Finally, I turned to Zoltan the Mighty, the man who lifted trains with his powerful pinky. The two men were not dissimilar in looks, but many years had passed and a bald head and handlebar mustache could make almost any two men look alike. It was hard to imagine the taut skin and bulging muscles melting into the ample, sagging flesh, but age was not kind. Simon had said Zoltan had been “run over.” Mr. Harney’s signature lurch: years of drinking or a catastrophic accident?
Turning back, I looked again. It was there, I saw it now. But the faces, past and present, had begun to blur. This one became that, that one connected to the other. Yes, there was a resemblance. But what did it mean?
“Family portraits?”
I looked up and saw William standing at the door. “Mr. Tyler.”
“Good evening, Jane.” Seeing the scrapbook, he leaned over to see the pictures, only to utter a quick noise of disgust. I closed the book.
Going to the icebox, he poured himself a glass of milk, then took the chair opposite. “Just I’m rather tired of the theater these days.”
“Mrs. Tyler only wants you to be proud of her.” I wasn’t sure it was the only thing Louise wanted, but it seemed the politic thing to say.
“Does she? I wasn’t under the impression she cared much about my opinion one way or the other.”
There was subtle stress laid on “my” and he met my eye as he said it. I told him he was being silly. “When you see the show, you’ll understand her excitement.”
Slipping laced hands over his shin like a boy, he said, “I don’t know if I can. Louise’s father is traveling to Washington. Wants me to come.”
“Well, tell him you can’t.”
“When you worked for Mr. Benchley, did you ever tell him ‘no’?”
The answer was no, I hadn’t. But I wasn’t his son-in-law, and I made that point.
“The last time we were in Washington”—last year, William and Mr. Benchley had spent months in the capital, fighting the new income tax—“I felt terrible leaving Louise so long. Now she’s always out and about and I’m at home or with her father like a young lady with a protective family.”
Sensing wounded pride, I was about to suggest he come to rehearsals with her; but William Tyler was an earnest, gentle young man. It was difficult to imagine him in the scrabbling, madcap world of the theater.
Nodding to the scrapbook, he said, “Louise insists Mr. Hirschfeld had nothing to do with killing the producer. Says it was some unknown character who made his way into the restaurant and vanished without a trace.”
He waited for me to agree with that. I agreed that the killer was not Mr. Hirschfeld and was as yet unknown—to us.
“But I think it may be someone Mr. Warburton knew. And for a very long time. Someone to whom he did great harm.”
William peered at the album. “And you think he’s in there?”
My mind went to the image of Zoltan, arms raised, his oiled body exuding virility. Then to Mr. Harney, slumped over his own ponderous belly.
“I don’t know.”
* * *
Only two people had worked with Sidney Warburton closely enough that they might know his history with Mr. Harney: Claude Arden and Harriet Biederman. Despite his kindness the other day, Claude Arden was unlikely to give me much more of his time and I did not expect to find him helpful. Miss Biederman, on the other hand, was helpful to a fault. I decided to start with her.
Leo had coaxed Violet back to rehearsals and so Mr. Harney started work first thing that morning, a fact that could not have pleased him. However, he seemed not only sober, but dedicated. Kindly, he underplayed, allowing Violet center stage. For her part, Violet faced front, addressing only the imaginary audience, leaving her partner high and dry.
With some tact, I slid into the seat next to Harriet. I was offered a small nod of acknowledgment, but her eyes remained on the stage. Rehearsal was in progress. And I was no longer trusted; I had put my own feelings above getting the job done. I had not known Harriet long, but I knew her in this. If she could put up with Warburton’s abuse for the sake of art, why couldn’t I keep my hands off Leo Hirschfeld?
Still, she was not a spiteful person and her natural friendliness soon asserted itself. At first we exchanged glances of pity for Mr. Harney, then dismay when Violet sang sharp and insisted Harney was throwing her off. A new key was suggested. Harriet dutifully wrote it down. Thinking the change wouldn’t last five minutes, I asked, “Do you write it all down? Every change, every disagreement?”
She smiled noncommittally.
