The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [14]
“Perhaps he had theater tickets, too,” he said, recovering again almost instantly. “He might be sitting next to us tonight, in fact.”
“No,” I pressed. “There was something decidedly odd in his manner with the final cadaver. You must have seen it.”
“Not really,” Turk replied, his eyes sweeping the crowded room. “I expect that he just didn’t want to cut up someone so young and pretty.” He removed his watch from his vest pocket. “It’s time to be going,” he announced.
I thanked Turk again for paying the bill and followed him back through the restaurant. We repaired to the hansom and journeyed south and farther east until, after about ten minutes, we reached our destination, the Front Street Theatre. I again was surprised by the plethora of carriages in the street.
There was a good deal of milling about on the sidewalk under the marquee—no one who could help it ventured into a street where so many horses were idling. The atmosphere was gay and boisterous, quite unlike, say, the Arch Street Theater downtown, where Mrs. Drew demanded decorum even if one had come to witness a comedic revival of Augustin Daly or a Dion Boucicault melodrama.
Turk jumped out of the hansom, gesturing for me to follow. We barged into the lobby, forcing our way past any number of our fellow theatergoers, each of whom, in turn, was endeavoring to force his way past those in front of him. The crowd was a remarkable polyglot—everything from common louts to finely dressed swells, and even a few couples in evening clothes. I’d heard that many otherwise fashionable members of society came to theaters such as this to mix with the more common elements of society, but I’d thought the tales apocryphal. I no longer felt so ridiculous in my suit and hat although, taking Turk at his word, I suspected those in better dress—like me—were at some risk of their possessions from pickpockets who had undoubtedly intermixed themselves in the throng.
Turk pulled me off to the side, where a sallow-faced man with slicked hair in a dilapidated cutaway coat was standing in front of a doorway.
“Ah, Mr. George,” said the man with a small obsequious bow and a distinct burr to his speech. “So nice to see you again.”
Turk produced two tickets, which the man examined. “Box number three,” he said. “Up the stairs on the right.”
“Mr. George?” I asked Turk as we climbed to the mezzanine floor.
“No one knows anything more about me than they need to,” he replied absently. He stopped and took me by the elbow. “To people down here, I’m just ‘George.’ I would appreciate it, if we happen on any of my acquaintances tonight, that you remember that.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
Turk found our box and we took the two front seats. As he had predicted, the cushions were worn and lumpy. The once- burgundy velvet coverings had weathered into a dull brown and the floor had clearly not been swept in some weeks. Over the railing, I could see the crowd below, mostly those of lesser means, shuffling in their seats with anticipation, more like a bacchanal mob than theatergoers awaiting the evening’s entertainment. The orchestra was a squalid bunch whose instruments appeared to have been rescued from the ravages of some great flood or earthquake.
Soon the house lights went down, the arc lights at the foot of the stage went up, and the musicians began to play. The sense of expectation in the air was distinctly primal. The curtain rose to reveal two lines of female dancers, one at either side of the stage, and at their appearance the audience broke into a cheer that sounded to me like a lascivious whoop. The dancers wore short, bodicelike dresses, purplish red stockings that ran in a crisscross pattern up to the middle of their thighs, and shiny black shoes. They danced with frozen smiles, and all were heavily