Seventeen

Whitbread told us Broncho Billy was such a frequent and distinguished visitor to Pop Morse’s Roadhouse that they’d mounted a hitching post outside the door expressly for his use. He often rode over from the Essanay studios and was due to arrive at any moment. I chose to follow Detective Whitbread outdoors to wait for him. I was missing another supper with my family and my thoughts began to stray in their direction. I was getting tired of the flamboyant film people and longed for the quiet of my own home.

It wasn’t long before Anderson appeared on a brown mare that walked slowly down the road. He wore a cowboy costume with a tall peaked hat and a red kerchief around his neck. Whitbread called to him and he joined us after tying his horse to the post. By the way he tried to peer into the roadhouse over Whitbread’s shoulder, I could tell he was anxious to join the crowd inside.

People passed in and out, but Whitbread blocked his way to the door. “Mr. Anderson, you lied to us,” he said. “You claimed that you hadn’t been back to the Selig studios, but we have a witness who saw you there this week. In fact, you were there the night Mr. Hyde was shot.”

The welcoming smile faded from Anderson’s face. He took off his hat and brushed at it with his hand, then slapped it against his thigh.

“Mr. Anderson?” Whitbread’s eyes narrowed.

“OK, well, you’ve got me. I confess…I was there. I didn’t think she saw me and I didn’t want Selig to know. Might get some of the cameramen in trouble. It’s the chance of a lifetime and I just wanted to let a couple of them in on it. But I didn’t see the censor when I was there, I’m sure of that. You won’t tell Selig, will you? Don’t want to get the men in trouble.”

“Mr. O’Neill told us he rejected your offer.”

“Oh, he told you?” Anderson was surprised.

“That’s right and Col. Selig is already aware of your efforts. Did Mr. Hyde see you, perhaps? Did you shoot him to keep it a secret?”

“What? No, of course not. You can ask O’Neill. Hyde was shot in the building, right? On one of the sets upstairs, I heard. I met O’Neill outside, on the backlot. Ask him. I never went into the building. I don’t have a key. And I didn’t have any reason to kill the censor. He wasn’t censoring my films.”

“Someone suggested that Mr. Hyde might have been working with Thomas Edison,” I said. “You denied it yesterday, but they thought Edison might be preventing Essanay, as well as Selig, from releasing films.”

“What? You mean Edison might sue me like he did Selig? Where’d you hear that? Was it Selig who told you that?” He seemed genuinely confused, but he was an actor after all, just like the rest of them.

“Mr. Anderson, lying to the police is a serious offense. I’ll let you go now, but I want you at the Harrison Street police station at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, to make a statement about that night and about your relationship to the dead man. Do you understand?”

“But—” Anderson looked at Whitbread’s face and thought better of trying to make objections. “All right. I’ll be there.”

“Did you see anyone else that night besides Mr. O’Neill?” I asked.

“That night, no…only Kathlyn.”

“Kathlyn?” Whitbread asked.

“Yes, Kathlyn Williams. I didn’t think she saw me. It was just as I was leaving. I saw her at the door of the studios, unlocking it. That’s why I thought she was the one who told you I was there…I thought she must have seen me after all.”