The Cutthroat полностью

Having ensured that he would be remembered as a tough who rode the rails if someone asked questions later, Harry Warren made a quick tour of streets clogged to a standstill by horse- and mule-drawn wagons, exasperated teamsters, and motor trucks belching blue exhaust. He breakfasted on sausages in saloons and washed them down with German beer. He met some local hard cases, and passed a pint of whiskey to a city cop; you never knew who’d come in handy later.

Quickly absorbing the nature of the city — skilled craftsmen packing saloons midday, their women working low-paying jobs in the factories — he worked his way to the section where they showed movies, vaudeville, and plays.

The Clark Theatre’s electrics ballyhooed

Posters out front showed a red airplane and a speeding subway.

Warren headed next door to the Lyric.

“Nate Stewart’s expecting me,” he told the old guy at the stage door and gave a name trusted by the wrong element in Hell’s Kitchen. “Tell him Quinn’s here.”

The head carpenter had received a telegram of introduction from a New York guy who knew Harry Warren as Quinn. A boy was sent running. Nate Stewart hurried out with a welcoming handshake.

“How was your train?”

“Free,” Harry Warren replied, with an us-against-the-bigwigs grin that said he saved his ticket money for better things. “Still got room for a sceneshifter?”

“You timed it perfect. The sons of guns at Jekyll and Hyde poached my top hand when their feller lit out for the Oklahoma oil fields.”

Lucy Balant loved the Dow Drugs pharmacy at the corner of Fifth and Vine, just down the street from Alias Jimmy Valentine. It had a Becker’s “iceless” soda fountain — the latest thing to chill syrups, soda water, and ice cream mechanically instead of with ice — which made drinks ambrosially colder on a hot day. The fountain was surrounded by an octagonal marble counter and sixteen stools that had a rapid turnover, since it was near the train station. So for an actress who finally had a steady job, even if it was only as an understudy, and could afford a treat, it was perfect to drop in for a quick ginger ale. Plus, the soda jerkers made darned sure mashers didn’t bother a girl alone.

A tall, dark-haired lady detective took the stool beside her the second it was empty. “I hope you remember me, Lucy.”

“Vividly. What are you doing in Cincinnati?”

“Hunting Anna’s killer.”

“Because of what happened to the vaudeville dancer?”

“The same man.”

Lucy shuddered. “It was horrible. Like hearing about Anna all over again. Have you seen those posters?”

“Did he look familiar?”

“He just looks like a guy. A well-off, older guy.”

“I keep hoping the poster will help. Doesn’t the picture remind you of anyone?”

“But it could be anyone.”

“Anyone in your show?”

“I suppose he looks a bit like Mr. Lockwood, and even a little like Mr. Buchanan or Mr. Barrett — I finally got to see Jekyll, the first act— It could even be Mr. Vietor. But of course it isn’t.”

“Does the man on the poster remind you of any man backstage at either show?”

“No. Why are you asking about the shows?”

“What about Jekyll and Hyde’s stage manager?”

“Mr. Young? I’ve never seen his face.”

“Your theaters are next door.”

“They say he never leaves the theater. Sleeps on a cot. Why are you asking about these men?”

“Because both their road shows toured in cities where women were murdered or went missing.”

Earlier that morning — in an elegant forest-green railcar parked on a private siding in Union Station — Grady Forrer had unrolled the map the Cutthroat Squad had last seen five days ago in Isaac Bell’s Lusitania stateroom. Bell, Archie Abbott, and Helen had weighted the curling corners with pocket pistols.

Three new lines intersected with the red line that depicted the Cutthroat’s trail of death across the Northeast and Middle West. Cities were now marked with the letters M or D. A yellow line looped from New York to Philadelphia to Boston and stopped in Albany, New York. A green line and a blue line ended beside the red in Cincinnati.

“What’s the short yellow line?”

“The Pharaoh’s Secret, a musical that closed in Albany. They sold the sets to a carnival and sent the actors home. Obviously, the murders and disappearances — M marks murders, D, disappearances — continued. The green line is Alias Jimmy Valentine. The blue is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

Helen Mills repeated for Lucy Balant the gist of what Isaac Bell had said.