The Con Man Read online

  The Con Man

  Gerald Verner

  © Gerald Verner 1934

  © Chris Verner 2015

  Gerald Verner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1934 by Wright & Brown.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 1

  MR MYERS IS CONFIDENTIAL

  Mr Elmore Myers rolled a long black cigar from one corner of his thin-lipped mouth to the other and looked across the table at his companion.

  “I am banking everything on this picture,” he said in his pleasant husky voice, “Everything, Frank. You understand? It’s just got to be the biggest thing ever presented to the public.”

  Frank Leyland crushed out the stub of his cigarette in his plate and nodded. He was tall and slim, in direct contrast to the short fatness of the man seated opposite him. The black hair, grey at the temples, framed an eager face that was lean without being thin, and gave the impression of enormous vitality. Everything about Frank Leyland radiated life. His hands were never still for long, and his eyes, when they spoke of even the most trivial detail, were alive with enthusiasm. It was many years since he had left England to make good in Hollywood. His reputation as one of the most imaginative of the younger directors was due in a great measure to his enormous capacity for being interested in everything.

  “The picture should be a winner,” he declared. “So far as I can see it ought to make film history. Floyd Elliott’s script is the best I’ve read in years — and that’s saying something. He’s put everything he ever knew — and a lot I didn’t think he knew — in that story, and it’s some story.”

  Mr Myers thoughtfully picked his teeth with a gold toothpick.

  “When’ll you start shootin’?” he asked.

  “Next Wednesday,” answered Leyland. “The interior ‘sets’ are all completed and the models for the others are almost finished. In fact we could take the stage tomorrow if Rita Harlow were free.”

  Mr Myers grunted.

  “She’ll finish the picture she’s making for R.I.A. on Tuesday,” he said. “See here, Frank, you’ll have to watch her, she’s temperamental. She’s got a habit of going all ‘arty’ in the middle of a picture and holding up the works.”

  The eagle-faced director smiled.

  “You can’t tell me anything about Rita Harlow I don’t know,” he replied. “This film she’s doing now is the only one in which I haven’t directed her personally.”

  “I know that,” said Elmer Myers. “That’s why I engaged you to make this ‘super’ of ours. I’m only warning you, Frank, and I’m naturally a bit anxious. I’ve sunk every penny we’ve got, and borrowed a lot more from the bank for this picture and it’s got to be finished according to schedule. It’s the last shot in the locker. It’s either going to make or break us. We’ve had a hell of a lot of bad luck lately, and if this picture does not get over, Mammoth Picture Corporation Inc. will go bust, and it’ll be some bust.”

  Leyland raised his rather thick eyebrows. “Bad as that?” he said.

  “Yes, sir, as bad as that and worse,” declared Myers, nodding his large head. “But I think this film will put us on our feet again. It’s costin’ a lot of money — over a million dollars — to make, but it’s got the finest story and the finest cast that ever came out of Hollywood, and I’m going to put it over with the biggest boom of publicity that the world’s ever heard of. It’s going to make the whole country sit up and goggle! But, — ” he leaned forward, took his cigar from between his lips, and wagged it impressively at the man opposite him “ — we can’t afford any hitches or accidents, or anything like that. There ain’t a penny margin to play with.”

  Leyland frowned.

  “So far as I’m concerned,” he replied, “everything will be O.K., but you’re taking a big risk, Elmer.”

  “I know I am,” answered his companion, “and I’m playing for a big stake. I’ve kinda got a soft spot in my heart for Mammoth Pictures. You see, I was in on the ground floor and founded the company before the boom, when motion pictures were more of a novelty than an entertainment. The studio then was a barn, and the offices and developing room a miner’s hut. There were no stars then, no publicity men, no nothing. And I’ve nursed it and watched it grow, Frank, from what it was then to what it is now. The second largest picture-making corporation in Hollywood. I’ve watched Los Angeles, Beverley Hills and Culver City, and all the rest of the colony grow up round it, and I’ve watched it grow up with ’em. A few years ago, before the talkies came in, and blew the old industry to bits, Mammoth Pictures were making a profit of over fifteen million dollars a year, now they’re not making fifteen million cents.” He stopped and took a gulp of the large glass of orange juice in front of him. “For the last three years everything I’ve touched has gone wrong,” he went on. “Pictures have been started and accident upon accident has held up their completion, until all the profits there might have been have got eaten up in overheads. That’s why I’m telling you, this picture’s got to be finished within its schedule.”

  “You can bank on me to do my part,” said Leyland. “You’ve certainly had a run of bad luck.”

  Elmer Myers looked at him and his eyes narrowed to slits. He opened his mouth to speak, said nothing, glanced quickly around the crowded restaurant, and then apparently making up his mind, hitched his chair closer to the table and leaned across until his large head was almost touching his companion’s.

  “I’m not so sure that it was all bad luck,” he said in a low hoarse whisper. “I guess a lot of it was a deliberate attempt on somebody’s part to break me.”

  Frank Leyland’s face changed to an expression of amazement.

