Walter Marrow banged open Harold's trailer door and walked in. He doffed his hat and creased the fold in the crown.


            "Morning, Walt. Ready to go?" Harold watched his lead director's reflection in the mirror as he began putting on his makeup, first tucking a towel into his collar and draping a cloth around his neck like a man at a barber shop.


            "Hal, I think we should have a little talk."


            "Sure thing. What's on your mind?" As if he didn't know Walter was quitting. Harold grabbed a greasepaint stick, daubed it onto his cheeks, forehead, and chin, then used a makeup sponge to spread it around his face with deft, circular motions. Harold knew why, too. Talking pictures.


            "I'll get straight to the point. I got an offer to go over to Warner Brothers, and I'm probably gonna take it."


            Harold dipped a powder puff into a nearby box and stippled the floury stuff over his face. "What about the picture? Sure, Frank can handle it, but this is your baby. We all agreed on the story line, everything."


            "I know I oughta finish out the picture with you, but my contract said three pictures, and this is going on the fifth. So it's all legal and everything, I talked to my lawyer -- "


            Harold felt his stomach clench, but kept his voice calm. "Lawyers don't come into it. You don't leave somebody you've worked with for five years in the lurch. Not where I come from, anyway." Harold steadied his elbow on the table as he used black pencil to line his eyes and brows. Then he took a tube of red and drew a new mouth with a Cupid's-bow upper lip over his real one.


            Walter's voice took on a whining tone. "But they wanna start shooting next week, and they don't have a director. You don't need me. You got Frank."


            "You're making more than most comedy directors in the business, working for me. Are they gonna top your salary?"


            Harold watched Walter's reflection in the mirror as he tapped his hat against his knee and looked around the trailer at the costumes, at the gag sheets pinned on a corkboard, at anything but Harold. "Ain't the money, Hal. Ain't the money."


            "Yeah? Well, what the hell is it, then?"


            "You know what it is. I told you we should've made this one a talkie, told you back last year what was coming when Jack Warner started sniffing around that Western Electric outfit in New York. Everybody knew about it. Well, I ain't waiting around anymore for you to figure out what's happening right under your nose. I quit." Walter slammed his hat onto his head and stood. "You're a smart man, Hal, one of the smartest in the business. But times are changing, and I ain't gonna be left behind."


            Walter banged open the door and walked out of the trailer. Harold turned to watch him go and saw practically the whole crew just standing there, making no pretenses about eavesdropping.


            "Good luck, Walt," Harold said softly. He sat there for a minute before removing the cloth and towel and brushing back his hair, and looked at himself in the lighted mirror. His own face was ordinary, that of a man in his mid-30s, with a high forehead, long, straight nose, thin-lipped mouth, gray eyes under black brows. But that face was gone. Now he was the clown he played onscreen.


            He examined the finished product once more and warmed up with a few of his patented facial expressions. The grimace of embarrassment, wide-eyed surprise, jaw tightened in determination. Then he let his face go slack and forced himself to say, "Go be funny, Gilbert," to his reflection, as he did every morning before going to work.


            Things were off to a lousy start. It would bring even more bad luck if he didn't follow the mirror ritual, like knocking on wood, throwing spilled salt over his shoulder, making sure he always had his lucky silver dollar tucked in his vest pocket. He grabbed a straw boater from the coat rack, slipped into a costume jacket, checked his tie for straightness, and headed out of the trailer.


            Everybody was looking at him, but nobody said a word. He could hear the sound of sawing and hammering echoing in the cavernous space behind him as the carpenters put together the last of the sets. The cameras and Klieg lights were up, ready for filming the interiors in the poolroom set, realistic down to the "NO PROFANITY" sign on the wall. Behind each set was a network of raw wooden slats, tangled wire and a million nails, holding it all together. Harold clenched and unclenched his hands in the pockets of his costume jacket. Hell of a goddamn thing to happen when they only had three more scenes to shoot.


