seven

“Detective, I’d like to assist in the investigation into the death of Mr. Hyde. You suggested it yesterday, and I think you’re right. I can help you find the truth of the matter.” I said all of this while still standing in the doorway.

I was usually very comfortable in that narrow office, for I’d spent many hours there, first alone, then later directing my students. We would go to the closet where Whitbread stored the boxes of identity cards describing criminals arrested in the various precincts throughout the city. Name, address, age, and Bertillon measurements were all listed, along with the crime they were accused of. We’d transcribed and used the information in many research studies.

Whitbread was an unusual policeman who read criminology texts by Lombroso and others, and who believed in the latest scientific advances in criminology. To me, he was a mentor, a colleague, and a friend. But that day, knowing my brother’s freedom was in jeopardy, I felt cold.

“Emily, come in.” He rose, tall and gangly, to shut the wooden door behind me, then pulled out a chair. “I value your assistance. While it may be slightly irregular—since your brother must be considered a suspect—I have every confidence that you will do all in your power to uncover the truth behind Mr. Hyde’s death.”

I sighed. “Yes, I will.” I was uneasy with the knowledge that he believed I would do anything for the truth, while my husband was sure I would do anything to protect my brother. “You’re sure it couldn’t have been suicide?” I asked.

“It is unlikely, but we will consider all possibilities, of course. Now, the first thing to do is to return to the Selig studios to pursue further inquiries. I’ll be talking to Col. Selig again. While I’m doing that, I want you to see if you can interview Miss Williams and anyone else who’ll talk to you. As Mr. Cabot’s sister, you may be able to get information they’re reluctant to share with me.”

I knew he thought that I could approach Kathlyn Williams about the rumored relationship with Alden. I certainly planned to confront my brother on the matter. I was sure Whitbread planned to ask Alden plainly about it, but I wanted to get to my brother first, if I could.

I agreed to the plan, and we left the building to force our way through the crowds to the streetcar that would take us north. It was easier to make way with Whitbread there to plunge into the throngs, taking my arm and dispersing people with his commanding manner. He hadn’t yet been assigned an official motorcar. Political operatives like Fitz were always first in line for such conveniences; working police detectives were much further down the list. On the streetcar, Whitbread glared at a man until he gave up his seat to me.

When we got out of town, the trees were still decked with blossoms but looked like their time was over and they were about to wilt. I knew it was my own sour disposition that made it seem so. Still, I couldn’t shake the impression. I longed to leave for Woods Hole.

When we arrived at the Selig studios, Whitbread headed for the colonel’s second-floor office, while I was directed to the outside area they called the “backlot” to find my brother. It was a sizable yard and, in the middle, I saw a saloon that looked exactly like the one on the third floor that I’d seen the previous day. But there were more buildings, a whole street of them. A group of men hollered and whistled as a cowboy tried to maintain his seat on a wild horse. The animal jumped and bucked, straining at the reins in his mouth. It looked like an extremely dangerous occupation as the horse tried to rid himself of his rider. The man’s hat fell off, and then his body followed as the horse jumped, then turned, leaving the man hanging in the air behind him. As the flailing cowboy struck the ground with a loud thump, the horse dashed off around the corner. It was closely followed by two other cowboys on horses. I rushed to the fallen man, fearing the worst.

“Hey, get out of there.” I heard someone yell. “Oh, never mind. Stop for now, Sam. Lady, what do ya think you’re doin’?”

When I looked around, I saw a man with a megaphone standing beside a large camera on a three-legged stand, and I realized I was the “lady” he was yelling at. The cameraman continued cranking a handle until the producer waved him to a stop.

The man who’d fallen was sitting up by that point, checking himself for damage and looking around for his hat, which a young boy brought over to him. The boy was my son Jack.

“Are you all right?” I asked the cowboy. The fall had looked catastrophic to me.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” he said with a big toothy smile. Then he stood up, dusting himself off with the tall-crowned hat.

I turned to my son. “Jack, what are you doing here?” I thought I’d made it clear that any tours of the studio would have to wait until after we returned from Woods Hole at the end of the summer.

My son looked as shocked to see me as I was to see him. The cowboy stepped across, holding out his hand. “Tom Mix, ma’am. Glad to meet you.” I shook his hand, feeling a warm, strong grip.

