Irina Viorets reached across the table and placed a pretty hand on Bell’s arm. “I promise you, Mr. Bell, Imperial will out-French the French—let me show you,” she said, and took him on a tour of the Imperial Building that left Bell with no doubt that Irina Viorets was in command of a going concern.

She showed him the laboratories and machine, repair, and carpentry shops that Griffith had raved about. He saw printing and perforating instruments in the darkrooms, properties and wardrobe rooms of costumes for hundreds of soldiers, police, and cowboys, and rows of flats in the scenic department painted black and white. On the fourth floor was a soundproof recording room, like Edison’s, the walls padded, the floor corked tile, with an array of acoustic horns to capture sound.

She took him outside. In a vacant lot on the south side of the building, a mock street facing toward the sun could be made to look like New York, or London, or medieval Paris.

Next to the building was a life net. Ordinarily held by firemen to catch people jumping from a burning house, this one was permanently fixed. “For catching actors,” Irina laughed, pointing at the building’s parapet a hundred feet off the ground. “Just outside of camera range.”

Bell quoted Clyde Lynds: “Providing thrills dear to the heart of the exhibitor.”

They went back indoors and rode the elevator ten stories to the roof. Irina said, “The best photoplays of the future will be those that are created inside the film studio.”

The picture-taking studio had room for several cinematograph studio stages with glass ceilings to capture natural light. At one edge of the roof stood a stone wall that could serve as a precipice or a building. Bell leaned over and looked down. The life net winked back at him, no bigger than a dime.

“I have one more thing to show you.” She took him down to the eighth floor to a gleaming camera and projector machine shop, with a laboratory attached.

“Everything is up-to-date. Would you like to use our facility, Isaac?”

“Will your Artists Syndicate allow it?”

“I will deal with the Artists Syndicate. You and Clyde will deal with me.”

“Done,” said Isaac Bell. “With one proviso. My firm will staff Lynds’s workshop with mechanicians.”

“If you like, though we already have the best in Los Angeles.”

“And we will provide our own guards.”

“Whatever for? This building is a fortress.”

“So I noticed. Nonetheless, my directors are conservative. They will demand that we do everything possible to protect Lynds’s invention.”

“Perhaps you could convince them that the building is safe.”

“My directors remember what happened on the Mauretania. Professor Beiderbecke was killed. And the machine was destroyed in a fire. You can imagine why they insist that we protect our investment.”

“I understand,” she said reluctantly.

“I hope this wouldn’t cause trouble with the Artists Syndicate.”