The Cutthroat Clive Cussler (summer books txt) 📖

telegram of introduction from a New York guy who knew Harry Warren as Quinn. A boy was sent running. Nate Stewart hurried out with a welcoming handshake.

“How was your train?”

“Free,” Harry Warren replied, with an us-against-the-bigwigs grin that said he saved his ticket money for better things. “Still got room for a sceneshifter?”

“You timed it perfect. The sons of guns at Jekyll and Hyde poached my top hand when their feller lit out for the Oklahoma oil fields.”

Lucy Balant loved the Dow Drugs pharmacy at the corner of Fifth and Vine, just down the street from Alias Jimmy Valentine. It had a Becker’s “iceless” soda fountain—the latest thing to chill syrups, soda water, and ice cream mechanically instead of with ice—which made drinks ambrosially colder on a hot day. The fountain was surrounded by an octagonal marble counter and sixteen stools that had a rapid turnover, since it was near the train station. So for an actress who finally had a steady job, even if it was only as an understudy, and could afford a treat, it was perfect to drop in for a quick ginger ale. Plus, the soda jerkers made darned sure mashers didn’t bother a girl alone.

A tall, dark-haired lady detective took the stool beside her the second it was empty. “I hope you remember me, Lucy.”

“Vividly. What are you doing in Cincinnati?”

“Hunting Anna’s killer.”

“Because of what happened to the vaudeville dancer?”

“The same man.”

Lucy shuddered. “It was horrible. Like hearing about Anna all over again. Have you seen those posters?”

“Did he look familiar?”

“He just looks like a guy. A well-off, older guy.”

“I keep hoping the poster will help. Doesn’t the picture remind you of anyone?”

“But it could be anyone.”

“Anyone in your show?”

“I suppose he looks a bit like Mr. Lockwood, and even a little like Mr. Buchanan or Mr. Barrett—I finally got to see Jekyll, the first act— It could even be Mr. Vietor. But of course it isn’t.”

“Does the man on the poster remind you of any man backstage at either show?”

“No. Why are you asking about the shows?”

“What about Jekyll and Hyde’s stage manager?”

“Mr. Young? I’ve never seen his face.”

“Your theaters are next door.”

“They say he never leaves the theater. Sleeps on a cot. Why are you asking about these men?”

“Because both their road shows toured in cities where women were murdered or went missing.”

Earlier that morning—in an elegant forest-green railcar parked on a private siding in Union Station—Grady Forrer had unrolled the map the Cutthroat Squad had last seen five days ago in Isaac Bell’s Lusitania stateroom. Bell, Archie Abbott, and Helen had weighted the curling corners with pocket pistols.

Three new lines intersected with the red line that depicted the Cutthroat’s trail of death across the Northeast and Middle West. Cities were now marked with the letters M or D. A yellow line looped from New York to Philadelphia to Boston and stopped in Albany, New York. A green line and a blue line ended beside the red in Cincinnati.

“What’s the short yellow line?”

“The Pharaoh’s Secret, a musical that closed in Albany. They sold the sets to a carnival and sent the actors home. Obviously, the murders and disappearances—M marks murders, D, disappearances—continued. The green line is Alias Jimmy Valentine. The blue is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

Helen Mills repeated for Lucy Balant the gist of what Isaac Bell had said.

“In one of these companies is a vigorous killer in his early forties who came from England in the heyday of touring theater. He’s had twenty years to make a career in America.”

“He’s an actor?”

“He could be any man in the theater. Actor. Director. Stagehand. Manager. Angel. Scenic designer. Rigger. Electrician. Carpenter.”

“Mr. Vietor—our Jimmy Valentine—is English.”

“So I hear.”

“But he is very nice . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Of course he would be if he was tricking girls—”

Helen Mills interrupted urgently. “I am not saying it’s him. Please don’t jump to that conclusion.” Just like Isaac Bell had warned. Do not condemn an innocent to a lynch mob.

Lucy Balant pondered what she had heard. The soda jerker, who was sweet on her, asked if she wanted another ginger ale. She shook her head and he went away.

Helen Mills said, “Please look at me, Lucy.”

Lucy turned to her.

The detective said, “I will do anything to stop this Cutthroat. But I need to operate in disguise and I can’t do that if you suddenly blurt out, ‘I know Helen. She broke into my room in Philadelphia. She’s a private detective.’”

“You’d be trusting your life with me.”

“You knew Anna Waterbury. She was not just a story in the newspaper, was she?”

“She was a nice girl.”

“There you have it.”

“Does your boss know you’re talking to me?”

“No,” Helen lied. Isaac Bell had been reluctant to let her operate in Cincinnati but had concluded he had no choice if he was going to plant a woman inside one or both of the touring companies. They had come up with a story to deal with the fact that Lucy Balant knew she was a Van Dorn detective.

“I’m working this case on my own. No one knows I’m here. I took time off— Actually, I quit.”

“What do you live on?”

“I’ve saved my money since I was an apprentice.”

“Helen, you’re taking all kinds of chances.”

“Worth it if I catch him.”

“Do you mind me asking what your disguise will be?”

“Not at all,” said Helen, relieved that she had put over the story. “I don’t want to shock you if we bump into each other. I will masquerade as an actress reading for “general businesswoman” jobs in Jekyll and Hyde and Jimmy Valentine.”

Lucy said, “Ours is getting antsy to go back to New York.”

“I heard.”

“I wanted it,” said Lucy. “The stage manager keeps saying I’m too short. But you’re really tall. Have you ever been on the stage?”

“In school.”

“Good luck with Jimmy Valentine. You’ll need it, because you sure won’t get Jekyll and Hyde.”

“Why not?”

“I hear that the boyfriend of the girl who has it is a Jekyll and Hyde angel.”

“Mine’s a bigger