Meanwhile, the producer—who I guessed must be the Mr. Otis Turner who’d been pointed out to me on my first visit to the studio—stalked up to us, yelling commands in several directions as he did so. “Here, what do you think you’re doing? You’ve just about ruined the shot, although maybe we can use it up to the fall. And you, kid, I see you and your buddies in those bushes. Get out of there or you’ll be showing up in the negatives and we’ll have to re-shoot the whole thing. Get out!”

Tom Mix continued smiling while Turner ignored my attempts to apologize and Alden came up behind me, grabbing my arm to lead me away. When we were at a safe distance, he turned and beckoned to Jack and some other children who were hiding in the sparse bushes beside the saloon.

“Come on,” he said. “Over here.”

I was dumbfounded to see not only Jack, but Lizzie, Tommy, Ollie, and Penny. Alden had brought them all.

“Wasn’t that great?” Jack asked me. He was starry eyed with admiration for the cowboy who, I saw, was matter-of-factly mounting another horse that immediately began to try to unseat him. Soon, that horse was bucking all around the square in front of the saloon while the other men hooted and Turner boomed suggestions through his megaphone. Pandemonium, as far as I could tell.

“I promised them,” Alden said when he saw the look I gave him. “I promised I’d bring them before they had to leave for Woods Hole. Didn’t I, kids?”

There was a resounding affirmation from the five of them with pleas for more. Before I could protest, Alden herded them toward another part of the lot where he said they’d see lions and tigers. Lions and tigers? Was this a zoo?

“It’s for the Hunting Big Game in Africa film with the Teddy Roosevelt impersonator,” Alden explained, as the children skipped ahead of us. “Wait till you see it. It’s fantastic. Selig bought a whole circus and Big Otto’s the trainer. I’ll introduce you to Olga the Leopard Lady.”

Alden wanted to hurry after the children, but I grabbed his arm and anchored him in place. He looked annoyed. “Alden, why didn’t you tell us you lost your job at the newspaper more than a month ago? Did you even tell Clara? What have you been doing since then? Have you been lying about where you were at night?”

I thought I might not want to know the answers to my questions but I had to confirm my suspicions. I had to hear it from his own mouth. “Alden, answer me.”

He forcibly removed my fingers from his arm. “You and Clara, and Stephen, all you know or care about is what goes on at the university. Why should you care if I’m no longer at the Tribune? What’s it to you? You hardly read the papers. You’re more interested in the solemn tracts of your reformer friends than my articles. You didn’t even notice that my byline’s been missing from the Tribune.”

“So, instead, you’re writing melodramas for the nickelodeon? Alden, Clara said you wanted to write novels or stories. Can’t you do that and get them published in the papers? Do you have to sink to this?” When I looked around, all I saw were half-finished rooms or buildings. None of it was real.

“This is the future,” he said, waving his arm at the dusty lot. “I don’t want to write stories, Emily. I want to make pictures.”

“But it’s a sham, Alden. It’s all fake.” My eyes followed the children, who’d reached what looked like an attempt to imitate a jungle. I thought I heard the roar of an animal and it made me jerk my head in that direction. I was a little frightened. “What was that?”

“That was a very real lion,” Alden said. He sneered at me and started to move away.

“Wait. Stop. Alden, Whitbread says you had an argument with Mr. Hyde the day before he died. What was that about?”

He stopped, then shrugged. “It was just a disagreement. There was a scene where Kathlyn Williams was grabbed by the villain and he kissed her. Hyde objected. I merely pointed out to him that the scene exactly duplicated the actions in a comedy we released last week with Babe Greer in it and he hadn’t objected to that one. He was just a little tin-pot dictator throwing his weight around.”

“What exactly is your relationship with Kathlyn Williams?” I asked. “Why are you spending so much time with her?”

He stared at me.

“Alden, answer me. What’s going on?”

“Going on? Nothing’s going on. You’re so small minded, Emily. Just because I work with a woman, you want to accuse me of being unfaithful.”

“I never said that. I just asked why you’re spending so much time with her.”

“How dare you? Do I ask you why you spend so much time at Hull House? Or what about Whitbread? How much time have you spent with him, away from your husband and children?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Sure it’s not, because it’s me, and you always think the worst about me. Leave me alone, Emily. I’m working at what I want to do. If you want to find someone who would do anything to ruin the Selig studios, you should look at Essanay.” When I looked confused, he continued. “The Essanay Film Manufacturing Company is the colonel’s competition in town. They got started when Selig’s star Broncho Billy quit and started his own studio because he was mad. He broke with the colonel when Selig wouldn’t make him a partner, and he’d do anything to spite Selig. Why don’t you ask what relationship he had with Hyde? Tom Mix is set to become the next cowboy star, and old Broncho Billy would do anything to cramp Selig’s style. Why don’t you go bother him? Let go of me, I need to catch up with the kids.” He pulled away and hurried after the children.

