Master of the Revels

Otto Freund came to Hollywood in 1938.

The hard way.

He crossed the German border at night carrying one suitcase.

It contained two woolen suits that an English tailor made for him in 1936, five silk shirts, three silk, ties, a half-dozen pairs of socks, two pairs of English shoes, his father's straight razor and two rolled-up Cezannes.

He left behind him one wife, one great Dane and the prints of 10 motion pictures that had made him a reputation and a fortune.

In 1938, Otto Freund's trip across the German border was inevitable. He had been one of the Giants of the German motion picture industry. At UFA he had been a little tin god, a Teutonic Cecil B. de Mille. His grandfather, unfortunately, had had the bad taste to fall in love with a chubby fraulein in Leipzig in 1867 who had just the slightest trace of Jewish blood in her veins. In Hitler's Germany in 1938 those few drops of 1867 non-Aryan blood were enough to send Otto Freund across the German border with one suitcase.

The Cezannes went for a good price in Paris and supported him through the summer of '38. The market value of German geniuses was very low in France that year no matter how much non-Aryan blood flowed through the veins of how many ancestors. Otto Freund spent the last of the Cezanne money in London. He had two suits made for him by a Bond Street tailor. Three pairs of boots and a dozen silk shirts left him with enough for a first-class ticket on the Queen Mary and enough for a taxi ride to the Plaza. He had no doubt that something would turn up in New York. In the past when he'd been in New York he'd been lionized by the intellectuals and had turned down offer after offer to direct Broadway plays. He had been unavailable because of film commitments. Now he was making himself available.

There were no takers.

A former colleague of his at UFA who was now in the Advertising Department of General Motors picked up his hotel bill and staked him to a coach ticket to the coast, for old time's sake.

Hollywood was unimpressed. Otto Freund was just another unemployed fugitive from Adolf Hitler. For a while he existed by allowing himself to be taken up by a succession of refugee committees. He used every ounce of his Teutonic charm to ingratiate himself with the well-heeled members of the committees and if they paid off only with respect, admiration and an occasional meal it was enough for Otto Freund in 1938. He was living in a run-down rooming house with peeling white stucco walls in the Hollywood Hills and on the day that he was down to his last seven dollars, he met Lili in a drugstore. He had broken out in a rash and was buying a patent medicine salve when he turned away from the counter and almost knocked her over.

"I beg your pardon," he said automatically as he turned.

He was immediately engulfed in a pair of strong arms.

"Meister. Herr Meister."

He didn't recognize the voice. Every teenager in the country would have recognized it... sultry, vaguely masculine and sexy, it had been amplified on every screen in America and had been labeled the official voice of glamor. If he didn't recognize the voice, he did recognize the smell, a kind of musky odor halfway between perspiration and perfume.

"Lili," he said. "Lili, my darling. Lili."

"Meister."

They embraced again.

Many years before he'd picked her but of an extra call to share his bed in Berlin. He'd made her a star in a heavy-handed, filmed-through-cheesecloth epic about Frederick the Great and had her snatched away from him by Hollywood. He remembered that it had been with a certain sense of relief. She may have been the world's most glamorous woman on the screen but in his bed she was becoming something of a bore.

"You look wonderful, Lili. Wonderful."

"And you, Meister. You too. Wonderful."

"Fifteen years," he said.

"Sixteen. Come," she said, "we will talk. Come home with me."

He made a couple of feeble excuses but found himself sharing the back seat of a Cadillac with her. They drove down the Sunset Strip and turned north on Rodeo Drive. The car pulled up to a Moorish castle with iron gates. It was impeccably white stucco. It wasn't peeling. He followed her into the house, she mixed them two drinks from the bar in the corner of the pale gray living room and disappeared into the kitchen.

"First I get us something to nibble on. Then I make lunch and then we have a nice long talk."

"You make lunch, Lili?"

"I make lunch. Didn't I cook for you, Otto, in Berlin? Didn't I cook?"

"Who had time to eat, Lili?"

Lili came out of the kitchen with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. She put them on the oversized coffee table in front of the oversized couch.

"These are left over from the party I had last night, Meister. Such a party. Two hundred people. Some of them I even knew."

"It is so good so see you again, Lili."

"And you. Now tell me. Sit, eat and tell me. What are you doing in Hollywood and why didn't you call me?"

"I am in Hollywood," said Otto, "because Mr. Hitler is in Berlin."

