The Fourth Wall

by Barbara Paul

  “I’ll bet. Where are you going for your vacation? Have you decided?”

  “London, if Lieutenant Goodlow lets me leave the country. See what the West End is up to this year.” The postman going for a walk on his day off.

  I thought of something. “Does Lieutenant Goodlow know you’re going to Cleveland?”

  “He knows, and he’s not exactly happy about it—he wants us all right here, where he can keep tabs on us. But there’s nothing he can do, really. Remember when Sergeant Piperson ‘requested’ that we stay in New York over Christmas? Seems he had no legal authority to do that without charging us as material witnesses or whatever.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “Piperson is a klutz. I feel much better with Goodlow in charge.”

  John looked at me quizzically. “Do you really think it makes any difference? This nut who’s mad at Manhattan Rep—the police aren’t going to catch him. And they can’t protect us. We’re sitting ducks. He can just pick us off, one at a time. Whenever he feels like it.”

  I shivered. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  John paused a moment and then said, “I broke up with Rachel, Abby. Remember I told you about her? That was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Rachel was … special. But if Goodlow’s right, if this nut killed Rosemary Odell just to hurt Hugh … well, wouldn’t that be a good way to get at me, too? Hurting my girl, or maybe even killing her?” John shook his head. “I couldn’t expose her to that danger. I have no right—I just couldn’t do it.”

  John liked to brag about his girl friends, but he never really talked to me about his love life; perhaps he sensed I wouldn’t be a wholly sympathetic listener. But I’d known him too long and too well not to be touched by this revelation. This was the first time I’d ever heard John express a protective attitude toward a woman.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “Maybe when this is all over …”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” He stood up and moved toward the door. “I’ll tell you something, Abby. I might not come back from London. I might just stay there. And I wish you’d think about getting out of here too. None of us is safe. We’re marked, Abby. And we just sit here, waiting to see what he’ll do next.” John’s hand was trembling as he opened the door.

  I wasn’t sure what I should say. “Can you hide all your life?” I objected.

  “I don’t know!” he said too loudly. “I don’t know what’s the best thing to do. But just waiting like this …” His voice trailed off. “I’d better go. Good night, Abby.” And he was gone.

  3

  Tempus fidgets; and when rehearsals are late getting started, so do I. It was ten-thirty Monday morning, and no sign of John Reddick at the Martin Beck Theatre. The cast was there, the producer was there, the assistant director was there. I was there. But no director.

  “Call him,” growled Gene Ramsay.

  “I did,” said Griselda Gold. “Twice. No answer. He must be on his way here now.”

  “It’s a ten-minute taxi ride, for Christ’s sake. He should have been here forty-five minutes ago.”

  We waited.

  “He’s never late,” Griselda said nervously. “I don’t know what’s happened.”

  We twiddled our thumbs.

  “Ah, SHIT!” bellowed Ramsay. “Griselda. Start the rehearsal.”

  Griselda gulped, thrust out her chin, and started the rehearsal.

  “I’m going to check his apartment,” I said to Ramsay. “If he’s not there, I’m calling Lieutenant Goodlow.”

  John lived in one of those human hives in the East Seventies, and when I got there I had a hell of a time convincing the super to look in his apartment. He didn’t see anything to get excited about, a man being late to work. “Happens alla time, lady.”

  “Not with this man it doesn’t,” I snapped. “Not once in ten years have I known him to be late. What do I have to do to convince you? If he’s up there, he’s either hurt or sick. If he’s not up there, I’m calling the police. Now will you open that door?”

  Either my argument or my twenty dollars convinced him; he unlocked John’s apartment. The place was empty. I went into the bathroom and checked the toothbrush. Dry.

  “Did he ever mention to you which steam bath he likes to go to?” I asked the super.

  He grunted. “Didn’t even know he used a steam bath. Doesn’t talk to me much, just rushes in and out alla time.”

  I changed my mind about calling Lieutenant Goodlow and went to see him instead. The officer at the front desk delayed me a few minutes. Eventually I found the Lieutenant pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “John Reddick’s missing,” I said without preamble.

  He didn’t waste a second. “Details,” he commanded.

  “He didn’t show up at rehearsal this morning. I checked his apartment and it looks as if he didn’t go back there—he told me last night he was going to spend the night in a steam bath. I don’t know which one, and neither does the super of his building.”

  “What time last night?”

  “A little after eleven.”

  “Where?”

  “My place.”

  “And he was going directly from your place to a steam bath?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said.”

  “All right, have a cup of coffee and wait. I’ll be back.” He moved away quickly to start the wheels turning.

  When I tried to pour the coffee my hand was shaking so badly I had to put the pot back down. A young man sitting at a nearby desk noticed and came over and poured for me. I’d taken only a few swallows when the Lieutenant was back and took me into his office.

  “I’ve started a check of the steam baths, beginning with those nearest your address,” said Lieutenant Goodlow. “But there may be an explanation other than the obvious one. He could have had an accident. We’re checking hospital admissions.”

  “No,” I said. “He’s got him. The very thing John was afraid would happen. That maniac got to John. He may be dead.”

  “I don’t think so,” the Lieutenant said quickly. “He’d be more likely to go after someone or something that’s important to Reddick instead of Reddick himself.”

  “If your theory’s correct,” I said. “He’s already killed once. Maybe he liked it. Maybe he’s done it again.”

  “It’s possible, of course, but unlikely. Ms James, I know you’re worried, but the chances are that he’s very much alive. Maybe hiding somewhere—such things happen.”

