The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

“They’ll get bored after the second decade.”

“Not of the performance I saw in Columbus,” said Marion, and Isabella Cook laughed.

“Are you always so persuasive?”

“Only for good causes.”

“Do you have your Isaac wrapped around your finger?”

“We wrap each other.”

Isabella Cook sighed. “I’ll bet you do . . . Would he happen to have a brother?”

Marion shook her head, with a small smile. “He’s an only child. His mother died when he was a little boy . . . I want to move the play out of doors, beyond the confines of the stage.”

“Why?”

“When Mr. Hyde stalks your Gabriella in a storm, I want beautiful Central Park buffeted by a gale.”

“Why?”

“Death is a thief. It steals our joys. When we take Gabriella Utterson out of doors, we will see her joy in the sun, in the rain, in the snow and trees and sky—the joy she will lose if the evil in Jekyll and Hyde takes her life.”

“How do you go about ‘buffeting’?”

“I haven’t done any yet, but while I was shooting a comedy at Biograph last month, a scenic designer, Mr. Sennett, invented a wind machine that I’m going to try.”

“What is a ‘wind machine’?”

“An enormous propeller spun by an airplane motor.”

“Pointed at the actors?”

Marion Morgan smiled. “Did I promise it would be easy?”

Isabella Cook laughed.

“What do say, Miss Cook?”

“I am leery of any performance I can’t control. Technically, Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan direct the play. But I do nothing on that stage that I don’t want to. I am an intelligent woman who trusts her instincts. But when your camera stops rolling, the show is only half done. I won’t be around when you make the final decisions pasting up the film the audience sees.”

“Of course you’ll be around.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m also an intelligent woman who trusts her instincts. My instinct tells me that you make decisions for the good of the show. Editing is a painstaking process. You may stand beside me as long as you can bear it.”

Isabella Cook put down her glass. She shook her head. “Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?”

Marion looked crestfallen.

Isabella Cook said, “Let me guess. You don’t want to see your Isaac if you can’t tell him you talked me into this.”

Marion nodded.

Isabella Cook said, “I have a hotel suite for when I’m bored with the train. Stay the night there. We’ll talk in the morning—but no promises.”

“Good morning, Mr. Bell!” cried the stage door tender at the Olympic Theatre, where Alias Jimmy Valentine was breaking St. Louis box office records. “How may we help you this morning?”