# Minnie Flynn/Chapter 19

CAMILLE, the rôle selected for Minnie, proved to be an unhappy choice. The part of the courtesan seemed the index of her own character, and the public read into this portrayal a flaunting insolence, a brazen acknowledgment of the unsavory rumors that were rife about her. Many of the critics praised the beautifully done picture. But their small voices were lost in the storm of protest. The picture whipped its way across the continent like a bird with a broken wing.
"The public doesn't want classics," Minnie cried in despair. "We've got to make a more popular type of story."
"A mother love yarn seems to pull in the shekels," said Watson, "a picture sticky with drool."
Minnie looked at him sharply. "I'm not going to start in playing mother rôles at my age, Watson. That would be my finish."
"What do you want to do?" asked Binns quietly. "I think Watson is right, but after all, you're the voice of this company."
Minnie pondered a few moments over the list of stories Binns had submitted. "Why not a good, swift-moving jazz picture," she asked, "one of these flapper stories?" She glanced quickly into the mirror. "I've always been crazy to play a wild, harum-scarum flapper. If I do I'll bob my hair, diet to get off some of this weight, then I'll look ever so much ​younger. If some of these other stars, older than I am, can get away with it, why not me?"
Binns stirred uneasily. "It may not be such a good idea, Mineola, to compete with all the youngsters. Any effect you strive for always seems forced, unnatural. A mother-love story would give you a chance to play a sympathetic, emotional rôle."
Minnie brought the palm of her hand down on the desk. "That's enough!" she said, inwardly raging, "this is my company and I'm not going to be dictated to. A woman knows what she can get away with. I'll take five years off my age the minute I get this mop of hair bobbed. Look here, Sam, I'm worried enough without your subtle allusions to my age. You'd think I was sixty to hear you talk. A woman's as old as she feels. It's a wonder you don't present me with crutches and a pass to the Old Ladies' Home."
One sentence summed up the picture they called "The Jazz Baby": "What is more distressing than to see a woman, a tired, troubled woman, playing the rôle of a naïve young girl?"
"The devil with trying to please them!" Minnie cried, now panic-stricken.
Binns closed the door of his office and faced her. He was pale with worry. "Look here, I think we've got to watch our step on this next production. The backers are getting uneasy. They took their losses on 'Camille' pretty well, but they sent an auditor to go over the books when the 'Jazz Baby' flopped through the country."
"You don't mean—they can't renig?"
"Watson has nothing on paper. These men, although some of them are very rich, aren't going to pour water into a sieve. We've got to have a success this time."
"What do you suggest?"
"A mother-love picture."
​She rose angrily. "I thought we covered that pretty thoroughly in our conference three months ago, so let's not discuss it again, Sam."
"The decision is up to you, Mineola."
Minnie chose a daring triangle story. "Sex is the lure," she insisted to Binns. "I'll get them into the theater this time if I have to pose as Aphrodite without any nightie."
Binns wanted to tell her she was like a squirrel in a cage; in her eagerness to run away from danger she was only standing still and spinning the wheel under her.
They bought a salacious story and started production.
Before it was finished, the stockholders, refusing to pay the assessments leveled on them by Horace G. Watson, sacrificed their holdings in the company rather than go on with a proposition that was bringing no harvest.
Watson called Minnie and Pete into his office and told them that all production must cease, the June Day Company was on the rocks.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Horace G. Watson, smiling, "the final curtain is rung down. Finis." Watson was smiling because he was thinking about his forty thousand dollars in the bank.
In the silence that followed, Minnie thought she heard her own heart thumping. She was violently startled when Pete brought his fist down upon the table. "You're a pack of crooks!" he yelled, his face twisted and livid. "I'll run everyone of you to jail."
Watson rose unsteadily. "Look here, Day," he warned, "I won't stand for any of your insults. I can't do it myself, but there are others here who will throw you out of my office."
Minnie turned to Pete: "Be quiet," she ordered, in a strange, choking voice. "This concerns me more than it does you."
​"Like hell it does!"
She pointed to the door. "Please leave this office, Pete," she said in a calm that was compelling. She turned to the group of men sitting there. "Would you gentlemen kindly confer with my brother in his office?" she asked. "I want to be alone with Mr. Watson and Mr. Binns."
When Pete rose, he kicked the chair to one side. "Very well, young lady," he said in even tones, "you've played your last card with me, and now I'll get out and leave you flat. At the mercy of these dirty crooks," he added when he reached the door, "and we'll see what happens to you!"
She made a nervous gesture toward the door to recall Pete, then collapsed into the chair as if the life fluids had suddenly drained from her limbs. So long had she leaned upon others that each prop taken away from her left her weakly groping for support.
"I'm glad we're alone," Binns said. "We might be able to plan some way out of this for you."
Minnie was staring dumbly into space, her brain whipped by harassing fears. She was aroused only when she heard Gilbert's laughter ringing through the long corridor. "Oh, my God," she cried aloud.
Binns was pouring her a glass of water. "What is it, Mineola? Your voice startled me so."
