Isaac Bell reckoned he might have opened a chink in her armor. Nonetheless, he would wire a second inquiry to Grady Forrer:
WHO PAYS THE BILLS FOR
IMPERIAL FILM???
AFTER LUNCH THEY GOT DOWN TO business, with Bell acting his part as a Dagget, Staples & Hitchcock insurance executive anxious to invest in the movies. Bearing in mind the outright rejection by Pirate King Tarses, he opened with Marion’s fierce defense. “Without pictures that talk, the screen shrinks drama, tragedy, comedy, and farce to pantomime.”
“But the screen is democracy,” said Viorets, “if not socialism. We are reproducing the rich man’s tragedies, comedies, and farces in pantomime that men on the street can afford.”
“Clyde has invented a way to do it with words and music instead of pantomime,” said Isaac Bell.
Irina nodded. “I heard that your insurance firm was investing in Clyde’s Talking Pictures machine. That’s really why I was intrigued when Mr. Griffith telephoned.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From moving picture people you were shopping it to in New Jersey.”
“Then you heard that my firm seeks manufacturers who are up to taking superior pictures with the same photography and finish as the French.”
Irina Viorets reached across the table and placed a pretty hand on Bell’s arm. “I promise you, Mr. Bell, Imperial will out-French the French—let me show you,” she said, and took him on a tour of the Imperial Building that left Bell with no doubt that Irina Viorets was in command of a going concern.
She showed him the laboratories and machine, repair, and carpentry shops that Griffith had raved about. He saw printing and perforating instruments in the darkrooms, properties and wardrobe rooms of costumes for hundreds of soldiers, police, and cowboys, and rows of flats in the scenic department painted black and white. On the fourth floor was a soundproof recording room, like Edison’s, the walls padded, the floor corked tile, with an array of acoustic horns to capture sound.
She took him outside. In a vacant lot on the south side of the building, a mock street facing toward the sun could be made to look like New York, or London, or medieval Paris.
Next to the building was a life net. Ordinarily held by firemen to catch people jumping from a burning house, this one was permanently fixed. “For catching actors,” Irina laughed, pointing at the building’s parapet a hundred feet off the ground. “Just outside of camera range.”
Bell quoted Clyde Lynds: “Providing thrills dear to the heart of the exhibitor.”
They went back indoors and rode the elevator ten stories to the roof. Irina said, “The best photoplays of the future will be those that are created inside the film studio.”
The picture-taking studio had room for several cinematograph studio stages with glass ceilings to capture natural light. At one edge of the roof stood a stone wall that could serve as a precipice or a building. Bell leaned over and looked down. The life net winked back at him, no bigger than a dime.
“I have one more thing to show you.” She took him down to the eighth floor to a gleaming camera and projector machine shop, with a laboratory attached.
“Everything is up-to-date. Would you like to use our facility, Isaac?”
“Will your Artists Syndicate allow it?”
“I will deal with the Artists Syndicate. You and Clyde will deal with me.”
“Done,” said Isaac Bell. “With one proviso. My firm will staff Lynds’s workshop with mechanicians.”
“If you like, though we already have the best in Los Angeles.”
“And we will provide our own guards.”
“Whatever for? This building is a fortress.”
“So I noticed. Nonetheless, my directors are conservative. They will demand that we do everything possible to protect Lynds’s invention.”
“Perhaps you could convince them that the building is safe.”
“My directors remember what happened on the Mauretania. Professor Beiderbecke was killed. And the machine was destroyed in a fire. You can imagine why they insist that we protect our investment.”
“I understand,” she said reluctantly.
“I hope this wouldn’t cause trouble with the Artists Syndicate.”
“I told you. I will contend with the syndicate. Let us shake hands on our deal.”
On his way back to Van Dorn headquarters, Isaac Bell rented a house big enough for Clyde Lynds to share with Lipsher and two more bruisers from Protective Services.
IRINA VIORETS LOCKED THE DOORto her office in the Imperial Film Manufacturing Building and lifted a leather-bound copy of the novel War and Peace from her bookcase, causing the case to slide open on a private stairway. She climbed two flights to a suite hidden on the ninth floor. Its windows were heavily draped, making it cool and dark. To a northern European, it offered welcome refuge from the Los Angeles heat and sunlight.
The man waiting for her report sat behind his desk with his face in shadow.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Bell insists on posting his own guards.”
GENERAL CHRISTIAN SEMMLER LAUGHED AT Irina Viorets.
“Of course he wants his own guards. He’s cautious. What do you expect of an ‘insurance man’?”
“How would I know what to expect? I am not a soldier, only an artist.”
“You are ‘only an artist’ like a cobra is only a snake.”
“You have no right to mock me. I have done exactly as you wanted.”
“And will continue to.” Christian Semmler watched her gather her courage, then brutally cut the legs out from under her. “No! To answer the question forming on your lovely lips, I have no message for you from your fiancé.”
“You promised,” she said bleakly.
“I promised I would try to get a message.”
He watched tears fill her eyes. When he took mercy upon her, it was not really mercy, but merely another way to make her toe the line. “I can tell you that he is still safe in Germany.”
“In prison.”
“If the czar’s secret police were hunting me,” Christian Semmler replied with withering disdain for her foolish lover, “I would rather be in a German prison than out in the open.
