The Cutthroat

“‘Reckless,’ the critics call me,” he told Bell. “‘Deluded.’ Granger — the cruelest of those scribblers — actually wrote of my last Count of Monte Cristo, and this I quote from memory, ‘Mapes ought to have switched to character parts whilst Queen Victoria reigned.’”

“Why would the critics pile on like that?” asked Bell sympathetically.

“Because they’re right! Who wants to see an old warhorse making love to a filly?”

“Half the men in the audience.”

Mapes laughed. “Ah, you’re a generous soul, Bell. Yes, sir. Generous.” He peered into the diminished contents of his glass.

“Would you join me in another?” asked Bell. “Not to worry, it’s on the firm.”

“Then I thank you, and I thank the firm.”

Bell signaled the barman, who poured fresh doubles.

“Cheers!.. Mr. Mapes, have you ever played a German?”

“Not in donkey’s years. Way back when I was too young to carry leads.”

“What sort of Germans did you play?”

“Villains. Heavies. Vhut utter Shermans ah zere?”

They took their drinks and wandered through the handsome club, which was hung with oil paintings of members, present and deceased, in famous roles, and decorated with costumes and stage props. Bell pointed out an empty space. “Waiting for you, perhaps?”

“More likely, my friend Vietor. He’s made a ‘sudden smash sensation’ in Alias Jimmy Valentine.”

“O. Henry’s safecracker story. My wife and I saw it on Broadway.”

“What did you think of Vietor’s reformed criminal?”

“I believed Jimmy Valentine intended to go straight. Even though I knew the short story, he had me worried for his fate.”

“He asked me to coach him in the role,” said Mapes. “Subduing the dark side of Vietor’s character was like pulling teeth. Now he’s touring your provinces, raking it in hand over fist. Hope for us all! When last I last saw him in New York, he was cadging drinks at the Waldorf-Astoria. Now he’s ready to return to England, equal parts rich and famous.”

In the well-appointed library, Bell found the privacy he was seeking. He had spent an hour in it earlier, poring through a collection of old programs, but had had no luck finding any from Wilton’s Music Hall. “Do you know anyone in the theater named Jack Spelvin?”

“No.”

“He was a callboy at Wilton’s back in the eighties.”

“You’re sure you don’t mean George Spelvin?”

“Jack.”

Bell wondered whether Emily could have confused the name of the boy she fell for. It seemed unlikely. “Did you know George Spelvin?”

“There is no George Spelvin. It’s a pseudonym, a nom de guerre, when we don’t want the audience aware we’re on the stage. Rather more commonly used in America.”

“Is it used in London?”

“Occasionally. The language volleys of back and forth; actors who tour across the pond end up speaking almost similar English. Here, we’re more likely to bill ourselves as Walter Plinge instead of George Spelvin.”

“But not Jack?”

“Never heard of a Jack Spelvin.”

Bell had to wonder. The Ripper loved his games. Maybe Emily’s callboy actually was the same man who tried to kill her, a murderer with a sense of humor.

“I gather,” said Bell, “he was a sort of boy-of-all-work.”

“Excellent means for an apprentice seeking a toehold on the stage,” said Mapes. “Callboy, prompter, assistant stage manager, a walk-on, and up you go. Or if he discovers he’s got a head for business, he’ll shift to the front of the house — sell souvenir programs, rent opera glasses, assist the treasurer in the box office. By now, Jack Spelvin could own a bloody theater — though you can be sure he’d have changed his name from Spelvin.”

Mapes gazed mournfully into his glass, which was empty again, and Bell realized he had better get to business before any more whiskey went down the hatch. “Mr. Mapes,” he said, “it is my honor to offer you a job. It’s only a one-night stand, but it will pay equal to a full month on the West End.”

“May I presume wardrobe is included?”

“My tailor will fit you for whatever suit of clothes, shirts, ties, hat, and coat you decide that you need for the role. The costume, of course, is yours to keep.”

“Railway tickets?”

“It will be right here in London. We will go by cab,” said Bell, keeping to himself that the entire job would likely take place inside a cab.

“Why me?”

“The role demands a charismatic actor with nerves of steel.”

Mapes considered the prospect. “‘Nerves of steel’ implies some possibility of danger.”

Isaac Bell looked him in the eye, and the actor saw the American’s amiable expression harden perceptibly as he reassured him with a promise. “You will never be out of my sight.”

“When will the curtain rise?”

“You’ve got a busy morning with my tailor. Curtain rises tomorrow evening at eight.”

* * *

“Do you remember Nellie Bly?” asked the Cutthroat.

The girl — her name was Dorothy — was silent.

“Famous newspaperwoman?… No?”