The Copycat Caper

by John V. Madormo

  I waited patiently for practice to end. I needed to talk to Mr. Miles. I wasn’t sure how he’d react to my proposal. It might mean putting off play practice for a couple of weeks and pushing back opening night. He might not be too willing to do so. But I had to try. It was for the good of the community. He’d have to see that. As practice was ending, Mr. Miles pulled the entire group together onstage. He even asked the understudies to join the others. Once he had our attention, he smiled and began applauding.

  “Wunderbar! Just wunderbar! We turned a corner today, my friends. Things are progressing nicely.” He waved his hand in the direction of the seating area. “Imagine this venue filled to capacity. Imagine the electricity. Oh, it’s what the theater is all about. You’ll do wonderfully. I just know it.”

  The slacker raised his hand. “Exactly how many people will be here for the show, do you think?”

  “Four or five hundred, I would hope,” he said. “You’re not getting cold feet I hope, Mr. Walsh.”

  “That’s an awful lot of people, you know.”

  “Don’t even think about it. When the stage lights are on, you won’t be able to see anyone,” Mr. Miles said. “But you’ll hear them, and you’ll feed off their energy. It’ll be a night you’ll never forget.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Patrick mumbled.

  “And so if there’s nothing else, consider yourselves dismissed until tomorrow afternoon.”

  I waited until everyone but Henry had left the auditorium.

  “You ready?” he said.

  “I have to talk to Mr. Miles for a minute. I’ll meet you at the bus.”

  “You don’t want me around. Is that it?” Henry got his nose out of joint if he wasn’t included in every little thing.

  “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you about it. Don’t worry.”

  He made a face and headed for his locker. Mr. Miles was moving props off the stage when I approached him.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Miles, do you have a minute?”

  “What can I do for you, Charlie?” He held up a finger. “But first, I just wanted to tell you how pleased I am that you’ve managed to attend some of the practices. I know it’s hard to watch the others onstage, but who knows, you might get your chance, and I know you’ll be ready. So, how can I help you?”

  “Do you happen to remember an old-time radio actor by the name of Peter Wentworth?”

  He smiled. “Peter Wentworth was a legend. He played Sam Solomon for four or five years on the radio. He was a fine actor. I don’t remember him doing much else, however . . . which is odd. With his talents, he should have been all over radio . . . and on the big screen.” He stopped to reflect for a minute. “I do seem to recall that he got himself into some sort of a contract dispute—a particularly messy one with a producer, and then he just sort of disappeared.”

  “Maybe he retired.”

  “No, he wasn’t that old. I don’t recall the specific details, but I think there was some wording in his contract that prevented him from working for anyone else for a period of time. There was probably more to it. I just can’t remember.”

  I smiled. “Well, don’t feel bad. That was decades ago.”

  Mr. Miles nodded. “You’re right. And I was a young actor back then with a lot of things on my mind.” He smiled. “So, tell me, why are you so interested in Peter Wentworth?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” I said. “Do you remember what his voice sounded like by any chance? I mean—could you do his voice if you wanted?”

  “Well, it would help to hear it again, I suppose. But I think I might be able to.” He thought for a moment. It was as if he was about to morph into Peter Wentworth. And then a moment later, he had done it. “She sashayed into the office and lowered herself into a chair opposite mine. A black mesh veil covered her face, but you could tell she was a real beauty. Totally out of my league. This dame would have put Helen of Troy to shame.” He stopped and smiled. “So, how was that?”

  That was unbelievable. His voice was so close to the actor in the Sam Solomon series that it was uncanny.

  “You are the man of a thousand voices,” I said.

  Mr. Miles laughed. “Well, you’re very kind to say so, Charlie.”

  His near-perfect Peter Wentworth impersonation was all I needed to hear. It was time to unload. I proceeded to outline the entire scenario. I told him about the connection between the recent crime wave and the Sam Solomon series currently airing on the local radio station. I explained to him that Eugene was a full-fledged member of the investigation. I knew that would add credibility. I mentioned the conversation I had with my grandmother and her offhand comment that the only way we might be able to catch this culprit would be to produce our own episode of the Sam Solomon program. Then I dropped the bomb. I suggested that we transform the current school play into a thirty-minute radio production. I told him that all we had to do was condense the story since it was in full-length play mode and change the name of the private detective from Nick Dakota to Sam Solomon. And I added that it was really important for him to emphasize the word bookie as much as possible in the new version. It had to become the focal point of the script so that our suspect was likely to choose it for his little word game.

  I talked as quickly as I could. I wanted to lay everything out before being interrupted. I asked him to think about other actors in the area who he might be able to convince to join him in the production. I told him that since Eugene was a personal friend of the station owner, we just might be able to use one of their studios to record the program. And that he would hopefully agree to substitute the new production for next week’s episode. I avoided eye contact the entire time. I was afraid that if I sensed skepticism on his part, I would start to stumble and lose momentum. When I had finished my pitch, I glanced up at him.

