The Cutthroat Clive Cussler (summer books txt) 📖

“But how do you slip so effortlessly from Jekyll into Hyde?”

“Slip? One never slips from Jekyll into Hyde. One emerges from Jekyll into Hyde!”

It was not all a bed of roses. One crotchety writer—a failed thespian, Barrett had no doubt—asked, “What, exactly, happened that stopped the show last Thursday in Columbus?”

The publicist answered smoothly, without mentioning the dread Rick L. Cox by name. “A man in the audience suffered some sort of attack of agitation. He became so disturbed that he began shouting while the actors were performing. The theater’s house manager decided, cautiously but wisely, to lower the curtain while the ushers attempted to calm the man and until he could be escorted from the auditorium.”

The crotchety writer checked his notebook, and asked, “What did the man mean by shouting, ‘Those are my words! I wrote that’?”

Barrett stepped in. “Mr. Buchanan and I asked that very same question after the show. We were informed that the poor fellow was so confused that he literally didn’t know his own name. The doctors ordered him removed to an asylum, where they could examine him thoroughly. I’m afraid that is all we know at the moment.” He shook his head, and those nearest thought they saw his eyes mist with tears, an arresting sight in such a leonine head.

“Isn’t it a sad reminder that the mask of tragedy is not worn only on the stage?”

They were nodding reflectively when John Buchanan strode in from his car, bellowing, “Forgive me, lady and gentlemen of the press, forgive me. Mundane duty called. When our generous backers catch up in Toledo, they will expect an accounting of our production, accurate to the penny . . . Are you enjoying the Jekyll & Hyde Special?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Buchanan.”

“You run a mighty hospitable train.”

“Can I ask you, Mr. Buchanan? Examining your tour schedule, I note that after one week each in Toledo and Detroit, you will play a full extra week in Cincinnati, which is longer than you’re scheduled for St. Louis and Denver. Are you at all nervous about committing to such a long run in Cincinnati?”

“Not in the slightest. We’ve always encountered the most astute audiences in Cincinnati. And it’s good for the company to settle in now and then for a longer run.”

Jackson Barrett stole a look at the Chicago lady’s notebook and winked at the publicist. Her opening sentence would practically pay for the train.

Two of the handsomest actors that ever graced the modern stage are heading for Chicago with hope in their hearts and charm to burn.

The wily old publicist nodded a clear signal that The Boys better toss a coin to choose who would thank her at an intimate supper after the show.

Buchanan finished his answer.

Barrett picked up the cudgel.

“Cincinnati is a splendid omen for the continued success of Jekyll and Hyde. The Civil War general who commanded the troops that saved Cincinnati from Confederate invasion was named Lew Wallace. I am sure that each and every one of you remembers that when he retired in peacetime, Lew Wallace wrote a famous novel called . . . Lady? Gentlemen?”

“Ben-Hur,” they chorused.

“The novel that inspired the play Ben-Hur.”

“The most successful play in the history of the American theater.”

“Which,” Barrett fired back, “launched the most lucrative road show ever!”

“At least,” said Buchanan, “until the good people of Toledo, Detroit, and Cincinnati buy their tickets.”

More scribbling, more grins from their publicist.

The clock struck the hour, and things got even better.

Isabella Cook breezed into the car in a diaphanous tea gown. Two qualities struck anyone who had only seen her on the stage. Up close, she was tiny. And, seen in person, her big, round eyes were bigger, her bow lips more sensual, and her aquiline nose straighter than seemed possible on a mortal.

“I hope I am not interrupting.”

The male reporters leaped to their feet. The lady from Chicago wrote,

Isabella Cook’s melodious contralto voice sounds as if Our Maker had chosen it to harmonize with each and every one of her beautiful features. The winsome blonde wears her hair in the modern style of the heiress Gabriella Utterson, who is key to the terrifying plot of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Barrett and Buchanan had risen with a flourish, exchanging a private glance. Say what they could about their leading lady—and they could say plenty—the “Great and Beloved” never missed an entrance nor any opportunity to boom a show in which she had negotiated a percentage of the take. Another glance said, Worth every penny.

“My dear, how good of you to stop in.”

“Come sit between us.”

And she did, prompting the first question, which started, of course, with condolences.

“With the greatest sympathy for the recent loss of your husband, Miss Cook, may I ask you, as a recent widow, do you find it terribly difficult having to perform night after night in such an arduous role?”

Isabella smiled bravely. “It would be much harder, if not impossible, without the firm shoulders of Jackson Barrett and John Buchanan to rely on, and to lean on, and, I am grateful to say, occasionally weep on.”

The lady from Chicago wondered how to couch the big question in her readers’ hearts. “Would it be fair to say they make you feel a little less lonely?”

Isabella Cook smiled at one, then the other. “More than a little.”

Now—how to ask?—which of the handsomest actors that ever graced the modern stage made the widow feel the most less lonely? But the male reporters were growing restive, and whiskey had made one cocky.

“Jekyll or Hyde?”

Isabella obliterated him with an innocent, “My favorite Jekyll and my favorite Hyde do everything necessary to make the show go on.”

Their stage manager entered on cue. “Excuse me, Miss Cook. Excuse me, Mr. Barrett, Mr. Buchanan . . .”

“Yes, Mr. Young?”

“You scheduled a principals’ rehearsal.”

The actors rose as one. “Duty calls, gentlemen and lady. Mr. Young will see you back to the dining car.”

But before the reporters could drain their glasses and close their notebooks, it suddenly all went to blazes. “Just one more question, please?”

The wire-service reporter,