The Cutthroat

“The thee-ah-tore!” Miss Cook emoted with a devilish smile, and Bell, who had liked her immediately, liked her more. “Born in a properties trunk.”

“Both of them?” he asked, going along with her joke to steer her toward the mystery of where they were born.

“Where else would they be born, Mr. Bell? Some dreary inland city? Some soul-smothering small town bereft of art and theater?”

“I read in the magazines that you’re from a small town.”

“I know of what I speak. Though I confess, had I been born in a grand city, I might have aspired to no higher station than the youngest president of the Ladies Garden Improvement Society.”

“Certainly the most compelling,” said Bell.

“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Bell?”

“No, ma’am. I never flirt with beautiful women.”

Mobile eyebrows joined the smile. “Why not?”

“I am faithful to my wife.”

“Pity… What is your offer?”

“I’ve suggested backing a new play for Barrett & Buchanan. I hope you will find it engaging, too, which is why I was asking about their background. As fiscal agent for my syndicate, I am obliged to know the nature and background of potential partners.”

“Their ‘nature and background’ is an open book. They’ve been on the stage their entire lives, and have a reputation for as much honesty as can be found in most producers. Seriously, Mr. Bell, had there ever been a hint of fraud, I would not be in business with them. No, I think you can rest easy on that count. They are what they appear to be — undefeated men of the theater.”

“It sounds like you admire them.”

“I admire survivors who succeed with a minimum of damage to others. The theater is not easy. They do it well. Which is why I don’t care where they were born. For that matter, I don’t know why you care. Now, tell me about your proposal. That’s what got you seated beside me.”

“I am obliged by my principals to conclude arrangements with Barrett & Buchanan first. After that, I have the deepest hope that you will be interested, too.”

“Before you waste your time, let me caution you: I will not work for them,” she said. “I will work with them.”

“That goes without saying,” said Bell. “The sensation you’ve made of Jekyll and Hyde guarantees that you would be a principal, too.”

“Then I look forward to answering more due diligence questions.”

“Well, I’m curious about one thing. It seems strange that the actor Medick and your husband, Rufus Oppenheim, died within days of each other.”

“Strange? Bizarre, is more like it. None of this — a sensational run on Broadway, a first class tour, my ‘triumphant return’—would have happened if they didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Medick owned tour rights to Richard Mansfield’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Barrett & Buchanan backers would never invest in their new version while Medick was still making a go of it on the road.”

“No wonder you say ‘bizarre.’ Is it true that Medick fell from a fire escape?”

“Pursued by a husband, went the story. Medick was a renowned, shall we say, ‘swordsman,’ hated by grooms, cherished by brides.”

“Like John Buchanan?” asked Bell.

“Where did you get that idea?”

“Due diligence includes weighing gossip.”

Isabella Cook shook her head. “Mr. Buchanan never dips his pen in the company ink. He conducts his escapades where they are nobody’s business — far from the stage, and higher up the social scale, where smirking moralists are shunned.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Is Mr. Barrett as sensible?”

“In my experience,” she said, “Mr. Barrett, too, steers clear of actresses— How did we get on escapades, Mr. Bell?”

“Two freak deaths back-to-back — Medick’s fire escape and your husband’s yacht.”

“I almost died, too, speaking of bizarre, but the tender had just taken me ashore to have lunch at the Knickerbocker. I heard the explosion as I stepped onto the pier. I turned and saw a nightmarish sight — where the boat had been — a horrible ball of fire. Sheer luck I had the appointment. Not that ‘luck’ is a word one uses around death.”

“Who were you meeting for lunch?”

“The Boys. Jackson and John wanted me to persuade Mr. Oppenheim to let me return to the stage. Which, of course, he never would have. Men are impossible that way, aren’t they? How long have you been married, Mr. Bell?”

“We will celebrate our first anniversary next week.”

“Do you allow your wife to support herself in her own career?”

“She was in the habit long before I met her.”

“What does she do?”

“She makes movies.”

“Really? I often sneak into afternoon shows. Great fun. I’m sure I’ve seen hers.”

“She is Marion Morgan Bell.”

“Marion Morgan! Of course. The filmmaker who married an insurance man. You’re the insurance man — but not so staid as the label implies — I love her films.”

“She’d love to get you in one.”

“I cannot imagine working with movie manufacturers,” Isabella Cook replied coolly. “On the stage, I play to my audience — not some faceless entity snipping bits of celluloid.”

“Marion is too lovely to be a faceless entity. She’s a knockout— Forgive me! That was thoughtless.”

“Whatever do you mean?”