PLAYBOY

PLAYBOY

ENT ћ R MEN мау зоон

РІ

MATHER

IVERSEN

FRANK

GEHMAN AND GIGLI

THE DATE ON THE CABLE addressed to
PLaynoy editor Ken Purdy was May 10,
1957; the place of origin was Brescia,
Italy. The message read: ARE YOU INTER-
ESTED STORY SUNDAYS MILLE MIGLIA COULD
HAVE IT IN NEW YORK WEDNESDAY STOP ALL
тнк nest=PorTAGo. Purdy didn't have to
think twice about that one: an article on
the world-famous sports car race written
by the Marquis de Portago? A natural,
He sent off an affirmative cable. But two
days later the Marquis was dead, killed
in the race he had planned to cover for
the magazine. This month, one year after
the tragic accident, Ken Purdy writes
about the philosophy and personality of
the late Alfonso de Portago in The Life
and Death of a Spanish Grandee.

We go backstage, in this issue, back
there among the ropes and flats, work
lights and stage braces, and breathe
deeply of the sweet smell of grease paint:
a musical comedy flowers before our very
eyes from the moment of inception to
the tension-packed, hope-filled opening
night; we sit in on every rehearsal, eaves-
drop on every conference, watch whole
scenes yanked from the show in dress
rehearsal and put back just before the
first performance. Oh Captain! is the
production; writer Richard Gehman and
photographer Ormond Gigli are the
cocked-ear, pecled-eye cicerones who de-
pict in text and photographs The Birth
of a Broadway Show.

For this first R-less month of 1958,
Thomas Mario produces some prose
about a certain mischievous mollusk that
should make you Happy as a Clam
William Iversen turns Togetherness in-
side out and advocates Apartness. Fred-
eric A. Birmingham invites you to a

PLAY BILL

Spring House Party, and gently suggests
what to bring along in the way of wear-
ables. Lari Laine, our Miss May, is a
curvilinear Country Club Cutie.

A couple of recent movies provide us
with grist for our merry May mill: we
supply a missing scene for God's Little
Acre and get with elfin Elga Andersen
of Bonjour Tristesse.

Fiction is in strong, sinewy hands this
wip: Berkely Mather, a globespanning
Australian, is the author of our suspense-
ful lead story, The Man in the Well; Pat
Frank (he of the bestselling novels For-
bidden Area and Mr. Adam) tells a
twisty tale in This One Is on the Hous
Alan E. Nourse spins a yarn about The
Prince of Darkness and a particularly
Hard Bargai

Anthony Boucher is a name that s
sciencefictionados to salivating like Pav-
lov's dogs with anticipation of puissant,
piquant prognostications of "Things ta
Соте — for Топу, in addition to being
the author
lative fiction of our day, is also the editor
of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science-
Fiction, a summit publication in its field,
Tony gives us Wizards of a Small Planet,
in this issue, an article that calls sf more
prediction than fiction. Tony has come
up with an interesting sidelight on the
term “science-fiction” as seen from the
French viewpoint: "science" in French
is a feminine noun and so is "fiction,"
but oddly enough, the French term for
“science-fiction” comes out masculine.
We've always felt that this exciting brand
ol storytelling was particularly masculine
in slant, and sf has been, and will con-
tinue to be, a vital part of PLAYBOY's
entertainment. package.

1 some of the best extrap

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DEAR PLAYBOY

ЕЗ Anoress МАУВОУ MAGAZINE + 232 Е. ОНО 57, CHICAGO 11, ILLINOIS

ALIVE— AND KICKING

I just this minute
sell's January piece, The Postpaid Poet.
litle gem. The
sharp and fond stirrings of my delight

finished Ray Rus.
It was wonderful, A

can better be imagined than described.
God, the bug-eyed hours in the Thirties
I must have spent browsing in the slick
s of that fat and succulent
book! Russell caught it all.
Ben Benson
Evanston, Illinois

pulp. pag

With many a nostalgic sigh, I read
Ray Russell's piece about Johnson
Smith. When I was a kid, back in the
Twenties and early Thirties, I used to
dream of the day when I would be rich
enough to order all 1 wanted from that
fabulous catalog. I still copy
which I just can't bear to throw out, But
I imagine rrAvmoy will be
sharp note from Johnson Smith & Com
pany — they are still doing business out
ol Detroit.

own a

getting a

Theodore Peterson, Dean
College of Journalism
University of Illinois
Urbana, Illinois

The inference in The Postpaid Poet
that our company went out of business
when plumbing came indoors is an in-
sult to American youth! There is still а
place in the world for our pocket-size
stench bomb, “Red Ant" itching powder,
exploding cigarettes and sure-win dice,
just as in the days of my father, Johnson
Smith, the original postpaid poet. We
await an apology. If it is not forthcom-
ing pronto, Ray Russell will be
ind harassed, pelted and peppered, to
such an extent that adventures in fission
and fusion, inner and outer space, or
from the Abominable Snowman
will seem like siesta time in Shangri
Even now, our catalog of $200 noveltie:
(send one thin dime to 6615 E. Jefferson
St, Detroit) offers nizing
paraphernalia to satisy Mr. Russell in
his most diabolical mc (Incident-

hissed

visits
а.

enough

vents
ally, 1 enjoyed his article.)

Paul Smith, President
Johnson Smith & Company
Detroit, Michigan

A LASS & A LACK

Your February Playmate, Cheryl Ku
bert, would look sexy in a sleeping һар
Mansfield has to resort to nudity. Pl

stop featuring big-bosomed, expensive

Hollywood types. Give us more of “the
" — like Cheryl
Keith Gallisted
Chic , Ilinois

girl next door

Cheryl reminds me of my kid sister,
and Liz Roberts was just as bad. Let's
have more buxom, healthy, sexy females
—like Mansfield.

Tom Miller
Long Beach, California

Cheryl Kubert is the first All-Girl Girl
we have ever seen.
Students for Cheryl Kubert
Swarthmore College

Swarthmore, Pennsylvania

Boy! Is Cheryl a dish!
Robert Louis Wren
Cincinnati, Ohio
Miss Kubert is, without a doubt, the
most appealing girl who has ever ap.
peared in rLAvnov
John Steinhauser
Stanford, California
The buck has been made, counted and
deposited; Jayne has put on her clothes
smoothed her goose-flesh, and gone back
to Muscle Beach. Swell, Photc
delightful damsels gas me

raphs of
as much as
they do anyone — but. publicity-sceking,
gourd-breasted, slack-hipped. slack-jawed
broads with grotesquely protruding,
gnarled, becorned feet, lying on beds of
mangled mink . . . these, friends, do lit
tle for my libido. 1 don't really care if a
girl is famous or not. АП I see is the girl
Please — back to pretty girls! No nudes
next month of Ethel Barrymore!
Bill Elliott

Bell, California

Jayne Mansfield is the most perfect
specimen of womanhood ever displayed
in your terrific m

gazine
Bob Malesich
New York, New York

PLAYBOY, "n

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THE POLL

Orchids to the readers who voted for
the really top artists in the Poll. In this
mad heyday of rock-'n'-roll trash, it does
my heart good to see that so many people
still have good taste in music. I applaud
the readers’ selection in all departments
except one. How can an all-time great
like Louis Armstrong finish anywhere
but first?

Carl Cordi
Beckley, West Virginia
When it came to selecting a vocalist
and vocal group, your “hip, aware, so-
phisticated, discriminating, in the know”
reader lost his wits.
Alvin Barone
East Elmhurst, New York

s" Presley received

Elvis “Jelly Кп
169 votes too many.

Dan Buckley

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Thank you for the honor bestowed on
me. I think you are doing a wonderful
job in sustaining interest in jazz music.
My best wishes for the continued success
of PLAYBOY.

Benny Goodman
New York, New York

PLAYBOY JAZZ ALBUM

1 want you to know what a great job
Playmate Lisa Winters did in helping
to promote The Playboy Jazz All-Stars
album in Los Angeles. She personally

visited every d.j. in town (in the photo
she's talking with Dick Whittinghill at
KMPC). presented them with the album

and discussed it on the air. Needless to

say, the disc jockeys flipped, and they've

been plugging the album ever since. It

is going to be one of the big-selling LP

albums of the year, I'm sure—in this
part of the country at least.
tes

Los Angeles, California

Playmates Colleen Farrington

Linda Vargas helped promote PLaynoy's

jazz album with jockeys in New York

and Chicago.

and

THERE'S ALWAYS
BEEN A PLAYBOY!

was
weary

and wan!

Poor Don Juan
Was not so hot,
Although they say
He loved a lot.
You've heard of him and
What he'd do,

But what those women
Would put him through!
Up the trellis

And climb the wall,
Over the roof

To have a ball!

Through the window,
Across the floor,

He was so tired

He'd start—to snore! ^
Poor Don Juan,
His aching back!
He worked so ha
To hit the sack!
Too much trellis
And too many walls,

Too many roofs

And too many falls,

Too many windows

That slammed on his feet
And too many beds
Where he fell asleep!
Poor Don Juan,
That woman chaser,
What he needed was
Mennen Skin Bracer!

clean, so fr
really true

That if you use it
The women chase you!)

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END A CLOSE SHAVE!

To Introduce You to the New

RCA VICTOR POPULAR ALBUM CLUB

DIDI

THESE FIVE OR: ANY FIVE:OF THE ern

18 ALBUMS DESCRIBED BELOW "FRY COMO: WE GET LETTERS
FOR ON LY $3 98 [Retan VALUE AS HIGH AS $23.90]
KE MA

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[nca Victor

„+++ If you agree to buy five albums from
the Club during the next twelve months
from at least 65 to be made available

ALL ALBUMS ARE

12-INCH, 33/0 В.Р.М.

LONG-PLAYING
Belafonte „а

tap a variety of popular music for family fun and
happier pa More-
over, once and for all, s bewilderment out of
building such a well-t collection. YOU PAY
FAR LESS FOR ALBUMS THIS WAY— than if you buy
them |
introduci
much as a 40% saving in your first year of mem-
bership. THEREAFTER YOU SAVE ALMOST 331%.

ties. .. and at an immense saving

phazardly, For example, the extraordinary

ory offer described above с:

п represent as

After buying the five albums called for in this offer,

you will receive a free 12-inch 33% R.P.M. album Затай y
with a retail price of at least $3.98, for every two m

albums purchased from the Club. A WIDE CHOICE OF a ~ загса

RCA VICTOR ALBUMS will be described each month. 23
One will be singled out as the album-of-the-month. £ :

If you want it, you do nothing; it will come to you
automatically, If you prefer one of the alternates—
or nothing at all in any month—you сап make your
wishes known on a simple form always provided.
You pay the nationally adverti
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BING WITH A BEAT. «i Vicros 3
BING CROSBY wiv,
BOB SCOBEY S prisco тын випа

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SINGING STARS « BROADWAY MUSICALS • JAZZ
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CHECK THE FIVE ALBUMS YOU WANT. DO NOT DETACH FROM THE COUPON СА VICTOR POPULAR ALBUM CLUB

[] WE GET LETTERS Perry Г) MARIO LANZA—STU- [M MUSIC FOR DINING 7 Ч
Como sings 12 standards! DENT PRINCE Hits from Melachrino Strings im his (3 Street, New York 14, N. Y. 223
S'posin’ "Deed 1 Do, ete. Romberg operetta. pius П mood, music. Fenderly, (рын member of the nca Victor Popular Album
[] BELAFONTE Scarlet 14 favorites by the exciting с. ete Clb and sand mo D. five albums I have ch eked at left, for which
Ribbons, Matilda, Water. tenos PETER PAN Origina! Twill pay $3.98, plus а small charge. I agree to buy five
Dota more Folk son. Г] BING WITH A BEAT KE PETER PAN Oneal = ther eibumi olfered by the Club. the next twelve months, for
A Chewy, Jam lark with score. Marz Marün Cyril each of which I will be billed at the nationally advertised price:
m FRANKIE cartes 295 800567. Whispering, Ez- . eie. usually $3.98, at times $4.98 (plus mailing charge). Thereafter,
SWEETHEARTS Dancy old-time evergreens. Г) ВОЏОЏЕТ oF BLUES if I continue, for every two albums I buy I will be allowed to choose

piano. rhythm, on. 12 гу TOWN HALL coNcERT 2" a third album, free. After the first year, I need buy only four albums

сеа, Өс 1 ^ in any twelve-month period to maintain membershi
lectore" Mem. with 07

[M NEW GLENN MILLER farden, Bigard. ses, К

ORCHESTRA IN НІ Fl Ray Tackett. ete. Littl Эс

McKinley, Lullaby of Bird- [7 LET'S DANCE WITH tM d Address

Mari albe ol, ит
Fo ee адаг ји“ THE THREE SUNS Forty

ince medieys, City Zo State.

[BRASS AND percus- eran NE

SION Morton боша Sym- []SHORTY ROGERS PLAYS : NOTE: If you wish to enrol through an authorized RCA VICTOR desler, please ПИ in here:
hi- show- RICHARD RODGERS Mod-

with 8 ern jazz by combo and bie rhythms, native colo Dealer’s Мати
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Goldman, Gould. Ein eic [] THE EYES OF LOVE Addres

[ JAMAICA Original [ THE FAMILY ALL TO- соль
Broadway cast, starring Smoke Gets im Your City Zone State.

Lena Horne. Complete Ar- 5 s niy Have Eyes Jor You,
осела 2. ео, СП а Кони нане inen Ea Send no money. А bill will be sent.

“YOU MEAN

=I TO SAY
(а F? WE'RE NOT
:

GOING

FORMAL!"

Men find it's fun, as well fashionable, to slip into the aura of
elegance an After Six provides. Hence our man's obvious relish in looking

exactly right. Not for him that old-fashioned resistance to the donning of d
formal garb. He's luxuriating in the handsome look of an After Si» Ol. 1,
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PLAYBOY

AFTER HOURS

eaders who got a belt out of last

month's The Little World of Orville
K. Snav should turn handsprings over a
gadget we've uncovered, a sort of
electronic BunaB. In appearance, it's
rather impressive and businesslike-look-
ing: a 67x ^ x4" steel box with gray
baked enamel finish, a chromiu
handle on top, two banks of four signal

new

carrying

lights on the front — the sort of device
you'd expect to see in the labs where

they put together digital computers. The
signal lights blink, on
discernible pattern;

and hard you may think you can detect

d off, in no

if you stare long

a kind of order in the blinking, then you
find you're wrong. There are no direc-
tions on the mechanism, none come with
it, there are no switches to turn it on or
off. The day ours arrived in the mail, it
was blinking its patternless patterns and
it has been doing so, 24 hours a day, for
the 10 weeks since. Jim Moran, press
ent extraordinary апа perennial TV
uest, dropped by our offices and saw it —
and wanted it immediately. We offered
to help him get one of his own, but
wouldn't part with ours — too useful for
patternless, random

discombobulating
visitors. Once, we carried the machine on
a flight to New York and set it down —
blinking — on the empty seat next to us.
Stew

rdesses, then the captain, eyed it —
then us — warily, retired to the back of
the plane and had a conference in muf-
lled tones. We didn't look up from our
newspaper. This portable, self-powered

marvel would seem to be truly The
Ultimate Machine, for it does nothing
whatever, except blink. The inventor-

genius of this remarkable device informs
us that he personally assembles each one
and loses 73¢ when he sells it (for $20).
Fortunately, he adds, he’s only sold

around 50 so far.

Passion Knows No Clime Department:

The Detroit News carried the following
lost and found ad in its classified section
this past winter.
ings, ear muffs. Northland Center park-
ing lot. PA 2-6899."

FOUND — girdle, stock-

Henrici's, a venerable eatery in Chi-

ing the giggles

\ via а special

cago's Loop, has been gi

patre

to diet-conscious

souvenir “low-calorie menu.” On it are
such succulent victuals as Fried Bee's
Knees and Mosquito Knuckles, Boiled

Out Stains of Old

Button of a Navel О
tennae, Broiled Guppy Fillet, Chopped
Banana Seeds, Butterfly Liver en Cas
serole, Pickled Humming зе,
Prime Rib of Tadpole and Aroma of
Empty Custard Pie Plate. To wash your
entree down? One brimful, fide
seven-ounce glass of effervescent, better-

Table Cloth, Belly
Lobster An

bird То

bona

than-ever steam.

Sign in a small tailoring-reweaving
shop in Salem, Oregon: "As ye rip, so
shall we sew."

BOOKS
In The Man in the Gray Flannel
Suit, Sloan. Wilson had something to

nenon — the

say

bout a Fifties pher
nization Man —
cash and kudos

war veteran turned Org.
and it both

Now comes his Opus 2,
(Simon & Schuster, $4.50), and for those
who wonder whether he can repeat, the
tide is the tip-off. It’s a perfectly OK
title, but it just doesn't say very much.
Nether does the book. This Summer
is on a Maine island restricted to
those who can pass a blueblood test, and

won him

A Summer Place

Place

here, in the Thirties, Ken Jorgenson,
solid, stolid young lifeguard from the
wrong side of the Mississippi, meets

Sylvia Raymond, a teenage tease ("there
was that about her which immediately
made interested in knowing
whether ог not she was chaste”), who
goads him till he rapes her. They go
their separate ways, but They Can't For-
get. Ken marries a sniveling Buffalo girl,
invents а plastic which makes him rich
35. Sylvia snags Bart Hunter, who
bats 1.000 in the Ivy League but
only field highballs. He turns his pater-
nal pad on the island into a summer

people

hotel — and up show the Jorgensons as
paying guests. This time it’s love; di
vorces are arranged; Ken and Sylvia get
hitched, But is that the end? Uh-uh. The

whole business is now reprised, though
in mellower tones, between Кеп daugh
ter and Sylvia's son. Parental under-
standing gives them a better shake, even
though young Molly gets pregnant—
and this is probably Mr. Wilson's point.
The latter half of the book generates
some genuine heart-pull, but the total

effect is right out of Redbook,

A big, fat, handsome, gift-type, salty-
type, expensive-type book called The
Story of American Yachting (Appleton-Cen-
tury-Crofts, $12.50) cruised
desk this month and right into the star
picture-books-for

across our

board end of

grownups library shelf. Title just about

our

describes the volume: from early engrav

ings to last year's action photos, а 300.
year chronological portrait of the gen
tüeman's sport emerges. The readable

and gratifyingly brief text is the work
of Stanley Rosenfeld and William Н
Taylor, familiar names to the boating
fraternity. Stanley's famous daddy, Mor
ris, a man who has a virtual lock on the
yachtpicture dodge, is responsible for
the bulk of the 200-odd pix. АП are

splendiferous: you almost feel the spray.

In these days of

when the avera

jaded journalism,

е news-hack is afraid to

PLAYBOY

10

Let Aunt Vi tackle your problems

Dear Aunt Vi:
I live on a farm in the hills of North
Dakota and am thinking of getting me
one of them Mail Order brides. But when
I sent in my picture to the matrimonial
catalogue I got back 6,955 applications
including the editor's. How can I screen
all these applications?

Farmer's Son

Dear Son:

From the sound of things, that picture
must have been taken after you used
Vitalis®. Vitalis makes your hair look
great with greaseless V-7® and gives you
superb protection against dry hair and
scalp. It can't protect you against design-
ing females, so head for the hills if you
have to—but don't give up Vitalis.

Aunt Vi
er
v New greaseless way to
Vitolis keep your hair neat all day
...and prevent dryness

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bite the handout that feeds him, it's re-
freshing to flip back to the curled-lip,
turn-of-the-century newspaper wars via
Allen Churchill's Park Row (Rinehart,
$4.95). This was the era when three
youngish Lochinvars— Pulitzer (86),
Hearst (32) and Ochs (38) — charged out
of the west to give New York’s timerous

James Gordon Bennett en-
trenched, the ensuing struggle was ti-
tanic, and it’s the banner-line story
Mr. Churchill's book. But he also in-
cludes a conducted tour of the fourth
estate as it then was, and a circumstan-
tial account of Park Row's decline and
fall when the big-business operators, who
bought and sold papers like cordwood,
took over. Though you may have seen
some of it before, Mr. Churchill has put
it together in a provocative package fo-
cused on the people involved. But he's
inclined now and then to sacrifice. per-
tinence to personalities and drama to
detail. Perhaps our author, who knows
his y around the city desk, should
have spent more time pounding a beat.

FILMS

After all the folderol about coming
up with a fresh face and figure for the
title role of Marjorie Morningstar, whom
did Hollywood unearth but Natalie
Wood, a home product. Natalie gets
through her lines OK, firms her chin
and expresses mild perplexity, or maybe
mild despair, at her failure (after a two-
hour, three-minute search) to locate and
lasso Mr. Right. Now, the success of
Herman Wouk's long narrative wasn't
due to the originality of the plot, but
her to the author's sharp insight into

avior of a specific socio-economic
ious group: the Jewish population
of Central Pa West, Wouk's acid
узе» € been, for the most part,
lopped from a patty-cake screenplay by
erett Freeman. Gene Kelly is defi-
nitely a misfit for the role of the erratic
songwriter Noel Airman, who turns out
much less devilish on screen than he was
in the book. The picture really belongs
to three vets: Claire Trevor аз Маг

ies propriety-conscious mother, Eve

ane as her doting dad, and Ed
Wynn as uninhibited Uncle Samson, all
of whom remind one of The Goldbergs,
except that Marjorie’s folks prefer a
stinger to a glass of tea. Ed Wynn is
pretty lucky. He escapes from the pro-
ceedings before the second hour's foot-
age begins. You may be even luckier.

In The Young tions, 20th Century-Fox
has cracked the covers of Irwin Shaw's
trenchant World War II novel, cast it
tue and come up with a tale of arms
and the man that is close to being great.

To brush you up a bit, its theme is that
war does not pit good guys against bad
guys, but real guys against real guys.
To drive it home, Lions tallies the
troubles of three very real, very different
soldiers — a Nazi and two G.Ls — whose
life lines parrallel, then meet with a
bang against а background of babes,
barbed wire and battle, The principals
are blond, guttural-speaking Marlon
Brando as stonily-correct Lt. Christian
Diestl; Montgomery Clift as the sensi-
tive, compassionate, gutsy Jew, Noah
Ackerman; and Dean Martin as the
1, hip Michael Whiteacre. Crooner
in, in the part of a Broadway type
(tooled especially for him), is amazingly
cflective, re Brando and Clift, Hope
Lange, as Clift's girlfriend, is extremely
touching; and May Britt, who fiddles
with Brando, is as sloe-eyed, sneaky and
seductive a wench as we've ever seen.
Horribly realistic battles and fisticuffs
abound, but the most effective scenes
are the quiet ones: Diestl on a razed-city
stroll spotting a one-legged kid; Acker-
man agonizingly self-conscious with his
dying father; the grisly march of con
centration-camp inmates toward their
shocked liberators. Director Edward
Dmytryk rates a Silver Star for his re
straint: in almost no case does he sit
too long on scenes that could have been
ghastly or maudlin,

Originally filmed as a See It Now TV
show, Satchmo the Great — about a world
jaunt made by Armstrong and combo —
has been expanded for movichouse cats.
Its a cheery project, with Louis’ high
ter dynamics interspersed with
froggy vocals and happy-talk with Ed
Murrow, who tries to pin down whatis
jazz and gets nowhere. It's exciting to
see how Louis gasses Londoners, Swit
zers, Parisians, Danes and Gold Сс
winding up at Gotham's Lewisohn Sta
dium to blow, with the local Philhar
monic, St, Louis Blues for W. Handy
nd a wild Yankee audience. This Dip
he's real polyglot, man. For those
who would exercise
the Great is available on disc (
CL 1077).

ars alone, Satchmo
lumbia.

Lets suppose you're Orson Welles,
pudgy, beetred, spunky despite your
years, a roistering character out of Wil
liam Faulkner. You own everything in
sight in a drowsy Mississippi town. Your
aim, before dying, is to start a dynasty —
little enough to ask — but your grown-up
kids can't come through. Your married
son is a spongehead who, while he has big

eyes for his cuddly wife, can't seem to
breed none. And your daughter
still not married!) wastes time on a rich

and

dude with a mama complex. Well, you'd
naturally corral the first likely stud
king by and mate him up with your
daughter, and that’s what Welles, as

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11

PLAYBOY

12

TAKE IT
LIVE IT

t

RECORDS

BIG BAND

SOUND

For dancing, romancing, or just good
listening, nothing beats big swinging sound.
Live to the high fidelity sound of today
dynamically performed on Mercury by
Buddy Morrow, Maynard Ferguson,
Georgie Auld, Pete Rugolo,
Lionel Hampton, Ralph Marterie,
Hal Mooney, Gus Bivona.

TAKE

Gus Bivona:

This outstanding West
Coast group in the Lunce-
ford-Basie: Herman-
Brown tradition plays the
solid aet, music of
TV'sversatile Steve Allen,
recorded with Steve on
the spot. M620304

QUT ON A LIM

TAKE

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The famed composer-
arranger for the great
Stan Kenton band pre-
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big band form, specially
written and arranged by
Rugolo. t's easy listen,
really moving. MG3611

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2

bumptious Will Varner in The Long, Hot
Summer, sets out to do. He bribes flat-
flanked Ben Quick (Paul Newman),
mean as a spring grizzly, into courting
Clara (Joanne Woodward), who bridles
at being bred with a man she despises
(footnote: in real life, Woodward is Mrs.
Newman). But even more th:
her brother Jody (Anthony Fr
resents Quick as a threat to his birth-
right. As Quick insinuates himself into
power, hate splatters all over the screen
like shrapnel: Jody tries to murder him;
Clara chews him out; Varner flies into
a series of rages; the townspeople damn
near lynch him. In rendering this seg-
ment of Faulkner's novel The Hamlet,
director Martin Ritt has done an expert
job, and the acting by all hands is right
smart; scenes are, by turns, funny, ex-
ng and occasionally moving. In all, a
fine picture.

