“They may read about them when we write our memoirs,” said Barrett, and they swept Smith out the door.
“If you’re in need of a ghostwriter,” Smith called over his shoulder, “I’m your man,” and added for the publicist, “Why wait ’til they’re old men? Let their admirers read the memoirs of spectacular actors in the full tide of life.”
The publicist walked him to the stage door, musing, “I could imagine paying a ghostwriter.”
“I don’t come cheap.”
“We would match your rate — provided the New York Sun, the Denver Post, and the San Francisco Inquirer never print the phrases ‘map of bloodshed,’ ‘murdered girls,’ ‘launched in blood,’ nor the word ‘jinx.’”
Scudder Smith went straight to Central Union Station. In a far corner across the passenger hall an unmarked doorway led to the private car platforms. A burly railroad cop blocked the way.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Smith showed him his badge.
“Sorry, sir. Say, would you happen to know, is Van Dorn hiring?”
“Protective Services is always on the lookout for good men,” said Smith. “Best way to get noticed, put on a clean shirt and polish those shoes.”
He walked out under the train shed, keeping an eye peeled for anyone watching from the other private cars parked on the siding. Fortunately, those cars blocked the view from the long Jekyll & Hyde Special parked far away. At the end of the row was a luxurious car, enameled a rich forest green. Curtained windows gleamed like crystal; loops of telephone, telegraph, and electric wires snaked into the station’s systems; and a flinty-eyed conductor in a uniform decorated with gold piping guarded the door.
The front compartment, paneled in rosewood, was furnished like a millionaire’s rolling office, with a desk of quartered oak, a comfortable leather armchair, a telegraph key, and a glass-domed stock-ticker machine. Neither the desk nor the chair were in use. Chief Investigator Isaac Bell was on his feet, about to spring.
“What do you think of them?”
“Mighty full of themselves,” said Scudder Smith.
“Is either a murderer?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Is either undeniably innocent?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“How’d they react to the map?”
“Stopped cracking jokes— Of course, if they’re what they say they are, then the map hits them right in the wallet.”
“Where were they born?” asked Bell.
“They dodged that like in every article we read about them. It’s a practiced duet.”
“Did they say how they mastered the saber?”
“They claim they took lessons from a deadly duelist on the lam. Thing is, a bit of mystery never hurt a show business career.”
“I dislike mysteries.”
“Like P. T. Barnum says, ‘Always leave ’em wanting more.’”
“Are they coy or are they lying?”
“Anna Waterbury was not the first thespian to rewrite her past,” said Smith, regretting it instantly as fire exploded in his old friend’s eyes. Better change the subject. “I wonder if I might wet my whistle?”
Bell directed him to the sideboard with a brusque nod. Scudder Smith poured gin and tossed it back. “I must admit, I enjoyed myself. I miss my newspaper days.”
“Did you detect a trace of an English accent in either of their voices?”
“No more than any actor,” said Smith.
Bell nodded grimly. He had heard many an American actor affect an English-sounding drawl with upper-crust pretensions, often at a volume to project expression to the balcony seats. “Actor speak,” Archie Abbott dubbed the stagy elocution delivered with faithful diction, exquisite inflection, and commanding posture.
“I set it up to take another shot,” said Scudder Smith. “I got the publicist interested in me ghostwriting their memoirs. Or do you want Helen or Archie?”
“It’s my turn,” said Bell.
35
As they did most evenings in every city they played, Jackson Barrett and John Buchanan walked home to their train after the show. At the station tonight, just inside the private platforms entrance, a tall, lean, golden-haired young gentleman in a white suit touched the brim of his hat in a friendly salute.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan. I am Isaac Bell, and I would be honored if you would join me for supper in my car.”
Bell gestured toward a palatially fitted dark green and gold car, which the actors had already noticed was cut several notches above the other millionaires’ train cars parked overnight in Cincinnati.
Buchanan demurred. “Thank you, Mr. Bell. But it’s been a long day.”
“It’s been many long days for me,” said Bell, “but I am at last in a position to make a lucrative proposal.” He gestured again to the car, adding, “I know I can’t lure you with champagne, but my cook grills one of your favorite dishes — Maryland rockfish.”
“How’d you find that out?” asked Buchanan.
Bell answered with an easy grin, “I am new to the theater, but by exercising due diligence on behalf of my syndicate, I learned that actors are famously hungry after a performance — ravenous after a brilliant one — and that you two have a particular preference for rockfish. Though we Hartford Yankees call them striped bass.”
Barrett asked, “Where’d your cook get rockfish fresh in Cincinnati?”
“He traded the champagne you don’t drink for iced beauties from a St. Louis express.”
“I am persuaded,” said Barrett.
“Me, too,” said Buchanan.
Bell led them into his car. A first course of chilled Gulf shrimp and Maine lobster was laid out on a candlelit dining table set with silver, crystal, and Staffordshire bone china decorated with scenes from Shakespeare.
As Archie Abbott had predicted, Barrett and Buchanan tore into the shrimp and lobster in appreciative silence. Bell watched in awe as they tackled striped bass, asparagus tips, and new potatoes Parisienne as avidly, and it was only over Baked Alaska that Jackson Barrett finally asked, “What lucrative arrangement are you proposing, Mr. Bell?”
Bell said, “I had lunch with your angels, as theater folk call them, and concluded I would rather approach you directly.”
“In other words, they weren’t interested?” asked Barrett.
“They were more interested in persuading me to share in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“Why?”
“Come now, gentlemen, that wire-service story is no secret. I’m sure you’ll weather it, but the Deavers’ desire to spread the risk and get some of their money out is reasonable. I personally have little doubt that your Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde will tour for many years.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” said Buchanan.
“But at some point, I imagine, you would want to move on.”
“Where?”
“A new show,” said Bell.
“Leap from a sure thing into the pit of speculation?” said Buchanan. “No thank you, sir. The only new show I’d do would be made with the wave of a magic wand instead of money — but still sells tickets for money.”
“First rule of the stage,” Barrett chimed in. “Cherish your hits. When you close a good play, you miss it forever. You’ve been immortal — a god — until the curtain comes down on your final performance. Next morning, you’re knocking on a banker’s door with your hat in your hand.”
Bell said, “My syndicate will pay for you to make a new play. You will have no concerns about raising money.”