Marblehead

by Richard A. Lupoff

Genres: Science Fiction; Military Sci-Fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

Marblehead encompasses all of 1927, a year in which H.P. Lovecraft, researching a book he'd been hired to write for the Nazis, travels the East Coast in the company of Charles Sylvester Viereck.

Release date: April 28, 2016

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 376

Sample

ALTHOUGH HOWARD had put aside his reading and not yet lifted pen for his evening’s correspondence, he still wore the squarish, rimless glasses that he used for close work. He sat slumped in his old high-backed leather chair, the dark wool of his suit blending with the color of the chair.

He sat alone in the room, fingers steepled beneath his prominent chin, gazing out the tall wooden-framed window into the chill Providence evening. The sky was completely black, what stars might have been shining covered by the thick clouds that had loomed through the afternoon. Now a wet snow was falling, the large flakes illuminated by the streetlamps of Barnes Street before turning to chilly puddles when they hit the pavement beneath the lamps and the surface of Barnes Street itself.

Howard glanced at the stack of papers near at hand—incoming letters awaiting reply, amateur journals, portions of his own manuscripts and those of revision clients. He raised the glasses carefully and rubbed his eyes with forefinger and thumb, then settled them once more, adjusting the metal arms in the short dark hair above his ears.

Surely the most intriguing item in the stack was the letter that had arrived from New York City, neatly typed on the letterhead of the Jackson Press. This, Howard would discuss with a trusted friend; all the more reason to anticipate the arrival of young Belknapius and his parents. Not that he mistrusted his two aunts, Annie Gamwell and Lillian Clark, both of them puttering about the apartment while considerately avoiding his immediate vicinity.

But neither aunt was of a literary predilection, while Belknapius, for all his tender years—little more than a child of twenty-three as compared with Grandfather Theobald, Howard’s, ancient thirty-six—was a promising youngster indeed and a published author already. Just this year Paul Cook had issued a slim volume of the young man’s verse: The Man from Genoa and Other Poems by Frank Belknap Long, Jr., Athol, Massachusetts, 1926. 1926—a mere matter of hours and the year would be sped, ’27 upon the unready world, and what would the new year bring?

Howard leaned forward and peered into the darkness of Barnes Street, trying to pierce the snowy gloom to the westward and down College Hill toward the corner of Congdon Drive where Barnes curved away into Jenkes Street, and up which the elder Frank Long would guide the perky new Essex of which Belknapius had written with enthusiasm.

Perhaps Howard would join young Long in the ranks of the booked. The Jackson Press letter had arrived as a total surprise, provoking thoughts—indeed, in retrospect, outrageous fantasies—of an offer to collect Howard’s stories and issue them to the public in suitably dignified form. After all, there was surely sufficient material by now, nearly twenty had appeared in Henneberger’s magazine under the tutelage of Baird or Wright. And that wasn’t counting the Houdini ghost-work or any of his other revision work. He could select his very best efforts for the book, undoing such mischief as the atrocious change of title that had been inflicted on poor “Arthur Jermyn,” omitting the Herbert West series he’d unwisely undertaken for Home Brew.

That was one pitfall that he must avoid in future, writing to order. Aesthetic considerations must govern; when mere commerce, the requirements of editors, were superposed upon the shoulders of the muse she invariably fled, holding herself aloof thereafter until the pure flame of artistic passion had burned away the dross of material greed.

But the Jackson Press letter had not dealt with those carefully wrought stories that Howard labored so carefully over before affixing his chaste and dignified by-line, H. P. Lovecraft. The letter had delved into other matters altogether, and the signature appended to the businesslike message was one that gave Howard such doubts and difficulties as must needs be discussed with another mind of like inclination to his own. At one time he might even have discussed the matter with Sonia, but that phase of his life was a closed volume. The final dissolution of their marriage was a subject difficult and painful to contemplate, marking as it would not only the failure of an enterprise so hopefully undertaken a mere few years ago, but also an unseemly proceeding for a gentleman. Yet, even though the marriage endured as a legal obligation there was little remnant of the brief intimacy that Howard and Sonia had enjoyed during their time together in New York.

Howard sighed, set his reading glasses to one side and rose from the chair. He stood at the tall window for a moment and watched several automobiles make their careful way up Barnes Street, climbing College Hill toward the Moses Brown School for Boys. No sign as yet of the elder Long’s little matchbox-shaped car, but down the hill and toward downtown Providence the lights glimmered feebly through the steady, damp snow, setting a mood for the onset of the new year that was a subtle amalgam of the festive and the melancholy, a mood that reflected Howard’s own feelings about himself, his life and his career.

