The edge of ruin, p.7
The Edge of Ruin, page 7
And apparently to everyone else on the lot, as it seemed. Big Ed Strawfield left off pounding the Melpomene M into the ground to look at him. Even Erno Berg was staring.
“However,” Adam said, “if you’d like to work as an extra in this picture, I can probably accommodate you. Emily, see about this man’s wardrobe.”
“An extra? Me? No, I’ve come here to give you this,” he said, and he thrust the manila package into Adam’s hand. “It’s the story of my life, sir. I believe you’ll find it fascinating, and I think you’ll want to make it into a moving picture. After you read it we’ll talk about money. And now I’ll go and have a look at your movie camera, if you don’t mind. Cameras interest me.”
“Not a chance,” Adam said. “Emily, our friend here is an extra. He is not to go near the camera. Have you got a flannel shirt for him?”
“I’ve got a humdinger,” Emily said. She held out the very gaudiest of the shirts she was carrying over her arm.
“Oh, no. No, I couldn’t,” Duffy said. He took a step backward, bumping into Big Ed Strawfield, who was standing right behind him now, cracking his knuckles. “No.” He cast his eyes here and there, but there was no avenue of escape.
“Mr. Weiss says you’re an extra,” Mr. Strawfield said. “Take off your coat and put on the shirt.” And so he put on the shirt, handing his checkered topcoat to Emily.
“Come this way,” Mr. Weiss said. He took him by one arm while Big Ed took him by the other. Between the two of them they dragged Duffy up to the front of the crowd of extras and planted him between Chalmers and Chief Watson. Emily felt a tug on her sleeve.
Mary Grace. “Oh, good, here you are. Mr. Weiss wants me to put your lace collar back. Just stand still for a moment.” Emily began to pin the collar. Adam put the megaphone to his lips and called for quiet.
“But where am I supposed to be?” Mary Grace said. “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” Emily said. “Go and stand over there with the rest of the crowd, outside the rope. Then when it’s time for the crowd to come on scene, you go with them.”
“How will I know?”
“Just keep your eyes on Mr. Strawfield.”
Adam explained to the mob that he wanted them to tear down the jailhouse. It had to be done exactly right on the first take, because they couldn’t afford the time to build it up again or the film to shoot it coming down. “Here’s what happens in the scene. The outlaw is locked up in the jail. Erno is the sheriff. Fay is the outlaw’s daughter. She comes to the jail and begs the sheriff for her father’s life.” Fay Winningly did some begging things with her arms, limbering up.
“But the lynch mob is on its way. Chalmers, Strawfield, you are at the front of the lynch mob. Strawfield, you follow Chalmers; the rest of you follow Strawfield. Stay out of the frame until I give the word. Watch the rope. Fay, you come to the jailhouse door when I tell you and beg Sheriff Erno for your father’s life. Erno, when the scene begins you are standing in the doorway. You are resolute in the face of danger. Still, you understand that danger is all around.” He took another step back. “Now. Roll the camera, Mr. Johnson!”
Emily looked over it all from a seat on the fence, a few feet away from the camera. She could see Erno Berg standing in the jailhouse doorway striking manly poses, and Fay Winningly’s yellow curls. Outside of the frame the Wobblies flexed their arms and limbered their shoulders, while Mary Grace stared at Big Ed Strawfield the way a mouse watches a cat. Duffy’s frowzy wig stuck up above the heads of the other extras. Adam waved his hands, put the megaphone to his lips and bellowed directions.
“Now!” Adam’s amplified voice sounded strange, loud and thin at the same time. “Chalmers, you come into the frame, shaking your fist. Strawfield and the mob, come in behind him.” The extras growled and muttered insults, getting into it. Some of the insults must have been in Finnish, for Erno Berg’s face was suddenly contorted with rage. Never had Emily seen him show so much emotion.
“I like that look, Erno!” Adam shouted. “Could you direct it at Mr. Chalmers, please? You’re glaring at that extra over there. You have nothing particular against him, right? Chalmers is your enemy.”
