AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Bell said, “It says here that ladies who come downtown on shopping expeditions spend an hour in the Imperial.”
“And bring their friends next time. What can we do for you, mister?”
“I have an appointment with the managing director.”
“Seventh floor, sir.”
The elevator operators were unusually young and fit. On the seventh floor a male receptionist, who looked like he had learned his trade in a football flying wedge, led him through a locked door to a secretary who ushered him into a large office, curtained against the blazing sun. To Isaac Bell’s surprise, the managing director who rose smiling from her desk was Marion’s beautiful, dark-eyed Russian friend Irina Viorets.
She was dressed in a stylish suit, with a long skirt and jacket that hugged her closely, and she had collected her beautiful hair high in the back as the women directors did to allow them to peer through the lens of the camera.
“You look surprised, Isaac,” she greeted him with a warm laugh. “I assure you, no one is more surprised than I.”
Bell took the hand she offered. “May I congratulate you on what must be the quickest immigrant success story in America? You have landed on your feet and then some.”
“Sheer luck. I bumped into an old friend who knew my work in Russia. He introduced me to a banker, who introduced me to a group of Wall Street men who had already jumped on the movie bandwagon and suddenly had this factory and no one to run it. I leaped at the chance. Moving pictures will all be made in California. The sun shines here every day.”
“Quite a leap,” Bell marveled, “from making pictures to running the entire factory.”
“Well,” she said, lowering her eyes modestly, “I had experience of business in Petersburg. But I don’t overrate my position here. The Wall Street bankers back in New York call the tune. I am merely the piper. Or, at best, the arranger. They burn the telegraph wires firing demands across the continent night and day. Where is your lovely bride? Taking pictures of Jersey scenery?”
“San Francisco, visiting her father.”
“What does she do next?”
“She’s contemplating her next move.”
“Perfect. We must get Marion to join us here, where she may take pictures of things more attractive than ‘Jersey scenery.’”
“I imagine she would like that. I certainly would.”
“In the meantime, come to lunch and tell me all about ‘Talking Pictures.’”
They rode the elevator down to a staff commissary feeding actors costumed as plutocrats, policemen, washerwomen, countesses, cowboys, and Indians. Many were grease-painted with purple lips, green skin, and orange hair to show up in the chartreuse glow of the Cooper-Hewitts. Irina sashayed among them, exchanging friendly waves and greetings, and into an exquisite private dining room that looked like it had been removed board by board from a London club and reassembled in the new building.
Bell asked, “Did Clyde mention anything about his Talking Pictures machine on the boat?”
“Just enough to make me think, when Mr. Griffith telephoned, that it could be exactly what my investors in the Artists Syndicate are looking for.”
* * *
Isaac Bell enjoyed a flirtatious lunch with Irina Viorets while making it clear he was a one-woman man, and Marion was that one woman. But he had the strong impression that Irina’s smiles, flashing eyes, and light touches on his arm were more for show than intent.
“I meant to ask on the ship, how do you happen to speak such interesting English? Sometimes you sound almost like a native-born American.”
“Almost, but not quite. Though I’m improving. It is a wondrous language.”
/>
“How did you learn it?”
“In Petersburg my father played the piano at the American embassy. I had many friends among the children.”
For some reason, thought Isaac Bell, that was a story he wanted Van Dorn Research to verify. In fact, there was something about this whole setup that rang a little false. Perhaps it was just the incredible speed with which Irina’s good fortune had unfolded, or perhaps the detective’s nemesis, coincidence. Or maybe it was simply a memory of Marion saying that Irina’s story about fleeing the Okhrana changed with each glass of wine, though there was no wine at this lunch, merely orange juice and water.
“When was that?”
“Let me think,” she said. “Oh, Isaac, it’s embarrassing how long ago that was. Bloody Nicholas hadn’t taken the throne.”
