A Day with Conrad Green

Conrad Green woke up depressed and, for a moment, could not think why. Then he remembered. Herman Plant was dead; Herman Plant, who had been his confidential secretary ever since he had begun producing; who had been much more than a secretary⁠—his champion, votary, shield, bodyguard, tool, occasional lackey, and the butt of his heavy jokes and nasty temper. For forty-five dollars a week.

Herman Plant was dead, and this Lewis, recommended by Ezra Peebles, a fellow entrepreneur, had not, yesterday, made a good first impression. Lewis was apparently impervious to hints. You had to tell him things right out, and when he did understand he looked at you as if you were a boob. And insisted on a salary of sixty dollars right at the start. Perhaps Peebles, who, Green knew, hated him almost enough to make it fifty-fifty, was doing him another dirty trick dressed up as a favor.

After ten o’clock, and still Green had not had enough sleep. It had been nearly three when his young wife and he had left the Bryant-Walkers’. Mrs. Green, the former Marjorie Manning of the Vanities chorus, had driven home to Long Island, while he had stayed in the rooms he always kept at the Ambassador.

Majorie had wanted to leave a good deal earlier; through no lack of effort on her part she had been almost entirely ignored by her aristocratic host and hostess and most of the guests. She had confided to her husband more than once that she was sick of the whole such-and-such bunch of so-and-so’s. As far as she was concerned, they could all go to hell and stay there! But Green had been rushed by the pretty and stage-struck Joyce Brainard, wife of the international polo star, and had successfully combated his own wife’s importunities till the Brainards themselves had gone.

Yes, he could have used a little more sleep, but the memory of the party cheered him. Mrs. Brainard, excited by his theatrical aura and several highballs, had been almost affectionate. She had promised to come to his office sometime and talk over a stage career which both knew was impossible so long as Brainard lived. But, best of all, Mr. and Mrs. Green would be listed in the papers as among those present at the Bryant-Walkers’, along with the Vanderbecks, the Suttons, and the Schuylers, and that would just about be the death of Peebles and other social sycophants of “show business.” He would order all the papers now and look for his name. No; he was late and must get to his office. No telling what a mess things were in without Herman Plant. And, by the way, he mustn’t forget Plant’s funeral this afternoon.

He bathed, telephoned for his breakfast, and his favorite barber, dressed in a symphony of purple and gray, and set out for Broadway, pretending not to hear the “There’s Conrad Green!” spoken in awed tones by two flappers and a Westchester realtor whom he passed en route.

Green let himself into his private office, an office of luxurious, exotic furnishings, its walls adorned with expensive landscapes and a Zuloaga portrait of his wife. He took off his twenty-five dollar velour hat, approved of himself in the large mirror, sat down at his desk, and rang for Miss Jackson.

“All the morning papers,” he ordered, “and tell Lewis to come in.”

“I’ll have to send out for the papers,” said Miss Jackson, a tired-looking woman of forty-five or fifty.

“What do you mean, send out? I thought we had an arrangement with that boy to leave them every morning.”

“We did. But the boy says he can’t leave them anymore till we’ve paid up to date.”

“What do we owe?”

“Sixty-five dollars.”

“Sixty-five dollars! He’s crazy! Haven’t you been paying him by the week?”

“No. You told me not to.”

“I told you nothing of the kind! Sixty-five dollars! He’s trying to rob us!”

“I don’t believe so, Mr. Green,” said Miss Jackson. “He showed me his book. It’s more than thirty weeks since he began, and you know we’ve never paid him.”

“But hell! There isn’t sixty-five dollars’ worth of newspapers ever been printed! Tell him to sue us! And now send out for the papers and do it quick! After this we’ll get them down at the corner every morning and pay for them. Tell Lewis to bring me the mail.”

Miss Jackson left him, and presently the new secretary came in. He was a man under thirty, whom one would have taken for a high school teacher rather than a theatrical general’s aide-de-camp.

“Good morning, Mr. Green,” he said.

His employer disregarded the greeting.

“Anything in the mail?” he asked.

“Not much of importance. I’ve already answered most of it. Here are a few things from your clipping bureau and a sort of dunning letter from some jeweler in Philadelphia.”

“What did you open that for?” demanded Green, crossly. “Wasn’t it marked personal?”

“Look here, Mr. Green,” said Lewis quietly: “I was told you had a habit of being rough with your employees. I want to warn you that I am not used to that sort of treatment and don’t intend to get used to it. If you are decent with me, I’ll work for you. Otherwise I’ll resign.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lewis. I didn’t mean to be rough. It’s just my way of speaking. Let’s forget it and I’ll try not to give you any more cause to complain.”

