Cleopatra, Cops and Cosmic Connections (Ch17)
Theda Bara is Cleopatra. Theda Evora is trying to hide. And Patrick Conlin has a familiar item.
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“My, isn’t he driving like the devil is on his running board!” Violet huffed. “Slow down, Theodora! You drive like a weasel in a hen house!”
The drive from the Fort Riley Infirmary to their temporary house had been uneventful until Theda took the last turn onto the narrow Kansas road. From the desolate dirt street lined with skeletal corn stalks that closed in like enemy battalions, a car sped toward them, a cloud of brown dust exploding behind. The peaked cap on the driver stabbed fear into Theda’s heart. Police! Coming from the direction of the house!
Her fancy-booted foot pressed the gas harder and the wheels skipped over the hard-packed dirt.
“Theda!” Violet smacked her sister’s arm with her purse. “Slow down! Do you want to get us killed? There’s not enough roooomm!”
Theda pressed the gas even harder, and Violet let out a little yelp, grasping the seat with both hands. The police car showed no signs of slowing.
Wildly, Theda remembered Maxim’s tutorial on evading the law when driving in an automobile. Just go as fast as you can. Faster!
“We’re going to get killed!” Violet let go of the seat and covered both eyes with shaking white gloves.
The car swerved sideways, its front wheel nicking corn stalks and sending them into a spasm of falling toothpicks. Theda pulled the car as far right as possible without achieving the same destruction of dead stalks. We’ll make it. Barely.
“You lunatics!” The driver yelled as he passed. A fast glance over her shoulder saw the car showing no signs of turning around.
Shock number two came when she pulled the car up to the house and the highly-annoyed figure of Margaret Evora paced the front porch, hands on hips, gearing up for a verbal shredding. “What in God’s name is wrong with you, Theda?” She called.
Violet jumped from the car. “Theda is going to get me killed! I refuse to drive with her!” She huffed past Margaret and into the house. “I’m going give my nerves a break from you, Theodora!” She called over her shoulder.
Theda twirled for one last look, certain the police would realize that the person they were hunting for…her…just roared past them but the road was empty. No siren cut the whispering of the wind knifing the dead corn stalks.
Her mother’s wrath blasted the silence. “You almost hit that car! Who taught you to drive like that?”
“I’m sorry, Mother, my foot got stuck on the gas pedal! Who were they, anyway?” She forced a smile.
“Military police. Along with a New York detective.”
“Really? What did they want?” She took the porch stairs as if she were approaching the firing squad, head down, pretending to be mindful of the shaky boards that were in desperate need of repairing, but really to avoid her mother’s gaze.
“Apparently before we arrived there was another doctor who lived in this house. One day he up and left and no one has seen him since. His family hired that detective to track him down. Although it doesn’t seem like much of a mystery. Your father said another woman was involved.”
Theda let out her breath as quietly as possible, not even aware that she had been holding it since exiting the car. “Father had mentioned him to me.”
“I phoned Father at the lab and he was terribly agitated. The detective wanted to search the house again, but Father said all the missing doctor’s belongings had been packed and shipped to New York.” She turned hard eyes on her daughter. “And why were you driving like an idiot? What happened at the infirmary?”
Theda evened her voice and relayed Violet’s speedy recovery along with the afternoon plans to attend the pictures. Margaret sighed, one that Theda had heard countless times since childhood. It always signified the end of a discussion. “I suppose there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than in the company of a handsome soldier.”
“If you think listening to those two moon over each other is my idea of a fun time, you’re mistaken. Although I’m sure you’re going to send me as the third wheel regardless.”
Margaret nodded and Theda moaned, pushing the door open.
“Funny, isn’t it,” Margaret Evora said quietly. “That some people feel the need to up and disappear from their lives.” An odd note in her tone made Theda turn, frightened of another round of conversation in which she would have to remain calm as if she hadn’t had her own demons after her. But her mother was gazing at the whisps of the fading dust cloud that dissipated from existence a second later.
A few hours later, Theda entered the movie theater in Army City behind her sister and Private Billy Rankin.