From the kitchen Howard’s pretty, spirited Aunt Annie bustled into the parlor, a steaming coffee-pot in her hand. She asked Howard if he would like a cup and he followed her back to the kitchen, accepted a freshly-filled cup, added three spoons of sugar. He lifted the steaming, syrupy concoction and sampled its flavor, then added another spoonful of sugar and nodded his satisfaction.

“Thank you, niece,” he intoned solemnly. “How great a comfort to old Grandfather Theobaldus that his descendants care for him in his declining years.”

Annie laughed, dodged around Howard’s tall, somber form and rejoined her elder sister Lillian, setting out sweetcakes and hors d’oeuvres for the Longs and themselves. A quiet evening at home was the pleasantest and most economical way to welcome 1927.

Bestowing a grandfatherly smile on his two aunts, Howard carried his coffee back to the parlor and stood once more at the window overlooking Barnes Street. At last a car that he recognized from advertising pictures as a new Essex swung from Jenkes into Barnes. The driver swung the car over to the curb beneath the leafless boughs of a tall elm. Through the closed window and the soft, muffling snow the sound of the auto’s engine died, then the glow of the headlights, also softened by the whirling flakes, disappeared.

Howard stood, looking down into Barnes Street, waiting for the arrival of his guests.

In the rear seat of the Essex, Frank Belknap Long, Junior, waited for his father to climb out of the car, into the damp, frigid Providence air. Frank Belknap Long, Senior, opened the passenger door and helped his wife to alight from the car, then Belknap—everyone called him that to distinguish him from his father—folded the seat forward and climbed from the car also.

After the stuffy air of the car and the long ride from the Longs’ home at 100th Street and West End Avenue, the air here was rhapsodically refreshing.

Frank Long reached back into the Essex and drew out a few brightly-wrapped belated gifts for the Lovecraft aunts, Mrs. Gamwell and Mrs. Clark. Belknap held his own gift for his friend Howard under one over-coated arm. It was a copy of The Ghost Pirates by William Hope Hodgson that Belknap had ferreted out in one of his prowls of the old book stalls along Fourth Avenue. Howard would enjoy the book, of course, for its outré theme and dark atmosphere, but even more, Belknap hoped, it would remind his friend of the many enjoyable hours they had spent together prowling just such book stalls during Howard’s stay in the metropolis.

They made their way up the wooden steps to the front door of 10 Barnes, then waited until the door was answered by Howard Lovecraft’s Aunt Annie.

“Doctor Long, Mrs. Long—May—and Belknap. We’re so happy to see you. Please, come along inside!”

The glass-paneled door shut with a thump and Belknap followed the others into the Lovecraft parlor. Howard set down a steaming cup and advanced to shake hands formally with the visitors.

“Doctor. Mrs. Long. Belknapius.”

Howard’s second aunt, Lillian Clark, emerged from the kitchen wiping her eyeglasses and the ceremony of greetings was repeated. After the visitors’ wraps were hung and refreshments served the party separated into two groups, the senior Longs and Howard’s aunts remaining in the front parlor overlooking Barnes Street while the two younger men withdrew to Howard’s study where they could discuss matters of interest to literary persons, fantaisistes like themselves, undisturbed by mundane conversation.

Howard thanked Belknap for the Hodgson and presented him with a Poe collection in return, then asked if Belknap had as yet seen the January Weird Tales. “Aha, I thought not,” he responded to Belknap’s negative. “Old Farnie sent me a couple of copies, you’re welcome to have one. The magazine should be on the stands next week, I suppose.”

Belknap Long watched Howard delve into a stack of papers beside the ancient Postal typewriter that stood on Howard’s wooden desk. “I’ll never understand how you get saleable manuscripts out of that antediluvian machine,” he commented, “it must be older than I am.”

“The truth of the matter is that I despise typewriting.” Howard continued to rummage through the stacks. “But at the rates Joe Henneberger pays, I could hardly pay to have a professional secretary. Using that noble old damned machine makes the strain of typewriting just a bit more bearable. Ah! Here it is!”