“All right, Mr. Green. You told me to open all your mail except the letters with that one little mark on them⁠—”

“Yes, I know. Now let’s have the clippings.”

Lewis laid them on the desk.

“I threw away about ten of them that were all the same⁠—the announcement that you had signed Bonnie Blue for next season. There’s one there that speaks of a possible partnership between you and Sam Stein⁠—”

“What a nerve he’s got, giving out a statement like that. Fine chance of me mixing myself up with a crook like Stein! Peebles says he’s a full stepbrother to the James boys. So is Peebles himself, for that matter. What’s this long one about?”

“It’s about that young composer, Casper Ettelson. It’s by Deems Taylor of the World. There’s just a mention of you down at the bottom.”

“Read it to me, will you? I’ve overstrained my eyes lately.”

The dead Herman Plant had first heard of that recent eye strain twenty years ago. It amounted to almost total blindness where words of over two syllables were concerned.

“So far,” Lewis read, “Ettelson has not had a book worthy of his imaginative, whimsical music. How we would revel in an Ettelson score with a Barrie libretto and a Conrad Green production.”

“Who is this Barrie?” asked Green.

“I suppose it’s James M. Barrie,” replied Lewis, “the man who wrote Peter Pan.”

“I thought that was written by a fella over in England,” said Green.

“I guess he does live in England. He was born in Scotland. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Well, find out if he’s in New York, and, if he is, get a hold of him. Maybe he’ll do a couple of scenes for our next show. Come in, Miss Jackson. Oh, the papers!”

Miss Jackson handed them to him and went out. Green turned first to the society page of the Herald Tribune. His eye trouble was not so severe as to prevent his finding that page. And he could read his name when it was there to be read.

Three paragraphs were devoted to the Bryant-Walker affair, two of them being lists of names. And Mr. and Mrs. Conrad Green were left out.

“⁠⸻!” commented Green, and grabbed the other papers. The World and Times were searched with the same hideous result. And the others did not mention the party at all.

“⁠⸻!” repeated Green. “I’ll get somebody for this!” Then, to Lewis: “Here! Take this telegram. Send it to the managing editors of all the morning papers; you’ll find their names pasted on Plant’s desk. Now: ‘Ask your society editor why my name was not on list of guests at Bryant-Walker dinner Wednesday night. Makes no difference to me, as am not seeking and do not need publicity, but it looks like conspiracy, and thought you ought to be informed, as have always been good friend of your paper, as well as steady advertiser.’ I guess that’s enough.”

“If you’ll pardon a suggestion,” said Lewis, “I’m afraid a telegram like this would just be laughed at.”

“You send the telegram; I’m not going to have a bunch of cheap reporters make a fool of me!”

“I don’t believe you can blame the reporters. There probably weren’t reporters there. The list of guests is generally given out by the people who give the party.”

“But listen⁠—” Green paused and thought. “All right. Don’t send the telegram. But if the Bryant-Walkers are ashamed of me, why the hell did they invite me? I certainly didn’t want to go and they weren’t under obligations to me. I never⁠—”

As if it had been waiting for its cue, the telephone rang at this instant, and Kate, the switchboard girl, announced that the Bryant-Walkers’ secretary was on the wire.

“I am speaking for Mrs. Bryant-Walker,” said a female voice. “She is chairman of the committee on entertainment for the Women’s Progress Bazaar. The bazaar is to open on the third of next month and wind up on the evening of the fifth with a sort of vaudeville entertainment. She wanted me to ask you⁠—”

Green hung up with an oath.

“That’s the answer!” he said. “The damn grafters!”

Miss Jackson came in again.

“Mr. Robert Blair is waiting to see you.”

“Who is he?”

“You know. He tried to write some things for one of the shows last year.”

“Oh, yes. Say, did you send flowers to Plant’s house?”

“I did,” replied Miss Jackson. “I sent some beautiful roses.”

“How much?”

“Forty-five dollars,” said Miss Jackson.

“Forty-five dollars for roses! And the man hated flowers even when he was alive! Well, send in this Blair.”

Robert Blair was an ambitious young freelance who had long been trying to write for the stage, but with little success.

“Sit down, Blair,” said Green. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well, Mr. Green, my stuff didn’t seem to suit you last year, but this time I think I’ve got a scene that can’t miss.”

“All right. If you want to leave it here, I’ll read it over.”

“I haven’t written it out. I thought I’d tell you the idea first.”

“Well, go ahead, but cut it short; I’ve got a lot of things to do today. Got to go to old Plant’s funeral for one thing.”

“I bet you miss him, don’t you?” said Blair, sympathetically.

