The Cutthroat

EPILOGUE

“Grandma!” came a howl from the next room of a sprawling apartment on Central Park West. “Your name’s on TV.”

“Just a minute, dear. Grandpa is holding me.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Isaac Bell, tightening his grip when Marion attempted, halfheartedly, to slip off his lap.

“Grandma!”

They were visiting the New York branch of what had become a large family of private detectives. This bunch descended from dark-eyed offspring of Harry Warren, with dollops of Millses, Dashwoods, and Abbotts.

“I better see what’s happening.”

“I’ll back you up,” said Bell.

In a book-lined room filled with toys and children, the TV was tuned to Channel 9, a local New York station that showed old movies. Film credits were flickering oddly, frozen on the screen.

“Look, Grandma.”

It looked to Bell like the projectionist was on his coffee break. Marion said the film-chain’s pull-down claw had ripped through adjacent sprocket holes. A transparent “fire door” was keeping the hot projector lamp from melting the stuck film, and wasn’t it wonderful they had transferred flammable nitrate film to safety stock.

“Grandma!”

“Marion, what time did you say the Abbotts were coming to pick up all these little urchins?” Bell asked. “They’re taking all of them ice skating in the park, aren’t they?”

“They’ll be here by three.”

“Look, Grandma,” called a persistent voice.

Marion found her glasses and looked at the end credits still shivering in place.

“Oh, it’s Jekyll and Hyde. Did you like it, children?”

“Yeah, it was neat.”

“Yes, it was fun to watch?”

“It wasn’t fun to make,” said Bell.

“Isaac!”

“See, Grandma? It says ‘Marion Morgan Bell.’ That’s you.”

“Why’s your name on the movie, Grandma?”

“Because I made it.”

“You did? It was really scary, Grandma.”

“Really spooky,” added a little boy, who had climbed the back of the chair and was now seated on Bell’s shoulder. Another started climbing the tall detective’s leg.

“Grandma, did you know Grandpa when you made the movie?”

“Look down in that corner. Can you read that?”

The frame was jumping and reading it was difficult.

“‘Special’ is the first word,” she prompted.

“‘Special… thanks — to Isaac Bell.’ That’s Grandpa!”

“The one and only,” said Marion Morgan Bell.

“With the scars to prove it.”

“Isaac, what a terrible thing to say.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Isaac, really,” Marion replied, with a shake of her head.

The little boy clinging to the back of the chair interrupted, “Was there really a Jack the Ripper?”

“Yes, he truly existed,” Isaac said. “A very evil man who was far more nasty than Grandma could show in the movie.”

“But you socked him good, didn’t you, Grandpa?”

“He certainly did, and then some.”

“Marion, it’s just…” Isaac paused as he rose from the chair. “It’s what I said all those years ago.”

Marion gave him a quizzical look.

“‘A renewal.’ Let’s open a bottle of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé. Just you and me, after Archie and Lillian pick up the children.”

Marion smiled at her silver-haired hero.

“I promised you another fifty years. Let’s celebrate to many more.”

Then swept her into his arms and kissed her.