Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  Then I left him there on the street.

  * * *

  That night, I informed Louise that Michael Behan had it on good authority that Floyd Lombardo had been killed over his debts by people who probably had no idea who Sidney Warburton was—much less any interest in killing him. Louise sighed and expressed the hope that the detective would hurry up and find that anonymous killer who had slipped in and out of Rector’s unseen. I said I hoped so, too.

  Then she informed me that I could return to the theater. “Mrs. St. John insists.”

  “Was she told why I didn’t come today?” I asked, apprehensive.

  “Well … yes. Mrs. Hirschfeld was rather vocal about what happened. I think she wants sympathy. But they all seem to be taking Mr. Hirschfeld’s side.”

  I said I would make a point of apologizing to Mrs. Hirschfeld first thing.

  “Do thank Mrs. St. John as well,” said Louise. “And Mr. Harney, he said Peanut was pining for you.”

  I smiled.

  “Oh—and Mrs. Arden.” Louise widened her eyes to show surprise that I had received support from this quarter. “She told Mrs. Hirschfeld that she was overreacting, especially given that she … with Mr. Warburton.”

  Curious, I asked, “Mrs. Arden wasn’t upset that Mr. Hirschfeld and I…?” We were having difficulty with verbs, I noticed.

  “No. She said it’s very common for people to get caught up when they’re doing a show. Nothing to be taken seriously.”

  My first reaction was indignation at being dismissed in this way; I had not gotten “caught up.” My second was to wonder, how would Blanche Arden know? To her husband, she had insisted that her flirtations were a matter of business; certainly Sidney Warburton was not a man to inspire genuine ardor in a woman such as Blanche. Whereas the little scene she played out with Leo in the wings had been more … skillfully acted.

  Mother Hirschfeld’s son never lied. If Leo told me he believed Warburton to be Blanche’s lover, then he sincerely believed they were the pair I had overhead that day.

  But he did omit.

  With whom had Blanche gotten caught up? Had she, in fact, been caught?

  And had Sidney Warburton paid the price?

  14

  The next day, I returned to the show. It was not a warm welcome back. When I said good morning to Harriet Biederman, she was correct but nothing more. Mr. Harney handed over Peanut for his walk with a gentle look of reproach. The Ardens ignored me as usual. Mrs. St. John passed off a basket of soiled clothing and vanished before I could thank her. Studiously, I avoided Leo and just as studiously, he avoided me.

  I kept myself below in the wardrobe room. Whenever my work for Mr. Harney and Peanut took me to the theater level, I tried to be inconspicuous, so as not to give offense. Not surprisingly, Violet and Leo were not speaking; all direction from him was communicated to Miss Biederman who relayed it to Violet, who as often as not ignored it. Her visit to the police having given her the whip hand, Miss Tempest was not in the mood to be directed—in anything. She had a new and bold approach to the role: overact beyond what I would have thought humanly possible. A happy musicale was now played as if Medea was its heroine.

  At lunchtime, with dry mouth and roiling stomach, I knocked on the door of Violet’s dressing room. I had given a lot of thought as to how to best approach this meeting. In some ways, it felt silly to apologize for kissing Leo when the marriage was a matter of business. But if there was little love involved, there was pride. Position. Violet was already resented and I had embarrassed her. No wonder she was acting up.

  She asked who it was. I identified myself. The door opened.

  Mindful of ears around us, I whispered, “Mrs. Hirschfeld, may I please speak with you?”

  For a long moment, she hesitated; the urge to slam the door in my face was clear. Then she stepped back and let it swing open. Not specifically invited, I waited a moment, then went inside, saying, “I would like very much to apologize. And to explain…”

  Violet had taken refuge in a corner chair. Picking at a loose thread as if it were an act that required great concentration, she said, “You don’t have to explain. It’s not complicated. He got an itch, you were there.”

  I swallowed the insult. “In any event, if my being here causes you distress, I will ask Mrs. Tyler to relieve me of my duties on the show.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mind if you stay.”