  “So, what do you think?” I said. I held my breath. I was so afraid he’d nix the whole idea, and then we’d be stuck listening to the weekly radio programs as they aired and trying to figure things out on the fly.

  “Charlie, I don’t know what to say. It’s either the craziest idea I’ve ever heard . . . or the most fantastic. But you say that Eugene Patterson is involved, huh?”

  I nodded.

  He put his hands together as if he were praying and brought them to his lips. “I have to think about it. You’re asking an awful lot. Trimming this play to thirty minutes and adapting it into a radio program is no small task. Then assembling a stable of actors . . . not to mention the selection of music and sound effects . . . and then editing it all together . . . is a huge undertaking. And you’re wanting it to air next Monday night?”

  That’s exactly what I was thinking but right at that moment, I was afraid to admit to it.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”

  “I do,” I said. “And I wouldn’t bother you with this, but you’re our only hope. If we wait past Monday, another crime will definitely occur. You alone can keep that from happening.” I hated to resort to a guilt trip, but what else could I do?

  Mr. Miles sighed. “Listen, you have Eugene call his friend at the radio station just to see if any of this is even possible. I don’t want to start editing this production until I know it’s a go.”

  “So if the station agrees to help out, does that mean you’re in?”

  He stared forward. “It was 1955. The 46th Street Theatre in New York. Guys and Dolls. I was the understudy for the character of Nathan Detroit. Moments before the curtain was to rise, the actor playing that role suddenly fell ill. I wasn’t even in costume when the director grabbed me and pressed me into service.” He smiled. “It was a night I will never forget.”

  He seemed to be in some sort of a trance. I didn’t want to disturb him. And then suddenly he returned to the present.

  “In the acting profession, when duty calls, you had better be ready to answer the bell. Be
cause the show must go on.” He paused in thought. “All right, Charlie, if you and Eugene can work out the details, I’ll do it. I have a few actor friends in the area who’d love a chance to return to the golden age of radio. Now I won’t begin until I hear back from you. Let me know ASAP. You got it?”

  “I got it, sir. Thank you so much. I’ll get back to you first thing in the morning.” I ran out of the auditorium to catch the activities bus. Henry wouldn’t believe what I was about to tell him. I had done it. I had actually convinced Mr. Miles to help us create the perfect trap for our suspect. As I ran through the playground on my way to the bus stop, I started to worry. What if Eugene thought this was a really bad idea? What if his friend at the radio station said no to using his studio and to substituting the show? I had gotten so carried away in pitching my idea to Mr. Miles that I might have jumped the gun.

  I remembered a time when the same thing happened to Sam Solomon—with near-fatal results. It was episode #51—The Knot Guilty Caper. In this particular case, Sam had been hired by a commodore in the merchant marine who suspected one of his captains of smuggling contraband into the country. In order to get close enough to observe his subject, Sam went undercover as a ship’s clerk on board the vessel. But when the captain got suspicious of the new mate who was asking too many questions of the crew, he threw him in the brig and interrogated him. Now it’s important to note here that before Sam had taken on his new identity, he spent a week learning everything there was to know about the merchant marine, or so he thought. The impatient P.I. failed to read all of the materials supplied to him by the commodore. One of those documents contained instructions on how to tie the various knots that every sailor should know. During his interrogation, the captain instructed Sam to tie the most common knot, a Spanish bowline. When he was unable to do so, he was sentenced to walk the plank. I won’t give away the ending, but let’s just say that Sam came very close to actually drowning his sorrows.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Brass Tax Caper

  On the bus ride home with Henry, I replayed my conversation with Mr. Miles. I didn’t leave out a single detail. We were nearly at our stops when I finished.

  “This is getting better by the minute,” he said.

  “I know. But I’m a little worried that I spoke too soon. If Eugene can’t get the radio station owner to play ball, then we’re back to square one.”

  “Eugene can be pretty persuasive when he needs to be,” Henry said. “And once his old buddy at the radio station realizes that he holds the key to stopping the current crime wave, then he’s bound to buy in. Heck, it’s his civic duty.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Henry hopped off the bus as it pulled up to his stop. Mine was a couple of minutes away. I found myself thinking about our next moves. Although it was nearly dinnertime, I desperately needed to talk to Eugene. I knew I didn’t have time to ride my bike over to his office, and I wasn’t sure if I could find enough privacy to have a telephone conversation with him. I planned to ask my grandmother for help.

  When I walked in the door, my mom was busily preparing dinner.

  “Is Gram around?” I asked.

  “I think she’s out in the backyard,” my mom said. “I don’t know what she’s up to, though. And, frankly, I don’t think I want to know.” She smiled.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t go far. Your dad’s due home any minute. And dinner’s in a half hour.”

  “Okay.” I walked into the living room, dumped my backpack on the stairs leading up to my room, and headed outside. What I found didn’t surprise me. Gram was at it again. This time she was decked out, head to toe, in SWAT gear, complete with helmet and bulletproof vest. She was holding a walking cane. It was the one she had used a couple of years ago when she fell and hurt her hip. She had it tucked in under her arm like a rifle and was aiming it in the direction of the garage.

