Erika’s attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard in the uproar. St. Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as was well known in Hollywood. Martin sighed, lifted the brimming Napoleon and sniffed delicately as he stepped backward toward his chair. When his heel touched it, he tripped with the utmost grace and savoir-faire, and very deftly emptied the Helena Glinsak, ale, honey, creme de menthe, ice and all, over St. Cyr’s capacious front.
St. Cyr’s bellow broke the microphone.
Martin had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combined the maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness and pungency.
The drenched St. Cyr, shuddering violently as the icy beverage deluged his legs, snatched out his handkerchief and mopped in vain. The handkerchief merely stuck to his trousers, glued there by twelve jiggers of honey. He reeked of peppermint.
“I suggest we adjourn to the commissary,” Martin said fastidiously. “In some private booth we can go on with this discussion away from the—the rather overpowering smell of peppermint.”
“In Mixo-Lydia,” St. Cyr gasped, sloshing in his shoes as he turned toward Martin, “in Mixo-Lydia we throw to the dogs—we boil in oil—we—”
“And next time,” Martin said, “please don’t joggle my elbow when I’m holding a Helena Glinska. It’s most annoying.”
St. Cyr drew a mighty breath, rose to his full height—and then subsided. St. Cyr at the moment looked like a Keystone Kop after the chase sequence, and knew it. Even if he killed Martin now, the element of classic tragedy would be lacking. He would appear in the untenable position of Hamlet murdering his uncle with custard pies.
“Do nothing until I return!” he commanded, and with a final glare at Martin plunged moistly out of the theater.
The door crashed shut behind him. There was silence for a moment except for the soft music from the overhead screen which DeeDee had caused to be turned on again, so that she might watch her own lovely form flicker in dimmed images through pastel waves, while she sang a duet with Dan Dailey about sailors, mermaids and her home in far Atlantis.
“And now,” said Martin, turning with quiet authority to Watt, who was regarding him with a baffled expression, “I want a word with you.”
“I can’t discuss your contract till Raoul gets back,” Watt said quickly.
“Nonsense,” Martin said in a firm voice. “Why should St. Cyr dictate your decisions? Without you, he couldn’t turn out a box-office success if he had to. No, be quiet, Erika. I’m handling this, my pretty creature.”
Watt rose to his feet. “Sorry, I can’t discuss it,” he said. “St. Cyr pictures make money, and you’re an inexperien—”
“That’s why I see the true situation so clearly,” Martin said. “The trouble with you is you draw a line between artistic genius and financial genius. To you, it’s merely routine when you work with the plastic medium of human minds, shaping them into an Ideal Audience. You are an ecological genius, Tolliver Watt! The true artist controls his environment, and gradually you, with a master’s consummate skill, shape that great mass of living, breathing humanity into a perfect audience. …”
“Sorry,” Watt said, but not, bruskly. “I really have no time—ah—”
“Your genius has gone long enough unrecognized,” Martin said hastily, letting admiration ring in his golden voice. “You assume that St. Cyr is your equal. You give him your own credit titles. Yet in your own mind you must have known that half the credit for his pictures is yours. Was Phidias noncommercial? Was Michelangelo? Commercialism is simply a label for functionalism, and all great artists produce functional art. The trivial details of Rubens’ masterpieces were filled in by assistants, were they not? But Rubens got the credit, not his hirelings. The proof of the pudding’s obvious. Why?” Cunningly gauging his listener, Martin here broke off.
“Why?” Watt asked.
“Sit down,” Martin urged. “I’ll tell you why. St. Cyr’s pictures make money, but you’re responsible for their molding into the ideal form, impressing your character-matrix upon everything and everyone at Summit Studios. …”
Slowly Watt sank into his chair. About his ears the hypnotic bursts of Disraelian rhodomontade thundered compellingly. For Martin had the man hooked. With unerring aim he had at the first try discovered Watt’s weakness—the uncomfortable feeling in a professionally arty town that moneymaking is a basically contemptible business. Disraeli had handled tougher problems in his day. He had swayed Parliaments.
Watt swayed, tottered—and fell. It took about ten minutes, all in all. By the end of that time, dizzy with eloquent praise of his economic ability, Watt had realized that while St. Cyr might be an artistic genius, he had no business interfering in the plans of an economic genius. Nobody told Watt what to do when economics were concerned.
“You have the broad vision that can balance all possibilities and show the right path with perfect clarity,” Martin said glibly. “Very well. You wish Eden. You feel—do you not?—that I am unsuitable material. Only geniuses can change their plans with instantaneous speed. … When will my contract release be ready?”
“What?” said Watt, in a swimming, glorious daze. “Oh. Of course. Hm‑m. Your contract release. Well, now—”
“St. Cyr would stubbornly cling to past errors until Summit goes broke,” Martin pointed out. “Only a genius like Tolliver Watt strikes when the iron is hot, when he sees a chance to exchange failure for success, a Martin for an Eden.”
“Hm‑m,” Watt said. “Yes. Very well, then.” His long face grew shrewd. “Very, well, you get your release—after I’ve signed Eden.”
“There you put your finger on the heart of the matter,” Martin approved, after a very brief moment of somewhat dashed thought. “Miss Eden is still undecided. If you left the transaction to somebody like St. Cyr, say, it would be botched. Erika, you have your car here? How quickly could you drive Tolliver Watt to Laguna? He’s the only person with the skill to handle this situation.”
“What situa—oh,
