The Thief by Clive Cussler (english novels to read .txt) 📗

film. You’ll finish the whole picture before dark. And tomorrow you’ll start a Western drama.”

“This is the worst day of my life.”

The City of Los Angeles had just fined Tarses twenty-five dollars because gunfire between his French Foreign Legionnaires and his Arabs abducting his heroine had frightened the elk in Griffith Park. Then his camels had stampeded a herd of horses that were not used to their smell. And now, just as his wranglers had finished rounding up the horses so he could start taking pictures again, a squad of Edison thugs piled out of a Marmon auto, itching to pull out their blackjacks if he wasn’t taking pictures with an overpriced Edison camera.

The head thug, a rangy street fighter with bony fists and a Hoboken accent, saw at a glance that he wasn’t.

“You think California’s so far from Joisey Mr. Edison don’t notice?”

“Let the girls go,” Tarses told him. “I’ll take my lumps.”

“You’re all takin’ yer lumps this time. We’re setting an example for the rest of youse independents.”

He grabbed Tarses by his lapels and held him stiff-armed for the first blow.

“Hold it!” someone shouted.

If Jay Tarses had any hope he’d been rescued, the sight of chief Edison bull Joe McCoy swaggering out of the woods disabused him of that. McCoy, the meanest Edison detective Tarses had even met, reported directly to Mr. Dyer, Edison’s lawyer, who enforced Trust restrictions with an iron hand. McCoy had a coal trimmer’s shoulders and less mercy in his face than a cinder block.

“Mr. Tarses,” he snickered. “I would have recognized your picture taking anywhere by the camel stink.”

“Any chance of buying you off?” asked Tarses, his eyes locked on McCoy’s blackjack.

McCoy raised a mighty arm. The blackjack whistled as it tore down from the sky, and the Edison thug holding Tarses by the lapels went flying sideways into a camel and fell on his face. Tarses was vaguely aware that he himself was still on his feet and nothing hurt. Aside from that, he had no idea what was going on.

McCoy handed him a calling card. Through a smudge of blood from McCoy’s blackjack, Jay Tarses read:

IMPERIAL FILM PROTECTION SERVICE

“THE INDEPENDENT’S FRIEND”

“Telephone number’s on the back. Operator on-station night and day.”

“You don’t work for Edison anymore?” Tarses asked.

“Didn’t you hear?” McCoy grinned. “I’m a trustbuster. Just like Teddy Roosevelt.”

“What the hell is Imperial Film Protection Service?”

“‘The Independent’s Friend.’ Can’t you read?”

“Friend? I’ll bet. What’s it going to cost me?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Joe. What’s the big idea?”

McCoy threw a heavy arm around Tarses’s shoulder. “Jay, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. And stop asking stupid questions.”

Tarses knew he had his share of flaws, but stupidity wasn’t one of them, and he said, “Thanks, Joe.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Imperial. Well, sun’s in the sky. Bet you’re itching to get back to work— Say, what’s your picture called?”

“The Imperial Horseman.”

McCoy tipped his hat to Tarses’s pretty business manager, slung the unconscious thug over his shoulder, and carried him away.

Tarses shouted for his players to climb on their animals.

“Camera…”

That evening, when Tarses was paying off his extras, the one last in line drawled, “Who were those fellers pushing you around?”

Tarses was about to tell him to mind his own business when he recognized the extra as the tall, barbed-wire-thin cowboy with whom his costume girl had traded a French Foreign Legionnaire kepi for the cowboy’s Stetson, with a promise to trade hats again over a glass of wine after work. Tarses had noticed him sitting in his saddle as if born to it, and now, close up, he saw angular bone structure in the cowboy’s face that looked ferocious in the light of the setting sun.

“What’s your name?”

“Tex.”

“Come back tomorrow, Tex. I’ll be taking pictures for a Wild West drama.”

TEXAS WALT HATFIELD SAUNTERED into the Los Angeles field office, cast a withering glance at the front-desk man’s fancy duds, and shook howdy with Isaac Bell.

Bell felt the tall Texan flinch.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Busted it falling off my damned horse. Camel spooked him.”

Bell was astonished. There was no finer horseman in the West. “When’s the last time you fell off a horse?”

“Unless you mean shot off,” Texas Walt drawled, “Ah was three years old, and he hadn’t been broke yet.”

“Did you catch up with Joe McCoy?”

“Yup. Like Tarses told me, used to thug for Edison—McCoy called it ‘engaged by Mr. Edison’s legal department.’ Quit or got fired, Ah couldn’t tell, came out here, and hired on with Imperial Protection. McCoy claims they’ve been whupping the heck out of the Edison Boys.”

“I just saw a bunged-up bunch headed back East on the train,” Bell said. “McCoy have any inkling what Imperial Protection’s all about?”

“He’s not a talkative feller. Though near as Ah can gather, he himself’s on the level.”

“Are they?”

“All I know is they ain’t asking for protection money. But if it’s not a racket, why is Imperial taking the independents’ side in the Trust war? Kindness of their hearts?”

Bell said, “I suspect that the truth is printed on their calling card.”

“‘The Independent’s Friend?’ How you figure that?”

“If an outfit that distributes and exhibits moving pictures befriends all the independents, they can rent out a lot of films.”

Texas Walt shoved his Stetson back on his head. “Like the cattle broker buying up every herd at the railhead.”

“And the meat packer in Chicago buying by the trainload. The Independent’s Friend could control the distribution and exhibition of all the independents’ moving pictures.”

“You’re sure they’re the same Imperial as the outfit you’re tracking?”

Bell nodded emphatically. “Larry Saunders got the Los Angeles exchange to trace their telephone number back to the Imperial Building.”

“And you’re sure Imperial Film’s a blind for something else?” Hatfield asked.

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” said Isaac Bell.

“Reckon you want me to continue riding for Tarses?”

“No. I want you inside that building. They’ve got cinematography studio stages up in the penthouse. Audition at Imperial to get a job acting inside.”

“Acting jobs ain’t all that easy to tie