The Cutthroat

Detective Harry Warren, the Gang Squad chief, spoke up. “If it’s true that these killings in New York and Springfield are connected, if they were committed by the same man, then he’s had lousy luck twice — an actor fired and a train derailed. What are the odds of that kind of coincidence?”

Isaac Bell said, “You’ve put your finger on it, Harry. The question we must answer is, how many times has he had good luck?”

“Good luck?”

Warren and several others looked puzzled. Grady Forrer, chief of Research, nodded blankly. But Helen Mills, whom Bell had reassigned to New York after she managed to read Anna Waterbury’s diary, which put a stop to boyfriend talk, and young James Dashwood, whom he brought down from Boston, both raised tentative hands.

“That is a terrible thought, Mr. Bell,” said Mills.

“Yes,” said Isaac Bell. “How many of his victims do we not know about?”

Dashwood said, “You’re suggesting the possibility of many murders, Mr. Bell.”

Silence settled over the bull pen.

Isaac Bell broke it.

“I am not suggesting, I am asking how many. And I am asking every operator in our Anna Squad, how many more before we catch him?”

* * *

Isaac Bell got home to Archie and Lillian Abbott’s East 64th Street town house after midnight. Built only four years ago as a wedding gift from Lillian’s father, railroad baron Osgood Hennessy, it had included within its limestone walls a private apartment for Archie’s mother. She had lived there until she left to be with Archie’s younger sister, who had borne twins. Now it served as Isaac and Marion Morgan Bell’s home on the occasions they found themselves both in New York.

Marion had just gotten in herself, having worked late directing a two-reel comedy at the Biograph Studios. Her straw-blond hair was still pinned up high on her head so it didn’t get in the way when she looked through the camera. The effect was majestic, revealing her graceful neck and setting off her beautiful face like a golden crown.

They agreed each was starving and met in the kitchen. Bell mixed Manhattan cocktails, sliced bread and toasted it on the gas range, while Marion melted cheddar cheese with ale, Worcestershire, mustard, and an egg for a Welsh rarebit.

She was a well-educated woman, with a Stanford University law degree, and with experience in business, before she began making moving pictures. Bell often relied on her incisive mind to talk out thorny cases, as she had unusual powers of observation and a way of approaching problems from unexpected angles.

“What about the girl in Boston?” she asked when he had filled her in on the grisly Mohawk River discovery.

“Lillian. The prostitute.”

“You’re sure your murderer didn’t kill her, too?”

“Dashwood looked her over at the morgue. She was not cut.”

“None of those strange crescents?”

“Not a mark on her.”

“Only strangled?… Was her neck broken?”

“Yes.”

“Do I recall correctly that Anna’s neck was broken, too?”

“Yes.”

“And am I right in assuming that both girls’ necks were broken ‘accidentally’?”

“So to speak. Both were small girls, and he would appear to be very strong. The bruises on their throats indicated that he meant to strangle them. There are better ways to break a neck, if that’s your intent.”

Marion pondered that silently, and they went on to discuss other things, including the fact that Helen Mills had discovered nothing about any boyfriend in Anna’s diary; that Anna, Mary Beth, and Lillian shared a similar petite build and hair coloring; and the mysterious crescent-shaped symbols carved on Anna’s and Mary Beth Winthrop’s bodies.

Later, when his wife had changed into a silk peignoir that matched her green eyes, and Bell was watching with growing interest as she let loose her hair, Marion suddenly said, “But…”

“What?”

“But what if the murderer was interrupted just after he strangled Lillian? What if someone came along before he could… do what he wanted with his knife?”

“Then we would have three murders in a row,” Bell answered soberly. “And be one closer to counting how many.”

“How many victims he has already killed?”

“Exactly.”

“How will you do that?”

“I’ve got to figure out how to get Mr. Van Dorn to gather our forces.”

“What will it take to convince him?”

“More evidence.”

11

Isaac Bell banged a perfunctory knock on Joseph Van Dorn’s door and shouldered through it. The Boss glanced up from his desk, took one look at his Chief Investigator’s expression, and spoke into his candlestick telephone. “I will call you back later.” He hooked the earpiece, and asked testily, “What’s on your mind, Isaac?”

“I’m ready to broadcast an All Field Offices Alert.”

Van Dorn shook his head. “Field Offices Alerts are as urgent as ‘All hands on deck’ in a hurricane. But ordering every operator in the agency to drop everything to act on orders from the top is disruptive — even excusing those engaged in gunplay. That is why we seldom issue them, and then only for the most pressing matter.”