Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  The music stopped. I looked up to see the Ardens in their classic final pose: the ecstatic dip. Claude was dripping sweat, the expression on Blanche’s face was strained.

  “Lower,” barked Claude. “More arch in the neck.”

  Blanche tried, the cords of her lovely throat visible. Her extended arm trembled.

  “More length in the back.”

  Teeth gritted, she said, “Claude, I am as low and as long as the good Lord made me, I can go no further.”

  Her husband flung her to the floor, presumably to prove that she—and he—could go quite a bit lower. Blanche cried out, then swung a fist at her partner’s knee; it didn’t land, it wasn’t meant to. She took a deep breath, seeming on the verge of tears.

  “You can go lower, and you know it,” said Claude.

  Leo scrambled onstage. With care, he pushed Claude away from Blanche. Then he helped the blond dancer to her feet. His hands stayed protectively on her arm and shoulder, a familiarity that Blanche seemed to find in no way objectionable. Drawing Claude into a small circle, he murmured to both of them. All heads were down, and I couldn’t hear what was said. But I knew the sound of Leo cajoling. Claude mumbled something that sounded like an apology and Blanche responded with a distant acceptance. The circle loosened, heads rose. Hands on both stars’ shoulders, Leo looked into Blanche’s eyes, then Claude’s, asking each if they were all right. Truly, were they? Because he needed them to be, he was counting on them, they were the heart of the show. To my surprise, both smiled sheepishly, embarrassed by their row and lulled by Leo’s attention.

  “Good,” said Leo. “Good.” He rubbed Claude’s shoulder. The hand on Blanche’s shoulder lingered.

  Then it dropped as he said, “Violet.”

  The arrival of his wife spurred Leo into fresh jaunty energy. Striding to the piano, he said, “Claude, you stay, let’s run ‘A Girl Like You.’ Blanche, you go. I command you to eat. Or sleep. Those are your two choices. You have no others.”

  As I watched Blanche leave the stage, I wrestled with my suspicions. Blanche was the most beautiful woman in the show, the one most likely to lure a man who seduced to bolster his own sense of power. She was, to put it crudely, a prize in the way that none of the other women at the table was, not even Violet. And while her husband might speak lovingly of her, his actions did not always match his words. Did his cruelty stem from jealousy? Remembering his complaints about Nedda, I realized he was also prickly about his dignity as a performer. Had professional humiliation and personal cuckolding—both at the hands of Sidney Warburton—made him snap?

  But I just could not see Warburton’s appeal for Blanche. Not as clearly as I could see Leo’s appeal for her. Claude had seen her flirtation with Leo that night. Had he gone to the bathroom, seen only a pair of yellow spats–covered shoes below the bathroom stall door, and shot, thinking he was aiming at the nobody songwriter who dared to dally with his wife—and nag him about royalties—rather than his longtime employer?

  Rodolfo had been clear: one of the women at our table was Sidney Warburton’s lover and I could not discount his statement. After rehearsals, Warburton often retired to Rector’s with his stars, especially the Ardens and the Hirschfelds. Rodolfo would have had a chance to observe them on many evenings. If Blanche were misbehaving with Warburton, he would know.

  But might he have seen Blanche flirting with Warburton to cover up her affair with Leo?

  There was of course the possibility that she was involved with both men. Warburton being Blanche’s lover did not mean Leo had not also been invited to the Arden dressing room on occasion. Really, until I knew who had inspired Blanche’s operatics that day, I couldn’t know anything.

  Who might know of Blanche’s clandestine involvements? In whom would she confide? The sight of Louise chatting with Harriet gave me the answer. A lady has little to hide from the woman who dresses her. Settling Peanut into his basket, I went in search of Adele St. John.

  I took myself down to the workroom and found Adele St. John contemplating the last act dress. This was a marvel of blue-gray chiffon trimmed in gray fox. From its straight simple structure, I knew it would be worn with a minimum of undergarments and the length showed not only ankle, but calf. I had seen dresses approach this style, but this was the next step and I sensed that Louise’s entire wardrobe might have to change a year, even months, from now. I said as much.