  Her nonchalance was frustrating, in part because I didn’t believe it. Her averted gaze and crude assessment of the situation told me she was angry. Which she had a right to be. I found myself wishing she would scream, throw things, even slap me. I wasn’t sure how to manage this mumbling hostility. Several lines of melodrama came to mind. I settled on bluntness. “I don’t want your husband, Mrs. Hirschfeld.”

  Again, the maddening half shrug.

  “And I don’t want to embarrass you or cause more gossip.”

  Progress—she looked at me. “I just thought … maybe you were someone who didn’t think I was a joke.”

  Setting aside all the times I had thought exactly that, I said, “I don’t.”

  She plucked the thread loose, began winding it around her finger. “I’m guessing you and Leo had something before I met him; he’s had something with half the girls in New York. I mean, even on this show…”

  I had told myself Leo was telling the truth when he said he was not Blanche’s lover. Alternatively, I had told myself that I would not care if he were. Now I discovered neither was true and felt a dispiriting wrench of misery.

  “And I know you know about me and Sidney.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. For your loss. It must be very difficult.”

  It was an awkward condolence, but she appreciated it, murmuring, “It is. I miss him. He wasn’t always kind, but he knew what was best for me and I trusted him.”

  I marveled that she could feel so much for a man who’d been so cruel to her. But then, Nedda Fiske suffered from the same malady. And there were those who might say my attachment to Leo didn’t show the best judgment, myself included.

  “Leo, I feel like the only thing he cares about is the show. He’s not taking care of me. So I have to.”

  I indicated that that was always a wise strategy.

  “I’m the star now. I don’t need people laughing at me.” I nodded, braced for dismissal. “But you don’t have to go.”

  I must have shown my surprise, because she added, “I’d appreciate a little help with my costumes. The old battle-ax forgets there are two women in the show.”

  “Of course.”

  “Everyone around here wants me to fail. I could use a friend.”

  She looked at me uncertain: would I be that? What she had said was true; her old protector was dead and her new one … distractible. I nodded. Then remembered I had come with a purpose beyond making amends to Violet Tempest.

  “Mrs. Hirschfeld, you do know that your husband didn’t kill Mr. Warburton.”

  I had advocated for Leo too soon. Alerted to the fact that I had concerns other than her, Violet became wary. “I only know what I told the police. And that was that I didn’t know.”

  This was pure Violet Tempest idiocy. “But you told them after…” I indicated myself. “You were hurt, I understand. But—”

  “It wasn’t about that,” she said, feigning indifference. “But when someone lies to you, you remember that it’s important to tell the truth. I never felt right, telling that lie. I didn’t want it on my conscience.”

  She was so simple, it was difficult to know if she had genuinely convinced herself her act had no malice in it. It occurred to me that her generosity to me had also been calculated: I was to be the ever-present reminder of Violet’s visit to the detective. One wrong word from Leo, one critique too harsh, one piece of staging changed to favor the Ardens, and she would go straight back to the police.

  Biting through my tongue, I said, “But the police won’t look for the real killer if they’re focused on Mr. Hirs
chfeld. You must want that person brought to justice…”

  Her expression hardened, losing its bewildered lamb softness. “Oh, I know who killed Sidney and after this show, that person is going to pay, believe me.”

  For a moment she sat, lost in anger. Her jaw was set, her shoulders rigid, the hands in her lap clenched and powerful; she was not a delicate woman, I realized. And not a ridiculous one. Fleetingly, I saw a very different Violet Tempest, a far more compelling one than Salome on Stairs.

  Then she looked down at a pile of discarded clothes on the floor, as if to remind me that I had responsibilities: rumpled stockings, a discarded corset, a chemise yellow with sweat. Standing, I gathered them into my arms to show I knew my place.

  Taking Violet’s clothes to the sink near the wardrobe room, I wondered if the actress truly suspected Leo of murdering her lover. She hadn’t said it was Leo, but whom else would she need through the show and then no further? I ran hot water into the sink as I thought of Harriet, silent as her eyes brimmed. Adele St. John swearing Mr. Harney never left the table. Claude Arden, who had not returned to the table with his wife. I liked all those people far more than I liked the dead man.