She leaned forward and bent her eyes upon Watson. "Does my husband know we've gone on the rocks?" she asked him. "Does—does he even suspect?"
He shook his head apologetically. "No one has been told. You see, Miss Day, we were hoping to succeed in getting a loan so we could go on. We expected to use our last picture as collateral. When that was taken over for debts, we had nothing—nothing left."
​She turned miserably toward Binns. "You had some inkling of this, and yet you said nothing to me."
Sam Binns shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
Again she was thinking aloud, "Oh, what will I do—what will I do?"
Watson was exceedingly nervous. "I'm sure you will have no difficulty," he said with a clumsy attempt at flattery. "You were such a well-known star, Miss Day."
"These pictures I have made are horrible failures." She spoke bluntly, telescoping her words, always half talking to herself. "I know I wanted to play in them—but it's too late now—those newspapers ridiculing me—that's what has hurt me more than if they had condemned me. The business is changing so. My type seems to have lost its appeal—they want new faces—oh, don't try to convince me they don't," when she caught Watson's protesting gesture. "I'm not so blind as you think I am. Look here, Sam Binns, what do you think I'd better do? Couldn't we keep this whole affair hushed up?"
He was remembering the little girl who had signed her name on the index card, "Mineola Flynn," so many years ago, and he was deeply touched by the woman who sat before him.
"I'm sorry, but we'll never be able to keep it quiet. Reporters have been trying to get me on the phone for two days. The company will be in the hands of the receivers by Saturday."
Watson's secretary entered and called him into the outer office. Minnie was glad to be alone with Binns. She rose suddenly and seized his outstretched hand. "Listen, Sam, I'm going to speak frankly to you. If the other companies know how up against it I am—so terribly in debt, you understand—they won't offer me a worth-while contract—but I'll have to accept contracts by the picture."
"That might be the wisest thing to do," urged Binns. ​"Take the first chance that comes along to work in a picture where you'll have a strong rôle to play, under a good director."
Minnie had steadied herself. "Sam," she said quietly, "I know what you were thinking, and how sorry you feel for me. Your advice betrays you. You're trying to keep from telling me that you think I'm through. I've reached my heights—and now I'm going to start sliding down. Am I right?"
He evaded an answer. Her eyes narrowed, her breath came in frosted jets from her lips, white where the vermilion rouge did not cover them. "But they're not going to lick me," she was saying. "I won't step down without putting up a fight. You know if I accept a one picture contract, I cease to be a star and become a featured player. Before long they'll be asking me to co-star with some rising young actor, and then—the next downward step is to be only the leading woman in support of a male star. Oh, no! I won't give in—I'll put up such a fight, I'll——"
"What will you do?" he interrupted, his fear for her mounting. He knew that she would accept no advice from him, though his judgment, sane and unbiased, might save her.
"Let me see, let me see——" She sank down in the chair, her foot tapping the floor, her fingers strumming the arms, "Let me see."
Binns wanted to hold out some hope for her. "Where is Hal now?" he asked. "He'd be the one to help you. If he would make a picture with you——"
Minnie dismissed this idea at once, she was afraid of Deane now. The public had begun to believe she was helpless without him. No, she would have to stand on her own legs and fight. Fight, with her intangible enemy, public favor!
"Sam, I'm going to make a complete confession to you: I'm thousands of dollars in debt."
"I know it," he replied. "Most of them are."
​"Here's the situation: I want your advice on this. I don't think I can meet the next payment on the house."
"How much is already paid on it?"
"Thirty thousand."
He smiled encouragingly. "You're safe there. When's the payment due?"
"It's past due—ten thousand dollars."
"What other assets have you?"
"My cars—but the Rolls-Royce isn't paid for—in fact—well, I guess we'll have to turn it back."
"How about your jewelry?"
Her eyes brightened. "Alicia Adams offered me six thousand dollars for my emerald. It's worth more, but she said cash."
"I'd take it. What can you get for that bracelet?" pointing to the diamond and sapphire bracelet on her wrist.
"Oh, I couldn't sell that. Gilbert gave it to me."
"Couldn't you pawn it?" he asked. "Here's the idea—you've got to raise enough to make the payment on the house. Hollywood real estate is booming now. You paid too much for the house in the first place, but you can realize something on it at that. Put it up at once for sale. To lose it would be to let the world know the low ebb of your finances. You can say you're selling it to buy an estate in Beverly. Don't you see?"
"Yes, I do!" A faint color had come to her cheeks, "And then?"
"The loss of the Rolls-Royce won't cause any gossip—the stars are buying, exchanging, selling their cars every day. You've still got the limousine."
"And two open cars. Then there's Gilbert's sedan—and Jimmy's roadster, and Nettie's coupé——"
"Try to get rid of half of them. You can't support a garage, it's expensive business."
​She was wondering why he seemed to entirely exclude Gilbert from their conversation.
"Fortunately there's Gilbert's salary," she was saying. "He's been offered leads with every other star in the business. He could get lots more than he does with me."
