Fritzi’s father was Noble Royce, a jolly red-nosed old ham wearing a pea coat and watch cap. One sniff and Fritzi decided he’d flavored his morning oatmeal with beer. The leader of the bad men was a wizened, sullen actor, Sam Something.
A Ford F Model touring car chugged out of the fog. The car was several years old and showed it. Doors were dented; one running board sagged. Eddie hailed the stout and homely young man at the wheel. “Bill Nix, our chief carpenter and prop man.” On the seat of Nix’s car Fritzi noticed three film magazines lashed together. She saw no camera anywhere.
The bell rang, deck hands closed the stern gates, and the ferry churned into the Hudson, sounding its horn. Gulls hunting garbage wheeled over the wake. Half a dozen workmen crossing the river with lunch pails eyed the picture people curiously. Kelly called Eddie to the rail with a brusque wave, hectored him in a low voice. Owen Stallings stepped up to Fritzi and tipped his cap.
“Hello again, little lady.”
Stabbed by a cramp at precisely that moment, she retorted, “Would you mind calling me something else? I hate to be patronized.”
He blinked his big brown eyes. “Why, sure. Say, are you one of these brassy new women always marching and demanding their rights?”
“You don’t approve, Mr. Stallings?”
“No, ma’am, I’m old-fashioned. It’s a man’s world. What’s your name again?”
Fritzi could have rushed to the barricades and fought this fool, but it would get things off to a bad start. She replied calmly. “Fritzi Crown.”
“Any relation to Crown’s beer? Used to drink that by the gallon back in Ohio.”
And his stomach was starting to show it. Big, silly ox—all those good looks and he didn’t know how to use them.
“Yes, my father owns the brewery. I’m a little chilly. I think I’ll sit in the car if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, Fritzi, I’ll see you later,” he said with another tip of his cap.
She climbed into the backseat of the Stoddard-Dayton. She noticed the black girl standing near, smiled at her. “Cold, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say.”
Fritzi patted the seat. “You’re welcome here, there’s plenty of room.”
“I’m not supposed to sit next to white folks.”
“Who says?”
“Practically the whole world.”
“Doesn’t include me.” Fritzi pushed the handle to open the door. “Sit.”
Gratefully the girl climbed in. She introduced herself as Nell Spooner, in charge of the wardrobe trunk lashed to the back of the Ford. Once she discovered that Fritzi wouldn’t bite, she chatted freely. She was a native New Yorker, she said, born on Thompson Street, in a district called Little Africa.
“We live in Harlem now, Lenox and 134th—practically the country. Daddy’s pastor of St. Jude’s Colored Methodist Episcopal Church. He says this picture business is tainted and godless.” Nell frowned. “I tell him work’s work.”
“Exactly,” Fritzi said. She noticed Sam Something giving them disgusted looks, and she stared right back. With a sneer he opened his morning Post.
The Jersey palisades loomed. The ferry docked, and the autos drove along a road at the base of spectacular cliffs for a distance of about three miles. Then the road slanted up the face of the palisade to the high bluff. Eddie asked them all to get out and walk. The cars lurched and wheezed and hesitated frequently during the climb. Sam Something complained about walking, and about the temperature, although the morning was beginning to feel more like a chilly October day than early December.
At the summit the actors rode again, bumping through pleasant countryside to Fort Lee. It wasn’t much of a place, drab buildings along a dirt street. A trolley track ran down the middle, and telephone and trolley wires crisscrossed above. A few New Jersey rustics idled on the sidewalks.
They turned off on a side street, reached a stable where Eddie jumped out to greet a ruddy middle-aged man with orange hair turning white around his ears. The man had evidently arrived in a closed delivery wagon that once might have carried milk or meat; now its wooden sides were painted over.
“Everybody, this is Jock Ferguson, our cameraman. Anyone follow you, Jock?”
“Don’t think so, laddie. Hardly anyone’s up at half past four but thieves and inebriates. Forty-second Street ferry’s dead too.”
“We’ll leave the wagon here.”
“Aye.” Ferguson opened the rear doors. He and Eddie unloaded something bulky wrapped in a bright red blanket with Navaho designs. They lugged their mysterious burden to the Ford. A stable boy with a broom wandered over and craned on tiptoe to look in. Al Kelly stepped between him and the car.
