# Spider Boy/Chapter 14

The next morning Ambrose awakened, for the first time in California, in an actually beatific mood. Circumstances had considerably altered his point of view. Aspects of the community hitherto distasteful no longer aroused his anxiety. Imperia Starling and Herbert Ringrose apparently were merely episodes in his past. The onerous obligations he had assumed in signing a contract with L.L.B. had been miraculously lifted from his shoulders by the optimistic and beneficent Philip Lawrence. Especially and entirely pleasant had been his re-encounter with Wilhelmina Ford. In a word, he was as contented this morning as he expected to be until he was permitted to return to his secluded apartment and become a forgotten nobody, assuredly his highest ambition.
Outside the sun was bright. From his window he gazed across the green lawn, between the bamboo and the palms. Humming a few bars of an old music hall tune, he lifted the receiver to order his breakfast. A little later he plunged about in his bath like a playful sea-lion. The arrival of the waiters with the warming containers and the table with its white na​pery, its china, its shining silver, and its glittering glass, a rose carnation beside his plate, increased his cheer. Wrapping his dressing-gown well about him, he seated himself to lift the cover from his casserole of ham and eggs, to munch his toast Melba, and to pour out his coffee. At this juncture his eye discovered a telegram and three or four letters lying on the cloth. Slitting the flap with his butter-knife he opened the telegram first. It was from Harold Edwards, his manager, who wired that as The Stafford Will Case was still playing to capacity in New York he had decided to send a second company at once to Chicago. Ambrose received this information with a certain sense of pride, but there was nothing in the situation which called for action on his part. It merely assured him of yet further additions to his income. He could foresee the hour, rapidly approaching, when he might put away a competency which in the future would be his protective shield against the encroachments of the world. In a few months, what with Spider Boy and The Stafford Will Case pouring gold into his lap, he would be able to bury himself, if he so desired, in the forests of Cochin China.
He awakened sufficiently from his reverie to sip his coffee, eat a morsel of ham, and remove the contents from a second envelope. They informed him ​that a certain photographer would consider it a great honour if Mr. Deacon would consent to sit for his portrait. A third envelope contained an invitation for him to speak at a dinner given by the Los Angeles Writers' Club. A fourth delivered up a note written in a long, scrawling hand which began, Dear Mr. Deacon. Turning the sheet, he was astonished to discover the signature of Imperia Starling. He read the note through:
Dear Mr. Deacon.
I am sending your bags by messenger. What have you been wearing, but I just learned your address.
I am giving a very small dinner on Friday for twenty or thirty people among which I want very much to include you. I hope you will find it possible to come. Mama sends her love.
faithfully and admiringly,
Imperia Starling.
He read this over three times before he was sure that he understood it. Then he examined the chirography more carefully. It was the kind of artificial, backhand writing often affected by boarding-school girls with unformed characters. There was certainly nothing of the petulant or aggressive Imperia in this letter and yet, considering what his reply to it should be, his past experience with the lady was inclined to make him wary.
The telephone bell rang.
​Yes, this is Mr. Deacon.
O Mr. Deacon, you don't know me, but I wish you would see me. The voice was female and honeyed.
What about? Occasionally, the effect of Ambrose's shyness was to make his speech sound rather brisk.
I'd rather see you to talk with you if you would be good enough to arrange an appointment.
I don't even know your name.
My name is Gladys Lincoln. Do please be good enough to see me.
I'm ill, Ambrose cried in desperation. Can't you tell me what you want to see me about?
Well, I'd rather you'd see me. You could judge better that way. I want you to give me a part in your new film, Spider Boy. I am five feet, one, I have chestnut hair, blue eyes . . .
But Spider Boy isn't even written yet, he protested, in amazement that the world had heard about it so soon.
That's just why I called you up, Miss Lincoln announced. I wanted to get in ahead. If you saw me, perhaps you would write a special part for me. I could try on a Persian costume for you . . .
A Persian costume!
​Why, yes. . . . This spoken with surprise.
Why a Persian costume?
It's a Persian picture, isn't it?
How do you know that?
Why, Mr. Deacon, everybody knows that—this, reproachfully. . . . It's in the Barometer this morning?
In the Barometer! Ambrose was shouting. I'm sick, he reiterated. I can't see any one. I've got measles.
O Mr. Deacon, I've had 'em! I don't care. If I could only see you . . .
But I have nothing to do with the casting. . . . He summoned enough wit to hang up the receiver.
Returning, considerably shaken, to his breakfast, he was again interrupted presently by a boy with his bags and a large package. He requested the boy to return with a copy of the Barometer. The package when opened proved to contain a hundred Meridiana Kohinoor cigars. There was a card from Ben Griesheimer.
The telephone bell tinkled. A voice at the other end of the line informed him sweetly that Miss Henrietta Ritchie of the Writers' Club was conversing with him. Had he received an invitation from the Club this morning? Was he coming to speak? Be​cause so much had to be done in the way of preparation. Announcement cards had to be printed. Ambrose, to whom a public dinner was no more agreeable a prospect than an electric chair, contrived to imagine an important appointment with Griesheimer.