“My, what a treat this is!”
Violet wove her arm through Billy’s. Theda wanted to put a shoehorn between them. Billy touched a nerve in her that she couldn’t quite name but was familiar with regardless. It was as if a dark fairy turned a snake into a man, gifting him a vile beauty. Theda stepped on the back of his boot, causing him to stop in his tracks.
“Sorry,” she shrugged. His smiled and it was plain: he didn’t like her, either.
That makes two of us. She tried to bury her disappointment over Jackson’s absence, noting that it was probably for the best. Their last encounter didn’t exactly end in promises of roses.
“This picture is over a year old, and I've been waiting that long to see it!” Violet smiled. Another lie since she had seen Cleopatra when it opened back in Philadelphia and there were lines around the block cutting through the protestors who had issue with Theda Bara’s barely-there costuming.
“Takes a little longer for some of the pictures to get to our neck of the woods, Peach.” Billy gestured to an empty row of seats close to the giant screen. He had explained on the car ride over that this early afternoon showing was usually about empty, and he was correct. There were small groups of soldiers in the front rows but the back of the theater was completely empty.
“The local ladies really hollered when it came to town. Tried to stop it from being shown and got on the theater owner for his terrible lack of taste,” he grinned. “The owner finally said that it was his patriotic duty to supply entertainment to the Army boys and that was exactly what he was going to do. Said that the soldiers shouldn’t be without their flickers, and I couldn’t agree more.” His smirk pulled one side of his mouth up like a hooked minnow. “If you get at all frightened during the flicker, just hang on to my hand.”
Theda decided to give them space. A whole theater’s worth of space. “I’m going to sit somewhere else.”
“Very well, Theda. Just don't get lost!” Violet’s idea of humor.
“Don’t worry about me. I have a map.”
She walked to where seats fell in shadow. She sat in the middle of the second to back row as the lights dimmed and the piano player rippled the keys into a Joplin rag, the music cutting through the low din of conversation that tapered off into whispers. Overhead the man in the projection box chattered, playing teacher to an underling. “You feed the film. Only touch the sides, or else you’ll give it a big fat fingerprint and everyone sees!”
On the screen Theda Bara appeared, a moving vision of enormous kohl-rimmed eyes, the filmy gauze costumes flowing like sparkling water. Theda crossed her arms and closed her eyes, unaware of the utter exhaustion that finally had a few quiet moments to take control. Here in the strange solitude she felt as if she entered a quiet oasis. The piano player switched music, ending the Joplin rag and beginning a piece in a minor chord that was slower and menacing. She opened her eyes slightly to Marc Antony strutting across the screen.
“And make death proud to take us. Cleopatra said that.”
She startled at the voice just over her shoulder. She turned slowly and in the row behind and one seat over was the driver of the yellow Martin Wasp that had been following her since Philadelphia. She stared into his deep brown eyes, his dark eyebrows raised. He wore a soldier’s uniform and up close it was worn, fraying on one elbow and emitted the slight odor of mothballs.
He contemplated the screen. “I read the papers today. The one from Junction City and the daily rag they put out at Funston. There was no mention of a man killed at the base last night. I would think that if one had witnessed it, one might report it to the authorities. Especially a girl from a fine family. Interesting that you kept quiet.”
“I’ll scream,” she whispered fiercely.”
“You could. But then I couldn’t give you this.” He unfolded his arms and held up one hand. A gold watch dangled from it.
Shaking, she plucked it from his fingers like the evil apple. Her mouth fell open.
It was Harold Evora’s watch. The Patek-Philippe. The one she had handed Maxim on the morning when she was supposed to detonate a bomb in the heart of Philadelphia. Only the watch was slightly different. The one she had handed him was only about twenty years old and had been kept in pristine condition. This one was old, weathered, the face slightly cracked, the sides were worn, as if it had spent many years rubbing against the fabric of wool trousers. For a wild moment relief washed over her. It’s not my father’s. It’s just a fake. Then she turned it over and saw the initials engraved there: H.W.E. Harold William Evora.
