about Dick Turpin. Then we had to make it fit a soldier of fortune in the International Brigade in Spain. That was when Orlando Flane was getting interested. Then we took it to South America when everyone was on the goodwill rampage. We worked in a lot of stuff that they threw out of one of the Thin Man picнtures, too.'
'Were you ever befriended by a Chinese laundryman when you were a starving orphan in Limehouse?' Kendricks asked.
'I'm afraid not,' Simon confessed. 'You see--'
'That's too bad; because it ties in with a terrific routine where you're flying for the Chinese Government and the Japs have captured one of the guerrilla chieftains and they're goнing to have a ceremonial execution, and you find out that this chieftain is the guy who once saved your life with chop suey, and you set out for practically certain death to try and save 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 find out about that as soon as we make the breakнdowns.'
'That's a cheering thought,' Simon murmured. 'I'll be the easiest breakdown you ever saw.'
'Is there anything I could do to make you happy?'
'Yes. Tell me what you're doing tonight?'
'You're forgetting. You've got a date.'
'Have I?'
'Miss Quest. You pick her up at her house at seven o'clock. Here's the address.'
'What would Byron and I do without you?' Simon pocketed the typewritten slip. 'Let's go out and get a drink now, anyнway.'
'I'm sorry,' she said, laughing. 'I punch a time clock. And Mr. Ufferlitz mightn't like it if I just walked out . . . You'll come back, won't you? Mr. Ufferlitz wanted to see you again before you left. I think he wants to tell you how to act with Miss Quest. In case you can't find out for yourself.'
'You know,' said the Saint, 'I like you.'
'Don't commit yourself until after tonight,' she said.
Byron Ufferlitz, of course, as he had carefully explained to the Saint, was too smart to have fallen for a salaried proнducer's job at one of the major studios. What he had negotiнated for himself was a major release-he did his own financing, and saved the terrific standard mark-up for 'overhead' of ordinary studio production. He had his offices and rented faнcilities at Liberty Studios, a new outfit on Beverly Boulevard which catered to independent producers. Opposite the enнtrance there was a cocktail lounge whimsically named The Front Office, which would unmistakably have suffered a major depression if a hole had opened across the street and Liberty Studios had dropped in. But ephemeral as its position may have been in the economic system, it fulfilled the Saint's imнmediate requisites of supply and demand, and he settled himнself appreciatively on a chrome-legged stool and relaxed into the glass-panelled decor without any active revulsion.
He had a little difficulty in getting service, because the lone bartender, who looked like a retired stunt man and was acнtually exactly that, was having a little dialogue trouble with the only other customer at that intermediate hour, who had obviously been a customer with more enthusiasm than disнcretion.
'He can't do that to me,' declared the customer, propping his head in his hands and staring glassy-eyed between his fingers.
'Of course not,' said the bartender. 'Take it easy.'
'You know what he said to me, Charlie?'
'No. What did he say to you?'
'He said 'You stink!' '
'He did?'
'Yeah.'
'Take it easy.'
'You know what I'm gonna do, Charlie?'
'What you gonna do?'
'I'm gonna tell that son of a bitch where he gets off.'
'Take it easy, now.''
'He can't do that to me.'
'Of course not.'
'I'm gonna tell him right now.'
