On the afternoon of Christmas Day he was still trying to get the secret out of her. They had the studio almost to themselves — only a skeleton staff of technical men dotted the walks and the commissary. They had exchanged Christmas presents. Pat gave her a five dollar bill, Helen bought him a white linen handkerchief. Very well he could remember the day when many dozen such handkerchiefs had been his Christmas harvest.

The script was progressing at a snail’s pace but their friendship had considerably ripened. Her secret, he considered, was a very valuable asset, and he wondered how many careers had turned on just such an asset. Some, he felt sure, had been thus raised to affluence. Why, it was almost as good as being in the family, and he pictured an imaginary conversation with Harry Gooddorf.

‘Harry, it’s this way. I don’t think my experience is being made use of. It’s the young squirts who ought to do the writing — I ought to do more supervising.’

‘Or —?’

‘Or else,’ said Pat firmly.

He was in the midst of his day dream when Harry Gooddorf unexpectedly walked in.

‘Merry Christmas, Pat,’ he said jovially. His smile was less robust when he saw Helen, ‘Oh, hello Helen — didn’t know you and Pat had got together. I sent you a remembrance over to the script department.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

Harry turned swiftly to Pat.

‘The boss is on my neck,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to have a finished script Thursday.’

‘Well, here I am,’ said Pat. ‘You’ll have it. Did I ever fail you?’

‘Usually,’ said Harry. ‘Usually.’

He seemed about to add more when a call boy entered with an envelope and handed it to Helen Kagle — whereupon Harry turned and hurried out.

‘He’d better get out!’ burst forth Miss Kagle, after opening the envelope. ‘Ten bucks — just ten bucks — from an executive — after eighteen years.’

It was Pat’s chance. Sitting on her desk he told her his plan.

‘It’s soft jobs for you and me,’ he said. ‘You the head of a script department, me an associate producer. We’re on the gravy train for life — no more writing — no more pounding the keys. We might even — we might even — if things go good we could get married.’

She hesitated a long time. When she put a fresh sheet in the typewriter Pat feared he had lost.

‘I can write it from memory,’ she said. ‘This was a letter he typed himself on February 3rd, 1921. He sealed it and gave it to me to mail — but there was a blonde he was interested in, and I wondered why he should be so secret about a letter.’

Helen had been typing as she talked, and now she handed Pat a note.

To Will Bronson
First National Studios
    Personal

Dear Bill:

We killed Taylor. We should have cracked down on him sooner. So why not shut up.

Yours, Harry

‘Get it?’ Helen said. ‘On February 1st, 1921, somebody knocked off William Desmond Taylor, the director. And they’ve never found out who.’