with a microphone. “It is my distinct honor to share this platform today with the man who may be most responsible for the industry in which we work, the man who turned a technology into an art, the true pioneer of the film medium, Mr. David Wark Griffith.”
Griffith stepped forward with a small smile to the applause and leaned into the microphone.
“I thank you, C.B.,” he said. “And I thank you especially for the opportunity to urge all of these loyal Americans to support our war effort.”
De Mille stepped up and made it quite clear that the little presentation had been rehearsed.
“Yes, D.W. We’re at a crucial point in the war being fought all around us, a point where every dollar and every bit of effort and sacrifice is needed to see us through to victory. I’d like to see us sell a million dollars in bonds right here. This afternoon. I know you have the power to do it, just as I know America has the will to win.”
“C.B.,” said Griffith in distinct cultured tones. “I’d like to start the camera rolling with the purchase of a one- hundred-dollar bond.”
De Mille applauded and I wondered if Griffith could afford a hundred-buck token payment. I’d heard from a friend that the old man had been reduced to noncredited consulting at Hal Roach’s studio.
“Now,” went on C.B. “Mr. Griffith and I and our volunteers will circulate among you. There are plenty of refreshments, and many of you have kindly agreed to perform for us through the afternoon. So enjoy yourselves, open your hearts and purses, your souls and wallets, and help us to make this an afternoon for which Hollywood can be proud.”
More applause as De Mille and Griffith waved and left the podium to Kay Kyser who adjusted his glasses and said, “Hi you all.”
Before he could call Ish Kabible to the stand or start his band playing, I pushed through the crowd to find De Mille.
People were flocking around one of several tables set up to sell bonds. I moved behind one of the tables as the music began. I thought I recognized the voice of Ginny Simms singing “Who’s Sorry Now,” but I didn’t spot De Mille.
Someone touched my arm, and I looked down at Gunther. I had to bend down to hear him over the music and voices.
“Toby, did you not tell me that Miss West struck this Ressner in the face last night?”
“Right,” I said.
“There is a waiter serving behind that punch bowl with a bandage on his nose. It may mean nothing, but …”
I hurried in the direction of the punch bowl as indicated by Gunther. The going was slow.
I passed Bing Crosby, who was holding something small up to a young man and saying, “Will you look at that?”
The table with the punch bowl was long and covered with a white tablecloth and little punch glasses. Behind it stood not one but three waiters serving. One of them, indeed, had a bandage on his nose. His hair was dark and long, and he sported a black moustache, but it was Ressner without a doubt, the same man who had appeared in my office and told me he was Dr. Winning. I tried to ease around a chubby guy, who had one foot propped up to tie his shoe.
Ressner looked up at the right or wrong moment and spotted me. His eyes made it clear that I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be locked up in a booby hatch outside of Fresno. He turned and ducked into the crowd behind him. I followed.
For four or five minutes I plowed through celebrities asking me questions about my tie and people who didn’t want to move or be moved. No Ressner. I gave up and looked for De Mille. Instead I spotted Jeremy talking to a matronly woman.
“Romanticism is returning now in full flower with the young English poets,” he was saying as I grabbed his arm. He excused himself, and I told him to help me find and keep an eye on De Mille. I told him about Ressner and his disguise, and we separated again.
About four minutes later I spotted De Mille again, this time without Griffith, as he returned to the platform and took the microphone.
“We’re doing very well,” he said. “But we can do better. Open those hearts as I know you can.”
“Blasphemer,” came a shout from behind De Mille. The roar of the crowd stopped as everyone looked up. A figure climbed on the stage. He was dressed like a hermit and carrying a wooden staff. He also had a bandage over his nose.
De Mille’s “Oh my God,” was barely audible over the speaker because he had turned his head.
The crowd waited anxiously, wondering what this piece of entertainment would be. I tried to muscle through the crowd as Ressner stepped toward De Mille with his staff raised.
I could see Jeremy to my right, muscling his way forward with more success than I was having, but still too far to get there before Ressner had a chance to strike out with his staff. The people around the platform must have thought it was part of an act, too, because no one moved to give De Mille help.
I kept driving forward and glanced up to see De Mille standing quite resolutely with his feet apart, waiting for Ressner.
I was at the foot of the platform when Ressner raised the staff and shouted, “For all the filth that you have put on the screen and the defilement of the Lord, I shall smite thee.”
“Your knowledge of the Bible,” I could hear De Mille say, “is as weak as your performance. Now …”
Ressner was about to bring the staff down on De Mille’s head, and neither Jeremy nor I was near enough to act. But instead of the heavy stick swooping through the air, it went flying high into the crowd, and Ressner tripped forward.
At the edge of the platform I could now see Gunther, his cane extended. I guessed that he had climbed up and hit Ressner in the shin. It was a good guess. Ressner turned in fury toward Gunther, who tried to scramble away. He almost made it. Ressner caught him by the collar and pulled him up where everyone could see. De Mille moved to help, but Ressner lifted Gunther and flung him into the crowd. People went down like lined-up blocks when Gunther’s body struck, and Ressner leaped off the back of the platform into the crowd.
The applause and cheers were deafening and one man shouted, “Magnificent show, C.B.”
A woman’s voice confirmed, “You might expect something like this from C.B. Wonderful dramatic sense. Wonderful.”
De Mille quickly climbed from the podium, and I caught a glimpse of Jeremy burrowing around the crowd in pursuit of Ressner. I went for Gunther, who was being held up and dusted off by a pretty young girl.
“You were wonderful,” she said.
“How are you, Gunther?” I asked.
“While I prefer not to be publicly conspicuous, as you well know, Toby,” he said, looking for his Homburg, “I am well trained in tumbling and well able to absorb the fall and the indignity. The mother of this child upon whom I landed is in some anguish.”
The pretty girl remembered her mother, pulled her fascinated eyes from Gunther, and went to the woman, who had been seated in a chair and now looked as if Jim Thorpe had belted her in the solar plexus.
I took up the chase of Ressner, passing D. W. Griffith on the way, who was saying, “Carol Dempster. Without a doubt. Carol Dempster.”
The crowd thinned at the edge of the set, and I moved between two buildings in the general direction I had seen Jeremy and Ressner take off. Nothing. I went to my right and found myself circling back toward the party and the set from
I climbed some wooden stairs and found myself on the tower over the party. In front of me, about fifty feet down on the wooden planking, Jeremy was advancing on Ressner, who had nowhere to go.
I ran forward. Ressner moved to the edge of the railing some thirty feet above the crowd. No one seemed to spot him from below. Jeremy took a step to the side, and I could see the too-calm look on his face. I didn’t like it.
Ressner struck out with his fist and hit Jeremy cleanly on the chin, but Jeremy paid no attention. Ressner backed up his last step and threw a punch toward Jeremy’s neck. Jeremy ignored it.
“I should have been a star,” shouted Ressner in Jeremy’s face. “I am a great actor. This is an unfair world.”