RECORDINGS

the Man has a brand-new plan,
In Rendezvous with Kenton (Capitol T932),
released since Stan took control of the
Rendezvous Ballroom in Balboa, Cal..
we are granted a listen to (a) the orche

паз revamped personnel, (b) the ball-
room's acoustics (this and all future re.
leases, Stanley declares, will be taped
their Pacific pied-à-terre). The present
band doesn't go as far out as earlier in
carnations, but it does boast a gifted
new discovery in one Joe Coccia, who
wrote two originals for this set and ar-
ranged the 10 standards. Several hold.
over horns, including Bill Perkins"
muscular tenor, the notable Sam Noto's
trumpet, Lennie Niehaus’ alto; and опе
striking new soloist named Kenny
Shroyer, whose improbable piece of
plumbing is the bass trombone en-
gagingly featured.

Seldom has an echo of the Rip-Roar-
ing Twenties given out with a more rip-
ping roar than Oh, Kay! (Columbia

L 1050), a lovingly-faithful recap of the
smash musical comedy that ran on Broad:
way for more than 250 performances
back in 1926. From the frolicking flap-
pers on the cover to the zingy flapdoodle
on the vinyl, its a brash and bright
pacan to the bootlegging era. The
variously witty, wistful and romantic
score (by George and Ira Gershwin) is as
fresh today as it ever was, is breathlessly
delivered here by Barbara Ruick and
Jack Cassidy as the leads (Kay, who is
OK with the boys, and Jimmy, whose
posh Long Island mansion is used as a
cache for the bathtub gin). In the back
ground vamps a typically-Twenties pit
band; catgutty, meowing and two-beat.
Some of the dandy ditties still whistled
include Maybe; Clap Yo' Hands;

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as Gigi herself is Gogi e

singing love duets with Tony Martin.
It's the Lerner-Loewe score from
LERNER—LOEWE

the great new movie.
25]
SONGS FROM THE MOTION PICTURE

6001 GRANT ^e ох:
TONY MARTIN

On Long Play and 45 Economy Package
A New Orthophonic High Fidelity Recording

@ rcaVicror Ө

Ан ARTHUR FREED PRODUCTION

rca Victor

De, Do, Do; Dear Little Girl; and
the top ballad of the evening, Someone
to Watch Over Me.
around at the time (we
з inform us that Р. С. Wode
house and Guy Bolton did the book
especially for British-import Gertrude
Lawrence. Victor Moore kicked up his

In case you weren't
weren't), the

liner n

heels in it too (as Shorty McGee, the
bootlegger who guarded the "stuff") and
in a smaller role was the lovely Betty
Compton, whom New York mayor

Jimmy Walker spotted and fell for like
à ton of "Kiss Me Quick"
all here — the re-created razz-ma-tazz, the
slap-happy, shimmying flavor of the
decade that was easily the zaniest of all
time. Fine for perking the
spirits and counteracting Welk-schmerz

Another major step in that direction
is Eydie Gormé Vamps the Roaring Twenties
(АВС-Рагашоши 218), not an attempt to
take us back to the styles of yesteryear,
but rather а fresh-as-tomorrow interpre-
tation of some of that era's most durable
chestnuts. Eydie does it grandly, backed
by Don Costa's big, beltin,
of the likes of Toot Toot Tootsie,
bye; Singin’ in the Rain; Tip Toe
Through the Tulips and a sensational
When the Red, Red Robin Gomes Bob,
Bob Bobbin’ Along, Eydie
opening chorus of this latter through a

buttons. It's

fare, say we,

Good.

warbles the

muslin mask to get the effect of an old
Gennett platter, then the hi-fi curtain
parts and she socks through the rest in

style, She doesn't know
1 song. badly, b

roaring mid-195

how to sing asts an al
most flawless sense of timing and breath
control coupled with remarkable pipes.
This disc is another gem.

The jazz show-tune albums continue

apace. Jimmy Giuflre and a medium-
sized band, with all arrangements and
ilmost all solos by the leader, do right

by Meredith Willson in musicianly
salute to The Music Man (Atlantic 1276)
The Dick Hyman Trio, in its modern
jazz mood, swings Lerner and Loewe's
Gigi agreeably оп MGM E8642. But it
took our own Jazz Editor to rectify the
situation that has long kept the lyrics
out of these jazz-goes-to-Broadway LPs;
as a result we have the first such
include vocals: Livingston
and Evans’ Oh Captain’ (MGM _ E3650),
interpretéd by the Leonard Feather-
Dick Hyman All Stars. The vocals are
handled neatly by Marilyn Moore,
Femininity morc

now
set ever to

whose sounds even
feminine than Abbe Lane's, and Jackie
Paris, still
of jazz voices. Bonuses come in the form
of instrumental solos by Hyman, Cole-
Hawkins, Harry Edison, Ап
Jimmy Cleveland, and a bright
baritone sax work of

among the most underrated

man
Farmer,

surprise in the
Tony Scott.

\йег listening to Lee Konitz Plays with

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Compounded and copyrighted by Coty. Inc., in U.S.A

the Gerry Mulligan Quartet (Pacific Jazz 406),

we got out one of our favorite old 10-inch-

ers with the same group and played that,
were delighted to find no changes in at-
titude, manner or style. Then we glanced
at the liner notes, saw pix of Gerry, Chet
Baker and Konitz looking quite boyish,
finally noted that the "new" LP session
was recorded back in 1953. OK, we're
slow-witted, but this stands out: good,

solid Pacific jazz that sent us way back
then, now passes the test of time with fly-

ing colors . . . Mulli

s on hand again
on The Gerry Mulligan-Paul Desmond Quartet
(Verve 8246), with Dave Bailey's dru

s
id Joe Benjar
foursome; there

in's bass completing the

n this
cool set and Gerry and Раш — though
each is a master technician alone

a lot of swingir

зеет
to inspire each other to new heights . . .
The Magic Flute of Herbie Mann (Verve 8247)
is as accurately descriptive a title as we've
run across in a long time: Herbie weaves
a wide range of flautistic spells (with a
variety of sidemen) which encompasses
Latin, swing, соо! and you-name-it, as ће
plays Body and Soul, Frenesi, Stardust,
Peanut Vendor, and eight other goodies.

The
discs have over stereo tapes are the avail-

mense advantages that monaural

able repertory and the quality of musi-
cianship they offer. Too little that's so-far

obt ble in stereo is music; too much

of it is novelty material selected to show
off the virtues of sterco sound. Happily,
three significant break-throughs are on
hand this month in the classical field: an
extraordinarily sensitive yet powerful
playing of Beethoven's Concerto No. 5,
the "Emperor, by Artur Rubenstein
and the Symphony of the Air under Josef
Krips (Victor FCS-61); the Sorkin Sym
phonette, Leonard Sorkin up, playing
Vivaldi (Concerto Grosso in D Minor), Mozart
(Eine Kleine Nachtmusik) and Bach (Prelude in
E Major), all with great spirit (Concertapes
23-3A); and а lucid reading of Bartók's
Second String Quartet (Stereo Age С-1) by
the Kohon Suing Quartet.

THEATRE

Replacing a mere review of Oh Captain!
in this issue is a full textand-photo
takeout, starting on page 48, of the
musical now playing at the Alvin, 250
W. 52nd, NYC.

Norman Krasna's Who Was That Lody 1
Saw You With? comes up with a second
act that's even funnier than the first.
The whole thing is cockeyed, wonderful
and inventive, certainly the most irre-
pressible idiocy of the season. It all һе
gins when Peter Lind Hayes, a chemistry

prof at Columbia, is nabbed nuzzling a
coed. Mary Healy (his spouse off-stage
and on) heads for Reno while Peter, a
simple soul with the heart of a lamb,
calls оп his pal Ray Walston, a ТУ
writer, for succor, Walston, a complicated
soul with the heart of a coyote, in no
time has Peter and himself posing as
FBI :

cludes scouting subversive female stu

nts whose dangerous mission in

dents. Mary is proud to discover that
her husband is an undercover hero
(hitherto, she had thought of him that
way only in the boudoir), but the real
FBI takes a narrow view of the mas
querade when honestto-gosh spies be
come involved and guns start popping
One of the more hilarious scenes finds
Peter drugged by the enemy, jailed in
the boiler room of the Empire State
Building and under the impression that
he is a prisoner aboard a U-boat. He
decides to sink it, stands rigidly at at
tention while singing America the

Beautiful as a calliope of busted valves
and hissing steam pipes sounds off
Rouben Ter-Arutunian's sets add hugely
to the speed and humor of the jest, as do
Roland Winters апа William Swetland
as а pair of ulcerous, honest FBlers. But
it’s Hayes, Healy and Walston who stroll
off with the hosannas. At the Martin
Beck, 302 West 45th, NYC.

DINING-DRINKING

The phrase "no enter

ишет” ap
plies only in its narrowest, most literal
sense to Michaels Pub, a drinkery-dinery
just east of Fifth Avenue in New York
(3 East 48th), For, from luncheon through
closing around two in the Ам, a special
kind of entertainment holds sway. This
consists, for the visitor, in spotting "un
known" celebrities of stage, screen, radio,
IV, books, та

advertising — unknown in the sense that

pers and

ines, newsp:

they are, for the most part, the creative
powers behind public facades, "Trade
talk, quips and table-hopping dominate
the scene, which otherwise has the solid
and quiet charm of a chop house ~a
good, modern chop house without "deco

rator" gimmicks, Fact is, some five years

ago, Michael Pearman — who'd been
maitre de of a dark and fancy dining
parlor —cannily decided that a clean
neat, comfortable place, with a short and
simple menu of superb chop-house fare
and a good bar-type bar with good man
sized drinks, might be just what New York
needed. Since opening day, he has been
proved overwhelmingly right: It's SRO
at Michael's all day long, so make your
reservations well in advance.

СОМТЕМТ5 РОВ ТНЕ МЕМ'$

PLAYBILL.

DEAR PLAYBOY

PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS.

THE MAN IN THE WELL—fiction.
WIZARDS OF A SMALL PLANET—article
PLAYBOY'S LITTLE ACRE—pictorial

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A SPANISH GRANDEE—orticle

SPRING HOUSE PARTY—attire
HAPPY AS A CLAM—food.
APARTNESS—humor

THIS ONE 15 ON THE HOUSE—fiction

ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE

SS

9

BERKELY MATHER 16
ANTHONY BOUCHER 21
23

KEN PURDY 27.

FREDERIC A. BIRMINGHAM 29
THOMAS MARIO 33
WILLIAM IVERSEN 35
PAT FRANK 37

COUNTRY CLUB CUTIE—playboy's playmate of the month 39

PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor.
SHIRT SHRIFT—attire

THE BIRTH OF A BROADWAY SHOW—orticle

HARD BARGAIN—fiction.
ADIEU, TRISTESSE—pjctorial

PLAYBOY'S INTERNATIONAL DATEBOOK—travel

44

BLAKE RUTHERFORD 47
RICHARD GEHMAN 48
ALAN E. NOURSE 57
60

PATRICK CHASE 80

HUGH M. HEFNER editor and publisher

A. €. SPECTORSKY associate publisher and advertising director

RAY RUSSELL executive editor

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VICTOR LOWNES Ш promotion manager

ELDON SELLERS special projects

KEN

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ARTHUR PAUL art director
VINCENT Т. TAJIRI picture editor
JOHN MASTRO production manager

PHILIP с. MILLER circulation manager

нам fashion director; BLAKE

китикакойр fashion editor; THOMAS MARIO food & drink editor; PATRICK CHASE travel
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AOS8 AV Id

e vol.5,no.5 — may, 1958

1 HERE WERE SIX of them in the

waiting room when Sefton arrived,
зо he ran a cursory eye over them
and went out again and hung
about in the doorway of a haber-
dasher on the other side of the
Strand.

He had not been frightened by
what he saw but let there be a dig-
nity about all things — even ap-
plying for a job. There were two
young men in duffel coats, one of
them with a beard, a hard-bitten
elderly character who might have
been an ex-bosun from the Irra-
waddy Flotilla, two one-time sahibs
who looked absurdly alike in their
yellowing bloodlessness and a wom-
an who looked as if she had just
crossed the Gobi on a camel. If
this was the short list he was will-
ing to bet on his chances.

He had lit his sixth cigarette by
the time the last of them emerged,
so he nipped it economically and
crossed through the midmorning
fic and went up the narrow
rs again. A clerk took his name
in and after а brief wait led him
through to an inner office. A lanky,
elderly man rose from behind a
littered desk and held out his hand,

"Mr. Sefton?” he inquired.
"Sorry if I've kept you waiting.
Please sit down. You must excuse
this mess — my agent has lent me
his office for these interviews."

Sefton bowed, sat, bal
hat on his knees and
other man gazed at a spot on the

THE MAN
IN THE WELL

iclion By BERKELY MATHER
when the moon is full,

he struggles and screams

of a treasure forever lost

taber У |
ПОЛИЦИ

PLAYBOY

18

wall over Sefton’s head, screwed up his
eyes and pursed his lips.

“As phony as the papers say he is,”
Sefton thought, and added savagely,
"silly old goat.”

Minutes ticked by, traffic rumbled out-
side апа from nearby Charing Cross an
engine whistled shrilly. At last the old
man broke the silence.

“There have been many other appli-
cants, Mr. Sefton,” he said softly.

“Which you short-listed down to seven
—none of whom so far have suited,”
Sefton answered. "I hope I will. I am
very keen on joining you.”

The other looked slightly nettled.

“May I ask where you gathered that
information?”

“Counted heads in the waiting room
when I arrived and then timed their
exits from across the street. None of
them stayed long.” His grin robbed the
statement of offense. “I think I'm your
man, Professor Neave."

"That remains to be seen,” Neave
answered stiffly. He shuffled through a
file of letters in front of him and
selected one that Sefton recognized as
his own. "Would you care to elaborate
on this a little?”

"Sure," answered Sefton promptly.
"Eight years as assistant engineer with
the Sontal Gem Mining Corporation in
Mogok, Upper Burma. I speak good
Burmese and can get along ín most of
the dialects— Shan, Chin and Karen. I
know the country well and was an МЛ.
officer in the Royal Indian Army Serv-
ice Corps during the war. I get along
with people, can take and carry out
orders—" he paused very htly
"— and І can keep my mouth shut.’

"Why did you leave the Sontal Cor-
poration, Mr. Sefton?" the professor
asked.

"For the same reason as thé rest of
the staff," Sefton told him. "The Japs
were 10 miles up the track and traveling
fast. We sent the married men and their
families to Rangoon before the railroad
from Mandalay was cut off, and we our-
selves set fire to the whole shebang and
got out in the last vehicle to leave. We
only got to Yeu — that's just north of
Bhame — when our petrol gave out. We
walked the rest of the way to the

Chindwin, right through the dry belt.
I say ‘we' — but only I made it. Dysen-
tery, ma id starvation did for the
rest. It w ad year and the monsoon
was late.

“How long did the journey take you?”
“Just over three months. Our speed
5 that of the sickest man."

"And then?"

Sefton shrugged. "Nothing much more
to it. 1 crossed into Assam by the
Tiddim Track and fell in with our
forces in Imphal. I was a long time in
the hospital and then I joined up. I
fought my war with the Fourteenth

Army and finished as a major."
“What have you been doing since?”
"I put my gratuity and savings into

a small engineering shop in Lancashire

in the first place — and lost the lot.

Since then I've had a variety of jobs in

my own line of country — deep drilling

in Brazil, and I've been up the Gulf
with an oil concern among other
things —”

"Are you married?"

"No-—and I haven't a soul in the
world dependent upon me."

"What remuneration would you ex-
pect?”

"I don't want anything — except to
go with you.”

The professor brightened visibly for
a moment and then covered up. “I don't
understand, Mr. Sefton,” he said.

Sefton leaned forward.

“I told you I'd had a series of jobs,
professor," he said earnestly. "All of
them have been reasonably well paid
and I left each one of them of my own
accord — often in the face of strong
persuasion to stay on. Restlessness —
inability to find a niche in this postwar
world — call it what you like, but I
know I'll never be able to settle down
until I get it out of my system.”

"Get what out of your systen

Sefton paused and gazed out of the
window for a full minute before answer-
ing. "Its hard to say," he said at
length. “Put it this way. I was a rea-
sonably settled young man with a career
ahead of me with Sontal The war
finished all that. The corporation never
started up again, I had seen my friends
die on that trek and I'd been unable to
help them. I'm not neurotic, but — but
—" he spread his hands. "Oh, hell, I
don't know — I've just got а yen to go
out there again, to see the places we
walked through — to feel the sun beat-
ing down on me and to get the stink
of the jungle back into my nostrils. 1
want to face up to something I've been
running away from all these years and
to realize how little it all means in
retrospect.” He stopped suddenly. He
had rehearsed this speech carefully but
now he wondered if he had not over-
dramatized it. Hell, that wouldn't have
deceived a kid, he thought ruefully, and
added aloud, “This must all sound very
silly, professor."

But the professor smiled sympathetic-
ally, “Not at all. I think I understand. 1
was part of a lost generation myself in
1918. All right, Mr. Sefton — you've
been very frank with me. Let me tell
you something about myself and my rea-
son for going out there.” He pushed a
box of cigarettes across the table and
Sefton, noting the virgin ash tray, real-
ized that he was the first who had been
thus favored and felt his confidence
rise accordingly. “I take it that you
know a little about me — my one-man

expeditions — my modest reputation as
an author and popular lecturer —?”

Sefton looked suitably shocked. "Who
doesn't, professor?"

“None of the previous applicants,
apparently," answered the professor
with more than a touch of sourness.
“One young man had heard, without
particular interest, a. 15-minute talk of
mine on television. The woman con-
fused me with Professor Lever, the
ornithologist, while most of the others
were far more interested in what I
could pay them than in the journey
and its objects. Still, be that as it may
—1 want a man who knows Upper
Burma, who is prepared to rough it,
who can drive one jeep and maintain
two and who, in short, is prepared to
accompany me on a trip over the old
Burma Road from Calcutta to as far as
we can get toward the China border. A
man who can relieve me of the chores
of the trip while I collect material and
take pictures for my next lecture tour,
but who at the same time can be rather
more — er — intellectually congenial than
the average paid employee.” He rose
and held out his hand. “I think you
might well be that man, Mr. Sefton.”

In Sefton's heart was a paean of joy
and relief,

He halted the jeep at the top of the
last rise before Kohima. Down the
winding road that led back toward
Manipur he could see the second j
snaking round the hairpin bends that
multiplied the crow-flight distance ten-
fold. The road had all but gone back
to the jungle since he had last seen it
in the closing days of the war. Then it
had been a tarmaced miracle of engi-
neering that had carried four lines of
heavy military traffic ай round the
clock. The teak-built culverts and. Irish
bridges had now for the most part
rotted through and Sefton, breaking
trail, had had to stop many times since
they had crossed the Brahmaputra at
Gauhati to allow the professor to catch
up.

He lit a cigarette and tried for the
50th time to fight down the feverish
impatience that bedeviled him. Left to
himself he could have pressed оп
through to the dry belt in a week, but
with this old fool's insistence on stop:
ping to take photographs, plus his mad-
dening refusal to travel in the heat of
the afternoon, it looked as if the time
might well be quadrupled. And now it
seemed more than probable that they
would be held up in Imphal. The
Indian government was engaged in
sporadic jungle fighting with the Naga
tribes who, promised their autonomy
when the British left, were demanding
it in terms that bordered on small-scale
warfare. Politics! Politics had stopped

(continued overleaf)

РЬАҮВОҮ

his getting into Upper Burma twice
before. What the hell had it to do with
him? All he wanted was a couple of
hours in a pagoda near Yeu .. .”

‘The professor had arrived now. He
pulled up triumphantly in just the very
spot he should have avoided, and Sefton
bellowed wrathfully.

"For God's sake—how many times
have I told you not to stop in mud?"
He strode over and pushed the old man
roughly out of the drivers seat and
jabbed furiously at the starter. The
engine roared but the wheels spun im-
potently. He cursed and got the tow-
rope out of his own jeep and for the
20th time yanked the professor onto
firm ground.

“There are certain fundamental rules
for good manners, too,” answered the
professor tartly. “Things are getting a
little out of hand, Sefton. I would re-
mind you that although you are not
drawing a salary, / am in charge of this
expedition,"

"You want to get across Upper Burma
to the Chinese border, don't you?”
snarled Sefton. "OK then, suppose you
leave it to someone who knows, and do
as you're damned well told."

“I'm not a child and this is not my
first experience of the jungle." Neave
was thoroughly angry now. "If things
are to go on like this I would much
prefer to take a paid driver on from
Imphal and to pay your passage back to
Calcutta by lorry.

Sefton recognized danger signs and
temporized.

"I'm sorry, professor," he said and
drew his hand wearily over his brow.
“All this rather brings things back —
and I think I have a touch of fever
coming on." He smiled bravely. "You
were quite right to slap me down. ГЇЇ
behave from now on."

The professor accepted his apology
with a slight inclination of his head and
turned stiffly back to his jeep.

“Once over the Chindwin, you old
bum," thought Sefton as they started off
again, “and you can go to blazes, I'll
have to watch my step till then, though
— I don't want to be left stranded when
I'm this close.”

The old man's Delhi-endorsed papers
took them through the check point at
Imphal without question and even with
an offer, which Sefton politely declined,
of an escort as far as the border. They
camped that night at the top of the
Tiddim Track where rusting Japanese
tanks made green hillocks under the
creeping undergrowth which still, after
12 years, could not altogether cover the
scars of that last fierce battle.

Sefton lay under his mosquito net
and watched the pre-monsoon clouds
gathering over the pass and blotting
out the stars. They had been gathering
that night he crossed. He stretched out

on his camp bed and listened to the
jungle night sounds and the professor's
gentle snores the other side of the fire.
His thoughts went back over the years.

There had been six of them at first
in that crazy truck. Findlay, the Scotch
manager — tall, grim, ascetic— who was
a Sanskrit scholar and who some said
was a secret convert to Buddhism; Muir-
son the Eurasian clerk; the two Karen
coolies; and Ngu Pah, the pretty little
Burmese nurse who had insisted on
standing by her tiny hospital until the
last moment; and himself. The Karens
had deserted early and Muirson, opium-
besotted and malarial, had died at the
end of the third week. That left the
three of them. Three oddly assorted
people on foot in the middle of the
freakish dry belt after the truck had
finally petered out. There was a well
in the pagoda to which they had strug-
gled before Findlay collapsed, and Ngu
Pah, the lightest of them, had climbed
down the rotten rope to see if any drib-
ble remained in the sand at the bot-
tom. But it had been bone dry. The
rope had broken as she struggled back
and had left her clinging to the ma-
sonry a few feet from the top and they
had been hard put to it to rescue her.

It was that night that he made his
decision. Findlay could obviously go no
farther and Ngu Pah was showing signs
of failing too. Her tiny frame had borne
the brunt of that hellish journey as she
had carried her full share of the water
and rations and finally the heavy wash-
leather bag that Findlay would entrust
to nobody but her.

He knew what that bag contained be-
cause he had seen Findlay making his
selection from the trays of pigeon-blood
rubies before they had dynamited the
strong room and set fire to the rest.
They had been unable to send their
usual shipments out to Rangoon for
some months, so there had been а lot
of stuff to choose from. That bag must
have weighed seven pounds if it weighed
an ounce, My Сой seven pounds of
uncut rubies. She had not let the bag
out of her possession for an instant after
Findlay had handed it to her. She had
even slung it round her neck when she
climbed into the well. Sefton wondered
when she had first begun to suspect his
intentions. He had tried for years to
justify to himself that final act of treach-
ery. He no longer bothered now. In
Sefton's world it was every man for him-
self. He had stolen the bag that night
while she slept and Findlay raved in his
delirium — and with it he had also stolen
their last half gallon of water and the
pitiful remains of their rations, and he
had set out on the last desperate stage
to the Chindwin and safety.

She had cheated him though — the
little devil. He made the discovery the
night before he crossed the border. He

had opened the bag to make a careful
selection of jüst what he could carry
on his person with safety, meaning to
cache the rest where, if the war went
the right way, he could come back and
collect it later. He remembered the feel
of the rough sand and gravel that
poured over his hands as he untied the
thong. He had screamed and groveled
in his rage out there in the jungle and
then, when sanity returned, he thought
about going back — but the Japs were
closing in fast and he could see the
smoke from burning villages a scant five
miles behind him. That's where the
stuff had gone — down the bloody well
— and that’s where it was now. Obvious-
ly they couldn't have survived long.
Findlay was almost a goner when he
left them, and Ngu Pah couldn't have
gone down the well again to recover the
stones because the rope had snapped.
He had often tortured himself with the
possibility of the girl surviving the war
and going back for them, but he had
brushed that aside. Without food and
water she could not have lasted another
week. No — the rubies were still there,
at the bottom of the well — of that he
was convinced.

Twice he had raised the necessary
money and gone out to Rangoon on the
pretext of starting up in engineering,
but try as he would he had been unable
to get permission to go through to Up-
per Burma. There had been constant
internecine warfare along the line of
the Irrawaddy since the British had left,
and both sides regarded visitors with.
suspicion. He had tried it without per-
mission and had narrowly missed being
shot for his pains. The third time һе
had attempted to go out they had re-
fused him a visa, as had the India gov-
ernment when he applied for a mining
license in the Shan hills. The profes-
sor's advertisement had been a heaven-
sent final chance. He would get there
this time — by God he would.

