“Who played Hyde? Barrett or Bu—”
Bell cut them off. “Helen! Before you go back to Philadelphia, go to the Almeida and ask did Anna Waterbury read for a part in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“I stopped on my way here,” said Helen. “They’re rehearsing a new play. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde has already left for Boston— Do you want me to go to Boston?”
“No, I’ll wire the office.” Bell signaled an apprentice who rushed to his desk. Bell handed him a copy of Anna’s picture. “Run this over to Grand Central. Put it on the night mail to Boston. On the jump!” To Helen he said, “The Boston boys will have it in the morning—what’s the matter?”
Helen Mills said, “Talking to Lucy made me realize something. If the murderer wasn’t Anna’s boyfriend or didn’t even know her, what happens to the next girl he catches alone?”
7
“Would you tell me your name, miss?”
Most girls in the business made up a name. But Lillian Lent had decided that if she was giving away everything else for two dollars, why stop at her name, if acting friendly with a decent sport could lead to a buck or two tip. This sport, decked out in an old-fashioned cape and limping on a cane—and doffing his topper, no less—had nice manners. He even looked her straight in the face as if he remembered he was talking to a human being. He might disappoint her, but she bet he’d be charitable, so she raised her head—he towered over her—to look him back in his eyes, and answered with the biggest smile she could smile without showing her rotten teeth, “I am Lillian.”
“What a lovely name. It suits you.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
“What is your family name?”
“Lent—like the holiday—but I’m not religious.”
“Lillian Lent. Alliterative. Very pretty. It suits you. When did you come to Boston, Lillian Lent?”
“How do you know I’m not from Boston?”
“Your accent sounds like Maine.”
“Oh. I guess it does. I’ve been here a couple a three months. Maybe four.”
“Did you grow up on a farm?”
“Potatoes. Now you know why I came to Boston.”
“Shall we go for a walk, Lillian?”
She had read him wrong. She had assumed by his manners and his costly boots that he would spend money for a room. But at least out of doors, on a chilly spring night, went quick. No doubt about that. She let him steer her into the dark of the Common, saying, “A walk it is,” and still hopeful about a tip.
When Chief Investigator Bell’s orders clattered in on the private telegraph, detectives in the Van Dorn field office atop Boston’s South Station drew straws. Who would hold down the fort? Who would conduct interviews in a theater full of actresses and showgirls? They used matches for straws.
James Dashwood had learned magic tricks and marksmanship from his mother, who had been a sharpshooter in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He palmed a long match before they drew.
The street and sidewalks were blocked by railroad express wagons lining up to enter an alley between two theaters. Stagehands and teamsters were loading in for the marquee that promised
*TOMORROW NIGHT*
ALIAS JIMMY VALENTINE
Direct from NEW YORK
and PHILADELPHIA
“Top O. Henry Short Story Topped Onstage”
—VARIETY
Dodging horses, sidestepping manure, Dashwood passed under the next marquee, which proclaimed
JACKSON BARRETT & JOHN BUCHANAN
Present
DR. JEKYLL and MR. HYDE
Direct from BROADWAY
Featuring the Height of Mechanical Realism
Two Sensational Scenic Effects
He breezed past a sign on the ticket window that read
Opening Night Sold Out
and into the lobby, where he learned from an advance man, buttering up the Globe drama critic, that there weren’t any showgirls. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde wasn’t a musical. But a bright-eyed kid arranging the opera glasses concession assured him they had plenty of actresses.
“I’m trying to run down a girl who read for a role in New York. Who should I ask?”
“Stage manager. Mr. Young.”
“Where’s he?”
“Running rehearsal.”
“Why are they rehearsing? I thought they already played in New York.”
“We’re squashing Broadway sets to fit a Boston stage. If they don’t rehearse, the actors will crash through flats and fall into the orchestra pit.”
“What orchestra pit? It’s not a musical.”
The kid looked at Dashwood like he’d just got off the boat. “We still need music. Incidental music. How we gonna introduce scenes and fire up drama?”
The young detective slipped inside the empty house and waited while his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Rows and rows of seats were empty, except for two large codgers in silk top hats, and a lanky fellow with a tangle of long hair and a scraggly beard.
Dashwood eased quietly down the rows and sat when he was close enough to distinguish faces on the stage.
Beautiful actresses were rehearsing getting strangled.
“Say, kid?” he whispered to the opera glasses boy, who was hustling down the aisle with an armload of programs. “How come both guys are strangling them?”
“Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan exchange the roles of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. They have to rehearse both as villain and hero.”
Jackson Barrett and John Buchanan actually looked quite similar—so alike, they could pass for brothers. They were big, vigorous men in their early forties and Arrow Collar model handsome, except when one did the strangling. Then, while the stage lights grew faint, his whole stance changed. Hunched low, expression transformed, Mr. Hyde appeared smaller yet, in some mysterious way, even stronger, and left no doubt he would make short work of the girls.
“Who are the rich guys?”
“Angels.”
“What?”
“Our investors—Mr. Deaver and Mr. Deaver—the moneybags.”
“And who’s the scraggly fellow over there?”