“Get the hell out of here,” he roared, and the boy fled.
They left Fort Lee on a dirt road, bound for Coytesville. Fritzi said to Nell, “What are they hiding under the blanket?”
“The camera. Pal is a blanket company.”
“So I heard. I thought it was a technical term.”
“It’s technical, all right. Mr. Kelly’s partner, Mr. Pelzer, he designed the camera and sort of accidentally included some features Mr. Edison invented and patented. Mr. Ferguson told me Edison’s even got a patent on the sprocket holes in the film. If your camera uses his inventions, you’re supposed to pay royalty to something called the Motion Pictures Patents Company, which he helped organize. It’s a trust, most of the big studios belong. Kalem, Essanay, Selig, Pathé—they all pay. So do exhibitors. If they show pictures with a patented projector, they pay the trust two dollars a week.”
“You know quite a bit about the business.”
“Been working for Pal almost a year. I listen. Plenty of time for that, nobody talks to me except to give orders.” She wasn’t bitter, only matter-of-fact.
“Does the Biograph belong to the trust?”
“Yes. Blanket companies are independents that don’t. They hide their cameras and move around a lot. The Patents Company keeps a whole flock of detectives hunting them to stop production. Worst one used to be a Pinkerton, Pearly Purvis is his name.” Nell thought a moment before she added, “They carry guns.”
Fritzi shivered. “You don’t mean it. Do they actually shoot at actors?”
“No,” Nell said, “generally they shoot the camera.”
Coytesville had a dusty main street even more primitive than Fort Lee’s. There were no emblems of progress—no autos, trolley tracks, or telephone wires. The little place could easily pass for a town out West.
The sun had cleared the trees behind them, burning away the murk. The air was warmer. They parked at a frame building with a wide veranda and steeply pitched roof. A sign above the porch eave identified RAMBO’S HOTEL, offering a choice of ROOMS, BATHS, EATS, and LAGER BEER. An assorted half dozen males jumped up from benches and rockers on the porch and surrounded Eddie. “Any work today?”
“Two outlaws needed,” Eddie said. A couple of the men fell into ludicrous poses of savagery. One flexed his biceps. Eddie inspected them while Al Kelly stood by with his arms folded and his face sour.
“You.” Eddie pointed. “And you. Two and a half dollars per man for the day. Dressing rooms are inside, upstairs.” He glanced at Nell, already untying the knots around the costume trunk. “We’ll shoot here all morning and go to the woods right after lunch. Bill?” The carpenter raised his hand. “Jock knows our afternoon location. Go out there, hang up the drop for the store interior, and knock out a couple of counters. Buy the lumber you need.”
“Don’t spend a lot,” Al Kelly said in his sandpaper voice. “We’re not shooting the Second Coming here.”
Nix walked off grumbling about doing it all himself, in the woods, without company. Owen Stallings sniffed. “I’ve never heard anyone complain so much.”
“Yeah, he makes me tired,” Kelly said. “Pretty soon he won’t have a job.”
Eddie clapped for attention. “Actors! Get inside. Dress quickly, we start in fifteen minutes.” Young as he was, he spoke
with an authority that made the actors move fast.
A porter dragged the costume trunk upstairs. The men dressed in one room, Fritzi in another. Nell helped her into a cotton dress washed colorless. “Stand still, the hem’s got to come up two inches,” Nell mumbled, on her knees with a mouthful of pins. “Sleeves fit all right. Your top’s fine.” Fritzi had of course put in her gay deceivers.
Eddie came in with a wooden makeup box. He put Fritzi in a chair and worked quickly with grease sticks and powder while Nell stayed on her knees, sewing the hem.
“Jock will tell us if we need to adjust the makeup, but I think it’ll do.” He showed her a small mirror, then ran out again, shouting, “Let’s go, everyone, time is money.”
Fritzi walked down to the porch. To her discomfort, her stomach was making unholy noises again. Eddie strung sash cord to stakes, forming a rectangle directly in front of the steps. Jock Ferguson was setting up his camera and tripod in the street, covering the rectangle, steps, and porch. A boy led a white horse around the corner of the hotel. Eddie inspected the animal, said, “I can use him.”
