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“Are you sure he never saw your face?” Fern asked.
“Absolutely.”
“But you were close enough to see him shoot Johann.”
“I said I heard the shot. I didn’t see it.”
“So it could have been someone else who killed Johann?”
“I saw no one but Bell.” And then, to steer Fern off the subject of the shooting, he asked, “Who’s the gorgeous creature on his arm?”
“His wife. Marion Morgan Bell. The movie director.”
“Director? Such a beauty should be the star.”
“Would you like me to ask Mr. Bell to introduce her to you?” Fern asked icily.
“I meant nothing to get sore about, only that at a distance, at least, she appears to be extraordinarily beautiful.”
“Such a handsome man,” Fern shot back, “deserves at least one beauty.”
She watched Isaac Bell rake the speakeasy with a probing gaze that missed nothing. His violet blue eyes settled on her and darkened in recognition even as he smiled hello.
Fern waved.
“What are you doing?” asked Zolner.
“Here’s your chance for a close-up.”
• • •
BELL AND MARION made their way slowly across the crowded speakeasy, stopped repeatedly by fans jumping up to tell Marion how much they liked her moving pictures. Few directors would ever be recognized by the general public, but when Marion appeared in a movie magazine, her face was remembered.
“I’d like to stop at Fern Hawley’s table,” Bell told her.
“Who’s the man with her?”
“Let’s find out.”
The society woman’s companion rose politely when they stopped at the table. He stood with poise and grace, a trim and elegant man as tall as Bell and slightly thinner. He had an easy manner but a sharp gaze. Fern introduced him. “My old friend Prince André, late of Saint Petersburg.”
Bell and Prince André shook hands firmly. Bell introduced Marion. Pleasantries were exchanged. They agreed to sit for a moment.
Prince André engaged Marion in a technical conversation about film, drawing on the Russian model. Marion told him that she was shooting a comedy about a Russian ballet company stranded in New York.
“What will you title it?”
“Jump to New York.”
“What could be better? We should all ‘jump to New York,’ should we not, my dear?”
Fern Hawley said to Bell, “My friend is laying on the charm for your wife.”
“I’m used to it,” said Bell.
“How often does it end in fisticuffs?”
“No more than half the time.”
