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tick away. Then: “I think I can bury the hatchet with Mr. Rogers,” the detective announced.
    “Wonderful, wonderful,” the mayor rejoiced.
    The two men soon left the Alexandria Hotel. They were going to police headquarters. The detective would be briefed by Chief of Police Galloway. The mayor had also arranged for Rogers to meet them in the chief’s office. But Billy had his own agenda. At headquarters he’d get a close look at the suitcase bomb recovered from the Zeehandelaar residence.

TEN
    ______________________

    I N NEW YORK the news of the disaster in Los Angeles continued to fill the front pages. Five days later the
New York Times
reported that bodies were still being removed from the charred rubble. The National Association of Manufacturers met that first week of October in Manhattan and sent Otis a telegram urging him to continue to battle “for industrial freedom.” At a large, boisterous rally on Union Square speakers speculated that the explosion might have been an accident, “caused by gas, which several in the building smelled during the evening.” While on nearby Fourteenth Street, D.W. already had Los Angeles on his troubled mind.
    His troupe would be leaving for California in six weeks. Only now they would be forced to make the trip without the director’s favorite leading lady. The “Biograph Girl,” as audiences had taken to calling her, the country’s first genuine movie star, had abruptly left the company. Mary Pickford had sailed to Cuba with her new husband to shoot movies for Carl Laemmle’s Independent Motion Picture company.
    D.W. felt not just disappointed but betrayed. Mary—born Gladys Smith—had walked into the Biograph studio as an accomplished teenage stage actress, but D.W. always believed he had discovered her. In his director’s mind, she was his creation. He had been the first to understand the engaging power that Mary’s tender, wonderfully expressive face would have on the big screen.

    It had been a warm May morning in 1909 when sixteen-year-old Mary, as she would remember it, “belligerently . . . marched up the steps of Biograph” for the first time. With the family short of funds, and no new play on Mary’s schedule, her mother had insisted that she audition for a role in the movies. Reluctantly Mary obeyed. “I was disappointed in Mother: permitting a Belasco actress, and her own daughter at that, to go into one of those despised, cheap, loathsome motion-picture studios.”
    Mary took a seat in a corner near the door, deliberately tucking herself away as if trying to hide. She was wearing a blue-and-white-striped dress and a rolled-brim straw sailor hat with a dark blue ribbon. Short golden curls bobbed around a fresh, angelic face. Her large hazel eyes shined magically. She looked not more than fourteen, but there was a maturity and confidence in her controlled demeanor. Despite her efforts to remain aloof, it did not take her long to get noticed. In the dressing room, the actors who had been playing craps starting talking.
    “There’s a cute kid outside. Have you seen her?”
    “No. Where is she?”
    “She’s been sitting out there in a corner by herself.”
    Bobby Harron, the prop boy, told D.W. about the “good looker” who had the actors buzzing. Curious, the director went downstairs to see.
    D.W. looked at her appraisingly. It was, Mary felt, “a manner that was too jaunty and familiar.” But the director was intrigued. “She was small—cute figure—much golden curls—creamy complexion—sparkling Irish eyes, but eyes that also had languorous capabilities.”
    He decided to give her a screen test. In the basement dressing room, Mary was handed a costume. D.W. thought the young girl might be right for Pippa in
Pippa Passes,
the Browning poem he was hoping to shoot later that summer. He applied the makeup himself, asking about her theatrical experience as he worked. His manner was professional, yet Mary could not help feeling there was