His plan of action was made, Their
road lay through Yeu — there was no
other way in. He would come down
with a simulated attack of malaria there.
The way to Mandalay was easy so he
would persuade the professor to go on
alone, promising to catch up with him
in a few days. They weren't on such
friendly terms that the old’ man would
boggle much at that. He would catch
up too—but then he'd quit. He had
enough ready cash to pay his way back
to England—and more than enough
wit to get the stones in with him,

He grunted, flicked his cigarette out
into the damp undergrowth, swatted a
mosquito and dropped quietly to sleep.

They reached Yeu four days later
without incident except for a few fur-
ther bog downs on the professor's part.
Sefton had suffered from malaria often

(continued on page 64)

the race for the moon
Noe

old stuff to the science-fiction boys

me.

article ву ANTHONY BOUCHER

WIZARDS OF А SMALL "нт

М AN TOOK HIS FIRST STEP into space on

October 4, 1957 — a date which fu-
ture encyclopedists are certain to rank
above October 12, 1492, in the history of
Earth.

And just about the only people who
жеге not amazed were the handful—
maybe a quarter of a million — who
regularly read science-fiction

Science-fiction readers have known
that man has had the scientific knowl-
edge and technical ability to leave this
planet for over a decade. It's been
essentially a matter of time, money,
effort; so there was nothing inherently
surprising in its final accomplishment.

And now that we are relatively un-
fazed by such an epoch-making event,
general readers are beginning to look
at us and wonder how much else we
may know—how many “crazy science-
fiction ideas” may be just as crazy as
the notion of earth satellites.

This isn't, of course, the first time
science-fiction has been years or decades
in advance of the news headlines; but
people forget fast, and have mostly for-
gotten already how impressed they were
а dozen rs ago by science-fiction's
foreknowledge of the atomic bomb.

There was, as you may have heard,
one classic incident when the FBI
cracked down on a science-fiction maga-
zine for publishing the secret of the
A-bomb—a secret which was at that
time known to nobody except the work.
ers on the Manhattan Project, a few
Communist spies, and anybody who
could understand prewar technical arti-
cles on nuclear research

This story is usually told as a star-
ting example of science-fiction happen:
ing to hit upon a truth of real science,
Actually, its moral is something else
again: It's an example of a much rarer
phenomenon — а story so timidly ele
mentary that for once science was able
to catch up with science-fiction

The story in question was Deadline,
by Cleve Cartmill, and it appeared in
Astounding Science-Fiction for March
1944-а year and a half before the
general public had ever heard of atomic
fission. But did it create a general stir
(outside of the FBI offices)? Did read-
ers recognize it as a brilliantly terrifying
prophecy? Did they acclaim it as a fresh,
exciting stroke of imagination?

Well, hardly. The editor did not
think it worth mentioning in his
advance announcements the previous
month; and a reader vote rated it sixth
place in an issue with six stories.

Cartmill was one of the best writers
in what was probably the best science
fiction period yet (the early Forties),
but this time he wrote — as can happen
to any of us—a real clinker, It takes
place on the planet Cathor (location
and time unspecified), and is about a

21

PLAYBOY

22

war between two forces named, with all
the subtlety of Serutan, Seilla and Sixa.
Our hero, Ybor Sebrof, is a Seilla agent
sent into Sixa to destroy a bomb in-
vented by their top scientist. He has
troubles with the beautiful leader of
the underground ("He was male . . .
put together with an еуе to efficiency;
and she was female, at the ripening
stage”), and gets into the power of the
scientist (who at least is not тад).
When all seems lost, Ybor "whipped his
short, prehensile tail (which has not so
much as been hinted at — unless by that
obscure reference to male efficiency —
in the preceding 9,000 words) around
the barrel of Dr. Sitruc's "gun" and
everything comes out OK.

We-—the science-fiction readers of
1944 — read this and shuddered. One
letter-to-the-editor described it as "medi-
ocre fantasy." And when we came to
the passage that perturbed the FBI
(“Now the explosion of a pound of
00-235... releases as much energy as a
hundred million pounds of TNT";
"Two cast-iron hemispheres, clamped
over the orange segments of cadmium
alloy . . . the powdered uranium oxide
runs together in the central cavity. The
radium shoots neutrons into this mass
—and the U-235 takes over from
there"), we thought, "Oh Lord, another
atomic bomb story! Cartmill usually
comes up with fresher ideas than that!"

Which was the point that John W.
Campbell, Jr. then as now editor of
Astounding, made to the FBI agents
when they suggested a cease-and-desist
order on stories about A-bombs. Atomic
energy, for peace or war, was already a
commonplace of science-fiction. Stop
writing about it and you'd give enemy
agents the perfect tip-off that a genuine
A-project was under way.

For what matters, as concerns the
prophetic nature of science-fiction, is
not so much the occasional on-the-nose
exactness as the broader education of
the reader, inducing him to take ad-
vanced concepts for granted before
their existence is suspected by the gen-
eral public, or sometimes even by scien-
tists.

A good example is this very theme of
the earth satellite, which goes back in
fiction the best part of a century, to
Edward Everett Hale’s The Brick Moon,
serialized in The Atlantic in 1869 and
1870. Hale's moon was, as far as accu-
racy goes, terrible. Its material, its
means of projection, its equipment —
nothing about it would work. But it
did establish — їп fiction, long before it
was ever discussed as a factual project
—that a man-made moon could be put
in an orbit around the earth, and that
much scientifically valuable data could
be drawn from observing such a satel-
lite.

"The frequency with which the proph-

ecies of science-fiction come true is the
result of at least three factors. The sim-
plest is that, by now, science-fiction has
prophesied so very many, often mutu-
ally contradictory, futures that it's get-
ting harder and harder for reality to
come up with anything that hasn't been
set down in fiction some time some
where. Fire off enough prophetic shots
and some of them are bound to hit the
bull'seye . . . and you can afford to
disregard the ones that don't. For in-
stance, no matter what the surface of
the planet Venus (which is hidden from
our observation by permanent clouds)
turns out to be like, from a water world
to a desert, there'll be a science-story
which has in advance described it
exacly—and usually on the basis of
statements by orthodox astronomers,
who also believe in the shotgun method
of speculation,

Of course not everyone can be so
lucky as Jonathan Swift, who in 1726
had Lemuel Gulliver meet astronomers
who had discovered that Mars possessed
two small moons (in 1877, by what
Willy Ley has called “the purest coinci-
dence known to the history of science,”
Asaph Hall discovered that Mars sure
enough does possess two small moons).
But a certain number of random guesses
are bound to turn out to be “proph-
ecies," purely by the odds.

Then a large number of science-
fiction's accurate hits come about because
writers and scientists (or technologists
or manufacturers) ‘are thinking along
the same lines. Fastest example of ful-
fillment I know: In 1953 Ann Warren
Griffith sold The Magazine of Fantasy
and Science-Fiction a story Captive Au-
dience about a miniature sound device
which could be inserted in products so
that they would continuously give off
their own commercials, drawing the
poor consumers attention to their
yummy goodness. Even before the story
could be printed, Miss Griffith walked
into a supermarket and was assailed by
a jar of prunes equipped with a minia-
ture sound device which, etc,

Often both writer and scientist are
developing concepts which have been
widely discussed and published, but
which remain virtually unknown to the
general public. Recently in a lecture I
mentioned the fact that the word tele-
vision first appeared in print in a radio
magazine (Hugo Gernsback's Modern
Electrics) in 1909. Afterwards a woman
in her sixties wanted to assure me
earnestly that there couldn't have been
a radio magazine in 1909 because there
wasn't any radio then; she was there
and she knew. Radio as a mass medium
of entertainment and advertising didn't,
it's true, appear until almost 20 years
later; but in 1909 there did exist "wire-
less telegraphy," as an important means
of commercial communication. There

were thousands of radio enthusiasts, to
whom Gernsback's magazine was ad-
dressed, and it didn't take much pro-
phetic insight to sec the future potential.
Gernsback himself foresaw it in 1911 in
Ralph 124C 41+, which is the first, the
best and the worst American science-
fiction novel. The worst in that its
writing is such as to make Tom Swift
and His Electric Cottonpicker seem a
work of high literary sophistication; the
first and best in that it was the pioneer
in thinking ahead logically from actual
known data, and scored more accurate
prophetic hits than any other single
glimpse of the technological future: TV,
nylon, plastics, tape-recording, helicop-
ters, satellites and a host of other gadg-
ets either realized by now or clearly in
our immediate future.

This use of available but publicly
ignored material accounts for ѕсіепсе-
fiction's successes with the A-bomb, as
well as with peacetime atomic power
(it was as far back as 1942 that Lester
del Rey wrote the still impressive short
novel Nerves, about the medical aspects
of disaster in an A-plant), and now
with the preliminaries to space flight.

And this same method should have
enabled us to foretell Russia's headstart
into space. In 1941 I was writing а
mystery novel (Rocket to the Morgue)
for which I needed a great deal of factual
background on the history, past, present
and future, of rocket research. At that
time there existed precisely one popular
book (P. E. Cleators Rockets Through
Space) in the English language on rock-
ets and space flight. Counting privately
published volumes and highly technical
works, there had been five books pub-
lished in English on the subject.

At that same time there had been 18
such books published in German . . .
and 31 in Russian! Willy Ley, the lead-
ing German (and now American) his-
torian of rocketry, tells me that 30 years
ago he was forced to teach himself to
read Russian; there was no other way of
getting at much of the most important
theoretical writing. Konstantin Eduard-
ovich Tsiolkovsky (1857-1935) was un-
questionably a world pioneer in ideas
for using rocket propulsion to conquer
зрасе — and was far more recognized
and honored after the revolution than
before.

АП these data were available — plus
such items as the Russian announce-
ments of a projected space platform
three months before our much-publi-
cized satellite announcement in 1955 —
and some science-fiction writer should
have had the prophetic sense to write a
serious story of the Russian space pio-
neers — though partial credit must go to
Steve Benedict for hinting at Soviet
moon-conquest in his Stamp from Mos-
cow (1953), if only as a caprice. But we

(concluded on page 46)

OVERS OF LITERATURE

Erskine Caldwell's novel God's Little
Acre as one of the master works of our
time, but this raw little volume of life in
the Georgia cracker belt has sold more
than eight million copies, ranking it just
behind the Bible and Dr. Spock's baby
all-time best seller list
Among the legion of loyal Асте fans, you
may remember, was sex-starved Ensign
Pulver of Mister Roberts. A copy of the
book was discovered by Roberts hidden

may not rate

book on the

in Pulver’s bunk — heavily
with marginal

annotated

comments like "Good

writing!" and "Excellent description!"
alongside the steamiest, seamiest pas
sages

Now, 25 years after the first Асте

taker opened the book in his hot little
hands, the story has been made into a
film, directed by Anthony Mann. starring
Robert Ryan as Ty Ty Walden,
titian-tressed Tina Louise and Aldo Ray
as that torrid Griselda and

and

twosome,

Will. Our enthusiasm over this news
was dampened somewhat when ме
learned that what was most certainly

Ensign Pulver's favorite scene has been
omitted from the movie. Perhaps you
remember it. We confess that it was our
favorite, too.

Will faces Griselda and in а voice of
says: ""I'm going to rip every
piece of those things off of you in a
minute. I'm going to rip them off and
tear them into pieces so small you'll

passion,

PLAYBOY'S LITTLE ACRE

pictorial

we lend a helping hand in the filming of a caldwell classic

PLAYBOY

24

never be able to put them together а
‚.. I've woven cloth all my life...
we're going to start spinning and wea
ing again tomorrow, but tonight I'm
going to tear that cloth on you till it
looks like lint out of a gin." And, a
page or so later: “He had worked as he
had never done before, and the shredded
cloth lay on the floor at his feet . . ."

PHOTOGRAPHED ESPECIALLY FOR PLAYBOY BY DON ORNITZ

We've always been a dedicated devotee
of film art and have secretly harbored a
desire to direct a film ourself, The miss-
ing scene seemed to provide an excellent
opportunity to make like De Sica, so we
got in touch with Miss Louise and Mr.
Ray, rounded up a camera and a camera
man, dusted off the leggings, megaphone
and canvas chair that had been waiting

patiently in our hope chest, and shouted
"Roll ‘em!" The set and costumes ma
not be authentic, but we think the dis-
cerning critic, Ensign Pulver, would agree
that Aldo and Tina have truly captured
the spirit of dwell and have turned
out one of the most energetic examples
of acting since Mr. Thespis first топор
olized the conversation.

ю
N

PLAYBOY

“You mean all the way from 23rd Street to Central Park?”

A Үл Aco, ол the 12th of May, a Fer
rari automobile running in Italy's
Mille Miglia race crashed in the village
of Guidizzolo near Brescia. The car had
been making something over 150 miles
an hour and it killed nine of the specta
tors lining the long straight road. It
killed the codriver, Edmund Nelson
and it killed the driver, a Spaniard

named Alfonso Cabeza de Vaca y Leigh
ton, Carvajal y Are, 13th Conde de la
Мејо 2th Marquis de Portago. Не
was 28.

In the days after Portago's death, a
standard was quickly
established on the front pages of the
world's newspapers: an immensely
wealthy aristocrat, charter member of the

picture of him

article By KEN PURDY

international set, an indefatigable pur-
suer of beautiful women,
obsessed with the wish for an early and
death. Portago would have
laughed, I am sure, reading his obituar.
ies. Two months before he died he had
laughed when I had repeated a column:
ist's remark about his "death wish.”

It's so ridiculous," he said. "I'm sure

and a man

violent

the life and death of a spanish grandee

Portago in retrospect, twelve months later

PLAYBOY

I love life more than the average man
does. I want to get something out of
every minute. I want to live to be a very
old man. I'm enchanted with life. But
no matter how long I live, I still won't
have time for all the things I want to
do, I won't hear all the music I want to
hear, I won't be able to read all the
books I want to read, I won't have all
the women I want to have, I won't be
able to do a twentieth of the things I
want to do. I want to live to be a hun-
dred and five, and I mean to,"

But Eddie Nelson, who had been
Portago’s friend for years, and who was
to die with him, had a different belief.
“I know Fon says he'll live forever,”
Nelson remarked, "but I say he won't
live to be 30,"

Nelson didn't say that because he be-
lieved Portago had a "death wish." He
knew better than that, He felt that sim-
ercentage would kill Portago: he
e that anyone could go on
self to hazard as Portago
and sur se he tried so
1 to wring every drop of juice out of
y moment of his life, Portago was
ad по pa-

time-consuming caution.
Normally it takes 10 years to become a
top-ranking Grand Prix racing driver —
10 years, that is, for those few who can
do it at all. Portago never drove a racing
automobile until 1954, but by 1957 he
was ranked officially among the world's
first 10 drivers. He believed that he
would be champion of the world by 196
I for one would not have bet ag:
He had been, briefly, an airplane pilot
= һе apparently believed that the pri-
mary function of aircraft was to fly un-
der bridges —a j
He was а superb horseman and, typic
he wi terested only in jump-races.
He was the world’s number-one amateur
steeplechaser in 1951 and 1952. When he
was invited to go down the St. Moritz
bobsled run he said he'd be glad to — if
he could steer. Told that he'd have to
learn the run first in à good many trips
а passenger he said he'd rather skip
all that and learn it straight off. He
steered the first time he went down —
and he took 15 seconds off the time of
the then Swiss champion. Later he was
captain of the Spanish bobsled team in
the Olympics, and he set one-man skele-
ton-sled records on the Cresta run, too.
He was a tremendous swimmer, handy
and willing in a street fight, with a very
short jolting punch. He was not a big
man, not heavily muscled, but he had
unusual strength, great endurance, ab-
normally sharp eyesight, an almost in-
credible quickness of reaction, He could
catch. knives thrown at him, pulling
them out of the air by their handles.

Because he was so flamboyant, and be-
cause he had disdained the confinement
of the schoolroom early in his teens,

exposing h

most pcople thought that Portago's in-
terests were entirely physical. It was not

з. "During most of the eight years I was
married to Fon," Carol Portago told me,
“I think he read a book а day. He read
history and biography, and little else. I
don't believe I ever saw him reading a
novel, a modern novel, although he did
like Robert Graves. He thought most
novels a terrible waste of time. One day,
coming back from a race in Nassau, 1
read Peyton Place on the plane. Fon
muttered about it all the way home. He
said it was idiotic to waste time on such
books."

Portago did have pronounced views on
the well-rounded life. "Тће most impor-
tant thing in our existence is a balanced
sex life," Portago once said to me.
“Everybody knows this is true, but no-
body will admit it — of himself, that is.
But if you don't have a happy sex life
you don't have anythin,

“It’s the first thing historians suppress
when they write the lives of great men,"
I said, “and often it was ап astonish-
ingly big factor in their lives.

“Of course,” Portago said. “Look at
Nelson, look at Napoleon.”

“Well, look at George Bernard Shaw,”
I said. “He gave it up altogether,
married on condition that his wife never
mention sex to him."

1 writer, Look at Tae ae A
prodigy, in more ways than опе, Well,
as for me, making love is the most im-
portant thing I do every day, and 1
don't care who knows

On his father's side Poi as born
to one of Spain's ancient titles. His
mother, a Briton, had been married be-
fore and she brought to Portago's father,
the Ith Marquis, an enormous Ameri
can fortune. The last king of Sp:
Alfonso ХШ, was Portago's godfather
and namesake. As a baby, and as a child,
he was close to beautiful. In his teens, he
looked petulant, and in maturity he was
simply tough. Sometimes he looked like
ired killer, sometimes he looked like
what he was— a Spanish grandee to the
bone. One of his friends said, "Every
time I look at Fon I see him in a long
black cape, a sword sticking out of it, a
floppy black hat on his head, riding like
a fiend across some castle drawbridge."
Portago himself said that had he been
born in another century he would have
been a Crusader, а free-booter, a knight
errant, I'm sure he often thought of that,
and probably with longing. A deter-
mined lust for adventure, plus an inclina-
tion toward government, runs through
the Portago line, and Spanish history is
studded with the name. In the l6th
Century one of Portago’s forebears, Ca-
beza de Vaca, was shipwrecked on the
Florida coast. He walked to Mexico City,

recruiting an army as he went. Another
conquered the Canary Islands, another
was a leader in the fight to drive the
Moors out of Spain. Portago's grand-
father was governor of Madrid, his
father was Spain's best golfer, poloist,
yachtsman; he was a fabulous gambler
said to have once won $2 million at
Monte Carlo, a soldier and a movie
actor. He died of a heart attack on the
polo feld, playing against his doctor's
orders,

Portago's childhood was in the stand-
ard pattern of the wealthy European
nobility: a melange of governesses, tu-
tors, Biarritz, lessons in the graces —
ig. horsemanship and so on. In the
ble early pictures — six-year-olds
at a birthday party, ranks of red-faced
nannies in the rear — he is easy to pick
out, and not only because he is usually
close to the camera. There is a calm
arrogance about the child, and he seems
to be just on the point of moving.
Portago kept a careful record of his life
almost to the end of it. He collected pic-
tures, he was a paper-saver, he recorded
almost literally everything he did. He
kept six huge leather-bound scrapbooks,
so big that three of them make a load
too heavy to carry comfortably. They
are full of photographs and newspaper
clippings, obviously cut with ruler a
razor blade and pasted in dead st
and level. He told me that he did
lieve even his wife knew how detailed
these scrapbooks were. Why had he gone
to such trouble? Ego? Certainly. That,
plus the wish to be sure that his chil-
dren would be able to form а firm por-
trait of him, And I think he thought of
the record of his life as something quite
apart from himself. He was proud of his
lineage, and he did not want the life of
the 12th Marquis de Portago to be less
well-recorded than the other 1] had
been. And, as he said, he looked forward
to a long life, And a full one.

l asked him if he intended to go on
driving until he was as old as the pres-
ent champion of the world, Juan Manuel
Fangio, now in his middle forties. 1 knew
that he would say по.

“Never,” he said. “Certainly п In
any case I'll stop when I'm 35, and if I'm
champion of the world, sooner.”

“And the
m ambitious for myself" he said.
“I wouldn't be racing automobiles if I
didn't think 1 could get something out
of it, and not only the championship. I
haven't told this to a great many people,
but — well, you see, Spain has had no
national hero for many years. That's
what the championship of the world
means to me."

Portago never attempted bullfighting,
the sport in which the Spaniards have
been accustomed to find their heroes.
Few Spanish aristocrats ever do. "I have

(continued on page 69)

attire Ву FREDERIC A. BIRMINGHAM

F ALL THE DELIGHTFULLY romantic so-

cial occasions invented by man, none
has the glamorous excitement of the
weekend house party in the country.
These delicious convocations—big enough
for the rovingest eye and intimate
enough for delectable dalliance — share
the traditional glamor of an ocean cruise
and offer much more, too, There's the
same gaiety and conviviality of “social”
rooms and lounges that one finds on ship-
board, but at the weekend house party the
group is smaller and hand-picked by the
host instead of by anonymous travel
agents; the private goingson in state-
rooms are matched by the cozier room-to-
room visiting: and the comparative short-
ness of the precious weekend hours more
quickly dissipates the chillier barriers.
Everyone's bent on fun, and there's а
conspiratorial air of promise from the
moment the guests forgather.

At this time of year— between the
snows of winter and the dog days of sum-
mer (when we'll take an air-conditioned
apartment, thank you)—the country
weekend house party comes into its own.
And with more and more people turn-
ing commuters or part-time country

what to wear while

making like a guest

SPRING
HOUSE
PARTY

Right: you're allowed only one entrance, so
you might as well make it a good one. You
do—by way of an Н. I. S. Himalyan cloth
combination of sueded cotton poplin, light
as heather, tough as gorse; about 540. The
scootercoat-on-the-arm, by Buck Skein, is а
cotton number that's built like a winter jacket
but scaled down in heft for spring zephyrs;
$19.95, The host's striped sports jacket is of
rugged cotton ticking, by Н. I, S.; about $20;
while the guy holding up the doorway sports
а polished cotton cardigan, by Buck Skein,
that's OK for most any afternoon romp; $6.95.

gentlemen, it has become one of the
happier national institutions (interna
tional, in fact: the French now have a
word for it, "week-end")

Of course, like every good social institu.

tion, le week-end has evolved its own pro-

tocol and procedures. Used to be that the
city slicker could visit his country cousin
and, on arrival, merely doff his suitcoat
take off his collar and roll up his sleeves.
Nowadays, the niceties call for proper
weekend garb. In selecting а weekend
wardrobe, don't stint: better to be over
supplied with the right duds for the
variety of occasions that might arise.
than to make like a world wanderer
who must travel light. And remember
you won't have hotel facilities for order
ing a shave bomb, buying an extra shirt
in the lobby, or getting a shine or a fast
presing job, so pack with care and
foresight. Don't count on borrowing
from your host or other guests; if you
do, you may be non grata at that particu
r hacienda for good. Remember, too,
that though you'll be assigned your own
room, you'll have visitors in and out
night and day: it's only good sense to
make sure your personal gear — luggage
included — be elegant symbols of the
зап you are
Your host, of course, will have told
you. if you don't know from previous
visits, pretty much what to expect in the
way of daytime activity, and you can se
lect from your wardrobe accordingly. If
there's to be riding, golf or tennis, you'll
tote your own proper equipment. And
if, as is likely, there will be a spot of
house-to-house visiting. or a dinner or
dance at the country club, you'll want
something adequately formal but not
citified and stiff
Lets assume nothing unusual is
planned by your host and that if some
too strenuous outdoor activity is on his
agenda — like climbing the nearest cliff
(continued on page 66)

Left: woxing merry at cocktail and canapé
time, the wisdom of a well-stocked weekend
wardrobe becomes evident. The traditional
yachting jacket in blue flannel ond brass
buttons, by Sidney Blacker, cannot be beaten
on any score; $32.50. Couple it with a silk
foulard necktie, and should the jacket flip
back when you reach for a cigarette, all can
see the lining is in а matching print. The
lod upstage, making out with the sheathed
delight, wears a striped dacron-cotton jack-
et, by McGregor, in the shorter cut; $35.

Right: every house party hos Из formal
moments—an evening dance at the club or
late dinner thrown by your host. He's in
a Lord West silk dinner jacket that goes
off the black standard, but not off the deep
end; $75. A guest, however, has the priv
lege of taking it easier, ond this guest
has chosen a Sidney Blacker smoke-blue
jacket of light cotton-worsted mix, fine for
the small hours and small talk; $39.50.

“Just what kind of a girl do you think I am—a contortionist?!”

О A STUDENT ОР SEAFOOD, a clam is
С impudence itself.

Remember the first time you tasted
one? And how, in comparison with the
subtler oyster, the clam on the half shell
seemed positively brash and roistering?
Your taste buds experienced a strange
flippant sensation, and you undoubtedly
asked yourself, if you reacted like most
new clam eaters, whether it was good or
bad. You probably were still on the
fence after you'd finished the first half-
dozen littlenecks. But days later, for
some unexplained reason, you were over-
taken by what is known as clam hunger,
a sudden irrational yearning for the
bumptious chewy morsels.

Even on the sea bottom, the clam is
а self-asserting creature who refuses to
know his place. The oyster is а coopera-
tive fellow who fastens onto a mud flat
and proceeds to grow plump until he's
dredged up and delivered to an oyster
bar. But the clam resists all care and
cultivation because he doesn't stay in
one place long enough to take orders.
He patiently waits until you get right on
top of him and then he deftly burrows
out of sight and gloats. When he wants
to eat, he raises his insolent neck up
to the water and siphons down his food.
If you're on the Pacific Coast and you
reach for him by hand he just may turn
out to be a razor clam, and you'll wind
up with no supper and a mutilated mitt.
Or he may be one of the gweduc clams
(pronounced gooey-duck) with a neck
over two feet long that he pulls down
into the sand faster than you can dig.
Now and then, along the Atlantic shores,
entire colonies of clams will suddenly
disappear and then just as mysteriously

reappear in a capricious game of peek-
aboo.

