A Killer(’s) Short Story

In December 1942, four months before Eddie Shonbrun was executed at Sing Sing, he finished a short story, The Very Idea!

The satirical tale so impressed prison officials that they asked the New York corrections commissioner for permission to submit it to publishers. The commissioner agreed, on condition the story not mention that Shonbrun was a prisoner.

In the story, a fading actor hires a ghostwriter to pen his biography. The writer falls in love, but with whom – the actor or the embellished figure she’s created?

Shonbrun, who dabbled in writing when he wasn’t stealing women’s jewelry, was convicted of killing wealthy Polish refugee Susan Reich in a New York City hotel suite in 1942. Co-defendant John Cullen also received the death sentence. Madeline Webb received a life sentence.

M.J. Van Deventer and I are writing the forthcoming true crime book Madeline Gets Life; Pals to Die.

We discovered the hand-written short story in Shonbrun’s prisoner file at the New York State Archives. We could find no evidence that it was ever published. You are probably among the first to read it.

Sing Sing prison mugshot of Eli “Eddie” Shonbrun, author The Very Idea! Shonbrun was sentenced to death for the robbery-murder of Susan Reich.

The Very Idea!

By Eli “Eddie” Shonbrun

There was a particular dread Black Friday, during the year of the national panic of nineteen and seven, when at least two persons remained in blissful ignorance of this calamity, which would have been to both merely a paltry and insignificant affair, by comparison with the overwhelming fate which had overtaken them, as per schedule.

The female of these two miserable humans is to become the mother of a man-child (a few moments and he will arrive); the male necessarily the father. The Winchester wedding of this couple had taken place five months prior to this day of Kismet, in the drab town of Dullville, an uninhibited community in a state which borders on Arkansas and the ridiculous.

The greater of these twin periods of inflation, which is now giving birth to one of the dual tragedies of which we speak, had not interfered with our soon-to-be-mother’s career of washing the soiled linens of her more fortunate neighbors, for the latter’s weekly cleanliness and attendant godliness. The destined father, meanwhile, had remained true to his vow to drink the town dry, providing his newly found mate’s strength and purpose permitted.

Two issues were decided that dark day in ’07; one from the loins of screaming ma (no twilight sleep in Dullville), the other from the arteries of Wall Street’s maw.

And lo and behold! There appeared the first. Congratulations? Well… it was a boy.

How pleasant it would be to describe the joy and thanksgiving which attended the birth of this li’l bunch o’heaven, this great and good gift of tender love, of mutual affinity. How very pleasant it would be, and untruthful; for alas! This infant was a superfluity in Dullville.

When the first shock of pain and realization had been effected, before passion had waned, the future parents had marveled at the miracle which would inevitably be theirs. Wonderful, glorious Nature! Two ugly and ignorant people, devoid of any redeeming attributes, any kindness or gentility, humanity or sacrifice; two quite ordinary and average people they were, and they understood that they must be awed by the inevitable conclusion of their act. They were. Proof? Both remarked: “Aw… ‘tweren’t nothin’.”

The bambino was eventually christened Anthony, and he belied the laws governing heredity, having an exceedingly handsome and interesting countenance. During his childhood, Tony enlivened the tedium of his lot by singing in a beautifully appealing voice all the day, while acting as his mother’s little helper with her washboard-blues. His sire remained the village villain and town toper until his young manhood, when the entire family was compelled to move to a distant city – Chicago, in this story.

The compelling influence was the trio of incensed and outraged parents who descended upon poor Tony with fury in their hearts, and whips in their hands; for had not this same young man insidiously seduced their three respective and respectable female offspring? And one of them a farmer’s daughter!

Tony’s Pop, grateful for the opportunity to slake his unquenchable thirst near Lake Michigan – enjoying liquor much more when surrounded by vast bodies of water – envisioned a greatly increased income from the labours of his two mean means of support. A-a-ah! Bigger and better bundles of bed-clothes; dirtier and more disreputable doilies. All this, and Chicago too!

Enjoying his new surroundings, Tony sought and found escape from his circumstances by attending free evening classes for those interested in the stage, changing his name to Toni Ville. Dullville, learning of this through the occasional card which he would laboriously print and post to one or another of his former triple threats, scoffed and remarked that “the boy is up to no good; he’ll come to a bad end in that city of sin and ‘26’ games.” All were agreed that he would be wiser to accept his lot in life – that of airing others dirty linen. Toni considered becoming a gossipy newspaper columnist, aware that his training would stand him in good stead.

His first and last love, however, besides himself, remained the sham, pretense, and meretricious glamour called the footlights.

No one remembers what became of his progenitors in the next few years, during the rapid rise of Toni from the suds of the washtub to the sparkle of the wineglass; from the hemlock of obscurity and poverty, to the nectar of fame and affluence.

When he became THE star of stage, radio, and bedrooms in New York – he had even appeared in the music-halls and sleeping quarters of the fringe of nobility in London one season – Toni became accustomed to so much genuine hospitality and sincere kindness, that the unusual experience of finding himself an honored guest ‘mid respectable people, actually bored him. This was his proof positive that he had completely overcome his origin.

During these intervening years, Ville’s unholy trinity of home talent love had never forgotten the expertness nor agility with which he had prevailed upon them. They had each and all remained unwed, dissatisfied with the score of the typos who had approached them for their individual favors, after the professional Toni had broken par. When these three read of their lover’s conquests, and subsequent notoriety, they matched various vicarious reminiscences, and all nostalgically signed: “Thank heaven we knew him when.”

