  Four people were grouped in the office. There was Stalkey himself, heavy-set and dynamic, hovering impatiently by the door. Behind him in a corner lounged a rather disheveled man in his mid-forties who looked vaguely familiar. A young man in his twenties, with a collegiate crew cut, stood by the window. Beside him, behind the largest desk Peggy had ever seen, sat Pam Mundy—the girl she had met during the summer. Pam seemed even more surprised than Peggy. Her eyebrows shot up in twin crescents of astonishment at the sight of her friend coming through the door. But she quickly regained her composure and threw Peggy a reassuring smile and wink. Anyone seeing Pam perched behind the massive desk would have thought she was the most important person in the room. Actually, she was Oscar Stalkey’s secretary, using his desk because the veteran producer seldom sat in a chair if he could avoid it. All his business was conducted on the run, in a restless course of constant pacing that was a little hard to get accustomed to. The only reason he tolerated the desk at all was because his wife had given it to him as a surprise years ago, and he could never bring himself to get rid of it. But at the time, Peggy didn’t know this. She advanced into the room and looked around uncertainly. The untidy man in the corner unwound his long legs from one side of his lounge chair, and stared at Peggy with undisguised interest. The young man by the window straightened up and greeted her with a pleasant smile. “Well, sit down, sit down,” came the gravelly voice of Stalkey. “What’s your name?” “Peggy Lane.” Peggy sat down on the edge of a chair near the desk. “Had much experience?” Stalkey was prowling along a row of bookcases that lined the far wall of his office. There was a pause. Finally Peggy decided to be straightforward. “No, Mr. Stalkey,” she replied with a smile. “I’m afraid not much. A year of dramatic school, a season of summer stock, a good off-Broadway role, and a few walk-on parts.” “That’s all?” Peggy nodded. The rumpled man in the corner looked at her with surprise. Stalkey merely grunted. “How’d you get on our list for an appointment?” Peggy glanced over at Pam. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I got a phone call last night from a Mr. Grey.” The young man at the window nodded. “I’m Peter Grey,” he announced. “I got in touch with her, Oscar.” “Why?” “Pam Mundy suggested it.” All attention was now focused on the girl behind the desk. Pam took the stares in stride. “I saw Peggy in stock last summer,” she explained. “I’ve seen what she can do, and I thought she might be right for the understudy.” Oscar Stalkey grunted a second time and padded over to the figure in the chair. “What do you think, Craig?” he asked suddenly. Craig Claiborne! Peggy finally recognized him. He was the director of Innocent Laughter and would probably perform a similar job for the road company productions. Claiborne shrugged noncommittally. “You were the one who asked her to come in,” he said. “What do you think?” “Well, at least she’s honest,” Stalkey grumbled as he shuffled off to continue his endless pacing. He stopped and glared accusingly at Peggy. “You’ve no idea,” he said mournfully, “how many girls try to tell me they’ve had years of experience.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “They have the nerve—some of them—to stand up and tell me they’ve been acting for twenty years when I know perfectly well they can’t be more than eighteen years old. Oh, well—” He broke off abruptly and moved over to a position in front of Peggy. “The reason I asked you to step in here,” he said, “was because you looked like the most human person out there.” He gestured to the reception room in disgust. “That’s the biggest collection of artificial people I’ve seen in months. Where do the casting agents dig them up?” He sighed and went on. “There was something about your embarrassment when you had that run-in with Katherine—” Craig Claiborne interrupted with a chuckle. “Don’t tell me she tangled with Katherine the Great?” he asked. “Tangled is the word,” Stalkey said happily. “Peggy here ruined Katherine’s exit.” Claiborne shook his head in mock dismay. “Oh, oh.” “That’s right.” Stalkey nodded. He turned back to Peggy. “Tell me frankly. You didn’t know what to do when that happened, now did you?” Peggy smiled. “No, I didn’t. I was a little frightened and terribly embarrassed.” “And a little awed, too?” Stalkey asked, almost eagerly. “Yes,” Peggy admitted. “I guess I was.” The producer rubbed his hands together with pleasure. “And that,” he said exuberantly, “is exactly the quality we want for the young schoolgirl friend in