The Cutthroat

The actors regarded Isaac Bell with shrewd expressions that told the tall detective that he had lassoed their attention. Time to act on Archie Abbott’s advice: The language of the theater is cash.

“Treasure Island will make you rich. Royalties for the script alone could run as much as fifty thousand—before you count your profits from the Broadway production and the road show.”

“There is one big, insurmountable problem with Treasure Island,” said Buchanan.

“I see no problem. Mr. Stevenson’s widow accepted our offer for the rights, and a million boys and girls who loved the book are now adults who will line up to buy tickets.”

“The problem is, no girl in the story,” said Barrett. “No romance. No hope of hero and heroine falling in love. A musical Treasure Island must have a romantic angle if it’s to play to bigger audiences than children’s Christmas pantos.”

“But there is a girl,” said Bell.

Barrett laughed. “What are you proposing, bring young Jim Hawkins’s mother on the voyage?”

Buchanan joined the laughter. “Jim’s mother falls for Long John Silver. Silver is reformed by love and turns his Spyglass Tavern into a Methodist mission.”

“Dr. Livesey is your girl,” said Isaac Bell.

The actors’ eyes lighted up like double eagle gold pieces.

Barrett said, “Change Squire Trelawney’s sidekick to his fiancée.”

“No women doctors in the eighteenth century,” Buchanan protested.

Bell said, “Your modernized Treasure Island will be taking place in the twentieth century—here-and-now 1911, just like Jekyll and Hyde.”

Barrett said, “No pirates in 1911. The Royal Navy exterminated them.”

Isaac Bell looked them both in the eye. “We have no shortage of cutthroats in 1911.”

Barrett and Buchanan exchanged a glance.

Buchanan said, “True,” and Isaac Bell smothered his impulse to level a gun in their faces and demand, “Tell me what is true.”

“But with no pirates,” Jackson Barrett asked, “where did the lost treasure come from?”

Bell was ready for that one. “The Spanish — American War.”

“Yes!” Barrett said, suddenly excited. “They lifted the treasure when the Maine blew up in Cuba.”

“Long John Silver betrayed Cuban rebels,” said Buchanan, and the actors chorused the 1898 battle cry: “Remember the Maine!”

Bell asked, “Can you persuade Miss Isabella Cook to play Dr. Livesey?”

“Miss Cook will demand a share.”

“Whatever agreement you made that makes her happy in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde will be fine with me— Which reminds me, I want to see your production again before I report to my investors.”

“You will be our guest tomorrow evening.”

“No thank you, I will buy my ticket. This is strictly business. But there is a favor I would ask you.”

“Name it!”

“If we decide to go forward with Treasure Island, I would like to spend time with your Jekyll and Hyde company — backstage, and aboard your train when you leave for the West.”

“You’ll find it quite dull, Mr. Bell,” said Buchanan. “Strictly business.”

“Melodramas are short on the ‘chorus girls’ of lore,” said Barrett.

“I’m recently married,” Bell grinned back at him. “No need of chorus girls. But I’m obliged to learn enough ins and outs of the theater arts to protect my partners.”

“Let’s hitch your car to our train,” said Jackson Barrett.

“Ride along to San Francisco,” said John Buchanan.

“You’ll be our caboose.”

“I could not ask for more,” said Isaac Bell.

36

The Cutthroat brushed spirit gum on his upper lip and cursed out loud. He had just shaved, his skin was raw, and it stung like the devil. It would sting even worse when he removed the mustache, this time an enormous affair trimmed in the walrus style. He fanned the lace backing with his souvenir program and fixed it under his nose.

He was dressed in blue-striped overalls over a red-checked shirt, which he had bulked up with horsehair padding. Now he perched a battered derby on his head and wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose. Pipe cutters, wrenches, hacksaw, files, and a gasoline blowtorch arrayed in a wooden toolbox completed the portrait of a master gas fitter. He even had a card from the Cincinnati Gas and Electric Company emblazoned with the motto “Heat with gas, light with electricity.” The company was expanding, enjoying great success with modern, up-and-coming customers like the Van Dorn Detective Agency on Plum Street.

He hefted the toolbox on his shoulder, sauntered out of his yellow cottage by the river, walked to the streetcar stop, and rode into the center of town. Off near Plum Street, he walked to the Van Dorn office on the ground floor of a substantial-looking building. The private back door was down an alley, but he walked in the street entrance.