“We will celebrate our first anniversary next week.”
“Do you allow your wife to support herself in her own career?”
“She was in the habit long before I met her.”
“What does she do?”
“She makes movies.”
“Really? I often sneak into afternoon shows. Great fun. I’m sure I’ve seen hers.”
“She is Marion Morgan Bell.”
“Marion Morgan! Of course. The filmmaker who married an insurance man. You’re the insurance man—but not so staid as the label implies—I love her films.”
“She’d love to get you in one.”
“I cannot imagine working with movie manufacturers,” Isabella Cook replied coolly. “On the stage, I play to my audience—not some faceless entity snipping bits of celluloid.”
“Marion is too lovely to be a faceless entity. She’s a knockout— Forgive me! That was thoughtless.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Rhapsodizing about my marriage when you just lost your husband.”
Isabella Cook brushed the back of Bell’s hand with her fingertips and raised cool, clear eyes to his. “Rufus Oppenheim was a dog.”
Back in his railcar, Isaac Bell wired New York:
SPEED UP INVESTIGATING
MEDICK FIRE ESCAPE
OPPENHEIM YACHT
He was grasping at straws.
If only he could come up with some way to distract the Cutthroat. Make him look over his shoulder. Throw him off balance, before he killed again.
37
“Miss Mills,” said the Alias Jimmy Valentine stage manager. “I want you to read these lines with Mr. Douglas Lockwood, who plays Detective Doyle.”
Helen Mills nodded eagerly.
Lockwood was tall and handsome, with a stern manner that fit the character of Doyle, the detective determined to send reformed safecracker Jimmy Valentine back to prison. He took Helen’s arm firmly in his strong hand and stood very close.
He spoke his line.
Helen spoke hers. “Yes, Mr. Doyle.”
The stage manager asked them to do it again. Still holding her arm, Lockwood repeated his line. Helen repeated hers. Then Lockwood addressed the stage manager as if Helen was not standing on the stage between them.
“She’s a bit green. Stiff as a board, actually. Perhaps not hopelessly . . . What time is it? I’ll tell you what, let me rehearse her a little. I’ll bring her back shortly.”
“Half an hour, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Come along, dear. Bring your script.”
Lockwood led her through the wings and back to the principals’ dressing rooms and opened a door with his name on it. It was comfortably sized, with a lighted mirror for putting on makeup, a washstand with running water, and a couch.
“Sit there. Now, here’s the thing, dear. If you’re going to put this part across, you’ve got to give the impression that you are attracted to Detective Doyle. He’s a breath of fresh air in your constrained life, and, frankly, quite exciting compared to the boys who hang about trying to court you. So when you say, ‘Yes, Mr. Doyle,’ you must say it as if you are happy—delighted, even—to agree to whatever he proposes . . . O.K.? Now, let’s try it. Here, I’ll make it easy, I’ll sit next to you.”
He sat close to her, took her arm firmly, and spoke his line.
Helen said, “Yes, Mr. Doyle.”
“No, no, no, no.” Apparently baffled, and sounding impatient, he ran his fingers through his hair. Then he patted her shoulder.
Helen Mills said, “I think I could relax a little if you just talked to me for a moment. Tell me about yourself.”
Lockwood smiled, and asked in a husky voice, “What do you want to know?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . Where were you born? You sound as if you’re from England.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of you to say, but I’m afraid my birthplace is not quite so romantic.”
“I read in a magazine that you’re from London.”
“You’re confusing me with my fellow star. Mr. Vietor is from England.”
“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry,” Helen said. In fact, Grady Forrer’s researchers had queried the magazine’s editor, who stood by the story but offered no actual proof.
“Sometimes publicists exaggerate.”
“Where were you born?”
“Jersey City. Just across the river from New York. You’re not from New York, are you?”
“Oh, gosh, just a little town you never heard of, in Maryland.”
Lockwood sighed. “You Southern girls are just so exciting, I lose all control around you.”
“Please let go of me, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Now, dear, just relax and get into the mood of your line. You are, after all, saying yes.”
“My ‘yes’ does not go backstage.”
“It better if you want to get on the stage,” he said curtly. “Now, come on, dear, we don’t have all afternoon. I can get you this part with a snap of my fingers.”
“If you don’t take your hands off me, Mr. Lockwood, I will floor you.”
He reached toward her blouse with one hand while attempting to get up her skirt with the other. “You can’t floor me. I’m bigger than you are.”
She could hear Isaac Bell. “You’re a strong girl, Helen. Never give up. Go straight at him.”
“What if he’s too big to fight?”
“Feint. Throw him off.”
Helen laughed loudly.
“Are you laughing at me?”
Lockwood suddenly got a mean look on his face. He raised a hand to slap her.
That left him wide open.
“Thank you for reading, gentlemen,” said Henry Young. “We will be in touch.”
Four actors smiled gamely, thanked the stage manager, and headed up the aisle of the empty theater.
“Mr. Abbott, could you stay a moment longer?”
Archie Abbott approached the stage.
Henry Young, tall and rangy as a stork—a powerful stork—stood in front of the stylish Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde set. One eye was twitching with anxiety. A role had opened up when a Jekyll and Hyde actor was lured back to New York to read for a new play by Paul Armstrong—the toast of the town for his Jimmy Valentine and glad to do Joseph Van Dorn a favor. The stage manager needed a replacement desperately or he would be going on himself.
“More than only a moment, I hope,” Abbott said, with a professional smile that projected cheerful confidence in his