Along the British shores, there are
the notorious red-nosed clams, tough and
mean enough to bore through rock so
solid even power drills have a tough time
making a dent. The ultimate in audacity
is displayed by the Tridacna clams of
Austral barrier reef, monsters some-
times weighing over 500 pounds. So
heavy is the Tridacna that when its
shells fasten onto the anchor chain of
a tugboat, the boat can't budge.

But behind the clam's rude manners
one soon discovers pure sweetness and
succulence. Its snappy seafood flavor
blends well with countless other foods
yet never loses its identity. You may eat
a piece of fish and perhaps not know
whether it's halibut or cod, but there's
no mistaking a clam. Whether it's an icy
clam juice cocktail in a men's bar, a
gigantic clambake on the beach, bisque
of clams in a cosmopolitan hotel, or
fried clams at a roadside stand, the dis-
tinctive clam flavor emerges — pert, salty-
sweet and rich.

"There's no country in the world where
clam dishes are created in such pro-
fusion as in the United States. The
French and English eat oysters and mus-
sels, but pay relatively little attention
to the clam. Even in this country, the
mischievous mollusks were snubbed for
a long time. Colonial New Englanders
were actually starving when Ruth Aldon
Bass of Duxbury, Massachusetts, watch-
ing a pig rooting in the shore sands, fol-
lowed his lead and came up with the
first New England clam chowder.

Of all specialty cooks, clam. men are
undoubtedly the most obstinate maver-
icks in the world. As surely as the tides

Sood

BY THOMAS MARIO

| Happy asa Clam

a mischievous mollusk’ s
piquant personality,

on the land,

on the sea,

on the table

rise and fall, it can be predicted that
some bullnecked legislator in the com-
ing months will introduce a law forbid-
ding the use of tomatoes in New Eng-
land clam chowder. With just as much
certainty it can be stated that when you
order a clam stew in New York City,
you'll automatically get hard-shell clams
and if you ask for soft clams, you'll be
looked upon as a bean-headed bumpkin
from Maine with the straw still sticking
out of your ears. Now, all of these arbi-
trary views over which regional cooks
have locked spoons for decades have a
certain piquant charm, but they don't
make for interesting culinary inventions.
New England clam chowder with milk,
Manhattan clam chowder with tomatoes,
or Rhode Island clam chowder with
neither tomatoes nor milk can all be
found in good or bad versions depend-
ing upon the imagination and judgment
that go into their making.

Unlike fresh oysters, which are not
sold in most states during the R-less
months, you can enjoy hard- or soft-
shell clams all year long even though
some states limit the season during
which clams m be taken. Market
clams vary in size from the one-inch
bean clams on the Pacific Coast to the
New England chowder clams which
sometimes run to six inches in diameter.

CLAMS ON THE HALF SHELL

For cocktail parties, intimes, pre-
dinner frolics, late beer busts or just
gratifying the inner man at any time of
the day or night, clams on the half shell
are a smart idea. On restaurant menus,
large clams on the half shell are listed
as cherrystones. The smaller sizes are
called littlenecks. Raw clams should

PLAYBOY

be served positively glacial. The cock-
tail sauce served with the clams should
be absolutely volcanic. You can buy raw
clams already opened. These should
be purchased right before eating. If
they remain opened several hours, they
tend to shrink somewhat and lose flavor.
Should this happen, some of their fresh-
ness can be restored by sprinkling them
with ice-cold bottled clam juice or salt
water, just before serving. One teaspoon
of salt to a pint of water is the right
proportion.

For the man who wants to open his
own clams, there is a mechanical clam-
opener which does a good fast job. You
can open them somewhat more neatly
with an oyster knife, a short stubby
utensil with a blunt blade and a round
handle. Ask or bribe your seafood dealer
for a lesson in this manly art of clam-
opening.

For variety, put a dollop of ice-cold
caviar on each freshly opened clam on
the half shell. You may add chopped
chives or scallions to the cocktail sauce
or zip it up with horseradish, Tabasco
sauce, Worcestershire sauce or cayenne
pepper. The opened clams may be
sprinkled with lemon or lime juice, white
wine vinegar or garlicflavored vinegar.

STEAMED SOFT CLAMS

Soft clams, known generally as steam-
ers, have a milder yet somehow richer
flavor than their hard-shell kin. The
best are about two inches long, and you
provide at least a dozen per guest. The
shells of raw soft clams аге normally
open, with the neck protruding. A man
must eat а peck or two of soft clams
before he fully realizes why fingers were
invented. It would be the silliest of af-
fectations to attempt to separate the
steaming hot shells of a soft clam, pull
off the brown skin covering the neck,
lift the clam out of the shell, dip it in
hot clam broth, bathe it in melted but-
ter and finally drop it into the mouth
by means of anything other than the
thumb and index finger.

Since the steamer clam keeps its shells
open in its sandy natural habitat, it's
frequently full of that habitat. To re-
move the sand from soft clams, wash
them well under cold running water,
scrubbing them with a vegetable brush.
Then cover them with cold water. Add
2 tablespoons salt and 2 tablespoons
cornmeal or oatmeal for each gallon of
water in which the clams are steeped.
Let them remain in this water overnight
in the refrigerator. Before steaming,
throw off the water and again wash the
little beggars. Place them in a steamer
kettle or in a pot with a tightly fitting
lid. Add 1 cup water for each quart of
clams. Bring water to a boil. Reduce
flame slightly and let the clams steam
for 6 minutes, stirring a few times so
that those on top may be in closer con-

tact with the boiling water. When the
clams are steamed wide open, remove
them from the pot, place them on a
platter and cover them with a cloth
napkin to keep them hot. The liquid
remaining in the pot is clam broth or
clam juice. It may be used for clam
juice cocktails or clam soup, but ordi-
narily is served at the table along with
the steamers. Pour off the liquid care-
fully, avoiding as much as possible the
sediment remaining on the bottom of
the pot. Strain the broth through three
thicknesses of cheesecloth, For each
guest, provide a small dish of melted
sweet butter, livened with lemon juice,
as well as a cup of the strained clam
broth.

Provide your guests with outsize nap-
kins, and if they seem reluctant to tie
them around their necks, set the sensi-
ble, etiquette-breaking example your-
self. Soft-shell clams are flamboyantly
messy eating, and though a few snobs
may prefer to proudly wear their butter
stains as Heidelberg students wear their
dueling scars, the majority will be grate-
ful to you for protecting their dinner
jackets, shirts, ties, cummerbunds and
décolletages.

BAKED CLAMS WITH OREGANO
(4 Servings)

% cup butter

2 medium-sized cloves garlic

10 sprigs parsley

34 teaspoon oregano

14 cup Italian-bread crumbs

Salt, pepper

32 cherrystone clams on the half shell

Anybody who has ever tasted oregano
in pizza or pasta will love this dish, Let
the butter stand at room temperature
until it can be spread easily. Preheat
the oven at 475°. Remove garlic skin.
Smash the garlic with the flat side of a
heavy knife. Chop together the garlic,
parsley and oregano until the parsley is
almost like a powder. Add the bread
crumbs and butter. Mix to a smooth
paste. If you have rock salt, or can get
it, spread it to a depth of у; inch in a
large shallow baking pan or in pie plates.
The salt will enable you to place the
clams evenly in the pan without tilting
and losing their juice. Sprinkle the
clams lightly with salt and pepper. Di-
vide the butter mixture, spreading a
dab on each clam. Place the clams in
the pan. Bake until the edges just begin
to curl, usually about 10-12 minutes.
Avoid overbaking.

CLAM BALLS
(4 Servings)

1 tablespoon butter

1 egg yolk

2 medium-sized potatoes, peeled and
boiled

Тот. can minced clams, drained

Bread crumbs

у teaspoon lemon juice

1 teaspoon grated onion

1 teaspoon horseradish

1 tablespoon parsley, chopped very

fine

Salt, pepper

Flour

2 whole eggs, beaten

The best thing since the invention of
beer and pretzels is beer and clam balls.
Into a mixing bowl put the butter and
egg yolk. Force the hot potatoes through
a potato ricer or food mill into the
bowl. Stir well at once. Add the drained
clams, 4 cup bread crumbs, lemon juice,
grated onion, horseradish and parsley.
Add 14 teaspoon salt and 14 teaspoon
pepper or more to taste. Stir well, Chill
the mixture in the refrigerator two or
three hours, Shape into balls of about
one inch in diameter. Dip the clam
balls first into the flour, then in the
beaten eggs and finally in the bread
crumbs. Fry in a kettle of deep fat pre-
heated to 370*. Drain on absorbent pa-
per. Serve them furiously hot.

CHICKEN AND CLAMS, VALENCIA
(4 Servings)

8 1b. young chicken cut for frying

Salt, pepper, paprika

Cooking oil

5 tablespoons butter

1 green pepper, diced

1 onion, finely chopped

1 clove garlic, finely chopped

1 bay leaf

14 teaspoon saffron

1 cup dry white wine

1 chicken bouillon cube

1 cup rice

11ygoz. jar clams in juice

Sprinkle the chicken with salt, pepper
and paprika. Heat 14 inch of oil in a
large frying pan. Fry the chicken until
light brown on both sides Remove
chicken from the pan and set aside. In
a large heavy pot fitted with a tight lid
melt the butter. Add the green pepper,
onion, garlic and bay leaf. Sauté slowly
until the onion just turns yellow. Put
the browned chicken in the pot. Add
the saffron and wine. Drain the juice
off the clams and add enough water to
it to make 154 cups of liquid. Pour this
liquid into the pot. Add the bouillon
cube. Cover and simmer slowly for Vj
hour. Add the rice to the pot, stirring
well so that the rice is immersed in
liquid. Again cover the pot and cook
slowly until the rice is tender, from 15
to 20 minutes. Add the clams and cook
a minute or two longer, just long enough
to heat the clams through. Spoon the
rice and clam mixture onto the serving
platter. Place the chicken on top. Then
just clam up and eat.

АРАНТМЕ55

togetherness-haters, unite—you have nothing to lose but your janes

TOGETHERNESS — despite the claimstake in
the form of an upper-case "T" that's been
hammered into the word by certain peo-
ple — has been with us since the dawn
of time, though sometimes it seems even
longer. In its original lower-case form,
“togetherness” lies at the base of all
civilization. To its influence upon the
questing human mind we owe the inven-
tion of the tandem bicycle, two-handed
rummy, office parties, competitive water
polo, beer, skittles, sex and the double
bed. Without it, we would have no gov-
ernment, no laws, no love, marriage or
pari-mutuel betting. The Elks and the
Loyal Order of Moose would be just a

lot of guys at loose ends for something
to do on Thursday nights. Haig would
never have teamed up with Haig to pro-
duce pinch bottles. Rodgers would sit
next to Hammerstein on the bus with-
ovt even knowing him, Sophia and Brig-
itte would have ended up old maids,
nobody's socks would match, and oll
would be anarchy and confusion.

So much for the positive side — the
old-fashioned, voluntary, see-you-Sun-
day-if-it-doesn’t-rain type togetherness
that was good enough for Father, and is
good enough for me. But what of this new
brand of compulsive closeness, lauded as
а social virtue and sweeping the country

humor ву wWLIAM IVERSEN

like a seven-year virus? Is it something
you catch from sitting around a subur-
ban living room watching the Lawrence
Welk show? A mystic sense of oneness
that comes of making а burnt offering of
prime sirloin on an outdoor grill? If so,
it could easily be avoided, But the diffi-
culty is that the New Groupishness is
everywhere, ready to strike rich and
poor, married and single, alike.

The time has come to at least consider
the threat that Organized Togetherness
holds for us as normally sociable, posi-
tive-thinking individuals. To this particular
member of the mob, it represents both
romantic dystrophy and marital sclerosis

PLAYBOY

— Dad hanging out the diapers, and Don
Juan playing pinochle with his play-
mate's father while she and her sister
give each other home permanents in the
kitchen — which room, according to Mc-
Call's, the Magazine of Togetherness, is
The Heart of the House.

Leafing through a handful of issues of
that pul ion, one gets the impression
that the kitchen is to Togetherness what
Oak Ridge is to nuclear energy — a com-
bination laboratory and power plant
where radioactive Gemütlichkeit is pro-
duced and harnessed for the good of ай
mankind. Under the heading of "Better
Living," one finds such titles as Kitchen
with Built-in Sunshine, We Remodeled
a Modern Kitchen, A Wardrobe of
Knives, and Try This: Four Kitchen
Tricks. Snatching at picture captions in
a “Personal Story” on a couple of mar-
ried teenagers, we learn: "Though they
haven't been to a dance since 11-month-
old Debbie was born, they make up for
it by dancing in the kitchen nearly every
night while dinner is cooking." In the
same issue, a story that purports to tell
Why Women Are in Love with Rock
Hudson informs us: “The Hudsons live
in a two-bedroom, red Pennsylvania
Dutch farmhouse nestled close against a
steep hill in Hollywood, Rock's bachelor
house. Although small, it has handsome
pine paneling, some custom-made furni-
ture and a modern kitchen with a cop-
per stove. Even as a bachelor the kitchen
was important to Rock, who has been
known to polish off three meals at one
sitting and still look hungry.”

Whether or not Rock and his wife cut
the linoleum with a nightly cha-cha, the
story doesn’t say, but a few pages later
we are treated to a picture tour of the
Abraham Lincoln Springfield home,
and find ourselves standing by the Great
pator’s flapjack-laden wood stove
ng one of his sons take a kitchen
bath. Then, the next thing we know,
we're off to visit a “Togetherness House"
in Florida, where “The kitchen is backed
by the coral rock of the living-room fire-
place,” and “Built-in cooking units, dish-
washer, wood cabinets, intercom system
and power center give a maximum of
work and floor space,”

If ever a periodical showed signs of
being queer for kitchens, it's the Maga-
zine of Togetherness. It seems as if their
writers need only approach a kitchen,
typewriter in hand, to have its keys
begin to chatter like a Geiger counter
approaching a uranium mine.

"The Early American kitchen — and
the way of life it spelled — is being re-
discovered today by families all over the
country," an anonymous correspondent
reported in a picture spread devoted to
full-color sink studies and candid refrig-
erator shots. "No room has ever sur-
passed its feeling of warmth and ample-
ness, of being a place where good things

were always cooki
could relax togethe:

Now, I don't know how this sort of
thing affects you, but the
Mummy, Dad and all the kiddies loung-
ing around the Early American kitchen's
dining area waiting for the Spam to fry,
made me feel like putting on my Paul
Кеустез hat and sticking my head in
the oven. As a lifelong food-fancier and
veteran icebox commando, 1 still prefer
to do my relaxing in the living room or
cut out in the garage, and, like others
of my age, sex and shoe-size, am just as
interested in what might be cooking in
the privacy of a French Provincial
boudoir.

It's sad to report, however, that cou-
ples who have no taste for amour in an
apron, and would just as soon not try
any kitchen tricks, are hard put to it to
find any privacy in the modern home.
With the current stress on “ореп-Йоог”
plans, walls and doors are rapidly dis-
appearing, and rooms have given way to
"areas." There are living areas, dining
areas, sleeping areas — and possibly even
bathroom areas, with peek-a-boo plumb-
ing, free-form seats and a through-view
from the street. In such a setup, the
problem is not how to get people into
the kitchen, but how to get them out
of it. With the breakfast bar bordering
on the TV-hobby area, the kitchen is
often no more than a contemporary ap-
pliance grouping standing in the middle
of the floor like the interior of a ham-
burger joint that has been miraculously
spared by a capricious tornado. “Beehive
patterned” curtains partly screen the
wide double windows facing a picture
view of the neighbors’ side yard. Over
the tidy little desk in the planning cen-
ter, one almost expects to see a sign
exhorting the family to ""Thimk" — or,
more apropos, a cross-stitched sampler
bearing the motto ""TogetherMess."

Whether spelled with an "m" or an "n,"
however, Togetherness refuses to be con-
fined to the kitchen. Out there amongst.
the pots and pans, the milk of human
gregariousness is being whipped into a
pudding of claustrophobia that even the
wariest of unwed males may be served.
The recipe is in her eyes when she leans
across a candlelit table in that fiddle-
haunted gypsy boite, and suggests run-
ning up to Darien for a weekend with
her folks. Its in her voice when she
hums My Blue Heaven, offers to sew a
button on your shirt, and calls you at
the office to find out where you were
until three o'clock this morning. Poet
and dreamer that you are, you probably
won't even notice what is happening
until you wake up some morning and
find yourself fused into a team. Linked
in the common experience of sitting
around the kitchen listening to the
pagan throb of the Bendix, and watch-
ing the pure, gemlike flame of the pilot

g and the family

light, you'll grow so accustomed to her
face, she'll begin to look like Minnie
Mouse. Worse yet, you may begin to
look like Mickey.

To quote Miss Burchell, my old biol-
ogy teacher: "What, then, is the answerz"

Just the other day rumors reached
me that certain socially conscious indi-
viduals have been attempting to estab-
lish a movement in favor of Apartness,
but they're having trouble getting or-
ganized. One faction wants to take to
the hills and dress in goatskins, like
Harry the Hermit, while another is try-
ing to raise funds to buy McCall's and
change its name to The Journal of Joint
Diseases. Personally, I'm with the mid-
dle-of-the-roaders who favor splitting up
into one-man cadres and conducting a
suave cloak-and-jigger campaign to get
Togetherness restored to its original
small-"t" status,

Scattered throughout the country, a
group of anonymous Apartisans are even
now resisting pressures to congregate on
anything but a part-time, strictly-for-
kicks basis. Dedicated to the proposition
that enough is enough, they count
amongst their number men from ай
walks of life— doctors, lawyers, insur-
ance adjusters, trombone players, op-
tometrists and hydraulic engineers. Ro-
manticists all, they refuse to enter a
kitchen, even for ice cubes, and have
taken vows of chastity regarding all
women with their hair up in curlers.

It must have been one of these un-
known freedom-fighters, boring from
within an advertising agency, who wrote
the copy for a recent magazine ad that
could very well serve as the Apartisan
Manifesto. Its called "A new experi-
ence in road-hugging,” and features a
black-and-white glossy of a mischievous
brunette nuzzling the well-tailored shoul-
der of an obviously cognizant citizen
driving a posh little pushmobile called
the Triumph TR 3.

“Suddenly you two are coming closer
and closer to everything your racing
hearts have ever wanted . . . in the com-
pact, leather-cushioned ‘togetherness’ of
the Triumph TR 3.

“Each in your own bucket seat . . .
with your own lion's share of stretch
room ... you both feel confidence at
once . . . letting her out on the open
road thru her full, true speed. . . .”

1 mean, that's the full, true "together-
ness," as far as I'm concerned. The sum
of two apples who understand each
other . . . coming closer and closer to
everything your racing hearts have ever
wanted . . . with your own lion's share
of stretch тоот . . . each in your own
bucket seat.

Even a Jag-addict or a Porsche-hound
can appreciate those sentiments.

"Hop in, baby, and shut the door."

fiction ву РАТ FRANK

THIS ONE IS ON THE HOUSE

it was sweet duty for a young cop: knocking over a hollywood “massage parlor”

HE INSURANCE COMPANIES gave УУ

liam Haike, a private detective, all
the credit for solving the Creighton jewel
robbery. My editor was interested. He
“This is the third big one Haike
has cracked, There ought to be a good
feature in him if he'll talk. Find out
how he does it.”

I said I'd known a ВШ Haike, a
young cop, in Los Angeles. The name
was fairly uncommon. I wondered
whether it was the same guy

His office was in one of those anti-
septic new buildings, rising disdain-
fully on stainless steel stilts as if holding
up its pink marble skirts above M
son Avenue's grime, where you expect
to find prosperous publicists, attorneys
and advertising agencies, but not a

said, "

private eye, Furthermore, he had а
suite, The prim gold sign on the
frosted glass announced, HAIKE Амо-

CIATES, INC., and under this, in modest
italics, Inquiries and Investigations.
The reception room decor was subdued
and expensive modern, with Hogarth
prints and an original Utrillo on the
walls. Mr. Haike was in and would
see me.

It was the same Bill Наке.

He had come out of the Army, an
MP lieutenant, in 1946, and had taken
the first job offered, which was with the
Los Angeles police. Because he was
quick, able and honest, his advance-
ment to plain clothes had been rapid.
He was not large, but compactly built.
His features were regular, his hair crisp
and wavy, and his eyes a startlingly
clear and deep blue. His fellow cops
called him "Pretty Boy," but he had
killed a child-molester with the edge of
his hand, which why L covering
the story, had come to know him in
the first place.

If eight years had put pounds on
him, they didn't show under the careful
tailoring. His face had fined down a
bit, and he seemed more mature, and
perhaps wiser and harder. He swung a
bar out from under his free-form desk
and asked whether I still drank. I told
him yes, but not until after the sun was
over the yardarm, and I told him why
I was there. I pointed out that the right
kind of publicity could be very helpful
to a private detective agency.

"We don't need publicity,” he said.
"We've got eight insurance accounts
and that alone is more than enough.

We dropped all domestic cases — they're
always nasty — three years ago. Once in
a while we take on a private case, if it's
interesting and big, just for kicks. But
if you really want to do the story — "

I said I wanted it, and that he should
start at the beginning and tell me why
he decided to quit the L.A. force and
go on his own

Bill smiled. When he smiled he de.
veloped a dimple, and it was this
dimple, according to the other cops,
that made the women cave in, either

anting to sleep with him or mother
him, or both. “That's the part that will
have to be off the record," he said.
"You see, 1 was fired. On the books it
ays I resigned without prejudice, but
actually they made it impossible for me
to stay on the force. They put me back
in uniform and gave me a cemetery
beat north of Burbank. Since I lived
with my folks south of Santa Monica, 1
faced 60 miles of driving through Los
Angeles traffic just to get to the pre
cinct and back. No man can do that

37

РЬАҮВОҮ

sort of thing for very long and survive.”

"Why did they bust you?" I asked.

"Incompetence," he said. "I will tell
you the tale."

It was the practice, in Los Angeles,
to rotate the brighter young detectives
through all the special units, so that
by the time they were ready for promo-
tion they would have a well-rounded
knowledge of the department. Bill
Haike had made a good record in
Robbery and in Homicide, and then he
was shifted to the Vice Squad.

In any large city the Vice Squad can
be a dangerous deadfall for the young
detective. Principally, vice means ille-
gal gambling and illicit sex, and these
pastimes are by no means a monopoly
of criminals. A Vice Squad cop, if a
fanatic enforcer of the laws, can make
a fool of himself raiding church bingo
parties and hauling in intertwined two-
somes from parks and beaches. If he is
corruptible, he finds unlimited oppor-
tunity for pay-offs, in cash or flesh, and
if he is really wrong he discovers black-
mail In addition, Los Angeles is a
magnet for odd people and odd prac
tices, and its sins are varied and won-
derful.

For the first few weeks Bill drew
routine duty casing horse rooms and
numbers joints. One day the captain
called him in and asked him a series of
unusual questions. Had he ever used
prostitutes or pimps as stoolies? Was
he known in the Hollywood whore
houses? Had he ever had a prostitute as
a girlfriend? If so, did she know he
was a cop?

‘The answer to all these questions was
no, and the captain appeared pleased.
"OK, Наке," he said, "I've got a spe-
cial assignment for you. You'll work
under Lieutenant Gilley. Take the rest
of the day off and report to him here
at six this evening."

"Can you tell me what it is, Cap-
tain?" Bill asked.

The captain looked at him curiously.
Freshmen on his squad weren't sup-

d to ask questions. Nevertheless he
said, “Gilley is going to knock over a
massage parlor in Hollywood. You're
going to be the inside man. That's
sweet duty, boy, but don't forget that
you're a cop, because we don't want to
miss on this one."

In certain sections "massage parlor"
was the euphemism for a fancy bordello.
It was said that in some massage par-
lors the appointments were as luxurious
and sanitary and the services as com-
plete, except for string music and the
tea ceremony, as you would find in a
house in Tokyo. Bill wondered why it
was necessary to knock over this par-
ticular massage parlor. So he asked.

The captain didn't answer at once,
and Bill knew his honesty was being

evaluated. Then the captain said, "We
can't afford a tip-off on this one, Haike,
so keep it within these four walls.
Don't even talk to another cop."

The place was known as Mame's,
although not so listed in the phone
book: Two nights before, an Influential
Personage had invited a visiting fireman
from the East, equally influential in his
own bailiwick, to sample Mame's. They
had arrived drunk, so all they had re-
ceived was a massage, which was the
rule of Mame's house. The Personage
had protested, and Mame had ordered
him out. When he threatened to close
her down, she had used judo on him,
and he was suffering from a dislocated
shoulder as well as extreme humiliation.
Now the Personage demanded that the
ройсе department make good his
promise. "He made a loud, official com-
plaint,” the captain said, "and he has
a lot of power. Mame should've been
more careful. Too bad for Mame.”

When Bill returned to the squad
room at six, Lieutenant Gilley was
skimming through a stack of confiscated
comic books, his beer belly ballooned
against the edge of his desk. Gilley was
a gross, enormous man, face and hands
as red and coarse as commercial-grade
beef. He was foul-mouthed, cynical, and
had been 12 years on the squad. Reput-
edly, he was rich.

Three other men were seated around
the desk. They were all veterans of the
squad, and while they were of different
heights, they had all eaten too well,
and they had all begun to look like
Gilley. They waited, glum and uncom-
municative, for the lieutenant to finish
his reading.