Now… during one slack season when Toni was annoyed at not being in the public’s good eye, our planet summoned his manager to discuss that tragic and unbelievable happenstance.

“What advances have been made in your promise to include screen, along with stage, radio, and benefits, in my publicity releases?” Toni inquired, feigning dissatisfaction with the universe. “Have you made an effort to secure the test you ‘knew’ you could arrange?”

“Let me explain, Teevee,” placated the manager. “I thought that your temporary lay-off was doing you a world of good. You’ve been giving so much of yourself to your fans that I hoped you would be grateful for an opportunity to relax. However,” noting Toni’s frown, “if it’s a test you want, a test you’ll have. I’ll call Darryl F. first thing in the morning. O.K.? You know I prefer you to work,” he smiled. At your trade, he silently added.

“That’s better, Lou, much better.” Toni was fortunately relieved. “I thought for a moment that those Hollywood producers of epics and emetics didn’t want me.” Casually, he insinuated: “Know what I would really like, Lou?”

“I can’t imagine, handsome. It never occurred to me that you wanted anything besides a top spot on the Coast, which you certainly could have had before this if your demands were more reasonable,” Lou truthfully replied. What would he do if Toni wanted to star in a re-make of “Gone With The Wind,” he worried.

Toni had begun, even in his cradle, to reach and seize and hold everything which glittered before his exceptional ebon eyes. He had recently witnessed the fascinating spectacle of a rival’s autobiography unfold in a popular magazine article and could not restrain his impatience to become the model of another prose portrait.

“What do you think of this idea,” Lou?” he asked, inviting disagreement and disaster. “What would you say if I told you that I am considering publishing my experiences, my memoirs?” Toni didn’t really want to know what he thought; the one time he had voiced an opinion they hadn’t spoken for a month, Lou remembered. Flattering precaution:

“A brilliant idea, Commander. Great! How did you ever hit on such a novelty? Say… the publicity we’ll get will make Hollywood come arunnin’. That’s using that handsome head, Toni, yes sir, as I said, brilliant.” Lou blushed for himself.

“You know I’m always in there pitching,” tossed Toni, exhibiting his usual control and conceit. “What about Banebris and his journals. Think you can get him?” Oho! That’s what was on his unreasonable facsimile of a mind, thought Lou. Would he enjoy telling him off. Just once, and he’d be a happy man. Unhappily:

“How about the Pipps-Coward syndicate instead, Champ?” Lou’s voice and eyes were imploring. “You know that Banebris may still be under that mistaken impression of his wife’s interest in you,” he lamely concluded. Had he actually said mistaken impression, he marveled.

“Where circulation is concerned, old man,” Toni observed with unwonted insight, “Banebris would publish an expose concerning his parents’ marital relations. This much I know: Banebris will leap at the opportunity to get my life story for his rags, even if I include his mistaken impression of his wife’s conduct. Don’t tell me anything about the Press.”

“I suppose you’re right, Governor. I’ll drop over to see him this afternoon and give you his answer tonight. Where will you be this evening? Where do you want me to contact you?”

“Call me at Banebris’s apartment at 8.” Toni glowed. “I’ll be there at that time to create some impressions, mistaken and otherwise.”

“What a man,” Lou replied with assumed admiration. “Maybe you’d like to sign Banebris’s contract while lying on his bed,” he laughed, thanking his Big Dipper that he was unmarried.

“I’ll be fulfilling one agreement, not entering another.” Toni was most pleased when anyone considered him a rogue. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how much money you’re going to make because you know me. Go on, leg it, as we ink-stained wretches say.”

Ville displayed his pleasure with himself by casting his arm and aura about the shoulders of his manager, and accompanied him to the door where they parted, Lou descending from heaven by elevator.

“Very well done,” Toni complemented aloud his mirrored reflection.

Later that day, Lou Birwin appeared at the offices of Artha Banebris, managing editor of the “New York Daily Lie” and sixty associated falsehoods. Birwin, making his errand known, gained a contract for Toni Ville which easily rivalled those which our most accomplished and distinguished authors receive, after they publish twenty or thirty best-sellers.

Everything now would have been amazingly simple but for one trifling interference: Toni was less capable of penning an autobiography than he was of single handedly building a fleet of air-craft carriers, complete with bases.

A few weeks elapsed when Toni received a polite inquiry from his editor, asking when he might be privileged to behold a first installment of the anticipated masterpiece of understatement. Ville, not knowing on which end properly to grasp a pen, immediately dispatched an SOS for his manager, who was acquainted with Toni’s dilemma and had been anticipating that summons. Birwin entered the august presence as Ville tampered with the truth.

“I have had a remarkably clever series in mind, Lou, but I am so busy with rehearsals and all that rot that I will have to delay putting my ideas on paper. I’ll be occupied indefinitely.”

Birwin knew that Banebris was not one of those fictional editors who would accept purgatory in preference to foisting a fraud or deception upon his trusting readers. The manager further was aware that Banebris cared not an editorial who penned the expensive absurdities, as long as the avid public considered it Ville’s very own, and his accounting department verified increased circulation. He therefore replied in tones of saccharine (substitute for sugar; rationing, y’know):

“Your time is too valuable, Chief. It would be ridiculous for you to trouble yourself with details. I’ll arrange with Banebris for an amanuensis.”

