The Cutthroat

Barrett and Buchanan were sipping coffee in the Clark Theatre green room, where they had agreed to submit to “just a few questions.” Ticket sales were tapering off, and they could use all the help they could get. Their publicist was standing by warily, ready to pounce if the critic turned unfriendly or The Boys’ banter got out of hand.

“Mr. Barrett was a callboy,” Buchanan answered, “where I was appearing in Hamlet, and—”

Barrett interrupted. “I was the prompter, the callboy’s superior. Mr. Buchanan carried a lantern in Hamlet to indicate it was night, and it was my job to remind him to hold the lantern overhead and not block the audience’s view of Mr. Otis Skinner, who happened to be playing Hamlet.”

“When Mr. Barrett wasn’t prompting, he was painting scenery,” said Buchanan. “On occasion, he presided over the opera glasses concession.”

The reporter smiled uncertainly. “You gentlemen have different recollections of your early years.”

“What did you say your name was?” asked Barrett.

“Scudder Smith. New York Evening Sun.”

The publicist interrupted. “I’m wondering why you don’t look familiar. I thought I knew everyone on the Sun.”

“The Sun hired me when I contracted with the Denver Post and Mr. Preston Whiteway’s San Francisco Inquirer to publish stories that coincide with the opening of seat sales for road shows coming to their cities.”

“Whiteway?”

Smith took a letter from his coat pocket with Sun letterhead. “Here. Sorry, I should have shown you this earlier. My introduction from Mr. Acton Davies. You’ll see he mentions Mr. Whiteway.”

The publicist handed it back with a much-warmer smile. Davies was the Sun’s chief critic and the acclaimed biographer of the theater’s legendary Maude Adams. Preston Whiteway’s San Francisco Inquirer anchored a fleet of newspapers, and he also owned Picture World, motion picture news reels seen in movie houses and vaudeville theaters across the continent.

Barrett said, “Well, Mr. Scudder Smith of the Sun, the Post, and the Inquirer, what other questions may we answer?”

“When did you become partners?”

“Eons ago,” boomed Buchanan. “When was it, Jackson? It must have been aught three.”

“Aught four,” said Jackson Barrett. “We produced a road tour of The Admirable Crichton. I was Crichton. Mr. Buchanan played Lord Loam.”

“How many years after your Hamlet was that?”

“Mr. Skinner’s Hamlet,” said Barrett. “Mr. Buchanan’s lantern.”

“Ten years,” said Buchanan.

“So you first met in ’ninety-four. Seventeen years ago.”

“Seems longer,” said Barrett.

“I could not help but notice how convincingly you conducted your sword fight. I fully expected blood to flow. I could have sworn you were fencing with real sabers.”

“That is because we do not fence. We duel.”

“To me it looked like a real fight to the death.”

“Real sabers make real noise,” said Buchanan. “The clang of steel arrests the senses.”

“And draw real blood,” Barrett added, “which keeps us on our toes.”

“How did you learn such swordsmanship?”

“The way we learn everything,” Buchanan answered bluntly. “Study. Practice. Rehearse.”

Barrett said, “We take to heart the great showman David Belasco’s advice to actors. We never idle away the night hours in clubs and restaurants. Nor do we lie abed in the morning.”

“But who taught you to fight so convincingly?”

“A deadly duelist.”

Pencil poised, the reporter asked the duelist’s name.

“We pledged never to reveal his identity.”

“Why not?”

“Few who lost to him survived the experience.”

Scudder Smith’s smile congealed as if he was unsure whether his leg was being pulled. He noticed their publicist shoot the actors a warning glance not to mock the press.

Mock away, thought Smith.

“Are there strains in this fraught production?”

“‘Fraught’?” said the publicist. “What fraught?”

“Are you dredging up that wire-story nonsense?” asked Barrett.

Scudder Smith said, “Everyone’s read about the Jekyll and Hyde jinx — launched in blood — Medick falling to his death and Miss Cook’s husband’s yacht exploding. And wherever you play, girls disappear or die.”

Buchanan’s cheeks and forehead reddened. “Women are murdered all the time.”

“And disappear often,” Barrett added. “Can’t say I blame them, judging by their male prospects.”

The publicist lied manfully: “Here’s a fact for Acton Davies. And Mr. Preston Whiteway, too. Ticket sales are up since that wire-service article. I hate to sound cold and heartless, but lots of folks are drawn to bloodshed.”

Scudder Smith jotted his notes in practiced shorthand. Here it comes, boys, both barrels: “If that’s true,” he said, “then business is about to boom.”

“How do you mean?”

“My newspaper’s Research Department put together a map of all the murders and disappearances.”

“So?”

“Then they mapped the route of your tour. Guess what? The maps match.”

“What are you talking about?”