Gilley pushed aside the comic books
and wiped his steel-rimmed glasses. He
inspected ВШ, skeptically, and spoke.
“Now this is an important grab and
we don't want no muckin' muck-ups.
The captain says they don't know you
in the cat houses, and you don't look
like no cop, and that’s why he picked
you to play the mark with hot pants.
You ever been on a job like this be-
fore, Haike?”

"No, sir."

"Ever been in a cat house before?"

"Not in this country." Beggett, the
oldest detective sergeant on the squad,
snickered. Bill added, casually, "I don't
have to pay for mine, like some old
geezers do." Beggett's smile came ой.

“I hear,” Gilley said, "that up in
Robbery they call you Pretty Boy. Well,
you're going to need all that charm.
This Mame is a cagey bitch and she
picks smart girls. If they catch wise that
you're a cop, all you'll get is a fast rub-
down, a slap on the ass, and then out
the door with a sweet smile and ‘Come
again. "

"Do I go in alone?" Bill asked.

"Yep, boy, you win the cherries. Only

there ain't no cherry at Mame's. What
you do get is а professional piece on
the citys time. We stay out of sight,
outside, until you've had time to get
in the saddle. We give you, say, an
hour. Then me and Quinn hit the
front door and Beggett and Jola hit
the back."

Bill was to leave his badge, gun,
police identification card, and anything
else that would show his occupation, in
his locker. "Sometimes, while you're on
the table, they go through your wallet,"
Gilley explained. “They don't take
nothin’. They just look.” Gilley brought
three bills out of his desk —a 100, а 50,
and a 20. The bills were microscopically
marked, and their serial numbers re-
corded in the captain's notebook. "Its
a real high-class house,” Gilley said.
“You'll need one of these — 20 bucks
for a quickie, 50 if you stick around for
a midnight encore, 100 for all night and
breakfast in the morning."

“What happens," Bill asked, “if all I
get is a massage?"

“Tf that happens,” Gilley said, "pay
for it yourself and stay away from Ши!
squad room.”

Mame's place was a three-story stucco
building 100 yards off the Sunset Strip,
with chartreuse awnings extending
across the sidewalk. A Hollywood pho-
tographer and a gift shop leased space
оп the ground floor. Everything above
was Mame's. She owned the building.

Bill went up the stairs. In the second-
floor hallway a middleaged woman,
dressed in a nurse's uniform, sat at à
receptionist's desk, a switchboard at her
side. Bill said, "Id like to get a
massage."

"Your name, please?"

"Haike. William Наке."

“Did you have an appointment, Mr.
Haike?" She glanced at her pad.

"No, I didn't. You see I was in the
drafting room all afternoon, and I
didn't get a chance to call. Anyway the
fellow who told me to come up here
said it would be all right.”

A figure stepped out of the office just
behind him. Bill turned. He knew it
was the madam, and that she had been
standing in the doorway, listening.
Mame was tall and dark, evenly tanned,
and she moved like a cat. She was
dressed in a faultless beige linen suit.
Her face was so smooth and immobile
that it seemed she wore a lacquered
mask. It was impossible to guess her
age, but her eyes were steady, wise, and
old.

"You've never visited us before, have
you, Mr. Haike?"

"No. I've only been in town for a
couple of weeks. I'm from San Fran-
cisco." He had bought the suit he now
wore in San Francisco a year before.
The labels, if examined, would back up

(continued on page 67 )

COUNTRY CLUB CUTIE

miss may is a fetching
fixture at million-dollar knollwood

ROUGH WINDS DO SHAKE the darling buds of May,
contended that wordy fellow from Stratford,
but Knollwood Country Club in Granada Hills,
California, is not Stratford, and few rough winds
turn up there to distress such darling buds as
Lari Laine, our Ma aymate. Lari, a member
of the exclusive pleasure dome, takes advantage
of the many opportunities for funsies offered
within its swank demesnes: she digs the ultra-
modern swimming pool, the 150-acre golf course,
the spacious dining room and cocktail lounge and
all the rest of the splendor she shares with Bob
Hope, George Gobel, Eddie and Debbie Fisher
and other members of the million-simoleon proj-
ect. On these pages, you'll discover Miss Laine
enjoying a few strenuous sets of tennis on the
Knollwood courts. You'll also discover her —
deliciously dewy after a revitalizing shower — in
the ladies’ locker room, an attractive area out-of-
bounds to all males save those who read ргАүвоү.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY RON VOGEL

Lari Laine, above, refuels between tennis sets;
below, she delivers a stinging overhand smash.
Tennis is only one of Knollwood’s fun features.

PLAYBOY’S PARTY JOKES

A profound philosophy of life is re-
flected in the reply of a no-longer-wealthy
roué who, when asked what he had done
with all his money, said: “Part of it
went for liquor and fast automobiles,
and part of it went for women. The rest
I spent foolishly.”

The hotel reservations clerk opened the
telegram and read: “po YOU HAVE ANY
ACCOMMODATIONS WHERE I CAN PUT UP
WITH MY WIFE?”

Were going to have a wonderful time
dearest,” said the young man to
his date as he greeted her in the living
room of her parents’ home. “I have
three tickets to the theatre.”

“But why do we need three tickets?”
asked the truly voluptuous young lady.

"Simple," said he. “They're for your
mother, father and brother."

le's certainly nice to have someone like
you with us this evening,” said the night-
club comic to the annoying ringside
heckler, “and may I be the first to shake
you by the throat.”

was strolling down
Broadway when he came upon an old
organ grinder playing his beat-up instru-
ment while a monkey did a little dance
on the sidewalk and doffed his cap for
coins.

“Man,” said the musician, stopping to
watch, “I don't dig your music, but that
crazy kid of yours has got a lot of talent.”

The young married couple had moved
into an apartment next to a sexy fashion
model, and whenever the husband went
over to borrow something it usually took

him much longer than his wife thought it
should. On one especially extended trip,
his wife lost all patience and pounded
several times on the wall between the
two apartments. Receiving no answer,
she called the model on the phone.

“I would like to know,” the wife said
huffily, "why it takes my husband so long
to get something over there!”

“Well,” replied the model coolly,
nterruptions certainly aren't help-

Our Unabashed Dictionary defines gold
digger as a girl who breaks dates by going
out with them.

Two chorus cuties were talking things
over between shows.

“Туе been out with hundreds of men,”
said the first, “but I haven't let one make
love to me.”

“Oh,” said her friend, “which one was

thar”
4 2)
=

5

Walter arrived at his office late one
morning and was greeted with giggles
from the pretty receptionist.

“What are you laughing at?" asked
Walter.

"There's a big black smudge on your
* said the girl.

‘Oh, that!" said Walter. “That’s easy
to explain. I saw my wife off on a
month's vacation this morning; I took
а ot Кай Ишей) hor good-
bye.”

“But what about the smudge?”

“As soon as she got on board, I ran
up and kissed the engine.”

The Hollywood star announced to her

press agent that she was about to enter

wedlock again, for the fifth time-
“Oh,” said the agent. “Against whom?"

Heard any good ones lately? Send your
favorites to Party Jokes Editor, PLAYBOY,
232 E. Ohio Si, Chicago 11, lll, and
earn an easy five dollars (от each joke
used. In case of duplicates, payment goes
to first received. Jokes cannot be returned.

“How did а guy like you ever get into a business like this?”

45

PLAYBOY

goofed ... probably because the Rus-
sians have claimed so many “firsts” that
we don't believe them even when, as
with Tsiolkovsky, they have an authen-
tic one.

Some of science-fiction's most fright-
eningly accurate prophecies have been,
not in the physical sciences, but in the
fields of sociology and history — and
often when the author's intent has been
the exact opposite of prophecy. Its a
common device in imaginative fiction
to write about a future that could hap-
pen if present trends continue, present-
ing it as a Horrible Example, with a
prayer of “God, let it not be like this!”
Brave New World, 1984, The Space
Merchants, On the Beach —all typify
this approach.

In 1914 Arthur Conan Doyle wrote a
short story, Danger!, explaining how
England could be starved by the then
unheard-of device of a submarine block-
ade. The admiralty thought the story,
foolish until the Germans instituted
just such a blockade in World Wa 1.

In 1915 Edgar Wallace — who, like
Doyle, wrote occasional science-fiction
along with his mysteries — published a
novel called 1925: The Story of a Fatal
Peace, in which Germany loses World
War I but is tolerantly allowed to re-
build her military establishment. until
she is in a position to start the whole
thing over again.

And bacl 1907 Jack London wrote
one of the а! е masterpieces of polit-
ical prophecy in The Iron Heel: a pre-
cise step-by-step analysis of the coming
of fascism, the economic and social rea-
sons for its invention and the methods
by which it would gain power. London's
only serious error was in placing the
phenomenon in America rather than
;urope.

The hoped-against may turn out to
be true prophecy; the hoped-for may
prove to be false. Farthest from the tar-
get of any political prophecy yet made
is one in Carumill's Deadline: that the
A-bomb would be developed by the
Axis (or Sixa) because “we, the Seilla,"
though having the knowledge and skill
required, "would not dare to set off an
experimental atomic bomb" for fear of
its incalculable damage to the world
present and future.

The most interesting cause of accur-
ate prophecies, however, is neither luck
nor well-researched thinking; it is the
fact that science itself is influenced
by science-fiction — often directly, some-
times at such a remove that the scien-
tist himself may not know whats
happening.

1. М. Levitt, director of the Fels
Planetarium of the Franklin Institute,
recently published an earnest ultra-

(continued from page 22)

scientific article on the opening of the
Space Age. When he came to the possi-
bilities of going beyond the solar sys-
tem, he wrote: “Now the scientist begins
a bizarre speculation that puts even the
science-fiction writer behind the times.
. . . Cold-minded, sober scientists have
an ingenious solution" — which turns
out to be the familiar science-fiction
cliché of the "Noah's Ark of space," the
ship which is a miniature world in it-
self, self-sustaining and self-perpetuat-
ing, so that the remote descendants of
the original crew make planetfall cen-
turies after the launching. This idea
appeared first (as far as I know) in Don
Wilcox’ The Voyage That Lasted 600
Years (Amazing, October 1940) and re-
ceived its definitive treatment in Robert
A. Heinlein's Universe (Astounding,
May 1941). It’s still with us in fiction —
at least three stories on the theme ap-
red in the past year. Yet a scientist
n, with no notion of its history, ad-
vance it cold-mindedly and soberly аза
new idea beyond the reach of science-
fiction.

But the influence of science-fiction on
science is usually more direct. In 1897
Kurd Lasswitz, a mathematics professor
at Cotha, published a novel called Auf
Zwei Planeten (On Two Planets) which
contained, among other attractions, the
earliest detailedly accurate working out
of the orbital problems of space flight.
This ponderous but popular novel ex-
erted great influence on actual German
rocket research. Most of the members
of the German Rocket Society (Verein
fur Raumschifffahrt) were Lasswitz de-
votees who had been first attracted to
space activity by this novel. These
Verein members were the same men
who went on to become the rocket ex-
perts of Peenemünde, who developed
the V-2, and who were later divided,
almost as spoils of war, between Russia
and America — working for either coun-
try, as they had worked for Hitler, on
any military project as long as it was
potentially a tool toward space flight.

In addition to nine technical works.
the Russian writer Tsiolkovsky wrote a
novel of space flight, Vne Zemli (Be-
yond Earth), which was his most popu-
lar book and the first to be reprinted
after the revolution. There's no doubt
that it’s as familiar to Russian rocket
enthusiasts as the Lasswitz novel is to
Germans, or that the present German-
assisted Russian space program is to a
large extent a deliberate realization in
fact of the science-fiction of Lasswitz
and Tsiolkovsky.

Among American scientists, there is
of course the "cold-minded, sober" type
that will have nothing to do with any
idea published outside of a professional

journal; but the younger men, the sci-
entists and engineers actually engaged
оп the projects of the future (such as
atomics and space flight), are almost
invariably readers of science-fiction —
and often took up their careers out of
adolescent passion for the future 4е-
picted in the brightcovered magazines.
Every science-fiction publisher knows
that his largest per capita sales will be
near universities with a major ph:
department (CalTech, MIT, Califor
etc) or in highly classified government
projects (Oak Ridge, Hanford, White
Sands, etc.).

You know waldos? Those tiny remote-
control mechanical "hands" that are
used to manipulate radioactive material?
They're named after the title character
of Heinlein's Waldo, who invented
them in 1942 — and inevitably so named
because everybody working with them
was almost automatically a Heinlein
reader.

From here on out in the Space Age,
the prophecies of science-fiction may be
fulfilled with even greater frequency, be-
cause space will be conquered by men
who are steeped in those prophecies.

You will find in today's science-fiction
— particularly in the work of such real-
isticimaginative writers as Heinlein or
ke— the step-by-step account of
that conquest: from small satellites, such
as the Sputniks and the Explorer, to a
large habitable space station; thence to
the moon and its conversion into a yet
larger way-station to space; on through.
the exploration of our nearest neigh-
bors, inhospitable Mars and unknown
Venus, to the eventual complete knowl-
edge of this small solar system and ulti-
mately (in one of science-fiction's most
worn but still thunderous phrases) To
The Stars— perhaps by the almostas-
fast-as-light photonic drive on which
Russia is now working, and which has
long been familiar in fiction.

Science-fiction’s sternest and most per-
sistent prophecy of the immediate fu-
ture is this: a species which has attained
atomic power and space flight can no
longer afford the luxury of national and
racial rivalries, but must unite or per-
ish. “There are no nationalities beyond
the stratosphere,” writes Arthur C.
Clarke in Prelude to Space (1951), "We
will take no frontiers into space.

Which may well prove to be the most
tragically incorrect of all science-fiction’s
prophecies.

We've had several United States
Presidents who were well-publicized
readers of mystery novels, and now one
who is addicted to westerns. Maybe
what we (and every nation) need, in
the age we have entered, is a leader
who reads science-fiction.

аште Ву Blake Rutherford

VS

Wis

just for

he sport of it:
comfortable,
casual,
colorful tops

PHOTOGRAPHY BY RALPH COWAN

Ш" рескхе vovnserves ovr for pursuits in the open air, gentlemen, be sure you
don't choose a sport shirt that looks like it went through an explosion in a paint
factory. In its stead, the more correct jobs boast an orderly pattern — small foulard
figures or tartan stripes — ог the always-in-taste solid shades. Unless you plan for
real action — say, five games of polo in a row — long sleeves are preferred, simply
because they help shield you from the sun. North: а free-and-easy nylon golf pullover
with knit trim that is both rain and wind resistant, by Buck Skein; $7.95. East:

good-looking Hathaway buttondown with tartan stripes in breeze-light gingham.
When the day's activities suddenly switch, you may don a necktie with this, slip into
a lightweight, solid-color sports jacket and be ready for anything from cocktails to
summer theatre; $10.95. South: on deck or at the club, this McGregor seagoing affair
of classic nautical cut in washable knitwear is always shipshape; $4. West: a lustrous
cotton buttondown by Marlboro that also does double duty with jacket and tie; $5.

47

"Then, pow! — when the girls come on in those costumes, it'll take
their breath awayl" José Ferrer and Al Morgan, co-writers of Oh
Coptain!, block out the order of scenes in Ferrer's apartment. Ferrer
is holding forth at this particular moment and Morgan is evaluating.

Even before the first rehearsal, more than the entire cost of the show has been raised
by this corps of go-getting ladies whose chore it is to sell out benefit performances of
shows “we have confidence in.” Theirs is а rigidly organized business and, of course,
they keep о percentage of sales. Here, Ferrer and co-producer Don Coleman curry favor.

article By RICHARD GEHMAN

THE BIRTH OF A

“oh captain!”
from initial notion
to opening night

PHOTOGRAPHED ESPECIALLY FOR PLAYBOY BY ORMOND GIGLI

WHAT GOES INTO the making of a Broad-
way theatrical production? Recently, the
editors of this magazine asked that ques:
tion of themselves, then assigned me to
write a day-by-day diary of a show's con.
ception, inception and reception that
would not only chronicle the birth pangs
of one specific show, but also be, in a
sense, a portrait of Everyshow.

We picked a musical that was, at the
time, little more than a gleam in the
eyes of novelist Al Morgan and actor:
director José (The Hose) Ferrer. 1 he
projected production was to be based
on the clever and successful British film
The Captain's Paradise, which starred
Alec Guinness. Morgan and Ferrer, who
had worked together on the screenplay
of Morgan's best-selling novel, The Great
Man, would do the script for the show,
and Ferrer would direct

In the film The Captain's Paradise,
Alec Guinness played a proper English
sea Captain with a tendency to behave
most improperly. He had a small boat
that ran between Gibraltar (where he
kept a mousy English wife) and a mythi-
cal African port called Calique (where
he was married to a French sexpot). To
complicate matters, the mousy English
wife longed for adventure and glamor,
while the sexpot honed for hearthstone
and homines. The Captain was found

(continued on page 51)

Above, Ferrer and Morgan flank Jay Liv-
ingston, one half of the songwriting team, as
he tries out a new number for the producers.
Below, the actors' imaginations are taxed
оз they try to conjure up a Parisian coboret
from an odd assortment of chairs on а bore
rehearsal stage. Tony Randall glowers
upon his unsuspecting English wife, played
by Jacquelyn McKeever, as she toys with a
dashing Spaniard. Ferrer tells her: "А big
grin, then a bigger take when you see Tony."

Left, Tony Randall as the Captain and Abbe
Lone os his French light-of-love, rehearse
g scene while Abbe holds the book
for both of them. As he chomps passionate-
ly on all available areas of exposed skin,
he mutters, "I could never resist French
food." Abbe responds: “Henri, ple-e-ease!
If you must bite, bite on the face where no-
body will see it!" (Abbe plays a stripper.)

Above, during a dance rehearsal, the winsome hoofer sitting in the
foreground studies a chemistry textbook while waiting for her cue.
Right, choreographer Jimmy Starbuck helps ballerina Asia Mer-
coolova perfect an intricate dance position. Asia, born in China
of Russian parents, attended rehearsals in these sheer black
hip-high stockings plus such abbreviated pants that she was good-
humoredly nicknamed “The Crotch That Walks Like A Woman.

Schooled in the classic ballet tradition, she had to work hard
and long with Starbuck to learn the techniques of jazz dancing.
Below, third lead Jacquelyn McKeever undergoes deglamoriza-
fion. Originally а ringleted blonde, Ferrer decreed that her
hair had to be muted in color and corned-up in styling to give
her that Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire appearance her role required. Hair
stylist Ernest Adler, pictured here оз he wields the unkind comb,
took six hours to perform the task. The glum character in coat

and hot is Jackie's manager, who is taking a rather dim view of
this desecration of а stellar client. When it was all over, Jacki

sighed stoically and was heard to mutter, "Oh, мей... at
least | get an opportunity fo look sexy later on in the show!”

ош and somehow ended up before a fir
ing squad, first taking the precaution of
bribing the men. The squad shot their
leader, and the Captain did a Fairbanks
over a wall to freedom.

Ferrer and Morgan went to work on
this basic story, changing the locales to
London and Paris. Elaborating on the
plot, they decided to reveal that the Сар-
tain's First Mate had once been the
husband of the sexpot (she had left him
because he had been too stodgy for her)
They also decreed that the two girls
would meet in Paris and become sym
pathetic toward each other, and that
both would give the arrant Captain the

Miles White, above, captained Oh Captain! costumes. “Theatrical
costumes," he says, “though sometimes appearing gauzy and flimsy,
оге really the toughest clothes in the world. They have to be,
because they take a lot of punishment during strenuous dancing and
acting. And they have to last out the run or the producer squawks."

Left and above, José Ferrer ond Miles White preside over
the costuming of Abbe Lone and Jacquelyn McKeever. As the
French sexpot, Abbe is attired revealingly ond therefore
ils, “Miles! My husband will never let me on the stage
in this outfit! | may as well go back to burlesque!” On
the other hand, Jackie, as the dowdy wife, must wear baggy
tweeds in most of her scenes: the frumpish mirror image of
these does not delight her, but she blushes with pleasure
when Ferrer makes а crack about her sexiness ina gay gown.

PLAYBOY

air. Then the First Mate and the sexpot
- her name was Bobo — would rediscover
each other and go off, and the English
wife would take the Captain back. In
the finale, the four of them would turn
the Captain’s ship, the S.S. Paradise, into
a nightclub. Not much of a plot in these
days of the Serious Problem Musical, but
it was enough to have some fun with —
and the producers began casting about
for people to help. They got the famous
Jo Mielziner (who has done the sets for

5 shows) and they signed Miles White
whose credits as a costumer included
Oklahoma!, Carousel
cuses (he once designed ballet dresses
for elephants). On the advice of Johnny
Mercer, Jay Livingston and Ray Evans
were signed to do the songs for the show
Livingston and Evans had written about
70 movie scores and had won three Acad:
emy Awards, but they had never done a
Broadway show. Abbe Lane was signed
for the part of the French girl, and imme-
diately everybody began to wonder if it
had been a good idea: from Spain, where
she was making a movie, Miss Lane pro
claimed that her cooch days were over
Henceforth, said she, she would concen

and several сїг-

trate on. Dramatic parts. The producers
shuddered and hoped she didn't mean
it. With Miss Lane came, as though
drawn by a ring in his nose, Xavier
Cugat, her band-leader husband, to essay
the role of the First Mate. About this

Above, on board the good ship Paradise, Randall tells his First Mate of his three lives:
prim and proper in Britain, rugged on the high seas, unbridled and licentious in his
bohemian lovenest on the Paris left bank. Below, a rehearsal goof is received with

varyi

g degrees of dismay by Morgan, donce-stager Starbuck, songster Evans and Ferrer.

Right, Tony Randall and Jacquelyn McKeever do a double strip in the "beddibyes" scene,
performed in Philadelphia but cut from the show in New York to speed up the pace. In this,
the Captain and his British spouse went through а pantomime of their nightly bedtime
ritual. Seeking to arouse her phlegmatic husband, the wife undressed in his line of vision.
Unstimulated, even faintly disapproving, the Captain only pulled down the shade. His own
method of disrobing was to first cover himself from chin to floor with с long nightgown,
then remove his clothes underneath it and hand them out, item by item. At one point, it
actually seemed as if he was going to make о pass at his wife, but it wos only his
tobacco and stately calabash pipe he reached for. Above, in Paris, he becomes another
man: а leering libertine complete with easel, black cigarettes and obliging Abbe Lane.

time I began following the show like a
hungry Airedale and keeping a diary of
what I observed and heard. And here it is:

Oct. 17, 1957. New York. Producers
Don Coleman and Howard Merrill, both
in their late thirties, have been trying
for so long to get this show on, they
already feel like veterans. The two men
are in Sardi's waiting to meet a kid who
called them a few days ago. “Не says

he's raised $25,000 to put in a show
Merrill explains, “and he'll put it in
ours if we let him be a production assist
ant. He’s just out of Cornell

We've just about raised all our
money Coleman says. About four

"Love is hell!" shrieks а chorus girl, for
left, as she seemingly bares her breasts.
Actually, the exposed “bosom” protruding
from twin foxhead mouths is realistic rub-
ber. Near left, French mistress Abbe Lane
ond English wife Jackie McKeever finally
meet and plot the Captain's downfall,
Below, in о cabaret scene, Abbe sings the
suggestive Keep It Simple, a song in favor
of uncomplicated, no-strings-attached love.
As her cohorts cavort in the guise of organ
grinders’ monkeys, the fiery Mrs. Cugat
belts out: "Keep ple, No crazy chords
for me, Keep it simple, Let me hear the
melody! . ..Why be tricky? Grab a quicky!"

Above, the Captain's two fair ladies get him in the middle. They sing the vengeful ditty, Double Standard, as they manhandle him and
generally give him a hard time. Below, Ferrer views the New York opening from the rear wall. His misgivings give way to enjoyment.

PLAYBOY

years ago we began looking for a prop-
erty, Thought of The Captain's Paradise,
but just then the Theatre Guild an-
nounced that they were doing it with
Danny Kaye. About a year later it was
free again. Then began the goddamned-
est negotiations — with the company that
made the original, with the writer, with
stars, directors, and so on.”

“They didn't think we meant business
because we'd never done a show before,”
Merrill says. "Once we sent them a
$10,000 check to show good faith. It came
back— the show still wasn't free, We
heard that Don Ameche wanted to do it,
and we talked to his agent. He helped
us get the rights, but then Ameche
couldn't do it, Sid Caesar wanted to do
it, then decided to go back into TV. We
considered George Sanders, Alfred Drake,
and tried to get Guinness himself. No
thanks. Then we tried like hell to get
Joe Ferrer to play it, but no dice. Fi-
nally we signed Tony Randall – һе
played the Mencken part in Inherit the
Wind, Мт. Weskit on the Mr. Peepers
TV show, did a few films, Will Success
Spoil Rock Hunter?, No Down Payment,
and so on—and although he's never
done a Broadway musical, he's one of
the best young talents around."

“The English wife was even tougher,"
Merrill says. "We tried for Maureen
O'Hara and Joan Collins but no soap."

Nov. 4. Jo Mielziner begins work on
sketches for the sets. As he has seen it,
the script moves from scene to scene like
a motion picture. There has to be some
way of getting scenery on and off with-
out closing the traveler-curtain and forc-
ing the characters in the preceding scene
to step forward and finish on the fore-
part of the stage. Mielziner, scrawling
absently on the paper pinned to his
drawing board, remembers an earlier
show wherein he used two parallel tread-
mills running in opposite directions.
"The stagehands set the furniture on the
belts of the treadmills and it floated in
neatly.