“It would be interesting to see the show as it was. I imagine it’s changed.”
Here, she placed a protective hand on top of the book. “These are Mr. Warburton’s thoughts. And Mr. Hirschfeld’s. Some they shared with the cast, others they did not. Their ideas need privacy. If people find out there was ever a question, a doubt, they will say, Yes, it should be that way.”
Then she nodded to the book in my lap. “Is that Mrs. Warburton’s scrapbook?”
“It is.”
“Many times, she has demanded, ‘Harriet, I need this poster!’ ‘Harriet, I need this picture.’”
Her complaint meant we were friends again. Turning to the picture of Zoltan, I said, “Did you work with Mr. Warburton back then?”
“… Not work.”
But knew, was implied. That made sense. Harriet was only a little older than I was; she couldn’t have been Warburton’s secretary at the turn of the century. Although she was probably every bit as efficient as a child. Before I could ask how she came to work for the producer, Leo interrupted to relay instructions to his wife via Harriet. From now on, Mr. Harney would stand three feet from Mrs. Hirschfeld at all times. While Harriet wrote this down, I turned pages. From time to time, she glanced over, her expression indicating nothing beyond polite interest. Until I came to a photo of the full troupe standing outside a theater.
Harriet’s face convulsed in misery. Clumsily, she wrestled herself from her seat, pen and notebook gathered close to her chest. In her haste, she knocked over the bottle of ink that always stood under the seat. For a moment, she stared at the spreading black pool, clearly compelled to wipe it up in spite of her own distress. But then she turned and hurried from the theater.
Leo called for a break. Coming to me, he asked, “What happened?”
“I think I revived an unhappy memory.”
I saw comprehension in his face.
“What happened, Leo?”
“… Nothing. I don’t know. Just…”
Raising his finger to forestall further questioning, he went after his wife, who had stalked off in a huff at the interruption. Mr. Harney would be expecting me and taking up the scrapbook, I headed up to the dressing rooms. It was Mr. Harney’s habit to strip down to the bare decencies, flop into a large overstuffed chair—to which he bore some resemblance—and place his feet in ice water. He was fond of this routine and would be annoyed by my lateness.
As I went, I rehearsed in my mind how I would open the scrapbook to Zoltan’s picture and inquire: had he, by any chance, known the man?
But as I came to the dressing room, the door swung open and a fully dressed Mr. Harney hurtled into the hallway.
“Jane. Would you do me a kindness and fetch a taxi?”
“Of course, Mr. Harney. Shall I tell the driver where you’re going?”
Basset face impassive, he said, “You shall not.”
I fetched Mr. Harney his taxi. Standing at a short distance from the curb, I was able to hear the address he gave the driver. Going back inside, I saw Louise, who asked, “Where on earth is Mr. Harney off to?”
I repeated the address. Did she recognize it? She did.
“That’s where Nedda Fiske lives.”
* * *
The rest of the morning was spent on the technical rehearsal. I went to wardrobe and asked Mrs. St. John if I might be of use. Directing me to a pair of boots worn by the factory girl, she said, “Mrs. Hirschfeld claims t
hey pinch. Perhaps you can do something with them. Feel free to employ needles, pins, shards of glass…”
Sitting down with the shoes, I said, “She’s being so unkind to Mr. Harney.”
“I know,” she said shortly. “I saw.”
After yesterday, Mrs. St. John and I had a new bond of trust. I did not want to jeopardize it by presuming to challenge her. But if her answer would help Mr. Harney, I felt it was worth the presumption.
I began tentatively, saying I was very fond of Mr. Harney. She said she was rather fond of him herself, the old sauce bag.
“Has he had a very hard life?” I asked. “Is that why he drinks?”
Turning at the waist, chin on a single finger, she said, “It is when you sound like a six-year-old girl inquiring as to the existence of Santa Claus that I am reminded you’re anything but. What are you asking me?”
“You lied to the police the night Mr. Warburton was killed. You said Mr. Harney never left our table. I saw him do just that. And he was headed toward the men’s room where Mr. Warburton was killed.”
She gave a half shrug. “I honestly didn’t notice.”