            Jed Billings was already in makeup and oversized cop costume, the grim expression on his sagging Basset hound face a contrast to the goofiness of the outfit. "So what's up with Walt?"


            "Your earhorn out of order, pal? As if you don't know. He's out, he quit."


            "Hell with him. Who needs him?"


            Harold glanced over at Bud Vance, the second banana, tricked out in the baggy brown suit and bow tie that was his sharpie character's trademark. Bud rattled his lower plate of dentures with his tongue, producing a sound like clacking castanets. "That guy always has a beef. Let him go peddle his papers at Warner's. Who gives a shit?"


            "Here's your hat, Walt, what's your hurry?" Lila stood a little apart from the rest, smoking a cigarette, arms crossed over her chest, hands cradling elbows. Then she gave Harold that sidelong, crooked look that always made him laugh, but right now it didn't seem very funny.


            "Well, you all heard him," Harold said, searching the circle of faces surrounding him for a reaction. His eyes caught those of Frank Sullivan, his second director. "Think he's right? What about you, Frank?"


            Frank puffed his cigar and gazed back at Harold with a steady, judicious eye. "I knew he was gonna jump. What can you do about it?"


            "He's been harping for years," Vance said. "Hell with him. Let him go."


            Harold took a deep breath, concentrating on keeping his voice calm. "All right," he said, silently noting that the ominous churning in his stomach would probably get a lot worse before it got better. "Let's get all this out into the open. Any objections about going ahead and finishing this one as a silent, like we planned?"


            They were all quiet for a minute, as if they were thinking about it. He could hear feet shuffling and a few mumbled remarks from the cameramen. Then came a deluge of comments.


            "There ain't even that many talkers being made," Vance said.


            "Hey, you know how expensive that sound equipment is? Hell, why gamble on something that'll probably turn out to be a fad?" Jed said.


            "The Jolson thing is gonna flop, wait and see," one of the cameramen piped in.


            Harold looked hard at them. He couldn't tell if they were only trying to placate him or if they really believed it. He shook his head and forced a smile. "So we're all agreed. Good. Let's finish up the last couple scenes and sell this picture. Come on, let's get to work." He headed for the set with his usual brisk, businesslike stride, feeling everybody's eyes on his back. Jesus Christ, Monday was off to a great start.


            Harold knew that the midmorning sun was the only light they really needed -- always had been, always would be. If everyone worked fast, they could film any outdoor shots in the best lighting of all, as long as they didn't work against the glare. The set on the back lot looked like a street in downtown Los Angeles, with the action centering on a bank front. He watched the crew set up their cameras and reflectors, the extras hired for the day milling around making conversation, waiting to shoot. Prop boys set up canvas chairs around the set, behind the spindle-legged cameras. The girl from makeup hovered around Harold and Lila, ready to apply powder if needed.


            "Places, everybody, places," Frank called through his megaphone. Jed strolled past Lila and gave her an affectionate punch in the arm enroute. Bud strode toward the set as fast as his stumpy legs would carry him. The makeup girl took away Harold's outline and handed him his straw boater. Then he and Lila ducked into the doorway of the bank set, waiting for Frank's call for action.


            This was probably the strangest moment of the day, Harold thought, the minutes just before they started shooting. Although it was shady inside the doorway of the bank facade, the extreme opposite of the sun-drenched street set outside, Harold could see the wooden framework that held the whole thing together, could smell the raw pine. They'd talked about the gags and rehearsed them so many times that they'd long ceased to seem funny. He was still thinking about Walter, and wondering how many times they'd have to shoot this scene before they got it right, and in the back of his mind thinking about preview screenings, and editing, and reshoots down the line, and how soon to launch the publicity campaign before the scheduled release date in New York and the major Eastern cities.


