you kidding?’ said Frederick.
‘She looks little in The Cat that Got the Canary,’ said Ruby.
‘Smoke and mirrors,’ said Frederick, pausing for a minute, to review his latest creation. ‘If I needed to touch up her make-up on set, I had to stand on a crate. I know I’m not the tallest guy in town but Margo, she must have been 5' 10", 5' 11". Making Margo look small was the magic of the movies!’ Frederick Lutz chuckled and dusted Ruby’s face with some bronzer. ‘Meanwhile, making your face look like it never came into contact with a sidewalk is the magic of make-up!’
And when Ruby turned to view her face in the mirror, she saw that he wasn’t lying. . . she looked just like she usually looked, her face restored, not a visible scratch on it.
HAVING THANKED FREDERICK ABOUT TWENTY TIMES, Ruby set off for Ada Borland’s studio, which as it turned out was located not so far from the Scarlet Pagoda. She buzzed the buzzer and a stern-looking woman dressed entirely in grey came to open the door. The woman (named Abigail) was actually very friendly and showed Ruby around the gallery while she waited for Ada to appear.
The Scarlet Pagoda had obviously been a huge influence on Ada, and there were many framed photos of the theatre taken over the several decades that she had been working there. It was fascinating to see the various changes made to the building, how it had become a popular destination, flourished and then later was left to rot. There were pictures of many of the famous faces who had performed there, actors, acrobats, contortionists, dancers and singers. Starlets in extravagant costumes, circus people in fabulous creations. Ruby was lost in this world of performers when she heard a thick croaky voice.
‘Ms Redfort?’
She turned to see a small woman, quite elderly, with dyed black hair that was cut into a neat bob. An enormous pair of orange-rimmed glasses obscured most of her face; her lips were painted the same colour and perfectly matched the frames.
‘I’m Ada,’ she said, ‘let’s take your picture.’
It was clear from looking at Ms Borland’s work that the photographer was interested in a lot more than her subjects’ physical appearance. She seemed to look beyond all this and capture the uncapturable. The portrait itself became a story, layered with atmosphere and meaning. The more you looked the more you saw and the more the background told you – the things that just happened to be there were part of the story too.
Ruby was curious about all these people who had sat for portraits: some grand, some ordinary; old and young. Faces strange, ugly and beautiful. Posed pictures and casual but all had something of the artist, her viewpoint. And as Ruby looked, she asked, so what was Erica Grey like, what was the president like, what was this grocer man like, and every time, Ada replied, ‘You tell me, it’s all there in the photograph if you care to look.’
Ruby enjoyed the experience, and although sitting for her portrait took more time than she would have thought possible, chatting to Ada was a rare opportunity and she was glad she hadn’t missed it.
‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Ruby Redfort,’ called Ada. ‘Do visit again.’
Ruby snuck back into the house only to be greeted by Mrs Digby who jumped about six inches when she saw Ruby.
‘Jumping jack rabbits, child, what happened to your face?’
‘It looks bad?’ said Ruby.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Mrs Digby, ‘I’d say it looks the way it oughta look, but where’s the black eye and the fat lip?’
Ruby thought it best to explain what she had been up to. Mrs Digby was not an easy old bird to fool. RULE 47: NEVER LIE TO SOMEONE WHO IS LIKELY TO SEE RIGHT THROUGH YOU.
It happened to be one of those times when the truth really paid off and Mrs Digby even kissed the top of Ruby’s head and said, ‘Ruby Redfort, I knew your soul wasn’t a lost cause. There’s good in you no matter how you try to convince folks otherwise.’
A half-hour later, Ruby was up in her room, the TV on, watching some gymnast contort herself into impossible shapes, her limbs bending in such a way that she became the smallest thing and she began squeezing herself through smaller and smaller hoops. There was a knock at the door and Clancy Crew’s head peered round. He had a chequered hat pulled tight down over his hair, obscuring the side of his face. He looked odd, more like himself somehow.
‘Nice hat,’ said Ruby.
‘Hey Rube, Mrs Digby said to come up and see you – how are you—’ he stopped mid-sentence.
‘What?’ said Ruby.
‘Your face,’ he said, ‘I thought it was meant to be smooshed.’
‘Ah, this is make-up, Clance.’
‘I can see that!’ he said, his eyes steely. ‘Where have you been? Hanging out with some other friend, or maybe you’re going to some party, somewhere free from all the deadwood you used to call friends?’
‘Clance, what the Sam Hill are you talking about? I haven’t been anywhere, well I have, but it was me doing a good deed, trying to do the right thing for once—’
‘Don’t sweat it,’ said Clancy, ‘it’s not your style.’ He turned, walked out the door and down the stairs, his footsteps loud and angry-sounding.
‘Clance!’ she called. ‘Jeepers, what’s with you? Are you having some type of crisis?’ She wasn’t really up to chasing him down the street; her head was throbbing and she thought she might throw up if she moved too fast.
Instead she went and had a good long soak in the tub, and washed her face thoroughly. She could explain about the trip to Ada’s when he had calmed down. Geez, it was amazing the effect a little make-up could have – as far as Ruby could see it seemed to send sensible folks crazy.
RUBY HAD SPENT THE BEST PART OF THE NIGHT THINKING about the thing Ada had said about the photographs: it’s all there in the photograph if you care to look.
She had thought a lot about the whole big picture, willing the edges to come back into focus. She was thinking about the skywalker, the window thief, the robberies and – in particular – Mr Norgaard and his paperweight collection.
Ruby took the subway downtown to Spectrum and went to seek out Blacker. Then she set about pinning up every single photo taken at Norgaard’s place – not just her pictures of the desk but also the pictures taken by TCPD – and she was now sort of standing back there in the screenwriter’s virtual room, scanning it for clues.
‘What are you looking for?’ said Blacker.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ruby, ‘something I missed.’
She
