“Do you think,” Jonathon said to the girl when they reached the street, “that I’d be awfully out of place in asking you to let me see you again.”
The girl smiled up at him.
“You don’t even know my name,” she said, “and yet you’re anxious to see me again?”
“I know all I need to,” Jonathon said seriously.
The girl’s reply was completely obliterated by the sudden squealing of protesting brakes. A heavy truck had stopped suddenly before them blocking the traffic. Behind the truck a long sleek Cadillac honked its patrician horn impatiently.
Finally the owner of the Cadillac, a short, dynamic looking, florid fellow dressed in extremely loud sport clothes climbed wrath fully from the back seat of his car.
“I’ll get a cab,” he shouted angrily. “My time is my money and I am not a spendthrift. There ought to be a law against trucks anyway.”
The man strode to the sidewalk and Jonathon, getting his first good look at him, felt his knees go suddenly weak. For this multi-colored, bellowing specimen of humanity was Max Swart, the biggest theatrical producer in the country. Jonathon had seen him before on several occasions as the fabled producer had swept past him in the outer reception rooms of his office and disappeared into the huge double doors that barricaded his own inner sanctum.
A nod of approval from Max Swart had made many of the biggest men and women in show business. But, needless to say, Max Swart did not make a habit of nodding at just anyone.
Jonathan watched him breathlessly as a very small boy might watch Babe Ruth or Jack Dempsey. The Great Man was walking toward them, he would pass right by them — but no!
Jonathon almost fainted as Max Swart suddenly halted in his tracks, a big smile of welcome and recognition spreading over his face. Hands outstretched, the producer strode toward him eagerly. Jonathon knew his big chance had somehow miraculously arrived. It was possible that Max Swart remembered him from seeing him in his outer office, and now wanted to talk about one of the plays that he had written. Maybe he needed something for an immediate production, something like — Jonathon’s dream train was derailed abruptly as the producer strode past him to the girl with whom he had breakfasted.
“Lola, Lola,” he cried enthusiastically. “It’s absolutely glorious to see you again. I have a play for you. Such a play, such a play, darling, as you have never read. There is not a second to lose. We’ll go right to my office at once.”
Jonathon felt as if a mule had kicked him in the stomach. He recognized the girl now. Lola Langtry, one of the year’s sensational finds. God! What a chump he’d been. Buying her breakfast, making plans about her like any adolescent sophomore.
She turned to him.
“Please understand, I have to leave now.” She seemed to be waiting for him to say something but he remained silent.
“Come on!” Max Swart shouted. “My car is waiting.” He shot a glance at Jonathon and then dragged Lola away by the arm. “Watch out who you talk to in this town,” Jonathon heard him say as he helped the actress into the car.
A second later gears meshed, and the long car shot away, a sleek shining symbol of money and power.
Tink shifted uneasily on Jonathon’s shoulder and glanced at Nastee with new respect in his eye.
“Did you know that her big shot producer was coming along then?” he asked suspiciously. “If you did you’re getting pretty good.”
Nastee shrugged complacently.
“I’m pretty good all right,” he smirked.
Jonathon stared after the powerful car bitterly. That was the way his luck ran. Get interested in a girl, build up a lot of silly ideas and then find out she’s a top notch actress, sought after by famous producers, while he didn’t have two coins to rub together. He’d never see her again, he knew. He didn’t have any reason to. He jammed his hands into his pockets and started to move along, when a voice stopped him.
“Hey, Mister, your girl dropped this!”
Jonathon turned and saw one of the bus boys from the restaurant hurrying toward him. He held a small diamond clip in his hand.
“Found it under the stool where she was sitting,” he explained importantly.
Jonathon closed his hand over the beautiful little clip and a smile touched his face. He’d see her once again anyway, if only to return the brooch.
Tink executed a little jig on the top of Jonathon’s ear.
“He’ll see her again,” he said slyly to Nastee, “because I took the brooch from her pocketbook and planted it under the stool. It’s not twelve o’clock yet, remember. A lot can happen to our friend here.”
“A lot is going to happen,” Nastee promised grimly.
Jonathan felt a growing elation about seeing Lola again. He was not deluding himself that he had a chance for her affections, but at least he could see her, say goodbye.
He phoned the Max Swart office at the first drug store, but the secretary told him Mr. Swart and Miss Langtry would not be in for several hours. Mr. Swart had phoned to that effect. Jonathon hung up and went for a walk in the park for two hours. He thought about winning the Pulitzer prize and Lola all in one swoop.
“Dreaming while wide awake,” he muttered. “It’s easy to do.”
At the end of two hours he left the park and headed uptown for the offices of the Swart Production Agency. He was within two blocks of the building when it happened. Two detectives in plainclothes stepped alongside him and grabbed him by the arm.
“Take it easy,” one of them said. “You won’t get hurt.”
The other ran his hands swiftly through Jonathon’s pockets. His hand came out holding the slim diamond brooch.
“Where’d ya get this, chum?” he asked.
Jonathon swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry.
“M — Miss Lola Langtry lost it and I was returning it to her,” he said.
“That’s good,” one of the men said. “Real original story you got there. She lost it and you’re just returning it. Well you’d better get a prettier tune than that to sing to the judge. You’ll need it.”
“Now just a minute,” Jonathon said angrily. “You fellows are jumping to conclusions. Why don’t you get in touch with Miss Langtry and see what she has to say?”
“We don’t have to. She got in touch with us. Sent out the alarm with your description over an hour ago. Come on—”
Tink and Nastee were climbing up and down the bars of Jonathon’s cell some hours later. Jonathon was slumped on the cot, his head buried in his hands, his shoulders slumped despairingly.
Tink looked worried.
“Time’s passing,” Nastee reminded him for the third time. “I got him sewed up now and there isn’t much you can do.”
“I wish I knew how you framed him for that theft,” Tink said suspiciously. “You probably used the old hackneyed trick of whispering to the girl and making her believe she’s figuring everything out for herself.
“It may be old,” Nastee said smugly, “but these humans have gone for it so long now that there’s no reason to change. They call it association of ideas or mental telepathy. Anyway that doesn’t alter the fact that you’re behind the eight ball and so is he. I’m waiting to see you get out of it.”
Tink sighed.
“He’s the one to worry about. Not me.”
It was about a half-hour after that when the reporters arrived. A jewel theft was always good news, but when it had a tie-in with the season’s most glamorous ingénue, it became really hot.
They fired a thousand questions at him through the bars:
“Are you in love with Lola Langtry?”
“Were you working alone on the job?”