He turned toward Belknap, holding a familiarly red-bordered magazine. Long took the magazine, examined its crudely painted cover illustration and clucked over it before turning to the table of contents. “I never did get over the return to the smaller size. You know, I enjoyed the old oversized Weird Tales far more.”

“Commerce, Belknapius, commerce.”

“Well, let’s see what we have here. I’m happy to see that interminable Leahy serial ending at last. Ah, ‘The Horror at Red Hook.’ Well, congratulations, Howard. A fine story, I greatly enjoyed reading it when you sent me the manuscript. Glad to see that friend Farnsworth made no objection to it.”

“Wright is an odd one, all right.” Howard chuckled at his accidental pun. “But he went for ‘Red Hook’ so I have no complaint on that score. At least my residence in your city yielded a couple of passable yarns if nothing more.”

“Yes, I liked ‘He’ as much as the new story. But surely you enjoyed living in New York to some degree or you wouldn’t have stayed as long as you did, Howard.”

Lovecraft took a few paces, head down, hands locked behind his back. “I suppose I did. Certainly the book shops are treasure troves yet, and there were other attractions. The surviving architecture of colonial days is interesting. But the mongrels, Belknap! The Asiatic hordes and mongrel multitudes that throng the streets of that city! I fear that the United States has simply lost New York to those swarthy foreigners! May the hills of His Majesty’s Colony of Rhode-Island and Providence Plantations never suffer the sullying tread of such!”

Belknap made a noncommittal sound hoping to placate his friend. Howard’s Anglophilia and antiquarianism were traits of long standing, widely known among his friends. In a sense they were admirable traits; certainly Howard defended his positions with logic and eloquence. But on occasion they tended to become a trifle out-of-proportion to the topic at hand.

“Is there anything else of interest in the issue?” Even as he asked, Belknap’s eye was scanning the contents page. He read aloud the blurb that accompanied the listing of his friend’s contribution. “ ‘The cults of darkness are rooted in blasphemies deeper than the well of Democritus.’ Hah! What has the well of Democritus to do with your yarn?”

Howard shrugged dark-clad shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine, O Belknapius. Who can fathom the whims of editors? Yes,” he went on, answering Long’s previous question, “there are a couple of interesting pieces in the issue. Do you see a little story called ‘The Lost Race’ by someone named Robert E. Howard? A new man for Weird Tales, I think, and quite promising. He shows a real feeling for the ancient world of the northern barbarians. I recommend the story very highly. I may even send a note to Wright about the man.”

Belknap was still studying the pulp magazine. “ ‘Ye Goode Olde Ghoste Storie,’ ” he read. “By someone called William A. P. White. They’ll never get anywhere running silly stuff like that. Well, let’s have a look at the letter page.” He slid onto an old wooden chair and turned the pages of the magazine. Finally he stopped, held the magazine open with one hand and unconsciously brushed his small, neatly-trimmed young man’s moustache with the other. “Why, look here, Howard. Did you read this letter from a fellow named Ramsauer in Brooklyn?”

Howard Lovecraft had read the letter and so indicated, but he didn’t discourage Belknapius from reading it aloud.

“ ‘Such writers as Frank Owen, H. P. Lovecraft, Arthur J. Burks and Bassett Morgan are genuine finds of the century.’ Very nice, I would say.” Long looked up and smiled, his own rimless eyeglasses, similar to the reading glasses Howard Lovecraft had set aside in the parlor, caught the color of a shaded electric lamp. “I’d be very happy to see the fans writing that kind of thing about me.”

“Yes, surely.” Howard drew a long breath, then added “Whoever this fellow is, he puts together a somewhat odd bag of writers. Owen is certainly an artist in whose company I am happy to find myself. The others—I am not so certain. Still, kind words make pleasant hearing.”

Belknap was still flipping the pages of Weird Tales. He stopped when he came to his friend’s story and studied the accompanying illustration.

Lovecraft chuckled. “Not too impressive, is it?”

“I’m glad you are the one to say so, Howard. Kind of a vague scrawl of monsters, eh? Not quite what the story puts me in mind of, I’m afraid. Where does Farnsworth Wright find these illustrators of his? You’d think there should be some competent delineators in Chicago!”

He closed the magazine and handed it back to Howard, who restored it, somehow, to its place in the stack of materials from which he had extracted it. “I suppose, Belknapius, that Wright hires the best men he can get for the pittances that Joe Henneberger pays. You know Weird Tales’ pay rates as well as I, and they are anything but generous! Not that Henneberger is being tight, I suppose. You know the magazine has been near collapse almost from the day of its birth. The wonder is that Henny keeps it going at all.”

