'Of course not.'
'Well!'
Mr Quarterstone continued to stare at him as if he were something rare and strange. The Saint twisted his hatbrim uncomfortably. Mr Quarterstone sat back again, shaking his head.
'That's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of,' he declared.
'But why?' Simon asked, with not unreasonable surprise.
'My dear fellow, anyone would take you for a professional actor! I've been in the theatrical business all my life--I was on Broadway for ten years, played before the King of England, produced hundreds of shows --and I'd have bet anyone I could pick out a professional actor every time. The way you walked in, the way you sat down, the way you use your hands, even the way you're smoking that cigarette--it's amazing! Are you sure you're not having a little joke?'
'Absolutely.'
'May I ask what is your present job?'
'Until a couple of days ago,' said the Saint ingenuously, 'I was working in a bank. But I'd always wanted to be an actor, so when my uncle died and left me twenty thousand dollars 1 thought it was a good time to start. I think I could play parts like William Powell,' he added, looking sophisticated.
Mr Quarterstone beamed like a cat full of cream.
'Why not?' he demanded oratorically. 'Why ever not? With that natural gift of yours . . .' He shook his head again, clicking his tongue in eloquent expression of his undiminished awe and admiration. 'It's the most amazing thing! Of course, I sometimes see fellows who are nearly as good-looking as you are, but they haven't got your manner. Why, if you took a few lessons----'
Simon registered the exact amount of glowing satisfaction which he was supposed to register.
'That's what I came to you for, Mr Quarterstone. I've seen your advertisements----'
'Yes, yes!'
Mr Quarterstone got up and came round the desk again. He took the Saint's face in his large warm hands and turned it this way and that, studying it from various angles with increasing astonishment. He made the Saint stand up and studied him from a distance, screwing up one eye and holding up a finger in front of the other to compare his proportions. He stalked up to him again, patted him here and there and felt his muscles. He stepped back again and posed in an attitude of rapture.
'Marvellous!' he said. 'Astounding!'
Then, with an effort, he brought himself out of his trance.
'Mr Tombs,' he said firmly, 'there's only one thing for me to do. I must take you in charge myself. I have a wonderful staff here, the finest staff you could find in any dramatic academy in the world, past masters, every one of 'em--but they're not good enough. I wouldn't dare to offer you anything but the best that we have here. I offer you myself. And because I only look upon it as a privilege--nay, a sacred duty, to develop this God-given talent you have, I shall not try to make any money out of you. I shall only make a small charge to cover the actual value of my time. Charles Laughton paid me five thousand dollars for one hour's coaching in a difficult scene. John Barrymore took me to Hollywood and paid me fifteen thousand dollars to criticize him in four rehearsals. But I shall only ask you for enough to cover my out-of-pocket expenses--let us say, one thousand dollars--for a course of ten special, personal, private, exclusive lessons. . . . No,' boomed Mr Quarterstone, waving one hand in a magnificent gesture, 'don't thank me! Were I to refuse to give you the benefit of all my experience, I should regard myself as a traitor to my calling, a very--ah--Ishmael!'
If there was one kind of acting in which Simon Templar had graduated from a more exacting academy than was dreamed of in Mr Quarterstone's philosophy, it was the art of depicting the virgin sucker yawning hungrily under the baited hook. His characterization was pointed with such wide-eyed and unsullied innocence, such eager and open-mouthed receptivity, such a succulently plastic amenability to suggestion, such a rich response to flattery--in a word, with such a sublime absorptiveness to the old oil--that men such as Mr Quarterstone, on becoming conscious of him for the first time, had been known to wipe away a furtive tear as they dug down into their pockets for first mortgages on the Golden Gate Bridge and formulae for extracting radium from old toothpaste tubes. He used all of that technique on Mr Homer Quarterstone, so effectively that his enrolment in the Supremax Academy proceeded with the effortless ease of a stratospherist returning to terra firma a short head in front of his punctured balloon. Mr Quarterstone did not actually brush away an unbidden tear, but he did bring out an enormous leather-bound ledger and enter up particulars of his newest student with a gratifying realization that Life, in spite of the pessimists, was not wholly without its moments of unshadowed joy.
'When can I start?' asked the Saint, when that had been done.
'Start?' repeated Mr Quarterstone, savouring the word. 'Why, whenever you like. Each lesson lasts a full hour, and you can divide them up as you wish. You can start now if you want to. I had an appointment . . .'
'Oh.'
'But it is of no importance, compared with this.' Mr Quarterstone picked up the telephone. 'Tell Mr Urlaub I shall be too busy to see him this afternoon,' he told it. He hung up. 'The producer,' he explained, as he settled back again. 'Of course you've heard of him. But he can wait. One day he'll be waiting on your doorstep, my boy.' He dismissed Mr Urlaub, the producer, with a majestic ademan. 'What shall we take first--elocution ?'
'You know best, Mr Quarterstone,' said the Saint eagerly.
Mr Quarterstone nodded. If there was anything that could have increased his contentment, it was a pupil who had no doubt that Mr Quarterstone knew best. He crossed his legs and hooked one thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat.
'Say 'Eee.' '
'Eee.'
'Ah.'
Simon went on looking at him expectantly.
'Ah,' repeated Mr Quarterstone.
'I beg your pardon?'
'I said 'Ah.' '
'Oh.'
'No, ah.'
'Yes, I----'
'Say it after me, Mr Tombs. 'Aaaah.' Make it ring out. Hold your diaphragm in, open your mouth and bring it up from your chest. This is a little exercise in the essential vowels.'
'Oh. Aaaah.'
'Oh.'
'Oh.'
'I.'
'I.'
'Ooooo.' 'Ooooo.'
'Wrong.'
'I'm sorry . . .'
'Say 'Wrong,' Mr Tombs.'
'Wrong.'
'Right,' said Mr Quarterstone.
'Right.'
'Yes, yes,' said Mr Quarterstone testily. 'I----'
'Yes, yes, I.'
Mr Quarterstone swallowed.
'I don't mean you to repeat every word I say,' he said. 'Just the examples. Now let's try the vowels again in a sentence. Say this: 'Faaar skiiies loooom O-ver
meee.' '
'Faaar skiiies loooom O-ver meee.'
'Daaark niiight draaaws neeear.'
'The days are drawing in,' Simon admitted politely.