The boy looked where Dashwood had nodded. His cheery expression darkened. “The troublemaker.”
Dashwood looked more closely. “The troublemaker” was younger, early forties, than his appearance suggested. “What’s he doing here?”
“Snuck in like you.”
A woman screamed.
The cry of abject terror whipped Dashwood’s head around. She wasn’t on the stage but somewhere in the dimly lit rows of empty seats. The detective was up in a flash, running to help, a hand plunging for the pistol under his coat. She screamed again. Now he saw her across the empty rows. She stumbled, wracked with convulsions, clutched her breast, and collapsed into the aisle.
“Miss Gold!” thundered a strong voice from the stage.
Mr. Hyde had straightened up to John Buchanan’s full height.
The fainting victim scrambled to her feet. “Yes, Mr. Buchanan?”
“One piercing shriek will suffice, Miss Gold.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Buchanan. I thought the moment required—”
Jackson Barrett strode forward and cut her off in tones as thundery as his partner. “Young lady, we plant you in the audience to ‘faint from terror,’ to encourage the rumors that our grisly Mr. Hyde will so overly stimulate Boston ladies that they swoon. The ‘moment requires’ that you convince potential ticket buyers—not overly distract the audience that’s already purchased tickets to see me and Mr. Buchanan and Miss Cook onstage.”
“Yes, Mr. Barrett.”
“Get back on the floor.”
“Stretcher bearers,” roared Buchanan. “Enter and exit swiftly.”
Actors, clad in white like hospital orderlies and a nurse, ra
ced down the aisle. They rolled Miss Gold onto their stretcher and hauled her away, with the nurse trotting alongside taking her pulse.
The rehearsal resumed.
An incredibly beautiful actress entered, and Dashwood recognized the famous Isabella Cook, whose picture was on every magazine stand. She seemed to glow in the light. Buchanan burst from the shadows, hunched as Mr. Hyde, and growled at her. Before she could recoil, the shabby man with the long hair jumped from his seat, shouting,
“Those are my words! I wrote that.”
Barrett and Buchanan advanced to the edge of the stage, shoulder to shoulder, and peered into the lights. “Who’s that out front?”
“I wrote that. You stole my words.”
“Good Lord,” shouted Barrett. “It’s Cox—again. Out, damned liar!”
Buchanan ordered, “Remove that fool from this theater.”
“I wrote that. Those are my words.”
“Mr. Rick L. Cox, you are a lunatic, get OUT of our theater!”
Ushers stormed down the aisle and dragged Rick L. Cox out the doors.
“Mr. Young!” demanded Buchanan. “How did he get in here?”
Young, whom Dashwood had already determined was the stage manager, ran to them, wringing his hands. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Barrett, Mr. Buchanan. It won’t happen again.”
“Bloody well better not.”
“Crazed lunatic.”
The stage manager turned to the gaping cast and stagehands. “Ladies and gentlemen, may we resume, as we are raising the curtain in six hours?”
Rehearsal continued.
Dashwood established from a purloined program that the stage manager’s full name was Henry Booker Young. Almost as tall as Barrett and Buchanan, and nearly as handsome, the rail-thin Young was bounding around in shirtsleeves and vest, listening to the stars, and hurrying down to the orchestra pit to confer with the conductor. When he came out into the house to check the lighting, Dashwood trailed him back up the steps and through a door beside the stage.
Backstage was busier than a farm at harvest.
In a single glance about the high, narrow space, James Dashwood saw crowds of actors and stagehands, enough rope to raise sails on a square-rigger, and a gang of cussing carpenters attempting to assemble half a New York City subway car. Overhead in the towering flies floated a full-size biplane—another “sensational scenic effect,” Dashwood surmised. Riggers were struggling with ropes, trying to keep it from swaying, and Dashwood had a sudden insight that illusion in the theater was forged with heavy objects.
He made himself invisible in the folds of a curtain and waited for a lull in the activity storming around the stage manager. At last, Henry Young announced, “Lunch, ladies and gentlemen. Back in half an hour.”
Actresses, actors, and stagehands stampeded into the wings, and James Dashwood found himself alone with Henry Young. He followed him onto the stage and froze, transfixed by the auditorium. It looked as if each of the thousand seats was an eye staring at him.
He edged sideways into the far wing and bumped into a table arrayed with knives, clubs, swords, and blackjacks. It looked like the aftermath of a police raid on a street gang. But when he picked up a gleaming dagger, he discovered it was made of rubber painted silver.
“Put that down!” shouted the stage manager, running full tilt from the opposite wing.
“Sorry, I—”
Young snatched the rubber dagger from his hand and placed it reverently where it had been. “This is a property table, young man. The props are laid out in the order the actors will pick them up. Never, ever, ever molest a property table. Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Dashwood straightened his shoulders and stood taller. “I am Detective James Dashwood, Van Dorn Agency. May I ask you a question?”
“About what?”
“Do you recall a young actress named Anna Waterbury reading for a role before you left New York?”
“No.”
Dashwood showed him Anna’s picture. “Do you recall seeing her?”
“No.”
“Is it possible someone else heard her read for a role?”