“How much does the nag cost?” Kelly said.
“Two dollars for the day,” Eddie answered.
“Christ. You’d think our name was Midas Pictures.”
Eddie looked sore but didn’t say anything. He opened his makeup box, quickly mixed water-based black paint in a small pie tin and painted an eagle feather on the horse’s rump.
Nervous, the horse relieved himself, and Eddie leaped back just in time. Al Kelly snorted, evidently his version of high mirth. Fritzi absolutely did not like the man. She wondered about the other partner, Mr. Pelzer. He could hardly be worse.
Sam Something and the extras came outside wearing fringed shirts and coon-tail caps, suitably grimy. Two minutes later the impossibly handsome Owen appeared in leggings, moccasins, a black wig with a center part and long braids. He’d darkened his face, arms, and brawny chest with reddish paint. He flexed his arms and grinned, looking around for admirers.
Eddie said, “We’ll start with the storekeeper being dragged out by the bad men. Noble, they knock you out and you fall down.”
“Nothing to it,” the old actor wheezed. He was weaving like a sapling in a gale, and Fritzi thought the question might be, Could he stand long enough to fall on cue?
“Sam, hit him with the butt of your pistol. Pull the blow, don’t hurt him.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the sullen actor said, busy spinning the cylinder of his rusty gun.
“All of you remember this. You must stay inside the roped area.”
Fritzi’s nerves were wound tight as Eddie chalked the name of the picture on a school slate, and a scene number. The porter had come out to gawk, joining a few locals. From his car Eddie fetched a wooden sign lettered GENERAL STORE. He hung this on a nail pounded into a porch post. “Jock, be sure you’re tilted down far enough to miss the hotel sign.”
“Aye,” Ferguson said, unscrewing something on the tripod’s pan head.
“Actors inside,” Eddie ordered. Fritzi crowded through the door with the others. They hid to either side of grimy windows. “Everyone ready?” Eddie’s voice had a queer, hollow sound, and she peeked quickly to see why. He had a small megaphone. Very handy in those noisy studios, she imagined.
“Here we go, people. Camera.”
She dabbed her upper lip with a handkerchief. Her stomach growled so loudly, Sam Something looked around. Eddie shouted, “Action. Outlaws!”
Giving Noble a shove, Sam Something snarled, “Let’s go.” It motivated the proper indignation in the old actor. In a moment Noble, Sam, and the two extras were through the door. Fritzi leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, clasped her hands prayerfully.
“Rough him up, that’s it, that’s it. Sam, bash him. That’s it, swell. On your knees, Noble—groggy, groggy! Daughter! Now!”
Fritzi ran out the door. She heard the camera grinding away, Eddie calling encouragement.
Then disaster struck. As she rushed down from the porch, she stepped on her hem and went flying.
It would have been a bad fall had she not reacted instantly. She tucked her head, shot her hands out, landed on her palms, and somersaulted forward, springing up disheveled but unhurt. It was so surprising, everyone but Kelly burst out laughing.
Eddie shouted, “Cut. Fritzi, are you all right?”
Slapping dust off her sleeves, Fritzi said, “Oh, yes. When I was nine or ten, my brother and I spent every afternoon pretending we were tumblers in the circus.”
Al Kelly’s face was wrathful. “This isn’t the big top, sister. We aren’t making a comedy.”
“I apologize for spoiling the shot, Mr. Kelly.”
“I thought it was funny,” Eddie said. “Especially the expression on your face when you popped up on your feet. You looked as surprised as anyone. Catch your breath and we’ll do the scene again.”
“I’m truly sorry.”
“It was an accident,” Eddie said, chuckling.
Kelly said, “Hearn, get this. On the budgets I write, we don’t have accidents. Your girlie better do it in one take, every time, or we’ll hire someone else. My aunt Flora isn’t that clumsy, and she weighs two fifty.”
Fritzi wanted to tell him politely that he was a boor, but an interruption forestalled it. They all heard a rattling and chugging from the direction of Fort Lee. She turned around as a black Oldsmobile drove into sight. One driver, one passenger, both male. Jock Ferguson wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“We’re in for it now, laddie.”
She didn’t need to be told that patent detectives had found them.
