The Cutthroat

“No, I’ll wire the office.” Bell signaled an apprentice who rushed to his desk. Bell handed him a copy of Anna’s picture. “Run this over to Grand Central. Put it on the night mail to Boston. On the jump!” To Helen he said, “The Boston boys will have it in the morning — what’s the matter?”

Helen Mills said, “Talking to Lucy made me realize something. If the murderer wasn’t Anna’s boyfriend or didn’t even know her, what happens to the next girl he catches alone?”

7

“Would you tell me your name, miss?”

Most girls in the business made up a name. But Lillian Lent had decided that if she was giving away everything else for two dollars, why stop at her name, if acting friendly with a decent sport could lead to a buck or two tip. This sport, decked out in an old-fashioned cape and limping on a cane — and doffing his topper, no less — had nice manners. He even looked her straight in the face as if he remembered he was talking to a human being. He might disappoint her, but she bet he’d be charitable, so she raised her head — he towered over her — to look him back in his eyes, and answered with the biggest smile she could smile without showing her rotten teeth, “I am Lillian.”

“What a lovely name. It suits you.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

“What is your family name?”

“Lent — like the holiday — but I’m not religious.”

“Lillian Lent. Alliterative. Very pretty. It suits you. When did you come to Boston, Lillian Lent?”

“How do you know I’m not from Boston?”

“Your accent sounds like Maine.”

“Oh. I guess it does. I’ve been here a couple a three months. Maybe four.”

“Did you grow up on a farm?”

“Potatoes. Now you know why I came to Boston.”

“Shall we go for a walk, Lillian?”

She had read him wrong. She had assumed by his manners and his costly boots that he would spend money for a room. But at least out of doors, on a chilly spring night, went quick. No doubt about that. She let him steer her into the dark of the Common, saying, “A walk it is,” and still hopeful about a tip.

* * *

When Chief Investigator Bell’s orders clattered in on the private telegraph, detectives in the Van Dorn field office atop Boston’s South Station drew straws. Who would hold down the fort? Who would conduct interviews in a theater full of actresses and showgirls? They used matches for straws.

James Dashwood had learned magic tricks and marksmanship from his mother, who had been a sharpshooter in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He palmed a long match before they drew.

* * *

The street and sidewalks were blocked by railroad express wagons lining up to enter an alley between two theaters. Stagehands and teamsters were loading in for the marquee that promised

*TOMORROW NIGHT*

ALIAS JIMMY VALENTINE

Direct from NEW YORK

and PHILADELPHIA

“Top O. Henry Short Story Topped Onstage”

— VARIETY

Dodging horses, sidestepping manure, Dashwood passed under the next marquee, which proclaimed

JACKSON BARRETT & JOHN BUCHANAN

Present

DR. JEKYLL and MR. HYDE

Direct from BROADWAY

Featuring the Height of Mechanical Realism

Two Sensational Scenic Effects

He breezed past a sign on the ticket window that read

Opening Night Sold Out

and into the lobby, where he learned from an advance man, buttering up the Globe drama critic, that there weren’t any showgirls. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde wasn’t a musical. But a bright-eyed kid arranging the opera glasses concession assured him they had plenty of actresses.

“I’m trying to run down a girl who read for a role in New York. Who should I ask?”

“Stage manager. Mr. Young.”

“Where’s he?”

“Running rehearsal.”

“Why are they rehearsing? I thought they already played in New York.”

“We’re squashing Broadway sets to fit a Boston stage. If they don’t rehearse, the actors will crash through flats and fall into the orchestra pit.”

“What orchestra pit? It’s not a musical.”

The kid looked at Dashwood like he’d just got off the boat. “We still need music. Incidental music. How we gonna introduce scenes and fire up drama?”

The young detective slipped inside the empty house and waited while his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Rows and rows of seats were empty, except for two large codgers in silk top hats, and a lanky fellow with a tangle of long hair and a scraggly beard.

Dashwood eased quietly down the rows and sat when he was close enough to distinguish faces on the stage.

Beautiful actresses were rehearsing getting strangled.

“Say, kid?” he whispered to the opera glasses boy, who was hustling down the aisle with an armload of programs. “How come both guys are strangling them?”

“Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan exchange the roles of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. They have to rehearse both as villain and hero.”