“Erno!” Chalmers said. “Erno, look at me. Hold my gaze. You hate me. I’m your worst enemy.” Erno looked at him. What a clever man Chalmers was, to be able to give Erno Berg acting lessons in the middle of a scene. What a useful man. If only he could stay sober and keep his hands off the girls.
“My worst enemy. You bet.” The two men looked straight into each other’s eyes, like two wild animals getting ready to fight. Erno softly muttered Finnish curses. The scene was working nicely.
“Now!” Adam shouted. “Rush the jailhouse, Chalmers! Follow him, crowd! Tear it down!” Chalmers lunged at the jailhouse door, pushing Erno to the ground. When the rest of them surged forward in a tangled mass, screaming, Emily feared that Erno might be trampled. Adam was with the crowd, rushing the jailhouse like the others. They were a real mob now. She could smell their sweat. People were elbowing one another and pushing to get to the front.
In the rising cloud of dust Emily could make out little of the action beyond the thrashing of plaid-clad arms and the shaking of fists. Duffy’s gaudy shirt stood out for a moment and disappeared again. The sound of it all was terrifying, the growls, the grunts, the curses, the noise of wood ripping. Then the scenery was flying and Chalmers was chewing it, rising above the throng at one point to shout a few lines from “The Marseillaise.” At last one of the Wobblies got a good grip on the front of the rickety structure and pulled. A huge section with a window in it fell forward, narrowly missing the extras.
“Aaand . . . cut!” Adam shouted. A stillness fell over the company. But someone couldn’t stop screaming. It sounded like Mary Grace.
What in the world was the matter with the girl this time? Emily pushed her way through the crowd to see. There in the rubble of the jailhouse, his mustache half off, his wig all awry, his eyes blank and bulging, his torso pinned to the earth by the spike attached to the Melpomene trademark, was Duffy.
NINE
Emily gestured to Mr. Johnson to keep the camera rolling. The scene crackled with drama; surely they could use the footage for something later. The extras drew back from Duffy’s body and formed a horrified circle.
Out of the crowd of extras stepped Francis X. Watson, the police chief. “Now, then, what have we here?” He bent over, hands on his thighs, and took a good look at the body. Emily distinctly heard him curse: “Goddamn son of a bitch.”
Was Chief Watson cursing Duffy, or making a comment on things in general? Emily couldn’t tell. He knelt down, examined the iron spike sticking out of Duffy’s chest, and in a futile gesture felt his pulse. “Who did this?” Nobody spoke. “Does anyone here know this man?” He stared all around at the circle of faces until his gaze came to rest on Fay Winningly.
The actress squirmed, almost as though with guilt. “It’s Seamus Duffy, sir. A detective hired by Mr. Thomas Edison to get the goods on the movie company.” She bit her finger.
“So it is,” the police chief said. He peeled off the toupee and the remains of the mustache. “Does anyone know what he was doing here?”
“He came to stop Mr. Weiss from filming,” Fay said. The whole company glared at her. “Well, he did,” she said. “Didn’t he? He came to ruin Mr. Weiss’s business. Everyone said so.”
“Mr. Weiss,” the police chief said. He turned and looked at Adam. “Ruin, was it? That’s a very strong motive for murder, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Adam said.
Fay burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to tell him you did it,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Weiss.”
“What?” Adam said. Emily hoped Johnson was still cranking the camera. The people were all looking at Adam as if he were turning into a monster before their eyes. Those faces! What a shot! You couldn’t hire them to play a scene like that, not for any money.
Of course they were fools, to listen to that silly woman. Chief Watson was the biggest fool of all of them.
Fay Winningly babbled on. “I know Mr. Duffy was going to expose you to Mr. Edison—I know that you and Mrs. Weiss stood to lose everything—but I didn’t mean to say you killed him.”
“No, and in fact I didn’t kill him. Now see here, Miss Winningly—”
“He was so young,” she sniveled.
“No, he wasn’t,” Emily said. “He was fifty if he was a day.” Where did Fay get this stuff? Some play she had once had a minor part in, no doubt. Had she killed him herself, and was she carrying on like this to deflect attention? But, no, the trademark was too heavy and cumbersome for those delicate little hands to uproot from the frozen ground, still less to plunge into the breast of a bulky detective. Unless she was stronger than she looked.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to place you under arrest, Mr. Weiss,” the police chief said. “Come with me, please.”