  Adele St. John had never spoken much to me beyond Do this and Don’t get in my way. Now she said, “Yes, she’s still all bunched at the waist and the ankles. I detest that shape. Tiny waist, enormous bosom, bulging bottom. Why would any woman in her right mind want to be squeezed into some grotesque mockery of the female form? Only a man would think it wonderful to hobble a woman so she can’t even walk. Your Mrs. Tyler is marvelous. Tall, slim, wonderful long lines. When I’m done here, we’re going to create a new, modern look for her.”

  Immediately, I thought of William’s mother, who would not welcome a modern daughter-in-law. I always thought strict adherence to the rules of fashion gave Louise confidence. She was unquestionably “right” for today, as defined by the Tylers and the Armslows. But Mrs. St. John was looking beyond today and to a Louise who did not need to worry so much about mothers-in-law.

  For myself, I wasn’t sure I would do well in a fashion landscape where waist and bosom were irrelevant. While short hair was enchanting on Blanche Arden—and now that I thought of it, might suit Louise—I was rather proud of my hair. I had always thought that if I got the chance to show it off down, the effect might be quite captivating. Leo had begged me to do that, take it down just once. Mindful of the trouble of putting it back up—and the fact that trailing tresses looked best on naked shoulders—I said no.

  I looked up to see Mrs. St. John gazing at me with an amused smile. I had the unsettling thought she knew exactly what I was thinking.

  “There’s stockings to mend over there if you’ve nothing to do,” she said. I took up needle and thread, she took up her sketch pad, and we worked in companionable silence. It was so harmonious, I was reminded of my interest in matters matrimonial and when I had finished three stockings, I asked, “Does Mr. St. John enjoy the theater?”

  A pause as she decided whether I was worth answering. “He does.”

  I was about to say that must be nice, a shared interest, when she added, “His passion for theater stems from his passion for its practitioners. Italian for choice, although Spanish will do. Occasionally German for variety. When I last heard from him, he was ‘enjoying’ the theatrical season in Rome. That was several weeks ago, he may have moved on to Vienna by now. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  Before I could even conceive of an answer, much less utter it, we heard shouting from upstairs. Sighing, “Oh, dear,” Mrs. St. John set aside her pad and headed up to the stage. Mending basket in hand, I followed, to find Peanut yapping furiously in the wings and Mr. Harney drinking with great purpose from a flask. Returned from lunch, Blanche gave a bored wave of the arm. Louise sat tense and watchful in the front row. On the stage stood Claude, fists fixed to his hips, and Violet, who looked lost.

  Settling next to Harriet, I whispered, “What happened?”

  Troubled, she looked up. “It’s … not good.”

  From the piano, Leo said, “Let’s try that again. First—Harney, can you come back, please?”

  The comic wandered unsteadily onto the stage; it was the first time I had seen him tipsy in performance. I could see Leo knew it as well, yet he insisted on going through the father-daughter song, “The Gutter’s Good Enough for Me,” followed by Claude’s song, “A Girl Like You.”

  It took only a minute to see that Harriet was right. Whether it was the lack of stairs, which were her métier, or the memory of the happy howls that had greeted Nedda’s performance, Violet was … I didn’t want to use the word “bad” … tentative. Which unfortunately was the same thing. The scenes with Mr. Harney, once a highlight, were now stiff and awkward. She embrac
ed Mr. Arden with all the passion of a woman cleaning drains. Violet could sing, she could dance, she could almost act. She just didn’t do any of it well. Worse, she seemed to know it. Her performance felt like one long apology: I know I’m not good. Please don’t be angry.

  Claude Arden was angry. He kept his contempt for his costar barely under control as they rehearsed the silly patter that followed the song. The lines needed deft timing and Violet could not keep up. She mouthed in anguish as she struggled to remember, finally calling, “Line!”

  Arden threw up his arms. “Oh, for—”

  “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “It’s just the new lines…”

  “They’re the same ones we’ve had for months, God help us. How do you not remember them?”

  Leo said, “Take it easy, Claude.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s an excellent idea. Opening night is a few weeks away, but I shall certainly take it easy.” Storming to the edge of the stage he stage-whispered to Leo, “I know she’s got you by the cods, but even you must see we have a problem.”