Innocent Laughter. The only question is, are you good enough to play the daughter—even as an understudy?” Stalkey looked at Peggy searchingly, almost as if a careful examination of her face could reveal the extent of her talent. It was an impossible question to answer. Peggy was saved from trying by a telephone that jangled suddenly. Pam swooped down on it. “Yes?” she said crisply. “Who’s calling?” She listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “It’s Max Borden from Talent Incorporated,” she said. “Do you want to speak to him?” Stalkey nodded wordlessly, and lunged for the phone. “Hello,” he rasped, “Max?” He began to move agitatedly back and forth across the room, cradling the telephone in his left hand. “Did you get him?” he asked eagerly. There was a pause, and a look of frustration crossed Stalkey’s face. “Well, can’t he get out of his contract?” he said. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry too.” Another pause. Stalkey used it to shift his cigar over to the other side of his mouth. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Yeah, I know. No, I don’t have the faintest idea. Think about it and call me back. If we get any brain waves here at our end we’ll let you know. G’by.” He hung up the receiver and stared moodily at the telephone as if it had done him some personal injury. “Charlie Forsythe can’t play the part,” he announced. “He’s tied up with a movie contract.” Charles Forsythe, Peggy knew, was one of the outstanding character actors in America. Stalkey must have been trying to get him for the role of the grandfather in Innocent Laughter. For the first time, she realized it wasn’t always too easy to cast a play. Oscar Stalkey apparently had forgotten Peggy’s existence. “Any ideas?” he rapped out. “We’ve got to settle this in the next few days.” “What about Eddie Jarmin?” Craig Claiborne suggested. “I remember he did something similar in Bed of Roses a couple of years back.” “Yeah,” Stalkey said unenthusiastically. “He sure did and was he terrible! No, thanks!” “There’s always James Donohue,” Claiborne said. “Yes, there is,” Stalkey admitted. “When he remembers to show up for rehearsal.” He trotted over to the other side of the room in a burst of agitation. “Why is it,” he said to no one in particular, “that good, dependable character actors are so hard to come by? I can reach out and put my hand on half a hundred leading men and a thousand juveniles. But a character actor!” He shook his head helplessly. “Oh, well....” Over by the window Peter Grey stirred restlessly. “You know,” he said with an almost apologetic laugh, “you may think I’m crazy, but I’ve got an idea.” “Let’s have it,” Stalkey shot back. Peter advanced toward the center of the room, speaking with mounting excitement. “What we want,” he said, “is a man with a sure sense of comedy. Somebody with a breezy style and a good ear for laugh lines. But even more than that, he’s got to be able to move the audience. There’s that big scene with the daughter, for instance. That’s got to be done beautifully, with a great deal of tenderness.” Stalkey snapped his fingers impatiently. “Sure, sure,” he said. “We know all that. But I’ll settle for someone who can get us the laughs.” “Why not get somebody who can do both?” Stalkey snorted. “Stop dreaming,” he said. “They don’t make them like that any more.” “There’s one person who just might be able to do it,” Peter said slowly. “If we can get him.” “Who?” Peter grinned. “This is the crazy part,” he said. He paused as the others waited expectantly. “Tom Agate,” he finally blurted out. “Tom Agate!” Craig Claiborne said in a puzzled voice. “Isn’t he dead?” Peter scratched the back of his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “The last I heard he was still living here.” “Tom Agate,” Oscar Stalkey murmured slowly. “Tom Agate.” He spoke the name a second time as if relishing the sound, then looked up at Peter sharply. “How do you know about Tom Agate?” he demanded. “I thought only us old-timers remembered him.” Peter laughed. “Oh, I used to be crazy about him. My father took me to see Tom Agate every time he played a USO show anywhere near where my father was stationed during World War II.” “Who,” Pam asked almost shyly, “is Tom Agate?” Oscar Stalkey waved a hand in Pam’s direction. “You see?” he demanded with a wry smile. “There’s fame for you, Tom Agate,” he said, turning to Pam, “was just about the most famous song-and-dance man in vaudeville. You’ve heard stories about the good old days in the theater—about the grand troupers who always went on to give a performance no matter how they were feeling—” Peter put his hand over his heart