“Yes, you did. You see everything down to the smallest detail. And if you hadn’t noticed, you wouldn’t have said anything at all.”
Sighing, she dropped down on the edge of the stool. “I suppose it was stupid. But for goodness sake, the man had gone off to be ill. He was staggering. He would have been incapable of killing anyone except himself.”
“Then why lie?”
“Because I knew he hadn’t killed Warburton, but I also know the police can be very rough. It was sentimental, I suppose, but the thought of poor old Harney being bullied and shouted at by detectives gave me chills. Especially with Warburton dead. Say what you like about that man, but he was one of the few people still willing to employ Roland Harney. When this show closes opening night—as it will—what will he do? Where will he go?”
“Someone will give him a job,” I said doubtfully. “Peanut’s very popular.”
“Anyone can be ignored by a dog. Most New York producers will feel he’s just not worth the trouble and he’s too old to go out on the circuit again.” She looked at me. “So, perhaps you understand why I didn’t relish the thought of him in a prison cell, even for a night. He wouldn’t have survived.”
I hadn’t known Roland Harney’s future was so dependent on Sidney Warburton. It did argue against him as the killer. On the other hand, how had he come to be such a wreck?
I asked Mrs. St. John that very question and she waved a hand. “Terror, rejection, despair—the actor’s life. I’m sure I don’t know the particulars.”
As she got up, the stool shifted, one of the legs rattling the pages of a magazine that had fallen on the floor. It was Photoplay, the new one. No doubt left behind by Blanche.
Noticing that the picture of Pearl White on the cover faintly resembled the blond actress, I said, “Mrs. Arden seems very fond of movies. Would the Ardens ever make one?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Her tone suggested she did know—and was not happy. I said, “They do make movies in New York.”
“Most of the studios are going out west. Better weather, easier to film year-round.”
“Movies need beautiful costumes, too.”
“Movies are made quickly and cheaply, two words I detest. Along with deserts and palm trees. My life is here.”
I had the feeling she had made this very point to Blanche. Who had bought the magazine nonetheless.
“Then we have to pray Two Loves Have I has a wonderful long run.”
An outburst of shouting—Mr. Arden this time—drew our attention upward.
“I’m not a believer in miracles,” said Adele St. John.
16
That afternoon, Leo had scheduled a full run-through of the second act with the orchestra. But Roland Harney was nowhere to be found. Claude Arden suggested we search the saloons. Blanche suggested gutters. Both agreed either was preferable to sharing a stage with Violet Tempest. Louise, who knew where Mr. Harney had gone, removed herself to the far end of the theater where she was deep in conversation with Leo. I lingered, but withdrew when she met my eye in a warning not to approach.
At loose ends, I went to wait with Peanut in the wings. There I found Harriet, who was talking with one of the stagehands about the slowness of a scene change: a divan had not been where it needed to be. I was struck by the difference in her manner. Normally quiet to the point of invisibility, she was clear and exacting in her demands; it was not would you, it was you will. He tried to make excuses, but she would have none of it. When she had made him swear the divan would make it onto the stage before Violet had to swoon upon it, she turned and our eyes met. Hoping for fellowship, I offered a bright, approving face. Hers stayed closed.
Leo had returned to the piano and was calling places for Claude and Violet when the lobby door swung open and Roland Harney barreled in with his odd, jerky gait, shouting, “My apologies! My apologies! Where are we?”
I saw from Leo’s expression that he was considering a rebuke. But either because Harney had put up with a lot from Violet or there was simply no time, he clapped his hands and said, “Let’s start.”
When Harney had finished his scenes and Peanut had finished his, I collected them both and went up to the dressing room. I took the scrapbook with me as well, laying it on a table as Mr. Harney fell into his sprung chair. As I put the basin of ice water in place and started to remove his shoes, he pulled a bottle from his coat pocket and took a swig. I let him have one more, then took the bottle and set it aside. He frowned, but did not object.
Then he asked, “Did they ask for me?” I nodded. “What did you tell them?”
“That you’d gone out. I didn’t say where.”
“You didn’t know where.”
“I heard the address you gave the driver.”
