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Shoot the Scene

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Kingsley Caldecott Blake was that Hollywood rara avis, a modest man. He had suffered the "Kingsley Caldecott" from early childhood; the St. Louis slum from which he had crawled did not take kindly to "classy" monickers, and he had grown up dodging the slings and arrows of his fellow slum-dwellers — missiles ranging from "Hiya, King! How's Queenie?" to "Here comes His Majesty." He had silently made up his mind that as soon as he could get away from his mother (who had found the name in a true-romance magazine), he would change to something less ostentatious. When he landed finally in Hollywood the changeover became automatic. K. C. Blake became "Casey" Blake, and Casey Blake he remained. Every time he saw it in the credits on a new film he congratulated himself.

Casey Blake was low man on the Hollywood totem pole; that is, he was a screenwriter. The only people in the film industry who seemed to appreciate the importance of screenwriters were other screenwriters, and an occasional sport like Joe Maddox, the producer-director. It therefore became Casey's object in life to go to work for Maddox, and after a few years in the lists he made the connection. Then he was reasonably content. He made good money, and he was offered respect. Maddox was a tough taskmaster to his writers, but no tougher than Casey was to himself. They got along beautifully.

Casey had never quite been able to understand the binge reaction of his fellow toilers in the scenario vineyards when the final draft of a shooting script was approved by the producer. Where others celebrated in the usual liquid way, Casey got the blues. Along with his modesty, he had always had the dubious talent for looking ahead. To him, a finished script meant only that he would have to sit down and recharge his brain to produce the spark that would activate a new idea for another picture.

Not that he would have had it any other way. He saw eye to eye with Joe Maddox on the subject. Maddox did not believe in paying five hundred thousand dollars for the screen rights to a successful novel or play, and then producing a twelve-million-dollar picture from it which, oftener than not, fell on its face because of temperamental stars and unfeeling critics. He demanded original plots from his contract writers, out of which frequently he was able to produce a low-budget film which made a profit far out of proportion to its cost. In Joe Maddox's book, the writer was the focal point of a production. Maddox was a latter-day Hollywood success story — a former character actor who had found that his real talent lay in playing the leading man in the front office, rather than the heavy he had so often played on the screen. He had single-handedly built up Maddox Cinema Productions — MCP — into one of the most profitable independent operations in the film capital.

Casey Blake considered himself lucky to be working for such a phenomenon.

But that was before the wingding in Maddox's house.

The final draft of Ill Wind was approved by Maddox on a Thursday in the middle of October. On Friday the producer-director threw a small party in his Beverly Hills mansion to celebrate the event.

Hannah, the Swedish maid, took Casey's hat, gave him one of her rare smiles, and informed him that he would find "the Missus and Mister in the bar." He trekked across the vast living room to the glassed-in alcove overlooking the swimming pool. He was an early arrival; only two other guests were at the bar in the alcove.

The producer jumped off his stool and came forward with outstretched hands.

"Congratulations, Casey. You've turned out a sure winner this time. We may even get an Academy nomination out of it." Maddox had a magnificent head of gray hair over a perpetual smile. He was a heavyset man in his mid-fifties who was beginning to run to fat. His usual affability was offset by a pair of shrewd gray eyes; there was very little that escaped them. "Or are you sick of my routine rosy prediction?"

"Do you get sick of my routine gloom?" Casey said.

"Thank God I don't pay you for your optimism!"

"Thank God, Joe. I'd starve to death." The truth was, Joe Maddox's genius lay in pleasing audiences rather than critics. He had an innate sense of the popular. Ill Wind, Casey knew, was a rattling good suspense script, tailor-made for Maddox's directorial talents, and it would undoubtedly make a lot of money. But Casey had no illusions about its artistic merits. It was a slick piece of scenario craftsmanship with some original twists of plot, that was all. It had no more relationship to life than a James Bond story. And no "significance" at all.

I should have been a poet, Casey thought, and grinned at himself.

"Well," Maddox said, "you'll win an Oscar yet. What's your pleasure, Casey?"

"My usual, Joe." The Chinese houseman, Lin, who was tending bar, handed Casey a Scotch on the rocks. "When I win an Oscar, I'll figure I did something wrong."

Nina Maddox said, "I thought it was wonderful, Casey. How I'd love to play the part of Maria!"

Blake threw a smile at the producer's wife. Nina Wojciechowski had emigrated to Hollywood from Buffalo three years earlier with the usual stars in her lovely Polish eyes. She had failed to land even TV bit parts, and she finally settled for a stenographic job at MCP. There she had achieved a different success by netting the big boss as a husband. Perpetual bachelor Joe Maddox did a total flipflop over the beautiful redhead.

