I did not smile, for Ernie was perfectly sober. But that this washer of automobiles was even remotely like the great inventor seemed to me a ridiculous suggestion. It was true that Ernie had white hair, had a round and placid face; but there was in his countenance none of that strength which is so evident in the other’s. I told myself that it was possible the picture-people were wiser than I, that under the lights and with a touch of makeup here and there—
“A war-film, it was,” Ernie assured me. “I was the big man in it.”
“Yeah. Inventor. Working on a new torpedo thing. Spies after it, trying to get it from me. They had me working in a shop with barred windows and a steel door and a guard outside. Had a bed there. Slept there. In the picture, you understand. Ate there and everything. People’d come to see me, and I’d show ’em how the thing worked. I was the big man in that picture, I’ll tell you.”
“That must have been an interesting experience,” I suggested.
He nodded, started to speak, but an expression curiously and almost ludicrously secretive crossed his countenance. He held his tongue, turned back to his task in a manner almost curt.
I drove out, and just outside the door—this was in January, and there was snow upon the streets—one of my chains flipped off. Forgan’s hail of warning stopped me, and he shut the door and came out to help me adjust the chain.
“I see Ernie telling you about his movie,” he said, as we worked. And I was surprised, for the man’s tone was perfectly respectful.
“Yes,” I replied. “He seems to take it seriously.”
“Well, now, you know,” Forgan told me, “it’s made a big change in Ernie.”