30
“HELLO, HELLO, MAY I SPEAK WITH THE STAR MAKER, please.”
“Who is it calling?”
“Mortimer Griffin.”
“One moment, please,” Miss Mott said.
There was a pause.
“Well, hello there.”
“Star Maker?”
“At your service.”
“I’ve thought it over. I’ll take the job.”
“Are you sure, Mortimer?”
“Absolutely. It’s definite.”
“Good boy.”
“Oh, incidentally, Star Maker, I’ve kept your secrets. All your secrets, I haven’t spoken to anyone. Just like I promised.”
“Your word is your bond.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that all, then?”
“Oh, well, I suppose I should tell you I had something of a tiff with Lord Woodcock.”
“What happened?”
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t mentioned it, then?”
“No.”
“It’s very funny.”
“How come?”
“Well, I was drunk, see, my mind’s a complete blank, but I think I hit him.”
“Not to worry.”
“The embarrassing thing is I can’t remember a thing I said to him. But he’s not to be trusted.”
“Is that so?”
“Lord Woodcock has his virtues, God knows, but he’s a compulsive liar. I can’t tell you how anxious I am to get started at Oriole.”
“Good boy. When can we meet and talk again?”
“Any day now, Star Maker. I’ll call you the day after tomorrow.”
“Splendid.”
“Meanwhile, don’t you worry about me. My lips are sealed.”
“You have my complete trust, Mortimer.”
“You too, Star Maker. Goodbye now.”
“Toodle-loo.”
Mortimer stepped out of the telephone booth and walked slowly toward The Eight Bells, the Rover following after. Once inside, he scooted downstairs to the Gents, and out the back door.
The first travel agency he came to was on Oxford Street.
“One way,” the clerk said. “Economy or first class?”
“Economy.”
“Two tickets to Toronto would come to two hundred and five pounds.”
“Thank you.”
We’ll need a stake, Mortimer thought, continuing down Oxford Street. A nice hunk of cash. In a hurry.