“Miss him! I should say I do! A lovable character and”⁠—with a glance at Lewis⁠—“the best secretary I’ll ever have. But let’s hear your scene.”

“Well,” said Blair, “it may not sound like much the way I tell it, but I think it’ll work out great. Well, the police get a report that a woman has been murdered in her home, and they go there and find her husband, who is acting very nervous. They give him the third degree, and he finally breaks down and admits he killed her. They ask him why, and he tells them he is very fond of beans, and on the preceding evening he came home to dinner and asked her what there was to eat, and she told him she had lamb chops, mashed potatoes, spinach, and apple pie. So he says, ‘No beans?’ and she says, ‘No beans.’ So he shoots her dead. Of course, the scene between the husband and wife is acted out on the stage. Then⁠—”

“It’s no good!” said Conrad Green. “In the first place, it takes too many people, all those policemen and everybody.”

“Why, all you need is two policemen and the man and his wife. And wait till I tell you the rest of it.”

“I don’t like it; it’s no good. Come back again when you’ve got something.”

When Blair had gone Green turned to Lewis.

“That’s all for just now,” he said, “but on your way out tell Miss Jackson to get a hold of Martin and say I want him to drop in here as soon as he can.”

“What Martin?” asked Lewis.

“She’ll know⁠—Joe Martin, the man that writes most of our librettos.”

Alone, Conrad Green crossed the room to his safe, opened it, and took out a box on which was inscribed the name of a Philadelphia jeweler. From the box he removed a beautiful rope of matched pearls and was gazing at them in admiration when Miss Jackson came in; whereupon he hastily replaced them in their case and closed the safe.

“That man is here again,” said Miss Jackson, “That man Hawley from Gay New York.”

“Tell him I’m not in.”

“I did, but he says he saw you come in and he’s going to wait till you’ll talk to him. Really, Mr. Green, I think it would be best in the long run to see him. He’s awfully persistent.”

“All right; send him in,” said Green, impatiently, “though I have no idea what he can possibly want of me.”

Mr. Hawley, dapper and eternally smiling, insisted on shaking hands with his unwilling host, who had again sat down at his desk.

“I think,” he said, “we’ve met before.”

“Not that I know of,” Green replied shortly.

“Well, it makes no difference, but I’m sure you’ve read our little paper, Gay New York.”

“No,” said Green. “All I have time to read is manuscripts.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” said Hawley. “It’s really a growing paper, with a big New York circulation, and a circulation that is important from your standpoint.”

“Are you soliciting subscriptions?” asked Green.

“No. Advertising.”

“Well, frankly, Mr. Hawley, I don’t believe I need any advertising. I believe that even the advertising I put in the regular daily papers is a waste of money.”

“Just the same,” said Hawley, “I think you’d be making a mistake not to take a page in Gay New York. It’s only a matter of fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars! That’s a joke! Nobody’s going to hold me up!”

“Nobody’s trying to, Mr. Green. But I might as well tell you that one of our reporters came in with a story the other day⁠—well, it was about a little gambling affair in which some of the losers sort of forgot to settle, and⁠—well, my partner was all for printing it, but I said I had always felt friendly toward you and why not give you a chance to state your side of it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. If your reporter has got my name mixed up in a gambling story he’s crazy.”

“No. He’s perfectly sane and very, very careful. We make a specialty of careful reporters and we’re always sure of our facts.”

Conrad Green was silent for a long, long time. Then he said:

“I tell you, I don’t know what gambling business you refer to, and, furthermore, fifteen hundred dollars is a hell of a price for a page in a paper like yours. But still, as you say, you’ve got the kind of circulation that might do me good. So if you’ll cut down the price⁠—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Green, but we never do that.”

“Well, then, of course you’ll have to give me a few days to get my ad fixed up. Say you come back here next Monday afternoon.”

“That’s perfectly satisfactory, Mr. Green,” said Hawley, “and I assure you that you’re not making a mistake. And now I won’t keep you any longer from your work.”

He extended his hand, but it was ignored, and he went out, his smile a little broader than when he had come in. Green remained at his desk, staring straight ahead of him and making semi-audible references to certain kinds of dogs as well as personages referred to in the Old and New Testaments. He was interrupted by the entrance of Lewis.

“Mr. Green,” said the new secretary, “I have found a check for forty-five dollars, made out to Herman Plant. I imagine it is for his final week’s pay. Would you like to have me change it and make it out to his widow?”

“Yes,” said Green. “But no; wait a minute. Tear it up and I’ll make out my personal check to her and add something to it.”

“All right,” said Lewis, and left.

“Forty-five dollars’ worth of flowers,” said Green to himself, and smiled for the first time that morning.