He spoke quietly. “Your name is Theodora Evora. Called Theda. In 1917 you struck up friendships with a rough crowd. So rough they bombed a Philadelphia police station in 1916. That was in retaliation to several arrests of anarchists. Guess they don’t like jail. None killed, numerous injuries.”
That bombing had been all over the papers. That’s how he knows. But what he said next made her go so cold she actually shivered. “And just days ago, you walked away from what would have been quite the bombing at the Federal Building.” She gripped the watch in her right hand until it was painful.
“Who the hell are you? You’re a cop.” She answered her own question by barely getting the words past the lump in her throat.
“I’m not a cop. My name is Patrick Conlin. Would you like to know where I got the watch?”
“No, I don’t. Stolen? Probably. If you stole it from…”
“That watch,” he interrupted, speaking slowly as if he were talking to a recalcitrant child, “is part of an archived collection. The Possessions of Maxim Petrovsky. The interest in him comes and goes, depending on what political situation is currently popular. The story of the anarchist, incarcerated for life for multiple murders and arson. His jail time writings survived. Quite the manifesto for the young and up-and-coming rebel.”
“Maxim was never arrested,” she said before almost choking again. Stupid idiot! You just admitted it all!
“This him?” He reached inside his coat pocket and handed her a photograph.
It was Maxim. His eyes were beaten bloody, one closed all the way in a dark puff, the other open as much as he could permit but there was no mistaking the look of fury in that one dark eye. Facial bruises ended in his thick black hair shorn almost bald. Written in white pencil over his head were his name and a string of numbers. And the date.
10- 5 - 20.
She raised her eyes and his image blurred through her tears. The tears weren’t from a place of love for Maxim. It was never love to begin with, only a fleeting infatuation that soured when she realized his violent ideals clashed with what she aspired to be. Do no harm. Her father had taught her that. And she intended to live it.
“The picture is going to end, and you'll leave with your sister. I need to slip out of the back door before anyone notices me in this very white place. You and I need to talk.”
“No. I know who you are,” she said, not knowing at all who he was but stalling for time. If I can keep him talking this picture will end, and I’ll get help. “My father told me to watch out for people like you. Blackmail! That’s it, isn’t it? Your friend followed me all over Philadelphia. But now I know what you both were up to. You’re threatening me with this information. For money. You want money. Tell me how much. I’ll get it and you’ll go away.”
“You're in danger,” he said simply. “And the danger has nothing to do with those Philadelphia boys. It's here. At Fort Riley.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You don’t have to believe anything, but it’s in your best interest to hear what I have to say.” he rose. “There’s a field not far from here. If you walk toward the base, you’ll see it. Big, open field with replicas of the planes the Wrights flew. I’ll go there now. You get away from your sister and Private Rankin. Something tells me they’d prefer to be alone anyway.” He smiled slightly. “Will you come?” He reached over and gently took the photo from her and tucked it inside his jacket.
Her mind raced. She just had to go back to the house and wait it out for less than twenty-four hours, when she would be on a train heading far from this place. But he followed me all the way here. She’d spent the rest of her life looking over her shoulder? Constantly searching for a yellow Martin Wasp crawling behind her in the street?
No. It was better to confront this now. No matter what happened, she had to get rid of this guy one way or another.
“I’ll be there.” He nodded and began moving toward the aisle. The piano player’s music rose in a loud crescendo, coinciding with the climax of the picture, the double suicide of Marc Antony and Cleopatra. She held the asp over her breast and lay back on a chaise as the venom did its job.
“Maxim never killed anyone,” she blurted and he stopped. “And he was never arrested. That photograph is a fake.”
“You're right. It’s 1918. He’s never been in prison. And he hasn’t killed anyone.” The smile faded and his eyes turned hard. “But he will.”
He silently walked the row until he reached the aisle and made a right toward the back of the theater just as the film flickered in its last frames. Then the familiar sound above of the slap slap slap of the film as it finally released itself from the reel. The lights brightened, and Patrick Conlin was nowhere to be seen.
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GRACIAS
GRACIAS