"But those things never work, do
they?" Coleman asks. “They jerk when
they start and stop, the actors lose their
balance getting on and off, they —"

“They'll work," says Mielziner, quietly.

Nov. 5. Coleman and Merrill believe
the name of the show should be changed
so people won't think they've already
seen it, and so the new version can be
sold to the movies if it is a hit. Name
changed to Paradise for the Captain.

Nov. 7, Name today is Anyone for
Paradise?

Nov. 8. Now it is Paradise, Anyone?

Nov. 10. Ferrer suggests Tail of Two
Cities.

Nov. 11. "Listen, for God's sake,” says
Coleman to Merrill, “we've got to get a
title so we can get out the ads."

Nov. 13. Title changed, once and for
all, to Oh Captain!

Nov. 14. Jay Blackton, a musical di-
rector with many Broadway shows be-
hind him (Oklahoma!, Call Me Madam,
Happy Hunting), picks the vocal chorus
today — eight boys and seven girls.

Nav. 19. Ray Evans and Jay Livingston
are working in a room furnished only
with a piano and a couple of folding
chairs in a 57th Street rehearsal hall.
‘There are crumpled-up pieces of music
paper all over the floor, crowding the
cigarette butts. Ray Evans, slight and
wiry and prematurely gray, says, “We've
got 21 songs — counting the three num-
bers we reprise. This score's gone fairly
well. We did it mostly in a couple of
months . . . Right now we're polishing,
trying to make the lyrics better. Colum-
bia is going to record the original cast
LP, and Rosemary Clooney (Mrs. Fer-
rer) is going to record Surprise. Of course
you can't tell, but we think it'll be a hit."

Nov. 21. Ferrer sits in a darkened
theatre while nearly 300 pretty, talented
actresses, all of whom can sing, dance,
act and do a passable British accent,
audition for the part of the British wife.
None will do. One, Susan Johnson, he
remembers from The Most Happy Fella
— he tells her she won't do for the wife,
but he wants to see her later. Then up
comes Jacquelyn McKeever, 22, blonde,
an ex-schoolteacher, whose previous ех-
perience consists of a small part in The
Carefree Heart (closed out of town) and
some jobs in summer stock. She has a
high, throaty voice; she moves awk-
wardly; she is attractive but no knockout.
Ferrer picks her.

"She's an unknown," Merrill protests.

"She's got a quality that affects me
like Deanna Durbin used to," Joe says.
“She'll be great — wait and see.”

So they sign her. They send her for
acting lessons, they send her for dancing
lessons, they send her to brush up on
her singing, they send her to Berlitz to
learn a proper British accent. And they
pray that Ferrer is right.

Nov. 22. Final auditions for the danc-
ers are held at the Phyllis Anderson
Theatre, lower Second Avenue. About
60 girls and boys are on the bare stage,
their faces eager and apprehensive in
the light from the single enormous bulb
hanging from a ratty cord. The twitter-
ing boys are in tights or jeans; the girls
are in old leotards with wrinkled knees,
or blouses and pants— all except one,
who wears sheer black stockings and red
pants that amount to little more than a
G-string to show off her spectacular legs.

"We've already picked that one,"
Morgan whispers.

-The choreographer, Zachary Solov, on
leave from the Metropolitan Opera (this
is his first Broadway show), points to an
exotic dark-haired girl who resembles
Sophia Loren. “There'll be spots where
she'll be effective," he says to Ferrer.

"If you want her, pick her," Ferrer

says. "I'm nuts about those four little
girls over there." He gestures toward a
petite quartet standing to one side.

Assistant stage manager George Quick
calls, "Will everybody who's been elimi-
nated please leave?"

"How do we decide on the remaining
ones?” Morgan asks.

"We'll strip them to the waist," Fer-
rer says, winking. "Look at that one on
the left, the blonde." She is wearing a
white blouse, flesh-colored stockings, and
black pants. She is not exceptionally
pretty, but it is hard not to notice her
figure. "Got class," he says.

“Character,” Morgan says, sardonic-
ally.

“Whatever it is,” Ferrer says, "she's
got a quality I like." He turns to Solov.
"Lets have her, Zach." To Morgan he
adds, with a perfectly straight face, "She
reminds me of my mother."

Nov. 23. The front room of Ferrer's
apartment, on West 57th Street, is more
cluttered than usual. On either side of
the fireplace, all the way to the ceiling,
yellow sheets of paper are stuck to the
wall with tape, each containing a word
identifying a scene.

“First act's on the right, second on the
left,” Morgan says. “We've juggled the
scenes every which way, trying to get the
proper sequence.”

“Break the story down this way,” Fer-
rer says, “and the faults leap out at you.”

“The way it goes now is roughly like
this,” Morgan says. “Open with the vil-
lagers singing This Is a Very Proper
Town. The Captain comes on and joins
in last chorus. Then a door floats in on
a treadmill, he steps through it as it
passes, and he’s in his house, which is
let down from the flies. Scene with his
English wife to show how she longs for
some glamor. He sings Life Does a Man
a Favor (When It Gives Him Simple
Joys). Then it's 10 o'clock — beddibyes.
They undress and go to bed and float
out. Villagers reprise first song, and it's
morning and Captain leaves. Next scene
he's on the 5.5. Paradise with his First
Mate and his crew, singing Life Does a
Man a Favor (When It Leads Him Down
to the Sea). They sing a song about him
and do a dance on the deck. Then the
Captain, back in the cabin with the
First Mate, sings a song about his three
paradises—England, the ship, Paris.
Scene switches back to the cottage. A
man comes and tells the English wife
she’s won a cooking contest and gets a
free trip to Paris. She sings Surprise and
then there’s a dream-ballet in which
some hobgoblins dress her for the trip.
We got Johnny Brascia as the couturier
— he's terrific.”

"You should see Miles costumes for
this one," Ferrer says. "Crazy."

"The Captain arrives in Paris,” con-
tinues Morgan, "and he does the Favor

(continued on page 72)

[ој TUESDAY, Preisinger saw the Devil's
face in the mirror just as he finished
shaving.

It might have seemed odd, but with
Preisinger it was an old story. Every
Tuesday morning, there it was, regular
as daylight. This morning he regarded
the face coldly. “You,” he said, “had bet-
ter drop by for a chat, I think.”

“Really?” said the Devil.

"Really," said Preisinger. "We're sup
posed to have a bargain, you know.

ILLUSTRATION BY BOB CHRISTIANSEN

And you're not holding up your end at
all. You'd better stop by, or I'm afraid
the deal is off.”

He finished and walked
into the solarium to ring for breakfast.
Only three years gone, he mused. Seven
years to go. And seven years was really
quite a long time.

He was finishing his orange juice and
coffee when the Devil stepped through
the wall into the room. The Prince of
Thieves smelled slightly of sulphur and

his shave,

scorched cloth. He was tall and hand-
some in his sleek black Homburg and
fine black Chesterfield. In his hand was
a slender ebony walking stick.

"Now what is this foolishness,” he
said, "about canceling our bargain? Just
three years gone, and already you're
complainin

“I've a perfect right to complain,"
said Preisinger coolly. “You're slipping.
You haven't been doing right by me
You aren't keeping your end of the bar

fiction ву ALAN Е. NOURSE

HARD BARGAIN

a maiden untouched by human hands—that^s all he wanted

PLAYBOY

gain at all. Not at all.”

The Devil glanced around the room.
“Well, now,” he said. “You seem to be
doing quite well. The finest penthouse
apartment in the city. Ample funds to
maintain it. Hardly my taste in cloth-
ing, but that's your business." He looked
sharply at Preisinger. "You do look a
trifle peaked, though. Hard night last
night?"

"Not the most gratifying night im-
aginable," said Preisinger.

"Really? Something wrong with the
supply?"

"Oh, no," said Preisinger. "Quite the
contrary. They flock to me. Everywhere
I turn there are girls, dozens of girls."

"Ah!" The Devil frowned slightly.
“Are they unwilling? Do they reject
your attentions? Or perhaps they're a
bit too bold, eh?”

Preisinger shook his head. “No, no.
Nothing like that.”

“Well, then! Has the variety been un-
satisfactory? Do you find them unattrac-
tive? No?" The Devil shrugged. “Then
you disqualify your own claim. What
more could you ask? You have seven
years to go — but I've kept my part of
the һагда

“The letter, perhaps,” said Preisinger.
“Not the spirit. Your part of the bar-
gain was to please me completely, and
I've never quite been pleased. Some-
thing has been missing from the start.”

“If you're talking about love, 1 can’t
help you there," said the Devil. "It's
quite out of my line, you know.

“Nothing so maudlin as that,” said
Preisinger quickly. "No, it's much hard-
er to define.” He leaped to his feet,
groping for words. “These girls are too
—how can I explain it?—too knowl-
edgeable, There's nothing for them to
learn. Yes, that's it! They seem so—
experienced."

“I thought that was considered a vir-
tue," said the Adversary dryly.

But can't you see?" said Preisinger.
“They know all the rules! They perform
like puppets on a string. There's no
feeling of achievement, no sense of
awakening ——”

But now the Devil’s eyes gleamed with
understanding. “You mean it's inno-
cence you want!” He guffawed. "You
come to те in quest of innocence? How
delightfully naive! Think of it! For 10
earthly years I must supply you with
unlimited ease and wherewithal plus
the loveliest girls in the world to satisfy
your most extravagant whim. In return
I am to receive from you an insignifi-
cant trifle that you don't even believe
exists — your soul.” The Devil roared
with laughter. “And now you demand
innocence as well!" He paused, “An in-
triguing idea, but ridiculous. Quite ri-
diculous."

"You mean you can't do it," said Prei-
singer.

“I mean nothing of the sort," snapped
the Devil. “А completely innocent
maiden, untouched by human hands
——" He stroked his chin. "Difficult. In-
credibly difficult."

"But could you?" demanded Prei-
singer. "If you only realized how fear-
fully dull these others are — could you
possibly do it?"

"Hardly," said the Devil, "under our
present contract. This would take work,
time, the greatest delicacy. The price
would be high." He looked at Prei-
singer. "Would you give me your re-
maining seven years?”

Preisinger's face grew pale, but he
nodded slowly. "Anything," he said.

The Devil beamed. “Then it's done.
You'd have one night with her only, of
course. More would be unthinkable.

Preisingers fingers trembled. "She
must be perfect. It must be worth a
hundred thousand other nights."

"You have my word," said the Devil.

“I must be the first man, absolutely
the first, even in her mind —— "

“That is understood.”

"And if you fail — the entire bargain
is off.”

The Devil smiled. "Agreed. And if I
succeed — " He touched the coffee cup
with his ebony stick and it turned glow-
ing red. "One night," he said, and van-
ished through the wall.

For five days Preisinger waited.

Before, he had been sated and dulled;
now he was vibrant with anticipation.
But as the days passed he grew jumpy
and irritable. Each new face he saw оп
the street he scanned eagerly, then
turned away in disappointment. His
nerves grew taut. His body and mind
were filled with an uncommon yearning.

On the sixth day he found her, late
in the afternoon, in the basement gal-
lery of a small art museum.

She was tall and slender. Her hair
was ash blonde, her mouth full. She
walked with grace, inconspicuously con-
spicuous, self-contained, an island to
herself. She was cool as a March breeze,
and warm as laughter by the fireside.

She was delightful.

He followed her, and spoke to her,
and she smiled at him without sugges-
tion. They moved through the gallery
together. Her laughter was cheerful; her
eyes warmed as she looked at him.

He learned that her name was Moira
and that she was 19 years old. He
learned many other things that did not
interest him in the least. They left the
gallery and walked in the park and
looked across at the city and talked.

Preisinger suggested cocktails.

"Fine," said the girl. "But I've never
had a cocktail."

"Incredible," said Preisinger.

"But true," said the girl.

"They had two cocktails, but no more.
They talked about art and music and
books, and her understanding was grati-
fying. They talked about love and desire
and fulfillment, and her innocence was
disarming.

Presently they ate and danced on a
roof garden high above the city. She
danced with ease and innocence. Prei-
singer steeled himself as her cheek
touched his and her body moved close
to his. Control, he told himself, pa-
tience. She was the one, she was what
he had sought for so long, but it was
too soon, too soon — "

She was delighted by the lights of the
city below. She breathed deeply of the
night air, and her nearness to him was
overwhelming. “There is a better view
where I live," he said. "We could have
some music, perhaps a little wine,"

She smiled up at him. "Yes," she said.
"That would be good. I'd like that."

The view was better from his win-
dows. The colors below were breath-
taking. The music took on new mean-
ings; the wine was his finest stock, its
color delightful, its flavor superb. They
talked and laughed softly and then
they were silent. The lights dimmed
gently, the firelight glowed,

She was sublime.

He did not realize until later that he
had not been the first.

The Devil had failed, after all, and
he was free, The thought caressed him
as he slept with his head on her shoul-
der,

In the morning she was gone, and the
Devil stood by the window, twirling his
ebony stick with impatience.

Preisinger saw him and burst out
laughing. "You fool" he cried. “You
couldn't quite bring it off, and yet I
didn't mind a bit. You didn't keep the
bargain, but you gave me what I had
to have, all the same."

The Devil just looked at him.

Preisinger stopped laughing. “Well?
Why are you waiting? We're finished,
get out! The bargain is void."

"Not quite," said the Devil. "I gave
you what you requested."

“But not to the letter," cried Prei-
singer. “I was not the first. Another
man was before me —"

And then the Prince of Liars was
laughing as smoking tears poured from
his eyes. "And you сай me a fool," he
said. "Did you really think I could
command innocence without blemish?
Ridiculous. I never could. Of course
there was another— but the Devil is
the Devil, not a man."

And with a roar of laughter he led
Preisinger through the wall into the

furnace.
а

“Well, it's been fun, kid, and if you ever get over to
Harrisburg, Pa., be sure to give me a buzz!”

59

THE LIMBER Lips of E Andersen
would probably have a tough time
forming that gloomy greeting,
"Hello, sadness," the never-used

translation of the book-title Bon-
jour Tristesse. “Bye, bye, sadness"
would be a much more character
istic utterance, for Miss Andersen
is a laugh-loving pixie type, given
less to morbid moods than to
funny hats, practical jokes and
swimming in a state of nature
Nonetheless, German-born Elga
graces the screen version of the
Frangoise Sagan book, playing
one of David Niven's multiple
mistresses, Denise by пате.
Though her role in BT is small,
the editors of this journal were
struck by her ebullience and beau
ty, and we lost no time in round
ing up, for your delight, the
willowy Bob Willoughby photo
graphs on these pages.

?

ч

venom

se B
Ё

ADIEU, TRISTESSE

a puckish pretty brightens
the filming of the bonjour book

Below, an informal moment between takes on the Bonjour Tristesse location
at Aly Khan's Riviera villa: Jean Seberg, Elga, David Niven, Deborah Kerr.

During the Bonjour filming, director Otto
Preminger tecsingly dubbed Elga "Zippo"
because she had commented she considered
buttons for more romantic than zippers.

enough to be able to simulate the symp-
toms realism that
frightened the other тап. He had even
had the forethought to break the ther.
mometer in the medicine chest so that
his temperature would not give the lie
to his agonized shaking each evening
He had no difficulty in recognizing
the turn off to the pagoda as they drove
past it that last afternoon. It was a few
miles east of a tiny village that had been
panic-stricken da
There

with a degree of

PLAYBOY

deserted in those 5
but which was now repopulated
was a well which might have
saved the had known
about it. A yellow-robed priest sat under

spreading peepul tree at the junc
tion of track with a brass
begging bowl before him for the offer
ings of the faithful. He first
they had seen since crossing the Chind.
win and the professor was delighted in
spite of his preoccupation with Sefton's
fever. He leapt out of his jeep, camera
ready, but the priest dropped his eyes
to the ground and covered his shaven
head with a fold of his robe

“The camera is а form of evil eye,"
Sefton explained. “These
don't like 'em. Come on — plenty more
of the idle devils where we are going.
There's a whole monastery full of them

there

other two they

road and

was the

poonghies

THE SUMMER
GENTLEMAN
SEEKS
ADVENTURE

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MAN IN THE WELL гийн өрөнд

е 20)

in Yeu. By God, I'll be glad to get
there — I'm feeling lousy.”

They put up at the monastery rest
house, and the professor wandered hap-
pily about with his camera for a couple
of days while Sefton realistically recu-
perated. The old man was mildly in
dignant at Sefton's suggestion that he
should go on alone but the latter worked
on him skillfully. The Buddhist Feast
of the Tooth would just about be start
ing in Meikhtila — the faithful
from all parts of Asia for this— oppor
tunities for photography that it would
be a crime to miss. Just catch the first
rafts of teak coming down the Irra-
waddy with the break of the monsoon.
He'd be all right here — the monks were
pretty decent to travelers. Catch him up
in Mandalay in a week —as fit as a flea
in. The old man at last capitulated
and with many a guilty backward glance,
went on up the road

Sefton gave him half a day for safety
and then set off back along the road
they had соте. He had по fear of the
being occupied. They built
these things on the top of practically
every hill in Upper Burma, put a statue
of the Buddha couple of
dragonlike chhinthes outside to guard
him 4

came

pagoda

inside, a

gainst evil spirits, dug a well for

his refreshment and thereafter avoided
the place like the plague.

It was just as he had last seen it. Per
haps the purple bougainvillea over the
archway that spanned the entrance to
little
luxuriant, and the monsoon rains, short
lived but fierce in parts, had
washed some more of the white plaster
from the pinnacled roof, but the Bud
dha was unaged, sitting, feet crossed be
neath him, soles upward, forefinger and
thumb of the right hand grasping the
little finger of the other, jeweled lotus
on his brow, as serenely as he had sat
and watched 15 years before.

He drove

the small courtyard was a more

these

on a hundred yards or so
and hid the jeep in a bamboo thicket.
It was not necessary — nobody had seen
him this and
Burmese would dream of walking a mile
or so uphill to investigate

come way, anyhow no
It was the
secretiveness of his that made
him do it — just as the beasts of the jun
gle are at pains to conceal their tracks
even when no danger threatens. He took
a coil of rope and an electric torch
from the toolbox and hurried back. He
was sweating now in spite of the eve-
ning cool. His heart hammering
and his breath was coming in

sharp gasps that almost choked him.
There was a carpet of dead leaves
pagoda that

nature

was

short,

inside the rustled and

crackled under his feet as he skirted
the image and hurried round to the
well at the back. The shaft dropped
sheer and black and the beam of his
torch hardly reached the bottom of it
He dropped a stone over the edge and
heard with satisfaction a slight thud as
it landed on dry sand. There probably
never had been water in the damned
thing at all. There were some, Findlay
among them, who said that these shafts
had never been intended as wells at all
but were relics of some older and darker
religion in which they had figured in
other and more sinister roles — human
sacrifices or something.

He knotted the rope round a project-
ing stone cornice and paid it out into
the darkness until its slackness told him
it had reached the bottom; then he
swung his legs over and commenced his
descent. It was easy at first as the ma-
sonry was rough and offered some pur-
chase to his feet. It had only been that
which had saved Ngu Pah. Lower down,
however, the sides became marble smooth
and he was glad that he had the fore-
thought to wear rope-soled espadrilles.

The ease with which he found the
rubies came as an anticlimax that was
almost a disappointment. He felt like a
child who had been set too simple a
task in a party game. He saw them in
the first beam of his torch even as his

feet touched the sand. They lay on a
ledge in the masonry, wrapped in the
rotting remains of a once-bright-blue
silk scarf — a heap of dull pebbles which
even in their uncut and unpolished state
threw back the light of the torch in a
reddish effulgence.

He wanted to shout and to sing — to
throw them in fistfuls over his head like
confetti. Instead, he sat down in the
sand and lit a cigarette with trembling
hands and then trained the beam of the
torch on the rubies and just gazed.

It was a good 10 minutes before he
was steady enough to remove his sweat-
soaked shirt and scoop the rubies into
it—and a further agonizing 10 before
he was satisfied with the security of the
bag he made of it. He finally fastened
it under his belt; then, belaying the
rope twice round his waist, he com-
menced the hard climb up.

He had gone a good 15 feet before it
happened — his body bowed stiflly out-
ward from the side of the well — feet
pressed firmly against the stones. He
was not aware of falling. The first reali-
zation came to him as he lay flat on his
back in the sand with the rope coiled
loosely about him and the chunk of ma
sonry which had missed his head by
inches beside him. He started to scream
then — shrilly and horribly — and he was
still screaming and tearing at the sides

of the well when the moonlight at the
top of the shaft was blotted out by the
head and shoulders of a man—a man
with a shave poll and a swathe of yel-
low cotton across his chest. He could
not make out his face but he knew it
was the priest from the track junction
and he stopped screaming and started
to babble in Burmese.

The priest answered in English with
a strong Edinburgh accent.

"І knew you'd be back for them,
Sefton, in the fullness of time."

Sefton tried to speak but his throat
muscles refused to function. The voice
went on.

"Aye, vultures always return to their
carrion — and that is what those stones
are. 1 intended to steal them from my
employers in the first place. I had
ready broken faith by intent. It -was
that knowledge that brought me to the
samadhi of the Middle Way. These
robes are not a disguise, Sefton — they
re my atonement.”

“Mad,” thought Sefton and fought
down another wave of hysteria. "Find-
lay!” he called shakily. “Findlay —1
came back to see if I could find any
trace of you. I haven't rested, Findlay,
in all these years — "

“That I can well believe," answered
Findlay. "A man cannot escape his
karma. Well, you have the chance to

PLAYBOY

make your peace now —as I have.”

“Findlay — you can't do this to me —
you can't murder me — " He was bab-
bling now.

“I have done nothing. In your greed
you tied your rope to an unsafe stone.
Do you not see the symbolism of it?”

“Findlay — Findlay — listen to me — I
know what you must have thought at
the time, but I went off to find food,
water, for all of us. I couldn't return,
Findlay — before God I couldn't — I got
lost and then I fell ill myself — I wan-
dered for weeks before I was picked up
and then I'd lost my memory. You've
got to believe me, Findlay — you've got
to—"

Findlay appeared not to hear him.
His voice droned on dreamily, "Aye —
the divine symbolism of it all — the sac-
rifice of little Ngu Раћ— three times
she made that five-mile journey for wa-
ter and food for me after you had stolen
our reserve. She died on her return from
the last one and I made shift to bury
her under the bougainvillea at the gate.
Did ye no sense something as you en-
tered, or had your greed blinded you
to everything except those scraps of crys-
talized alumina?”

"I don't want your damned rubies —"

“They're not mine — nor yours," Find-
lay answered, "They've returned to the
earth that formed them. Down there
they can do no more harm."

"АП right then — let them stay here,"
Sefton sank to his knees in the sand,
"but you've got to help me out, Find-
ly—"

“1 can neither help you nor hinder
you, Sefton. That is your karma — as
this is mine." And Findlay held his
hands over the opening to the shaft.
Against the patch of light Sefton saw
with a turning of his stomach that the
fingers had degenerated into formless
stubs. “Leprosy, Sefton —a curse turned
blessing because it was only that which
held me back from taking the jewels
out myself—and thereby gave me my
chance of atonement and peace.”

"You can't leave me here — that's
murder. You're а Buddhist, you say—
Buddhists can't kill — not even animals.
Get another rope, Findlay — get another
rope!" His voice had dropped to a
pleading whisper.

“I shall not kill you, Sefton,” said
Findlay, "not even by negation. You
must make your own choice, though. If
1 get another rope I cannot tie it se-
curely myself with these fingers. I must
therefore get help from the village. You
will have to come up empty-handed in
that case — I should insist on that and
ask the villagers' assistance if you broke
faith."

“The — the other choice — ?"
croaked.

“I shall drop food and water to you
for as long as you need it.”

Sefton screamed again. “Listen, Find-
lay! There's money down here — mil-
lions! Be sensible. They've got cures for
leprosy in Europe now —and you сап
get a pair of artificial hands that'll do
everything your own could. There's
enough here and to spare for both of
us. Get a rope long enough to loop
round the statue and drop both ends
to me — you needn't try to tie it. Just
let me come up so we can talk it over.
1f you don't agree to anything I say ГЇЇ
go away peacefully and never come
back —1 swear it — "

"If you came up and I were alone,
Sefton, you'd kill me," Findlay said.
“You know that is in your heart already.
I couldn't prevent you — nor would I
try — but if that happened I would be
robbing you of any chance you may
still have of finding peace. That would
be against the course of the Middle Way.
We are all involved in the destiny of
others and a man may not stand by and
watch another destroy himself.”

Sefton broke then. He fell forward
on his face and pounded on the sand
with his fists and howled like an animal
in torment.

The villagers hauled him up at mid-
night and the monks at Yeu tended him
carefully until the professor, worried at
his non-arrival in Mandalay, came back
to look for him. Then they shipped him
home to a large house set behind high
walls in the quietness of the English
countryside, where he has found peace —
except when the moon is full and he
struggles in his canvas jacket and screams
about rubies and ropes and a priest who
is fed by the faithful at the roadside.

Sefton

HOUSE PARTY

(continued from page 31)

or helping him build a ге! wall —
you'll have the savoir-faire to finesse it
without offending. On this assumption,
here's the clothing and equipment to
take along:

Before packing, make a check list of
the little things you'll need (пап,
studs, ties, bath accessories, etc.) and
lay them out on your bed. Then 1а
the right number and kind of shirts,
then add one for luck. Then shorts, un-
derclothes, socks; a sweater and or
weskit; and your best PJs and foulard
dressing gown and leather slippers
(these you'll want for a lazy breakfast,
or for sharing a nightcap in your room
or another guest's). Shoes next: take а
leather-soled black pair for dress-up, and
a rubber-soled pair for comping about
out of doors. If these have a slight tread
they'll do for golf (your country host
won't take kindly to golf-cleat marks on
his random-width antique floor boards
or modern inlaid rubber tile). At any
rate, avoid those inch-thick red rubber
soles affected by some college freshmen.
Last, lay out your outerclothing: slacks,
sports jacket, country formal wear —
about which more in a moment. Pack
for preserving press and freshness, rather
than for living out of your luggage. Now
make a final check — sunglasses, leather-
palmed string gloves for top-down driv-
ing, windproof lighter, pipe and pouch?
— and then, and only then, get out the
things you'll wear and carry en route.