            But all of this seemed to fall away once the cameras started to grind. Something always happened that changed the flat cardboard bank facade into the real thing, the fake street outside into a real street, comedian Harold Gilbert into the funny guy people would pay money to see in the movies. He glanced over at Lila who was looking at him out of the corner of her eyes. She was breathing deeply, like she was excited and trying to calm down. Then she smiled, a real smile that seemed to light up the shadowy set interior as bright as the street outside, and then he heard Frank shout for action, and then he and Lila walked out of the bank arm in arm and the thing started to happen as it always did.


            The line of cameras were cranking, and Harold could clearly hear the whir of the Bell & Howells as he took Lila's arm and led her down the street. Pock-pock-pock-pock, a hammer sounded somewhere, and the rasp of a saw on wood, more construction, and Frank's hacking cigar cough, and who the hell needed talking pictures? There was enough noise on the set to satisfy anyone, Harold thought.


            "I'm so glad it's Saturday, Harold," Lila said, flicking her gaze up at him with a red-painted smile. A slight breeze stirred the dark curls under her hat. "What are we gonna do today?"


            He reached into his breast pocket and took out the two prop tickets and his prop paycheck. "A vaudeville show, Mary!" he grinned, and in the back of his memory he smelled the sweaty odor of a crowded matinee on the prairie circuit, hick farmers spitting their chaw into the aisles, women pumping cardboard fans advertising Dr. Brown's Liniment, the untuned scrape of an orchestra-pit fiddle playing "Sabre Dance" as he and Jed tried to concentrate on the juggling and the gags. God knows Harold knew vaudeville. "And then a nice little place for dinner."


            "Oh, Harold, that sounds wonderful." She looked at him from under demurely lowered lids and smiled, timorous with just a hint of flirtation, suggesting virginity just waiting to be plucked. Although word on the lot was that Lila had been plucked plenty, most recently by Clyde Brenner, the tall, sheiky guy cranking the camera just left of Frank. The director shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth and gestured at the extra who was going to play the heavy in this scene. The guy walked into camera range with a nice, arrogant swagger. Harold was glad it wasn't the same extra he'd tangled with in "April Showers." That guy almost broke his arm in the staged fistfight.


            "Oh, goddamn it." He felt Lila stumble and fall against him. "Goddamn shoe, the fucking heel just fell off."


            "What happened?" Frank bellowed through his megaphone.


            "Her heel broke," Harold smiled, playing it in character because he knew in his gut this was one of those things they could use.


            "Ya wanna cut?" Frank bellowed again.


            "Yeah, lemme change my goddamn shoes -- "


            "No, Frank, let 'em roll, we'll play it out this way," Harold said, ignoring the hard pinch on the arm that Lila was giving him. "Let's just keep going like we rehearsed."


            "But how, with my goddamn shoe -- "


            The extra walked up to Lila and gave her the once-over, then tipped his fedora. "Well, say, beautiful, what are you doing here? And who's the moax? Let's lose him and go have a drink somewhere."


            Lila's grip on Harold tightened and she moved closer to him. "Please leave me alone, you impertinent man," she said, tilting up her nose, the picture of propriety.


            "Your heel is broken," Harold muttered. "You can't walk. Ask me for help." She did, and Harold lifted her in his arms. The kid was as light as a feather, couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds.


            "Oh, what the hell are we doing?" she said, her arm hooked around his neck.


            "Trust me." Harold turned to the extra. "Kid, you're gonna come on strong now, instead of later in the scene." The extra looked a little puzzled, but went ahead and tried to pry Lila out of Harold's grasp.


            "All right, Jed, get out there," Frank called, and Jed strolled onto the set, switching his billy club and munching an apple he'd swiped from a nearby vendor's cart.


            "What the hell are you gonna do, Harold?" Lila whispered again.


            "Trust me, I said. And loosen your grip on my neck. We're just gonna play a little catch. Relax and let the extra catch you."


            "Yeah, but does he know?" She was almost yelling now.


            "Okay, Hal, I see where you're going," Frank called through the megaphone. "Arms out, Joey, and catch the lady."


