A Star Is Born

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Monday, April 1, 1940 <> Hollywood

In this instance, however, there was no need for leniency. The check was good as gold. An hour later I was at my desk licking the back of a postage stamp intended for the last of six envelopes I was sure would make the landlord and five other creditors happy, if not downright gleeful.

The possibilities occurring to me just were not striking my fancy. Hollywood is lousy with bars and lounges, but I didn't feel like spending the afternoon drinking in a joint with acquaintances and nary a true friend in sight.

To call Benedict Canyon a road is an exaggeration of enormous proportions. At one time the County of Los Angeles got ambitious and paved parts of Benedict Canyon. Now, though, even those sections are more dirt and gravel than pavement.

I was driving thusly when I rounded a blind curve and my windshield was suddenly filled with a redhead. About all I had time to see before I got very busy trying to keep both of us alive was the young woman's red and white polka dot dress and a suitcase. Oh, and did I mention she was a redhead?

The woman looked over her shoulder, saw me coming, and deftly stepped aside like a Toreador dodging a charging bull. My Chrysler and I slid right past her.

When all the skidding and sliding came to a stop, I jumped down to the ground intent on giving Little Miss Redhead a thorough chewing out. She beat me to it.

Standing erectly and looking intensely incensed, she glared at me and said, "Sir, your driving skills are atrocious. You very nearly ran over me!"

"Lady, I don't know which planet you fell off of, but people in these parts have more sense than to walk down the middle of a road—a blind road, at that!"

She turned the intensity of her glare up to full power. "As if it is any of your business, sir, I come from Denver, Colorado, where automobile drivers are taught that a person afoot always has the right of way on any road."

Sensing that arguing with Dumb Dora would get me nowhere, I was about to wish her a pleasant day and get on with my drive when the full realization of the woman's situation finally dawned on me. She was a stranger and clearly not dressed for hiking in the hinterlands.

The woman was also carrying a suitcase several miles from the nearest civilization and she was on a road that came from nowhere—a dead-end. All that made me wonder if she could use a little help.

Knowing full well I was making a big mistake, I took a deep breath and said, "Look, Miss, I apologize for the close call, but as long as we're here, my name is Johnny Spicer." I offered my hand.

She looked at my hand as if it were the last thing in the world she wanted to touch, but her glare dimmed a few kilowatts. "All right, Mister Spicer, I accept your apology, but you really should drive more carefully." As if an afterthought, she added, "My name is Constance Allen."

I nodded and lied. "Nice to meet you, Miss Allen. Now, why you are wandering around out here in the boondocks is none of my business, but if you could use a ride somewhere, I'm offering."

As if responding to a cue in a script, her head tipped to one side and shot me a don't-try-to-kid-me look. "In exchange for what, Mister Spicer?"

This dame was sorely testing my patience. "In exchange for nothing, damn it. I'm offering help if you need help, but you clearly have the situation well under control, so I'll leave you to it."

I turned toward my Chrysler and it only took two steps for her to swallow her pride. That surprised me. I figured she would let me get further before saying, "Ah, Mister Spicer, perhaps I could use a little help."

I looked back over my shoulder. "Okay. Toss your bag behind the seat and let's go."

Miss Allen opened her mouth as if about to chastise me for the lack of chivalry I demonstrated by not carrying her suitcase to the car. She thought better of it, though, and trotted around to the passenger side of the car.

When I got the Chrysler turned around and headed back toward Mulholland Drive, I asked the logical next question. "Where would you like to go, Miss Allen?"

"I am on my way to Hollywood, if that would not be out of your way."

I glanced at her sitting demurely in my passenger seat. I knew I was making another mistake, but I had to ask. "Hollywood? Then what in heaven's name are you doing clear out here?"

Answering my question with a question of her own, she said, "Is Hollywood a long way from here? The driver of the taxicab assured me it was just down the hill."

I shook my head imagining that conversation. I was pretty sure there was more to the story she wasn't likely to tell me. "Miss Allen, I'm afraid that cabbie was pulling your leg. We are quite some distance from Hollywood."

In an apparently unconscious reaction, she pressed her knees together when I said the cabbie was pulling her leg. "Are you certain of that, Mister Spicer?"

"Yes, reasonably certain. I live in Hollywood."

"Oh."

"Where would you like to go in Hollywood, Miss Allen?"

She removed a well-worn piece of paper from her handbag and carefully unfolded it. "The address is 1438 North Gower Street. Do you know where that is?"

"Sure, it's smack dab in the middle of poverty row."

"Poverty row? I don't understand."

"Poverty row is an area of mostly unsuccessful motion picture studios hanging on by a thread. Although, it sounds as if you're heading for the only successful operation in the neighborhood, Columbia."