“Well…,” hesitated Toni, “I don’t know about those foreign authors. Do you think those ames… those, er, aluamener … do you advise me to engage one of those things you said?”

“Always kidding, eh, Captain?” Lou was aware of Toni’s plight. “Anything for a laugh. Very well, I’ll have Banebris ask one of those things to visit you. You can buy their professional talents for one of your songs.”

“Have Banebris send one over in about an hour, will you?” drawled Toni, stifling a non-existent yawn. “I can spare a few moments then, and I’m anxious to go to press.”

Toni’s wish, fortified by his ten percent, was Birwin’s command, so Lou hastened to Banebris’s office and explained his mission.

“Thy will be done,” the editor agreeably assented. “I thought you were going to arrange a séance, otherwise I would have conjured a ghost when we signed our contract.” As an afterthought: “I hope you didn’t think that I was under the mistaken impression that Phony Ville could write, in addition to starring in his bed-room farces, or did you?”

O Lord, here’s that mistaken impression again. What he doesn’t know would fill his sixty-one papers, Sunday supplements included. Wonder if he’s aware that Toni proof-reads his wife’s copy with a lascivious gleam in his eyes, Lou was thinking. Tactfully:

“No, certainly not. I should have invoked a phantom at once. I’m sorry, but you might understand that I was merely waiting for Toni to suggest that he was too busy to write, and not unable, as it would have appeared had I broached the subject to him.”

Lou, departing, reminded the editor that Toni was ready to interview his collaborator at any time in the future, and certainly within the hour. Banebris had his secretary ‘phone Miss Sally Jenson, a young and ethereal vision who had forsaken bankrupt principles for solvent principal, her present interest being a swollen bank account in preference to a deflated ego.

“Miss Jenson speaking. Who’s calling, and why?”

“Hello Sally, my dear. How is your good typewriter faring? Been busy?” Banebris wanted something, hence his jocular concern. “I hope you’ll find the time to do a series for me.” As though anyone wouldn’t, he was certain.

“I’ve been working on the other great American novel I never got around to doing, Mr. B.,” Sally replied, wondering how much the old buzzard wanted for nothing, or less. She’d play hard to get. “Does another personality want to buy my modern talents with ancient talents?”

“You’re too …” easy does it, Banebris, old fellow, the editor cautioned himself. Tell her off another day. “I mean; to be specific, Sally, THE personality of our romantic scene desires to break into print. I wouldn’t entrust his debut to anyone but you,” Mr. B. prevaricated. Not unless it suited his wallet, Sally knew, inquiring:

“Who can it be? Am I to be thrilled or horrified, Mr. B.?” Hurry… I’m waiting with bated breath for the denouement, and I’ll have to exhale in a moment.” She inhaled another puff from her satisfying cigarette.

“You’re very witty to-day, Sally,” A.B., editor, stalled for time. “Doing any copy for the picture of the same name?” Think she’ll do it for two fifty? Believe she will. No harm done by asking. What can I lose? (Banebris lost very few, if any, discussions and arguments with himself, as witness the latter.) Bait: “I’ll relieve the suspense, my dear, and whisper his name. Are you seated? Yes? Well then… it’s Toni Ville!”

“Not, not Toni Ville!” Sally simulated breathless wonderment. “I must have misunderstood. You didn’t say Toni Ville; you couldn’t say Toni Ville; you mustn’t say Toni Ville! Gad… not that name!”

“Stop it, Sally, you’re breaking my heart. Of course I said that name. Why, what’s the matter? Do you know him?”

“My God, the man asks do I know him,” she continued her affected astonishment. “Does anyone not know him? O Lucky me! I am to meet Toni Ville, the vocal viper. Thank you, thank you, Mr. Banebris. Annette Kellerman, and now me. The darlings of the gods!”

“Stop it, Sally. I haven’t the time for more right now. Listen, my dear…” and the editor became glowing in his tributes to both the ghost and her Hamlet.

“Now you listen to me, you old dotard. I’m not going to do a life of that name for any amount of money. I don’t express myself that way in black and white, without being beaten black and blue. Furthermore, I wouldn’t listen to his voice even on the air, unless he was swinging from a tree. I understand from the columns, anyway, that he wants to break into the movies. The cheapskate! Why doesn’t he invest a quarter, plus tax, and buy a ticket to the early-bird show at the Paramount? He’d be in the movies then, the rake.” Sally Jenson said this to herself, silently. Aloud to him:

“How many words do you need, and how many dollars do I get, Mr. B?”

“Directly to the cashier, eh, Sally? Very well. How would fifty-thousand for two-fifty strike you?” Banebris crossed his fingers and prayed.

“I would call that another Comstock Lode if you meant fifty-thousand dollars for two-hundred and fifty words, but since I know you mean the opposite, I’ll say you strike with lethal force. Sorry, I’ll have to beg off.” Banebris uncrossed his fingers and cursed as Sally continued: “Those terms might appeal to a supernatural wraith with a small overhead, but little Sally is a living spirit who pays rent and has to buy ribbons for her pet Underwood.” A challenge to mortal combat: “You’ll either take fewer words or give more gold. Your choice, sir?”

Banebris’s acceptance of the gauntlet, and the gory duel which followed, is too gruesome – nay! macrabre – to narrate. Be content to know that both antagonists were magnificent in their refusals to capitulate; however, a compromise was ultimately effected.

