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“It’s called a yarmulke. Send him in.”
Andrew Rubenoff marched in smiling, but when he saw Bell standing by the window, his smile faded. “You do not look well, Isaac.”
“Lost a friend,” Bell answered tersely. “What have you learned?”
The newly minted film-manufacturing banker went straight to the purpose of his visit.
“To my great relief,” he said, “the so-called Artists Syndicate does not exist.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that a syndicate that I knew nothing about, but thought I should, is a sham. It exists only on paper. Its supposed Wall Street investors are ghosts.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Then who paid for Imperial Film’s ten-story building?”
“I don’t know yet. But it was not the Artists Syndicate.”
“Someone funneled a lot of money into Imperial.”
“To be sure. But so far Wall Street has greeted my questions about who that someone might be with a wall of silence.”
“Are the Wall Streeters protecting Imperial?”
“No, no, no. Imperial’s money almost certainly comes from someplace other than Wall Street. Abroad, I suspect.”
“Germany?”
“Perhaps. But English bankers are our biggest source of foreign funds. They invest in American railroads and ranches and ore mines. Why not moving pictures?”
“And the Germans?”
“Obviously, your first interest in this is the Germans. We shall see. Not to worry, I’m just getting started.”
“I’ll have our Research people nose around that, too.”
Rubenoff smiled modestly. “I’m sure that the Van Dorn Research department will be… helpful.”
“How did you find out so quickly that there’s no Wall Street interests in the Artists Syndicate?”
“Isaac! You are talking to Andrew Rubenoff. When the Messiah comes, he’ll ask me to recommend a stockbroker.” He sobered quickly. “I don’t mean to offer false hope. Wall Street was easy. Abroad is much more complicated. I’ve already started, but I can’t deliver such fast results.”
Bell heard the clatter of a troop of horsemen in the street, not a usual sound in downtown Los Angeles. He looked down from the window again. Twenty actors dressed as cowboys in white hats and bare-chested, war-painted Indians were trotting by, bound, it appeared, for picture taking in nearby Elysian Park. He watched them pass, his brow furrowed in thought. Then he picked up the Kellogg intercommunicating telephone.
“Send an apprentice.”
One came instantly. It was the kid wearing the lavender bow tie. “Mike, transmit a wire on the private line to Texas Walt Hatfield. The Houston office will know where to find him.”
The kid whipped out pad and pencil. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bell. What’s the message?”
COME LA.
SEEK EMPLOYMENT WITH IMPERIAL FILM AS COWBOY PLAYER.
“Go on, Mike. That’s all.”
