Silver

by Graham Masterton

  ‘You’re smitten, that’s your trouble,’ said David Moffat, after a long while.

  Henry asked, ‘What other theatres are there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Apart from the Majestic. What about the Tremont?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, is it for sale?’

  ‘For sale?’ asked David blankly. ‘The Tremont? How .should I know?’

  ‘It’s a good theatre, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure it is. It’s not as large as the Majestic, doesn’t seat so many. But it’s a luxury theatre, yes.’

  ‘Who owns it? Do you know?’

  ‘Of course I do. Willis Benn. I helped to finance his first three productions.’

  ‘Would he sell?’ asked Henry.

  ‘You mean the whole theatre?’ David wanted to know, but when Henry nodded, he shook his head, and said, ‘Well…I’m not so sure. He may. His wife’s sick, I know that much. But whether that will make any difference, that’s anybody’s guess. He loves his wife, but he loves that theatre, too.’

  ‘Why not ask him?’ Henry enthused.

  ‘He wouldn’t part with it for peanuts,’ David warned.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t know. Thirty-five thousand, at least.’

  ‘Can I afford it?’ Henry asked him.

  ‘Well, of course you can afford it. But whether it’s a worthwhile investment, that’s a different question altogether. And, believe me, running a theatre isn’t cheap these days. One failed production, and you’re sunk. Or semi-sunk, anyway.’

  ‘David,’ said Henry, ‘you get on that galvanic muttering-machine and call what’s-his-name, Willis Benn, and tell him I want to buy his theatre, outright, cash, now.’

  ‘What do you mean, now?’ David Moffat’s face was as bright as Henry’s shrimps.

  ‘Now, before luncheon is over.’

  David turned in his seat and squinted across the restaurant at Baby Doe, who was laughing now at some remark that Murray Holman had made; or perhaps just to show Henry that she didn’t care for his attentions at all; that charm alone was not enough. Then David turned back to Henry again, and said, ‘Are you sure she’s worth it? She looks pretty flighty to me.’

  Henry leaned forward, pushing aside his half-finished shrimps. ‘David,’ he said intently, ‘I have never asked anyone for much. I have never asked myself for anything. I lay back for most of my life and expected good fortune to walk in through my door; and when it didn’t, I did nothing more than shrug and accept it. David, I have been selling picks and shovels and bags of flour for nearly twenty years, and living with a woman I neither love nor respect. Now that good fortune has at last arrived, don’t think that I’m going to continue to expect nothing out of my life but what I have already. I’m rich, David, and I’m going to be very much richer; and no matter whether I worked for my riches or not, I’m going to enjoy them.’

  ‘And enjoying your riches includes…?’ asked David, inclining his head towards Baby Doe.

  Henry remained expressionless. David at last wiped his mouth, put down his soup-spoon, and said, ‘Very well. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  By the time the wild duck on dirty rice was served, with a bottle of pale Fleurie and a side order of baked potato skins and new green peas, Willis Benn himself had arrived at the restaurant. He waved aside the cloakroom attendant who tried to take his fur-collared coat, and walked straight across to David Moffat with his hands in his pockets, his face pale, and his hair still sticking up at the back where his hat had tugged it as he took it off. He was a short, handsome man, rather theatrical in his manner, his face betraying the signs of worry and overwork and more gin than was good for him; but pugnacious, and determined.

  ‘Well, Mr Moffat,’ he said. ‘Is this the gentleman who wants to buy my theatre?’

  ‘Henry Roberts,’ said Henry, standing up and holding out his hand.

  Willis Benn ignored his hand, and said crisply, ‘I hope very much that this isn’t a practical joke.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Henry. ‘Have a potato skin.’

  ‘I’ve eaten, thank you; and I’d rather stand. At least until I hear what it is that you have in mind.’

  ‘Nothing complicated,’ said Henry. ‘I simply wish to buy the Tremont Theatre, for cash.’

  ‘I see. And what do you intend to do with it? Demolish it, I shouldn’t wonder, and build a hotel?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘Nothing of the kind. I want to buy the Tremont simply because I want a theatre. I want the Tremont to remain exactly as it is now; and I want you to go on running it, and whatever staff and company you have to continue to put on plays.’

