Quade showed his teeth in a cold smile. “Bring on your dog!”
Several men were gathered around a microphone and a layout of crazy objects. The young fellow snatched up several sheets of music.
“I’ll explain what we’re doing,” he said crisply. “Desmond Dogg’s a St. Bernard. In this particular scene he’s pulling the old rescue scene. Christopher Cat—”
“Christopher?” Quade asked.
“Yes, Christopher. And don’t interrupt. Christopher Cat’s lost in the snowstorm. Desmond Dogg has this keg of rum tied about his neck and is leaving the hospice to rescue Christopher. The wind’s howling — that’s Felix — and it’s snowing like hell. Desmond — that’s you — is running down the mountain.”
“With the keg of rum around my neck?” Quade asked.
“Yes, and don’t interrupt again. You’re galloping through the snow. You bark, woof-woof, and then you sing: ‘Here I come with a keg of rum.’ All right, Felix — wind!”
A skinny fellow with a big Adam’s apple stepped up to the microphone and whistled softly. Amplified, the sound was very much like the howling of a blizzard.
“O.K.,” said the young director. “Now, you, Oscar — Desmond’s feet crunching the snow.”
Another man brought a bowl of baking soda up to the microphone, stuck an iron pestle into it and twisted it. The result was a sound like feet crunching on snow.
“Swell,” said the director. “Now, we’ll get together on it. Felix, wind! Oscar, snow! And you, whatever your name is, you bark, ‘Woof-woof!’ and sing — in a dog’s voice!”
The wind howled and the snow crunched under Desmond Dogg’s feet, and Quade barked and sang in a tone that might have sounded like a dog’s if a dog could sing.
When they finished, the director held out his hand to Quade. “My name’s Needham. You did that better than Pete Rice. He just couldn’t get that dog quality into his voice.”
“I’m a success!” Quade murmured.
“Sure, why not? I’ll talk to Tommy Slocum and have him give you a contract. Now then, Miss Phillips! Come over here and do your meowing!”
Miss Phillips, imitating Christopher Cat, was good enough to stampede a convention of rats, Quade thought.
They rehearsed the scene a half dozen times, then recorded it. Needham, the director, put them through two more scenes, then called a halt. “That’ll be all until this afternoon. I want to see the film run off again.” He turned to Quade. “Like to come to the sweat box?”
It sounded interesting, so Quade went along. The room they went to was a miniature theater; a couple of dozen chairs in the rear, a projection room and a screen.
“You know how these cartoons are made, don’t you?” Needham asked Quade.
“Lot of drawings photographed, eh?”
“Ten to fourteen thousand for a single reel which lasts about eight minutes on the screen.” He held up a stack of celluloid rectangles.
“The animators make the original drawings on large pasteboard strips. There are forty to sixty scenes, or frames, to a picture. The animators draw these, put in the animals. The graduation of the movements is drawn on these celluloid panels. The photographer puts a ‘cel’ on the frame, photographs it, then puts down the next. The whole thing is speeded up, makes your movement.”
“And ten to fourteen thousand complete drawings are made?”
“Only of the animals in their movements. Girls do that, from the animators’ originals. Some girls do the tracing, others the filling in and the graduation of the movement. It’s expensive business. Some of our technicolor films cost as much as a complete seven reel film put out by other studios.”
“Well,” said Quade, “some people prefer Desmond Dogg to Clark Gable.”
Needham grunted, called toward the projection room. “O.K., Clarence!”
The little theater went dark and a moment later the projector threw a beam of white upon the screen.
The various screen credits followed:
Tommy Slocum Productions
Presents: Desmond Dogg’s Dilemma
Based upon the famous character created by Tommy Slocum
Producer: Tommy Slocum
Director: Hector Needham
Original Story by Stanley Maynard
Photography: M. V. Hilton
Desmond Dogg appeared upon the screen — a St. Bernard, against a background of mountain and snow and a hospice almost toppling off a cliff.
Quade said, “I just remembered I’ve got to make a phone call,” and got up, groped his way in the darkness to the door, went outside.
He made his way to Miss Hendricks’ office. Charlie Boston jumped up from a chair. “Where you been all morning, Ollie?”
“Barking,” Quade retorted and pushed open the door of Slocum’s office.
The little producer looked up, scowled. “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come around.”
“Why not? You hired me to be Desmond Dogg’s voice. Hec Needham just told me I was better than Pete Rice. He wants you to sign me up on a contract.”
Tommy Slocum snorted. “Quade, no man ever talked to me like you have, or did the things you’ve done to me.”
“Why, I haven’t done anything to you.”
“You know damn well what I mean. What were you trying to pull on Thel — Miss Wentworth?”
“Oh,” sighed Quade. “I saw Willie Higgins. He said the price is a half million — for it.”
Quade was watching Slocum closely. The half million made no unusual impression.
He exclaimed, “If you found him, why didn’t you bring him here?”
“He wouldn’t come. Doesn’t trust you.”
“He doesn’t trust me — and asks for a half million? He’s got a crust.”
“Still, I can see his point,” Quade said. “He’s one week out of Alcatraz and he’s nervous about being seen within two miles of a place where a man is murdered.”
Slocum nodded, then looked up suddenly. “Which reminds me, that cop, Murdock or whatever his name is, called up here a while ago. Said you’re to be sure and be at the inquest at three this afternoon.”
“What do you think the verdict of the coroner’s jury will be?”
Slocum’s face twisted. “What the hell you gettin’ at?”
Quade shrugged, walked toward the door. “What’ll I tell Willie?”
“Tell him he’s crazy. He can’t shake me down for a half million.”
“He thinks he can,” Quade said.
The telephone on Slocum’s desk rang at the same instant the door opened under Quade’s hand. Lieutenant Murdock came in and said:
“Mr. Slocum, the D.A.’s given me orders to take you in on suspicion of murder. I’ve got a warrant for your—”
Slocum howled and jerked the receiver off the ringing phone. He yelled “Yes!” listened for a moment. Perspiration suddenly appeared on his forehead. “All right,” he said in a meek tone and hung up.
“A warrant for your arrest!” Lieutenant Murdock repeated.
Christopher Buck’s head appeared over Murdock’s. “Hello, Quade!” he said in a better-to-eat-you-with tone.
“Buck,” said Quade, “you certainly can put your big feet into things.”
“Yah!” jeered the self-styled world’s greatest detective. “You got on the wrong boat this time!”
Slocum got up from behind his desk. “O.K., Sergeant!” he said.
Lieutenant Murdock said grimly, “And you, smart boy, be at the inquest at three o’clock!”
Quade nodded.
When they were gone, Quade went out to Miss Hendricks’ office. She was white around the gills. “They’ve arrested Mr. Slocum!” she gasped.
“But they can’t make it stick,” Quade said.
Charlie came over. “Buck looked like he’d just won screeno!”