Tuesday afternoon, November 29, 1927– Fifth Avenue at 44th Street.
The limestone façade of the United Artists office gleamed coldly in the winter sun. Shane's Cadillac LaSalle sighed as he killed the engine. He stepped out and looked up at the third-floor window, where a small sign bearing Chaplin's iconic emblem glinted faintly behind the glass.
The corridors were lined with thick navy-blue wool carpets, and walnut panels bore framed posters of the company's classic films. Shane entered the heavy, soundproof screening room, instantly enveloped by the hum of the 35mm projector and the metallic scent unique to nitrate film. The air carried a faint perfume beneath the cigar smoke.
Pale blue smoke swirled in the projector's beam, casting flickering figures across the room.
"Exactly three o'clock," Mary Pickford's voice came from the darkness, her soft Southern accent audible. She wore a simple film-reel-shaped silver brooch and gently tapped the edge of a financial report. The number "280,000" circled in red ink seemed to shine under the projector's beam. "Mr. Hill's people are always punctual."
On the oak conference table, storyboards for Hell's Angels lay scattered alongside blueprints for biplanes.
Joseph Schenck, younger brother of the MGM chairman, methodically slit open a telegram with a gold paper knife. The crisp sound punctuated the room, a finality in every slice.
By the projector's glow, Chaplin's bowler hat rested on his cane, swaying gently with the hum of the machine. He sat in the shadows, his face briefly lit by the glow of his cigar.
Douglas Fairbanks was the first to speak. "Mr. Cassidy, regarding the color you mentioned over the weekend…"
"The existing three-color band technology," Schenck interrupted, without looking up, the tip of his knife punctuating the telegram with a firm thud, "is five times the cost of black-and-white film, and completely unstable. Next March? Impossible."
Shane did not refute him directly. He placed his black briefcase on the table beside the open financial report. The metal clasp hit the wood with a low, muffled thud.
"Hell's Angels can be an epic," Shane said calmly, cutting through the hum of the projector, "if three small problems are solved."
Schenck sneered, tapping the report with the knife. "United Artists' biggest small problem is that Hughes has already burned through three hundred thousand modifying planes, and we…" He glanced at Mary Pickford, who elegantly raised her teacup to avoid his gaze.
Shane produced a document from his briefcase, the gilded Vanguard emblem catching the projector's light. He pushed it across to Schenck.
"A five-hundred-thousand-dollar bridge loan, nine percent annual interest," Shane said. "Collateral: fifteen percent of United Artists' European distribution profits over the next three years."
"Clang!" Chaplin's walking stick slipped from the rack, the metal ferrule striking the marble floor with a sharp ring. Charlie Chaplin, the master comedian, bent to pick it up, muttering under his breath just loud enough: "European distribution rights… that's our lifeblood."
"Problem one," Shane said, as if he hadn't heard, placing a Kodak photo of the Long Island Technicolor plant beside the briefcase. "Their processing equipment can't keep up with Hughes's shooting schedule."
He added another: a warehouse stacked with rusty projectors. "Problem two: most theaters still use ten-year-old optical systems. Even perfect color film will appear blurry."
Mary Pickford rose, silk dress rustling. "And the third problem, Mr. Cassidy?" Her voice was gentle but pointed.
Just then—the door burst open. Howard Hughes stormed in, reeking of engine oil and winter air, a smoking camera part in his arms. His flight jacket was stained with grease, and his knuckles bled from fresh abrasions.
"It blew up again! Fourth time!" Hughes roared, slamming the wreckage onto the table, smearing grease across the aircraft blueprints. The room fell into a deathly silence, save for the still-humming projector.
Shane let the silence settle before producing a yellowed Variety Daily clipping from his inner pocket. The headline: The Hoax of Color (1925). Flipping it over revealed dense mathematical formulas.
"Without the correct algorithm," Shane said, voice crystal clear, "even the best film will repeat this disaster."
Hughes snatched the sheet, his greasy fingers smearing the ink. His bloodshot eyes reflected frustration and the faint stirrings of hope.
"This algorithm… where did you get it? How do I know it's not scrap paper?!"
Shane's gaze drifted to the projector, its beam casting long, tense shadows. He placed a brown paper envelope in the center of the stack of reports. It rustled softly against the table.
"Seeing is believing, Mr. Hughes. Two weeks from now, Tuesday evening, seven o'clock. New York Harbor, Warehouse Twelve."
His eyes swept over Joseph Schenck and Mary Pickford. "You are welcome to judge for yourselves—scrap paper, or the future."
The projector hummed on. Dust motes danced in the light. No one spoke. Only Hughes's heavy breathing filled the room. Shane stood still, calm as a frozen lake in winter.