  There was a short, uncomfortable pause as we all realized Leo had no answer. Taking this as permission to quit for the day, Claude marched off the stage and headed toward the door.

  “It’s not like you were so happy working with Nedda,” Violet shouted, embarrassed by her husband’s failure to defend her.

  Over his shoulder, Claude called, “Well, I’d sacrifice camels at the full moon to have her back now.”

  After a moment we heard a thud as he left the theater. Blanche and Mrs. St. John followed, promising to bring him back. Her mind perhaps on future business, Mrs. St. John asked Louise if she might join them; the patroness’s voice would be useful. Louise looked to Leo, who nodded, then left with the two women.

  Eyes on the piano keys, Leo said, “Vi, how about we work through a few scenes? I’ll do Arden’s lines.”

  But Violet had not forgotten Leo’s failure to defend her. Stomping down the stage steps, she said, “I’m exhausted. I’m going home.”

  “You can’t go home,” said Leo. “We need to work on ‘The Gutter’s Good Enough for Me.’” He gestured to Mr. Harney.

  “Get Peanut to do it,” she said, marching past the actor and up the aisle.

  “He is a pretty good-looking dog,” shouted Leo after the door had slammed. “Okay, Harney, I guess you have the afternoon off.”

  As Harney left with Peanut, Harriet asked, “Do you need me, Mr. Hirschfeld?”

  For a moment, he hesitated; was he going to give up all chance of working? Then he said, “No, thank you, Miss Biederman. Take a long lunch.”

  I didn’t ask if I could go. I didn’t ask if I could stay. I simply took up another stocking and started mending. Leo sat at the piano, shoulders slumped, fingers idling on the keys. A note sounded, then another. A ripple, then nothing.

  Now he said, “I would give a considerable amount of money to not have everyone hate me. But unfortunately, I’m broke.”

  I looked up, prepared to snipe. But Leo’s face was drawn. There were dark shadows under his eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him eat. His jaw was tense, his neck strained. He looked beaten. Seeing him at the piano, I remembered the evenings he had been unable to get off work at the movie house. I had kept him company in the darkened pit as he played through eight showings of Mabel’s Awful Mistake and The Scimitar of the Prophet. Acting alongside the images on the screen, I had swooned, taken fright, fought off villains, and, at the end, reunited with my sweetheart. Leo had enjoyed the performances enormously, and afterward when we had the theater to ourselves, he whispered, “Having rescued the damsel from the railroad tracks, the hero receives a kiss of undying gratitude.” I noted that in the original play, the gentleman had been tied to the tracks and saved by the heroine. He said kisses of undying gratitude worked for him either way.

  “I don’t hate you, Leo. Mrs. Tyler certainly doesn’t hate you.”

  He smiled slightly. “Mrs. Tyler is a very nice lady.”

  “She thinks you’re a genius.”

  “And such a smart lady.”

  “Even Peanut thinks you’re tolerable.”

  Taking my basket, I moved to the front row. Delicately, I trod into deeper waters. “Honestly? Isn’t life a little easier without Sidney Warburton?” Leo rolled his eyes to suggest infinitely. “Aside from the small difficulty of who killed him.”

  Leo repeated the producer’s name, adding an expletive. “There must have been fifty people at Rector’s that night who wanted him dead. I don’t worry who killed Sidney Warburton. If I ever meet him, I’ll buy him a drink.”

  “Was he in financial difficulty?” Before he could deny it, I added, “I overheard you arguing about money. You mentioned an investor getting cold feet.”

  “Sidney’s wife has plenty of money. He just cried poor to get his way.”

  So Mrs. Warburton was the shadow investor. And the lies Leo had mentioned no doubt concerned the women the producer dallied with.

  “The police think it might have been a jealous husband.” Saying “the police” made it sound more impressive than Rodolfo at Rector’s. “Apparently, Mr. Warburton had a fondness for other men’s wives.”

  Leo shrugged as if the subject held no interest for him.

  “Or perhaps it was someone with a particular dislike of yellow spats.”

  He looked at me.

  “With the stall door shut, one wonders how the jealous husband identified his wife’s lover. Mr. Warburton was wearing yellow spats. But then so were you.”