I was grinding my teeth with frustration when I heard Col. Selig call my name. “Mrs. Chapman, Detective Whitbread, here, was telling me that you’ve worked with him in the past and will be helping to resolve the issues around the tragic passing of Mr. Hyde.” Whitbread was watching Alden disappear into the fake jungle. “We’ll all be very grateful if we can close the book on that unfortunate incident. As you can see, we’re very busy trying to meet our schedule for our exhibitors. They expect new films each week and we advertise several weeks ahead, so we’re anxious to fulfill our promises to them. Can’t keep the public waiting, you know.”

“I’ve explained to Col. Selig that we’re doing the best we can to find out the truth about Mr. Hyde’s death,” Whitbread said. “To that end, it is necessary that we establish the backgrounds of the principals involved. I was asking the colonel how he came by his title.” Whitbread’s wiry eyebrows were raised as he attempted to look curious. I suspected he already knew the answer to his question.

“Yes, yes, well it’s an honorific, if you know what I mean.” Selig hemmed and hawed a bit. “It’s common in the world of vaudeville, don’t you know, when you organize a troupe. I had a minstrel troupe. I had a magic act before that, ‘Selig the Conjurer.’ But, yes, it was with the minstrel troupe that I was called ‘Colonel’ and it stuck. We traveled up and down California then. Those were the days. We were in Dallas when I saw an early version of the motion picture, very crude. But, back here in Chicago, we were able to develop our own mechanical version that’s far better than others and so the Selig Polyscope Company was born.”

“Thomas Edison insists he owns the patents for those things, though, doesn’t he?” Whitbread asked. Clearly, he’d already done some research.

“Hmm. Yes, yes. There have been some legal proceedings. All very costly. But, luckily, we were able to do some commercial films for the Armour Company in return for their assistance with legal issues. That freed us up considerably, yes it did.”

“Yes,” Whitbread said. “I was made aware of Mr. Armour’s interest in your company.”

I imagined he must have gotten an earful. Armour was an important businessman who had a large interest in the Chicago stockyards. His enterprises had come under attack after the book The Jungle was published. It described many horrid practices of the meatpacking industry. The meatpacker’s interest in Selig’s company, combined with the mayor’s wife’s involvement, would be a distraction for Whitbread. Armour was one more powerful man advocating for Selig. But I knew from experience that Whitbread never caved to that kind of influence, no matter what it cost him personally.

“But what about Edison…are you still having a dispute with him? I’ve heard he hires strongmen to try to maintain his rights,” Whitbread said.

“Yes, that’s been an issue. But it’s the exhibitors who suffer, I fear. Edison’s bullies have been known to go in and destroy equipment and films they claim violate his patents. But our contact with him has always been through lawyers. And, anyways, we believe there’s relief on the horizon.”

“Really? You anticipate Edison will give up some of his claims?”

“Not exactly, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter at this point. In any case, there would be no reason for Edison’s men to harm a film board censor. That’s really not their concern.”

“Yet the actions of the censor were costing you money when he failed to approve some of your films.”

“Yes, that’s true. But you can ask anyone and they’ll tell you that I’ve been very supportive of the Chicago Film Board. We want to increase the number and type of people who enjoy our films and, to do that, we need the seal of approval of the censors. I tell you, very soon everyone—families, grandparents, everyone—will find great enjoyment in the moving pictures. That’s our goal, and the censors will help us reach it.”

That sounded very conciliatory on the part of the colonel, but I wasn’t sure if I believed it.

“This must be a very costly enterprise,” Whitbread said.

Col. Selig made an expansive gesture to include the whole outdoor area. “Our studios and stables extend over five acres. We believe in giving the public the most realistic picture we can get. We have another five acres in Los Angeles where we get some of our best scenic effects. We’re spending a lot of money, but we’ll get it back.”

I stared across at the cowboys, who were once more watching Tom Mix get thrown from a bucking stallion. “How long does it take to photograph that scene?” I asked.

“We always do it at least three times. Then they have to develop the negative and we look at it. If it’s OK we send it to the print room to make prints. If it’s not, then we throw it away and do it again. The staff members can’t leave for the day till we’ve reviewed what we’ve got and made sure we can print it,” Selig said.

