“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. So 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
