“Not that kind!” said Martin, lighting one of his own. “You’ve got rotten taste in everything but gals.”
“And librettists,” replied Green, smiling.
“But here’s what I wanted to talk about. I couldn’t sleep last night, and I just laid there and an idea came to me for a comedy scene. I’ll give you the bare idea and you can work it out. It’ll take a girl and one of the comics, maybe Fraser, and a couple of other men that can play.
“Well, the idea is that the comic is married to the girl. In the first place, I’d better mention that the comic is crazy about beans. Well, one night the comic—no, wait a minute. The police get word that the comic’s wife has been murdered and two policemen come to the comic’s apartment to investigate. They examine the corpse and find out she’s been shot through the head. They ask the comic if he knows who did it and he says no, but they keep after him, and finally he breaks down and admits that he did it himself.
“But he says, ‘Gentlemen, if you’ll let me explain the circumstances, I don’t believe you’ll arrest me.’ So they tell him to explain, and he says that he came home from work and he was very hungry and he asked his wife what they were going to have for dinner. So she tells him—clams and sweetbreads and spinach and strawberry ice cream and coffee. So he asks her if she isn’t going to have any beans and she says no, and he shoots her. What do you think you could do with that idea?”
“Listen, Connie,” said Martin: “You’ve only got half the scene, and you’ve got that half wrong. In the second place, it was played a whole season in the Music Box and it was written by Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby. Otherwise I can do a whole lot with it.”
“Are you sure you’re right?”
“I certainly am!”
“Why, that damn little thief! He told me it was his!”
“Who?” asked Martin.
“Why, that Blair, that tried to butt in here last year. I’ll fix him!”
“I thought you said it was your own idea.”
“Hell, no! Do you think I’d be stealing stuff, especially if it was a year old?”
“Well,” said Martin, “when you get another inspiration like this, give me a ring and I’ll come around. Now I’ve got to hurry up to the old Stadium and see what the old Babe does in the first inning.”
“I’m sorry, Joe. I thought it was perfectly all right.”
“Never mind! You didn’t waste much of my time. But after this you’d better leave the ideas to me. So long!”
“Goodbye, Joe; and thanks for coming in.”
Martin went and Green pressed the button for Miss Jackson.
“Miss Jackson, don’t ever let that young Blair in here again. He’s a faker!”
“All right, Mr. Green. But don’t you think it’s about time you were starting for the funeral? It’s twenty minutes of three.”
“Yes. But let’s see: where is Plant’s house?”
“It’s up on One Hundred and Sixtieth street, just off Broadway.”
“My God! Imagine living there! Wait a minute, Miss Jackson. Send Lewis here.”
“Lewis,” he said, when the new secretary appeared, “I ate something this noon that disagreed with me. I wanted to go up to Plant’s funeral, but I really think it would be dangerous to try it. Will you go up there, let them know who you are, and kind of represent me? Miss Jackson will give you the address.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lewis, and went out.
Almost immediately the sanctum door opened again and the beautiful Marjorie Green, née Manning, entered unannounced. Green’s face registered not altogether pleasant surprise.
“Why, hello, dear!” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming to town today.”
“I never told you I wasn’t,” his wife replied.
They exchanged the usual connubial salutations.
“I supposed you noticed,” said Mrs. Green, “that our names were not on the list of guests at the party.”
“No; I haven’t had time to look at the papers. But what’s the difference?”
“No difference at all, of course. But do you know what I think? I think we were invited just because those people want to get something out of you, for some benefit or something.”
“A fine chance! I hope they try it!”
“However, that’s not what I came to talk about.”
“Well, dear, what is it?”
“I thought maybe you’d remember something.”
“What, honey?”
“Why—oh, well, there’s no use talking about it if you’ve forgotten.”
Green’s forehead wrinkled in deep thought; then suddenly his face brightened.
“Of course I haven’t forgotten! It’s your birthday!”
“You just thought of it now!”
“No such a thing! I’ve been thinking of it for weeks!”
“I don’t believe you! If you had been, you’d have said something, and”—his wife was on the verge of tears—“you’d have given me some little thing, just any little thing.”
Once more Green frowned, and once more brightened up.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he said, and walked rapidly to the safe.
In a moment he had placed in her hands the jewel box from Philadelphia. In another moment she had opened it, gasped at the beauty of its contents, and thrown her arms around his neck.
“Oh, dearest!” she cried. “Can you ever forgive me for doubting you?”
She put the pearls to her mouth as if she would eat them.
“But haven’t you been terribly extravagant?”
“I don’t consider anything too extravagant for you.”
“You’re the best husband a girl ever had!”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said Green.
“Pleased! I’m overwhelmed. And to think I imagined you’d forgotten! But I’m not going to break up your whole day. I know you want to get out to poor old Plant’s funeral. So I’ll run along. And maybe you’ll take me to dinner somewhere tonight.”
“I certainly will! You be at the Ambassador about six thirty and we’ll have a little birthday party. But don’t you want to leave the pearls here now?”
“I should say not! They’re going to stay with me forever! Anyone that tries to take them will do it over my dead body!”
“Well, goodbye, then, dear.”
“Till half past six.”
Green, alone again, kicked shut the door of
