“Nonetheless, we had to have this interview.”
“Oh yes.”
“And we did learn some things.”
It was at this point that I suggested Miss Vance investigate Dr. Fisher and his sister-in-law, Dorothy Connor, and Dr. Houghton, madame’s male companion. She said she would wire Pinkerton to make what she called “background checks” on all of them-which she of course had already put into motion for the crew members Williams and Leach.
“What are these precautions to which madame referred?” I asked her. “What secrets are you keeping from me, Vance?”
She arched an eyebrow, and her half-smile dug a dimple in her left cheek. “After last night, Van, I would say precious few.”
I did not blush. “If you don’t trust me, well then. . you don’t trust me.”
Miss Vance touched my hand. “I would be violating Pinkerton procedures.”
“It’s really none of my business. None of my concern.”
“Don’t pout! It’s not manly. . ” She leaned conspiratorially close, her tone shifting from quiet to near whisper. “Madame DePage has a steamer trunk in her suite. Inside is a locked strongbox in which one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in cash, resides.”
I frowned. “How is this a precaution?”
She shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner. “The bills are counterfeit.”
I sat back, eyes wide. “What? But surely that’s illegal. . ”
“Not in this instance. In cooperation with the U.S. Secret Service, Pinkerton placed this fake money, as bait, in madame’s possession. Should it be stolen, and the culprits not apprehended aboard ship, those counterfeit bills will lead the authorities to them. Lists of those bills will be distributed internationally.”
“That is clever,” I admitted. “And the real money is in safekeeping?”
“It’s somewhere in my cabin,” she said. “Isn’t that enough information for you?”
It was. But I did have to wonder if it had been in her mattress-if so, I’d never been that close to so much money in my life.
Then it was time for the first luncheon sitting, though I stopped by the switchboard first-seemed we had appointments this afternoon with George Kessler, Charles Frohman and Elbert Hubbard. . and the latter one would no doubt try my digestion.
TEN
Charles Frohman’s suite was on the starboard side of the ship. With the exception of last evening’s meal, Frohman had apparently not ventured out of his quarters since boarding; and he was not your typically blustery theatrical character, despite a propensity for surrounding himself with specimens of that obnoxious breed.
I was aware of him by reputation, vaguely at least-Frohman was one of the best-known and most beloved men in New York-but it was Miss Vance, that delightful actress turned detective, who prepared me for the interview.
“It’s rather remarkable,” she told me over luncheon, “that he agreed to see us at all.”
“And why is that?” I asked.
“Well, the word is he’s surprisingly shy, considering his profession-they call him ‘the Silent Man.’ He never solicits interviews and his celebrity is something he himself has never encouraged.”
Charles Frohman, she explained with respect and even awe, was widely credited with raising the standards of the American theater, almost single-handedly dragging it out of the muck of disrepute, where fifty years ago John Wilkes Booth and his pistol had sent it crashing.
In an effort to see to it that the authors and actors he favored received proper exposure, Frohman bought theater after theater; he often had as many as eight new plays in rehearsal at once-and upward of five hundred companies touring. He became much more than just a business manager to these clients-he was friend, confident, father confessor and artistic adviser. This galaxy included Maude Adams, Ellen Terry, Otis Skinner, Ethel Barrymore, William Gillette and many more.
Frohman insisted on quality-mounting well-written plays, as intelligent as they were entertaining (Miss Vance said)-and employing actors whose talent was matched by private lives clean of scandal. Miss Vance felt that the American theater was now on an equal footing with its European counterpart, and acting would soon achieve a level of respectability equal to any of the professions.
I took in this information gratefully, along with the rest of my meal, and did not point out to her how ridiculous these last few assertions struck me. My silence may have been hypocritical, but even a man of letters knows when to shut up, around a woman of pulchritude.
Standing outside the door of Frohman’s suite, Miss Vance and I exchanged smiles-the rather raucous strains of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” were bleeding through. I knocked several times-firmly, to be heard over Irving Berlin.
The music ceased, and in short order the door opened, and we were met by Frohman’s valet, a slender, cheerful, rather effeminate young man in a dark gray suit. The valet showed us into the study of the suite, which was in the Colonial style.* A desk against the wall was piled with play manuscripts; an occasional table next to it bore an elaborate ship-shaped basket filled with flowers and fruit.
The frog prince of a producer was perched on a damask print settee by an open porthole-though he’d confined himself to his quarters, he could at least smell the sea air-and his squat frame was wrapped up in a burgundy silk smoking jacket, a script folded open and in his lap. His left slippered foot was on a padded stool, and his cane leaned against the sofa near his right hand. On a round table next to him was an array of dishes filled with various bite-size chocolate candies and salted nuts; and on a matching round table, on the opposite side of the settee, a gramophone rested with a stack of cylindrical discs-the source of that ragtime tune.
“I must apologize for not rising,” Frohman said. His voice was a nasal, soft-spoken baritone, pleasant enough, but unsuited for the stage. “My rheumatism can be a demanding travelling companion, when it’s so inclined-and it is, this trip, I’m afraid.”
I introduced Miss Vance, and myself, and shook hands with him-his hand was small, almost dainty, surprising for such a roly-poly fellow-and we took chairs on either side of him, pulled in to face him.
Homely as he was-his head was as squashed as a Hallowe’en pumpkin-his genial, self-deprecating nature soon lent him an attractiveness of character that dispelled his physical shortcomings.
Almost immediately he put Miss Vance at her ease, winning her over entirely.
“I know you!” he said, eyes sparking. “Philomina Vance-I saw you in East Lynne, at the Chicago Theater!”
She touched her bosom. “I had no idea you were there, sir!”
“We won’t have any of this ‘sir’ nonsense-my friends call me C.F. And I must insist we be friends. . William! Ginger ales all around.”
William had been sitting on the other side of the room, reading a magazine; he rose and fetched.
Frohman’s cheeks plumped further as he beamed at Miss Vance. “You were quite wonderful-I know it was negligent of me, not to come backstage and meet you.”
“How I wish you had. .”
“We’d never been introduced, and I felt it would be a breech of etiquette.”
“Sir. . C.F.-in our business, such propriety is put aside! If you don’t mind my saying, you’re royalty, in the theater. . and a king never has to stand on ceremony.”
Still smiling, he shook his head. “My dear, ceremony is all a king has to stand on-not that I’m a king. A little success doesn’t warrant abandoning good manners, or common courtesy. . It was my intention to have one of my agents call you, but shortly after that performance, you left the theatrical profession, I understand.”
“I did,” she said, “though if I’d had a call from Charles Frohman, I might not have!”
His interest seemed genuine. “And how is that you’ve become a journalist?”