“Still, Howard, I cannot help wondering what might have followed if you’d only gone out there to take it over when Ed Baird left. Henneberger so clearly wanted to hire you!”

“And live in Chicago?” Howard Lovecraft made a face that showed his disdain for the very idea. “New York was enough of an affront to my nature. I am too much a product of this old New England atmosphere, nephew, ever to leave it again for any lengthy periods. I don’t mind traveling to visit friends and to see such survivals of colonial times as offer themselves, but to sever my permanent attachment to old Providence and make a home in the crude, noisy middle west is totally beyond the pale. Never again will I give up living where I can see my precious College Hill, Federal Hill, Swan Point. The Seekonk. And Boston, Salem, Marblehead.” He held his hands out as if to encompass the geography. “This is my home.”

“Still,” Long countered, “as you said, Howard, there is commerce. One must make a living.”

Lovecraft nodded solemnly. “That is the other matter I wished to discuss with you, Belknapius. I have had a letter. I would let you read it yourself—you may see it in a few minutes—but the signature will be a surprise to you.”

Long nodded agreement and Lovecraft began to read the letter on the Jackson Press letterhead. “ ‘My Dear Mr. Lovecraft,’ he opens, ‘You will forgive, I hope, my writing to you. Your name has been suggested to me by mutual acquaintances, one of whom, Mr. Reinhardt Kleiner, is a loyal subscriber to a number of periodicals edited by myself. The other is Mr. Abraham Merritt, an employee of Mr. William Randolph Hearst, for whom I have done much work as a journalist and editor. Mr. Merritt tells me that he is acquainted with yourself and with your work, and that you might be interested in a proposition which I wish to make to you.’

“What do you think of that?” Lovecraft asked Belknapius, looking up from the letter.

“A. Merritt. I remember the occasion clearly, he called at our apartment in New York to invite you to lunch at his club. And I was too busy to come along! I’ve regretted it ever since.”

“Well. To continue. There is not much more to the letter. ‘I have been engaged in a good deal of editing and writing on matters of current and historical interest, but have found, regrettably, that in many quarters my by-line is held in suspicion. I seek nothing but honest reporting and the rectification of historic injustices, and I would wish to enlist your aid in bringing about this rectification.

“ ‘Financial aspects of such work would be subject to discussion, but I believe that the pay would be most attractive to yourself.’ And he goes off,” Lovecraft added, “asking me to contact him at my earliest convenience. And that is all that there is to the letter.”

Belknap Long stroked his round, boyish chin with the handsome cleft. “All too mysterious for my little mind, Howard. What did he mean by his by-line being held in suspicion? And just what is it that he wants from you? Is he just some revision client?”

“Hardly! I don’t mind polishing up other writers’ prose for a fee. That’s honorable enough work. But that is not what this fellow wants. But wait till you hear his name. Or—better yet—He folded and turned the letter so the younger man could read the typewritten signature beneath the ink-scrawled flourish at the bottom of the page.

“George Sylvester Viereck!”

“The very!” Howard Lovecraft chuckled loudly. Long joined in weakly.

“I’m glad that you can laugh at Viereck now, Howard. Time was when the very mention of his name and you would virtually froth at the mouth.”

“That was long ago.”

“True enough. But—have you changed your views that much? I remember things you wrote about Viereck in the United Amateur Press Association that were blood-curdling!”

“Well. You recall the events of the day, Belknap. Viereck was making the Kaiser’s case in the public press during the Great War. You recall the scandal of 1915, the German embassy money, the G-men capturing the Heinrich Albert documents and implicating Viereck in the whole ugly propaganda operation of the Hun.”

“I was hardly more than an infant in 1915,” Belknap Long smiled.

“You were participating in the United.”

“Yes.” Long and Lovecraft were both silent for several moments during which the conversation from the parlor drifted through to Howard’s study. Then Long said, “Yes, I remember those events. I remember that uproar in the United over it, also.”

“That buffoon Goodwin,” Howard mumbled. “And you remember the outcome, Belknapius?”

“I remember you wrote a poem about it, about Goodwin’s coming to Viereck’s defense. But I’m afraid I don’t remember the lines.”

