The Old Die Young

by RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

  Shapiro raised dark eyebrows.

  “Writing plays for a living,” Askew said. “A tense trade, Lieutenant. Will it jell? Will anybody produce it? Will the director and the actors get what you’re driving at? And what about the critics? Will people come? There’s no business like show business, as Berlin said. Tension all the time. Right, Ken?”

  “Goes for actors too,” Price said. “You end up tense as hell.”

  He did not look particularly tense at the moment, Shapiro thought, for all he was to take over a starring role that evening. He looked—well, contented was probably the word for Kenneth Price. The look he had was of a man whose big chance has landed in his lap. Or, of course, has been pushed there.

  “Mr. Askew called you yesterday afternoon and asked you to come down and have a drink with him, to talk over the readings he wanted in the play. That’s the way it was, Mr. Price?”

  “Yes. Certain lines he wanted a special twist on.”

  Shapiro said he saw. “Way I get it, the two of you sat at a table near the entrance to the restaurant. People would pass close to your table on their way into the restaurant?”

  “Sure. A lot did.”

  “Anyone you knew? Any members of the cast, say?”

  “A couple of guys I knew. Not connected with Summer Solstice, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “And someone could have dropped something in your glass, or Mr. Askew’s glass, without being noticed?”

  Price supposed so. “We were pretty much taken up with what we were talking about. Trying to get the readings Bret wanted. Engrossed, I guess you could call it.”

  “Listen, Lieutenant—” Askew said.

  Shapiro cut in. “Yes, Mr. Askew,” he said. “I know you don’t think now that anything was put in your drink. We just have to cover everything, you see. All possibilities. Mr. Price?”

  “Yes?”

  “Nobody stopped by the table last night—to say hello?”

  “Only my agent. Mrs. Abel, you know. Just as Bret and I were finishing up, actually. You see—well, I was going over to her place for dinner. To talk some things over. Her office is a few blocks from the Algonquin and her chauffeur picks her up in the evenings. She thought she might as well stop by and pick me up too. Save me cab fare, was the way she put it.”

  “Knowing you’d be in the lobby having a drink with Mr. Askew?”

  “Yes. I’d given her a ring telling her I’d be with Bret.”

  “And she came in herself? Didn’t send in this chauffeur of hers?”

  “Yes. Wanted to say hello to Bret, here, and, I suppose, see how we were making out. After all, she’s my agent. Wants to keep up with things. Particularly now, when things are, you could say, a little shaky. If you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” Shapiro said. “But I gather they’re firming up.”

  “They seem to be, Lieutenant. We’ll know after tonight Know better, anyway.”

  “Anything you want to ask these gentlemen, Cook?” Shapiro said. “Anything you feel we’ve missed?”

  “No, sir. Seem to have covered everything. Only—well, last night, when I still thought somebody had tried to poison Mr. Askew, I had a crazy notion. Seems crazy now, anyway.”

  “Yes, Cook?”

  “That somebody was really after the play. Knock off the star. Feed the playwright something that’d make him sick. Idea, to stop the play. Close it down and make sure it couldn’t be put back together again.”

  “And why the hell would anybody want to do that?” Askew said.

  “I know it’s a crazy notion,” Tony told him. “Said it was. I don’t know anything about writing plays, Mr. Askew. Writing anything, for that matter. But I thought, you know, perhaps authors draw their characters from real life. And that maybe one of the characters in Summer Solstice could be identified as a real person. And that somebody, the person himself or someone close to him, objected to that. Another crazy notion, I suppose.”

  “It sure as hell is,” Askew said. “No, Cook, there’s no prototype for any of the characters in my play. Not the way I write.”

  “But some authors do, don’t they?”

  “A few. Not very many, I’d think. Oh, Somerset Maugham did now and then. In Cakes and Ale, for example. There’ve been other cases. And sure, fictional characters, in novels or plays, have to come from somewhere. From everybody the author has ever met, including himself. But there’s nobody in Summer Solstice who’s taken from real life. Nobody at all. So, nobody to resent the play. Not for that reason, anyway. It doesn’t libel anyone.”

  “All right,” Tony said. “It was a crazy idea. As I admitted.”