He looked at his watch and got up and put on his beautiful hat.

“I’m going to lunch,” he told Miss Jackson on his way through the outer office. “If Peebles or anybody important calls up, tell them I’ll be here all afternoon.”

“You’re not forgetting Mr. Plant’s funeral?”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, I’ll be here from one thirty to about three.”

A head waiter at the Astor bowed to him obsequiously and escorted him to a table near a window, while the occupants of several other tables gazed at him spellbound and whispered, “Conrad Green.”

A luncheon of clams, sweetbreads, spinach, strawberry ice cream, and small coffee seemed to satisfy him. He signed his check and then tipped his own waiter and the head waiter a dollar apiece, the two tips falling just short of the cost of the meal.

Joe Martin, his chief librettist, was waiting when he got back to his office.

“Oh, hello, Joe!” he said, cordially. “Come right inside. I think I’ve got something for you.”

Martin followed him in and sat down without waiting for an invitation. Green seated himself at his desk and drew out his cigarette case.

“Have one, Joe?”

“Not that kind!” said Martin, lighting one of his own. “You’ve got rotten taste in everything but gals.”

“And librettists,” replied Green, smiling.

“But here’s what I wanted to talk about. I couldn’t sleep last night, and I just laid there and an idea came to me for a comedy scene. I’ll give you the bare idea and you can work it out. It’ll take a girl and one of the comics, maybe Fraser, and a couple of other men that can play.

“Well, the idea is that the comic is married to the girl. In the first place, I’d better mention that the comic is crazy about beans. Well, one night the comic⁠—no, wait a minute. The police get word that the comic’s wife has been murdered and two policemen come to the comic’s apartment to investigate. They examine the corpse and find out she’s been shot through the head. They ask the comic if he knows who did it and he says no, but they keep after him, and finally he breaks down and admits that he did it himself.

“But he says, ‘Gentlemen, if you’ll let me explain the circumstances, I don’t believe you’ll arrest me.’ So they tell him to explain, and he says that he came home from work and he was very hungry and he asked his wife what they were going to have for dinner. So she tells him⁠—clams and sweetbreads and spinach and strawberry ice cream and coffee. So he asks her if she isn’t going to have any beans and she says no, and he shoots her. What do you think you could do with that idea?”

“Listen, Connie,” said Martin: “You’ve only got half the scene, and you’ve got that half wrong. In the second place, it was played a whole season in the Music Box and it was written by Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby. Otherwise I can do a whole lot with it.”

“Are you sure you’re right?”

“I certainly am!”

“Why, that damn little thief! He told me it was his!”

“Who?” asked Martin.

“Why, that Blair, that tried to butt in here last year. I’ll fix him!”

“I thought you said it was your own idea.”

“Hell, no! Do you think I’d be stealing stuff, especially if it was a year old?”

“Well,” said Martin, “when you get another inspiration like this, give me a ring and I’ll come around. Now I’ve got to hurry up to the old Stadium and see what the old Babe does in the first inning.”

“I’m sorry, Joe. I thought it was perfectly all right.”

“Never mind! You didn’t waste much of my time. But after this you’d better leave the ideas to me. So long!”

“Goodbye, Joe; and thanks for coming in.”

Martin went and Green pressed the button for Miss Jackson.

“Miss Jackson, don’t ever let that young Blair in here again. He’s a faker!”

“All right, Mr. Green. But don’t you think it’s about time you were starting for the funeral? It’s twenty minutes of three.”

“Yes. But let’s see: where is Plant’s house?”

“It’s up on One Hundred and Sixtieth street, just off Broadway.”

“My God! Imagine living there! Wait a minute, Miss Jackson. Send Lewis here.”

“Lewis,” he said, when the new secretary appeared, “I ate something this noon that disagreed with me. I wanted to go up to Plant’s funeral, but I really think it would be dangerous to try it. Will you go up there, let them know who you are, and kind of represent me? Miss Jackson will give you the address.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lewis, and went out.

Almost immediately the sanctum door opened again and the beautiful Marjorie Green, née Manning, entered unannounced. Green’s face registered not altogether pleasant surprise.

“Why, hello, dear!” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming to town today.”

“I never told you I wasn’t,” his wife replied.

They exchanged the usual connubial salutations.

“I supposed you noticed,” said Mrs. Green, “that our names were not on the list of guests at the party.”

“No; I haven’t had time to look at the papers. But what’s the difference?”

“No difference at all, of course. But do you know what I think? I think we were invited just because those people want to get something out of you, for some benefit or something.”

“A fine chance! I hope they try it!”

“However, that’s not what I came to talk about.”