Plan to travel in a suit, а comfortably
relaxed job. (The ruggeder tweeds can
get uncomfortably hot in a train, or in
an open car on а day that's warm and
sunny) Carry a light, water-repellent
topcoat. Your shoes should be leather-
soled spectator sporters. By all means,
wear a hat, Thus outfitted, you'll be
comfortably correct in transit and, on
arrival, you won't have to excuse your-
self to change.

Check the gear in the drawings for the
right sort of garb for a country stroll,
a round of golf, or a fast trip in a sports
car to the nearest split-level Colonial
liquor emporium. For these occasions —
or a tour of somebody's kennels or
stables — we recommend tailored sports-
wear which makes you look muscular but

COMPLAINTS

[ромиямт5

COMPLAINTS

not sweaty and which discreetly suggests
ferocious action without forcing you
into any. There's an art to selecting
clothes of this type. They're among the
best-looking in a man's wardrobe — and
сап be the worst — you go over the
line from the functional-looking to the
gadgety-looking.

Sce the drawings, too, for tips on the
proper formal attire. No matter how posh
the proceedings, city formals won't do.
"They can, however, easily be adapted to
rural shindigs: wear a matching cum-
merbund and tie in tartan or a harmoni-
ous color; wear a soft-collared pleated
shirt — ог even a smooth-finished day-
time buttondown with four-in-hand, if
you sense the formality will be rather
informal,

Inevitably — апа happily—a major
feature of the country weekend is the
totally relaxed, conversational, delight-
fully unplanned drifting together of
one as the sun goes down and the
juniper hour is at hand. There's a fire
in the grate, the bar is set up for self
service, one by one and in couples the
guests wander in from outdoors or come
down the stairs from a fresh-up shower
and change. Your host probably has the
hi-fi playing softly; the doors may be
open onto the patio; some guests just
lounge and talk, others dance, others find
a bay-window seat or a chaise for a quiet
tête-à-tête. For this hallowed occasion,
you'll wear the suit you traveled in, or
your dressier slacks and jacket. The
leathersoled sport shoes will do nicely
for a casual dance or two, Should the
spirit suddenly move the group, you
might all whisk off to someone else's
house party, to see how they're doing and
to case the social talent; in that event,
you'll still be dressed correctly.

Well, let us assume that you have been
agile enough to imbibe at least as much
Scotch as ozone, and that the weekend
has been a success in other ways, too —
with happy renewals ahead.

Here are two gentle points of etiquette
we suggest:

1) A house gift is a good idea. Best
bet is booze, but stay away from the
regular liquors (thus avoiding the possi-
ble implication that you want to be sure
of getting exactly what you prefer to
drink in your host's establishment). Take
along a good wine, a liqueur, or a fine

imported brandy. There's no obligation
to serve these while you're there, and
theyll take on the aura of a gift more
than a contribution.

2.) Before you rhapsodize at the Sun-
day breakfast buffet over the charming
view of the garden from your bedroom
window, stop and reflect. Was it your
room for sure which looked down on the
garden — or hers?

BJ
ON THE HOUSE

(continued from page 38)

his story.

She was silent, estimating him.

"I work at Douglas" he said, "in
drafting." The aircraft plants were
always hiring new people. Some of
them would be lonely and womanless.

"Do you know Mr. Peacock there?"

It was an old trick. If you weren't
sure of somebody, you asked whether he
knew a non-existent person. If he said
he knew him, he was lying. "I don't
know any Peacock," Bill said.

Mame said, "I only have one mas-
seuse who isn't busy this evening. She's
new here, but I'm sure you'll find her
satisfacto; She called, over her
shoulder, "Nancy!"

Nancy came out of the office. She
wore a white nylon garment with
Grecian lines, one shoulder bare —
more a robe than a dress. Her blonde
hair was done up on top of her head
and she wore high-heeled pumps, ac-
centuating her slender height. Her skin
was flawless and golden, her eyes merry.
She was, Bill guessed, in her early
twenties, Mame said, "Nancy, you can
take Mr. Haike upstairs to number
seven.

Bill knew, from the tone, that he
was in. He followed Nancy to the third
floor. Her legs were gorgeous, and she
was supple and beautifully made.

"The third-floor hallway reminded him
of a hospital corridor, with its sound-
less, rubberized floor and heavy steel,
numbered doors They entered the
anteroom of number seven. She said,
"You can undress here and put this
towel around you. I'll be in the rubbing
room." She spoke with just a trace of

а southern accent.

Bill undressed, hanging his clothes
carefully on the silent valet, wrapped
the towel around him, and padded into
the other room. It didn't look like a
rubbing room, except for the table.
There was a day bed in an alcove, but
it didn't look exactly like a bedroom
either. It was more like a one-room
apartment, intimately furnished and
comfortable, He looked at his watch, It
seemed a shame that he could enjoy it
for only 50 minutes.

He lay face down on the table and
she adjusted the towel casually around
his buttocks. She spread oil across his
shoulders and back, and her fingers
went to work on him, alternately strong
and gentle, rippling and kneading. Her
thumbs pressed into the muscles at the
base of his neck. "You're very tense,"
she said. "Try to relax."

He tried. It was difficult, He kept
thinking about Gilley and the three
others outside, waiting to bring the
doors down, He had a sudden fear that.
he could not play his part convincingly
if he kept thinking about Gilley, He
concentrated on the girl, and the
warmth of her hands. She worked down
to his leg muscles. Then she said, "You
сап turn over now."

He turned over on his back and she
adjusted the towel. He wondered how
to get to the subject. Maybe he
shouldn't be too fast. Maybe it was the
custom for the girl to put the proposi-
tion. He said, "How did you get into
this place, Nancy?"

Her fingers stopped. "Why are you
50 interested?"

"I don't know. This doesn't seem like
the right place for you.”

Her fingers moved again. “It isn't. I
ought to be back in Opawicki Springs."

"Where?"

"Opawicki Springs. It's a little town
in Florida. I was Miss Opawicki County
five years ago, and 1 had the lead in
the Opawicki Players at least twice each
season. Last year Wolfe Brothers sent a
camera crew down to do some under-
water films. I've been swimming under
water since I was six, and they gave me
a part. The producer told me I had the
makings of an actress and signed me for
13 weeks, at 500, with options, and I

COMPLAINTS

COMPLAINTS)

COMPLAINTS,

67

PLAYBOY

came to Hollywood. The underwater
picture was a flop, the producer was
fired, and I never got another chance
in front of a camera. My option was
dropped. When my money ran out I
couldn't go back home. I couldn't face
it. You see, everybody in Opawicki
Springs thought I was on the way to
being a star."

lt was a stock story, but Bill sensed
she was telling the truth. "So then you
came here?"

“Not right away. I tried other things
first — like living with a director. Finally
I decided that if I was going to put out
I might as well get paid for it."

“You been here long?" Bill asked.

"Only a week." Her hands stopped
moving. "I talk too much. You didn't
come here just to get a massage, did
you?"

"No, I didn't," ВШ said. Her face
as only inches away from his, her
mouth open, expectant. He drew her
down to him, and then remembered
the money, and his duty, He released
her and said, "Do I pay now—or
later?"

She laughed and said, "Don't you
know, really?"

"No, I don't

"This really is amateur night. I'm
supposed to get the money first. Rule
of the house. But you can give it to me
after, if you want. I think I'm going to
like you, and you're going to like me."

Bill said, "Oh, no! I don't want you

to get in trouble. ГЇЇ pay now." He
felt like a heel.

She said, "You know the rates?”

“A hundred for ай night?”

"Thats right. I was hoping you'd
stay the night."

He swung his feet to the floor and
walked into the dressing room. She was
beside him, holding to his arm. He
picked up his trousers and felt for his
wallet. He noticed that she looked at
his pants, and then reached out her

hand and touched the cloth. She
frowned and said, "That's nice ma-
terial.”

Bill brought out his wallet and opened
it and found the hundred-dollar bill.
He held it out to her, She looked up
into his eyes, and her face seemed serious
and a bit wan. She shook her head no.
She said, "No thanks, dear. This one is
on the house.”

He pressed the bill on her. She only
shook her head and backed away, back
into the other room. She said, quietly,
"Put your money back in your wallet
and come to bed with me."

It was a. wonderful experience. Bill
lost all sense of time. He completely
forgot his duty until, faintly, he heard
a commotion in the hallway. The door
burst open and Gilley stood over them.
“All right, you,” he said to the girl,
“get your clothes оп, You're under
arrest."

Gilley stayed there while they dressed.
‘Then he said, "Sister, where do you

FEMALES BY COLE: 47

Romantic

keep the money?"

"In this drawer," she said, indicating
the bedside table.

"Did she put it in there, Haike?”
Gilley asked.

"No. She didn't put it anywhere, be-
cause I didn't give her anything. You
see, lieutenant, it was for free.

Gilley opened his mouth, but no
words came out. His arms dropped.
loosely. At length he spoke, "Why you
double-crossing son-of-a-bitch!"

As Bill tried to explain to the captain
later, he wasn't really conscious of
hitting Gilley. It was simply a reflex
action.

So Bill Haike was ordered back into
uniform, and told that for the rest of
his life he could guard the tombstones
and mausoleums of one of the most
exclusive cemeteries їп Burbank. He
turned in his badge and gun.

Two days later he found Nancy, He
hadn't been able to get her ой his
mind. He himself was bewildered by
this compulsion. At first he told him:
self he just wanted to complete unfin-
ished business. Then he rationalized
that he had guilt feelings. But perhaps
it was only curiosity. He wanted to find
out why she had given herself to him
free.

He found her home address (a studio
apartment in Westwood) through Сеп-
tral Casting. When he walked in
was neither frightened nor angry.
was playing records, and whistling, and
packing. "Go out in the kitchen," she
said, "and make yourself a drink. Then
уһе you can help me crate the books.
The express people will be here in an
hour."

"Where are you going?” he asked
{тот the kitchen. Wherever it was, he
felt distressed.

"I'm going home to Opawicki."

"You will be happy to know," he
said, "that I am no longer a cop."

"Didn't think you would be," she
said, "after you took that lieutenant
apart. You will be happy to know that
I am no longer a whore."

"What happened?" he asked.

"I got fired. Mame is very strict. I
did the wrong thing. I shouldn't have
taken you to bed with me. I should
have run downstairs and warned her."

Bill didn't understand at once. Не

id, "You mean, you knew l was a

сор?

"As soon аз I saw your pants worn
smooth and shiny over the right hip
pocket I knew you carried а holster
there. That meant you were either a
cop or a mobster. Then I saw the inside
of your wallet. Two small holes in the
leather, where you usually pinned your
badge.”

He felt deflated and dejected. “So,

being a smart girl, you turned down the
bill. You let me have it on the house.”

She him. "No. It wasn't
that. nted to play it smart, ГА
still be working for Mame. But I took

се. I thought maybe you'd со
alone. I thought you were a pretty nice
guy. although a cop." She took the
drink out of his hand and set it on the

a ch

table. "And I wanted you. I'm not sorry.
Are you?”
Bill chuckled. “You see, she was а

shrewder detective than 1 was.
that's why you left Los /

ngeles,"

I said. “Too bad it's off the record. I
suppose that then you came to New
York. and started this agency?"

"Not right " Bill said. “I kicked

around L.A.
cy in Miami.

n I opened
Still have a branch

there,”

The office door opened
came in, not Bill's secretary nor recep-
по

nd a girl

but another one, poised and
fully groomed, Bill rose and 1 rose
nd Bill said, "This is Miss Chesney.
She'll tell you about the Creighton case.
She broke it.

‘The girl looked me over. "Newspaper-
man,” she said, and then, suspiciously,
"Is he ОЈ

"Very trustworthy type," Bill said.
"Knew him in LA.
"Glad to hear it" she said. "I

wondered — 70-dollar suit but 100-dollar
and-painted Italian import" She
anced down at my wrist. "And that
lovely gold Swiss watch — 400, with the

duty."
I could understand how she knew 1
was a newspaperman—I had, un-

consciously, pulled a sheaf of сору
paper out of my pocket — but I didn't
like the crack about the tie and watch.
"Not gifts from the Mafia," I assured
her,

Her sharp little nose wrinkled
stepped closer to me and s
merry cyes rolled around as if expecting
to find a label printed in the air, the
way women always do when identifying
a perfume. "My apologies,” she said.
"So you've got a rich girl. And she has
good taste. Shops at Bendel's.

“IE уоште so psychic," I ch
“tell me what she looks like.
mined my coat lapels, frowned,
id, “Let me see your watch
a minute." I handed it to her, and she
found what she was looking for, one
fine hair caught in the stem. “People
think she is a blonde,” Miss Chesney
said, “but you and I know better, don’t
we"

Bill grinned. "Nancy,
the associate half of Haike Associ
I always say she's smarter than I a
Now you know why

spanish grandee

(continued from page 28)
thought about it, of course," he said.
“I like to watch bullfights. I suppose
that’s natural since I'm Spanish, but Гуе
never thought of trying it because I
couldn't start early enough. To be any
kind of torero, you must begin almost as
a child, you must live with bulls, learn
how they think. Racing cars don't think.
When I give up racing I'm going to
Spain and go into politics.

You seem hardly the type," I said.
Лауђе the word is wrong," he said.
“Maybe I should have said ‘government’
instead of ‘politics.’ In any case, if you
want to know what I mean, I mean that
I think I could reasonably hope to be
foreign minister of Spain.

Later, from Paris, he sent me a photo-
graph of himself and Fangio and the
Pretender to the Spanish throne. On it
he had written, “With Fangio and Don
Juan, the future king of Spain.”

When he found automobile racing,
Portago knew that he had come to his rt
metier and he abandoned all other sports.

Portago had driven midget track rac-
ing cars in Paris, but it was not until
1953 that he found out what automobile
racing was really like.

“I met Luigi Chinetti, the New York
Ferrari representative, at the is auto
show in 1953, and he asked me to be his
co-driver in the Ме: Road Race —
the Carrera Pan; All he ted
me for, of course, was ballast. 1 didn't
drive a foot, not even from the garage
to the starting line. I just sat there, white
holding on to anything I
thought looked sturdy enough. I knew
that Chinetti was a very good driver, a
specialist in long-distance races who was
known to be conservative and careful,
but the first time you're in а racing с
you can't tell if the driver is conservative
or a wild nd I didn't sce how
Chinetti could get away with half what
he was doing. We broke down the sec-
ond day of the race, but 1 had decided
by then that this was what I wanted to
do more than anything else. І used to
think that flying was exciting, and for a
long time riding scemed very reward-
ing. 1 rode, mostly steeplechases, twice
а week at least for two years. But those
things can't be compared with driving.
It's а different world. So 1 bought a
three-liter Ferrari."

When Portago began to drive in earn-
est, early in 1954, no one took him seri-
ously. He was almost universally con-
sidered to be just another rich, dilettante.
He and Harry Schell, an American liv-
ing in Paris who is now ranked number
six in the world listings, took the three-
liter Ferrari to the Argentine for the
1000-kilometer sports саг race. Said

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Portago: "Harry was so frightened that
I would break the car he wouldn't teach
me how to change gear, so when after
70 laps [the race was 101] he was tired
and it was my turn to drive, I did three
laps, during which I lost so much time
that we dropped from second to fifth
е, before I saw Harry out in the
middle of the track frantically waving a
flag to make me come into the pits so
he could drive again. We eventually fin-
ished second overall and first in our
class. I didn't learn to change gears prop-
erly until the chief mechanic of Maserati
took me out one day and spent an after-
noon teaching me." Portago had driven
all his life, of course, since childhood in
fact, but changing gears on а passenger
car bears little relation to shifting on a
175-mile-an-hour competition car, when
a miss on a shift from fourth to third,
for example, can wreck engine or trans-
mission or both and perhaps kill the
driver as well.

Schell and Portago ran the three-liter
in the 12-Hour Race at Sebring, Florida,
in 1954. The rear axle broke after two
hours. He sold the Ferrari and bought
а twoliter Maserati, the gearshifting
lesson thrown in, and ran it in the 1954
Le Mans 24-Hour Race with Alessandro
Tomaso co-driving, They led the class
until five in the morning, when the en-
gine blew ир, He won the Grand Prix of
Meu with the Maserati—“but there
were no good drivers in it" — and ran
with Louis Chiron in the 12 Hours of
Rheims, Chiron blowing up the engine
with 20 minutes to go while leading the
class. He ran an Osca in the G.P. of
Germany, and rolled it. "God protects
the good, so І wasn't hurt," he said.

In 1951 Portago broke down while
leading the first lap of the Mexican Road
Race, a murderous affair run the length
of the peninsula. He won three races in
Nassau that year. He broke an automo-
bile occasionally, and he у often off
the road, but he was never hurt until
the 1955 Silverstone race, in Eng
when he missed a gearshift and с
out of the resulting crash with a double
compound break in his left leg.

The crash had no effect on. Portago's
driving; he continued to гип a little
faster on the circuit and to leave it less
frequently. At Caracas in Venezuela in
1955 he climbed up on Juan Manuel
Fangio until he was only nine seconds
behind him, and he finished second. He
was a member of the Ferrari team in
1956, an incredibly short time after he
had begun to race. The precise equiva-
lent of his rise in this country would
be for a man to be a first-string pitcher
for the Yankees two years after he had
begun to play baseball. He won the
Grand Prix of Portugal in 1956, a wild
go-round in which the lap record was
broken 17 times; he won the Tour of
France, the Coupes du Salon, the Grand
Prix of Rome and was leadihg Fangio

nd the great British. driver, Stirling
Moss, at Caracas when a broken gas- line
put him out of the race. After Caracas
that year I asked Moss how he ranked
Portago.

"He's certainly among the 10 best in
the world," Moss said, "and as far as I'm
concerned, he's the one to watch out
for."

Running in the Grand Prix of Cuba
in 1957 he leading Fangio by well
over a minute when a gasline broke
again, and afterward, when they gave
Fangio the huge silver cup emblematic
of victory, he said, "Portago should
have it."

He ran at Sebring in '57, driving alone
nearly all of the 12 hours and finishing
seventh; he ran at Montlhery in France
ig the track record for gran turismo
nd then went to Italy for the Mille

. It was a race he did not like
Few professional drivers do like it: a
thousand miles over ordinary two-lane

roads, across two mountain ranges, bc
ginning at Brescia, down the Adriatic
coast, across the boot of Italy and back
to Brescia through Florence, The Mille
Miglia is probably the world's most
dangerous automobile race. The weather

is usually wet, there are hundreds of
cars running, from tiny two-cylinder
runabouts to Grand Prix racing cars

barely disguised as sports. models and
capable of 185 miles an hour. "No mat
ter how much you practice," Portago
said to me, "you can't possibly come to
know 1000 miles of Italian roads as well
as the Italian drivers, and, as Fangio
ys, if you have a conscience you can't
drive really fast anyway. There are hun
dreds of corners in the Mille Miglia
where one little slip by a driver will kill
50 people. You can't keep the specta
tors from crowding into the road — you
couldn't do it with an army. It’s a terri
ble thing, the Mille Miglia.”

Го make matters worse for him, the
illness of another driver on the team
forced Portago to take a car he loathed
and mistrusted, the 3.8 Ferrari. As a
rule he was indifferent to the cars he
drove, had no affection for them, could
barely tell опе from the other, but the
3.8 he considered to be somehow malev-
olent. He told a reporter that he was
intent only on finishing, that he was, in
effect, going to take it easy. But when he
slid down the starting ramp at Brescia,
with Nelson hunched enigmatically be-
side him, he forgot all that, his bitterly
competitive instinct took over and he
began to go. He was fourth overall
the first check-point. Peter Collins, lying
third, broke a half-shaft, and when
Portago was given this information, he
knew that he could finish third without
any trouble at all. It wasn't enough. He
knew too that he might finish second,
that he might even win. He ran the car
at the absolute limit of road adhesion.
At the Ferrari depot in Florence, he re-

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iused two new tires, grudging the 45
seconds it would have taken to put them
on. He had run nearly the whole 1000
miles, he was within 20 minutes or so of
rescia and the end of the race when a
tire blew out, or a half-shaft broke, on
the straight at Guidizzolo and the car
lifted its wheels off the road and left him
helpless as it few through a telephone
pole, went into and out of one ditch
and came to rest finally in another.
Carol McDaniel
Portago, left their New York apartment
with the children, Antonio, four, and
Andrea, seven, and went to Italy to take
her husband's Spain. The
world's newspapers duly ran the funeral
pictures and that was that.

Portago married Carol McDaniel, a
South Carolina girl, in 1949. He had
been living in New York for some time.
He met her at a party, told her two hours
later that he marry her.
They spent most of their eight years of
married life in France. A beautiful and
enchanting woman, Carol
brought to her husband a social stability
that was new to him. She became an
intimate of the Duke and Duchess of
Windsor and she could move with grace
in any circle. “Carol, in tamed
Fon,” one of their friends has said. “To
the degree that
brought him into the 20th Century. 1
think he regretted not having been born
in the 1600s, lots of us thought that, and
I believe that Carol helped him fit into
his own time.”

Portago’s widow,

body to

intended to

Portago

a sense,

anyone could, she

Portago volatile, violent, head
strong, almost desperate in his determi
nation to take every sensation out of
every of his life. Carol Ротар
is tranquil, firm-minded, strong-willed in
right, and their life together
produced some heady moments. If Por
tago felt that a man had impugned his
the debate was apt to be short
and terminated by a
jaw, and among the

publicly demonstrated this side of his
nature was а columnist who has not even
yet forgiven him. Portago's airy indiffer
ence to the maxim “Never, but
hit a reporter" ensured that his atten
tions to women other than his wife, and
they were many, would have maximum
coverage in the public prints. And at
least one of the women concerned dem
onstrated а semi-professional ability in
»ublicity on her own right. Just before
death, columnists were fre-
quently predicting that he and his wife
would be divorced.

“Like so much else that was printed
about Fon,” Carol Portago told me
“that has no connection with reality.
Fon's attitude toward divorce was very
Catholic: to him divorce was anathema,
it was impossible, unthinkable

“Another thing: there was very little
that was sneaky about Fon. He moved
quite beyond commonplace deception. 1

was

minute »

her own

honor
right cross to the
people to whom he

never

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knew him, I think, better than a
else, and there was very little indeed in
his life that I did not know about. We
could talk about anything, and we did.
I can assure you that some of the expla
nations, excuses, that he gave me at one
time or another when we talked about
something that he had done were strange
and wonderful, often hilarious, even,
but you could not laugh at him because
he was absolutely sincere, All one can
say about it, really, is that he was un-
ible to resist а beautiful woman, any
more than he was able to resist any other
kind of challenge. He could not be
changed. It was a facet of his nature, and
not by any means the most important,
either. Most of his attachments. were
completely casual. One was not, but
суеп that had ended before his death.

"After all, the essence of Fon's whole
personality was his maleness, He was
Пу а man, and he was almost fe
cious in his determination to live by his
own rules.”

What was he, really? He was the al
solutely free spirit.

“If I die tomorrow," he told me the
day before the 1957 Sebring, “still 1
have had 28 wonderful years

I cited to him the Spanish proverb “In
this life, take what you want — but pay
for it."

"Of course," he said. “Of course, that's
exactly it. You must pay. You pay
you try to put it off, but you pay. But
I think, for my part at least, I think the
game is worth the candle."

When Portago died, I wrote for the
magazine Sports Cars Illustrated ап ap-
preciation of him. Nothing that I have
the months since

nyone

tof

>

learned about him 1

inclines me to change it

He was not an artist, he left nothing
of beauty behind him and nothing of
use to the world. He moved no moun:
tains, wrote no books, bridged no rivers.
He saved no lives, indeed he took inno.
cents with him to death. He could be
cruel. If he wished to indulge himself
he would do it, though the act hurt and
humiliated others who had done him no
harm nor in any way earned his malice
Yet it would be a flinty heart that did
not mourn his death. At the very least
he was an adornment in the world

in
excitement, a pillar of fire in the night,
producing no useful heat or light per
һар», but a glory to see nonetheless. At
most he was an inspiration, for, with
the mere instruments of his life set
aside — the steeplechasing, the motor
racing. wealth, women, world-roaming—
n what

he proved ag cannot be too
often proven: if anythin;
for us here, we are

there is no folly like the folly of the

t all is meant

cant to live life,

hermit who cowers in his cave, and a
dead lion is a greater thing than a live

mouse.

BIRTH OF A SHOW

(continued from page 56)
song again— this time, When It Puts
Him in Paree. He meets а flower girl —
played by Danilova."

“You should see her dance,” Ferrer
says. “You know, she was trained in
Russia. She must be over 50, but she's
absolutely sensat al. A gasser!”

“They dance," Morgan says. "Then
the Captain goes to sce his mistress, Bobo

— Abbe Lane. She's a stripper. She sings
Femininity — it ought to stop the show
... ‘Why do I always end up on the
tiger skin?’ she asks. The scene switches
back to the boat great dismay
of the First Mate, the English wife ar
rives, Her n ow is Maud,
by the way. She says she's been looking
all over Paris for her husband. He offers
to go looking for the Captain with her,
and they get on a sightseeing bus. А
Spaniard gives Maud champagne and
takes a chop at her. The Spaniard is
Paul Valentine . . . pretty good. ‘They
yo t0 а nightclub, run by Su.