He waited for me to ask, accuse, something. When I didn’t, he waved his hand and said, “Anyway, nobody misses the clown.”
“I missed him.” He gave me a look of droll disbelief. “You get tired of the lovers; all they think about is themselves, their grand romance. The clown is for the audience. He wanders into the mess and makes us laugh at it. If you don’t happen to be a lover, he’s the one you root for.”
We shared a smile, at which point I chose to ask, “How was your visit with Miss Fiske?”
Sadness came over his face like a shadow. “Unsuccessful.”
“Is she still mourning Mr. Lombardo?”
He heard the question under the question. “Let’s just say she wants something that it is not in my power to give.” Sinking back, he said, “God, I miss Sidney. He would have her back here, dead lover or no dead lover.”
His phrasing was both callous and curious. I was reminding myself that one could miss someone and still be the reason they were absent when he noticed the scrapbook, laid carefully open on the dressing table, and exclaimed, “Dear God, is that Arden? What a peacock!”
He reached out his hands. “Let me see, let me see…”
No longer exhausted, he settled the bulky volume on his lap, murmuring, “Don’t remember him, do remember her—unfortunately.” Broad smiles and claps of delight greeted old friends. Sneers and insults indicated lesser talents—or rivals. For fifteen minutes, he regaled me with stories: which theaters had been lovely, which hell—most were hell. Towns with the best audiences were fondly remembered. Acts that had gone on to fame and fortune. Acts that had not. Listening, I thought he would never be so eager to talk about the past if the solution to Warburton’s death lay in his own hidden identity. Nonetheless, I watched as he came to Zoltan the Mighty. Beyond a faint look of derision, I saw nothing.
“Are you in here?” I asked.
“Probably.”
“Which act?”
He gave me something like a smile and handed me the book. “Find me.”
I made a good show of looking, perusing the group shot once again b
efore hesitating at the strong man’s picture. When I did, Harney gave a hearty chuckle that seemed beyond the artifice of even the most skilled actor. Still I said, “It’s not impossible.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Taking the book back, he turned back the pages. When he found the Flying O’Briens and the Dancing Hollyhocks, he tapped the girl in the middle of the dance trio.
“There’s me.”
And it was, I saw it now. True, he was much thinner, clad in a resplendent parlor gown and wig. But the smile was the same and I had seen him extend his arm in the same graceful way, tilt his chin just as he did in the photograph. That sweetness and generosity with an audience, it was all there.
“You’re lovely.”
“Thank you for the present tense.”
“Are these your sisters?”
“Good God, no. The Hollyhock girls came to my town in eighteen … well, you don’t need to know the year. I was fifteen. I had never seen anything so marvelous, the way they moved, the way they looked, the dream they created for the audience. It was everything I wanted. After the show, I went ’round to the dressing room and said I would do anything to join the troupe, clean up after the goats, anything. Luckily, they’d just lost their third girl to a bassoonist in Des Moines. What people called impersonators were popular in those days. Once they figured out I had no qualms about the dress—and that it fit—they went straight to Sidney. Nettie and Virginia”—he indicated the picture—“were wonderful. Although, I was widely considered the most graceful dancer of the three. Many a stage-door Johnny came calling for Eugenia Hollyhock.”
“And where is Eugenia now?”
He sighed. “After a few years, Nettie decided she was done with the business. Tired of six shows a day, changing in toilets, and sleeping on trains. She took her savings and opened a boardinghouse. Virginia became a magician’s assistant, got sawed in half and pinched black and blue every night. None of the other acts wanted Eugenia and she couldn’t quite make it on her own, poor thing. That’s when she started to … slip away. Everything did, the drink will do that. One night, I took a bad fall. Something went snap and my dancing days were done. I spent a week pickling in my rooms, trying my best to poison myself. At the end of it, Sidney came to my room and said he was going to have to leave me behind—unless I could keep the gin in check. If I could do that, he’d find something for me. It so happened, the other half of Peanut’s act had just met an unfortunate end in a saloon. So I switched to dogs. And trousers. Adieu, Eugenia. Hello, Roland.”
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