  “You think someone meant to kill me and shot Sidney instead?” He started playing again.

  “I think Blanche Arden is keeping company with someone not her husband.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “Because I heard them.” The briefest break in the music. “Or heard her, the gentleman was discreet. Claude was onstage at the time. But I didn’t see you anywhere.”

  “And you think I was the gentleman in question. That’s very flattering.”

  “Were you?”

  “Would you care if I was?”

  “Answer me, Leo.”

  He played a definitive chord. “Despite the cooing and hair pulling, Blanche Arden has no real interest in me. What you heard was good old Sidney giving direction and Blanche making sure the costume budget stayed generous. Just another example of the joy Sidney Warburton brought to people’s lives.”

  He sounded bitter—against Warburton or against Blanche? The use of the word “real”—did that imply pretense that he had believed at one point? Reciprocated?

  It didn’t matter, I realized. What was important was that Leo had just confirmed that Blanche was Warburton’s woman.

  “Isn’t it possible Claude found out?”

  “And shot Sidney?” He shook his head. “Sidney was Claude’s bread and butter, he wouldn’t mess that up.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Men didn’t always credit their fellow men with the capacity for deep emotion. Given Blanche’s protests that it was just business, Claude was clearly not as quiescent about the affair as Leo thought. Another thought came to me. Florenz Ziegfeld had fallen in love with the singer Anna Held, but she left him last year after he dallied with chorus girl Lillian Lorraine. Powerful men in the theater were often drawn to actresses as partners. Why should Sidney Warburton be any different?

  I said, “Actually, Blanche is Claude’s bread and butter. Without her, he goes back to singing ‘She of the Emerald Eyes.’ No more Darling Dancing Ardens. Maybe Warburton was tired of Mrs. Warburton—that’s not hard to imagine. And maybe Blanche liked the idea of a partner who wouldn’t throw her on the ground.”

  He frowned at that. Then shook his head. “I’m sure you noticed, Blanche didn’t shed any tears when Sidney was killed.”

  “No, she was too busy making eyes at you.” I demonstrated, stroking my throat elaborately and sighing.

  He perked up. “No, don’t stop, that was very … poignant. More si
ghing, maybe let the finger stay at your lips…”

  I punched him hard in the shoulder, causing him to howl. Rubbing his arm, he shot me several reproachful looks. But his mouth curled upward as he said, “Maybe I should give my regards to Blanche Arden. I’m not doing so well with the other women in my life. You’re angry with me, Violet’s furious…”

  “She’s not furious, Leo, she’s just…”

  Untalented. Frightened. Childish.

  “… tired.”

  “She does get tired easily, that Mrs. Hirschfeld,” he said, returning to the piano.

  Annoyed, I returned to my stockings. Then said impulsively, “I don’t know what you were thinking.”

  “I’m not sure how much thinking had to do with it.”

  “Your mother must be pleased.” Mrs. Hirschfeld had liked me well enough, but made it clear she had different hopes for Leo.

  “Ida Hirschfeld is not pleased. But then Ida Hirschfeld’s happiness was not at the forefront of my thoughts. She was already mad at me for how things turned out with Clara.”

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  “Some neighborhood busybody saw me with Violet and said, ‘Oh, Clara, I saw Leo with a girl, I thought for sure it was you.’ Two weeks later Clara is engaged to her professor and Mother Hirschfeld isn’t speaking to her youngest son. So, I thought, fine, everyone wants me to be married, I’ll get married. Violet isn’t hard on the eyes. Everybody seemed to think that a married Leo Hirschfeld solves all the world’s problems—why not?”

  There was something odd in his use of the word “everybody.” But before I could ask, he said, “My father keeps forgetting. One time we went to dinner at the family’s. He took me aside and said, ‘She’s very pretty, but you don’t marry that.’ I said, ‘Pop, I did marry that.’ On the bright side, my brothers are all very jealous.”

  I tried to tell myself that Leo Hirschfeld had done this to himself and deserved not an ounce of my sympathy. He wasn’t even asking for sympathy. He hadn’t said a single word about being lonely. And there was no reason to believe that he was. Except that it was clear that he was.