But we can make it any night, Miss Ritchie insisted. My time is not my own at present.
But, Mr. Deacon, I don't think you quite understand. I am speaking for the Writers' Club, the Writers' Club.
Mr. Deacon understood.
You needn't be rude, Mr. Deacon.
Whew! He hung up the receiver.
The boy returned with the newspaper and a telegram. Ambrose opened the latter first. From Jack Story, it read: Congratulations old boy. This was a reply to a wire of information he had sent Jack the night before. Turning his attention to the Barometer, with some difficulty in his present state of mind, he located the column devoted to motion picture activities. His name, he perceived, lurked in the very first paragraph:
The mysterious appearance in our midst of Ambrose Deacon, the distinguished author of the current New York stage success, ​The Stafford Will Case, is at last explained. Mr. Deacon has signed a contract with L. L. B. and is at present engaged in writing a script for a super-special to be called Spider Boy, a romantic comedy with a Persian setting. While no casting for this picture has yet been announced, we can predict with some certainty that the part of the Persian Princess will be the next starring vehicle of Auburn Six whose popularity with the fans is increasing with every new release. To study the star at close range, Mr. Deacon has moved into a bungalow at the Ambassador.
Flinging the newspaper aside, Ambrose stared into space.
Good God! he exclaimed, and then began to laugh hysterically. . . . He had time to gulp down a swallow of cold coffee before the telephone tinkled again.
Mr. Deacon?
Yes.
This is Elaine Galahad. I want to see you about a part in Spider Boy. . . . The voice possessed a resonant assurance.
Ambrose hung up the receiver at once. After a nervous turn or two about the room he bethought himself of a remedy. He requested the operator not to connect any further speaker without previously announcing his name. While he was dressing, the telephone bell sounded ten or twelve times more. As he listened to the operator repeating unknown name ​after unknown name, he muttered, Mr. Deacon is not in. Tired at last, even of this procedure, he permitted the bell to tinkle unanswered.
A knock on his door abruptly taught him that 'there was one channel of communication he had forgotten to shut off. He called out, Come in! and awaited the entrance of a bellboy. Unexpectedly, he turned to face a strange young man with a distended brief-case under his arm.
Mr. Deacon, the intruder began, I hope you'll pardon me butting in on you like this, but they announced me at the desk and the reply was that you weren't in and I just had to see you.
Well, what . . . ?
Ambrose did not ask the young man to sit down and so he remained standing as he explained his errand. His name was Harry Galen. It seemed that he had been a New York newspaper man, but the lure of Hollywood had proven too strong for him. He had been trying unsuccessfully to place scenarios. Nobody would even look at his work.
I'm sure they're good, Harry Galen explained. You'd think so too.
What do you want me to do? Ambrose inquired.
Help me to get a break. You're the special pet of ​Griesheimer at L.L.B. Ask him to read my stuff, will you?
I'll do what I can, Ambrose assured the young man. After all, I don't know anything about your work.
Just ask them to read it: that's all I want. And thank you a thousand times, Mr. Deacon.
Harry Galen dropped a card on the table and disappeared as suddenly as he had made his entrance.
Ambrose had adjusted his tie and put on his coat while Galen had been talking to him. Now he decided that apparently the only hope of escape from annoyance was to go out. He picked up his hat and stick and started off towards Wilshire Boulevard.
Presently, passing a drug-store, he recalled that he had coughed a good deal during the night, and entered to buy some cough-drops. The sole attendant in the shop was one of the most beautiful girls Ambrose had ever seen. As he hesitantly gave his order, she stared at him so intently that instinctively he lowered his eyes and flushed. He suddenly remembered what Wilhelmina had told him.
I'm not a director, he managed to explain.
I know you're not, Mr. Deacon, but oh, haven't you a part for me in Spider Boy?
​Ambrose fled from the shop.
As Wilhelmina was working on the L.L.B. lot and would drive directly from Culver City, it had been arranged between them that they should meet at the Montmartre at one o'clock. Arriving a few minutes early, Ambrose made his way up the crowded staircase to the ante-room separated by a rope from the dining-room. A mob of men and women already surged against this rope, but Paul, the suave maitre d'hotel, in spite of pleading and tears, permitted no one to pass who had not already engaged a table. However, the name of Wilhelmina Ford, murmured by Ambrose, lifted the rope aside.
Nearly every table in the large room was already occupied. A band was playing and the space in the icentre of the floor was filled with dancers. As a waiter ushered him to the table reserved for Wilhelmina, he passed many dazzling girls. Several of these brilliant women were stars whose pictures he recalled having seen in the newspapers; others, probably, were persons who had come to stare at the cinema actresses. Ambrose sensed suddenly that they were staring at him. Embarrassed, he averted his eyes. He could understand how the announcement of the imminent production of Spider Boy might create ​for him a local celebrity, but he could not comprehend how it was that so many people already knew him by sight. It was a relief to remember that the disgraceful episode of the milkwagon lay in his more nearly anonymous past.
