Three

The effect was spoiled when the man opened his mouth. He squeaked. His voice squealed in such a whiny and irritating way that it was clear this was not the man who’d mesmerized followers with his political speeches. I, myself, had heard him speak when he visited the University of Chicago in 1903. This man looked like Teddy Roosevelt—with his jodhpurs, high boots, many-pocketed jacket, and the pince-nez hanging from a black ribbon—but he was definitely an imposter.

I’d turned toward the door, feeling my heart race. But, as soon as I realized the truth, I saw that Alden was grinning at my reaction. “Pretty good, huh?”

“What?” My confusion might have been funny if not for the sight of the dead man, who was being lifted from the bed onto a stretcher at that very moment.

Alden seemed to realize how inappropriate the joke was when he glanced over to the men preparing to take the body away. He shrugged guiltily. “Roosevelt promised Col. Selig that he’d take one of the studio’s cameramen with him when he went on safari. But then he backed out, claiming the Smithsonian objected—they were funding the expedition and wouldn’t approve a commercial film being made of it. But then Selig found out that Roosevelt took another photographer, so we decided to film Hunting Big Game in Africa right here.” Alden smirked. “Wait till you see it. We’re using live animals. There’s a real lion and it’ll actually get shot. It’s going to be fantastic.”

I looked at him as if he were daft and I noticed even Fitz rolled his eyes at that. He, too, had been fooled for a minute and had believed the former president was here. All his political instincts had been aroused, alas, for nothing. Before I could chide Alden for his lack of concern for the dead man, an angry-looking Detective Whitbread returned, following Col. Selig.

“Well, this is just wonderful,” Selig said. Whitbread did not appear to agree. His hands were clenched at his sides and his jaw was set like a stone statue. Noticing the ill will he was radiating, Selig took two steps away from him. “The police have agreed we can open up and get working again.”

Everyone paid attention to that. Fitz nodded as if it was what he’d expected.

“What about Alden?” I asked. “Is he free to go?” That was what had brought me to this madhouse and I was anxious to leave.

Whitbread frowned. I could almost hear him grinding his teeth. “The investigation will continue, but we will not be charging anyone until there is further evidence. Mr. Cabot, you are free to go, but do not leave the city and I will expect you to be available for further interviews, as necessary.” He nodded to the officer who proceeded to unlock Alden’s handcuffs.

Col. Selig gave him a little bow. “We’re really grateful to you, Detective Whitbread, and to the Chicago Police Department. Now, people, let’s get to work.”

“Thank the mayor,” Whitbread said with an angry glance at Fitz. The big Irishman looked away.

At a wave from Col. Selig, people began pouring into the room, and the producers started yelling. I saw Alden sigh with relief then race across the room to a blonde woman, without even stopping to explain to me what had happened. I looked at the young woman he was greeting.

“That’s Kathlyn Williams,” Fitz said in my ear. “She’s their main dramatic star. And the little one following her is Babe Greer. She’s new. She does all the ingénue parts and a lot of the comedies.”

Col. Selig came over. “Fitzgibbons, they say you can sign off for the film board. Is that true? Oh, thank goodness. Can you come down to my office now? And, Mrs. Chapman, have Alden give you a tour before you leave.” He took Fitz by the elbow and led him to the doorway. Looking at my brother’s back across the room, I doubted he wanted to give me a tour, nor was I at all interested. The sooner I got back to Hyde Park the better, as far as I was concerned.

Detective Whitbread was not happy. I could tell he was fuming. Two red spots were spreading on his gaunt cheeks. He spoke quietly, barely moving his lips. “Headquarters insisted we release the premises back to them. Look at this, it’s bedlam.”

It was. They were making moving pictures that would be silent, with music played in the theaters for background, but the actual production was anything but silent. As soon as the stretcher with the covered body was carried out, there were yells and screeches that echoed across the room. In one corner, a cowboy was swinging a lasso in front of a saloon while two Indians in elaborate headdresses chatted nearby. In another corner, the fake Teddy Roosevelt was crouched in front of a cluster of tents and an animal was being led into the scene, accompanied by instructions shouted to his handler. Over at the open parlor, near where the dead man had lain some minutes before, they were rehearsing a scene of tender farewells. The body on its stretcher had been removed in the midst of all that commotion and a woman had moved in and stripped the bed of its bloody covering, replacing it with another. Death had come and gone without leaving an impression on these people. Perhaps they thought it was a fake body, like all the fake scenery around them. Perhaps they couldn’t distinguish the real from the false.

Watching Alden, I wondered how Kathlyn Williams could concentrate, with all the talking and movement of the cameraman and producer right in front of her, only a few feet away. As Whitbread had said, it was bedlam. How could he conduct an investigation in this madhouse? I very much wanted to leave but I was uneasy. I didn’t think Whitbread believed the man had killed himself and, no matter what City Hall did, I knew the detective would worry the case until he got to the truth of it. I looked at my brother.

Alden was planted in front of the parlor scene watching every move with a strange intensity. He seemed to be almost imitating the actions of the characters in the scene. It looked somewhat demented. I left Whitbread and walked over to him. Alden attempted to wave me away but I grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side. “That’s enough,” I whispered, not wanting to air our family argument in public. “They’re back in business, now you need to come home with me. You heard Whitbread, you won’t be able to leave town until he lets you. You’ll need to tell Clara. You’ve got the summer off from the Tribune, haven’t you? Or did you only get a month?”

He pulled his arm away from me and straightened his jacket. “I resigned,” he said without looking at me.

“What?”

“I resigned. I’m not employed by the Tribune anymore.”