            The extra complied, catching Lila neatly, then doing a perfect double take as Jed strolled over.


            "Throw her back," Harold said.


            Lila landed in his arms, emitting a slight whoomph. "Oh, come on, guys, you think this is fun?" she muttered in Harold's ear. They tossed her back and forth a few times, and Lila swore a little, but Harold heard Frank and the cameramen chuckling, and knew the bit would work. Especially when the extra missed, and Lila landed in a perfect pratfall. For a second he almost gestured at Frank to stop because he thought she might be hurt, but then she got up and went right into the rehearsed bit where she started yelling at the extra. Except some of the language wasn't part of the outline.


            "Why the hell didn't you catch me, goddamn it? Christ, you could have broken my back, letting me land like that." Lila began pushing him in the chest, the extra backing up with every push, and now Frank and the cameramen were laughing and Lila eased up, finally wise to what was happening. After a couple more pushes from Lila, the extra did what he was supposed to do and landed on his kiester.


            On cue, Harold felt a touch on his shoulder and turned. Jed, playing the suspicious cop, was tapping him on the shoulder with his billy club. Jed's white makeup was thick in the creases on his forehead and under his eyes, making him look really old. But the characteristic squint in his eyes was the same one that Harold remembered from the vaudeville days, when Jed was the gagster and Harold the straight man. He could tell by Jed's squint that the scene was working.


            "You do that, Hercules?" Jed asked, gesturing with his billy club at the extra, who was picking himself up off the ground, joint by joint. Harold widened his eyes and shook his head in denial, feeling his teeth rattle in his mouth as he did so. Lila pushed Harold aside and grabbed Jed's arm.


            "I did it," she said, tapping her chest. Harold watched as Jed gave Lila a long, squint-eyed look, then started to laugh, some real belly-shakers, doubling up, his backside to Lila. And then Lila did a great take. She narrowed her eyes, turned her smile wicked, and made a move as if to kick Jed. Harold grabbed her arm and led her away, grinning to himself as she muttered, "But you're the guy I'd really like to kick in the prat right now, boss. I'm no beanbag, you know."


            "Follow 'em," Frank said to the dolly cameraman as Harold and Lila continued their walk down the street, with Lila in her stockinged feet. She had calmed down now, and looked up at Harold with a smile that would melt butter.


            In turn, Harold played it like he was disappointed because he hadn't fought the heavy. He arranged his face into lines of defeat, shoulders slumped, refusing to meet her eyes. Lila put her arm around his waist and smiled up at him, gesturing up the street. "Oh, come on, Harold, let's not worry about him. We've got things to do, right?"


            Harold shook his head and put his hand against his forehead. "I don't feel so good, Mary. I think I better just go home." She kissed him on the cheek, a sad look on her face as she walked down the street alone.


            "Get a back shot of her while she walks away. Li, give him one more backward look while you're walking," Frank said. "Okay, close on Hal," he called, and the cameras dollied in on him. He took the two prop tickets out of his pocket again and slowly, methodically, tore them up, making his face grim.


            "All right, cut! That's a take! Get those cameras back in position."


            Harold removed his hat, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, then shook out the tension from his arms. He could feel the sweat streaking through his makeup and salting his lips. "How'd it look, Frank?" he called to his director.


            Frank shrugged, still busy with the camera crew. "Looked good to me, but you can never tell. We'll see tonight in the rushes."


            Lila walked past, cigarette already lit, and shot Harold a glance. "Woulda been better as a talkie."


            He grabbed her shoulder, made a fist and pretended to punch her in the nose as Lila and everybody else on the set cracked up.

*   *   *

            Funny, how a day that started out so lousy could end up all right. Harold stood in the dusty parking lot and watched as the actors and crew straggled out to their cars, getting ready to go home.


            "Hal!" Jed hollered from his Buick convertible. "Gonna join us at Abe's later? Mim's letting me out tonight!"