  “Hi, Gram, you got a minute?”

  She turned away from me and addressed an imaginary colleague. “Felix, maintain our position. I need to relocate another bystander.” She dropped her cane and walked over. “I only have a minute, Charlie. What’s up?”

  “Gram, I gotta talk to Eugene in the worst way. Something big has come up and I need to discuss it with him.”

  “So, how can I help?”

  “I don’t have time to ride my bike over there, and I’m worried about calling him. I can’t risk being overheard.” I stared at my shoes. “I was wondering if you’d be able to drive me over there after dinner. It’d just be for a few minutes.”

  She lifted my chin with her hand. “Never be afraid to ask me for a favor. Never,” she said. “Of course, I’ll drive you over there. I assume that this has something to do with your case?”

  I nodded. “But what should we tell Mom and Dad?”

  “Oh, we’ll figure something out. Leave it up to me.”

  I could hear the overhead garage door opening right at that moment.

  “I hate to cut this short,” she said, “but I gotta get back to work. We have a hostage crisis on our hands. And it’s time to flush out our prey.”

  When Gram had used the term flush out, I didn’t think she meant it literally. But as she walked away, she picked up the garden hose.

  “Okay, men,” she yelled out. “Now!” And with that, she stormed into the garage.

  I had a bad feeling about what would happen next . . . not for me, but for my dad. I decided it would be best to vacate the premises. I wouldn’t want to be a witness against my grandmother in court. I ran in the house and up to my room. I slid open the curtains, opened the window that faced the backyard, and watched what promised to be pure entertainment. About thirty seconds later, my dad emerged from the garage in full gallop. He was shielding himself with his briefcase. But it didn’t matter. He was soaking wet. A moment later, Gram appeared with hose in hand. She was relentless. My dad was pounded by torrents of water as he sprinted to the back door.

  “We got a runner!” she screamed to her fake fellow officers.

  My dad stopped at the top of the stairs and lowered his briefcase. “Mom, this time you’ve gone too far.”

  I’m not really sure what my dad was thinking by letting down his guard like that. Did he really think that Gram would drop her weapon? That wasn’t in the cards. With her victim’s upper body now unprotected, Gram continued her assault. With her final blast from the hose, she proceeded to knock my dad’s glasses right off his head. It was priceless. I knew I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but I found myself laughing so hard that my dad managed to hear me through the open bedroom window. Needless to say, dinner was filled with sneers and snarls.

  • • •

  Since no one was much in the mood for conversation, very little was said when Gram announced that she’d be driving me to the library after dinner to do research for an upcoming assignment. It wasn’t a total fib. After all, we were on assignment . . . and we were doing research. I gobbled down the remaining portions of mashed potatoes and meat loaf from my plate and met Gram on the front porch. Moments later, we were mobile. Riding shotgun in Gram’s car was an adventure in itself. I had to grab hold of the seat or anything that might keep me from sliding around. Even at her age, she never tired of putting pedal to the metal. And because of the age of her car, a 1978 Chrysler Newport, there was usually some sort of engine or exhaust issues going on. Needless to say, it was the loudest vehicle on the road.

  On the way to Eugene’s, I laid out my plan of having Mr. Miles rewrite his play into a condensed radio version and having local actors assist in the production. I asked her how well Eugene knew the radio station owner and if she thought he might be able to convince him to help us out. She wasn’t sure how tight the two were but was confident that considering the gravity of the situation, Mr. Stewart might be inclined to cooperate.

  When we got to Eugene’s office,
Gram allowed me to do the honors of announcing our arrival with the usual knock-scrape-knock password on the door.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  When we entered, Eugene was standing behind his desk. There were opened boxes of Chinese food on the desktop.

  “Oh, I hope we’re not disturbing you,” Gram said.

  “Not at all,” Eugene said. “I just finished.” He began collecting the boxes and dropped them in a wastebasket. “Please sit down. So, what brings you all the way across town tonight?”

  Gram nodded at me. It was time to do my thing.

  “Well, Eugene,” I said. “I have this idea on how we might be able to set a trap for our suspect.”

  He took a seat and leaned back in his chair. “I’m all ears.”

  “I was talking to Gram about how this guy had outsmarted us by showing up at the gallery instead of the museum. And I was complaining about the fact that we’d have to wait until Monday for him to make another move. And that even then, there was still no guarantee we’d be able to figure out where he might strike next.”

  “It’s all very frustrating,” Eugene said.

  “So then Gram said something that got me to thinking. Although I don’t think she was serious at the time.”

  She smiled. “I wasn’t.”

  “She suggested that we somehow create our own Sam Solomon drama that might lead us directly to the suspect’s next target.”

  Eugene put his feet up on his desk. “It’s a great idea, but I’m afraid you’d need a time machine to pull it off.”