Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [32]
“Of course, dear old thing. But why pay outside actors?” said Bones triumphantly.
He glared from one face to the other with a ferocity of expression which did no more than indicate the strength of his conviction.
“Why not keep the money in the family, dear old Ham? That’s what I ask you. Answer me that.” He leaned back in his chair, thrust his hands in his trousers pockets, and blandly surveyed his discomfited audience.
“But you’ve got to have actors, my dear chap,” said Hamilton.
“Naturally and necessarily,” replied Bones, nodding with very large nods. “And we have them. Who is Jasper Brown, the villain who tries to rob the poor girl of her legacy and casts the vilest aspersions upon her jolly old name?”
“Who is?” asked the innocent Hamilton.
“You are,” said Bones.
Hamilton gasped.
“Who is Frank Fearnot, the young and handsome soldier – well, not necessarily handsome, but pretty good-looking – who rescues the girl from her sad predicament?”
“Well, that can’t be me, anyway,” said Hamilton.
“It is not,” said Bones. “It is me! Who is the gorgeous but sad old innocent one who’s chased by you, Ham, till the poor little soul doesn’t know which way to turn, until this jolly young officer steps brightly on the scene, whistling a merry tune, and, throwing his arms about her, saves her, dear old thing, from her fate – or, really, from a perfectly awful rotten time.”
“Who is she?” asked Hamilton softly.
Bones blinked and turned to the girl slowly.
“My dear old miss,” he said, “what do you think?”
“What do I think?” asked the startled girl. “What do I think about what?”
“There’s a part,” said Bones – “there’s one of the grandest parts that was ever written since Shakespeare shut his little copybook.”
“You’re not suggesting that I should play it?” she asked, open-mouthed.
“Made for you, dear old typewriter, positively made for you, that part,” murmured Bones.
“Of course I shall do nothing so silly,” said the girl, with a laugh. “Oh, Mr Tibbetts, you really didn’t think that I’d do such a–”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but Hamilton could have supplied the three missing words without any difficulty.
Thereafter followed a discussion, which in the main consisted of joint and several rejection of parts. Marguerite Whitland most resolutely refused to play the part of the bad girl, even though Bones promised to change the title to “The Good Girl,” even though he wheedled his best, even though he struck attitudes indicative of despair and utter ruin, even though the gentle persuasiveness of Mr Lew Becksteine was added to his entreaties. And Hamilton as resolutely declined to have anything to do with the bad man. Mr Becksteine solved the difficulty by undertaking to produce the necessary actors and actresses at the minimum of cost.
“Of course you won’t play, Bones?” said Hamilton.
“I don’t know,” said Bones. “I’m not so sure dear old thing. I’ve got a lot of acting talent in me, and I feel the part – that’s a technical term you won’t understand.”
“But surely, Mr Tibbetts,” said the girl reproachfully, “you won’t allow yourself to be photographed embracing a perfectly strange lady?”
Bones shrugged his shoulders.
“Art, my dear old typewriter,” he said. “She’ll be no more to me than a bit of wood, dear old miss. I shall embrace her and forget all about it the second after. You need have no cause for apprehension, really and truly.”
“I am not at all apprehensive,” said the girl coldly, and Bones followed her to her office, showering explanations of his meaning over her shoulder.
On the third day Hamilton went back to Twickenham a very weary man.
“Bones is really indefatigable,” he said irritably, but yet admiringly. “He has had those unfortunate actors rehearsing in the open fields, on the highways and byways. Really, old Bones has no sense of decency. He’s got one big scene which he insists upon taking in a private park. I shudder to think what will happen if the owner comes along and catches Bones and his wretched company.”
Sanders laughed quietly.
“What do you think he’ll do with the film?” he asked.