melodramatically. “Even if they were crying inside.” Stalkey nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. It sounds real corny today, but they actually did it, and Tom Agate was one of the greatest.” As he walked back and forth, from one corner of the room to the other, his eyes shining with excitement, Peggy suddenly saw what May Berriman meant when she said that Oscar Stalkey had all the enthusiasm of a little boy. He was in love with the theater, after thirty years still as stage-struck as a newcomer. “Tom Agate,” Oscar Stalkey was saying. “Why, I’ve seen that man hold an entire audience in the palm of his hand for more than an hour.” “What did he do?” Pam asked. “Do?” Stalkey frowned. “He was a performer. He sang songs, danced a little.” “Actually, he danced badly,” Peter Grey said with a smile. Stalkey was forced to agree. “Yes, I guess he did. But that didn’t make any difference. He was a personality and the audience loved him.” Stalkey made another tour of his office. “That was his secret,” he said. “He understood people. He knew what made them laugh, and he knew how to move them.” Stalkey stopped abruptly as if struck by a thought. He cocked his head to one side as if trying to recall something. “What was the name of that song he always sang—it was his theme song, an Irish ballad, I think—ah, yes, ‘Kathleen Aroon’ it was. He used to play the banjo along with it.” “Yes, but Oscar,” Craig Claiborne objected, “he was just a song-and-dance man. Even the movies he did were just filming his vaudeville routines. He’s never had any acting experience.” “Acting experience, my foot!” Stalkey said. “What the dickens does that mean? The man’s been on the stage for most of his life!” “You’ve got to admit,” Claiborne replied patiently, “that playing a sustained role is a lot different from coming out for a few minutes every night with a song or two and some jokes.” “Oh, I know, I know.” Stalkey brushed him away. “You may be right. But I still think it’s worth a chance. I’d like to hear him read for the part.” “I don’t know,” Claiborne said dubiously. “It’s taking a big chance.” “Not as much as you think,” Stalkey said earnestly. “Besides, I bet there are people all over this country who still remember Tom Agate and would come to see him. His old vaudeville admirers, his movie and radio audiences, the men he entertained during the war. He might be quite a drawing card.” He hopped over to Peter and clapped him on the back. “Peter,” he chortled, “I think you’ve hit it.” “If you can find him,” Claiborne added. Stalkey nodded. “Do you think you can track him down?” he asked Peter anxiously. Peter shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll certainly try.” “You’ll have to locate him within the next three days,” Stalkey warned. “Meanwhile,” Claiborne said, “we’d better contact Eddie Jarmin or Jim Donohue. If this Agate fellow doesn’t pan out, we’ll have to fall back on one of them.” “Yes, I suppose so,” Stalkey said mournfully. “Will you see to it, Pam?” Pam made a note of the request and then cleared her throat. “There’s another matter you’ve got to attend to,” she said. Stalkey stopped in surprise. “What’s that?” Pam pointed to the door. “You’ve got about two dozen young ladies cooling their heels out there. Don’t you think you’d better see them?” Stalkey clapped his hand over his forehead. “What a waste of time!” he groaned. He turned and walked over to the door. “Wait a minute,” Pam called out. “What about Peggy Lane?” Stalkey stopped and looked at Peggy for the first time since the phone call. “Oh,” he said, blinking at her as if she were a complete stranger. “Oh, well, tomorrow morning, then,” he said airily. “For what?” Peggy asked timidly. Stalkey wrung his hands impatiently. “For what?” he muttered. “To read, of course,” he said. “We want you to read for the general understudy.” He glanced over at Claiborne. “What time are we holding tryouts?” he asked. “Nine-thirty,” the director answered. “Nine-thirty,” Stalkey said. “Be at the Elgin Theater at nine-thirty tomorrow morning to read a scene from Innocent Laughter. Is that clear?” Peggy nodded numbly. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Good.” Stalkey went over to the door and threw it open. “Thank you very much,” he said briskly. “That’ll be all for now.” Peggy gathered her purse and gloves, made her way unsteadily to the door, passed down a double line of curious, envying stares, and finally found herself outside by the elevator door. As she waited for it, she wondered if she could get back to the Gramercy Arms without screaming for joy. She had passed the first test. |
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