  Willis Benn stared at Henry for nearly half a minute without saying a word. Then he drew out a chair, and sat down. ‘I’m not sure that I understand,’ he said. ‘The Tremont is a good theatre, of course; in fact, it’s one of the finest theatres in the West. But I’d be lying to you if I pretended that it was a good investment. Our last production of Lucia di Lammermoor made only $450 profit; and most of that we had to spend on new upholstery, and back wages for the set-builders.’

  ‘Well, you’re honest enough,’ said Henry. ‘Go on, have a potato skin, before they get cold. But the fact is that simply owning the theatre will be a worthwhile investment, as far as I’m concerned.’

  Willis Benn looked across at David Moffat. ‘Is this true?’ he asked.

  David Moffat squashed out his double chins over his collar, and tried to make a face that was both reassuring and non-committal. ‘As far as I understand it,’ he said. ‘Mr Roberts here has what you might call personal reasons.’

  Henry glanced across at Murray Holman’s table, to make sure that Baby Doe was still there. A waiter was just setting down a coupe de glace in front of her, melon flavour, with Italian wafers, and Henry realized that he didn’t have more than fifteen minutes to persuade Willis Benn to sell him the Tremont, if that.

  ‘Are there any conditions?’ asked Willis Benn. He picked up a potato skin, sniffed the yellow jack cheese on it, and then put it down again.

  ‘Only two,’ said Henry. ‘Well, three, really. The first is that you give me an immediate answer, right here and now, yes or no. The second is that you make arrangements as soon as you can for putting on a production of Hamlet, with a real lake on the stage for the scene in which Ophelia drowns herself, and maybe a choir, and real performing dogs, and whatever else you can think of; and the third is that I get to choose who plays the part of Ophelia.’

  Willis Benn sat with his lips pursed, and then said, ‘So that’s it. A woman. Wouldn’t you know it.’

  Henry said, ‘That’s my offer. What my motives are, well, they aren’t any concern of yours. You can take the offer or not, whatever you want. But it won’t be repeated; not ever.’

  Willis Benn said, ‘I couldn’t accept less than $27,000. And the contract of sale would have to include guaranteed employment for myself as theatre director, and guaranteed employment for all of my staff and my principal company.’

  Henry looked at David. He could see in David’s eyes that David believed that Willis Benn would accept less. As subtly as he could, in the pretence of folding his napkin, David raised both hands twice, and then three fingers on his right hand. Ten plus ten plus three.

  Henry said, ‘You’ll put on Hamlet, too, just the way I want it?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Willis Benn replied. ‘There’s always room in the theatre for a little burlesque. That’s as long as you pay for the lake and the dogs and whatever other circus performances you want to include. Yes, and the lady’s salary, whoever she is.’

  ‘You’re pretty broke, aren’t you, Willis?’ David put in, sensing that Henry was too eager to settle the deal, now that he knew he could offer Baby Doe exactly what Murray Holman was offering her, and better.

  Willis shrugged. ‘I can’t say that we’ve been doing spectacularly well.’

  ‘So this sale could save your baco
n for you?’

  ‘It might not work out too badly, provided Mr Roberts is sympathetic to what the theatre is trying to do; and doesn’t impose too many fancy productions on us. With all due respect, Mr Roberts.’

  ‘Well,’ said David, ‘I’m sure that you’d find Mr Roberts the most sympathetic of proprietors. He’s a great lover of the arts, aren’t you, Henry? An aficionado. He paid for Inman’s Viennese jugglers to visit Leadville once, didn’t you, Henry? He’s a cultured man.’

  Henry saw that Baby Doe had almost finished her ice, and was licking her spoon with a tongue that was as pink and provocative as that of a white-furred kitten. Murray Holman was beckoning the waiter across to bring him a brandy and a cup of coffee, and it wouldn’t be long before they left. Henry said to Willis Hunt, ‘No arguments. I’ll pay you thirty.’

  Willis Hunt was in mid-conversation with David about their staging of Il Trovatore. He stopped, and stared at Henry in dramatic disbelief. ‘Thirty?’ he asked, pronouncing every letter with the clarity of a trained thespian. David echoed him. ‘Thirty?’ but David’s voice was strangled with a very different kind of disbelief.