“Emily!” Adam cried.
“I’ll get you a lawyer, Adam!” The crowd parted, and away went Chief Watson, frog-marching Adam to the lockup. The scene felt intensely unreal, even for someone in the movie business. Thankfully Mr. Johnson was still cranking away. He had many feet of horrified crowd scene by this time. “It’s okay, Mr. Johnson, you can stop filming now,” Emily said. “I mean to say, cut.”
“I wanted to get everything on record. It might be evidence,” Mr. Johnson murmured, glancing over his shoulder.
“What makes you say that?”
“The entire murder is right here on this reel in black and white. The killer will be in the frame.” He blew out the alcohol lamp and started rewinding.
“Did you see anything?” Emily said.
“I didn’t, no, but sometimes the camera picks things up.”
A blow fell suddenly on Emily’s shoulder. She started. It was only Ed Strawfield’s heavy hand, meant to be comforting, she supposed. “Cheer up, Mrs. Weiss. The law hasn’t got a thing on your husband. He’ll be out in a week.”
“A week! We don’t have a week.”
“And stop looking so sad. Duffy deserved to die. He was a Pinkerton detective and a dirty scab-lover and he had it coming.”
Emily looked at the remains of Duffy, spread-eagled on the trampled brown grass of the meadow, with his false hair removed and the wreckage of the jailhouse façade littering his body, M for Melpomene protruding from his chest. How could anyone say he had it coming? And who cared whether he was a Pinkerton detective? Pinkertons. The most famous among a number of detective agencies who hired themselves out as private police forces in the lawless West. The Pinkerton agency had a branch office on Broadway a few doors down from the Schwartz Theatrical Agency. Emily used to pass their sign almost every day, a big eye with the words WE NEVER SLEEP. Just like Mr. Edison. She turned away with a shudder.
“Tell you what,” Ed Strawfield said. “I’ll put you in touch with my lawyer.”
“Clarence Darrow? My soul. Who’s going to pay him?”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll find the money. There might even be a bounty on Duffy, a Pinkerton man and all. The Western Federation of Miners—”
“Why should anyone offer a bounty on Pinkerton men?” Emily shook her head. On the other hand, why not? The whole world was crazy.
“Class wars,” Vera explained. Class wars in Fort Lee, New Jersey, Emily thought, this has such a cinematic quality; I should be taking notes. She looked again at the place where fell the hated Duffy, class warrior, Pinkerton man. Someone had taken away his body, leaving only a purple stain on the ground.
The extras lined up to be paid for their work in a high state of nerves, biting their lips, twisting their handkerchiefs, jiggling the change in their pockets. As Emily gave them their money she asked those who had been in the front ranks of the “mob” whether they had seen anything. They all said no, they had been too busy tearing down the false front of the jailhouse.
“Do you think Chief Watson wants us to stay in town?” Robert Chalmers said, sidling up to Fay Winningly and putting his arm around her. Fay shot him a sour look, took two steps away from him, and put her hand in the hand of Erno Berg. What’s she playing, Emily thought, a game of musical men? “We could stay at the hotel, if you think we should,” Chalmers persisted, addressing Emily this time. “I could rent a room.”
Mrs. Potts was now at the front of the line of extras. “It’s only fair to tell you, Mr. Chalmers, that you’re no longer welcome in our hotel,” she said. She slipped Melpomene’s money into her apron pocket. “Nor Miss Winningly, neither. I think you both know why,” and she went inside and slammed the door. Emily sighed. The last of the Wobblies took his pay and stood quietly with the others, waiting for Big Ed, who was waiting for Vera.
Vera lingered behind, nibbling her pearls. “So,” she said. “Is the end of Melpomene Pictures?”
Surely not. “Of course it isn’t,” Emily said. “We’ll be back in business as soon as this mess is cleaned up. Or before. Before the mess is cleaned up. Naturally it would be better if Mr. Weiss were out of jail, but I can direct movies almost as well as he can.”
“Can you?” Chalmers said.