"That pig."

"I am in Hollywood because the only thing I know how to do is to make moving pictures. I am looking for a job, Lili."

"And Anna?"

"I had to leave her. I had to leave suddenly. I was told that the Gestapo was to pick me up and I had to leave. With one suitcase I had to leave. At night."

"Terrible."

"Terrible. With one suitcase. And so ... Lili ... here we are, 16 years later."

He took her hand and held it gently. With the other, he continued eating.

"You have grown thin, Meister."

"It is not a time to be fat, Lili. And you have grown lovelier. I have seen you in the pictures. You are beautiful and successful, Lili. My little Lili. My little Berlin Lili."

"Pictures! Drek! I am ashamed, Meister, you should have seen me in such drek."

"Drek has made you a very famous woman. A star."

"You made me a star."

"It was a good picture, Lili. Remember the opening in Berlin? Remember the crowds? The interviews? You were a Queen and I was your Prince Consort."

"A puppet and you were the Meister."

He put down the piece of smoked salmon on the slice of toast and put his arm around her.

"Lili," he said. "My Berlin Lili."

He kissed her.

When he'd finished he picked up the piece of smoked salmon and resumed his meal.

"You could always cry, Lili," he said. He reached for his handkerchief and stopped. He remembered how dirty it was. Instead he handed her one of the cocktail napkins on the tray. Lili wiped her eyes and brushed away the streak of mascara that had run in one corner of her face.

"You could always cry, Lili."

"Cry I could always do. And eat you could always do."

"They're very good," he said, reaching for a slab of sturgeon on Ry-Krisp.

Lili went into the kitchen and came back with a coffee beaker and two cups. She poured.

"Now we eat and we sit and look at each other and say nothing. Later we talk. Tonight you stay for dinner. I will make for you, Otto, sauerbraten like you have not had since Berlin."

"Berlin," he said "Berlin."

"Meister," she said and took his hand. The non-eating one. "Meister. Tonight it will be like it was. Sauerbraten."

That night it was like it was. Sauerbraten. Memories. Tears. And the odor halfway between perspiration and perfume. Oddly enough it made Otto Freund homesick for his fat Anna and his great Dane. They talked far into the night, huddled together in the outsized bed with the silk monogrammed sheets.

The next morning Lili sent the chauffeur to the rooming house with the peeling white stucco walls to pick up his one suitcase. For six months they worked together at night on a script that slowly but surely became the same script about the same Frederick the Great that had been their first great triumph together.

"This picture will be my monument," said Otto. "I was foolish. I never saved any of the money. I never bought any annuities. This picture will be my annuity."

Lili overrode her agent's objections, mortgaged the house and formed an independent company to produce the picture.

Otto was lionized all over again. He was invited to the best parties, Lili let him have a Jaguar and he was allowed to sign tabs at Romanoffs.

But right from the beginning the picture went badly. Otto didn't know about the forced democracy of the labor unions in Hollywood. He treated the grips and the juicers the way he had always treated them, as employees instead of like brothers, and by the third day he was cordially hated. "High-hatted bastard," was the kindest word anyone on the sound stage had for him. By the fifth day, Lili was no longer talking to him. He still slept in the spare bedroom over the garage in her Rodeo Drive house but his meals were prepared by the Irish cook instead of Lili. They finished the picture four weeks behind schedule and Lili locked him out of the projection room while she cut the picture herself.

They held the sneak preview in West-wood on a rainy Tuesday night. It was a disaster. The audience whooped with laughter and 15 minutes after the picture started they were shouting wisecracks back at the screen. Otto left before it was over, packed his suitcase and left the Rodeo Drive house. He still had a couple of hundred dollars of Lili's spending money in his pocket. He also kept the Jaguar.

He moved into a rooming house near Vine Street and hung out his shingle: DR. Otto Freund School of Drama. He invested capital in business cards which he left in bars, drugstores and supermarkets in the Hollywood Boulevard area. To the world that exists west of the Strip he disappeared as completely and as surely as if he'd been sent to the salt mines of Siberia. But he survived the war years and even managed to start a small savings account. He called it his annuity fund.

Otto Freund was never happier in his life. His pupils respected and admired him and there were always one or two who were flattered that they could give "The Meister" something tangible in return for his understanding and inspiration. The Meister, in these specific cases, added another course to his curriculum. It was like the early days with Lili in Berlin before success and glamor spoiled it all. That, at least, is the way Otto thought of the Berlin days now. He forgot the boredom and remembered only the gemütlichkeit and passion.

