insignificant detail—is numb. Too many puzzles make Jack a dull boy.”
The taxi landed them at the station whence hourly buses ran to Hollywood, and they were just in time to connect with the twelve o’clock run. Back up the hill and over the bridge spanning the Arroyo they sped. A cheery world lay about them, tiny stucco bungalows tinted pink or green, or gleaming white, innumerable service stations. In time they came to the outskirts of the film city, where gaily colored mansions perched tipsily on miniature hills. Then down a long street that seemed to stretch off into eternity, into the maelstrom of Hollywood’s business district.
Expensive cars honked deliriously about the corner where they alighted, and on the sidewalk milled a busy throng, most of them living examples of what the well-dressed man or woman will wear if not carefully watched. They crossed the street.
“Watch your step, Charlie,” Eden advised. “You’re in the auto salesman’s paradise.” He gazed curiously about him. “The most picturesque factory town in the world. Everything is here except the smoking chimneys.”
Paula Wendell was waiting for them in the reception-room of the studio with which she was connected. “Come along,” she said. “I’ll take you to lunch at the cafeteria, and then perhaps you’d like to look around a bit.”
Chan’s eyes sparkled as she led them across the lot and down a street lined with the false fronts of imaginary dwellings. “My oldest girl would exchange the favor of the gods to be on this spot with me,” he remarked. “I shall have much to relate when I return to Punchbowl Hill.”