Binns evidently didn't hear. He seemed absorbed with the little figures he was drawing on the tablet he held on his lap. "Once you get free from these debts, you can look around, all caution for your next move," he continued as if there had been no interruption. "Your health won't stand too many strains. There's nothing so hard on a woman as money worries."
"Do you know, Sam, that if I made one of those old sentimental comedy-dramas again, I think I could snap right back into public favor. They loved me in those chorus, country, shop-girl rôles. Hal was right, I never should have discarded them; but it isn't too late."
"It's never too late," he replied with betraying reluctance.
"I wish our last picture were on that order. When it does get to the public, I'm afraid it's going to hurt me. There's too much sex in it."
"It wasn't a very sympathetic rôle for you, June, and Gilbert is the whole picture. But that's over with now—we're talking about the future."
The color had reached her temples. Her hands were hot and damp with fever. "I've got it!" she cried. "I know what I'm going to do," her voice rising in hysterical crescendo. "I'm going to make a picture with my own money!"
He stared at her aghast. "What money?"
"Following up on your idea of selling the house—this is how I see it. I'll probably get forty thousand dollars cash down, now the boom is on. The furniture can be auctioned—ought to get at least twenty-five thousand for it—my sable ​coat, four thousand more—the chinchilla coat, thirty-five hundred—the ermine twenty-five hundred. You see, Sam, I'm figuring everything at half of what it's worth. I've got loads of trinkets and gowns the picture girls will be glad to buy—well, it won't be any trick at all to raise seventy-five or eighty thousand cash, and then——"
He brushed the black lock from his forehead, and his whole face seemed merged into two dark eyes which were focused upon her, their expression of contempt mingled with pity. "If you do that, Mineola, you are lost."
Minnie recoiled slightly. "I don't see why," she argued. "I think it would be my salvation. A Cinderella picture is nearly always a box office success. And it will have double drawing power with me in it."
"We are passing through a jazz phase, now—Cinderella is taboo."
"Not with me in it," she repeated, as if her little fling of vanity gave her renewed courage. "I'll spend ten thousand in publicity, exploiting my return to the old rôles, get a good, sympathetic director, pick out a nice, sentimental yarn, and if I don't come back, I'll—I'll—" She ended with a nervous, self-conscious laugh. "Well, I just can't fail!"
Binns saw that no argument would change her: He determined to telegraph Hal Deane and see if his advice would keep Minnie from utter failure.
But Hal Deane had gone to England to make a special production for Beauregard, who had successfully drawn substantial English capital into his organization.
Deane knew nothing of the collapse of the June Day Productions until he read of it in the American trade papers. A ​month later he was troubled when he read that June Day was to finance her own productions. The announcement absorbed three pages in the advertising section of the American picture magazines: her money had paid for them. In the editorial columns there were adroitly written humorous allusions to her new venture. The advertisements carried a photograph of Minnie, and Deane sat there a long time studying it. She had been posed after the fashion of her first photographs—a smiling face peering from under a gingham sun bonnet, long dark curls carefully draped over her shoulders. Resting on the finger of her right hand, so its bill caressed her cheek, was a stuffed white dove. The text read: "June Day returns in one of the old stories which made her beloved by her dear public." In the same issue of the magazine, Deane saw a photograph, taken during the making of the last picture she had done for the June Day Productions. It showed her in an elaborate evening gown, revealing arms and shoulders grown too plump. He noticed a decided pad of flesh under her chin which had been carefully retouched in the advertising photographs. It was evident that Minnie's hair was bobbed, although it was almost hidden under an elaborate hairdress of rhinestones and aigrettes. That moving picture had been bought by one of the minor firms, had been advertised as one of the greatest sex dramas ever made, had been given the glaring title of "Passionate Virgins," and was being released to the public through a second-rate company that dealt only in commercial monstrosities.
"It has come," Deane said to himself, "sooner than I expected. Poor little kid."
When Beauregard came into his office, Deane slipped the magazine into the drawer. He didn't want Beauregard to gloat over Minnie's defeat. But Beauregard had already seen the notices, and that was why he entered the office laughing.
​"Funny how little sense they have," he chuckled. "I told that young lady once she'd be eating out of my hand before she got through. Glad to hang around for any old job that I'd throw her way." He sat on Deane's desk and drew a letter from his pocket. "Alicia's written all the dirt from Hollywood. June's having a sweet time with Gilbert, and it looks like a break. I don't know whether Alicia is trying to kid me into being jealous or not, but she swears that Gilbert is madly in love with her." He tossed the letter toward Deane. "There's lots of laughs in it. You can read it if you want to."
"Thanks—I don't want to."
Beauregard laughed. "What's the matter, Hal, still kind of stuck on her yourself? Hurts to see the skids rolled under her?"
"Yes, it does. I feel sorry for her."
"You're a queer duck, Hal," he said some time later. "I'm not so sure you have forgotten how much you loved her."
Hal Deane didn't answer. He was thinking that perhaps Beauregard was right.