  “So,” Shapiro said, “we’ve got that cleared up. I think we’ll have a word or two with Mr. Simon. Don’t you, Cook?”

  When it is “Cook” instead of “Tony,” formality is indicated, so Tony said, “Sir.” And Kenneth Price said, “I’m going to round up that coffee. And then we’ll have to get on with it, won’t we, Bret?”

  The playwright and the actor went back down the aisle toward the stage. Shapiro and Cook watched them go. Then the two from Homicide South went out into the lobby. There was a short line in front of the box-office window. Nathan and Tony went to the narrow door to Rolf Simon’s elevator; the door was closed and locked. Shapiro lifted a hand toward the man in the box office, who saluted in return and nodded. He pressed something and the door lock clicked. Tony opened the door and they went into the narrow elevator. Tony pressed the button marked UP and up they went.

  “All the same,” Tony said, “his eyes looked funny. Damn funny. The way they do after an eye doctor has put drops in them.”

  “Yes,” Shapiro said, “I guess they did, Tony.”

  “And so Askew’s covering for somebody? Price?”

  “Could be. Way it looks, isn’t it? Or maybe Mrs. Abel, of course. Or—God knows.”

  The elevator stopped, and they went into Simon’s somewhat elegant office. It was empty, but the door beyond was open, and Simon’s heavy voice came through it. “Back here, gentlemen,” Simon said.

  They went back there, into Rolf Simon’s living room.

  The producer was sitting on a sofa in front of a glass-topped coffee table. There was a silver tray on the table and on it a silver coffeepot and two cups and also a cream pitcher which matched the pot. There were two comfortable-looking chairs on the opposite side of the coffee table.

  “Sit down,” Simon said. “Have some coffee.”

  They sat. They accepted coffee—very good coffee. Urged, Shapiro added cream to his. Tony took his black.

  “Now,” Simon said, “our playwright says nobody tried to poison him; he just had one too many. That what he told you two?”

  It was what Askew had told them.

  “Believe him?”

  Shapiro answered with a standard “Mmm.”

  “At least,” Simon said, “you’re not going to arrest Ken Price. Which would be damned inconvenient. He’s shaping up well for the part. Anyway, why would he try to knock off Askew? Because Askew saw him putting poison in Clive Branson’s drink?”

  “From what Mr. Askew says now, nobody tried to kill him. Or even make him sick. But yes. That could have been a motive. For somebody.”

  “And with old Clive dead,” Simon said, “Ken gets a fat part. Starring, you could call it. Leading man, anyway. More press and more money. The Abel will see to that. Doing her damnedest right now. And wants run of the play.”

  “Which, as I understand it, Branson had,” Nathan said.

  “He did,” Simon said. “Box office, Branson was.”

  “Why did you engage him for the part, Mr. Simon?” It was Tony who asked this, keeping his tone entirely casual.

  “That entered in. And Branson was one hell of an actor.”

  “Was,” Shapiro said, “or had been, Mr. Simon?”

  Simon drained his coffee cup and then refilled it. Then he spoke, his heavy voice low. He said, “Been reading the notices, Lieutenant?” He
paused. “No, I heard it from Askew. Ever hear Percy Hammond’s line, either of you? ‘The more you praise an actor, the less it likes you.’ Marking the ‘it’ stet for the proofreader.”

  Both Shapiro and Cook shook their heads.

  “A critic, Hammond was. On the old Tribune. Gone now, the paper is. So is Percy. He was good; made sense a lot of the time. More than you can say for critics nowadays. Where were we?”

  “Talking about Branson,” Shapiro said, “and why you hired him to play the lead in Summer Solstice. Just because he was a box-office draw, Mr. Simon?”

  “Askew wanted him,” Simon said. “Held out for him, if we could get him. And I like to keep my playwrights happy, when it’s possible. Isn’t, very often. Cranky breed, playwrights.”

  “Askew wanted Mr. Branson a great deal?”