With the end of the war, Otto Freund suddenly found himself out of business. (continued on page 36) Master of the Revels (continued from page 18) There was no sudden or dramatic reason for it particularly, except, perhaps that new methods, new techniques, new standards suddenly made him seem old-fashioned, schmaltzy and slightly ridiculous. Whatever the reason Otto suddenly found himself down to one pupil, and a non-paying pupil, at that--meaning that even though she had no money, she paid her way, after a fashion. Her name was Helen Bradcliff. She was the daughter of a Pennsylvania mill hand. She had entered her first beauty contest at 16. By the fall of 1947 she had become a necessity to him, and he grew frantic when he noticed signs of restlessness. One night over a dinner of sauerbraten (Lili's recipe) and beer (domestic and cheap) they had their first and last argument.

"Meister," she said.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I want to go out dancing. To Ciro's or the Mocambo. I want to see some of the famous people you're always talking about."

"In time, my dear."

"That's what you always say."

"Helen, my dear. I have explained it all to you."

"Explain it again."

Otto put down the glass of beer and talked in his most gentle, persuasive voice.

"You are not ready to be shown to Hollywood, my dear. We have worked very hard but our masterpiece is not yet ready to be unveiled. It is as if Cezanne were to hang an unfinished canvas at the Louvre. We will work harder and when we both feel you are ready you will explode on Hollywood like a..."

"Bomb. That's what I'll be. A bomb."

"You will be an aurora borealis."

"A great big fat bomb. I'm sick of the smell of sauerbraten and cabbage. I'm sick of your always promising me I'm going to be a star. When, for god's sake? I'm sick of your always talking to me about the famous people you know and are going to introduce me to. When, for god's sake? All I ever meet is the fat old slob of a landlady. All I ever do is lie on my back while you paw me and tell me how great I'm going to be. When, for god's sake? Meister! Meister, my ass!"

There was silence in the room. Otto got up slowly and poured himself another glass of beer. When he returned to the table Helen didn't look at him. He drank his beer slowly.

"You want to go dancing?" he asked. "You want to go to night clubs? You want to meet famous people?"

"Is that so terrible?"

"No," he said. "No. It is not so terrible. But it is not enough. You sell yourself too cheaply. I ask only a little patience, a little faith, a little belief in me and I will make you a star. A great star. A star that can act. Not the belly-tossers and the behind-wigglers they call stars now but a great star. Like Lili."

"Lili. She doesn't toss her belly or wiggle her behind, I suppose?"

"Now she does. In the drek they call pictures now she does. In my picture, Frederick the Great, she was a star. A real star. You should see that picture, Miss Whole Milk. You should go to the Museum of Modern Art in New York City and see that picture and learn what motion pictures can be. You should be humble and grateful that you have been chosen for the opportunity I offer you."

"Opportunity for what? To let you paw me and tell me how it was in Berlin? What the hell do I care about Berlin? Or you? Or your lousy sauerbraten and your beer? You're too right. I'm selling myself cheap, for sauerbraten and beer and acting lessons. Acting lessons, for god's sake ..."

He touched her arm with his hand and talked quietly.

"Helen, my dear. Helen, Liebchen, listen to me."

She pulled her arm away.

"Listen to you? You phony. You teach acting like nobody ever invented talkies. 'Show sadness ... show tragedy ... feel pathos.' Good god! You think I stuck around because you're so good in the acting department? Or any other department? I stuck around because you were a meal ticket and I didn't know any better. Now I know better. You disgusting fat, old man. You don't know how I used to laugh at you behind your back. God, you should know!"

"Get out."

That was all he said.

"Thanks for the invitation. Thanks a lot. Thanks a whole, fat lot. You bet I'll get out. You bet I will. You big, fat has-been."

She slammed the door behind her and Otto sat at the table fingering his glass of beer.

He buried his head in his hands on the table.

"Hansi," he cried. "Hansi. Hansi."

Hansi was the name of the great Dane.

