The Thief

Clyde said, “When making acoustic recordings of music, we have to replace the violins with horns and clarinets and reinforce the string bass with a bass saxophone and the drums with banjos. One of my goals is to replace the acoustic mechanical systems invented by Edison. Edison machines can’t record strings and drums and can’t record piano, which is really just a bunch of strings and drums. It comes out flat and ti

Isaac Bell glanced over his shoulder. He had an eerie sense that someone was watching him. But the only people he saw were Clyde’s assistants coming into the room carrying a box trailing wires. While they began attaching the wires to a disc-cutting machine, Bell went to the door and looked out. The corridor was empty, but the feeling persisted that he was under observation.

Clyde’s helpers lugged in a wooden box on top of which stood a thick round disc peppered with holes. They placed it next to the horn. “This is a carbon microphone, like you’ll find in a telephone, only much bigger. Inside this box is an electrically charged glass vacuum valve that will amplify and regenerate what the microphone hears. It is my theory that an electric recording will add an octave of sound reproduction so that we can record violins, and hopefully one day, the piano. Eventually I’ll make a microphone that lets the sound wave be lazy, unlike Edison’s microphone, which demands lots of work. By the time the sound comes out of Edison’s horn it’s exhausted, just like some poor laborer. O.K., why don’t you boys tune up while they finish hooking up wires?”

Clyde joined Bell at the door, and they stepped down the hall into a soundproof room that Clyde had built next to the recording studio. It had a window made of multiple layers of glass that looked out on the musicians. There was an enormous tin gramophone horn on a wooden box, which, Bell noticed, had wires trailing out of it and through the wall into the recording room.

He asked, “What’s this about cutting a wax disc? I thought you were putting the sound straight on film.”

“One thing at time. First I have to make a clear electrical recording. There’s no point in putting acoustically recorded sound on the film if I can’t play it back loudly enough for an audience to hear in a big theater.”

“When do you think you’ll be able to?”

“Listen to this.” Clyde closed a knife switch on the box that held the horn. The horn emitted the discordant cacophony of the musicians tuning violins and banjos. Bell listened carefully, trying to distinguish between the different instruments he was watching through the window. “I can’t hear much difference between the violin and the clarinet.”

“The fact that you’re hearing the violin at all tells me I’m on the right track.” Clyde opened the switch, and the noise stopped. “You can tell Mr. Van Dorn that we can sell a version of this microphone to Alexander Graham Bell to make longer long-distance telephone calls. Like from here all the way to New York.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Bell, adding drily, “I’ll also tell him that it sounds like we have a long way to go.”

“I had a better one made, but someone stole it.”

“Stole it? Who?”

Clyde shrugged. “I don’t know. I came in yesterday morning, and the best one I’d made yet had disappeared. None of my boys saw anything. And neither did yours.”

“Do you think someone sneaked in while you were

sleeping?”

“I went back to the house to get a bath and a full night’s sleep. The cleaners might have tossed it out with the garbage, but they claim they didn’t.”

Isaac Bell was troubled that he could not tell for sure whether the young scientist was speaking the truth or making excuses for slow progress. He said, “I’ll post a man in here, overnight, when you’re not here.”

“I don’t leave often.”

“I know. Mr. Van Dorn is impressed by your dedication. Have you heard anything new to do with Imperial?”

Clyde Lynds had made many friends, as was his wont, while wandering the halls and riding the elevators while pondering the knotty science behind his Talking Pictures machine. He shared Bell’s suspicion of the mysteriously wealthy company. “I met an Imperial director who’s taking pictures outside. He got the job ’cause he’s pals with somebody high up in the company. He might know something. Or he might be just another hired hand.”

“What’s his picture called?”

“The Brewer’s Daughter.”

“What’s it about?”

“The hero marries a German immigrant’s daughter, and they live happily ever after.”

“I’ll look into it.”

33

Isaac Bell dabbed a mixture of black shoe polish and Pinaud Clubman Wax on his mustache, stuffed his distinctive golden hair under a leather flying-machine helmet, and pulled a big set of birdman goggles over his blue eyes. Then he mounted a shiny black Indian motorcycle and roared up Second Street, weaving in and out of streetcars, autos, trucks, and wagons at breakneck speed. The machine was the brand-new model with an automatic oil pump, a two-speed transmission for lightning starts, and a springy front fork that Bell hoped would help in the jumps.

Leaning into a turn, he cut along the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks toward Aliso. He careened onto Aliso, headed straight for an intersection occupied by an enormous red brick brewery and its bottling plant, and poured on the speed. Closing fast on the brewery, he saw a canvas sign hanging above a roped-off empty lot that read:

IMPERIAL FILM

“THE BREWER’S DAUGHTER”

Extra Players Wait Here

A huge crowd of costumed extras milled around the lot: mustachioed villains, helmeted cops, fat men bulging in loud suits, and dozens of dust-caked cowboys — many twirling lassos — numerous circus clowns, and no less than three female trick riders in buckskin standing on their saddles. Texas Walt was right. Competition was tough. Everyone in Los Angeles wanted to be in a movie. To get the job, you had to stand out.

Bell spotted the camera operator at the brewery’s ornate iron gates, cranking at full speed. The camera was flanked by a director with a megaphone and a blazing bank of Cooper-Hewitt lamps. A Pierce-Arrow limousine rolled in front of the gates. A beautiful actress in evening clothes stepped from it into the glare of the Cooper-Hewitts.

Isaac Bell twisted his throttle and kicked the Indian into first gear. Hunkered low over the handlebars, he headed for a long ramp down which motortrucks and horse-drawn beer wagons were exiting the brewery’s second story. Dodging trucks and horses, he leaned into a sharp turn, raced up the ramp, and leaned into another. The Indian’s motor screamed in protest as his wheels left the pavement.

The motorcycle took to the air, flew from the top of the ramp, and soared over the hood of the Pierce-Arrow. Clearing the auto by a whisker, Bell banged down hard on the cobblestones and skidded to a rubber-scorching halt in front of the camera.

When he saw that the startled camera operator had kept his wits about him and continued cranking, Bell extended his gloved hand to the beautiful woman with a courtly bow. The actress took it, covering her surprise, as if assuming Bell was a part of the film no one had told her about.

“What the hell are you doing?” the director yelled.

“Came for a job,” said Isaac Bell, mimicking the tone of a country man trying his luck in the big city.

“Are you crazy?”

“I hear you got a chase coming up in this Bride of the Brewery show you’re taking pictures for.”

“It’s called The Brewer’s Daughter—hey, hold on a minute! Where’d you hear I have a chase scene?”

“Feller in the business told me.”