The Cutthroat

“Maps of bloodshed. Often when you play a town, a girl disappears or dies.”

Barrett said, “But we played head to head with Alias Jimmy Valentine in most venues. Go talk to them.”

“I have appointments to interview Mr. Vietor and Mr. Lockwood as soon as we wrap up our conversation with just a few more details.”

“You can’t print that nonsense.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Smith. “At least not yet.”

Buchanan spoke in a voice trembling with emotion. “We are carrying eighty people. Eighty people whose jobs depend on this tour continuing.”

Scudder Smith said, “I sympathize with every one of them. I’ve lost many a job in my life.”

Jackson Barrett said coldly, “I hope you’ll remember that when you get closer to ‘yet.’”

“Of course I will,” said Scudder Smith. “I am not a stone. Where did you say that Hamlet was playing when you met?”

“A godforsaken hole out west,” said Buchanan. “In the endless wastes between Denver and San Francisco.”

“Mr. Skinner warned those who would jump ship, ‘The Rocky Mountains are littered with the bones of actors attempting to get home to New York.’”

“Where, exactly, out west?”

“Butte, Montana. In a tent.”

“Of course, you’d already acted in New York before you met? Both of you?”

“If a platform stood a single step above the sidewalk and had a bedsheet for a curtain, we played it,” said Jackson Barrett.

“What year did you first act in New York?”

John Buchanan swept to his feet, saying, “You’ve entertained us far too long, Mr. Smith. Thank you for your time. We are so glad you liked our play.”

The publicist opened the door.

Smith closed his notebook and stood up with a gleam in his eye that suggested the morning’s work was done. “Oh — I almost forgot. Sorry. Just one more question. Where were you gentlemen born?”

“Under a cabbage leaf.”

“In a stork’s nest.”

Scudder Smith laughed dutifully. “But our readers would love to know more about your backgrounds.”

“They may read about them when we write our memoirs,” said Barrett, and they swept Smith out the door.

“If you’re in need of a ghostwriter,” Smith called over his shoulder, “I’m your man,” and added for the publicist, “Why wait ’til they’re old men? Let their admirers read the memoirs of spectacular actors in the full tide of life.”

The publicist walked him to the stage door, musing, “I could imagine paying a ghostwriter.”

“I don’t come cheap.”

“We would match your rate — provided the New York Sun, the Denver Post, and the San Francisco Inquirer never print the phrases ‘map of bloodshed,’ ‘murdered girls,’ ‘launched in blood,’ nor the word ‘jinx.’”

* * *

Scudder Smith went straight to Central Union Station. In a far corner across the passenger hall an unmarked doorway led to the private car platforms. A burly railroad cop blocked the way.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Smith showed him his badge.

“Sorry, sir. Say, would you happen to know, is Van Dorn hiring?”

“Protective Services is always on the lookout for good men,” said Smith. “Best way to get noticed, put on a clean shirt and polish those shoes.”

He walked out under the train shed, keeping an eye peeled for anyone watching from the other private cars parked on the siding. Fortunately, those cars blocked the view from the long Jekyll & Hyde Special parked far away. At the end of the row was a luxurious car, enameled a rich forest green. Curtained windows gleamed like crystal; loops of telephone, telegraph, and electric wires snaked into the station’s systems; and a flinty-eyed conductor in a uniform decorated with gold piping guarded the door.

The front compartment, paneled in rosewood, was furnished like a millionaire’s rolling office, with a desk of quartered oak, a comfortable leather armchair, a telegraph key, and a glass-domed stock-ticker machine. Neither the desk nor the chair were in use. Chief Investigator Isaac Bell was on his feet, about to spring.

“What do you think of them?”

“Mighty full of themselves,” said Scudder Smith.

“Is either a murderer?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Is either undeniably innocent?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“How’d they react to the map?”

“Stopped cracking jokes— Of course, if they’re what they say they are, then the map hits them right in the wallet.”

“Where were they born?” asked Bell.

“They dodged that like in every article we read about them. It’s a practiced duet.”

“Did they say how they mastered the saber?”

“They claim they took lessons from a deadly duelist on the lam. Thing is, a bit of mystery never hurt a show business career.”

“I dislike mysteries.”

“Like P. T. Barnum says, ‘Always leave ’em wanting more.’”

“Are they coy or are they lying?”

“Anna Waterbury was not the first thespian to rewrite her past,” said Smith, regretting it instantly as fire exploded in his old friend’s eyes. Better change the subject. “I wonder if I might wet my whistle?”

Bell directed him to the sideboard with a brusque nod. Scudder Smith poured gin and tossed it back. “I must admit, I enjoyed myself. I miss my newspaper days.”