            "I'm kind of bushed, Jed. Maybe tomorrow. Anyhow, I want to see the kids." Harold looked at his new roadster, a cherry-red Bugatti, with paint as slick as nailpolish, hot from the sun under his touch, its leather upholstery exuding a smell like baking bread.


            "How about Jack's house for some poker?"


            "Sure, probably Friday, like always. See you tomorrow."


            He was just about to get into the Bugatti when he felt a tug at his elbow. "Mr. Gilbert? I've been a good girl. May I be excused, please?" Lila was wearing a cool white frock and a straw cloche. Her face was scrubbed clean and pink, except for some traces of greasepaint still visible around her ears. She looked at him with the wide-eyed ingenue gaze that looked so good onscreen, and he found himself laughing.


            "Yes, little girl, run along home now. Or to the Cocoanut Grove, more likely. Or is it the Ambassador tonight?" He took her arm, guided her over to her auto and opened the door for her. "And who's tonight's escort? Still seeing a lot of our very own Clyde Brenner?"


            Lila practiced her aghast look. "Who's been spreading such vicious rumors about me? Why, I live simply to render my services to Harold Gilbert Studios. I can't have a love life. It's not in my contract."


            "Come on, Li. Everybody knows you've been dating old Joe College. Just don't wear him out too much, that's all I ask. We need him to operate a camera in the morning."


            "My friendship with Clyde is strictly platonic. No matter what he's been blabbing around the studio."


            "Yeah? Well, what about the lost dress incident?" Harold grinned at the surprised expression on her face.


            "What's the big deal?" she said, her smile growing crooked. "I was a little rooky and tore the hem getting out of a chair, and the beading started to run. The underslip looked fine, so I just took the chiffon part off. No harm done. I'm surprised anybody even noticed the difference."


            "You could have taken it off in the powder room. Why on the dance floor of Ramondo's?"


            She dimpled. "Why, Mr. Gilbert, you're sounding downright paternal. Next thing you know you'll be actually enforcing the morals clause in my contract."


            "I wouldn't do that. You're more fun this way, Miss Lenore. Enjoy yourself. And give my regards to Clyde, okay?"


            She paused a minute, hands on the steering wheel, not looking at him. "I'm sorry about Walter," she said, her voice low. "I think it was lousy of him not to finish the picture, at least."


            He shrugged. "Hey, I'm not keeping him. He's got a right to move on if he wants."


            "But it's the way he did it. Is it bothering you?"


            "We did a great day's work without him. Frank's a fine director."


            "No," Lila said. "I meant all that stuff he said to you. About the talkies, and everything."


            He looked down at his feet and drew a pattern with his shoe in the dust. "I haven't really thought about it yet."


            "But the talkies. A lot of other people are wondering if you're ever gonna do one." Lila drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "Me, too."


            He wiped his face with his hands, as if just waking up. Then he looked at Lila and smiled. "No," he said.


            Lila looked at him, an eyebrow up. "No? That's it? Just no?"


            "That's right. Listen, you know how it is when we're shooting, like today, and we've worked out the gags, and the cameras are rolling, and everything just -- clicks?" She nodded, and he warmed to the subject.


            "And we worked in bits of business that had nothing to do with the outline? Well, do you think you can do that if you're shooting a talkie? Hell, no! You need a script, and a lot of tricky sound equipment, and if your voice doesn't match your face, then you're in trouble, and if you forget your lines, you gotta retake and retake, and if there's noise in the studio, it's no good, and -- " He stopped and took a breath. "Oh, hell, Lila. You don't want me to do a talkie, do you?"


            Harold watched her eyes closely for signs of agreement, but she was wearing her professional smile now, as she pulled on her gloves. "I'm not the right girl to ask. I can't talk and chew gum at the same time. See you tomorrow." The big yellow Kissel roared to life and pulled away, kicking up a cloud of dust that hung in the air awhile after she was gone.


