The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Smith showed him his badge.

“Sorry, sir. Say, would you happen to know, is Van Dorn hiring?”

“Protective Services is always on the lookout for good men,” said Smith. “Best way to get noticed, put on a clean shirt and polish those shoes.”

He walked out under the train shed, keeping an eye peeled for anyone watching from the other private cars parked on the siding. Fortunately, those cars blocked the view from the long Jekyll & Hyde Special parked far away. At the end of the row was a luxurious car, enameled a rich forest green. Curtained windows gleamed like crystal; loops of telephone, telegraph, and electric wires snaked into the station’s systems; and a flinty-eyed conductor in a uniform decorated with gold piping guarded the door.

The front compartment, paneled in rosewood, was furnished like a millionaire’s rolling office, with a desk of quartered oak, a comfortable leather armchair, a telegraph key, and a glass-domed stock-ticker machine. Neither the desk nor the chair were in use. Chief Investigator Isaac Bell was on his feet, about to spring.

“What do you think of them?”

“Mighty full of themselves,” said Scudder Smith.

“Is either a murderer?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Is either undeniably innocent?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“How’d they react to the map?”

“Stopped cracking jokes— Of course, if they’re what they say they are, then the map hits them right in the wallet.”

“Where were they born?” asked Bell.

“They dodged that like in every article we read about them. It’s a practiced duet.”

“Did they say how they mastered the saber?”

“They claim they took lessons from a deadly duelist on the lam. Thing is, a bit of mystery never hurt a show business career.”

“I dislike mysteries.”

“Like P. T. Barnum says, ‘Always leave ’em wanting more.’”

“Are they coy or are they lying?”

“Anna Waterbury was not the first thespian to rewrite her past,” said Smith, regretting it instantly as fire exploded in his old friend’s eyes. Better change the subject. “I wonder if I might wet my whistle?”

Bell directed him to the sideboard with a brusque nod. Scudder Smith poured gin and tossed it back. “I must admit, I enjoyed myself. I miss my newspaper days.”

“Did you detect a trace of an English accent in either of their voices?”

“No more than any actor,” said Smith.

Bell nodded grimly. He had heard many an American actor affect an English-sounding drawl with upper-crust pretensions, often at a volume to project expression to the balcony seats. “Actor speak,” Archie Abbott dubbed the stagy elocution delivered with faithful diction, exquisite inflection, and commanding posture.

“I set it up to take another shot,” said Scudder Smith. “I got the publicist interested in me ghostwriting their memoirs. Or do you want Helen or Archie?”

“It’s my turn,” said Bell.

35

As they did most evenings in every city they played, Jackson Barrett and John Buchanan walked home to their train after the show. At the station tonight, just inside the private platforms entrance, a tall, lean, golden-haired young gentleman in a white suit touched the brim of his hat in a friendly salute.