôs have a look at these songs.‚Äù
By this time Inigo thought he had recognized him. ‚ÄúAren‚Äôt you Mr.¬ÝAlfred Nott?‚Äù
‚ÄúI am. I‚Äôm the only man in England who is not not Mr.¬ÝAlfred Nott. Can you squeeze a laugh out of that? I thought not. Trouble about that gag is, if you‚Äôre sober it doesn‚Äôt amuse you and if you‚Äôre canned, you can‚Äôt work it out. Every time I used to meet old Billy Crutch when he was soaked, I used to tell him that one, and believe me or believe me not, it bothered him so much he always ordered a black coffee and then went home in a cab, to think it out. Here, this looks a good number. Just tiddle it quietly, will you, old boy?‚Äù
But Inigo was not allowed to do any quiet tiddling. The others pounced upon him, though even when they had him in their midst they still went on talking to one another. It is true they were talking about him. He could not help wondering what would happen if he quietly walked out.
‚ÄúThe point is, Pitsner, you‚Äôve got to let me have the first cut,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúAnd so long as the rights are tied up‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúSo long as they are,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝPitsner, out of the depths of his weary cynicism and Egyptian smoke.
‚ÄúWell, you know that‚Äôs all right so far as we‚Äôre concerned. You can tie that string on the dog‚Äôs tail now,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer continued.
Miss Georgia yawned spectacularly at the lot of them. “Hurry up, for God’s sake, Monte, and buy that bunch, anyhow. You’ve got one number so far that’s worth a damn, and I brought that one in.”
‚ÄúRight, Ethel, quite right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTanker heartily. ‚ÄúI know ‚Äôcos I wrote some of the duds myself. But then I‚Äôm not jealous. I‚Äôm not a comedienne.‚Äù
“Aren’t you, Jimmy?” she cried. And then she let out a sudden hard peal of laughter. “You never know till you’ve tried. A bit of crêpe de Chine, Jimmy, and some powder might work miracles. Come round and I’ll see what I can do for you, sweetie.”
‚ÄúKeep the big gags for the night, Miss Georgia,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTanker with tremendous mock severity. ‚ÄúAnd now let‚Äôs get on with the business. I‚Äôm thirsty.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝPitsner held up his hand and looked at Inigo. ‚ÄúWe like these things of yours, Mr.‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got it in you, old boy,‚Äù the irrepressible Mr.¬ÝTanker put in, clapping Inigo on the shoulder. ‚ÄúYour fortune‚Äôs made‚ÅÝ‚Äînearly.‚Äù
‚ÄúThe point is this.‚Äù It was Mr.¬ÝMortimer‚Äôs turn now. ‚ÄúI can use all those numbers you‚Äôve got there. And some more, if they‚Äôre as good. And some more after that. Performing rights, sheet music, gramophone records‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you know what happens or you ought to do. There‚Äôs bags of money in it, as you know, bags and bags. And Mr.¬ÝPitsner here and I can start you going. All right. Well, I understand you came up to see Felder and Hunterman. You‚Äôre not tied up to anybody else, not even negotiating with ‚Äôem, is that right?‚Äù
“Correct, absolutely,” replied Ingio cheerfully. “Nobody in London has heard these things, though I don’t mind telling you they’ve been a colossal hit in all sorts of places you’ve never heard of. With my troupe, you know.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what Milbrau wrote to me,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝPitsner sadly. ‚ÄúGetting over tremendously in‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere is it? Gatford. He said they were eating it.‚Äù
‚ÄúGood! I‚Äôll bet they were,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMortimer, who seemed to be in an excellent temper now. ‚ÄúWell, my‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôve come to the right firm, no doubt about that, and of course you‚Äôll be willing to publish here. That right?‚Äù
“I should think so.”
‚ÄúAnd as you happen to be a lucky man,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer continued smoothly, ‚Äúyou‚Äôve struck‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis morning of all mornings‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe one man who‚Äôs looking for you. That‚Äôs me. I could easily come the old game, discourage you, say we‚Äôve plenty of stuff just as good, and so on, but that‚Äôs not my style, and if it was, I shouldn‚Äôt be Monte Mortimer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“So three cheers for the red, white, and blue,” cried Miss Georgia derisively. “Band, please!”
‚ÄúIf you‚Äôre solid with Felder and Hunterman, that‚Äôll do Mr.¬ÝPitsner here. Now I come in. I use those numbers‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe paused impressively‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúand I use some more.‚Äù
‚ÄúBravo!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTanker.
“Now you’re talking like a man, Monte,” said Miss Georgia, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. Give the boy his chance. And give this little girl one too. That number about slipping is mine from now on, eh?”
‚ÄúSo there you are,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer, smiling at Inigo. ‚ÄúAnd now what do you say?‚Äù
This was when Inigo began. “I’ve a good deal to say,” he announced, with a highly creditable appearance of complete calm.
‚ÄúI know.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMortimer waved a hand. Messrs. Pitsner, Tanker and Porry smiled in concert. ‚ÄúTerms, of course. Don‚Äôt you worry. The terms will be all right. They‚Äôre going to surprise you.‚Äù
Inigo grinned. “That’s what we’re going to talk about. I’ve got some terms too. I hope they won’t surprise you. But they might.”
They all stared at him, and Miss Georgia pursed up her scarlet lips and produced a droll little whistle. Then Mr.¬ÝMortimer looked at Mr.¬ÝPitsner, and Mr.¬ÝTanker looked at Mr.¬ÝPorry. If one of the armchairs had suddenly made a remark, had perhaps pointed out that it was getting rather tired of that room, they could hardly have been more astonished. Inigo walked over to where Mr.¬ÝAlfred Nott was still examining the manuscript music.
‚ÄúI fancy this one,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNott. ‚ÄúHere, ol‚Äô man, you‚Äôre not taking it away, are you?‚Äù
“For the time being,” replied Inigo firmly, “I am.” And he gathered the sheets together and then put them in the small attaché case he had brought with him. He did this with great deliberation, and reminded himself that no man who could justifiably be called feeble would have been able to achieve such calm and poise.
Somebody coughed. Then Miss Georgia, who was clearly enjoying the situation, suddenly let out a harsh scream of laughter. There was a murmur of voices. Inigo turned and rejoined the group.
‚ÄúI must say I don‚Äôt quite‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPitsner began.
Mr.¬ÝMortimer interrupted him. ‚ÄúLeave this to me, Pitsner,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre all right in this. Now then, Mr.¬ÝJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat about a drink?‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTanker jovially. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what you mean, isn‚Äôt it, Monte? For God‚Äôs sake, let‚Äôs have a drink before there‚Äôs any more talking.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm agreeable,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMortimer. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôll run round and have a look at Robert. He ought to be having an inspiration about now. Come on, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. Bye-bye, Pitsner, that‚Äôll be all right.‚Äù
As they filed out, Inigo was rewarded with a huge friendly grimace from the redoubtable Miss Georgia. “I don’t know what you’re pulling,” she whispered, “but some of you nice boys from college have got a Nerve. You’d get away with murder.” She squeezed his arm. “You freeze him a bit. It’ll do Monte good.”
But Inigo could only stammer vaguely in reply to this. Faced with Miss Georgia, he had no nerve. She terrified him.