• • •

In the months that followed, Otto Freund continued to exist on the fringe of starvation. There was a succession of Helen Bradcliffs. They started as pupils, became mistresses and eventually went off into the larger, wider world of night clubs, dancing and famous people. Before they left him, Otto Freund put his stamp and his mark on them. They had come to him eager adolescents prepared to batter down the gates of Hollywood with their bodies. Otto taught them self-restraint, gave them a veneer of sophistication, a smattering of culture and for the small price he demanded turned them loose better equipped to market their basic commodity. Otto, in short, was a great teacher ... of everything but acting.

One afternoon in the summer of 1948 he was sitting in his room preparing his lunch. It was to consist of a can of vegetable soup, a knockwurst and a bottle of beer. There was a knock on his door. Otto looked at his watch. His next pupil wasn't due for an hour and a half. Puzzled, he opened the door. Standing on the threshold was Reed Herald. He was smoking a cigarette held in a long holder and it was poised in the corner of his mouth, jauntily pointed upward. He was wearing a short-rimmed homburg and carrying a topcoat over his arm.

"May I come in?" he asked, in the tone of voice that someone had once described as bedroom-diplomatic.

"Of course," said Otto. "Of course. Come in, Reed."

Reed came in. He put the topcoat and the homburg on the table, carefully skirting the breakfast coffee cup and the wet stain on the oilcloth.

"Haven't seen you in quite a while, Otto. Quite a while. How long has it been?"

"Ten years. Last time at Lili's house."

"That long ago? Of course, I have had many indirect contacts with you since then."

"Indirect contacts?"

"Indirect. Personal but indirect."

Reed then named 12 girls who had formerly been pupils of Otto's.

"You knew them?" Otto asked.

"All of them. Briefly but intimately. You know my reputation, Otto?"

"As an actor?"

"No. Not as an actor. In the rather unlikely event that you are not an avid reader of the more lurid publications, I'll give you a short briefing. Four wives. Three paternity trials. Two indictments for statutory rape. I am the butt of every dirty smoking-car story told by every pot-bellied traveling salesman in the country. In short, Otto, to my fellow Americans of all ages and sexes, I am Mr. Hot Pants himself."

"You have a gift for self-analysis," said Otto, wondering why he was being offered the personal history of Reed Herald.

"Why not face up to it, old fellow?" said Reed. "It's the truth, you know. Mr. Hot Pants. I make no apologies for it. That's the way it is. To tell you the truth I rather enjoy my reputation. (continued on page 46) Master of the Revels (continued from page 36) It puts a man on his mettle, I might add, living up to a reputation like mine."

"I can imagine that is true."

"My friend Otto, let me try to explain myself to you."

"Why should you want to do that? Why should any man feel the necessity of explaining himself to another man, particularly in this case, when we are so slightly acquainted?"

"You'll see why. May I explain?"

"Please."

Reed Herald put the cigarette holder on the edge of the table. The smoke from the cigarette itself curled upward and made Otto's eyes water. He was afraid to move out of its path without embarrassing Reed, who was grasping his arm in a tight grip.

"In every man," said Reed, looking straight into Otto's watering eyes, "there is some overpowering drive. In some it is ambition. Some men go on safari to kill an elephant. Some spend their lifetimes in cold garrets smearing paints on canvases. Some build bridges or work out an intricate formula that turns into a bomb. Some search for God or a meaning to life. I chase girls. Twenty minutes after an exceptionally beautiful girl steps off a plane or a train in Hollywood I know about it. My salivary glands react. The scent of the hunt is in my nostrils. I'm off. Can you understand that?"

"I think so."

"Good. Because if you can't there is no use my going on with this rather fascinating self-analysis. The truth is, Otto, that everything else is secondary to that. My career as an actor is just a means to an end ... a beautiful, rounded, well-shaped end. It provides me with the money, the time and the reputation to pursue my ... what would you call it ... hobby, avocation ... consuming interest? When I was 16, Otto, I suddenly realized a great truth. I realized that by the mere process of staying alive for 16 years and allowing certain inevitable chemical changes to take place in my body, I had come into a great inheritance. All the girls in the world were mine for the taking. Not some of them, Otto. Not my fair share of them. All of them. That's the carrot that has been in front of my nose all these years. All of them. And the world is full of girls. All kinds. I became something of a specialist. I realized early that a life span being what it is, it would be physically impossible for me to make love to every woman in the world. It was a wonderful thought, but too ambitious, so I became a specialist. I would have only the most beautiful, only the most spectacular. Does that make any sense to you, Otto?"