They had been married for two years. The marriage seemed happy in spite of their thirty-year age difference. Casey Blake was sure that Maddox's millions had a great deal to do with Nina's instant "yes"; still, she seemed genuinely fond of her middle-aged husband. If her fondness was more filial than wifely, Maddox pretended not to notice. He was crazy about her.

Casey said, "Don't look at me, Nina. Joe does the casting. Talk to him about the part."

Maddox frowned, and Nina pouted. "Joe won't let me have a career."

"You know where I think a wife's place should be," Maddox said to his young wife. "Why would anyone want to lead the lousy life of an actor?"

"You ought to know, Joe," Sam Christopher said with a chuckle. "You led the life of a lousy actor long enough — whoops! excuse me — the lousy life of an actor."

Sam Christopher was a first cousin of the producer's. During Joe Maddox's days as a character actor, Sam had been Maddox's stand-in and double. Aside from a similarity of age and build, there was no particular likeness. Although he had the same fleshy face, Christopher was nearly bald, his nose was smaller and his mouth wider. On the set a wig and studio makeup had taken care of the difference; off-screen, they bore little resemblance to each other.

Sam Christopher was Maddox's jack-of-all-work at MCP. Officially listed as one of the producer's assistants, Christopher was no mere yes-man and errand boy. The two were closer than brothers, and Maddox listened more carefully to his cousin's advice than to that of anyone else on his staff.

"Stop pulling Joe's leg, Sam," said Sally Baird. "I've seen Joe's character work on a thousand Late Shows. He was good."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Sally," laughed Maddox. "Or are you bucking for another raise?"

"No, Joe, I mean it," said Sally. "And you must have enjoyed acting, or you wouldn't have been so good at it."

"I suppose I got some sort of ego satisfaction out of it."

"There, you see?" cried Nina. "Doesn't my ego count?"

"Baby, baby," said her husband. "As far as I'm concerned, you couldn't possibly get a better part to play than the one you're starring in now."

"Sally, you talk to him."

"Me get between husband and wife?" said Sally. "No, thanks, Nina. That way lies two weeks' notice."

Sally Baird was Joe Maddox's private secretary. She was a lithely developed brunette with clever eyes and a crisp manner who was the despair of the office Lotharios and the pride of Maddox's life. Casey Blake was used to seeing Sally in severely tailored suits, but tonight she wore a sky-blue party gown that showed off an astonishingly sexy pair of shoulders.

Casey watched them appreciatively as he nursed his Scotch.

Joe Maddox had a thing against dinner jackets; the men at his parties were encouraged to come in business suits. But Nina Maddox liked to dress, so the women dressed, too. Tonight Nina wore a cloudy white lace creation that made her look eighteen. Beside her, Sally Baird, in her sophisticated gown, looked thirty. Sally was in her mid-twenties. Casey had known her for four years, and he had never seen her look so attractive.

"Anyway," said Sam Christopher, "that's a damn good script, Casey." He seemed anxious to change the subject. "It will make a top picture."

"What's Miss Baird's opinion?" Casey asked.

"Who ever wants the opinion of a Girl Friday?" Sally said.

"You're not my Girl Friday. I'm asking."

"Tell Casey what you told me, Sally," said Maddox with a grin.

Sally said, "It's a very good commercial script. With Madeline playing Maria, it ought to gross a bundle."

Casey stopped the glass halfway to his lips. "Madeline? Madeline who?"

"Haven't you heard? Joe's signed Madeline D'Arcy for the lead."

Casey stared at his employer in astonishment. "That troublemaker, Joe? Are you out of your mind?"

The producer shook his head. "That's why you're a scriptwriter and I'm a producer, Casey. There's no substitute for a top box-office draw. I need a name to beef up Ill Wind. I couldn't have done better than Madeline."

"You know that blonde's reputation. If the male lead refuses to roll her in the hay, she's like as not going to kick hell out of the production schedule. Are you also providing her with a stud?"

"Casey," said Nina, "do you have to be so vulgar?"

"Vulgarity," murmured Sally, "is Casey's middle name."

"I'm just telling the truth, and everybody here knows it! Joe, you're begging for trouble."

"George Kinder's playing the male lead," said Maddox. "Madeline had an affair with him years ago. I'm safe enough. She never plays return engagements."

"Then she'll start getting her famous migraine headaches. Or she'll pick on the second lead. Or some prop boy, one of the grips. That nymph will get somebody in bed with her!"

"I've taken care of that, Casey. I've stiffened up the morality clause in her contract."

Casey snorted. "You think a few typed words will stop that broad if she spots a man she's never bumped bellies with?"

"Casey Vulgarity Blake," said Sally. "There are ladies present, Mr. Blake."

"Lin, I want another drink," said Nina. "See all the trouble you'd have saved yourself if you'd let me play Maria, hon?"

"Baby, I've got all the stars I can handle."

"If Madeline's going to be a problem, I'll sacrifice myself to keep her in line," Sam Christopher said.