            Avalon was far out of town, but pretty much a beeline down Sunset Boulevard and into Beverly Hills. The sun was already sinking behind the line of cypress trees as he pulled into the long drive that led to the main house. Even though he'd had the place built to order more than two years ago, he sometimes still couldn't believe it was his -- 16 acres of green hills and English gardens hacked out of a rocky hillside, a stream winding possessively around its perimeter. And the house itself -- an Italian villa with Spanish courtyard and fountains, wrought-iron grillwork on every window like in New Orleans, a Moorish entryway and vaulted ceilings copied from Versailles. It looked especially beautiful this time of day, with the orange-tinted sunlight filtering through the trees that lined both sides of the drive. The sunset glow dyed the white stucco house ahead a pinkish hue, like a big, fancy wedding cake.


            Out on the front lawn, white-overalled Japanese gardeners clipped and trimmed and dug and planted among the trees and shrubs and massed flowerbeds. Harold blew the horn and waved as he drove past, but none looked up. They were too busy working.


            Jeannine and Little Hal were playing on the lawn with Sally the nursemaid as he pulled into the driveway. "Daddy!" Jeannine screamed, launching herself at Harold's neck with all her four-year-old strength the minute he got out of the car. He kissed the blonde curls and inhaled the puppy-like scent of his daughter.


            Little Hal, not yet two, crowed "Daddy-daddy-daddy" and hurried over, legs pumping as fast as they could carry him. Harold went into the house with a kid on each arm.


            He almost dropped both of them when he looked into the glass-roofed sunroom and saw Ella sitting there, wearing the blue silk frock he'd bought for her in New York. This time of day, she was usually out having cocktails with her girlfriends, or locked up in her room. It was unusual for Harold to see her anytime before dinner. But here she was, sipping a tall glass of lemonade and reading something that looked like a script. She looked up as he came in, and they managed to smile at each other. "Phillip Thornhill sent me this," she said without preface.


            The kids were raising a ruckus, and he had to think for a minute to know what she was talking about. Then he remembered that he and Ella had run into the director in New York, where Harold had been doing location shooting. "Oh, yeah, he wanted you to read for that part. How does it sound?"


            "Pretty good. It's a real modern drama, about artists in Paris. Not the lead, but almost better. A good, juicy, supporting role."


            She leaned over the script, reaching for her cigarette case. Harold watched her, wondering about the change. Maybe this part was just what the doctor ordered for her. She'd always been good back in the old days, in the comedies they'd made together. He glanced down at the table and saw she'd been looking through her old scrapbook.


            "Hey," he said, "strolling down Memory Lane?"


            Ella laughed without smiling. "Mostly looking at all those blank pages that need to be filled in."


            Harold sat down and reached for the green leather scrapbook with "Ella Davies" written in graceful gold script on the cover. He flipped through pages of clippings from newspapers and trades, reviews of her leading lady roles in the early Max Randolph films, her solo career with Harold; publicity photos of Ella, smiling shyly with a younger Jed and a gangling, grinning Harold. Then came the coverage of their wedding, and a dozen or so empty black pages after that. She had folded in some recent fan magazine articles about Avalon and the Gilberts and their two children, but these were afterthoughts. Her career had been over by then.


            "You know, I never asked you to quit," he said softly. The thin blonde woman sitting across from him said nothing, just kept looking at the script. "But after Jeannine was born, you sort of lost interest in a career." He knew he probably shouldn't say anything; Ella didn't like to talk about it. But the moment seemed right.


            "Heck, I wish you would have kept making pictures with me. You were my favorite leading lady." He reached across the table for her hand, but she deflected it by bringing her cigarette to her lips.


            "That was comedy. I never really wanted to do comedy. This is the sort of role I've been wanting to do for years."


            "Yeah, but things have changed a lot since then. How about if I invite some of the fellows from the studio and their wives over for a dinner party? They can give you a crash course in camera work and behind-the-scenes stuff. After all, you've been away for awhile, and -- "


            She looked up, finally meeting his eyes. "No, Harold. That's comedy. This is drama. It's a completely different world." She stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the script. "I have to telephone a few people. I'll see you at dinner."