38. Our Heroine
As the Oldsmobile chugged toward them, Kelly exploded. “It was that damn kid who brought the horse. I’ll bet my hat his old man telephoned the city.”
Sam Something said, “Why?”
“Why? You idiot, the Patents Company. Jersey’s thick with snitches. The going price is two bucks a tip.”
Fritzi was mesmerized by the sinister black auto. The man in the left-hand passenger seat casually draped his arm over the side. Sunshine gleamed on the silver-blue metal of a revolver. Kelly shouted at Eddie, “Did you bring a gun?”
“Agun? I didn’t think that was part of a director’s equipment.”
“Next time you better think again.” Eddie flushed. Kelly stabbed a finger at Fritzi. “You. Stand next to the camera. Where’s the other one?” He found Nell. “You too, the other side. They won’t shoot women.”
Eddie said, “Mr. Kelly, I have to protest.”
“Protest all you want. I’m the boss.” Turning back to Fritzi, he said, “Do it.”
She looked at Nell, who gave a little shrug, as if to say, Who knows? Maybe he’s right.
Closer now, the detectives could be seen wearing proper suits and neckties. Her heart racing, Fritzi walked to the camera quickly, put her back against it. Nell positioned herself on the opposite side. Eddie and Ferguson exchanged angry looks.
Yellowed by road dust, the Oldsmobile kicked up a cloud when the driver braked. He jumped out, strode forward with an air of authority. His helper, a hulk squeezed into a too-tight suit, followed.
The detective wore a black suit with a fine chalk stripe. On his black vest a shiny Masonic emblem dangled from a gold chain. His cream-colored hat resembled a Western sombrero with a narrower brim. There was something familiar about him, she thought.
“Well, look here. Kelly and the forty thieves.” The detective showed his teeth in a brilliant smile, and recognition hit like an avalanche. Union Square. I need four supers. What had he been wearing that afternoon? Hello, dear, Earl’s my name. A corduroy coat, a blue railroad bandanna knotted around his neck. Care to join me after I find my four? Terrified by something in his strange eyes, light brown with gold speckling, she had refused and fled. He’d come up in the world since his days as a super captain.
He glanced around the group of actors, looking at Fritzi a second longer than the ot
hers. His beautiful smile never wavered. Kelly said, “Hello, Pearly.”
“Do I get the camera without a fight, Al?”
“When hell freezes.”
“Nuts,” Pearly sighed. “It’s too nice a day for rough stuff.” So it was, with sunshine pouring from the clear bright sky to warm Fritzi’s face and trembling hands. The detective fanned back his coat to show a silver pistol hanging butt forward in a harness. “Stand by, Buck.” The hulk cocked his revolver, an ominous sound in the stillness.
The detective walked over to Fritzi, doffed his sombrero.
“Hello, miss. Earl Purvis is my name. I sure don’t want to use force on a woman, but I mean to take possession of that illegal camera.”
Let him smile all he wanted, she thought. He was the enemy, trying to throw her out of work.
“Step aside,” he said.
She drew herself up like Mrs. Patrick Campbell playing Paula Tanqueray. Her stare registered unmistakable defiance. “No.”
He blinked; evidently he hadn’t expected resistance from a mere woman. As he scratched his chin, his features softened to something like amusement.
“You’re new in this crowd. What’s your name?”
“None of your business.”
“Well. Sassy. Have we met before?”
“I hardly think so.”
Doubtful, he gazed at her a moment longer. “I’ll ask one last time. Move away from the camera.”
“The devil I will.”
He sighed again, heavily burdened. “Buck, take the coon.” When Purvis lunged and grabbed her shoulders, Fritzi shrieked. She stamped on his pointed black shoe. Her heel connected solidly.
He swore, hopping backward on the other foot. Meanwhile, Buck ran around to Nell. Seeing Fritzi’s example, she seized Buck’s outstretched arm at the elbow and bit his wrist with the force of a snapping bear trap. “Jesus Christ,” he screamed, firing his revolver into the dirt with a reflexive jerk of his finger.
Purvis retreated a couple of steps, lowered his head like an annoyed bull. When he charged, Fritzi used a tactic she’d employed twice with Southern yahoos when her hat pin wasn’t handy. She stabbed at his eyes with both index fingers.