The Boys, as he called Barrett and Buchanan, had always been geniuses at booming a tour, but for Jekyll and Hyde they were outdoing themselves, and the bookings more than made up for the expense of freeloading journalists. On this leg of the tour, they had even attracted a wire-service writer, whose nationally published articles would boost ticket sales in Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and Denver, all the way to San Francisco.
Barrett took a sip from his teacup, having apologized for not joining the drinkers with a solemn, “Duty calls at eight-thirty.” A second sip, and he added, “If Mr. Buchanan looks like Jekyll, I am almost certainly Hyde.”
“But how do you slip so effortlessly from Jekyll into Hyde?”
“Slip? One never slips from Jekyll into Hyde. One emerges from Jekyll into Hyde!”
It was not all a bed of roses. One crotchety writer—a failed thespian, Barrett had no doubt—asked, “What, exactly, happened that stopped the show last Thursday in Columbus?”
The publicist answered smoothly, without mentioning the dread Rick L. Cox by name. “A man in the audience suffered some sort of attack of agitation. He became so disturbed that he began shouting while the actors were performing. The theater’s house manager decided, cautiously but wisely, to lower the curtain while the ushers attempted to calm the man and until he could be escorted from the auditorium.”
The crotchety writer checked his notebook, and asked, “What did the man mean by shouting, ‘Those are my words! I wrote that’?”
Barrett stepped in. “Mr. Buchanan and I asked that very same question after the show. We were informed that the poor fellow was so confused that he literally didn’t know his own name. The doctors ordered him removed to an asylum, where they could examine him thoroughly. I’m afraid that is all we know at the moment.” He shook his head, and those nearest thought they saw his eyes mist with tears, an arresting sight in such a leonine head.
“Isn’t it a sad reminder that the mask of tragedy is not worn only on the stage?”
They were nodding reflectively when John Buchanan strode in from his car, bellowing, “Forgive me, lady and gentlemen of the press, forgive me. Mundane duty called. When our generous backers catch up in Toledo, they will expect an accounting of our production, accurate to the penny . . . Are you enjoying the Jekyll & Hyde Special?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Buchanan.”
“You run a mighty hospitable train.”
“Can I ask you, Mr. Buchanan? Examining your tour schedule, I note that after one week each in Toledo and Detroit, you will play a full extra week in Cincinnati, which is longer than you’re scheduled for St. Louis and Denver. Are you at all nervous about committing to such a long run in Cincinnati?”
“Not in the slightest. We’ve always encountered the most astute audiences in Cincinnati. And it’s good for the company to settle in now and then for a longer run.”
Jackson Barrett stole a look at the Chicago lady’s notebook and winked at the publicist. Her opening sentence would practically pay for the train.
Two of the handsomest actors that ever graced the modern stage are heading for Chicago with hope in their hearts and charm to burn.
The wily old publicist nodded a clear signal that The Boys better toss a coin to choose who would thank her at an intimate supper after the show.
Buchanan finished his answer.
Barrett picked up the cudgel.
“Cincinnati is a splendid omen for the continued success of Jekyll and Hyde. The Civil War general who commanded the troops that saved Cincinnati from Confederate invasion was named Lew Wallace. I am sure that each and every one of you remembers that when he retired in peacetime, Lew Wallace wrote a famous novel called . . . Lady? Gentlemen?”
“Ben-Hur,” they chorused.
“The novel that inspired the play Ben-Hur.”
“The most successful play in the history of the American theater.”
“Which,” Barrett fired back, “launched the most lucrative road show ever!”
“At least,” said Buchanan, “until the good people of Toledo, Detroit, and Cincinnati buy their tickets.”
More scribbling, more grins from their publicist.
The clock struck the hour, and things got even better.
Isabella Cook breezed into the car in a diaphanous tea gown. Two qualities struck anyone who had only seen her on the stage. Up close, she was tiny. And, seen in person, her big, round eyes were bigger, her bow lips more sensual, and her aquiline nose straighter than seemed possible on a mortal.
“I hope I am not interrupting.”
The male reporters leaped to their feet. The lady from Chicago wrote,