We next encounter Sally Jenson standing on the very threshold of life (and at her age), reluctant to take that fatal step. She tempts fate by pressing her luck and a buzzer. Beeves answers her summons. She is bade “Enter madame” and escorted to Toni Ville’s den, where no more nor less than forty former virgins have been trapped.

Toni had set the stage for the interview. We find him in his masculine beauty and a velvet smoking jacket, brow furrowed in assumed concentration over a script which he is apparently rehearsing; he actually is letter-perfect, having appeared in the production for which it was written two years earlier.

Begging Sally’s indulgence for a moment, Ville runs through a partial list of his famous postures and poses, alternately damning and praising the author for the situations and dialogue. Toni generally suffered authors, composers, librettists and lyricists as we suffer colds, but he could not quite ignore this very pretty specter who wore a tight-fitting sweater, although it was a nuisance her having brains.

“No matter how poor a play may be, I cannot avoid investing it with my entire personality,” Toni offered theatrically. He had slouched onto a couch at the conclusion of his performance. “My interpretation endeavors to create that which an author cannot possibly convey,” he expertly concluded, taking a mental curtain-call. Did you and Sally recognize these lines which Toni had declaimed in “His Papier-Mache Mistress,” act II, scene I, circa nineteen and thirty-eight?

Sally had scoffed and jeered at Toni and his profession and all other professions, as is the way of all flesh who earn their daily bread by kneading and baking other folks lives in the ovens of their ridicule. She had approached her new task with her usual sneer and attitude of superiority, being secretly thrilled by a shiver of delight which she could never quite dispel when encountering a celebrity. She reflected that Ville was the most fascinating beast she had ever seen, yea! a composite of all the gods of Olympus, even unto everything being Greek to him. There was but one trifling exception: he was America’s heel, not Achilles’.

Toni waved Sally to a love-seat and launched into:

“It is a joy to me to collaborate with a journalist of your repute, Miss Jenson,” he went gliding down his smooth ways. “And I am certain that the public will eventually remark that Toni Ville writes as well as he entertains.”

Sally was anticipating her reaction to his first proposal. Should she portray indignation or innocence, alarm of consternation. Though she might permit liberties, should she allow them at once, or delay? Why was her sex burdened with society’s invention that they must repel masculine advances unless mutual declarations of love and affection, not necessarily sincere, cloaked their acts with some semblance of respectability? Why must they be condemned when they yield to normal and healthy impulses, if they so desire? Whose is the loss; whose is the discretion? Why would she not accept Toni Ville? He was a gorgeous wolf; she wasn’t Little Red-Riding Hood. Would she call “Grandma”? Sally blushed, suddenly remembering that she had met him but a moment ago.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. Her laughter was self-conscious. “May I ask a few immediate questions, so that I can become better acquainted with Toni Ville the man, in lieu of Toni Ville the myth?”

“No preliminary small talk, eh, Miss Jenson? Very well then, let’s get down to work at once. What do you want to know?” Toni promised himself that under no circumstances whatsoever would he ever in the future be anything other than a fable to Sally Jenson. Play the role of sexless inquisitor with me will she, he fumed. He’d make it an inquisition!

“I’ll have to emulate Wells and get an outline of your history, Mr. Ville.” Noting his vacuous expression she became serious. “I must devote myself to you to the exclusion of all else these next few weeks, and since two thoughts can’t occupy the mind at one time, anymore than two bodies the same point in space, I will have to eat, sleep, and breathe Toni Ville

“I understand perfectly, Miss Jenson. I repeat, what do you want to know?”

“Firstly, I would like to learn where you were born. Are you a native New Yorker, Mr. Ville?”

“No, I’m not. I was born and raised in the Southwest,” Toni replied with the evident distaste he always associated with Dullville. “A vile place it was, too. I’d rather not discuss it.”

“It’s not necessary to dwell upon it. To merely say Southwest will be sufficient.” Sally thought she understood. “Were your mother and father members of your profession?”

“No. Can’t we go on to more important things? I trust you to create an interesting childhood out of your imagination, one which will be more entertaining than reality. Please,” he requested sincerely. [Note to reader: We, the authors, after due deliberation and exchange of opinion, confirm the use of the word ‘sincerely’ as used in the previous sentence. Ville’s tone was sincere.]

“Would you prefer that we omit any reference to your early life, besides saying that you were a devoted son? Do you not agree, however, that before we arrive at the entrance to your door of fame, we should offer our readers a brief glimpse into your formative background, an insight into your basic character, fostered and cultivated by your doting parents?” He’s bored to distraction, poor dear. Sorry, darling, a girl must earn a living, she silently apologized. Composing: “Something rural and countrified would be apropos, a wishful thing, of the prairie. The contrast between the meadow and the avenue. Do you approve?” Sally had her first four chapters engraved on her mind.

“Odd, isn’t it, that you express my ideas so fluently?” Toni was collaborating. Why hadn’t that idea occurred to him, he wondered. He consoled himself with the possibility that it might have if she hadn’t suggested it so quickly. Magnanimously: “I repeat, you have my permission to attribute to me anything which is clever and might be true. I cannot be annoyed with any homely scenes of my youth…” and he paused, remembering so many disagreeable incidents. Bullwhips in particular.