  ‘That’s it. That’s the offer. Thirty. You can have the cash as soon as the papers are signed. Now, make up your mind.’

  The waiter came up to Willis Benn, and asked, ‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’

  Willis Benn tugged quickly at his nose: a nervous gesture that Henry guessed must be habitual. Then he rubbed his hands together quickly, and smiled, and said, ‘Champagne, I think, French. A magnum, if you have it.’

  ‘Yes, sir, the Bollinger.’

  Henry stood up, and shook Willis Benn’s hand. Then he asked David, ‘Look after the details, please, David,’ and without saying anything else, walked back across the restaurant to Murray Holman’s table. Murray Holman was leaning back with his thumbs in his waistcoat while the waiter lit a cigar for him, and Baby Doe was sipping coffee, the plumes on her hat blowing in the draught from the ceiling-fan above her head.

  ‘You’ll pardon a second intrusion,’ said Henry, loudly.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Murray Holman demanded, equally loudly. Baby Doe looked up and smiled at Henry, but she was clearly anxious that Murray Holman was going to be extremely irritated.

  ‘Well, maybe you won’t pardon it,’ said Henry. ‘But the fact of the matter is that I, too, am just about to stage a production of Hamlet, with a real lake; and not only with a real lake but with a choir as well, and a team of performing dogs, and Edwin Booth in the role of Hamlet.’

  ‘You are about to stage a production of Hamlet?’ Murray Holman asked, blowing out cigar smoke, and coughing, and waving aside the offer of a fourth match from the waiter standing beside him. ‘You are about to stage a production of Hamlet?’

  ‘With Edwin Booth?’ asked Baby Doe, deeply impressed. Edwin Booth was easily the most popular and best-paid touring actor in the West. His Romeo brought tears to the eyes of even the most hardened sourdoughs.

  ‘That’s correct,’ replied Henry.

  ‘You, as far as I know, are a mineral prospector,’ said Murray Holman, tartly. ‘So where are you going to stage a production of Hamlet? Two hundred feet down in the Little Pittsburgh mine?’

  ‘Ah, you do know me, then,’ said Henry.

  ‘I’ve heard about you, I must confess. More’s the pity.’

  ‘Have you heard that I now own the Tremont Theatre, on West 14th Avenue?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, and I don’t believe it. I met Willis Benn only this morning, and if Willis had sold the Tremont to you or to anyone else, he would have told me about it.’

  ‘Do you want him to?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Do I want him to what?’ Murray Holman demanded.

  Henry smiled. ‘To tell you about it. He’s right over there, talking to David Moffat. They’re working out a contract of sale.’

  Murray Holman peered at Henry through the flat blue layers of his cigar smoke, like a man peering through shutters. He didn’t believe Henry at first: wouldn’t. But then he slowly eased himself around in his chair, and stared across the restaurant towards David Moffat’s table. He stared for a long time, and then he eased himself back again, and took the cigar out of his mouth.

  ‘Did you have to do Hamlet?’ he asked, with a rasp in his voice. ‘I’ve already spent a king’s ransom on that production; nearly $12,000.’

  ‘I had to do Hamlet,’ said Henry. He looked down at Baby Doe, and couldn’t help grinning with the knowledge that he had almost won her. ‘It’s the only play for which Mrs Doe is already prepared.’

  He held out his hand to Baby Doe, and said, gently, ‘You’re the most remarkable-looking lady, Mrs Doe, if you’ll forgive me; and I very much want to get to know you. That’s why, this lunchtime, I’ve bought you a theatre, and an actor-manager, and a company of players, so that you can play Ophelia the way she ought to be played, and play her for me.’

  ‘You bought me a theatre?’ said Baby Doe, in a haunted, inquiring, whisper. Then, ‘Did you hear that, Murray? Mr Roberts has bought me a theatre!’

  ‘Is Mrs Doe under a contract to you, Mr Holman?’ asked Henry, bluntly.

  ‘Of course,’ snapped Murray Holman. He was confused, and irate.