“Well, dear, what is it?”

“I thought maybe you’d remember something.”

“What, honey?”

“Why⁠—oh, well, there’s no use talking about it if you’ve forgotten.”

Green’s forehead wrinkled in deep thought; then suddenly his face brightened.

“Of course I haven’t forgotten! It’s your birthday!”

“You just thought of it now!”

“No such a thing! I’ve been thinking of it for weeks!”

“I don’t believe you! If you had been, you’d have said something, and”⁠—his wife was on the verge of tears⁠—“you’d have given me some little thing, just any little thing.”

Once more Green frowned, and once more brightened up.

“I’ll prove it to you,” he said, and walked rapidly to the safe.

In a moment he had placed in her hands the jewel box from Philadelphia. In another moment she had opened it, gasped at the beauty of its contents, and thrown her arms around his neck.

“Oh, dearest!” she cried. “Can you ever forgive me for doubting you?”

She put the pearls to her mouth as if she would eat them.

“But haven’t you been terribly extravagant?”

“I don’t consider anything too extravagant for you.”

“You’re the best husband a girl ever had!”

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said Green.

“Pleased! I’m overwhelmed. And to think I imagined you’d forgotten! But I’m not going to break up your whole day. I know you want to get out to poor old Plant’s funeral. So I’ll run along. And maybe you’ll take me to dinner somewhere tonight.”

“I certainly will! You be at the Ambassador about six thirty and we’ll have a little birthday party. But don’t you want to leave the pearls here now?”

“I should say not! They’re going to stay with me forever! Anyone that tries to take them will do it over my dead body!”

“Well, goodbye, then, dear.”

“Till half past six.”

Green, alone again, kicked shut the door of his safe and returned to his desk, saying in loud tones things which are not ordinarily considered appropriate to the birthday of a loved one. The hubbub must have been audible to Miss Jackson ouside, but perhaps she was accustomed to it. It ceased at another unannounced entrance, that of a girl even more beautiful than the one who had just gone out. She looked at Green and laughed.

“My God! You look happy!” she said.

“Rose!”

“Yes, it’s Rose. But what’s the matter with you?”

“I’ve had a bad day.”

“But isn’t it better now?”

“I didn’t think you were coming till tomorrow.”

“But aren’t you glad I came today?”

“You bet I am!” said Green. “And if you’ll come here and kiss me I’ll be all the gladder.”

“No. Let’s get our business transacted first.”

“What business?”

“You know perfectly well! Last time I saw you you insisted that I must give up everybody else but you. And I promised you it would be all off between Harry and I if⁠—Well, you know. There was a little matter of some pearls.”

“I meant everything I said.”

“Well, where are they?”

“They’re all bought and all ready for you. But I bought them in Philadelphia and for some damn reason they haven’t got here yet.”

“Got here yet! Were they so heavy you couldn’t bring them with you?”

“Honest, dear, they’ll be here day after tomorrow at the latest.”

“ ‘Honest’ is a good word for you to use! Do you think I’m dumb? Or is it that you’re so used to lying that you can’t help it?”

“If you’ll let me explain⁠—”

“Explain hell! We made a bargain and you haven’t kept your end of it. And now⁠—”

“But listen⁠—”

“I’ll listen to nothing! You know where to reach me and when you’ve kept your promise you can call me up. Till then⁠—Well, Harry isn’t such bad company.”

“Wait a minute, Rose!”

“You’ve heard all I’ve got to say. Goodbye!”

And she was gone before he could intercept her.

Conrad Green sat as if stunned. For fifteen minutes he was so silent and motionless that one might have thought him dead. Then he shivered as if with cold and said aloud:

“I’m not going to worry about them anymore. To hell with all of them!”

He drew the telephone to him and took off the receiver.

“Get me Mrs. Bryant-Walker.”

And after a pause:

“Is this Mrs. Bryant-Walker? No, I want to speak to her personally. This is Conrad Green. Oh, hello, Mrs. Walker. Your secretary called me up this morning, but we were cut off. She was saying something about a benefit. Why, yes, certainly, I’ll be glad to. As many of them as you want. If you’ll just leave it all in my hands I’ll guarantee you a pretty good entertainment. It’s no bother at all. It’s a pleasure. Thank you. Goodbye.”

Lewis came in.

“Well, Lewis, did you get to the funeral?”

“Yes, Mr. Green, and I saw Mrs. Plant and explained the circumstances to her. She said you had always been very kind to her husband. She said that during the week of his illness he talked of you nearly all the time and expressed confidence that if he died you would attend his funeral. So she wished you had been there.”

“Good God! So do I!” said Conrad Green.