“I understand, Mr. Ville, and I will do my paid duty. One thing to which you must agree, however,” she continued; “Is that I may call upon you as often as is necessary to gain essential details. You see…”

“Hold it right there, young lady,” Toni interrupted. He hadn’t expected this development. Indignantly: “I most emphatically refuse to agree to anything of the sort. Why… do you think I am going to be at your disposal anytime you please? If I thought for a moment that I would have so many inconveniences just to write a book, well…” – here ensues a slight distortion of fact –  “I never would have consented to my manager’s entreaties and Banebris’s pleas, demanding that I bare my life’s story to the world.” Toni was attempting a Houdini from an uninteresting and avoidable task. He slyly added: “I’d just as soon forget the whole idea. Yes… let’s drop the entire affair.”

Sally was dismayed at the prospect of a shrinking bank balance. She remembered the montage effects which she had so often seen on the screen, when huge piles of money had crumbled and been swept into oblivion by a trick of the camera, through the artistry of that man with the peculiar name at which she had laughed. Slavko Vorkapich, wasn’t it? she asked herself, giggling.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ville,” she hastily apologized, remembering his affected anger. “I happened to think of something which struck me as humorous and could be included in our story with telling effect.” Sally was desperate to protect that which is the root of all evil (but only God can make a tree).

Ville was awaiting her recognition of his disinterest.

“I’m sure you know that it would be eminently unfair if you now refused to offer your public that information which they are breathlessly waiting.” That tidbit should hook him, she was thinking. Trolling: “Really, Mr. Ville, it is no longer a choice between your likes and dislikes. You belong to millions of people who will not be satisfied until they are given the opportunity to worship you not as a mere idol, but as the simple, kind, and humble man you really are, and will appear to be in print.” Bet he’s caught now, Sally wagered with herself. She won, as Toni replied:

“You’re right, Miss Jenson, absolutely right. I must again bow to the dictates of my public, and not my heart. Thank you for your analysis. Let us proceed with what you believe is necessary.”

This is a truly mad world in which we live, Sally was philosophizing. Here is this handsome fool having a greater grip on the public than a Ben Hecht. He is enviously described as a “famous personality” because he possesses an animal magnetism.

Crosby has a growth in his throat; Lamour a flowered remnant. Turner has a parapet; Crawford pop-eyes and a big mouth. Boyer has a deep voice; Lamarr a pretty face. Each of these quite ordinary humans, in company with thousands of their kind, is a revered celebrity, literally idolized by millions of otherwise normal and sane people. Why?

Sally had a growth in her throat; a remnant she could buy in a subway silk-store. Her parapet was well fortified; she had bulging eyes and a wide mouth. A deep and unaccented voice was hers, as was a pretty face. She had all of these characteristics, appendages, and tricks of fate, combined with numerous others. Why, then, was she not worshipped as is no other? Why was she not afforded national adulation, a fantastic income, the very best which life can offer in all respects?

Yes, Sally, thought, this is a mad, sad world, indeed.

“When did you first recognize your call to the theatre?” Sally inquired interestedly, temporarily shelving her previous speculations. “Where was the scene of your most memorable triumph? Who gave you that original opportunity which you have so magnificently justified? What was the turning point in your career? Why have you ignored the blandishments of Hollywood?”

“Please have pity on me, Miss Jenson,” Toni was appealing. “I have answered the five W’s ten-thousand times in ten-thousand interviews, without remuneration. Now for the first time I am being rewarded for my replies, and I suddenly become weary of the alphabet.” He grudgingly removed his X-ray gaze from Sally’s Tish-U-Knit; his resolution to remain a myth was rapidly fading. Mm…m…m…she’s cute…

“Would you prefer that I glean my information from your book or books of press notices? Do you think I can unearth enough facts from them to create an interesting fiction?” Sally was becoming embarrassed at his pointed scrutiny. (Which woman hasn’t?) “We can add some of your more unusual and unknown experiences and anecdotes concerning famous personages. Will that be satisfactory?” Sally realized that she would have to fashion a story which suited her exclusive design, since Toni was depriving her of material for vest, cuffs, flaps and lapels. She’d pattern out of whole cloth, she consoled herself, what with his refusal to cooperate, and priorities being what they are.

“Splendid, Miss Jenson, that will solve our difficulty. I would have said terrific, if not for the popular aversion against that abused word.” He was relieved, adding: “I am convinced that you will manage everything beautifully. Incidentally, you are remarkably discerning. Some afternoon in the near future when I have the time, I’ll be happy to read a few pages of our work. We’ll get together soon again, but now…” a testimonial smile appeared, understanding was required. “Forgive me if I seem rude. I have an important engagement in an hour, and …” entreaty for sympathy miraculously suffused Toni’s face and carriage. The acme of supplication was depicted in his visage and gestures. Bravo! phony, she silently applauded his mute artistry.

“Some afternoon in the near future when I find the time,” mimicked Sally, in exasperation and the elevator, a few moments later. She had promised a chapter or two within the week, as Ville had said “au ‘voir.” “Not even one little allusion to the physical, not one innuendo. Toni Ville, you disappointed me. And I wore this knitted thing…” she mused.

Returning to her studio, Sally was puzzled as she sat at her desk. She uncovered the weapon which has caused so much destruction to those at whom it has been aimed and sat staring at the triggers. Discarding her previous ideas, Sally idly fingered typewriter keys and decided to delay the beginning of her story until the morrow. She’d go out and do a little shopping instead of writing – her last opportunity – there were a few necessities she simply had to buy. Rushing to the nearest record shop she purchased:

“A dozen of the newest Toni Ville releases, please. How much are they?” Mad, sad world? Indeed!