Miss Allen nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, that's right! Columbia Pictures. The one with the torch lady at the start of their movies."

Most of all, I did not want to get stuck with Miss Allen when she found out she traveled a thousand miles on a wild goose chase. She probably didn't have more than a few dollars in her purse, which could explain why the cabbie dumped her in the boondocks.

We rode in silence until I turned right on Highland. A minute later we were in the heart of Hollywood. Like a good tour guide, I pointed this fact out to her.

"Welcome to Hollywood, Miss Allen."

She leaned forward and looked out the car windows in all directions. Her expression said she wasn't impressed. "This is Hollywood?"

"Yes, ma'am, it surely is."

"Are we anywhere near anyplace famous, like the Brown Derby?"

I was beginning to feel a little sorry for Miss Allen, so I humored her. "It's not too far. I guess we could swing by for a look."

"Oh, thank you! It would be so exciting to see it in person."

"Egyptian Theater? I thought it was a Chinese Theater."

"There are two."

"Where is the Chinese one?"

"In the other direction on this street."

"Oh."

A few blocks later I turned right on Vine Street and pointed up the block. "There's your Brown Derby."

She looked at the rather nondescript building with a sidewalk awning. Sounding surprised she said, "Oh, no, that's not it. I've seen pictures. The building is shaped like a derby hat."

"There are four Brown Derby's, Miss Allen. This is the Hollywood Derby where you're most likely to see motion picture celebrities. The hat-shaped one is on Wilshire Boulevard in downtown LA."

"Oh."

Miss Allen stepped down from the running board and I removed her suitcase from behind the passenger seat. As I set it down on the sidewalk, she said, "Thank you, Mister Spicer. You have been very kind. Perhaps I will be able to repay your kindness one day."

"That's not necessary, Miss Allen. It was my pleasure to be of assistance."

She gave me a look that said she was certain nothing could be further from the truth. Knowing I was about to make yet another mistake, I said, "It’s none of my business, but do you have an appointment with anyone at Columbia?"

She beamed at me. "Oh, yes. It's not exactly a specific appointment, but Mister James Stewart is expecting me. "On that note she squared her shoulders, picked up her suitcase, and walked confidently toward the studio gate.

It didn't take long for my prediction to prove correct. No more than five minutes passed before I again saw Constance on the sidewalk in front of the studio entrance. She stood there for a minute and even from where I was I could see the disappointment on her face.

Then she saw me. Miss Allen had a moment of indecision, but pride won out. She turned and began walking away in the opposite direction.

I cursed all stubborn people and drove up alongside her. Through the open window, I said, "Hello again, Miss Allen. May I give you another lift?"

She stopped, looked at me, and began to shake her head, but her face crumpled into tears. I got out and put what I hoped was a comforting arm around her shoulder. She leaned toward me and I heard a quiet voice say, "Oh, Mister Spicer . . . . "

"I know, kiddo, I know. Come on, let's see what we can do about this situation."

Miss Allen allowed me to help her into the car. Once she was seated, I stowed her bag in back and climbed onto the driver's seat. There, I thought the about easiest way to get my inherited redheaded pest pointed back to Denver, Colorado.

"Constance, do you have a return ticket to Denver?"

The tears on her cheeks made it difficult for me to take what she said seriously. "What on earth for? Why would I want to go home?"

This girl was impossible. Patiently, I said, "All right, let's back up a little here. They wouldn't let you onto the studio lot, right?"

She nodded. "They said Mister James Stewart was not at the studio."

"That sounds like the truth. Stewart is a contract player at MGM down in Culver City. He would have no reason to be here."

"He did too! Look there."

I said, "So he did. Apparently MGM loaned him out to Columbia."

Sounding a little more cheerful, she said, "Do you know where MGM is? Will you please take me there?"

"MGM's lot is down in Culver City, about ten miles from here, but Stewart is not likely to be there this late in the afternoon. Tell me something, Constance."

She looked at me. "What, Johnny?"

"What makes you so sure Jimmy Stewart is expecting to see you?"

Constance looked at me like I was a dumb kid. "Why, the letter he sent me, of course."

"Jimmy Stewart sent you a letter?"

"Certainly. I would not come all this way without an invitation!"

I sat back in the driver's seat. "And how did he come to send you this invitation?"

"My Aunt Mary went to school with Mister James Stewart when she grew up in Pennsylvania. She wrote Mister James Stewart a letter to tell him I was learning to be an actress and praised me to the heavens. She asked him to send me a letter of advice and he did."

I was thinking about what a wise man once said about making assumptions. For a smart detective, I wasn't doing so well. To avoid further stupidity, I asked for more facts. "What did he say in the letter he sent you?"

"Mister James Stewart said he would be happy to give me any advice and help he could, and I should come to California so we could discuss my career in person."