Blotto, Twinks and the Stars of the Silver Screen Read online

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re going to play for the White Knights, not the Peripherals.’

  ‘What? But the reason I actually pongled over the pond was to help out Ponky and—’

  ‘And may I ask whose pitch you’ll be playing on?’ There was an edge of pique in Stukes’s voice.

  Blotto knew he was being suckered by the oldest ploy in the playground – the ‘it’s my ball’ argument – but J. Winthrop Stukes was his host as far as cricket was concerned. Reluctantly he agreed to turn out for the White Knights.

  ‘Excellent news, young feller-me-lad. I’m sure we’ll wipe the floor with them.’

  ‘Good ticket,’ said Blotto. Then he asked, ‘Haven’t seen my sister pootling around, have you?’

  ‘She was here a moment ago. She might have gone off to get her make-up repaired or something.’ The mass of hair shifted as J. Winthrop Stukes looked around. ‘Ah, there she is.’

  Twinks was walking towards them. In her latest Helen of Troy costume she looked more of a breathsapper than ever, but of course her brother never noticed things like that. ‘Hello, me old washboard,’ he greeted her. ‘Lots of ferrets to uncage on the Orvieto front.’

  ‘Splendissimo!’ said Twinks. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel and you can fill up my ears with facts there.’ She reached to pick up her sequin-covered reticule.

  ‘Erm, sorry, young lady,’ J. Winthrop Stukes interposed, ‘but you’ve been called on set today for a reason. When he’s finished with the snake lady, Gottfried’s about to shoot one of your scenes.’

  ‘Oh, stuff that for a taxidermist’s dummy,’ Twinks responded casually. ‘I’m as bored as a frog who’s off games with a strapped ankle. Tell Gottie I’m taking off the gauntlets. He’ll have to find another Helen of Troy.’

  And so ended Twinks’s career as a Hollywood actress. Still in costume – and in a high state of excitement – she hurried back with her brother to the Hollywood Hotel.

  * * *

  J. Winthrop Stukes didn’t know the name of the starlet who approached him after the siblings’ departure, but he had no objection to answering her query about the identity of the tall young blond man he’d just been talking to. The old actor didn’t notice Buza Cruz go across during a break in shooting to whisper the name into the ear of Gottfried von Klappentrappen.

  20

  Outside Help

  ‘The Barolo Brothers,’ Twinks echoed. They were sitting in her suite as her brother brought her up to date with the events of his day. She had ditched her Helen of Troy garb and was now looking equally wonderful dressed in her own clothes.

  ‘Do you know about them? The Barolo Brothers?’ asked Blotto hopefully, always certain that his sister knew everything.

  But in this case his confidence had been misplaced. Twinks shook her beautiful head. ‘But Orvieto said they were Mafia?’

  ‘Tickey-Tockey.’ Blotto went on proudly, ‘And even though I may have been led through the shrubbery about the Cosa Nostra, I’ve always known that the Mafia are a criminal organisation.’ His sister, deep in thought, nodded distractedly. ‘And, Twinks me old pipe-cleaner, I’ve also always known that if you want to find out about criminals, you consult the local constabulary. Which out here is the L.A . . . flipmadoodle.’

  ‘L.A.P.D.’ said Twinks.

  ‘Yes, they’re the boddoes. We should consult them.’

  ‘No, we shouldn’t, Blotters. Out here probably the first thing the police would do if we made contact is let the Barolo Brothers know we’re looking for them. And we’d lose our advantage of surprise.’

  ‘Do we have an advantage of surprise?’

  ‘Only a very tiny one,’ said Twinks. ‘But it’s about all we do have, so we shouldn’t waste it.’

  ‘But how do we make contact with the Barolo Brothers? I suppose I could try my wheeze of going into Giorgio’s on Hollywood Boulevard and asking about the Mafia, but I’m not sure the waiter Johnnie would be up for—’

  ‘No, no,’ said Twinks. ‘I have a much better suggestion.’