“I’ve got it here somewhere.” Again Howard bent to the stacks of miscellaneous documents that comprised his filing system.

Before he emerged there was a timid knock at the door of the study and the voice of an aunt inviting Howard and Belknap to the parlor for ice cream and candy. “It’s nearing midnight. We’ll welcome 1927 with a little feast.”

“Just a few minutes, Niece Lillian.” Howard straightened, a small, neatly printed amateur journal in his hand. “Here, Belknapius, The Conservative, October 1915. The thunderbolt had struck in August, when the European struggle was just a year old. Then young Goodwin made his asinine remarks and I responded in verse.”

“I remember now. He’d said something about ‘No kidding.’ ”

“And I responded, here,” Lovecraft read:

“No kidding, Goodwin, you with wisdom say

That England likes not George Sylvester’s way:

The honest truth poor Viereck ne’er could speak,

And Britons hate a liar and a sneak!”

“You were rather hard on the fellow, Howard.” Belknap tugged at the crease in his woolen, trousers. “Did Viereck ever receive The Conservative?”

Lovecraft shook his head. “I doubt it. Of course, if he is a friend of Kleiner’s, Reinhardt might have shown him a copy.”

Belknap rubbed his chin. “ ‘The honest truth poor Viereck ne’er could speak,’ ” he quoted. “And now he wants—what was the phrase?”

Howard read the line from Viereck’s Jackson Press letter. “ ‘Honest reporting and the rectification of historic injustices.’ To Kaiser Bill, presumably. Remember what I called him?”

“Bill Hohenzollern,” Belknap supplied, and Howard Lovecraft joined him so they completed the phrase in unison, “head of Berlin Butchers’ Local Number 1914.”

He slipped the slim magazine back into its place and started toward the door.

“Have you answered Viereck’s letter?” Long asked.

Lovecraft shook his head. “I need to give it some thought. The man is a legitimate fantaisiste, you know, Belknapius. Have you seen his book House of the Vampire? It dates from before his involvement with politics. Not really a bad effort. Perhaps I ought to talk with the man, at least. Certainly if he’s recommended by A. Merritt there must be some—”

He stopped and they both laughed at the obvious play that must follow, then rejoined Howard’s two aunts and Belknap’s parents for ice cream and coffee and the welcoming in of 1927.

THE FIRST DAY of 1927 was cold and damp, with a light rain still falling early in the afternoon when Howard rose. After the departure of the guests the previous night his two aunts had retired, leaving Howard the lone possessor of the Lovecraft-Gamwell-Clark household. This was his preference. He was long accustomed to nocturnal habits, preferring the quiet and privacy of the late night hours to the bustle and distractions of the day. More often than not it was his practice to sit up through the night reading, working, or simply sitting and dreaming the waking dreams that he had indulged in since boyhood and that, along with true dream-experiences—all too often nightmares—provided the basis for so many of his fantastic short stories.

The Longs were already present, their new Essex drawn once more to the curbside in Barnes Street, when Howard emerged from his bedroom. He greeted them and his aunts, then withdrew to the kitchen to devour a breakfast of sweet black syrupy coffee and scrambled eggs prepared by his aunt Lillian, accompanied only by the younger Long.

Belknap pulled a small briar pipe from the pocket of his suit coat and fingered it as he watched Howard add a few more spoonfuls of sugar to his cup, then Belknapius slipped the pipe back into his pocket and in its place accepted a cup of coffee. They spoke again of their literary enterprises, their amateur activities and their work for Joe Henneberger’s Weird Tales magazine. Howard mentioned that he was looking forward shortly to receiving proofs of his lengthy study for the forthcoming journal The Recluse to be issued by W. Paul Cook, the wizard of Athol, Mass.

“I was very pleased with the job he did on The Man from Genoa,” Long volunteered. “His new periodical should be a worthy showcase for your work, Howard.”

“Sometimes I despair of achieving the coverage I have sought in my work. Did I tell you the title I finally settled upon for the study? Supernatural Horror in Literature. Simple and accurate, I hope.”

“Suitably dignified as well.”

“I wonder if I ought to add my newer discoveries, though. As written the piece omits a number of worthy authors. I’ve only just discovered this Englishman, William Hope Hodgson.

“The volume you gave me looks very promising. I read a few pages before retiring. He certainly starts off with a bang. That opening sea chantey has an authentic feel to it, and then Jessop’s story of signing aboard the Mortzestus in San Francisco.”