"You have done very well, Reed. Or so I have heard."

Reed picked up the cigarette holder, flicked the ash into the coffee cup and put it back in his mouth.

"Yes, I have," he said. "I have done very well. But it has not been without its obstacles and its disappointments. Its hazards. That's why I'm here, Otto."

"I do not understand, Reed."

"I find I waste a great deal of my time, Otto, molding the girls, changing them, battling their midwestern middle-class morality, their waitress' manners. In short, polishing the diamond in the rough. I am interested, my dear Otto, only in the polished gem. The process of refining, modifying, polishing bores me. Frequently I am even forced to admit defeat."

"Defeat?"

"Yes, defeat. Me. Defeat. A little over a year ago, I met a very attractive young lady at a party. She delighted me. She had poise, manners, beauty and when we finally got down to what is, in reality, the basic relationship between a man and a woman, I discovered rare refinement, a certain taste, a certain high gloss and finish that I found irresistible. I discovered that she had been a pupil of yours. Pupil is, I think, the right word?"

"Yes," said Otto. "Pupil is the right word."

"Then," continued Reed Herald, "I met another young lady who had been a pupil of yours. And another. And another. In each case I was amazed and gratified. They were all, like the first one, ladies of rare quality. You became a kind of hallmark, Otto. If a young lady told me that she had been a pupil of yours I could relax and court her with none of the normal apprehension of ultimate failure, disgust or disappointment. You began to interest me. We had met only casually in the past but I had you investigated."

"Investigated?"

The word sent an odd, remembered chill down Otto Freund's back.

"Investigated?" he repeated.

"I discovered ... you'll forgive me, Otto ... but I discovered you were always on the brink of starvation."

"I was never able to get enough money together for an annuity."

"You were barely able to supply yourself with canned soup, sauerbraten, knockwurst and beer. I discovered, in short, a genius starving in an attic, ignored by the world, completely unappreciated by the rabble. I felt it was a great injustice, so I am here to do something about it."

"Do something about it?"

"Precisely. Artists have had patrons back through recorded history. I, my dear Otto, am about to become your patron. You will continue as you have, with some minor but rather important differences. First of all, we'll move you out of here."

"Move me out of here?"

Otto found himself repeating things Herald said to him and putting a question mark at the end of the sentence.

"This isn't quite the setting we want for our school. I think a nice stucco building on the Strip or on the edge of Beverly Hills would be more appropriate."

"I can't afford anything like that, Reed. You said you ... investigated me. You know I don't have any money for anything like that. As a matter of fact, I'm a month in arrears on my rent here."

"You let me worry about that, Otto. Don't people who are loaded give money to their Alma Mater? I'm always reading about some stockbroker handing over a couple of hundred thousand to Yale or Harvard. And what do they get? A lousy gymnasium named after them. In my case my reward will be much more tangible. Just consider your new location part of the Reed Herald Endowment Fund. You will also find a sharp upturn in registration. You will be flooded with new pupils. I will, of course, pay their tuition."

Reed got up and walked over to the closet in the hall. Hanging in it were the two English suits.

"This your only closet?"

"Yes."

"Your only suits?"

"My only extra suits."

"I will also open a charge account for you at several of the better men's shops on the Miracle Mile. I think I can trust your discretion to use a certain restraint in your purchases. The Jaguar is yours?"

"Lili gave it to me," said Otto, stretching the truth a little.

"Fine. Its vintage gives you a certain flair that will be necessary in your relationship with the wider community of Hollywood. I will get you credit cards for gas and oil and they will be charged to me. I will also underwrite you at Chasen's, Scandia, La Rue and Romanoffs. Well?"

"What can I say? I'm overwhelmed," said Otto.

"You needn't be, old fellow. It's all tax deductible, you know. It shall cost me very little, actually, and it will probably turn out to be the best investment I ever made."

"Please," said Otto. "I am a German. I have an orderly, Teutonic mind. Let me see if I understand it all properly."

"Of course," said Reed. "Of course. Clarify it in your own mind, by all means."

(continued on page 52) Master of the Revels (continued from page 46)

"You are going to do all those things for me. In return, I do what?"