  Blotto waited patiently. He knew that his sister’s suggestions were always better than his own. ‘We’ve reached the point where we need outside help. And if you want information about anything – in Los Angeles or wherever – the most judderproof source is always acknowledged to be the finest university in the world.’

  She picked up the receiver and asked the hotel’s telephonist to arrange for her to send a transatlantic cablegram. And she insisted it should go by Aristocratic Special Delivery.

  The night porter at St Raphael’s College Oxford was a romantic at heart. He thought, as a young man, that he had found true love when he met a young woman who introduced him to the delights of romantic novels. He grew addicted to such stories, as he grew addicted to the young woman who had introduced him to them. He loved reading about young couples who met at the beginning of the narrative, were kept apart by various vicissitudes for most of the book’s duration, then magically came back to each other at the end.

  Unfortunately, the young woman who introduced him to such literature got rather too caught up in the vicissitudes that kept them apart (in her case, overlapping affairs with a surprising number of other young men) and omitted to come back to him at the end.

  But whereas some young lovers would have been permanently embittered by such an experience, spending the rest of their lives railing against the perfidy of the opposite sex, the night porter at St Raphael’s College Oxford took a more benign view. He had had his moment in the sun, but feared that if he ventured out again he might easily get burnt. Though still enjoying his romantic novels, in the pursuit of real love he thereafter regarded himself as a spectator rather than a participant. But nothing made him happier than the sight of another young couple feeling a mutual attraction and making the first steps into the thicket of vicissitudes that lay ahead.

  His opportunities for witnessing such happy encounters, however, were limited. St Raphael’s was a college of impeccable academic standards, but sadly it was an all-male institution. And the average age of its extraordinarily intelligent residents was at least seventy.

  To further decrease the chances of love flourishing, since its foundation, St Raphael’s had never admitted women on to the premises (or, to put it more accurately, the very few incidents of women being on the premises had always been hushed up).

  So the night porter at St Raphael’s College Oxford had some years before resigned himself to a diet of observing fictional rather than real-life romance. It should be pointed out that his role in the college was not exclusively that of night porter. He also fulfilled the same role during the day. But since, being only in his sixties, he was the most junior of the college porters, overnight duties were delegated to him and he slept in a comfortable room at the back of the porters’ lodge.

  The demands of the job were not onerous. Indeed, only once or twice a week were his slumbers interrupted by the ringing of the college doorbell and the need to let in one of the college fellows who had spent the evening in an excess of drinking (and who knew what other excesses).

  So, when the bell rang that particular evening he rose from his bed and donned dressing gown and slippers in the expectation of greeting a familiar, if inebriated, face. He was surprised to be confronted by a young man in Post Office uniform delivering a cablegram, which had been sent by Aristocratic Special Delivery.

  When he saw that the addressee was Professor Erasmus Holofernes and the sender’s name was Honoria Lyminster, warmth glowed and grew to a flame in the night porter’s heart. A cablegram of such urgency, he instantly presumed, could only be an expression of love. And though the professor, internationally renowned for his intellectual achievements, had a huge amount of mail delivered to the porters’ lodge, never before had it included an urgent cablegram from a woman.

  In spite of the hour, the night porter at St Raphael’s College Oxford had no hesitation in ringing through immediately to the professor’s rooms.

  The p
rofessor’s brain was acknowledged to be one of the hugest on the planet, a condition which, though bestowing many advantages, also brought with it some drawbacks. The chief of these was the dearth of equals on that same planet with whom he could conduct a meaningful conversation. Most of the people he met – even the high-powered fellows of St Raphael’s – were, by his intellectual standards, rather dull.

  Which was why he always welcomed any communication with Twinks. Though Holofernes would never admit that anyone’s brain was superior to his own, hers came close. And though he was far too preoccupied with his studies to have any time for romantic feelings, even he would have to admit that her beauty provided an additional attraction to working with her.

  She also always challenged him. If Twinks asked for information, it was a point of honour with Professor Erasmus Holofernes to see that he came up with the goods.

  So, as soon as he had taken delivery of the cablegram, about whose contents the night porter at St Raphael’s College Oxford had so inaccurately speculated, and it had been read, Holofernes leapt into action. With no thoughts of returning to bed until his mission was completed, with his shabby dressing gown untidily wrapped over his shabby pyjamas, he started to search for the information Twinks had requested.

