The Cutthroat Clive Cussler (summer books txt) 📖

was shooting a comedy at Biograph last month, a scenic designer, Mr. Sennett, invented a wind machine that I’m going to try.”

“What is a ‘wind machine’?”

“An enormous propeller spun by an airplane motor.”

“Pointed at the actors?”

Marion Morgan smiled. “Did I promise it would be easy?”

Isabella Cook laughed.

“What do say, Miss Cook?”

“I am leery of any performance I can’t control. Technically, Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan direct the play. But I do nothing on that stage that I don’t want to. I am an intelligent woman who trusts her instincts. But when your camera stops rolling, the show is only half done. I won’t be around when you make the final decisions pasting up the film the audience sees.”

“Of course you’ll be around.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m also an intelligent woman who trusts her instincts. My instinct tells me that you make decisions for the good of the show. Editing is a painstaking process. You may stand beside me as long as you can bear it.”

Isabella Cook put down her glass. She shook her head. “Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?”

Marion looked crestfallen.

Isabella Cook said, “Let me guess. You don’t want to see your Isaac if you can’t tell him you talked me into this.”

Marion nodded.

Isabella Cook said, “I have a hotel suite for when I’m bored with the train. Stay the night there. We’ll talk in the morning—but no promises.”

“Good morning, Mr. Bell!” cried the stage door tender at the Olympic Theatre, where Alias Jimmy Valentine was breaking St. Louis box office records. “How may we help you this morning?”

Expecting to have to talk his way into the star’s dressing room, Isaac Bell found himself greeted like royalty. News traveled fast in the theater, and angels backing new musicals were not turned away from stage doors.

“May I see Mr. Vietor?”

The door tender snapped his fingers. “Quinn!” he called to a sceneshifter, slouching nearby. “Take Mr. Bell to Mr. Vietor’s dressing room.”

Harry Warren tugged his forelock. “Right this way, Mr. Bell.”

Bell tipped him a dollar. “Here you go, pal.”

“Mighty generous, sir.” Quinn pocketed the dollar and banged on Vietor’s door. “Mr. Isaac Bell to see you, Mr. Vietor.”

The curly-haired Vietor flung his door open with a handsome smile. He was nearly as tall as Bell, and as tight and slim. He had a big voice. “Mr. Bell, I’ve heard so much about you. Do come in.”

Bell said, “I bring regards from a mutual acquaintance, James Mapes.”

“Mapes. Oh, cheery Mapes. What a happy soul. Did you see him in London?”

“We had drinks at the Garrick.”

“How did my name come up?”

“Mapes indicated an empty space on the portrait wall that was waiting for you.”

“Cheery Mapes. What a sweet thought. Come in, come in. Would you have a drink?”

“Thank you, no. I’ve got a long day ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I’m the same way. Can’t touch a drop until the show is over. Sit, Bell. Sit.”

Bell took the armchair. Vietor perched on a stool at his makeup table. Turning half away from Bell, he studied the mirror. Bell wondered, why did he put on stage paint so early? Finally, Vietor glanced away from the glass, opened a drawer, and took out a silk jewelry sack.

“Have you seen the show?”

“In New York. I told Mapes I truly believed that your Jimmy Valentine was going straight.”

Vietor untied the drawstrings, fished out a gold ring, and began fiddling with it.

“Did Mapes tell you he coached me?”

“He sounded very proud of your success,” said Bell. “He believes it’s your Jimmy Valentine that will put you on the wall at the Garrick.”

Vietor watched the ring fly between his fingers. “I’ll bet he said I was a dark soul.”

The actor’s manic excitement had bounced unexpectedly from exhilaration to contemplation, and Bell saw an opportunity to draw him out. “Mapes said, ‘Subduing the dark side of Vietor’s character was like pulling teeth.’”

“Ha! He loves that silly phrase— How old do you think I am?”

Bell studied him closely. “Forty-six.”

“My Lord! Where did you get that idea?”

“You’re not thirty-six.”

“Sad but true. See this?” Vietor held up the ring. “My grandmother’s wedding ring. She must have been a huge woman, big as a house. See?” He worked it onto his left ring finger. “And my hands are not that small.”

Bell recalled that Anna Waterbury had told Lucy Balant that the “old” Broadway producer who coached her wore a wedding ring. “Do you wear it?” he asked.

“Not really.” Vietor looked in the mirror again. He turned fully toward it. He found Bell’s eyes in the reflection. “The past catches up.”

“What past?” asked Bell, with the strong feeling that he was about to hear a confession.

“The lies.”

“What lies?”

“Well, I’m not about to blurt it out to a complete stranger.”

“You’ve already started.”

“Ha! I suppose I have.”

His door flew open and a very pretty petite blonde burst in. “Mr. Viet— Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.”

Vietor sprang to his feet. “That’s all right, dear. Come in. Meet Mr. Isaac Bell. We have a mutual friend in London. Mr. Bell, Miss Lucy Balant, a very talented young actress.”

“Mr. Bell! How nice to meet you. You’re the angel— Oh, I beg your pardon, that was really silly of me.”

“I’ve been called worse things,” said Bell. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Balant.”

“Now, Lucy, could you come back in ten minutes? Mr. Bell and I have a little bit more catching up to do.”

Lucy said good-bye, and closed the door behind her.

“Well, there you have it.” Vietor tossed the ring high, caught it nimbly, and eyed Bell through it like a spyglass.

“Have what?”

“Forty-six. You called it spot on—I don’t give a damn that I’m old. A girl as bright and wise as she will never find a man her own age worthy of her, much less able to match her spirit and cheer her to victory. I will take care of myself, hurl myself into physical culture. I won’t die young. I won’t require a nurse. Bell, you’ve been so helpful, I should make you