  “Are you serious — ” he began incredulously.

  “I’ll say I am,” interrupted Myers. “Don’t talk so loud.” The film director dropped his voice to the level of the others.

  “But,” he said, “who would attempt to do such a thing, Elmer? Everybody likes you — ”

  “Oh, it’s not a personal matter,” said the other quickly. “If I’m right, it’s just a matter of business — dirty business if you like — but, well, with some people the word ‘business’ covers a multitude of sins.” He shrugged his broad shoulders.

  The astonishment on Frank’s face remained.

  “Do you mean somebody’s trying to force you to shut up shop?” he asked a little sceptically.

  Myers nodded slowly several times, and his big face was grave.

  “Four times during the past three years,” he said, “Oscar Levenstein has made me an offer for the whole concern, lock, stock and barrel.”

  Frank Leyland uttered a low prolonged whistle.

  “I see,” he murmured, and he did.

  Oscar Levenstein was the managing director of the largest picture-making unit in Hollywood. World Wide Films turned out fifty percent more pictures than any other studio in the colony. They turned them out on the mass-production principle, substituting quantity for quality, and flooding the marke
t. The capital behind the concern was colossal and the profits huge. They had a monopoly of the most popular stars and kept a contingent of writers permanently under contract. It was Levenstein who during the silent days introduced the iniquitous block booking system, working through Consolidated Renters, a firm of film distributors that was an offshoot of the parent company and controlled by Levenstein himself. It was an open secret that World Wide Films wanted to enlarge their studios and plant. Everybody knew it from Los Angeles to Culver City. The big straggling block of buildings that housed the company lay at the foot of Beverley Hills, cheek by jowl with Elmer Myers’ smaller and more compact unit. Any contemplated extension would necessarily embrace the latter’s property.

  “So you think that it’s Levenstein who’s trying to freeze you out?” muttered Leyland after a pause.

  “I do,” answered Myers. “Over and over again his solicitors have approached me with tempting offers. Six months ago Levenstein himself asked me to lunch and suggested as things were so bad I should sell out. I politely told him to go to the devil, and he said, with that slow one-sided smile of his, that before I was very much older I should have to sell to him, and would be only too glad to accept any offer he might like to make.”

  He took another cigar from his pocket and bit off the end viciously.

  Leyland pursed his lips.

  “I can hardly believe Levenstein would go to the lengths you suggest,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t like the man — nobody does — but it’s difficult to believe that he’s such a scoundrel as you imply.”

  Myers lit his cigar, flicked the match into an ashtray, and blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “I’ve not an atom of proof myself,” he said; “for that reason I’ve never mentioned my suspicions to anyone else. But the series of accidents didn’t start until I turned down Levenstein’s second offer.” He contemplated the end of his cigar to see that it was burning evenly. “I don’t know why I’ve mentioned this to you at all,” he went on. “I reckon possibly because this picture we’re makin’ means so much, and I want to put you on your guard. Anyway, I hope you’ll keep what I said to yourself.”

  “I’m not likely to spread it around,” said Frank Leyland, “and I’m glad you’ve told me. It’s good to get a thing like that off your chest.”

  He beckoned one of the numerous beautiful girls who, coming to Hollywood with visions of stardom and fame, had been forced to seek work as waitresses in order to live in that city of beauty and heartbreak.

  “We may as well get along and inspect the model of the street set,” he said as he paid the bill. “Blane said it would be finished this morning.”

  Myers agreed, and the two men left the Brown Derby where they had been lunching, that quaintly-named and famous restaurant on the Wilshire Boulevard, which is built in the shape of a bowler hat, and getting into Myers’ car, were driven towards the offices of the Mammoth Picture Corporation Inc.

  They continued to talk over the coming film as the car sped over the well-kept boulevards in the direction of Culver City. The studios of the Mammoth Picture Corporation lay back from the road and were approached by a wide highway lined on either side with palm trees. As the driver of the car turned into this he increased his speed, for there was very little traffic.

  “I’m getting out a publicity scheme for this picture that’ll knock the world,” said Mr Myers. “I tell you, Frank, that we’re going to clean up a packet, unless — ”

  He broke off as with a screaming of brakes the car came to a sudden standstill and almost jerked him through the glass of the window which divided the interior from the driver.

  “What the heck!” he exclaimed angrily as he recovered his balance, “Why did Wilson pull up like that for? The man must have gone clean crazy!”

  “I think there’s something the matter,” said Frank Leyland quickly.

  He had caught sight of the chauffeur’s white face as that agitated man got down from the driving seat and came round to the door.

  “I should think there was something,” grunted Mr Myers wrathfully, “and there might have been something far worse the matter — ”

  He was interrupted by the hurried opening of the door and the appearance of the chauffeur’s head.

  “Do you mind getting out, sir?” said the man in a voice that trembled slightly. “I think there’s been an accident.”

  “Accident? What do you mean?” said Mr Myers, hoisting his fat body with difficulty from the cushions of the seat and stepping down into the roadway.