  Logic dictated that the room in which he worked must have had furniture in it somewhere, but none was visible under the chaos of documentation that covered every surface. The room looked like the aftermath of an explosion in a printing press. No outsider could have found anything in the mess of papers, but Professor Erasmus Holofernes had an immaculate homing instinct for what he needed.

  And if Twinks wanted information about some Mafiosi in Los Angeles called the Barolo Brothers, that is what he would provide her with.

  The professor’s response, remarkably, reached the Hollywood Hotel within the day. When arranging her cablegram, Twinks had ensured that the reply was also sent by Aristocratic Special Delivery.

  (Perhaps this is the moment to explain Aristocratic Special Delivery for the benefit of people born without silver spoons in their mouths. Blotto and Twinks were fortunate to live in an age when breeding still counted for something, and one of the perks was receiving all postal services much quicker than the plebs got them. Other rights assumed by birth included getting the best tables in restaurants, being allowed to run up large unpaid bills, patronising people of inferior breeding and, for the men in country houses, an endless supply of available chambermaids.)

  But to return to the professor’s cablegram. It read:

  The Barolo Brothers are one of the most notorious Mafia gangs operating in California. They are noted for two things: their extreme violence and their almost total invisibility. Even other Mafiosi have no idea where their headquarters are. Nor how many there are in the gang or any of their names. All they know is that they brand the bodies of their victims with a distinctive ‘BB’ insignia. However, my researches have unearthed clues to the Barolo Brothers’ location and identity. Their cover is dressing as comic policemen employed in Hollywood movies, particularly the Krazy Kopz series produced by Humungous Studios. One of the Barolo Brothers is called Umberto. And if you need to put pressure on him, just say you know everything about the Japanese Theatre Stranglings. This is all I can find from the documentation I have to hand. If you require me to investigate further, that is, of course, something I am happy to do. Just let me know. As ever, I will be ready to drop all other demands on my time when I can help you, Twinks. All good wishes, Professor Erasmus Holofernes.

  ‘Splendissimo!’ cried Twinks. ‘Razzy’s a Grade A Foundation Stone! He’ll never let us down!’

  21

  Kopz Kalamity!

  Corky Froggett drove Blotto and Twinks down to Humungous Studios in the Lagonda. Having found his first few days in Los Angeles rather tedious (though he would never mention that fact to the young master), things had improved considerably for him since the young mistress had started to garner publicity for taking over the role of Helen of Troy in The Trojan Horse. In Hollywood there is always a gaggle of very attractive aspiring starlets who will do anything to achieve their breakthrough into the world of real stardom. For them contacts are everything, and to their minds being nice to the chauffeur of a rising star might ease that breakthrough. As a result, Corky Froggett had had a very pleasant few days.

  When they reached the gates of the studios it was clear that news of Honoria Lyminster’s defection from the cast of The Trojan Horse had not yet reached the security staff. Twinks asked the gateman where she would find the Krazy Kopz studio and was told, ‘They’re out on one of the backlots, ma’am. Shooting Krazy Kalamity. Just follow the signs.’ Then the Lagonda was waved through with cheery smiles of welcome, while a few bulbs flashed as photographers tried to snatch some pics of the latest screen sensation.

  Humungous Studios were laid out like a large village, with intersecting roads leading to the various lots and, as the gateman had said, signs indicating which movie was in production where. Twinks directed Corky Froggett away from The Trojan Horse set and the other studios, towards the backlot, where Kopz Kalamity! was being shot. A substantial fence stopped further progress, so he parked the Lagonda and was told to wait while Blotto and Twinks explored the area.

  They walked through a variety of locations, which looked surprisingly solid, but were in fact three-sided façades built on wooden frames. From the main street of a Western town, complete with saloon and sheriff’s office, their route took them past Swiss chalets backed by snow-covered mountains, a Russian winter palace, a French chateau and a sleepy Caribbean lagoon.