  “Authors want the world. In the old days they wanted all three Barrymores, both Lunts, and Cornell to boot. But Askew did have a point. Man like Branson, with a reputation like his, does bring in the customers. And, O.K., the investors. Backers. Not that a lot of the money in Summer Solstice isn’t mine. Most of it, actually. But—well, it costs one hell of a lot to bring a play in nowadays. Even a one-setter like Solstice. In the old days you could do it for peanuts. Not that it felt like peanuts then. But with orchestra seats going at three thirty—for straight plays, that is—we could still get by. With luck and decent reviews in the Times and the Herald-Tribune and maybe the Sun and the Post—well, we didn’t starve. It’s different, now. People stay home and watch TV. Don’t even go to movies the way they used to. And—” He broke off and shrugged heavy shoulders. “Not what you came here to get,” he said. “Laments for the good old days. What do you want, Lieutenant? Mr. Cook?”

  “Were you upset by the reviews of Solstice? The suggestion that Branson was too old for the part?”

  Simon lighted a cigarette before he answered. Then he said, “Think I need a couple of scribblers to tell me my business? Hell, it showed up in the first rehearsal. First rehearsal. First read-through, actually. But by then we were stuck with him. Not that he was bad, you understand. Old Clive was a pro. Only—tell you the truth—he wasn’t too damn good, either. We kept hoping he’d work into it. Probably the old boy hoped so too. This is between us, gentlemen?”

  “If possible,” Shapiro said. “If it hasn’t anything to do with Mr. Branson’s death.”

  “Trouble with me is, I talk too damned much,” Simon said. “But what, for Christ’s sake, could his being too old for the part have to do with his being bumped off? If he was. Are you sure he was, Shapiro?”

  “If somebody who knew of his lack of tolerance for barbiturates put one of them in his drink, we’re sure enough,” Shapiro said. “Sure enough to go on poking around. Eventually, it’s up to the District Attorney, of course.”

  “You say you were stuck with him, Mr. Simon,” Tony said. “Couldn’t you just—well, ease him out? Fire him, I mean.”

  “You don’t just fire a man like Branson, Cook. A star, with his name above the title of the play. There’s Equity, for one thing. Also, there’s a contract. A damn good one, from his point of view. Run of the play, he held out for. Or the Abel dame did for him. Run of the play or no Clive Branson. And we wanted him. The backers wanted him. And the customers wanted him. Seen him in movies. Heard about him. You don’t just fire a star like that, Cook. Maybe you try to buy him off. Buy up his contract.”

  Simon sighed. He crushed his cigarette out in a glass ashtray.

  “A run-of-the-play contract is hard to buy up. You say—Oh, six months maybe. The actor says six years. Maybe ten years. Hell, maybe forever. Worse when we used to send out touring companies. Oh, all right, I had a stab at it; made him a decent offer. Thought for a while he might take it. Reasonable guy, as actors go. But not the Abel girl. She’s a tough one. Trying now to get run of the play for Price. She knows better than to try to hold me up for what I was paying Branson. But she wants plenty. And a cut of the profits. Jesus!”

  “Which, I take it, she’s not going to get?” Shapiro said.

  “Nothing like what she wants for him,” Simon said. “But—well, a hell of a lot. We’ve got that damn good advance sale. Don’t know how much of it will cancel out, as I told you before. After those reviews. But with Clive out of the picture, who knows? No rush for refunds has showed up yet, anyway. So. The Abel’s in a pretty good position. I’ve a hell of a lot of money tied up in the show. Devil and the deep blue sea. And she’s the dame to know it.”

  “The way it sounds,” Shapiro said, “Price stands to profit from Branson’s death. Financially and, I suppose, professionally.”

  “You can say that,” Simon said. “If it goes all right tonight. But, hell, enough to kill for? If that’s what you’re getting at, Lieutenant. For all he knew, I could have decided to close the show. Or look around for another bigtimer to take over the part. Ken Price doesn’t have any stranglehold on it, even yet, and knows he hasn’t. All right, maybe he gains. But what a damn long chance for him to take, wouldn’t it be? I don’t figure Price to be that kind of a damn fool.”

  “Can you think of anyone else who benefits, Mr. Simon?”

  “If things work out right, I do,” Simon said. “Save a lot on what I was paying Branson—if they keep coming.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Branson’s been making a lot of jack in Hollywood. For several years. May have held on to a good deal of it. Which will go to somebody now, I suppose.”