"Continue with your school, just as you always have. Teach your pupils what you have always taught them. Really, Otto, the debt is on my side. You will be taking a terrible burden off my shoulders. You understand my needs, my requirements, my standards. When you consider that one of your pupils is ready for me, we arrange a quiet little lunch somewhere and I take it from there. I take it from there, secure in the knowledge that I have my diamond, polished, refined and ready to be worn. I know that the young lady will not embarrass me with some social blunder and will be ready to take her temporary but proper place in my life. It really reduces my risk considerably. You will weed out the rejects. You will be my laboratory, my testing grounds, my finishing school. You will be my talent scout too, Otto. There may be one or two young ladies who might escape even my watchful eye. I shall expect a little dividend from you every once in a while in the form of a find of your own. I think that makes the whole situation very clear, doesn't it?"

"I'm to be your pimp," said Otto.

"I beg your pardon."

"Pimp is the word, isn't it?"

Reed Herald smiled. He tilted the cigarette holder up and for a moment his well-publicized eyelashes were in danger. He blew a huge cloud of smoke in Otto Freund's face. It was something he'd learned in one of his most successful pictures, the one in which he scornfully refused to wear the blindfold and contemptuously blew a cloud of smoke in the face of the leader of the firing squad.

"Pimp," said Reed, rolling the word around in his mouth like good brandy. "Pimp. Procurer. Maquereau. Take your pick, Otto. Or would you prefer Teacher? Or Herr Professor? Or Meister?"

"It's a strange proposition, Reed. Isn't it a strange proposition?"

"This is a strange town. I'm a strange man. Does the word pimp really bother you, Otto?"

"A little. Yes. It bothers me a little."

"Listen. What do they call that guy at the rodeo who takes the broncos that are wild and snorting around pawing up dirt, who takes them and tames them and makes them docile and gentle?"

"I don't know."

"Wrangler. That's it. Wrangler. You'll be my wrangler, Otto. Is that a better word?"

"A word is a word. It is a better one. It is the same thing but it is a better word."

"Good. If it still bothers you I'll get my writers to come up with some others. Come on, Otto. Put down the knockwurst. Kiss this depressing pad goodbye. Get back to the butterfly steaks, the Cherries Jubilee and the kirsch."

"You would not interfere with my school? I could teach acting the way I am teaching it now?"

"Sure. I don't care what you teach them. Teach them bead-stringing and crossword puzzles if you want to. I'll tell you what else I'll do for you, Otto. I'm a man with a one-track mind. If, god forbid, one of them should turn out to be a Sarah Bernhardt or a Louise Fazenda, she's all yours. You can be her manager, agent or anything else you want to be. I told you, this is a tax deduction for me. God forbid I should make any money on it."

"One more condition, Reed."

"What?"

"You are never to set foot inside the school."

"Afraid I'll turn it into a cat house? Agreed. I shall never set one Englishgrain moccasin inside the school."

"And nobody knows about our arrangements. Nobody knows about the charge accounts and the payments."

"I'll have my lawyer set up a drawing account for you ... a trust fund that he will administer to pay the bills. My name won't appear on anything except my tax return."

Otto stood looking at Reed. He was letting the proposition and his reaction to it run around his head. He kept feeling there must be a catch to it somewhere. There must be some other assurance he should ask for.

"How do I know," he asked, "that you won't get bored with the whole thing in a couple of weeks? Where would I be then?"

"Otto," said Reed quietly. "That's the chance you take. Just don't confuse my two careers. I may walk out on a picture, disappear on location or turn up on a set four hours late but if there's one thing I'm consistent about, it's women."

They shook hands solemnly and became partners.

The next few weeks were busy ones for Otto Freund. Within three days after Reed's luncheon visit, the papers were signed and the charge accounts validated. No bride shopping for a trousseau was as particular about purchases as Otto Freund. He felt material, argued price and mother-henned alterations. He spent one whole afternoon in a haberdashery shop. He continued cooking his own lunches out of cans and didn't open any of the boxes that were delivered to the rooming house off Vine Street. They were part of his new life and he put them in a kind of mental storage until he moved into his new studio. That was the easiest part of the transition. Reed Herald owned several buildings just off the Strip and he personally drove Otto Freund over to inspect several of them. They found one building that was just right, in Otto's mind, anyway. It had a stability and a permanency that appealed to him. The day after they decided on the bastardized Tudor building, the carpenters moved in to tear it apart and rebuild it. Two weeks after they shook hands in Otto Freund's kitchen, a gold-lettered sign reading: Dr. Otto Freund School of Drama was fastened to the front of the building.

