“Not really.” Vietor looked in the mirror again. He turned fully toward it. He found Bell’s eyes in the reflection. “The past catches up.”
“What past?” asked Bell, with the strong feeling that he was about to hear a confession.
“The lies.”
“What lies?”
“Well, I’m not about to blurt it out to a complete stranger.”
“You’ve already started.”
“Ha! I suppose I have.”
His door flew open and a very pretty petite blonde burst in. “Mr. Viet— Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.”
Vietor sprang to his feet. “That’s all right, dear. Come in. Meet Mr. Isaac Bell. We have a mutual friend in London. Mr. Bell, Miss Lucy Balant, a very talented young actress.”
“Mr. Bell! How nice to meet you. You’re the angel— Oh, I beg your pardon, that was really silly of me.”
“I’ve been called worse things,” said Bell. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Balant.”
“Now, Lucy, could you come back in ten minutes? Mr. Bell and I have a little bit more catching up to do.”
Lucy said good-bye, and closed the door behind her.
“Well, there you have it.” Vietor tossed the ring high, caught it nimbly, and eyed Bell through it like a spyglass.
“Have what?”
“Forty-six. You called it spot on—I don’t give a damn that I’m old. A girl as bright and wise as she will never find a man her own age worthy of her, much less able to match her spirit and cheer her to victory. I will take care of myself, hurl myself into physical culture. I won’t die young. I won’t require a nurse. Bell, you’ve been so helpful, I should make you my— No, we’ll do it in London. Mother’s there, can’t travel anymore. Mapes’ll be best man. But I do hope you can come.”
“What?” asked Isaac Bell.
“I’m going to marry that girl. There! I’ve said it. Mr. Bell, your jaw has dropped.”
Isaac Bell laughed out loud. He stood up and offered his hand. “May I congratulate you, sir? I wish you and the young lady all the happiness in the world.”
He could have added, Thank you, Mr. Vietor. Thank you, Lucy Balant. The Cutthroat Squad is down to three men in one show.
Isabella Cook eyed Marion Morgan over the rim of her coffee cup. Neither woman appeared to have slept soundly.
“Where would we make this movie?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles,” the actress groaned. “After months on the road? Must we?”
“The light is perfect, and it rarely rains. I can take pictures three hundred and twenty days a year in every imaginable location. And, by the way, women can vote in California.”
“I hope I wouldn’t have to stay there long enough to vote.”
“I will go ahead and have everything waiting. If all goes well, I’ll have you on your way to New York in two weeks.”
“Only two weeks?” Isabella Cook brightened. “I’ll pretend I’m visiting my husband in Hell.”
“Longer, of course, when you stay for editing . . . May I ask Isaac to approach Mr. Barrett and Mr. Buchanan on behalf of his syndicate?”
“That will take some persuading. They can be grimly hidebound and staunchly old-fashioned. But here’s the trick—tell your Isaac that the one thing The Boys love more than money is credit. They’re clever businessmen, but they are actors at heart. Actors love credit. Immortality tops the bill.”