“My so-called St. Louis Express was late,” said Marion Morgan Bell. “I missed the show, and I haven’t even changed, but I hoped I could catch you before you left the theater.”
Isabella Cook was removing makeup in her Grand Opera House dressing room.
She inspected the tall blonde and liked what she saw. Stylish in a traveling outfit of tweed jacket, boot-length straight skirt, and a snug cloche hat, Marion Morgan had forthright sea-coral green eyes and a sure-footed smile—clearly a woman like herself who got things done and done right.
“Your husband claimed he was faithful to his wife. One look and I’m not surprised.”
“Sounds like you tested him.”
“It would have been a mug’s game. Have you eaten?”
“On the train, thank you.”
“Would you like a glass of wine—I’m having several.”
Her maid poured a glass of Billecart-Salmon Brut champagne for Marion and topped off Isabella’s, who said, “Your telegram was the first I’ve ever had that offered immortality.”
“Isaac wrote me that you expressed a low opinion of ‘movie manufacturing.’ I wanted to capture your attention.”
“You have it. What’s your pitch?”
“There will come a day when the last men and women who were thrilled by you tonight in St. Louis will pass from this earth and take their memory of your performance with them. But if you allow me to film your performance, it will live forever.”
“But I won’t live forever.”
“But we will both live longer than we can imagine when we’re this young. Isaac was just in London and he saw my film of King Edward’s funeral procession. I haven’t been in London in a year, but it’s still showing in the movie theaters. If you let me film your performance in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, you can see your Gabriella Utterson again and again, year after year, for the rest of your life—and so can your audience.”
“They’ll get bored after the second decade.”
“Not of the performance I saw in Columbus,” said Marion, and Isabella Cook laughed.
“Are you always so persuasive?”
“Only for good causes.”
“Do you have your Isaac wrapped around your finger?”
“We wrap each other.”
Isabella Cook sighed. “I’ll bet you do . . . Would he happen to have a brother?”
Marion shook her head, with a small smile. “He’s an only child. His mother died when he was a little boy . . . I want to move the play out of doors, beyond the confines of the stage.”
“Why?”
“When Mr. Hyde stalks your Gabriella in a storm, I want beautiful Central Park buffeted by a gale.”
“Why?”
“Death is a thief. It steals our joys. When we take Gabriella Utterson out of doors, we will see her joy in the sun, in the rain, in the snow and trees and sky—the joy she will lose if the evil in Jekyll and Hyde takes her life.”
“How do you go about ‘buffeting’?”
“I haven’t done any yet, but while I was shooting a comedy at Biograph last month, a scenic designer, Mr. Sennett, invented a wind machine that I’m going to try.”
“What is a ‘wind machine’?”
“An enormous propeller spun by an airplane motor.”
“Pointed at the actors?”
Marion Morgan smiled. “Did I promise it would be easy?”
Isabella Cook laughed.
“What do say, Miss Cook?”
“I am leery of any performance I can’t control. Technically, Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan direct the play. But I do nothing on that stage that I don’t want to. I am an intelligent woman who trusts her instincts. But when your camera stops rolling, the show is only half done. I won’t be around when you make the final decisions pasting up the film the audience sees.”
“Of course you’ll be around.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m also an intelligent woman who trusts her instincts. My instinct tells me that you make decisions for the good of the show. Editing is a painstaking process. You may stand beside me as long as you can bear it.”
Isabella Cook put down her glass. She shook her head. “Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?”
Marion looked crestfallen.
Isabella Cook said, “Let me guess. You don’t want to see your Isaac if you can’t tell him you talked me into this.”
Marion nodded.
Isabella Cook said, “I have a hotel suite for when I’m bored with the train. Stay the night there. We’ll talk in the morning—but no promises.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bell!” cried the stage door tender at the Olympic Theatre, where Alias Jimmy Valentine was breaking St. Louis box office records. “How may we help you this morning?”
Expecting to have to talk his way into the star’s dressing room, Isaac Bell found himself greeted like royalty. News traveled fast in the theater, and angels backing new musicals were not turned away from stage doors.
“May I see Mr. Vietor?”
The door tender snapped his fingers. “Quinn!” he called to a sceneshifter, slouching nearby. “Take Mr. Bell to Mr. Vietor’s dressing room.”
Harry Warren tugged his forelock. “Right this way, Mr. Bell.”
Bell tipped him a dollar. “Here you go, pal.”
“Mighty generous, sir.” Quinn pocketed the dollar and banged on Vietor’s door. “Mr. Isaac Bell to see you, Mr. Vietor.”
The curly-haired Vietor flung his door open with a handsome smile. He was nearly as tall as Bell, and as tight and slim. He had a big voice. “Mr. Bell, I’ve heard so much about you. Do come in.”
Bell said, “I bring regards from a mutual acquaintance, James Mapes.”
“Mapes. Oh, cheery Mapes. What a happy soul. Did you see him in London?”
“We had drinks at the Garrick.”
“How did my name come up?”
“Mapes indicated an empty space on the portrait wall that was waiting for you.”
