The Lusitania Murders

“And why is that?” I asked.

“Well, the word is he’s surprisingly shy, considering his profession-they call him ‘the Silent Man.’ He never solicits interviews and his celebrity is something he himself has never encouraged.”

Charles Frohman, she explained with respect and even awe, was widely credited with raising the standards of the American theater, almost single-handedly dragging it out of the muck of disrepute, where fifty years ago John Wilkes Booth and his pistol had sent it crashing.

In an effort to see to it that the authors and actors he favored received proper exposure, Frohman bought theater after theater; he often had as many as eight new plays in rehearsal at once-and upward of five hundred companies touring. He became much more than just a business manager to these clients-he was friend, confident, father confessor and artistic adviser. This galaxy included Maude Adams, Ellen Terry, Otis Skinner, Ethel Barrymore, William Gillette and many more.

Frohman insisted on quality-mounting well-written plays, as intelligent as they were entertaining (Miss Vance said)-and employing actors whose talent was matched by private lives clean of scandal. Miss Vance felt that the American theater was now on an equal footing with its European counterpart, and acting would soon achieve a level of respectability equal to any of the professions.

I took in this information gratefully, along with the rest of my meal, and did not point out to her how ridiculous these last few assertions struck me. My silence may have been hypocritical, but even a man of letters knows when to shut up, around a woman of pulchritude.

Standing outside the door of Frohman’s suite, Miss Vance and I exchanged smiles-the rather raucous strains of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” were bleeding through. I knocked several times-firmly, to be heard over Irving Berlin.

The music ceased, and in short order the door opened, and we were met by Frohman’s valet, a slender, cheerful, rather effeminate young man in a dark gray suit. The valet showed us into the study of the suite, which was in the Colonial style.* A desk against the wall was piled with play manuscripts; an occasional table next to it bore an elaborate ship-shaped basket filled with flowers and fruit.

The frog prince of a producer was perched on a damask print settee by an open porthole-though he’d confined himself to his quarters, he could at least smell the sea air-and his squat frame was wrapped up in a burgundy silk smoking jacket, a script folded open and in his lap. His left slippered foot was on a padded stool, and his cane leaned against the sofa near his right hand. On a round table next to him was an array of dishes filled with various bite-size chocolate candies and salted nuts; and on a matching round table, on the opposite side of the settee, a gramophone rested with a stack of cylindrical discs-the source of that ragtime tune.

“I must apologize for not rising,” Frohman said. His voice was a nasal, soft-spoken baritone, pleasant enough, but unsuited for the stage. “My rheumatism can be a demanding travelling companion, when it’s so inclined-and it is, this trip, I’m afraid.”

I introduced Miss Vance, and myself, and shook hands with him-his hand was small, almost dainty, surprising for such a roly-poly fellow-and we took chairs on either side of him, pulled in to face him.

Homely as he was-his head was as squashed as a Hallowe’en pumpkin-his genial, self-deprecating nature soon lent him an attractiveness of character that dispelled his physical shortcomings.

Almost immediately he put Miss Vance at her ease, winning her over entirely.

“I know you!” he said, eyes sparking. “Philomina Vance-I saw you in East Lynne, at the Chicago Theater!”

She touched her bosom. “I had no idea you were there, sir!”

“We won’t have any of this ‘sir’ nonsense-my friends call me C.F. And I must insist we be friends. . William! Ginger ales all around.”

William had been sitting on the other side of the room, reading a magazine; he rose and fetched.

Frohman’s cheeks plumped further as he beamed at Miss Vance. “You were quite wonderful-I know it was negligent of me, not to come backstage and meet you.”

“How I wish you had. .”

“We’d never been introduced, and I felt it would be a breech of etiquette.”

“Sir. . C.F.-in our business, such propriety is put aside! If you don’t mind my saying, you’re royalty, in the theater. . and a king never has to stand on ceremony.”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “My dear, ceremony is all a king has to stand on-not that I’m a king. A little success doesn’t warrant abandoning good manners, or common courtesy. . It was my intention to have one of my agents call you, but shortly after that performance, you left the theatrical profession, I understand.”

“I did,” she said, “though if I’d had a call from Charles Frohman, I might not have!”

His interest seemed genuine. “And how is that you’ve become a journalist?”

“If I might interrupt,” I said, “Miss Vance is not the journalist-I am.”

He nodded. “And I understand, Mr. Van Dine, you’re with Samuel McClure-which is why I consented to your interview. I admire the muckraking Mr. McClure very much.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear that. . Miss Vance is a friend, helping me out, you might say.”

“Such charming company is always a help,” he said to me. Then to Miss Vance, he said, “Should you ever decide to return to the theater, my dear, let me know. You cut a commanding figure, on the Chicago stage, and New York needs to know of you.”

Miss Vance was blushing from all this, and her delight was clear. “You’re very kind, C.F. Very kind.”

William brought everyone glasses of iced ginger ale.

“Help yourselves to the goodies,” Frohman said, even as he was doing so with chocolate kisses from one of the bowls. “I’m afraid I have a fierce sweet tooth. . and I’ve passed along my confection infection to William. . Isn’t that right, William?”

“Yes, it is,” William said with smile, regarding his employer with obvious fondness, before returning to his chair elsewhere in the room.

“We had a regular dessert orgy last night,” Frohman chuckled.

I was beginning to wonder how chocolate had figured into that; but I was not here to pry into such things-I had several other agendas. I began with my duties for the News. .

“I understand you visit London twice yearly,” I said, “to scout new plays and discover acting talent.”

One of Frohman’s specialties was introducing American actors to English audiences-and English actors to American audiences.

“I’m afraid I’ve fallen back to once a year,” he said. “These trips have become increasingly difficult for me.”

The articular rheumatism had developed after a fall on the porch of his home at White Plains three years before; ever since, he’d been a virtual prisoner in a suite at the Knickerbocker Hotel in Manhattan. Travel might have seemed an escape, if it hadn’t aggravated his condition so severely.

“That’s why I booked passage on this ship,” he said. “The Lucy’s the fastest ship on the Atlantic-and I can have the trip over and done with, as quickly as possible.”

Miss Vance asked, “Have you ever considered sending one of your staff to go to London, to see the new productions?”

“I’ve been tempted-but, in truth, I don’t trust anyone else’s judgment. . Whether a play works, or an actor has talent, that’s something I feel here. .” And he tapped his ample belly with a forefinger.

I asked, “Weren’t you wary of this talk of U-boats?”

“Frankly, I was. . My friends at the German Club. . Captain Boy-Ed and Colonel Van Papen. . advised me, in rather cryptic fashion, not to sail on this ship.”

This was an interesting wrinkle.

He was going on about the others who had tried to convince him not to travel on the Lusitania, which included many of his famous clients. Isadora Duncan and her dance troupe, and actress Ellen Terry, had cancelled their reservations on this ship to cross on the slower New York.

“The U-boat rumors are all about the Lucy,” Frohman said. “And taking an American liner is probably safer than sailing on a British ship. . but the faster the better, for me.”

“Worth the risk?”