  Then suddenly, rounding the corner of medieval castle, they found themselves in the cross-fire of a custard-pie-throwing battle between opposing armies of men in blue police uniforms and helmets. All of the combatants had dead-white faces and their features had been exaggerated with black greasepaint. They knew they had found the set of Krazy Kalamity!

  Blotto and Twinks ducked to avoid being splattered. They needn’t have worried, though: the throwers were experts in the art. Their pies rose in neat parabolas before alighting inch-perfect on the faces of their selected opponents. As Blotto and Twinks emerged from the barrage and looked back they saw that one pie had just missed its target and landed on the shoulder of a blue uniform.

  ‘Cut!’ a voice snarled from the area behind the camera. Then, accusingly, ‘Who threw that?’

  One small apologetic Krazy Kop stepped forward from the line.

  ‘You’re off the movie!’ the voice snarled again. ‘You know we can’t afford to clean the uniforms!’

  The small policeman made no attempt at self-justification. He just slumped away, unbuttoning his jacket as he went, to face the miseries of Hollywood unemployment.

  ‘Right, on to the next set-up – the truck scene!

  ‘We need to do a second take,’ an enormously fat Kop protested.

  ‘We don’t do second takes!’

  ‘Well, this time you gotta.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But you can’t use that last one.’ The fat Kop pointed towards Blotto and Twinks. ‘Those two boofers walked right through the middle of it.’

  ‘No worries,’ came the responding snarl. ‘Audience never notice stuff like that. Now get on with the truck set-up!’

  Schooled in their routine, the Krazy Kopz reached for cloths to wipe the custard pie off their faces (carefully avoiding any residue dripping on their uniforms – they didn’t want to share the fate of their small former associate). Then they hurried across to another part of the lot, some of them limping, and started piling into the back of a dilapidated police truck.

  Twinks noted with interest that one of the Krazy Kopz, tall and thin, didn’t clean himself up after the battle. He didn’t need to. No custard pie had landed on him. Having seen a lot of movies, Twinks recognised his role in the proceedings. Often in a slapstick routine there would be one person who, in a well-choreographed routine, would move from side to side or suddenly bend down
, avoiding all the carefully timed missiles. Frequently at the climax of the scene the untouched individual would get hit by pies from all sides. It was of interest to Twinks that on this occasion that pay-off hadn’t happened.

  While the cameras were being moved to the new set-up, Twinks approached the director. ‘Pardon my poke-in,’ she said, ‘but I wondered if you could—’

  ‘Can it!’ snarled the director. ‘We’ve got three more movies to make today.’

  ‘Well, maybe when you have a break, we could—?’

  ‘Break? What’s with this break? We don’t do breaks. We work on.’ He raised a megaphone to his lips and bellowed, demonstrating that he could do more than just snarl, ‘Are we ready with the truck set-up?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘Nearly’s not good enough. We don’t shout “Action” within the minute, you lose your job!’

  Realising she wasn’t going to get through to the director, Twinks shrugged at Blotto and led him across to a couple of chairs from which they could see everything happening on the lot. ‘Keep the peepers peeled, Blotters,’ she said. ‘We need a clue.’

  ‘A clue,’ he echoed and lines of confusion appeared on his aristocratic brow. ‘Clue to what?’

  ‘The whereabouts of Mimsy La Pim.’

  ‘Toad in the hole, yes.’ He felt rather guilty about forgetting his knightly quest, his Holy Gruel, and looked intently around the set. But he couldn’t observe anything that might be classified as a clue.

  As usual, though, he felt pretty confident that Twinks could.

  The set-up for the truck scene had now been completed. The back of the open vehicle was full of Krazy Kopz with truncheons ready to wave. In the driver’s seat sat a tall policeman awaiting his cue. A member of the stage crew had turned the crank handle to start up the vehicle and its engine was roaring away. The truck was on a short stretch of road that led to, and then curved away from, an artificial lake which wasn’t very wide, but at the end of it a trompe-l’oeil was painted on a wall to make it look more extensive. On a park bench facing the lake, just where the road curved, sat a young couple canoodling.