“Very much so,” she agreed. “And although most of their work was engineered by Eugène Lauste, Dicksondidhelp. Edison’s manager became suspicious of Dickson and, in April of 1895, orchestrated his exit from the company.”
“What put Gilmore on Dickson’s scent?” I asked.
“That I can’t be certain of,” Greta answered. “Some suggest Dickson was overly confident—that Edison would sooner toss out the general manager than the man who’d put the Kinetoscope on the map—but such was not the case.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” I stated.
She nodded. “It’s a story perfect for a movie, don’t you think?”
“Which some screenwriter would inevitably destroy by inserting made-up drama or a romantic side plot that never existed,” I replied.
Greta laughed, deep and hearty. “Don’t I know it.”
We ate in a companionable silence for a few moments.
“I was told a story,” I finally said. “It’s hearsay at least three times over.”
“Those are always fun.”
“The Kinetoscope I’m currently in possession of is a working original. The owner is the one who supplied me with these reels,” I said as I patted the paper bag at my side. “He says he purchased it all from the son of a man claiming to be one of Dickson’s original assistants on the Kinetoscope.”
Greta raised an eyebrow.
“I know,” I replied to her suspicious expression. “He couldn’t supply any proof of the claim—but the story he was told was that there was a betrayal from within the circle, and it had put Dickson in danger. So long as the Kinetoscope and movies were kept hidden, Dickson would be safe.”
“Thatsounds like the unnecessary addition by the screenwriter,” Greta stated.
“Could be,” I said. “But maybe the danger was Gilmore?”
“Gilmore didn’t try tokillDickson,” she said. “He just had him fired. What was this ‘assistant’s’ name?”
“Tom.”
“Just Tom?”
“That’s all I was told.”
“I’ll admit, I don’t know the names of every man involved,” Greta finished. “Maybe there was a Tom.Maybe.” She perked up a bit, grabbed her purse, and began to rummage about. “I actually know who to ask. If thereeverwas a Tom or a threat against Dickson, this man would have the story.”
I grabbed my magnifying glass from my bag, took the business card she offered a moment later, and brought it close to read. “Dr. Bill Freidman.”
“He teaches—”
“At NYU,” I said, glancing at Greta. “I had him for Film History, and Theory and Criticism my junior year.” I looked at the card again. “I can’t believe he’s still teaching.”
“Oh yes. He now brings his history class to the museum once a year.”
“Guess I missed that fieldtrip,” I said, stuffing the card into my messenger bag. “But thanks. I don’t think it’d have ever occurred to me to ask him. We, uh—we butted heads a bit when I was in college.”
“He can be rather strict with students,” she agreed.
“And I was a smart-ass know-it-all, so you can imagine.”
Greta laughed and wiped her hands on a napkin. “So. Are we going to take a look?” She nodded at the paper bag.
“At the still frames?”
“Better than nothing.” She leaned forward. “I’ve got to know what footage it is. Perhaps it’s additional reels from the Leonard-Cushing fight, since you somehow got your hands on round six.”