  All of a sudden Warburton’s nasty joke about bicycles came to mind, with its hint of warm, damp seats and tires flabby from overuse. That slur reminded me of Michael Behan’s curt observation about Parisian habits and I felt a mix of rage and shame so scalding it brought tears.

  Then I saw I hadn’t put the plug in the sink and all the water had run out. I let out a cry of frustration, punctuated by a well-chosen epithet. This brought Claude Arden up short as he came down the hall and I had no choice but to present myself as the tearstained, red-faced misery I had become.

  Digging in his pocket, he handed me a handkerchief. “What happened? Was he unkind?”

  Stunned that the haughty Claude Arden should show interest, I said, “… No. We haven’t spoken.”

  “That’s probably best for now. The show didn’t need the first love triangle, Lord knows we don’t need a second. Not that I’d call what’s between the Hirschfelds love.”

  He advised me to blow my nose. I did.

  “You seem like a sincere young woman. Think twice about getting mixed up in this.” He gestured around the theater. “It’s not a place for genuine feeling. In here? Best to wear your armor.”

  Touched, I remembered Claude’s yearning gaze at his spouse, the way he had spoken of that “one girl” he loved. I very much hoped he had not been driven by genuine feeling to do something terrible.

  I promised I would wash the handkerchief and have it back first thing in the morning. Then leaving the clothes to soak, I went in search of Mrs. St. John. I found that excellent woman in her lair, contemplating Blanche’s last dance dress. As I came in, she gestured to a pair of pants Mr. Harney had split and shoes of Mr. Arden’s that needed buffing. “There’s also a factory girl costume that needs letting out around the bust. If I can rely on you not to stick pins in it.”

  I started with the pants. “I want to thank you for speaking on my behalf.”

  A quick glance over her shoulder. “You’re welcome. But really, it was Mr. Harney. He went into a decline and the dog was leaving its business everywhere. Desperate times, etcetera.”

  “I’ll thank him as well.”

  Sitting down on a stool, she took up her sketch pad. “I hear you and the missus had a chat.”

  “I thought she deserved the opportunity to throw something at me.” Mrs. St. John’s mouth twitched. “Also I was hoping I could talk her into telling the police the truth. It’s my fault she changed her story and put the show in danger.”

  “If you want to talk anyone into anything, talk Mr. Hirschfeld into calling her bluff and firing her before she ruins the show.”

  Remembering Violet’s statement that everyone wanted her to fail, I was curious as to how deep the hostility went. “Someone has to play the part.”

  “Do they? The public has never had a problem with just the Ardens before.”

  “Perhaps Miss Fiske will come back.”

  “She’s only marginally less vulgar.”

  So the Ardens did not want Violet and they didn’t want Nedda Fiske. They wanted the factory girl gone. What had Claude said? The show didn’t need the first love triangle and certainly not a second? It occurred to me that getting rid of Floyd Lombardo had been the first step in Nedda’s collapse and withdrawal from the show.

  But Jimmy Galligan had killed Floyd because of unpaid debts, making the Ardens’ dislike of Nedda Fiske irrelevant.

  But their affections for other people, I reminded myself, were not.

  Striving for lightness of tone, I said, “I envy you, being so close to the Ardens. What are they like, really?”

  Eyes on the sketch pad, she said, “That’s not a question, it’s a request. Is this something you want from them or something you wish to know about them?”

  “I suppose I’m looking for inspiration. It’s a happy marriage, isn’t it?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Arden are ideally suited,” she pronounced. “A more harmonious pair you could not imagine.”

  “And they … only harmonize with each other?”

  Now she looked up with narrowed eyes. “Oh, dear. What newspaper is paying you?”

  I was startled by the swiftness of the accusation. “None.”

  “Just casually interested in the state of the Arden marriage,” she said. “Nothing in it for you. Well, if it’s Mr. Arden you’re hoping for, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. He’s quite devoted.”

  “I know. I know he loves Mrs. Arden very much.” I did not like what I had to say, but knew it had to be said. “I don’t see the same devotion from her.”

  She drew swift sharp lines on the page. “I cannot think what’s gotten into your head, but I am tempted to slap it right out.”

  “At Rector’s, Mrs. Arden was flirting quite visibly with Mr. Hirschfeld…”

  “Aren’t you the jealous little squit?”