Howard walked to the stove and returned with the pot of coffee, refilling Belknapius’ cup as well as his own, talking as he moved about the room. “I know almost nothing about the author, but I believe he did have some sort of nautical background. A promising writer, I think he was killed in the Great War. One more crime for which Bill the Butcher should be made to account.”

He replaced the porcelain-gray pot and returned to his seat opposite Long. “For millennia man has associated the sea with weird and sinister themes. Some of Poe’s greatest works have nautical themes.”

“Well, and your own, Howard. ‘Dagon’ for one.”

“Yes,” Howard Lovecraft admitted. “Don’t omit your own tale of the Jormungandar. I wish you’d finish that thing and get it into print somewhere. It’s one of your better pieces.”

Long chuckled softly and grinned, not speaking.

“Methinks, Belknapius, that thou has a secret hidden beneath thy cap this day!”

“I sent the yarn off to Farnie weeks and weeks ago. Would have sent it sooner but I couldn’t think of a name for the peculiar thing. Finally called it ‘The Man with a Thousand Legs.’ ”

“A trifle lurid, perhaps. But, more’s the point, what said Brother Pharnabus when he saw the manuscript? Did he fiddle the way he usually does, or did he give you a sensible answer?”

“He’s taken it. I have his letter at home. It’s to run some time next summer. And to celebrate, you’re invited to join me at the Albee Theatre tonight. They’re putting on a gala new year’s show. I don’t know that the film will be of exceptional merit but they’re co-featuring an appearance by Nicola the Conjurer.”

“Capital, my good fellow!”

They joined the others in the parlor. The senior Long was nattering on about the events of the day, whether Coolidge would seek an additional term in the presidency, Secretary Mellon’s plan to improve Prohibition enforcement by spiking all industrial alcohols with irremovable poisons (the Providence Journal reported that Mr. Franklin L. Dickson of the Rhode Island Office of Food and Drugs disagreed with Secretary Mellon’s idea, calling the tactic excessive), the un-attributed rumor that the United States planned to extend diplomatic recognition to the Bolshevik regime in Russia, the seizure of United States oil holdings in Mexico, the statement by Commerce Secretary Hoover that one and three quarter million radios had been sold during 1926 bringing the total number in the US to five million, the prediction by Professor Tchijovsky of the University of Moscow that war would break out in 1929 inevitably.

Professor Tchijovsky based his prediction upon the study of sunspots.

The two aunts retired to prepare a light evening meal while Howard, Belknap, Frank Long, Senior, and May Doty Long sat in the parlor. The short New England winter afternoon had fled. The all-day rain had thinned to a gray mist that hung over Providence like soft gauze. May Long, wearing a long necklace of dark beads, ran the strands up and down in her hands until Annie Gamwell popped her head back into the parlor and announced that dinner was about to be served. Then May dropped her beads and crossed to the kitchen to help bring out the food. She was from old Newburgh money.

Afterwards Frank Long, Senior announced that he and his family would return home early the following day. That would be Sunday. He was a highly successful dentist and oral surgeon and his practice demanded that he be present, rested and steady of hand, Monday morning.

Howard bundled himself into sweater, suit coat and overcoat, muffler, hat and gloves, and accompanied Belknap and his parents to the Essex. He had a severe problem with cold weather—not merely a dislike of it, but an actual physical peculiarity that made him acutely uncomfortable, lethargic, and drove him almost into a coma if he ventured out into it without precautions.

Long Senior managed the Essex back down College Hill without great difficulty. Despite the moist snow of the previous day and today’s rain, the streets had not frozen over and driving was relatively safe and easy. He pulled up before the Albee Theatre and got out of the car so Belknap and Howard could tilt the folding seat and extricate themselves without disturbing May Doty Long.

Howard shook hands with Frank and with May and promised to visit them in New York shortly, then he and Belknap made their way into the somewhat sparse crowd in the shelter of the Albee’s marquee. The evening of January 1 was not a very festive one. Shop windows and restaurants still featured Christmas decorations that would be removed in the morning. Men in overcoats and fedoras, women in fur wraps, long coats and hats passed, their faces pale in the artificial light, their breath merging into the misty air.

Belknapius purchased general admission seats and they made their way through the gilt-and-plush lobby into the auditorium where May Busch and Pat O’Malley were gesturing their way through the last reel of The Perch of the Devil, a tiresome photopl