The Cutthroat

“Still, a long ways to go for a play.”

“My father-in-law is lending us his train.”

Detectives who rode to work on streetcars rolled their eyes.

“It will get us there in time for the curtain,” Abbott explained blithely. “On the way home, we’ll tuck into bed for a good night’s sleep.”

Harry Warren said, “Of all the girls I could have married, why did it never occur to me to nail one whose father owns a railroad?”

“Numerous railroads.”

* * *

Marion Morgan Bell hung back a step when Lillian and Archie walked down the center aisle and the audience craned necks for a glimpse of the famously beautiful railroad heiress and the man who had been the New York Four Hundred’s most eligible bachelor before he fell for her. As Isaac put it, “Detective disguises don’t come better than man-about-town who married well.”

They were the last to take their seats. The orchestra began to play, and the curtain rose on a set that depicted a light and airy apartment in a New York City skyscraper, an up-to-date image that captured the attention of every Columbus lady in the audience. The story moved with great speed, and when night transformed the apartment for Mr. Hyde’s entrance, the modern home seemed deeply sinister. It was impossible to tell whether Barrett or Buchanan was playing Hyde, so convincingly evil was the character.

But only when women began gasping and crying out did Marion realize she was not as caught up in the play as the rest of the audience. She glanced at Lillian, a brave and steady young woman. Lillian looked terrified. Even Archie, who had seen it before, appeared so riveted that Marion half expected him to pull a pistol to protect them.

As it raced on, as a huge airplane swooped over the stage, as Hyde leaped on the roof of a speeding subway car, as the utterly compelling Isabella Cook came within inches of destruction — prompting more than one man to start from his seat to help her — Marion wondered why she was not quite so engaged as the others. The answer was simple, and no fault of the brilliant production. She so admired every bit of craft that was stirring the audience that her mind had shifted to the technical details of how she could re-create and embellish those effects on film.

The play ended to standing ovation, shouts, and cheers.

Lillian said, “Let’s go backstage and meet the actors.”

“No,” said Marion. “Not me.”

“Why?”

“I want to see them as I saw them.”

A little pout started to form on Lillian’s face, but it melted into a smile. They were very close, with Marion sometimes in the role of big sister. “I know what you mean. You’re right. Let’s remember them as we saw them.”

Archie said, “I sense a ‘Marion plot,’ don’t I?”

Marion Morgan Bell clutched the program in her fist. “I am going to make a movie of Barrett & Buchanan’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

* * *

Isaac Bell rode the London & North Western back to London, retrieved his clothing from Euston’s baggage office, and changed in the lavatory. Then he telephoned Joel Wallace from a coin-operated call box. The box he chose was at the end of the row, with cut-glass windows overlooking the station’s Great Hall.

Wallace asked, “How’d you make out in Manchester?”

“Found out why they hate each other. Otherwise, a bust. The poor girl fell for a good-looking theater callboy who may or may not have been the guy who tried to kill her. That’s who she remembered… Any more cables from New York?”

“Testy one from the Boss.”

“Another ‘Report now’?”

“‘Report immediately.’”

“What does Research say?”

“No new bodies since you sailed. Except a tall brunette they don’t think counts.”

“Missing girls?”

“Chicago, Pittsburgh, Columbus.”

On Bell’s orders, Grady Forrer’s boys were querying field offices daily for reports of missing girls who resembled the fair and petite murder victims.

“None out west?”

“None we hadn’t heard about earlier.”

Bell pondered the report. Missing girls, no bodies. Young women disappeared for all sorts of reasons. But this murderer so often succeeded in hiding his victims.

“Have you ever been to Wilton’s Music Hall?”

“In Whitechapel? No, the Methodists took it over for a mission twenty years ago. Why?”

“Just a thought. Ever hear of a guy in the theater named Jack Spelvin?”

“On the stage?”

“Could be anything — an all-rounder, or even a scenic designer, director, actor, manager.”

“Not here in London. I think I heard of a George Spelvin back home. Not Jack. Why?”

“Emily’s crush,” Bell answered distractedly. His eyes roamed the train travelers crisscrossing the Great Hall.

“What’s the word on Lord Strone?”

“Out of business,” said Wallace. “The Secret Service Bureau gave him his walking papers.”

“Are you certain?”

“As certain as I can be about spies. Cabled a fellow I bank on to confirm. He cabled back that Strone’s gone fishing in Florida.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Bell. “I’ve got another job for you.”

“When?”

“Right this minute. On the jump!”

* * *