The school was an immediate success. Reed Herald kept the registration rolls filled. The first year, two of the pupils got studio contracts and Otto, as their agent, collected 10% of their salary checks. Non-Herald students enrolled.

But Otto still felt insecure. He lived with the constant thought that sooner or later Reed Herald would tire of the arrangement. But, pushing the insecurity into the back of his head, he enjoyed himself.

He went to the fights every Thursday and Saturday night at the Olympic and the Legion. He was the host at a regular Friday evening pinochle session and was in his box at the Hollywood Bowl every time the program included Wagner, Brahms or Beethoven. As an agent, he had 22 working clients. He was never seen in public twice with the same tie or woman. He had deals with some of the other Hot Bloods of Hollywood. Girls not quite up to the Reed Herald standard were marketable elsewhere. The money was rolling in.

The Jaguar got a Cadillac for company in the garage.

The swimming pool in the back of his new house on Palm Drive got a heating unit. But with all the money, all the commissions, the steady supply of girls seeking fame and fortune that made Otto's career self-perpetuating, he felt that, somehow, he should have been able to hold onto more of it. "I should put something aside in an annuity," he said.

He went out to see Reed Herald on the set of his picture.

"Please understand me," he said. "I'm German. I have an orderly mind. I like to know where I stand. I want a contract with you. I need that feeling of security."

Reed smiled and said, "That would be the worst thing that could happen to either of us. It's the very uncertainty of your position that makes you most anxious to please me. You enjoy the good meals and the regular income but (continued from page 72) Master of the Revels (continued from page 52) you're never sure that they will continue. It keeps you on your toes, Otto. It keeps up, shall we say, the quality of the product. I like it that way. I like you to feel that I may get bored with the arrangement and call the whole thing off. I don't like the people on my payroll getting fat and secure."

"I wouldn't do that, Reed. The quality would remain the same. I need that security. I need that kind of an annuity."

"No dice, my friend. I don't care if you squirm or get frightened or even hate my guts. As long as you're anxious and worried, I know you'll be working your tail off for me."

"Reed, please. I need that feeling of security. I've sweated enough."

"Sweat some more, brother. It'll keep you in shape. Or maybe you want to end the uncertainty and just call the whole thing off now?"

"No," said Otto Freund. "Forget I mentioned it."

"I already have, Otto."

After that interview, Otto Freund made a decision.

One afternoon he had his usual expensive meal at Chasen's. The only thing that was unusual about this particular day was that he dined alone and held a leather attaché case on his lap throughout the meal. He had the doorman hail him a cab and he left his Jaguar in the parking lot. He directed the cab driver to a gin-mill type bar on Melrose. After he had entered the bar it took him several minutes for his eyes to accustom themselves to the dimness. He ordered a bottle of imported German beer from the bartender and carried it with him to a table set in front of a booth in the rear of the room. As he approached the table, a heavy-set man in a pin-stripe suit rose and offered his hand. Otto got right down to business. He placed the attaché case on the table.

"Nobody must ever know we are even acquainted," he said. "That is my first condition."

"Agreed," said the man.

"My second condition is that you must never, under any circumstances, call me at my home or my school."

"Agreed."

"Third," continued Otto, "the money is to be paid into my account in cash by a third party. And when we meet, it must be like this ... in a place like this where neither of us would be recognized. There must be no other contact between us."

"You make this sound like a cloak and dagger movie," said the other man. "However, I agree to your terms."

"Fine," said Otto. "Fine."

He opened the attaché case and handed over an envelope.

The man opened it. It contained 15 typewritten pages and several 8-1/2 x 11 glossy pictures. The man took his time reading the pages while Otto sipped on his beer. When he'd finished reading he held the pictures to the side so that a beam of sunlight hit them.

"That's the best picture of Lili I've ever seen," he said. "And I have not lived my life in vain. I've finally seen Reed Herald in a good picture."

He put the papers and the pictures back in the envelope and put it in his lap.

"Wonderful," he said. "Wonderful, Mr. Freund. I'm sure we shall have a profitable and long association. You will contact me about our next meeting place?"

"In a couple of weeks."

"Good."

They shook hands and the man got to his feet. Otto sat drinking his imported German beer. There was a smile on his face as he watched the most feared and hated man in Hollywood, the publisher of the most famous and successful scandal magazine, leave the bar.

Otto Freund had, finally, found his annuity.