I wondered if my children would show up in the negatives for the cowboy scene and if that would force them to do it all over again. I hoped not, but it was on Alden’s shoulders if it happened.

“Col. Selig, my brother mentioned the actor Broncho Billy as someone who might have a grudge against you. Do you think he would have known Mr. Hyde?”

Detective Whitbread looked up at that. It was news to him.

Col. Selig considered it. “Well, Gil—Broncho Billy’s his stage name, Gil Anderson’s his real name—did some films for us but then he left and started his own studio with George Spoor. They call it Essanay. ‘S’ for Spoor, don’t you know, and ‘A’ for Anderson. They’re on West Argyle Street now. They also have their films reviewed by Mr. Hyde and the other censors, just like us. But I don’t know if he knew the man personally.”

Just at that moment, an innocent-looking young woman with large blue eyes and amber ringlets came up to us. I thought she looked like she was about sixteen and terribly out of place.

Col. Selig nodded to her. “You can wait until the negative for your scene is developed but, meanwhile, go up and tell Tom Nash we need to fix some of the posts over at the saloon. They’re falling down. He’s upstairs. Oh, sorry, this is Miss Babe Greer. She plays ingénues in our comedies. Mrs. Chapman, Detective Whitbread.”

“Colonel, is Miss Kathlyn Williams here? Mrs. Chapman is anxious to meet her,” Whitbread said, giving me a hard stare that challenged me to contradict him. I understood. In return for my participation in the investigation he wanted me to question Kathlyn Williams about her relationship with my brother. Distasteful as it might be, it had to be done and I was the one to do it.

“Why, yes. She’s shooting inside, next door to the set where Hyde was found, as a matter of fact. Miss Greer can take you up, Mrs. Chapman. I’m sure Kathlyn will be happy to talk to you, when she’s done with her scene, of course. We have a lot of time to make up after the hiatus yesterday.”

With a worried look in the direction of the jungle, hoping that the children would be safe in Alden’s care, I followed the young actress to the main building. As we entered, she pointed down a corridor on the first floor. “Down there they make the camera and projector machines,” she said. Then she led me to a large door and we peeked in. There were rows of desks where women in smocks sat peering into machines. Stacks of round canisters sat on each desk. “That’s where they inspect and finish the prints before they’re shipped out, and there are other rooms where there are no lights, only red bulbs, where they develop the films and punch holes in the sides so they’ll move on the reels. It’s like a magic factory.”

We climbed the stairs to the second floor, where Miss Greer told me there were offices for the writers and producers, individual dressing rooms for the main contract players, and shared dressing rooms for the minor players. There was a huge room full of costumes and another for props.

On the third floor, the young actress pointed to a whole wall of windows, against which a long line of people in all sorts of outfits sat or leaned. “They’re waiting to be called,” she said. “That’s how I started. I came to be an extra…in the background, you know. And Mr. Leeder saw me and he put me right into a scene with Alonzo Swift. I was so thrilled I couldn’t say a word.” She laughed. “But that was all right because they’re silent pictures. Alonzo Swift’s a thespian,” she said, clearly relishing the word. “He was in the theater in New York and around the country. He’s so well known. All the women just love him. See, he’s in the scene they’re filming with Kathlyn Williams.”

She led me across to the open-ended parlor, where they were playing the scene. It was only yards from the four-poster bed where Hyde’s body had been found. It seemed a bit sickening to think of, but the actors appeared insensible to it. The fact that they could forget the man found dead the day before made me uneasy. How could they block such a horrid scene from their minds so completely as to go about their business without any thought?

Kathlyn Williams was at the center of the tableau. She was a very beautiful blonde woman with expressive features. In the scene, she was being threatened by an evil-looking man who held a knife to her throat. Suddenly, the door burst open and a tall man with broad shoulders and smooth black hair entered. Babe Greer grabbed my arm. “That’s Alonzo Swift,” she said in a whisper. I wasn’t sure why she was being quiet, as no one else was. The producer, Mr. Leeder, yelled through a megaphone, as the cameraman cranked away at the handle on the camera. Others rushed around, just out of the camera’s eye, commenting on the action, and yelling to each other across the set. How the actors could concentrate in such chaos was beyond me, yet I was drawn to the woman at the center of it all, who was swooning in the arms of her rescuer. Could this woman be the “work” that was drawing Alden further and further away from his family? Poor Clara.