The following morning Sally decided upon Toni’s character. She preferred that he should be a misunderstood man, who had suppressed his true nature in deference to the public’s desire for his notoriety. Determining this as her most logical approach, she sped along at a rapid pace with his gay and untroubled childhood. The sad remembrance of “my beloved parents, who were not spared to see their darling boy’s greatest success materialize,” was to bring a moment’s grief even unto Toni, before he remembered that he neither wrote nor felt those sentiments.

A reference to the mausoleum which he had erected to their memory, and his frequent flower-laden pilgrimages thereto, was exquisitely tender and haunting.

“The quest of my career – and thank heaven! it is being fulfilled – is to give of myself to You, my Public, many happy hours of escape from daily problems. If only I have succeeded in entertaining you! Oft have I portrayed Harlequin …. Yes, friends, even tho’ I concealed a personal tragedy or heartbreak. My comfort was in the knowledge that I, through my humble efforts, was instrumental in relieving a portion of Your care and woe. You, seeking release in …” whimsey.

Satisfied with the series as far as it had progressed, Sally began to take more than a superficial interest in her work. She, in company with her paper audience, unwittingly sought release in … imagery.

The vital struggle of audition now conquered, Sally’s sympathy was deeply aroused at the vision of Toni valiantly approaching the ordeal of his first sponsored broadcast. The stark horror of it was appalling… but onward he marched with a firm tread, bright eye, and lump in his throat… successfully to embark upon his new career of ether. He was the personification of manly intrepidity. That brave, undaunted lad, fearless in the very face of that monster called a microphone.

Toni, too, approved of his courage when this scene was read to him. Sally found him exceedingly ill-tempered and quarrelsome this day. The qualities with which she had endowed him were conspicuous by their absence when she was in his presence. She regretted that he disturbed the pool of tranquility which she had created and in which he bathed (clad in silk trunks, of course!). His recognition of that one aforementioned incident – “you have a penetrating insight, Miss Jenson,” he had complimented – was something upon which she fastened.

Unaware that her senses were stunned, Sally escaped his disregard by hurrying home to recapture her ruminative realm. Ville’s explosive egotism had shattered her armor against anything amorous.

Prince Charming, encountering jealousy and other major catastrophes, became a pathetic figure. Sally was approaching his saintly martyrdom. Who’s exaggerating? Read on! Toni’s characteristic equanimity and fortitude in the face of many disappointments; his generosity and consideration to the less fortunate of his profession; his sympathy and understanding towards all those luckless who would never attain their desired successes; these, all of these virtues, endeared him to her.

The crowning of Ville, as emperor of her heart, was celebrated that coronation day when Toni broke an appointment with a Countess of the ignoble family of Burghaps to give his blood in an emergency transfusion performed on a suffering chorus-boy – all expenses defrayed by our male Nightingale.

The Personality enjoyed tremendously this incident when it was brought to his attention. An engagement in the offing, he donned an overcoat and a careless air, confiding:

“That is the greatest fictional fact I have ever heard, Miss Jenson. If you only knew how close to the truth you came… Are you clairvoyant? I think you missed your proper medium.”

As a member of his retinue, Sally accompanied His Majesty to the plebeian street; they parted at the door of his royal purple roadster.

It is now six weeks since Sally has been endowing Toni with the figments of her undated imagination. Six weeks she has required to create a male Galatea, with herself as female Pygmalion. [Note to editor: wire G.B. Shaw his permission. Usual percentage. Awaiting reply.] Poor Sally Jenson, poor, unhappy girl. She had given Ville a heart, a brain, and a soul. Poor Sally Jenson we say, for Toni lacked all three of these fervent wishes of their creator’s hopes and desires. The Creation, in his vanity, endeavored to appear to his maker as the perfect specimen which, by any stretch of the imagination, he could never be.

While working now, Sally ransacked her vocabulary for word treasures, yearning to hear precious oral gems from her Idea, which he would voice to her during the reverential visits she made to his pent-house sanctuary. The illusion of fact was heightened by his expert mouthing of her enchanted endearments. He was benignly confessing his secrets, in the book, to a chimerical woman of his dreams.

And so Sally fell madly in love – with the swashbuckling hero of her typewriter, and thought it was with the piratical Ville.

She began living a life of complete fancy. Her Notion appeared as a distracted and silent sufferer seeking only relief, in her presence, from her clamoring multitudes demanding his favors. His innermost hopes and fears he confided to her, trusting her to offer understanding, comfort and solace. Advice, peace, and relaxation he sought, and found. She mentally pampered and coddled him. With her he was always the unsophisticated and completely adorable little boy, begging approval. Several times he appeared on the verge of sacrificing their platonic relationship, by casual references to the urge of mutual attraction, but skirted this subject when he realized its potential dangers.

“Have I justified the faith you placed in me?” Sally asked him one day, when the series neared completion.

“You’re jesting, aren’t you, Miss Jenson?” Toni queried surprisedly. He thought he had complimented her sufficiently. Well, since she was an artist and thrived on flattery, he’d be generous. “But my dear, dear Mis Jenson! I now realize that if anyone other than you had collaborated in penning my autobiography, I could never have achieved the same result. I would have destroyed it without the slightest hesitation. I am the one who should ask the question: ‘“have I justified the faith we reproduced?’”