“No one reads unless I conduct the reading.”
“So you are quite sure you didn’t see this actress?”
“I am positive. All character bits for actresses and actors were filled long before we left New York.”
“There was no reading in New York?”
“None! Excuse me, young man, I have an opening night in five and a half hours.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the time you gave me.” Dashwood extended his hand, and when he had the stage manager’s clamped firmly in his, he said, “You know, sir. You look so familiar.”
Henry Young preened, and admitted, “I trod the boards years ago. Perhaps you saw me in a play.”
Insulting a subject was no way to get him to talk freely, so James Dashwood did not confess that he spent his small amounts of free time and money at the movies.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been to a play since high school.”
“I toured high schools— Now, young man, as I said, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde opens in Boston tonight—provided a hundred disasters are set straight in the next five hours. Good-bye.”
Dashwood wired New York.
ANNA NEVER READ JEKYLL
Then the detective burrowed into the file drawers that contained the Boston field office’s collection of wanted posters. Apprenticing for Isaac Bell, James Dashwood had learned the power that came from memorizing criminals’ faces. He was sure he recognized the Jekyll and Hyde stage manager, and he wondered whether he had seen Henry Booker Young pictured with a price on his head.
8
An old woman walking a dog found Lillian Lent’s body the second morning after she died.
The Cutthroat, who had murdered her, slipped among the morbid, who were watching the police detectives, cops, and reporters, and edged close. They had kicked aside his cape, with which he had so lovingly covered her, and had thrown over her instead a soup-stained tablecloth. That said all that had to be said about so-called human decency.
He moved away and edged toward the bench on which her life had become his before he suddenly had to drag her corpse deep into the bushes. A trysting couple had interrupted him before he could continue with his blade. This morning he had been unable to resist the impulse to attempt to recover the moment by inhaling the atmosphere.
The wind stirred the leaves under the bench. Suddenly he saw the white blur of a handkerchief. He patted his pocket, but even twenty paces away he knew it was his by the gleam of pure silk. White as snow, except for the red splash of his embroidered initials.
He searched his coat, found a half-empty packet of cigarettes, rubbed the wrapper against the inside of his pocket, then strode to the bench and knelt to retrieve his handkerchief.
“What have you got there?”
A sharp-eyed cop had followed him.
“What is that you’re holding?”
“I noticed something that could have been dropped by the man who killed the poor girl,” the Cutthroat answered.
“Hand that over!”
“I presume officers of the Boston Police Department read Mark Twain.”
“What?”
“Pudd’nhead Wilson? Twain’s plot turns on the science of fingerprint identification.”
He rose with the cigarette packet clasped in his handkerchief and held it before the cop. “Don’t touch it! Here, give me your helmet. I’ll drop this inside, and your detectives can retrieve it at the station house without smudging the fingerprints.”
The cop whipped off his helmet and turned it over like a bowl. The Cutthroat dropped the cigarettes inside.
“Thank you, sir.”
“The least a citizen can do,” said the Cutthroat. “Remember
, don’t touch it. Leave that to the experts.”
He pocketed his handkerchief and sauntered off.
James Dashwood got a long-distance telephone call from Isaac Bell.
“Lillian Lent, the girl killed in the Common, was she cut up?”
Dashwood wondered how the Chief Investigator had caught wind of the murder of a lowly prostitute two hundred miles from New York, but he was not surprised. “No. Just strangled.”
“Do you know that for sure, James?”
“I saw her at the morgue with my own eyes, Mr. Bell. Only strangled.”
“No mutilation?”
“No blood.”
Dashwood listened to the telephone wires hiss. He waited, silent, knowing that the Chief Investigator did not clutter thinking time with small talk.
“How did you happen to be at the morgue?”
“You had your Anna Waterbury killed in New York, Mr. Bell. I figured it was worth checking for a connection. I spoke with the coroner. He confirmed there wasn’t a mark on Lillian except for the bruises on her throat.”
Again, a long silence. Finally, Bell asked, “Did you check her fingernails?”
“That’s the one strange thing. She didn’t scratch him.”
“Any broken nails?”
“Several, but none that looked freshly broken.”
“No skin under them, no blood?”
“No.”
“Might she have been wearing gloves?”
Dashwood said, “She was not a girl who could afford gloves. Besides, she died quick. It looks like her neck was broken.”
“Broken?” asked Bell. “By a blow?”
“No. The coroner said it happened while she was strangled.”
“A strong man.”
“Probably. But she was a tiny little thing. Wisp of a girl.”
“But otherwise not a mark on her?”
“No cuts.”
“Thank you, James. It was a long shot. Send me your full report. Immediately.”
Isaac Bell hooked the earpiece, jumped to his feet, and paced the detectives’ bull pen. Fact was, he could pace from 42nd Street to the Battery and back, but none of his leads, if they could be called leads, had gone anywhere. As time passed, it looked increasingly unlikely that his detectives would turn up a witness who saw Anna with whoever got her inside the flat where she died. Equally unlikely was the prospect of finding a witness—other than the procurer he had already interviewed at Grand Central—who saw her with any man anywhere during her weeks in New York.