  “That’s what I mean, sir,” said the chauffeur and pointed. “Look!”

  Elmer Myers followed the direction of his finger and saw the crumpled-up body of a man lying by the sidewalk.

  “Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, his voice full of concern. “The poor guy looks as though he’d been run over. Come on, Frank, he may not be dead. We’d better see if we can do anything.”

  He trotted over to the motionless figure, followed by Frank Leyland and the chauffeur. Bending down, he peered into the upturned face, and the next second he had started back with a strangled cry.

  “Good God!” he muttered in a husky whisper. “It’s Lee Collins!”

  “What?” Frank Leyland was at his side in a moment. “Great Scott, so it is!” he exclaimed breathlessly.

  Mr Myers, his face white and haggard, strove to speak calmly.

  “Is he — dead?” he whispered.

  Leyland stooped over the man in the roadway.

  “I’m afraid he is,” he said in a hushed whisper. “It looks as if a car or something had knocked him down.”

  He indicated the torn clothing and the ugly gash that ran from temple to chin, and from which the blood had oozed sluggishly, forming a little pool in the dusty roadway around the head. Elmer Myers frowned and his fingers tightened on the remains of his cigar.

  “We’d better go on to the studios,” he said, “and phone for a doctor. You stay here, Wilson.”

  The chauffeur nodded, and without another word Mr Myers turned and began to walk swiftly towards the big gate leading to the Mammoth Pictures’ studios, which was barely two hundred yards long on the right-hand side. He spoke only once, and then it was more to himself than to Frank Leyland.

  “Poor Collins,” he said below his breath, and again, “Poor Collins.”

  They passed in through a side gate, and along a semi-circular strip of gravel drive to the entrance. As they ascended the steps the timekeeper came out of a glass-sided office just inside the vestibule.

  “Glad you’re back, Mr Myers,” he said. “Mr Phillips has been looking for you…”

  “I can’t see him — I can’t see anybody!” broke in Elmer Myers shortly. “Get on the phone to Dr. Paterson, and tell him to rush round here as soon as you can. There’s been an accident.”

  “An accident?” the timekeeper looked at him curiously.

  “Yes, Mr Collins has been killed,” and then as the man’s mouth gaped open: “Don’t stand there staring, man, get on the phone!”

  The timekeeper hurried to obey and they heard his voice calling a number. The film magnate waited impatiently until he returned.

  “Dr. Paterson’s coming round at once, sir,” he said.

  Mr Myers nodded.

  “Good!” he said briefly; “has Mr Stanwyck come back from lunch?”

  The timekeeper shook his head.

  “Not yet, sir,” he answered.

  “Ask him to wait for me in my office; I want to see him,” ordered his employer. “Come along, Frank, we’ll go back to Wilson and wait to hear what the doctor has to say.”

  His face was stern and set as he walked back down the gravel drive towards the gates.

  “Lee Collins,” he said slowly and distinctly. “The best cameraman for ‘process’ shots in the whole of America — dead! The accidents have started again, Frank.”

  There was a peculiar expression in Frank Leyland’s eyes as he met the steady brown ones of the other.

&
nbsp; “You — you don’t think it was an accident?” he said.

  Elmer Myers stopped dead and faced him.

  “No, sir, I don’t!” he cried. “Somebody wanted to make sure that Collins wouldn’t ‘turn’ for us; somebody thought it would delay the picture being taken, knowing that we can’t afford delay, so they ran him down. Well, they’re going to be disappointed. We’re going to make that picture, Frank, in spite of everything they can do, and, by heck, we’re going to make it on time!”

  Chapter 2

  THE STRANGER

  The shooting of Mammoth Pictures’ super film began on time and continued to grow day by day without further accident. The strained look on the fat face of Mr Elmer Myers gradually faded, and was replaced by one of complacent satisfaction. For the ‘rushes’ which he viewed daily in the small private projecting theatre attached to the studio exceeded even his expectations. The place of Collins, the cameraman, had been taken by a German expert, especially rushed over by air from Germany, who, according to the verdict of Frank Leyland, was ‘the goods’. Even Rita Harlow had shown no sign of giving way to an outburst of temperament, and everything was proceeding smoothly, with the result that Mr Myers’ face became wreathed in smiles.

  At a time when the film was nearing completion there came to Los Angeles a stranger. He came on The Chief, the wonder train that covers the thousands of miles separating Los Angeles from Chicago in just under five days.

  He came unheralded and unmet, for he was neither a famous personage nor known to anyone in the film city. Tall, slim and good-looking, he was a man who at first glance looked youthful, but who on closer inspection proved older than he seemed. There was a touch of silver behind his ears, and the hard expression in the dark eyes, and the tiny lines about the thin mouth contradicted that first impression of boyishness.

  At a rough estimate his age might have been anything between thirty-five and fifty — as a matter of fact it was midway — but he walked with the swing of youth. He was not an American; his drawling, well-bred voice had the stamp of Oxford, and his clothes had obviously been built by a Savile Row expert.