“Cheery Mapes. What a sweet thought. Come in, come in. Would you have a drink?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve got a long day ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”
“I’m the same way. Can’t touch a drop until the show is over. Sit, Bell. Sit.”
Bell took the armchair. Vietor perched on a stool at his makeup table. Turning half away from Bell, he studied the mirror. Bell wondered, why did he put on stage paint so early? Finally, Vietor glanced away from the glass, opened a drawer, and took out a silk jewelry sack.
“Have you seen the show?”
“In New York. I told Mapes I truly believed that your Jimmy Valentine was going straight.”
Vietor untied the drawstrings, fished out a gold ring, and began fiddling with it.
“Did Mapes tell you he coached me?”
“He sounded very proud of your success,” said Bell. “He believes it’s your Jimmy Valentine that will put you on the wall at the Garrick.”
Vietor watched the ring fly between his fingers. “I’ll bet he said I was a dark soul.”
The actor’s manic excitement had bounced unexpectedly from exhilaration to contemplation, and Bell saw an opportunity to draw him out. “Mapes said, ‘Subduing the dark side of Vietor’s character was like pulling teeth.’”
“Ha! He loves that silly phrase— How old do you think I am?”
Bell studied him closely. “Forty-six.”
“My Lord! Where did you get that idea?”
“You’re not thirty-six.”
“Sad but true. See this?” Vietor held up the ring. “My grandmother’s wedding ring. She must have been a huge woman, big as a house. See?” He worked it onto his left ring finger. “And my hands are not that small.”
Bell recalled that Anna Waterbury had told Lucy Balant that the “old” B
roadway producer who coached her wore a wedding ring. “Do you wear it?” he asked.
“Not really.” Vietor looked in the mirror again. He turned fully toward it. He found Bell’s eyes in the reflection. “The past catches up.”
“What past?” asked Bell, with the strong feeling that he was about to hear a confession.
“The lies.”
“What lies?”
“Well, I’m not about to blurt it out to a complete stranger.”
“You’ve already started.”
“Ha! I suppose I have.”
His door flew open and a very pretty petite blonde burst in. “Mr. Viet— Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.”
Vietor sprang to his feet. “That’s all right, dear. Come in. Meet Mr. Isaac Bell. We have a mutual friend in London. Mr. Bell, Miss Lucy Balant, a very talented young actress.”
“Mr. Bell! How nice to meet you. You’re the angel— Oh, I beg your pardon, that was really silly of me.”
“I’ve been called worse things,” said Bell. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Balant.”
“Now, Lucy, could you come back in ten minutes? Mr. Bell and I have a little bit more catching up to do.”
Lucy said good-bye, and closed the door behind her.
“Well, there you have it.” Vietor tossed the ring high, caught it nimbly, and eyed Bell through it like a spyglass.
“Have what?”
“Forty-six. You called it spot on—I don’t give a damn that I’m old. A girl as bright and wise as she will never find a man her own age worthy of her, much less able to match her spirit and cheer her to victory. I will take care of myself, hurl myself into physical culture. I won’t die young. I won’t require a nurse. Bell, you’ve been so helpful, I should make you my— No, we’ll do it in London. Mother’s there, can’t travel anymore. Mapes’ll be best man. But I do hope you can come.”
“What?” asked Isaac Bell.
“I’m going to marry that girl. There! I’ve said it. Mr. Bell, your jaw has dropped.”
Isaac Bell laughed out loud. He stood up and offered his hand. “May I congratulate you, sir? I wish you and the young lady all the happiness in the world.”
He could have added, Thank you, Mr. Vietor. Thank you, Lucy Balant. The Cutthroat Squad is down to three men in one show.
Isabella Cook eyed Marion Morgan over the rim of her coffee cup. Neither woman appeared to have slept soundly.
“Where would we make this movie?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles,” the actress groaned. “After months on the road? Must we?”
“The light is perfect, and it rarely rains. I can take pictures three hundred and twenty days a year in every imaginable location. And, by the way, women can vote in California.”
“I hope I wouldn’t have to stay there long enough to vote.”
“I will go ahead and have everything waiting. If all goes well, I’ll have you on your way to New York in two weeks.”
“Only two weeks?” Isabella Cook brightened. “I’ll pretend I’m visiting my husband in Hell.”
“Longer, of course, when you stay for editing . . . May I ask Isaac to approach Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan on behalf of his syndicate?”
“That will take some persuading. They can be grimly hidebound and staunchly old-fashioned. But here’s the trick—tell your Isaac that the one thing The Boys love more than money is credit. They’re clever businessmen, but they are actors at heart. Actors love credit. Immortality tops the bill.”
Reckless? asked the cautious voice that kept him free.
Aren’t detective posters warning prostitutes about you?
Not in St. Louis. A most satisfactory boom back in Cincinnati probably made detectives think twice about posters. Besides, the socialite who had aroused his interest was no girl of the streets but a country-club lady of the suburbs.
I’m not reckless.
