The Cutthroat

But to his astonishment, even as Isaac Bell fell backwards, even locked in the remorseless grip of gravity, he evaded the blade with a twist of fluid grace, took cool, deliberate aim, and flicked his left arm violently. The strip of oilcloth cracked into the Cutthroat’s face like a bullwhip.

A metal button seared the tender flesh beneath his eye.

Roaring in rage that Bell had marked him, he wheeled beside the moving train, vaulted onto a flatcar, and caught hold before it rolled him off. His last glimpse of Isaac Bell had been of the man falling backwards. Now he was rewarded by the sight of an empty trestle.

His spirits soared.

We’ll never know, Mr. Bell: Did my singing fool you? Or the stench?

By a miracle, his rucksack had stayed on his back. It reeked of its contents, a rotting length of a human leg. Thank you, Beatrice.

By now, Isaac Bell’s corpse was tumbling down the flooded arroyo.

The worst the Cutthroat suffered was a black eye.

48

Archie, thought Isaac Bell, I owe you a drink.

The alloy-steel derringer rack inside the crown of his hat had saved his skull, but the oilskin cowboy slicker that Archie had lifted from Wardrobe had served him three times — distracting the Cutthroat while he drew his gun, parrying a sword thrust with a counterpunch to the Cutthroat’s eye, and now acting as a lifeline.

The shreds of it had caught in the thicket of beams under the trestle. Dangling above the rushing arroyo, he swung in among the supports and hauled himself up onto the tracks.

The freight train’s red lights were fading toward Los Angeles.

Bell started after them at a dead run. He would never catch it, but dawn was graying fresh rain clouds, and morning trains would soon crowd the line to the city.

* * *

Isaac Bell jumped off an express from Santa Barbara and telephoned the Van Dorn railcar from a coin telephone. Harry Warren answered, sounding jubilant.

“We nailed him, Isaac. John Buchanan.”

“Buchanan? How?”

“Dashwood did it. He found a Jekyll and Hyde program that Buchanan inscribed to one of his rich ladies — the banker’s wife he killed in Cleveland.”

“But he must inscribe programs to all of his rich ladies.”

“This one was for the Cincinnati show.”

“She was killed before Cincinnati.”

“That’s what Dashwood tumbled to! It was printed ahead of time. Only Buchanan could have given it to her. Here’s the best part: Buchanan’s got no alibi. He did one of his ‘disappearing acts’ that night. Young stood in for him. Buchanan claims he was sick and slept on the train. Train crew says no. They saw him leave. Buchanan refuses to say where he went.”

“Does he have a black eye?”

“What?”

“Does he have a black eye?”

“Who knows? He’s slathered with makeup. We got him in Glendale on his way to Marion’s movie.”

“Where’d you put him?”

“We got him right here in the car.”

“Scrub him off!”

“What?”

“Remove his makeup! On the jump!”

Bell waited, drumming his fingers, depositing more nickels when the operator asked for them. Harry Warren came back on the telephone. “No black eye. What’s the big idea?”

“Where are Jackson Barrett and Henry Young?”

“Taking pictures.”

“With Marion?”

Harry Warren laughed. “Nothing stops that wife of yours. The minute we grabbed Buchanan, she telephoned Young to stand in for him.”

“Who’s with her?”

“Barrett, Young, couple of camera guys, and that lights lady — Rennegal.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s raining. She gave the rest of the company the day off.”

“Hang on to Buchanan. Don’t give him to the cops ’til you hear from me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Glendale.”

49

Making up as fast as he could in a tiny hotel room on the outskirts of Glendale, eight miles from Los Angeles, Henry Young dabbed spirit gum on his nose. While it dried, he lighted a candle, kneaded some toupee paste into a soft lump, and melted the surface in the flame. He worked the thick paste onto his nose, altering the shape to make it appear broad and flat. A bushy wig already heightened his brow and had the grotesque effect of making his head look extremely wide.

Just as he was finishing his new nose with a bluish greasepaint that would turn his face a ghastly pale white for the camera, the door swung open so hard, it banged against the wall. Through it strode Isaac Bell.

“That’s a sensational effect, Mr. Young. I doubt your own mother would recognize you face-to-face.”

“What? What are you doing here?”

“Catching up. What are you doing?”

“Your wife asked me to stand in for Mr. Buchanan. He seems to have gotten arrested.”

“I have a question for you: How’s your eye feel?”

“My eye? Fine.”

“Show me.”

Henry Young wet his lips and looked around nervously. “I don’t understand, Mr. Bell.”

Bell snapped up a small bottle of olive oil.

“Wipe off that makeup and we both will.”

* * *