  “Had he any relatives you know of? Anyone who would inherit?”

  Simon did not know. Branson had been married several times. “He was a great one for marrying them. A good many of the Hollywood boys are. Particularly the older ones. Looks better to the public, I suppose they think.”

  “All his marriages ended in divorce?”

  Simon supposed so.

  “Did he have a lawyer, that you know of?”

  Simon sure as hell knew that. So much haggling over the contract, first the Abel dame’s lawyer, then Branson’s. “Mine too, for God’s sake—wasted a hell of a lot of time on it, for my money. And for my money it sure as hell was. Man named Fisk, Branson’s mouthpiece was. Morton Fisk. You’re wondering about a will?”

  “Yes. And whether all his marriages did end in divorces. Legally, he may still have been a resident of California.”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “Community property. One of his former wives is in the cast, you know. Cast of Solstice. Plays the mother. Nice actress. Nice girl, for that matter.”

  “We knew that, yes. From a friend of Detective Cook’s in fact. Barnes, isn’t it?”

  “Helen. Yes.”

  “Any tension between them that you know of?”

  There had not been. “They were friendly enough. Friction I’d have spotted, or Kirby would have. Couldn’t have had that sort of thing messing the performance up, could we? Would have had to let her go, I suppose. But they got along all right. Friendly as anything. Why not? She was several wives back, way I got it.”

  Nathan Shapiro, and then Tony Cook, stood up to go.

  Simon also got up. For a heavy man, he moved easily and well. “I’ll go down with you,” he said. “See how they’re getting on with it.”

  The elevator would just hold the three of them. On the lobby floor, Simon went into the auditorium. He said, “Probably be seeing you,” as he went in.

  Shapiro and Cook went out to the street. On the marquee, there were two men on ladders. They were taking light bulbs out of the sign which read CLIVE BRANSON. It had been above “Summer Solstice, a new comedy by BRET ASKEW.” Askew’s name was in much smaller lettering than the name of the star had been.

  13

  They found telephone booths, complete with Manhattan directories. Nathan found “Fisk Morton atty,” with an office on West Fortieth. Tony found the office addresses of the two doctors who had written prescriptions for Kenneth Price. Not that either was likely to be forthcoming about a patient, he reminded Nathan S
hapiro. They would meet somewhere for lunch?

  “Oh, all right, Tony. The Algonquin would be convenient.” It would also be expensive.

  In the lobby of the West Fortieth building, the directory listed Fisk, Latham and Cohen, Attorneys. The law offices were on the sixth floor. Nathan went up to the sixth floor. A dignified, rather matronly woman in the outer office asked if she could help him. Did he have an appointment? Well … Mr. Fisk was with a client. If Lieutenant—Shapiro, was it?—would wait a few minutes, she would tell Mr. Fisk that—“Oh, Mr. Snyder,” to a middle-aged man who came through a door from an inner office. Mr. Snyder said, “Uh,” and went out of the law offices of Fisk, Latham and Cohen. The matronly receptionist picked up the telephone on her desk and pressed a button in its base.

  “There is a police lieutenant here who would like a few minutes of your time, sir…. No, sir, he didn’t say. I’ll ask him.”

  “About Clive Branson’s will,” Shapiro told her. “Entirely a routine matter.”

  She relayed the information. She cradled the telephone. “Right through there, Lieutenant. At the end of the corridor.”

  Morton Fisk’s office was large, with windows through which one could see Bryant Park and the Public Library. Fisk sat at a desk with his back to the windows. It was a large desk with nothing on its top. And Morton Fisk was a large man, probably in his forties. He looked at Shapiro across the desk and said, “Yes?”

  A routine matter, Shapiro said again. Concerning his late client, Clive Branson, the actor, whose sudden death the police were looking into. The contents of his will might, conceivably, help in the investigation.

  “Matter of fact,” Fisk said, “I’ve rather been expecting you, from the coy way the newspapers handled the story. You people really think somebody killed the old boy?”

  “We think it possible, Mr. Fisk.”

  Fisk opened the top drawer of his desk and took a blue-bound document out of it. He put it on his desk and pushed it toward Shapiro. He said, “Sit down, Lieutenant.”

  Nathan sat.