Still, unplanned murders, like rich food and strong drink, were luxuries best indulged in measured doses. Impulse doubled the odds of capture. But tonight felt like one of those nights when the excitement was worth taking chances, a night to “test his mettle” on a woman of higher rank.
Undisciplined?
What are you doing?
Petite and blond. A wealthy young lady. Good taste said let her go. Caution said let her go. Wisdom said let her go. But she had run and been hiding and now he found her again, his Emily. He hungered for the moment he saw the shock in her eyes.
James Dashwood watched an alley off Market Street that led to the Grand Opera House’s stage door. This late in the evening, he hoped to ambush Henry Young if he left to sleep on the Jekyll & Hyde train after the final curtain. Suddenly he got a surprise.
The scraggly-haired writer, the lunatic Cox, whom Dashwood had last seen in Boston shouting, “I wrote that!” wandered up Market and stopped at the mouth of the alley. There, he lurked as if building courage to charge the stage door.
Dashwood walked up to him. “Hello again, Mr. Cox. What brings you to St. Louis?”
The writer straightened up to his full height. Many inches taller than Dashwood, he stared down at the young detective with smouldering eyes. “Hello again? What do you mean ‘again’? Do I know you?”
“We met in Boston.”
Rick Cox shook his head emphatically.
Dashwood said, “At a rehearsal for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“Were you one of the ushers who threw me out of the theater?”
“No. But I did see it happen. What brings you to St. Louis? Last I heard, you were locked up in Columbus.”
“I got out.”
“Out the front door or over the wall?” Dashwood’s mild joke had the effect he desired. A small smile softened the writer’s angry face.
“Front door.”
“When was that?”
“Few weeks ago.”
Back to five suspects, thought Dashwood. He had to keep him talking. “How’d you manage that? They just let you go?”
“They couldn’t keep me when I stopped paying.”
“Paying? Paying for what?”
“It’s a private asylum. Barrett & Buchanan paid for the first week. I paid an extra couple of days myself. I reckoned I needed more time to calm down.”
“Where’d you get the money?”
“Royalties. Barrett & Buchanan pay me a percentage—a small percentage, a pittance—so I don’t sue ’em for stealing my story.”
“Which one stole your story? Barrett? Or Buchanan?”
“Both.”
Dashwood said, “I don’t understand. If you get money, they didn’t exactly steal your story.”
“But they get the credit. And I can’t live with that anymore.”
James Dashwood said, “May I buy you a drink?”
Suspicion hardened Cox’s features again. “Why?”
“I’m a Van Dorn private detective,” said Dashwood, watching for a reaction.
Cox leaned closer. “Are you really? Are you working on a case?”
“I was taking the night off, when I saw you.”
There were many saloons around Union Station. They entered one with prosperous-looking patrons. Cox said, “This will be on me.”
“No, I invited you. It’s on me.”
“I may be Barrett and Buchanan’s patsy, but I’m still better paid than a gumshoe. Even a Van Dorn.”
Cox ordered whiskey. Dashwood asked for beer.
“Mud in your eye.”
Dashwood sought Cox in the mirror behind the bar and, when they locked gazes, said, “I don’t see the payoff. How is shouting in theaters going to get you credit?”
Cox tossed back his whiskey and juggled the glass in his hand as if weighing the wisdom of a refill. “I’ve been asking myself the same question. S
o far, all shouting’s gotten me is arrested and thrown in the bughouse.”
“Then what were you doing hanging around the theater tonight?”
“Just calming down . . . trying to figure things out . . . planning on how to get the credit I deserve.” Cox glanced outside the windows where crowds of people were suddenly sweeping along the sidewalk toward the train station. Curtains had descended and theatergoers were hurrying home to the suburbs. Something caught Cox’s eye and riveted his attention.
“I have to go. Meet me here tomorrow for lunch. Thanks for the drink.”
“You paid,” said Dashwood. “Thank you.”
“Lunch! Tomorrow.”
Cox pushed through the swinging doors. Dashwood lost sight of him in the crowd.
“Sleep tight,” said Isaac Bell’s conductor, which struck Bell as an unusually personal remark coming from the taciturn old geezer.
“Good night, Kux.”
He showered in the marble bathroom, poured two fingers of Bushmills, and carried the whiskey into the owner’s stateroom at the back of the car. The lights were low, the bed had been turned down, and his heart soared.
“Don’t be frightened. It’s only me.”
“Marion!” Bell scooped her into his arms. “Where did you come from?”
“New York.”
“This is wonderful. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I had a business meeting. If it didn’t go well, I might have wanted to slink off by myself.”
“I’m glad it went well.”
“It went very well. Isabella Cook agreed to be in my movie.”
Bell let go of her. “Which movie?”
“What I told you: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“No,” said Bell.
“No? Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous. Fifty-fifty odds one of The Boys is the Cutthroat. If not, he could be their stage manager. I don’t want you anywhere near the Jekyll and Hyde company until we have him in chains.”
“Isaac, if I can make this movie, I can tell Preston Whiteway and Picture World to go jump in a lake.”
“I thought you told him that when you made The Iron Horse.”
The Cutthroat Page 23