  ‘But, Murray,’ cooed Baby Doe, reaching over the table and touching his hand. ‘You know that I haven’t signed the paper yet. That was why you were taking me to lunch. I haven’t signed the paper yet.’ She looked up at Henry and gave him an admiring smile. ‘You don’t even know me, Mr Roberts. You don’t even know me at all. How could you buy me a theatre?’

  ‘Let’s just say that I recognize grace when I see it,’ said Henry, and then laughed out loud, because the power of his money had suddenly become apparent to him. The power not only to buy what he wanted, but to be able quite wilfully and promiscuously to change the course of other people’s lives. In the space of a single lunch-hour, he had altered Willis Benn’s future, irrevocably; and thwarted Murray Holman; and won himself the most desirable girl that he had ever seen in his life, changing her destiny, too, forever. The power of wealth. He could almost feel it in his muscles.

  ‘Pardon me,’ he said to Murray Holman, ‘but as soon as you’ve finished your luncheon, perhaps Mrs Doe would like to come over and talk to me.’ He inclined his head respectfully to Baby Doe, and said, ‘We do have a great deal to discuss now, after all.’

  ‘Mrs Doe will be leaving with me, thank you,’ replied Murray Holman, his nostrils widening aggressively.

  ‘Well, I don’t think so,’ said Henry, and took Baby Doe’s hand, and kissed it again, and then retreated from the table in the certain knowledge that Baby Doe was quite capable of making it clear to Murray Holman herself that she was not going anywhere at all, at least not with him.

  As he sat down again at his own table, David said, ‘We seem to have most of the basic agreement worked out, Henry. I’ve suggested to Willis here that we all meet some time tomorrow morning to exchange the necessary papers.’

  ‘All right,’ said Henry, and shook Willis Benn’s hand. ‘Good to do business with you, Mr Benn.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Roberts. And—er—is that the young lady, over there? The one sitting with Murray Holman?’

  Henry gave away nothing; except perhaps a flicker of his eyes.

  ‘You could do yourself a darn sight worse,’ smiled Willis Benn. ‘She’s a choice young lady, worth fighting for. Don’t ask me if she’s worth all of thirty thousand dollars, because I wouldn’t know. But I hope that you’ll discover that for yourself.’

  After he had left, the waiter brought their tenderloin steaks; and now Henry ate with an appetite. He didn’t look over at Baby Doe, but David did, and shook his head from time to time as if he couldn’t believe that any of this meal was really happening.

  ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’ he asked Henry.

  ‘I like to think so,’ Henry told him.

  ‘Well, in that case, let me be frank with you. You’re a ri
ch man now, but you’re only going to stay rich if you observe the fundamental tenets of good business. Today, you just broke three of those tenets in one crack.’

  Henry chewed steak, watched David, and said nothing.

  ‘First of all, you should never pay a man more than he’s asking. He’ll be pleased to get what he had in mind, he doesn’t need any more. If you give him any more, you’ll only earn yourself a reputation for extravagance and then you’ll find that nobody will ever offer you anything for a fair price, ever; and you’ll have every free-loader and panhandler and confidence artist from here to Bangor, Maine, coming clustering around you looking for whatever they can get. And the business community won’t take you too seriously, either.’

  David paused, embarrassed at what he had felt obliged to say, but Henry told him, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, second of all, you should never make a bad investment, not for any reason at all. Now, I’m not saying that the Tremont Theatre is all that bad a buy; but if you’d wanted to put money into it, you’d have been better off from an investment point of view doing what I did: laying out capital for individual productions, judging each production on its financial possibilities.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Henry. He had stopped chewing now, and swallowed, and set down his fork.

  ‘Only one more thing. You can kick me if you like, tell me to mind my own business. But, Henry, you should never make any business decision on account of a woman. Or any decision, come to that. I mean, you think back on history. History is littered with sorry examples of men who were brought low by a pretty face and a creamy frontage. Mark Antony. Samson. Jim Fisk.’

  ‘Jim Fisk?’ asked Henry. Jim Fisk had been the flamboyant partner of Jay Gould, and together they had made themselves a fortune by forging Erie railroad stock and selling nearly $6 million of it to Cornelius Vanderbilt. Fisk had been shot in 1872 by a rival for the affections of a lady called Josie Mansfield. Henry said, ‘I hope you’re not going to compare me with him.’