            The Gilberts ate in the dining room, the silence of the meal punctuated by the fancy-restaurant sound of sterling silverware on Limoges china. Occasionally Ella would reprimand Jeannine to stop singing and Little Hal to eat with a spoon instead of his fingers. Harold watched his wife from across the gleaming mahogany table as she smoked a cigarette and drank her dinner wine, occasionally pushing her food around on the plate with her fork. She sat with the script open on the table next to her, memorizing the lines and the blocking for her screen test next week. She didn't ask him about his day and work, and Harold didn't mention that his director quit. After dessert, Sally took the children up for their baths, and Ella went to her room complaining of a headache. So nothing had changed, after all.


            He went into the kids' playroom, with its Mother Goose murals and shelves of toys, and switched on the electric train set that he'd bought Hal for Christmas. The little steam engine whirred through tiny villages and toy forests, around and around. It would have been nice to play with the kids down here, but they were already upstairs and Sally was getting them ready for bed.


            At nine o'clock, he went upstairs and kissed the kids goodnight. On his way to his own room, he stopped in front of Ella's door. He didn't have to turn the knob to know it was locked. A blade of yellow light shone from under the door. He hoped she was reading or sleeping and not drinking. He told the maids to confiscate any bottles they found in her room, but she always managed to get more. He'd stopped arguing with her about it long ago. She was still in control of herself, and insisted she didn't have a problem. In a town where most people drank, and heavily, she was probably no worse than anyone else.


            He opened the door to his room and headed to the desk by the window, which was stacked with publicity material from "Battling Biggles," the picture they were winding up now. On top of a stack of other material were the stills from "April Showers," the last picture. Harold knew he had to get together with publicity to decide where to preview "Biggles" and when to set up a photo shoot. It had to be soon, since they'd probably start editing this week, and the picture was scheduled for a June release. He sank down into the chair, toed off his shoes and unknotted his tie.


            Jesus Christ, what a day. Walter and the talkies. The thought lurked in the back of his mind, like something you could only see out of the corner of your eye. Still, it was there, something that would have to be reckoned with sooner or later. He didn't want to start losing people to other studios, but from everything he'd seen and heard about talkies, they were nothing but a cheap gimmick, good enough as filler of vaudeville acts to run between real pictures, but that was about all. Besides, he had a picture to finish and start selling.


            On his desk, underneath artwork samples for the "Battling Biggles" ads, he found a publicity shot of himself and Lila Lenore from "April Showers." He pulled it out and had a closer look. She was wearing a rain hat and slicker, and she and Harold were huddled cheek to cheek under an umbrella. Pretty girl, Lila. Twenty-three, and had the world at her feet. With her long, brown curls, almond eyes and sweet face, she looked like an old-time Griffith girl, although in Harold's comedies she was always a tomboy, a flapper, full of spunk and fun.


            He thought about the bantering conversation he'd had with her today and wondered how much of what he heard about her was true. Studio scuttlebutt said she was a wild kid, making the rounds with a lot of different fellows, hitting the hot spots, dancing and drinking until all hours. She was strictly professional on the lot, though. She'd been with him for about three years, and she really knew her business. He'd never had a leading lady he could talk to about work like he did with Lila. But other than that, he didn't know much about her, except that she came from New York. He tossed the photo back on the desk and began undressing for bed. Ordinarily, he'd be looking at outlines for the next picture until at least one or two, but he'd slept poorly last night and now he was tired. He switched off the bedside lamp and closed his eyes, hoping the nightmares wouldn't come.


            Downstairs in the kitchen, the cook, the nursemaid, the chauffeur and the lawn boy were playing pinochle. The slap of the cards and their garrulous voices went on for hours, blending with the grate of crickets outside to lull the master of Avalon into an uneasy sleep. And the dead girl was back by dawn.