“Yes, yes. I’ve watched him work. There’s nothing to it. And with such an excellent company of actors! It should be no problem for us to finish three more movies in”—she did a quick count on her fingers—“twelve days. I think it will be all right for you all to go home now. We know where to reach you. I’ll contact you when we resume filming. It won’t be long, a day or two depending on the weather.” Indeed the clouds were gathering overhead again, slowly, the sort of blustery darkness that promised to last for at least a week.
The actors left. Mr. Johnson handed Emily the remaining film can. “Keep this under your coat,” he whispered. “It might be safer for you if no one realizes you have it.”
“Who would care if I have it, now that Mr. Edison’s detective is gone?”
“The killer.”
“Oh. Oh, of course. I see your point.”
“Unless you think it might really be Mr. Weiss who—”
“Certainly not. Do you know where the police station is?”
“Up the road about a hundred yards. You can’t miss it.”
Chief Watson told Emily there was no question of bail for a flighty movie person who might go anywhere as soon as he got free. He said Judge Birtch would hold a formal bail hearing as soon as he returned from his trip to Florida, but the police chief was sure the judge would agree with him. “You may speak with your husband for five minutes. Through the bars. I must be present the whole time, of course, to be sure you don’t pass him any contraband.”
Emily bit back a wisecrack about baking files in cakes and followed the chief into a short corridor that smelled of drunks and flop sweat. Adam sat hunched on his cot with his head bowed down, his hands hanging between his knees, almost as if the thrill of making movies had all gone out of him and left an inner core of nothing.
Emily wept, and tried to pretend she wasn’t weeping. To keep the film can from showing through her thin coat she shifted it awkwardly, thinking the chief might insist on taking it for evidence and then open the can and spoil the film.
“It’s the end of Melpomene Pictures, Emily,” Adam said.
“No, it isn’t,” Emily said. “I’ll take care of things while we straighten this out. I can’t understand what Fay was thinking. Why did she say those things?”
“I could strangle her,” Adam said. “Cheerfully. If I had my hands around her neck right now—!”
“Hush,” Emily said.
“No, sweetheart, Melpomene is doomed. Thomas Edison has the last laugh on us. But don’t worry. If I get out of this I can always go back to work at Horn and Hardart.”
“You’ll do no such thing. We have almost two weeks to finish the last three pictures. Even if it rains half the time, that should be plenty. I can direct them myself.”
“Do you think so?”
“Certainly. Mr. Johnson can help me set up the shots, and Robert Chalmers can give me tips on getting the actors to emote in front of the camera. He’s quite good at that, I think, except with Vera, who has her own—”
“. . . Method. You may be right. I hope so, sweetheart. Yes. I have every confidence in you.” He didn’t sound as if that were really true. Just the same she told him she loved him.
“Have you done anything about a lawyer?” he said.
“We’re getting Clarence Darrow,” she said.
“Ah.” He glanced at Chief Watson. Watson’s face showed nothing. The name of Clarence Darrow did not intimidate him.
“Mr. Darrow will be here soon,” Emily said. Still no reaction from Watson. Perhaps he had never heard of Clarence Darrow. Or he wasn’t listening. “Soon. In the meantime I want you to be brave until I find out who the real murderer is. Or murderess. For example, Fay Winningly could have been accusing you to take attention away from herself. I believe she’s much stronger than she looks. If she used both hands, she could have—”
Chief Watson was listening after all. He puffed up like a toad. “You’d best let it alone, little lady. The police are perfectly capable of taking care of this matter.”
“No, they’re not,” Emily said. “You put my husband in jail. A completely innocent man.”
“Time’s up. Let’s go.”
“It isn’t, either. I have another minute and a half.”
“Out.”
“Good-bye, Adam, my darling,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Thick darkness enveloped Fort Lee as Emily dragged herself back to the hotel. She was tempted to check in and spend the night in one of the hotel’s clammy rooms. Mr. and Mrs. Potts would probably let her, since she wasn’t the one who misbehaved in the linen closet, but in spite of her fatigue she wanted to get to the darkroom in the Knickerbocker and process the day’s work. The first can of film would bring Melpomene one picture closer to fulfilling its contractual obligations. The second can, when it was developed, might well reveal Duffy’s killer and get Adam out of jail.