Seating himself, almost immediately he felt the light touch of a gloved hand on his shoulder, and turned to confront Imperia standing. She appeared rather soft and gentle in a beige chiffon frock with green orchids pinned to her shoulder and an enormous brown velvet hat. Rising, he stammered a greeting.
Mr. Deacon, I am delighted, she exclaimed radiantly, to read the news. What is good news for you is good news for me, always. I may count on you for Friday, she announced rather than inquired.
In his excessive embarrassment he nodded assent.
Till Friday then, she whispered, clasped his hand, and returned to her own table. Ambrose, before he sat down, caught a glimpse of Count Jaime sitting there. Imperia's place was behind him so that he could not see her when he was seated, but the welcome face of Auburn Six smiled over a table a few yards in front of him. Joining her, he was introduced ​to a young man with a profile that made it impossible to doubt he was a screen favourite. Auburn's mother completed the party.
Sit down, please, Auburn invited. Are you expecting some one?
I'm lunching with Wilhelmina Ford, he explained, but she isn't here yet.
Wilhelmina Ford? Don't know her. I want to thank you for what you have done for me.
Done for you? . . . He was bewildered. . . . I should be thanking you.
Nonsense. I was only selfish when I took you to Griesheimer. I thought you might do a story for me. Besides, she went on more jocularly, I like to annoy Imperia. She is so possessive. And now you have created this adorable Spider Boy!
But I thought . . . they told me . . . Dick Ruby, he sputtered tactlessly.
Dick Ruby! in a picture with me! . . . She laughed. . . . Mother, that is a joke.
The young man with the profile agreed that it was.
Ambrose was wondering what to say. Philip Lawrence had assured him that his story was for a male star, but after all, now that it appeared to have a ​Persian setting . . . ? A new figure fortunately joined them and relieved him of the responsibility of further comment on this subject.
Well, hello, cried the jaunty Capa Nolin. Mr. Deacon, you are quite the hero of the hour. I've heard your name mentioned more often this morning than anybody else's! For the moment people have even stopped gossiping about Scandia's affair with Denis Harvey.
I haven't done a thing, protested Ambrose.
You'll learn in a short while—won't he, Auburn?—that it isn't necessary to do much to be talked about here. All that is required is to be somebody and you're certainly that!
I don't know . . . Pardon me . . . Ambrose interrupted himself . . . the lady I'm lunching with has just come in.
Capa Nolin cast a glance in the direction of the indicated table.
The charming Miss Ford! she exclaimed. Imperia, Auburn, and now the new Wilhelmina! How fast you are getting on with our lovely ladies, Mr. Deacon!
Who is she? Auburn demanded.
You ought to know. She's doing her first picture, but it's on your lot. Hallam was enthusiastic about ​her test. I understand her father owns all the gold mines in Alaska.
Oh, Martell! Auburn remarked, a little scornfully, Ambrose thought.
Extricating himself from this circle, he joined Wilhelmina.
I hate waiting for people, were her first words.
I'm sorry, he apologized as he seated himself opposite her. I've been here for some time.
Talking to Auburn Six. I know. You didn't sena me any orchids, she went on abruptly.
I'm sorry, he said again. I didn't . . . He could feel that his face was scarlet.
Wilhelmina smiled. Why, you're blushing like a baby, Ambrose, she said. I can't scold you. It's too easy. Anyway you ought to be congratulated this morning. Everybody on the lot is talking about Spider Boy.
But it isn't written yet! Ambrose cried in desperation.
Are you quite sure? she demanded.
I ought to be.
But Griesheimer's been telling every one it's a masterpiece. How clever of you to lay it under a big top!
Big top?
​Circus tent. I love the background. I think I may be in it if Auburn Six isn't too hateful about it.
Why, Ambrose exclaimed, she said she didn't know you.
Well, she doesn't. Perhaps she won't.
Ambrose felt certain that he was presently going to be afflicted with a splitting headache. He turned Wilhelmina's attention to the menu. Absent-mindedly, her eyes ran down the card as she suggested, You can get it for me.
Get what for you?
The part of the equestrienne in Spider Boy. You don't know what a good horsewoman I am. I wouldn't need a double. I once rode in a Pendleton round-up.
But what can I do?
What can you do? she mocked him. Talk to Griesheimer about me, of course. If Hallam directs the picture, he's for me.
The band was playing Sometimes I'm Happy.
What all the creatures were talking about Ambrose could have no idea and yet it was impossible for him to profess ignorance. He must bluff along until he might confer with Philip Lawrence.
What good would that do? he inquired dully.
Now, Ambrose, Wilhelmina declared, if you ​don't behave I think I shall make you marry me after all!
His grin was sickly, as he muttered, I don't believe I should mind that.
Wilhelmina fairly shouted with laughter.
Really, Ambrose, she cried, you're gorgeous, simply gorgeous! You haven't any sense of humour at all, not a bit, not as much as would fit into an atom.
Ambrose felt very uncomfortable.