“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.
“In one of these companies is a vigorous killer in his early forties who came from England in the heyday of touring theater. He’s had twenty years to make a career in America.”
“He’s an actor?”
“He could be any man in the theater. Actor. Director. Stagehand. Manager. Angel. Scenic designer. Rigger. Electrician. Carpenter.”
“Mr. Vietor—our Jimmy Valentine—is English.”
“So I hear.”
“But he is very nice . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Of course he would be if he was tricking girls—”
Helen Mills interrupted urgently. “I am not saying it’s him. Please don’t jump to that conclusion.” Just like Isaac Bell had warned. Do not condemn an innocent to a lynch mob.
Lucy Balant pondered what she had heard. The soda jerker, who was sweet on her, asked if she wanted another ginger ale. She shook her head and he went away.
Helen Mills said, “Please look at me, Lucy.”
Lucy turned to her.