Io the

ne in the sh

in Johnson

— we wrote in a part for her because she's
got such а wonderful brassy voice. ‘This
is the same club where the Captain's
stripper works, and the first act ends
with the Captain and Maud confronting
each other as the chorus girls are danc
ing and Susan's trying to sin
“The second act's been giving us some
trouble,” Ferrer says, “but it's just about
worked out— the First Mate and Bobo
get together, the English wife takes the
Captain back, and they turn the Para
dise into a bistro. Great, we think." He
crosses to a coffee table and knocks on
it solemnly
"We open in Philadelphia
11," Morgan says, portentously
Nov. 26. "The show has its first cas
ману — Zachary теор
pher. He and Ferrer have been arguing
since the end of auditions. "I know 1
don't know anything about staging
dances," Ferrer says, "but I know what
I want and what you're giving me isn't
Furious, Solov resigns.
27. Coleman and Merrill are
going crazy trying to find а replacement
for Solov. Ferrer has an inspiration
Who was that kid who did the dances
on the old TV Show of Showsz"
“Jimmy Starbuck,” Merrill says.
Ferrer begins to pace, muttering to
himself. "A guy who works in TV is
used to getting numbers on and ой fast.
That's what we need."

January

Solov, the ch

Dec. 5. Singers and dancers go into re
hearsal today r Jay Black
ton, dancers under Jimmy Starbuck,

Dec. 12. Oh Captain! is rehearsing in
the Central Plaza, a meeting hall on
lower Second Avenue ordinarily given
over to Masons, Shriners, neighborhood

singers unc

weddings and, on weekends, Jam sessions
attended by college kids. Ferrer and his
principals are in the main ballroom, a

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flowered-wallpaper horror, cluttered with
artificial blooms, rickety lecterns and
funeral chairs. The Hose is sitting on a
chair tilted back against a wall, his cap
pulled down over his eyes, feet up on a
table; around him, in a semicircle, are
Abbe, Jackie McKeever, Paul Valentine,
Danilova and Susan Johnson. They are
mumbling their parts aloud and Joe
is interrupting from time to time with
suggestions or comments, Co-producer
Howard Merrill, impeccably dressed and
emotionally disheveled
"The
he says.

is surveying the
scene happily
$1,200,000,

advance is up to
"It's a combination
of the property and Joe's name — he's

one of the biggest draws on Broadway."
Out in the hall, Tony Randall and
Cugat are sitting side by side on a bench,
earnestly reading lines to each other,
holding the book between them.
Ferrer calls a break. “The b
is Cugie,"

g surprise
he whispers to Morgan over
“This morning he handled him-
self like he's been on the stage all his
life, Abbe is a little stiff, but she'll be all
right. let's watch the
dancers.”

coffee

Come on, go

We go to a room on the floor below
where Starbuck is critically
line of girls as they go through a wild,
cd dance. "The first act finale,”
Ferrer says. "How's it going, Jimmy?
Starbuck shrugs. "I really can't do
much more until I get the costume list
from Miles White
though, fine.”
"Crazy," "PH have the
blocked out by tomorrow:
Dec. 22. At the stage door of the
Theatre on. West. 5204 Street,
tweed blur shoots by us in a hc
rush for the knob, flings it open with a
and shoots inside like
This is

ispecting a

tomorrow. So far,

Ferrer says.

Alvin

brown
dlor

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supermarket. Abbe, in an old blue fuzzy
sweater and a disreputable black skirt,
looks like an underpaid scullery maid.
The chorus girls seem to be the molls
of a gang of Brooklyn juveniles. Only
Jackie McKeever, new to the theatre and
therefore ignorant of the rules, has had
the bad taste to come dressed neatly

‘oday’s run-through goes well enough
but Ferrer is dissatisfied. He sits in the
third row, his cupped hand pushing his
face into lugubrious lines. He says quietly
to Howard Merrill, “We're replacing

We're what

"He won't do."

“Who'll we get

“I'm bringing in Eddie Platt from the
coast.”

Who the hell is Eddie Plat

"You know who he is, for Christ's
sake," Ferrer says. "He was with me in
The Shrike and about six other plays."

"How much will he cost us?”

Not any more than Cugie— well,
maybe a little more,"

"Why don't you give Cugie another
chance?" Merrill asks.

"He won't do," Ferrer says, stub.
bornly. "He doesn't react. properly — his
reactions aren't an actor's. I thought they
were at first, but they aren't. Abbe and
Jackie aren't experienced, either, but
they have instinctive reflexes — they re-
act like a prize-fighter or а bullfighter
‚.. Cugie reacts like an orchestra leader.
He's got to go."

"Who's going to tell him?" Coleman
asks.

“I'm the director
tell him."

Jan. 2, 1958. In the Alvin, Ferrer is
rehearsing Tony Randall and Jackie in
the scene where Maud confronts the
Captain in Paris with her discovery of
his infidelity. Randall is muttering his
lines listlessly; he does not believe in
turning on the full charge until he is
before the footlights. Ferrer seems a bit
displeased with him. McKeever is giving
it the old college try. She seems semi-
hysterical. Her principal dramatic ges
ture consists of clutching at the bottom
of her girdle, through her skirt, which
is provocative enough but not especially
meaningful.

Ferrer is frowning. He is leaning on a
ramp that leads from the stage down to
the seats, bending his head so that he
appears to be attempting to get an up-
sidedown view of his navel — as though
his thoughts, conceived in his guts, are
luminous enough to shine through. He
starts to give the pair a direction and is
interrupted by stage manager Jimmy
Russo.

“They're ready to cut the belt for the
treadmill.”

“Will it make noise?”

"Quite a bit.”
ome on, kids, we'll go downstairs,”
the base-

sighs Ferrer, “I'll

Ferrer says, wearily. They go

ment of the theatre. In the Ladies’ Room,
Livingston and Evans are polishing
lyrics. In the Men's, Starbuck is drilling
girls in a routine. Morgan, exhausted by
constant rewrites, is asleep on a sofa.
“The poor bastard’s been getting no
sleep at all," Ferrer says.

He turns back to Jackie and Tony. In
this scene, Jackie seizes her austere Cap-
tain and bends him back in an old-time
silent-movie kiss, to communicate the
fact that a few days in Paris have let
down her British tresses. Randall is to
express astonishment at his wife's trans-
formation, but he is not doing it prop-
erly, "Look, Топу," says Ferrer, “
like the old English joke where the guy
comes home and finds his wife in bed
with his best friend. He says, ‘Geoffrey,
I have to — but you!?""

After a few more minutes, Joe calls a
break. “We're coming along fine,” he
. "I couldn't be more thrilled. To-
night we try a run-through — we've in-
vited some friends and we're going to
run the whole friggin’ thing.”

„M. Ferrer is onstage, addressing
the invited audience. He says that it is
his and the producers’ notion that every
play has two casts— "Us, and you, the
audience," He says that we would
quite a complete first act and about two
thirds of a second. He begs our indul-
gence for the lack of costumes, lights,
scenery, orchestra — and for the incom-
plete book, lyrics and music. "We're
nd polishing," he

It is exciting as the piano begins and
the singers roll in, jerkily and unsteadily
on the precarious treadmills. The open-
ing is pleasantly GilbertandSullivany.
Then Randall and Jackie come on in
their first scene, which is long and over-
expository, The "beddibycs" scene, in
which they take off their clothes and go
to bed, drags and drags. So do all the
musical numbers and dances. Randall
has lost some of his afternoon's boredom
ind takes on a certain authority as he
struts about in built-up heels. Jackie,
alas, is as smalltown as ever; her high,
throaty voice is too stiff, among other
things. Abbe Lane is not much better.
The Danilova dance seems to take hours.

An hour and a half later, the produc-
tion staff is meeting in the basement
lounge. Two bottles of Scotch stand on
the refreshment bar. Instead of a grim
conclave, with intimations of
everybody is manic with joy.

Ferrer is saying, “We're so far ahead
it's amazing."

Somebody says that the opening dialog
n Jackie and Tony is too long.
“Oh, crap,” says Morgan. “A remarka
ble number of people have joined the
Writers’ Union during the past four
days. People tell me everything is too
long. OK, they even say the strip tease
is endless, Look — we have to establish
characters, Joe and I didn't blunder into

doom,

betwe

this thing. We thought it out carefully
beforehand, talked for days, thought it
over...”

“We had a hit show tonight at the end
of the first act, I don’t care what any-
body says,” Ferrer says.

January 5. Philadelphia. The show
moved here today for several days of
rehearsals, one invited-audience preview,
the opening, and a two-week гип.

Jan. 8. "My God," says The Gopher,
rushing by with his arms full of costumes,
“I don't know how we're ever going to
get this thing on. We got a dress re-
hearsal with piano tonight, and these
still have to be pressed." He rushes away;
he is always in motion.

Nearly everything is in readiness,
O'Connell has all his props, the tread-
mills and scenery are working smoothly,
Mielziner is lighting the stage, Miles
White has delivered all his costumes.
Down in the pit the quiet, conscientious
Blackton is working on scores by the
light of a gooseneck lamp on the piano.
Some of the cast are rehearsing at the
Lu Lu Temple, a Shriners’ hall across
the street, but most of them are on hand.
Ferrer is all over the place, leaping up
the stairs to the stage, jumping down,
shouting orders and hissing asides to his
secre I copy down some of his
memos and notes:

Make upstairs curtains same as down-
stairs їп Capt. house, Cut second kiss
when Capt, enters. Bottle on table by his
chair should be English beer. Lights out
entirely at end of first scene. Pipe on
table is wrong shape; get curved pipe.
Tony looks hung-up when he goes to
mantel to get cribbage set—get him
something to do.

Those are merely his notes on the
first scene; by the time rehearsal is over,
there are 57 more.

Jan. 11. Opening night in Philly is a
sellout.

In New York, an opening demands
black tie; in Philadelphia it is optional.
Ferrer, Morgan and everyone else on the
production staff turn up in dinner
jackets, as though to express their re-
spect for each other.

The villagers begin their stately pro-
cession across the stage. Tony comes on

nd gets a hand, but not a big one. He
delivers the line designed to get the first
laugh: “I love to sce the pippets a-mating
on the тоог..."

No one laughs.

Livingston and Evans look
other glumly.

“It's ђе
Coleman say
pippets here.

“It’s because he didn't belt the line,”
Ferrer says.

A man sitting in the rear row turns
around and utters a stern “Shhhh!”

This audience is singularly unrespon-
sive, sitting on its hands except during

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] the times when the scenery is going in
and out on the belts.

"In Philadelphia, they applaud the
sets," says Vinnie Donahue.

The dialog between Tony and Jackie
still seems interminable, but then the
pace picks up. We realize, with surprise,
that the beddibyes scene, where they
take off their clothes, has been cut.

“Joe cut it this afternoon,” Don Cole-
man says. “He cut 20 minutes out of the
show.

"The Surprise ballet also has been cut.
John Brascia, the star of that number,
is standing in street clothes watching
the proceedings onstage. His face is a
dead white in the shadows; every sound
from the orchestra in the pit seems to
wrack and stiffen him. He has a run-of-
the-play contract; he will draw his salary,
which will enable him to study, practice
or travel. But to contemplate that now
is cold comfort; he has been cut in the
hour before his great opportunity, and
he is desolate.

"| don't think that Abbe Lane's so
one woman says to her husband
at intermission. He gives her a patient
look.

“It's her clothes,” another woman
says. “In that Femininity song, she ought
to wear something sexier.”

Ferrer overhears this. "I've been argu-
ing with Abbe for weeks" he says,
angrily. "She ought to wear the costume
Miles originally designed. Much sexier.

sexy,"

But she thinks she's an actress, for
Christ's sake."
The audience is more enthusiastic

during the second act.

“ТГ be damned,” says Ferrer. “This is
supposed to be the weak part of the
show."

“It moves
Morg

Now the audience is hooked, and by
the time the finale comes on, and Miel-
ziner's ingenious moving sets transform
the Captain's ship into a nightclub be-
fore the audience's eyes, everybody is
ready to stand up and cheer. Howard
Merrill dashes in from the lobby, where
he has been listening to a Philadelphia
radio reporter's commentary on the first
three quarters of the show. "It's a rave!”
he cries. “This guy says it's a smash!”

The noise in the theatre, with the peo-
ple calling for curtain call after curtain
call, is deafening. Someone sets up a cry
for Ferrer, and others begin yelling for
him. He goes onstage, tears streaming
down his cheeks (in addition to his other
accomplishments, The Hose can cry hose-
style almost at will).

Jan. 12. “There's still a hell of a lot
to be done,” says Ferrer. “On the dances,
especially. Starbuck needs help. 105
been a tremendous job for him, putting
this on singlehanded.

Who'll we get?" Merrill asks.
Im bullish on Onna White," Don
Coleman says. "She did The Music Man

better, that's for sure,"

n says.

— biggest hit in New York this season."

“Who'll tell Starbuck we're bringing
her in?” Merrill asks.

"TII tell him," says Ferrer. “Look, the
only god around here is a hit show.
Everybody's expendable, including me."

Jan. 14. The Philadelphia newspaper
notices were sensational, but they were
nothing compared to Variety. lt says
"Smash." It says, "Despite trade misgiv-
ings about the wisdom of trying to make
a legit musical from a click picture, the
transformation has been made not only
with success but also with distinction."

“I wish I thought it's as good as they
do," Ferrer murmurs.

Jan. 16. Rehearsals are still going on
every day. The two collaborators arc
still trying to improve the book. A laugh
is needed їп the next-to-last scene,

Randall, rehearsing in T-shirt and
jeans, calls down to Ferrer, "I've got an
idea for a laugh. All through the play
I've been saying, ‘It’s a good-sized ship
... Irun a tight ship." It just came to
те — how about if right at the end 1
say, ‘A loose little ship’?

Try it tonight,” Ferrer shrugs, with
out enthusiasm.

Randall tries it; it gets the biggest
laugh in the show.

"Thats the

line he

second con
tributed,” Morgan says.
Backstage, Jimmy Russo, the stape

manager, is missing. Someone explains
that he and Ferrer had several disagree-
ments and Russo handed in his notice.
George Quick has replaced him.

Jan. 17. Danilova's dance is cut at (0:
night's performance,

Jan. 18. “They
night,” Ferrer says
meeting.

"Let's put Danilova back in," Merrill
suggests. "The show seems to get small
without her — that dance actually estab:
lishes Paris.’

"OK — but we'll cut it in half," says
Ferrer.

In the second act there is a song sung
by the First Mate and the Captain, I've
Been There and I'm Back. At the re.
hearsal later on, the reinstated Danilova
wearing an incredibly ancient pair of
light blue warmup tights, is doing ex-
ercises in the wings. “I been dere,” she
says, “and 1 come back." Her number,
restaged, has been put back in the show:
so has a new version of the dance for
You're So Right.

Jan. 19. “Even with the restaging,
You're So Right is wrong,” Ferrer says.
"I wonder if we don't need a new —

Livingston and Evans look stricken.
“Not a new —?

"I'm
busy.

didn't like it last
at the production

afraid so," says Ferrer. "Get

This is Sunday, but there are rehears-
als all morning, afternoon and evening.
Jan. 20. Coleman and Merrill are
low—and with good reason. Several
movie producers have expressed interest

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in acquiring the film rights, and today
a New York syndicate has made an offer
to buy out their producers’ half.

At tonight's performance, Оппа
White's restaging of the sailor's dance is
in, and Susan sings Jubilee in the finale
of the first act.

Jan. 21. Ferrer is seriously thinking of
cutting Jubilee. Coleman says he's got to
make his mind up soon and freeze the
show. Ferrer says he'll freeze it when he's
ready.

Jan. 22, Bruce McKay, a baritone and
ing

ле of the Captain's crew, is sta
dispiritedly at the backstage bulle
board. "My God, another day of r
hearsals — from 11:45 A.M. to 7:45 P.M.,
tomorrow. Гуе never been in a show
where they worked us so hard." A chorus
girl going by, gooses him and giggles.
He catches her by the wrist and em-
braces her, and she rubs her body against
him. It is clear now why the cast seldom
complains about the rigorous schedule.

The weather has been miserable;
nearly everybody has a cold, Abbe is out
with laryngitis tonight. Her understudy,
B. J. McGuire, goes on without a re-
hearsal and does a capable job. She looks
sexier than Abbe because she is wearing
the negligee that Miles originally de-
signed for the star.

“That settles it," Ferrer snarls. "Abbe's
going to wear that goddam kimono or
else!”

Jan. 23. A new number, written in two
days, goes in for You're So Right. It’s
called It's Not Too Late. “It’s not too
good, either,” says Morgan, tonelessly

Jan. 24. George Quick surveys his cue
script, now so changed, altered and scrib-
bled upon as to be unintelligible to
anyone but him. "This is an easy show
to run tonight" he says. "We've done
the whole thing this way once before —
first time that's happened for days."

Jan. 25. Closing day in Philly. Ferrer
is in good spirits. “I feel like a jockey
riding some great horse," he says. "He's
20 lengths behind, then he starts to gain,
knocking off horse after horse — pretty
soon there are four horses left, then two,
then one, then he's home. That's what
we've done, we've knocked out the rough
spots one by one.”
Eddie Knill, company manager, re-
ports that receipts up front have been
phenomenal "We broke the house re
ord the first week, and we broke our
own record this week," he says. The
news seems to inspire the cast to greater
efforts, and tonight's performance is the
best so far.

“We're going to kill ‘em in New York,"
says The Gopher, his thin face shining

Jan. 26-30. New York. Rehe:
hearsals, rehearsals. Ferrer methodically
puts back everything he cut in Philadel-
phia — everything, that is, but the Sur-
prise ballet and the beddibyes scene.
You're So Right is back; so is Give It All
You've Got. New costumes have been

rsals, re-

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ordered for the You're So Right dance.
Nearly all of Onna White's changes on
Starbuck's numbers have been taken out
and Starbuck's original movements put
back in.

Coleman says, rather disgustedly,
"We've spent $15,000 on new costumes,
$7,500 on overtime rehearsals, and $10,-
000 on arrangements and copying for
the musicians—and the show is just
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Jan. 31. First paid New York preview
—and first disaster. As the curtains are
about to open for the last scene, frantic
shouts are heard backstage. The boat's
counter-weights are too heavy to lower it
from the flies— it will not come down.
Ferrer streaks for the door to backstage.
The actors face the audience in bewil-
derment, Finally Tony steps forward. Не
says to the audience, vere supposed
to have the boat here, but something
happened." This gets a laugh, and they
do the finale without the boat.

Feb. 1. The boat is fixed,
nicely

Feb. 3. The girls are livid — rehearsals
have been called for tomorrow, the day
ing night. "How'll we ever get
our hair done?” they shriek.

Feb. 4, Curtain-time is 7:30 р.м. on
opening night, in order to give the
morning newspaper critics plenty of time
to get back to their offices and write
their reviews. At 7:00 р.м. there already
are crowds of rubbernecks and autograph
hunters flanking the entrance to the Al-
vin Theatre. A mounted policeman
stands by to keep order.

The audience is streaming in. Harvey
Sabinson, the show's press agent, is bob-
bing about frantically, "What an
ing!" he cries. "Everybody in
wanted to come! Know who I turned
down this afternoon? Bob Hope! Also
Lollobrigida and Paulette Goddard!
Couldn't find seats for them. I turned
down Milton Berle, too, but somehow he
got two seats up in the mezzanine. I let
in Walter Slezak because he's got а big
laugh. We'll need it.”

The celebrities begin to arrive: tiny
Billy Rose, with the gorgeous Joyce Mat-
thews towering over him; Cugie, with
Jayne Meadows (Steve Allen, her hus-
band, is in Cuba); Jim Backus, distin-
guished in a ruffled shirt and bowler hat;
the director Otto. Preminger, erect as a
Prussian general; Rosie Clooney arrives,
wearing a white gown and an apprehen-
sive expression. Here and there come the
critics: the mousy, pipe-sucking Atkin-
son of the Times; the genial Watts of the
Post; the debonair McClain of the Jour-
nal-American; Gibbs of The New Yorker,
aloof and reserved. They and their col-
leagues are the only members of the
audience who are not excited; this is
just another job, their attitude seems
to say.

The overture commences. Ferrer rushes

nd drops

of opei

pen-
town

up the side aisle from the door to back-
stage. A radiator-cover runs along the
rear wall of the theatre — he boosts him-
self up to sit on it.

“Now,” he whispers to Mor
agony begins.” Morgan nods.

They are wrong. There is no agony.
This is the best audience they have ever
had. They begin laughing — which по
audience has done before — when the
English villagers sing, "We ship our old-
est movies overseas to Channel 9." They
roar at Tony's "I love to see the pippets
a-mating on the moor.” Danilova's dance
nearly stops the show. The entire first
act goes sensationally well, and the finale
gets a great burst of applause.

In the lobby, Martin Gabel says, “Very
good, I'm enjoying it.” His wife, Arlene
Francis, nods agreement.

Coleman and Merrill have lost their
nervousness. “They love it!” Merrill
whispers. That appears to be the case
throughout the second act, as well. ‘The
cast takes 11 curtain calls, and there are
cries of “Authors! Authe

Backstage is crowded with hundreds
of friends, well-wishers, relatives and
hangers-on, bumping into scenery, knock-
ing over props, generally driving the
doorman and the house manager out of
their minds.

It is obligatory for the show's brass to
put in an appearance at Sardi’s after the
opening. The rest of the company and
май show up at a pseudo-Polynesian
restaurant on East 57th called Luau 400.
One by one the cast members drift in,
some in and threes, some with
wives or husbands or dates, and settle in
the fake huts that line the walls and
serve as booths. Now that the opening
is past and the backstage celebrations
are behind them, they are ready to re-
х= but they are expectant, The Her
ald Tribune, with Walter Kerr's review,
will be on the streets within an hour.
Kerr is tough, and this season he ha
been tougher than usual for some rea-
son. Atkinson will follow an hour later;
Atkinson is getting crotchety. These two
have been known to kill play with
their reviews.

The management of Luau 400 appar
ently has instructed its waiters to take
their time serving the liquor. ‘Tension
mounts. A Hawaiian-oriented trio is
methodically working its way through
the score of the show, but nobody is
dancing; for that matter, nobody is
listening.

The Gopher runs up, harried and
stricken. "Oh, God! I know Kerr is go
ing to give us a bomb — I saw his face ;
he left the theatre, and he looked sore.
He puts his fists to his forehead. “What
will I tell all those people I raised the
money from?”

Fifteen minutes later the suspicion:
are confirmed. Word comes from Sardi s
that Kerr's review is a blast. Ray Evans,
who preferred to be with the company

an, “the

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235 W. 49th St., New York 19

rather than go with the brass, comes in
slowly from the telephone, his long,
lined face even sadder than usual.

“He hated it,” he says, simply.

The word runs through the room, and
even the fact that the booze at last has
begun to arrive cannot stir a hum out
of the silence that has fallen.

The Tribune arrives. Kerr's closing
lines are, "Mr. Randall . . . keeps buck-
ing everybody up with a chee
show.’ It would be nice to be able to echo
him this morning

“Well, there's still Atkinson," singer
Stanley lson says. "He liked Jamaica
— if he liked that, he'll surely like us!”

When the Times finally comes, we see
that Atkinson has written not only a rap
but резапаі attack on Ferrer. He says,
т Mr. Ferrer has substituted leers for
wit “а generally debased the style to
the level of the old-fashioned varsity
show. Mr. Ferrer has been away from
Broadway too long. New York is a big
town now.”

Coleman and Merrill arrive, looking
haggard. Morgan follows them. "What
happened?” he says, unbelieving!
“What the hell happened? Is this Ha
Ferrer Week for those guys? The au
ence loved it—what got into the critics?”

Nobody can answer; nobody knows.
Ferrer arrives and waves, smiling sheep
ishly. But the party is over.

Feb. эте notices are such out-and-
out raves that it is hard to believe these
reviewers are not writing about a show
completely different from the one Kerr
and Atkinson saw. Chapman of the
News, Coleman of the Mirror, Alston of
the World-Telegram and Sun — they all
love it. Watts in the Post is not quite as
enthusiastic but is still very admiring
McClain in the Journal-American likes
the principals, but says he thinks “the
Captain's ship lists slightly to starboard.”
His review is about half-and-half.

Ferrer stands on the steps of the Cap
cast gathered

‘Good

(айз cottage with the
around him. This is his farewell address
“The story is sad on two, pretty good
on five,” he says. “I have only one thing
to say — eight happy audiences a week
will make real jerks out of those two
jerks. You now have a harder job — you
have to work harder all the time. Let
me point out that we broke the house
record twice in Philadelphia, and those
people down there aren't idiots, We've
got a million and a half advance in the
till. We sold a lot of tickets this morn-
ing and they're still selling. We've got
30 standees out there today, so we just
can't accept the opinions of Atkinson
and Kerr as typical of the reception this
show is getting. It’s up to you. I'll be
in every few weeks, to spank you or give
you a feel. So—work. God bless.”
Everybody cheers as he puts on his cap

and walks off.

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BY PATRICK CHASE

ON THE SOUTHERN SLOPES of the Pyrenees,
the Running of the Bulls will be held in
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with the big bad bulls, just like Errol
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Much of the same sort of circus takes
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A restaurant in the old palace there
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NEXT MONTH:

and be your own Boswell during a one-
day sail to the wee sea towns of Iona,
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Another seaport a little nearer at hand
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least of which are the excellent meals at
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Ohio St., Chicago 11, Illinois.

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