Sally dropped her eyes and a mental curtsey at his compliment.

“Thanks a million, Mr. Ville. It was your inspiration which reflects our success, if any. It was you … that is … well, I am pleased that you are pleased.”

“More than pleased, Miss Jenson. Much more. Elated is nearer the truth. You are too modest, my dear, the same as I am.” (Who said that?)

“No, that isn’t it at all. You misunderstand,” said Sally, suddenly trembling with released emotions. “I must explain. I accepted this assignment because it was lucrative. In addition I anticipated pleasure from a work well done. Now I find … you see … oh! I will be candid! I have always been in the enviable position of a free-lance writer. You understand what I mean. I had an alternative when things were unappealing or distasteful. I was free-lancer in everything. My heart was as unfettered as my head. Now … well … I am no longer free in everything.”

“Why?” he asked innocently. “Why are you no longer free in everything, as you emphasized?” Toni was standing by the fireplace; to the minutest detail he was fashion. His too-handsome face was turned to her in polite inquiry.

“Come over her and kiss me, you dog,” invited Sally. “Come over here and sit beside me and caress me. Tell me I’m beautiful. Hold me, say you adore me. Talk to me, tell me things.” Sally invited this with her eyes, silently. Effusively:

“I have sacrificed my peace of mind, that’s why. When we first agreed that I was to collaborate with you, did it never occur to you that I was marrying you? Oh, you needn’t be alarmed. I don’t mean ‘marrying’ in a literal sense. I mean that I was taking Toni Ville home with me to live with me. We were going to live together without benefit of clergy. Do you know what that means? I was going to be blessed by God, without a justice of the peace as an intermediary. What did you think was going to happen to a woman who knew Toni Ville as intimately as I did, who knew his every mood and thought, each emotion and desire? Do you thin ink courses through my veins, as neon does through yours?”

Toni had been restraining his laughter all during Sally’s outburst; he could neither be unsympathetic nor unmoved. As the compassionate hero of the new role which he was essaying, he must be kindly and grave, deeply understanding. He murmured in a Ville tone:

“My dear Sally. I may call you Sally, may I not?” She nodded consent. “Thank you, my dear. Do you realize that you have distressed me considerably?” He paused for effect, then gently said: “I had no idea … rather did I …” hesitancy may soothe her distress, he was thinking.

Sally’s impulse was to console Toni because she had placed him in a false position by her declaration, but she could not unless she forfeited his lack of response. She was elated that he had not offered an unconcerned rebuke; his quiet acceptance of her foolish admission was that which she preferred. She blushed and said: “Forgive me.”

“I am surprised at your cruelty, Sally. Why do you denounce me for something of which I was ignorant?” These were George’s lines to his incensed wife in “Love’s a Game,” Toni remembered. He stammered, as per direction, “I have not deserved … no… no, not at your … I … what is to be my reward for …”

Sally had regained her composure, and she did not intend repeating her previous error. She would now have to await his decision. Would he attempt temptation, or be content with conversation? Challenging herself, she admitted being an idiot. Ashamedly:

“Please, Mr. Ville, will you try to forget what I said? You will only increase my embarrassment if you allude to those ridiculous remarks I made. Please say you’ll try to forget.”

“I have already forgotten, Sally. We will both remember only that you have asked me to forget.” Quite dramatic, and original too, were his thoughts.

“That is very sweet, Mr. Ville. Thank you. I’ll finish the story within the next few days …”

“And a very pleasant friendship must not end,” he concluded for her. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

“Certainly. Thanks again. I must go now ….” She rose and started for the door. “See you when I type finis.”

“Good-bye, Sally. Don’t hurry the ending. I dislike finality.”

He watched her enter the elevator, in which Sally descended to hell.

Furiously exasperated with herself for having fallen in love, at long last for the first time, Sally was unable to concentrate on her work. Visions of any effigy were everywhere. She dared not strike a typewriter key lest she injure Toni, whose face appeared thereon.

Sally had carefully avoided love in the past, by the simple expedient of discontinuing a friendship with any man for whom she might have deeply cared. She knew that it was impossible for anyone to seriously injure her, providing she did not love that one.

Sally was studiously averse to the investment of her affections. She had seen too many bankrupts and failures with those feelings involved, and that trust irrevocably impaired. She sensed the depths and despairs to which an unrequited love might unwillingly fall heir. She was wary of the speculative hazard involved with the surrender of self into the protection and custody of another frail human, one who might become even unintentionally careless with that guardianship, that faith. She pondered the enigma of a person who would deposit his lesser fortune – tangible assets – in a subterranean vault, and then casually bank his most precious possession – love – in an airy promise.

Yes! Sally feared love. She felt that when she loved, she would adore. She required more than an ordinary idol before which to humble her strong mind. Unlike less intellectual women, when she loved she must cease to command, and pride be humbled to devotion. So rare were the qualities which could attract her, that her love would elevate its object to a god. Accustomed to despise, she would learn the luxury of veneration.

She knew that the possessor of the greatest happiness which life can offer is he who has miraculously found another who will forever safeguard that happiness.

Deeply affected by her reflections, Sally attempted to relieve her fear of Toni’s permanent indifference. She plunged into imaginary love scenes, in which he was contrite and imploring her favors. She reciprocated his former indifference, and even became inordinately cruel, until this fanciful satisfaction palled. It offered slight comfort, this being mentally supercilious … Sally felt that she required something physical to assuage her bruised pride.

