The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

“So you first met in ’ninety-four. Seventeen years ago.”

“Seems longer,” said Barrett.

“I could not help but notice how convincingly you conducted your sword fight. I fully expected blood to flow. I could have sworn you were fencing with real sabers.”

“That is because we do not fence. We duel.”

“To me it looked like a real fight to the death.”

“Real sabers make real noise,” said Buchanan. “The clang of steel arrests the senses.”

“And draw real blood,” Barrett added, “which keeps us on our toes.”

“How did you learn such swordsmanship?”

“The way we learn everything,” Buchanan answered bluntly. “Study. Practice. Rehearse.”

Barrett said, “We take to heart the great showman David Belasco’s advice to actors. We never idle away the night hours in clubs and restaurants. Nor do we lie abed in the morning.”

“But who taught you to fight so convincingly?”

“A deadly duelist.”

Pencil poised, the reporter asked the duelist’s name.

“We pledged never to reveal his identity.”

“Why not?”

“Few who lost to him survived the experience.”

Scudder Smith’s smile congealed as if he was unsure whether his leg was being pulled. He noticed their publicist shoot the actors a warning glance not to mock the press.

Mock away, thought Smith.

“Are there strains in this fraught production?”

“‘Fraught’?” said the publicist. “What fraught?”

“Are you dredging up that wire-story nonsense?” asked Barrett.

Scudder Smith said, “Everyone’s read about the Jekyll and Hyde jinx—launched in blood—Medick falling to his death and Miss Cook’s husband’s yacht exploding. And wherever you play, girls disappear or die.”

Buchanan’s cheeks and forehead reddened. “Women are murdered all the time.”

“And disappear often,” Barrett added. “Can’t say I blame them, judging by their male prospects.”

The publicist lied manfully: “Here’s a fact for Acton Davies. And Mr. Preston Whiteway, too. Ticket sales are up since that wire-service article. I hate to sound cold and heartless, but lots of folks are drawn to bloodshed.”

Scudder Smith jotted his notes in practiced shorthand. Here it comes, boys, both barrels: “If that’s true,” he said, “then business is about to boom.”

“How do you mean?”

“My newspaper’s Research Department put together a map of all the murders and disappearances.”

“So?”

“Then they mapped the route of your tour. Guess what? The maps match.”