  Fed up with her protectiveness of her patron—and not a little stung—I stated in blunt terms what I had heard in the dressing room that day. “Mr. Arden was onstage. But two gentlemen were not: Mr. Hirschfeld and Mr. Warburton. I asked Mr. Hirschfeld…”

  “And he of course was completely honest with you.”

  “He claimed it was Mr. Warburton. Who did have a reputation of enjoying the company of other men’s wives and who was shot two days later.”

  Slapping down her pencil, she said, “Why on earth would Claude Arden shoot the man who has promoted his career for decades? The man responsible for producing this very show? Dear God, don’t be such a child.”

  I was just young enough for that insult to hurt. Losing my temper, I said, “Mrs. Arden was harmonizing quite loudly with someone not her husband. I don’t think it was Leo Hirschfeld and you say it wasn’t Mr. Warburton. She would never have had anything to do with Floyd Lombardo and I think we can agree Mr. Harney is out of the question. So who was it?”

  No doubt Mrs. St. John meant to accuse me of lying. Or say she didn’t know. Or, even at this late point, challenge me on whether or not I had in fact heard Blanche Arden. Why not Nedda Fiske? Why not Violet Tempest? They could have easily borrowed her dressing room—it was the largest.

  But she did none of these things. She just sat there with a small, resigned smile.

  Until I said, “Oh.”

  I looked at the wonder of a dress. “It’s so beautiful, I should have…”

  “It’s beautiful because I have skill and I like to make beautiful things and get paid handsomely for doing so. Love has nothing to do with it. But in every other respect, yes.”

  I wasn’t unaware of women who loved women. There had been attachments at the refuge; some of the women went on to share apartments and lives. On the Lower East Side, the occasional couple was bold enough to walk arm in arm. At Mrs. Armslow’s there had been a cook and housekeeper so emotionally partnered, we joked that they wer
e married—and perhaps they were in a way. Yet I was surprised; Blanche Arden and Adele St. John were handsome, wealthy women, able to choose anyone they wanted. So they were, I realized, and they had chosen each other.

  Still. Adele St. John had trusted me with a secret that was not hers alone to keep. It felt right to exchange confidence for confidence.

  “I guess I am a jealous little squit.”

  Mrs. St. John observed that Leo Hirschfeld was a poor mate for anyone with a jealous temperament—and if they didn’t have one to start, they soon would have. Just then Blanche Arden put her lovely head around the door and sniffed. “This smells doomy.”

  Mrs. St. John waved her in. “I’m explaining that Claude did not kill Sidney in a fit of cuckolded rage.”

  She tilted her head to suggest that she had explained a few other things as well.

  “Oh. Truth telling.” Blanche turned to me. “A gentle reminder: if you run off to the newspapers or decide to entertain your pals in the scullery with the scandalous goings-on of theater folk…”

  “I wouldn’t do that, I promise.”

  “No, you truly won’t do that. Because I like Mr. Hirschfeld and I’d hate to tell lurid stories about him that are none of anyone’s business.”

  Her tone made it clear that I would be included in those stories and she would use every ounce of skill in the telling. I would be unemployable.

  “I wouldn’t,” I said again. “I won’t. Mrs. St. John has been very kind to me.” It was an odd thing to say of that brusque woman, but true.

  Settling in beside Mrs. St. John, Blanche said, “Well, that’s true, she is kind. But I’m not and you remember that.”

  We sat in silence a long moment. Then Mrs. St. John said, “She’s wondering if Claude knows.”

  “Oh, and if he cares. Claude does care—passionately.”

  Pained, I nodded.

  “About a dreary little woman who lives in Rocky River, Ohio.”

  I blinked.

  “Claude’s beloved is named Ruth Stobitz. They were childhood sweethearts in the days of yore. Ruth’s father owned a mill. Ruth wanted Claude to work in that mill. Ruth wanted Claude to sing in church and church only. Be respectable. Steadily employed. Claude loved her, but he did not love mills. Or Rocky River. And he knew he had the talent to be something more. And so he broke poor Ruth’s heart and became the man who sings ‘She of the Emerald Eyes.’”