"She'd kill you, you used-up old goat," Maddox told him with a grin. "She's not going to be a problem, I tell you, Casey."

"Lots of luck," Casey said. "Joe, you'll wish you'd listened to me the first time she corners you in your office."

Nina gave him an indignant look. "I'll scratch her eyes out if she makes a pass at my Joe."

The doorbell chimed, and a moment later several of the Ill Wind featured players appeared in the living room and made for the bar. Shortly afterward George Kinder arrived, alone.

George Kinder was one of the top male leads in Hollywood, commanding an enormous salary. He was also a perpetual near-bankrupt. High living, a talent for bad investments, and astronomical alimony to four former wives drained off his earnings almost as fast as they came in. He was constantly appearing in court. But his work was impeccable. There was never any trouble with him on the set. He was one of the most sought-after stars in the film capital. Maddox had been lucky to sign him up.

Kinder was the very picture of a handsome leading man, tall, dark, with a boyish smile, and a lean figure he conscientiously kept trim by daily workouts. He greeted everyone present with professional charm — the men with masculine handshakes, the women with a show of his beautiful teeth and an intimate tone of voice.

When he reached his hostess, he took both her hands in his.

"Nina! How can I say it except with the old chestnut? You never looked lovelier. But I really mean it. How about saving me five dances?"

"We hadn't planned on dancing, George," Nina said, dimpling up at him. "It's supposed to be a serious drinking party. But we can sit out an intermission." Her hands squeezed his quite openly.

Casey Blake felt uncomfortable. He hated this sort of thing, which was routine in Hollywood. In view of George Kinder's reputation as a Casanova, he wondered if Joe Maddox appreciated the byplay. He knew that Nina's response was automatic — it was the name of the game — but the way the actor's famous eyebrow reacted to the hand-squeezing suggested that Kinder might decide to make an offstage play for her later in the evening.

Blake glanced at Maddox, but the producer was merely smiling.

A few bit players and some members of the production staff filtered in. At a quarter of ten, Madeline D'Arcy made her entrance.

It was beautifully timed. She and her escort were the last to arrive, yet they were still early enough for the guests to be standing around in a relative state of sobriety.

The blonde star came in on the arm of Arden Williams, who was playing the second lead in Ill Wind. She wore a flame-red gown so molded to her lush figure that Blake wondered how she was going to sit down without splitting it. It was backless, and slashed down the front almost to her navel, exposing half her breasts. Pausing in the living room, she favored the party with a dazzling smile, then she moved forward to greet her host and hostess, followed by Williams.

Madeline D'Arcy had been born Maude Smith, the offspring of some nameless passerby and an alcoholic mother who died in delirium tremens. She had been raised in a parade of foster homes and had early developed the habit of bedding down with her various foster fathers. Several of them had gone to prison, vainly protesting that she had seduced them instead of the other way around.

She had been married three times, the first time before she descended on Hollywood and went to bed with her first casting director. Neither of the other two marriages had lasted more than a year, but she had used each in her climb to stardom. By the time she reached the top, her nymphomania was known all over Hollywood, although the studio press agents were careful to keep it from the general public. She was now in her early thirties, and she still looked like a young virgin.

She was a natural honey blonde, with a heart-shaped face and full lips that were always moistly parted, as if in anticipation of some pleasure she only dimly understood. It was this flower-bud-ready-to-be-plucked quality about her that came so powerfully through the screen and, as in Marilyn Monroe's case, caused near-riots whenever she appeared in public. Casey Blake considered her acting one-dimensional; but, as Joe Maddox had once remarked to him, "When you've got what she's got, how many dimensions do you need?"

Casey had never articulated the real reason for his animus against Madeline D'Arcy. Several years before, his closest friend in Hollywood, a sensitive screenwriter named Harley Grissom, who was married and had three children, had been pursued by the blonde star with, at first, the usual objective. She had been successful beyond her dreams. Grissom, a sober citizen deeply in love with his wife and crazy about his children, reacted to the enchantress like litmus paper to an acid; he had never had an affair during his married life. He moved out of his home; he followed the D'Arcy woman like a dog; he was the laughingstock of the studios. And she, who had invited him into her bed, denied it to him, at the same time that she dangled herself before him. It was a delightful game with her.

It was not a game with Harl Grissom.

One night he had placed the barrel of an old Army .45 in his mouth and blown the top of his head off.

From that day to this Blake had never been able to look at Madeline D'Arcy without feeling a gripe in his belly.

"Lovely party, darling," the star was saying to Maddox. She had a husky voice with a suggestion of lisp in it. She said to Nina, without really looking at her, "How nice you look tonight, dear. So girly."

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Excerpted from Shoot the Scene by Ellery Queen. Copyright © 1966 Ellery Queen. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com.
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