During the weeks which had elapsed since we heard Banebris haggling with Sally over money and the telephone, the editor had received the bulk of the manuscript and had begun publishing the early chapters. He had remarked to his associate that he was joyously beating the public with the jaw-bone of an ass, “said jaw-bone being the words credited to Toni, said ass being Ville.”

DEDICATED TO YOU by TONI VILLE was playing a date of havoc in a million American homes. Junior was crying for the funnies, hubby for the sports-section, Dad for the editorial. “Hey … where’s that paper?” became the national query. “You’ll have to wait, dears” became the national reply.

Mother and daughter, the length and breadth of the land, were just stepping with Toni Ville into the seductive bedroom of Glorya Glandula, the thrice divorced wife of B.O. Glandula, the debonair billionaire.

The next day they might have been plunging, again with their Toni, into the diamond studded platinum swimming pool of Georgia Borgia, newly crowned Empress of the Tease, whose stirring rendition of “Hallelujah! I’m a Bum” had skyrocketed her to the pinnacle of musical-comedy infamy and national importance.

Banebris’s office became the vortex of a deluge of fan-mail for Toni Ville. (See public-relations counsel for descriptive confirmation.) Lou Birwin made arrangements to reservoir the flood, and with this in mind engaged a staff who would systematically dole replies to all requests and inquiries. When Toni learned the cost of his conservation he tried to drown Birwin. Three letters were eventually considered important enough to forward to Ville, for his personal disposal of their contents.

“The past rears its trio of ugly heads,” stormed Toni, reading the last missive. Now what was he to do, he pondered. They would not accept a refusal if he replied. Should he ignore them it would appear as though he consented. What colossal impudence, he ws thinking. Toni was referring to the messages he had received from Dullville, from the three Dullville former maidens, to be exact. They had read the newspaper reference to “my childhood sweetheart, the one and only dear girl who is enshrined in the cathedral of my heart,” and now each was urgent in her demand to be summoned to her lover’s side, that she might freshen her fading icon.

Sally chose this unpropitious moment to bring her completed story to Toni. He required, as always, someone to castigate when emotionally (temperamentally?) disturbed. He was determined to summon Sally and place on her shoulders the blame for this postal development when she unfortunately arrived and offered him the completed pages of her tribute.

“The very person for whom I was looking.” Toni glowered. “This is the first time I’ve been genuinely pleased to see you.” He pointed imperiously to the letters on the table, demanding: “See those? Well? At what are you staring? Read them. See the mess of trouble into which you’ve put me with your fertile imagination. Go on, read them!”

Genuinely pleased? Mess of trouble? Sally was puzzled. What could have happened? What had she done? She was frightened by his tone, as she faltered:

“I am sorry that you are so perturbed, Mr. Ville. What have I done? What is in those letters? I can’t imagine what they might contain that could concern me.” Sally’s surprise was genuine, as was Toni’s anger, when he sarcastically replied:

“It wasn’t enough when you brought your own infantile declaration of love in here. No, that was insufficient. You had to add these other three…” Again he pointed to the letters, which Sally had firmly resolved she would not read. “Three more confessions. Don’t you women have any pride? Are you all identical, in all respects?”

His insults had stunned Sally. Incredulity assailed her. Who was saying those beastly things? It couldn’t be Toni, not the man she loved. Or else … was he acting? Of course … that must be the explanation.

“This is the first time you’ve ever been at a loss for words, isn’t it, Miss Adjective?” he intruded on her hopes. “Well, why the pregnant silence? Why don’t you say something, anything? Are you waiting to be paid for an answer?”

“Stop it, for heaven’s sake, stop!” she gasped. “How can you say those horrid things? Please don’t … please. What have I done? Tell me what is written in those letters. I refuse to read them. And please, please don’t sneer at women’s confessions,” she entreated.

“Why not? Why shouldn’t I? Haven’t I been father confessor to enough of them? I don’t flatter myself when I say I’ll hear thousands more in the future. “(Ah! there, Ville; you gay blade.) Toni had reverted to his normally sardonic self.

“That is not you speaking! That is not you!” Sally was bewildered.

“What do you mean ‘that is not you, that is not you’? Who else is it? Certainly it’s me, and only me. I’m bored with being someone else, someone you manufactured.”

“Repeat that! Please repeat what you said!” Sally was beginning to understand, as one who rouses from a dream … of course … she had been under the spell of her own syntax. “Oh! Have I been a fool! I blush with shame for myself! … Thanks for saying those things you did, in just that tone. You’ll never know how grateful I am. I must have been asleep.”

“Why are you thanking me, for what? Which tone?” Toni’s surprise was not entirely histrionic.

“Never mind, Toni. I may call you Toni, may I not?” Sally had regained her balance. “It’s unimportant. Nothing you could say would be important … not now.” She rose to leave, then paused to ask: “Before I go … to part forever from the man I loved … may I have a kiss … from him?” Sally’s eyes were mischievous.

“If you must,” Toni condescended. He knew she’d come around. He raised his arms to enfold her in his regal embrace.

Ignoring his gesture, Sally lowered her head to the manuscript which Ville still held in his hand, and gently pressed her smiling lips to the paper.

“Finis,” she murmured softly, as she tip-toed from the room.

A moment later, via elevator, Sally Jenson was returning to the pavement and reality.

END