The Cutthroat

“Jimmy Valentine’s been dogging us in every city we’ve played. Why blame us? Why not blame them?”

The wire-service man pounced with a cold smile. “Because Alias Jimmy Valentine doesn’t have murdered girls in its show.”

“Nonsense,” said Buchanan.

“Fact is, I hear in many quarters that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is jinxed.”

“Nonsense,” said Barrett.

“Add it up — Mr. Medick, the previous holder of the rights, tumbled to his death from a fire escape. Poor Miss Cook’s husband, the late Theatrical Syndicate booking trust magnate, Rufus S. Oppenheim, was blown to smithereens, along with his yacht, before you opened in New York. And now all these girls are getting murdered. Is there anything you would like to say to reassure audiences?”

The other reporters had pencils poised.

Buchanan stepped forward before Barrett could speak. “Yes. Please write that John Buchanan and Jackson Barrett hope that their play will offer audiences a respite from the cares of the world.”

“Tell ’em it has an exciting plot,” said the publicist. “They’ll kick themselves if they fail to see it.”

The reporter wrote down both answers, and turned to Barrett. “Mr. Barrett, have you anything to add?”

“Our hearts go out to the poor women and their families who loved them, and we pray the killer is arrested very soon.”

* * *

John Buchanan was red-faced and seething when he finally got Jackson Barrett alone in his Toledo dressing room. “Did you have to say that to that infernal reporter?”

“Say what?”

“‘Our hearts go out to the poor women and their families who loved them, and we pray the killer is arrested very soon.’”

“Somebody had to say it.”

“Did you hear what our publicist said? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. That’s why I said what had to be said.”

“You gave that reporter exactly what he wanted. You made a direct connection between those murders and our show. That story will dog us around the country, slashing sales just like Jack the Ripper did to Mansfield.”

“Nonsense! We live in modern times,” said Jackson Barrett. “Jack the Ripper was a Victorian fiend. We don’t have fiends in the twentieth century. Our audiences will mob the box office for blood and gore.”

“Is that a fact? Would you like to hear what that son of a bitch reporter said when he barged back into my private car after the others left?”

“If it will make you happy, of course I would like to hear what he said. What did he say?”

“He asked, ‘How will we answer a murder victim’s father and mother who claim that our Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde provoked her killing?’”

“‘Provoked’? Ridiculous. It’s a play.”

“‘Ridiculous’? Tell that to Richard Mansfield.”

“Mansfield died in aught seven.”

“I know that,” shouted Buchanan. “But in London, according to that bastard reporter, that was the main thing that killed Mansfield’s box office. People asked, did the play provoke Jack the Ripper?”

“Absurd.”

“I know it’s absurd. You know it’s absurd.”

“That reporter knows it’s absurd.”

“But what if ticket buyers don’t know it’s absurd? What if they blame us?” Buchanan sank in a chair and put his head in his hands. “We are sunk… Jackson, how in blazes can we get around this?”

Barrett grinned the way he did whenever he came up with a big idea. “Tell you what. We have an airplane, right?”

“What airplane?”

“Flying over the stage. The one you said cost too much. Fortunately, I prevailed. Audiences love it.”

“So what?”

“So we paint an airplane red. We paint ‘Jekyll’ and ‘Hyde’ on the wings. We fly it over the city where we’re playing. A billboard in the sky.”

“It’s not a real airplane. It’s a stage prop.”

“We rent a real one that looks like ours. With an aviator to fly it.”

“That would cost a fortune.”

“We’ll save a fortune in billboard passes. Why give free tickets to shopkeepers who put our ads in their windows when we have a billboard in the sky?”

Buchanan took a deep breath. A billboard in the sky was a bold idea. If the publicist could make hay with it, it might actually save them.

“I know a pilot.”

“Wire him!” said Barrett.

“Her.”

“Oh, one of your ladies?”

“No, it’s not like that. She’s happily married, she has children, and I know her father.”

“Ugly, too, I presume?”

* * *

“Driver! Stop. Head for Chelsea.”

Isaac Bell was on his way to Waterloo Station to take the boat train to Southampton Docks. Acting on sudden instinct, he ordered the cabby to make a detour.

“Ain’t you got to get to your ship, guv?”

“I’ll be quick, and triple your fare when you get me to the station on time.”

Wayne Barlowe was working in his loft, putting finishing touches on the whale.

“What happened to your face?”

“Slipped in the bath.”

“Did you find Emily?”

“She loved your sketch,” said Bell, and told him about Jack Spelvin. “Did you ever see Spelvin perform at Wilton’s?”

“No.”

“You’d remember his face if you had?”

“Of course.”

“I gave her your sketch. Could you make me another?”

As happened on their last meeting, Barlowe’s hands flew without hesitation.

“How is she?” he asked.