“You’ll be crazy about her,” said Mr Ufferlitz. “Face like a dream. Chassis like those girls in Esquire. And intelligent! She’s been all through college and she reads books.”
“Does she remember Yellowstone too?”
For the first time, a slight cloud passed over Mr Ufferlitz’s open features.
“She’ll cooperate. She’s a real trouper. You gotta cooperate too. Hell, I’m paying you six G a week, ain’t I?”
“Are you?” said the Saint interestedly. “I don’t remember that we fixed it definitely. It might help if you told me what you wanted me to do.”
“All I want you to do,” said Ufferlitz expansively, “is be yourself.”
“There’s a catch in it,” said the Saint. “I do that most of the time for free.”
“Well, there’s a difference...”
The revelation of the difference had to wait while they gave their lunch order. Then Mr Ufferlitz put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.
“This is the greatest idea there’s ever been in pictures,” he stated modestly. “They’ve done plenty of movies about modern heroes — Edison — Rockne — Sergeant York — all the rest of ’em. But there’s always something phony about it to me. I can’t look at Spencer Tracy and think he’s Edison, because I know he’s Spencer Tracy. I can’t see Tyrone Power building the Panama Canal or the Pyramids or whatever it was. Now when the Duke of Windsor walked out of Buckingham Palace I had a great idea. Let him play himself in his own story. It was a natural. I wrote to Sam Goldwyn about it — I was in business in Chicago then — but he was too dumb to see it. Would ya believe that?”