  That rang a bell. “He did talk about leaving New York,” I said. “In fact, he urged me to leave too. He said we were all sitting ducks here.” A change came over Lieutenant Goodlow’s face and I hastened to add, “But not now—he was talking about later, after he’d finished with the Foxfire tour company.”

  “So he got to thinking about it, sitting in the steam bath, and changed his mind. He decided not to wait.”

  I shook my head. “Never. Not John. He’d die before he’d walk out on a play.” I paused when I realized what I’d said. “All he said was, he was going on vacation after Foxfire opened in Cleveland and he just might not come back.”

  “Where was he going on vacation, did he say?”

  “London.”

  Lieutenant Goodlow reached for the phone and ordered someone on the other end of the line to arrange a check of the airlines. Then he turned to a folder on his desk. “Reddick’s family is all in Cincinnati, nobody here. Where would he go for immediate shelter? What about a woman friend?”

  “Rachel somebody,” I said helplessly. “I never knew her last name. But John had broken off with her—he was afraid he was endangering her life. If he is just hiding—and I can’t believe that—Rachel would be the last one he’d go to.”

  “Then who? Who are his closest friends?”

  I had to think about that one. “I suppose Ian Cavanaugh and I are. Ever since Preston Scott died—he was a kind of mentor to John.”

  Lieutenant Goodlow wrinkled his forehead. “Preston Scott …”
/>   “The other director who helped organize Manhattan Rep.”

  “Right. We’ll check Cavanaugh—”

  “Lieutenant, you’re on the wrong track, I’m sure of it. John would never abandon a play before his obligations were complete.”

  “Not under normal circumstances, perhaps,” he said, “but these aren’t normal circumstances, are they?”

  “But to go off without so much as leaving a message for Gene Ramsay or me—”

  “Have you checked your answering service this morning?”

  I hadn’t.

  “Use this phone.”

  I called my service; no message from John. When Lieutenant Goodlow was satisfied I had nothing more to tell him, he told me to go home and wait; he’d be in touch as soon as he had anything. I went to the theater first to fill Gene Ramsay in. They’d all gone to lunch; I left a message with the box office.

  At home I switched over the phone so it would ring there instead of at the answering service. Then I sat down to wait.

  Gene Ramsay called, wanting to know what the hell was going on. The police had been by the theater to pick up copies of one of John’s publicity photos. I told him what little I knew.

  Ian Cavanaugh called, saying the police had been to his house looking for John Reddick. Did I know anything about it? I told him.

  Vivian Frank called, complaining that a scene in the first act of Foxfire wasn’t playing right. I told her John Reddick was missing and I was waiting for a call from the police and goodbye.

  Leo Gunn called, saying he’d heard about John and was there anything he could do? No.

  At five-thirty the doorbell rang. It was Lieutenant Goodlow. Not smiling.

  “You came in person instead of calling,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  “No, no—he’s alive. We know that much.”

  I let out a big breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. “Then where is he?”

  “That we don’t know. Could I come in? We’d better sit down. I’ve got something to tell you that won’t be easy to take.” As soon as we were seated he plunged in. “There was an incident reported last night at Barr’s Health Club on East Sixty-second Street. Three of the customers reported that shortly after midnight they were in the steam room with one other customer. We’ve shown Reddick’s photo to the witnesses, and all three have identified him as the fourth customer in the steam room.”

  “What happened?”

  “The witnesses say a fifth man came into the room. He was fully dressed and wearing a ski mask. He was also carrying a knife. He went for Reddick and—he tried to emasculate him.”

  I must have cried out and jumped up because Lieutenant Goodlow’s hands were on my shoulders urging me back into my chair. “Take it easy, take it easy—he didn’t succeed. Did you hear? He didn’t succeed.”

  I nodded at him, unable to speak.

  “Reddick struggled with the man with the knife. There was some blood. But two of the witnesses state positively that the blood came from a wound in Reddick’s thigh. They say he escaped otherwise unharmed.”

  “He did escape?”

  “He ran out through a door that led to the dressing rooms. The man in the ski mask hesitated and then went back out the way he’d come in, through another door.”

  “And these three men just stood there and watched? They didn’t try to help?”

  “They’re all over sixty. They couldn’t get involved in a fight between two younger men, especially when one of them had a knife. Two went looking for Reddick while the other told the night attendant what had happened. Reddick evidently just grabbed his clothes and ran.”

  “How far can he get when he’s wounded? He might bleed to death!”

  “The wound wasn’t bad enough to keep him from running, remember. We’re checking doctors and hospitals now to see if anyone came in with a knife wound in the thigh. Ah—are you all right? Can I get you something?”

  I waved a hand. “Then he just ran out of the bath and disappeared? How can a man just disappear?”

  “Easier than you think,” said the Lieutenant. “He went home first. For money, clothes, maybe a passport.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Big empty space in his closet. He just grabbed one armload of clothes in a hurry. And emptied two bureau drawers. He missed one sock.”

  “And his toothbrush.” Lieutenant Goodlow raised an eyebrow at me. “I checked his toothbrush this morning, to see if it had been used.”

  The Lieutenant nodded. “He must have headed home instinctively. Then when the first shock began to wear off, he’d begin thinking he wasn’t safe there. Reddick would figure out that he’d been followed first to your place and then to the health club.”

  That meant Rosemary Odell’s murderer had been outside watching my home while John and I were naïvely arguing about television. I felt my stomach turn over.

  Lieutenant Goodlow went on, “Then Reddick would remember how easily Hugh Odell’s apartment had been penetrated. And Sylvia Markey’s. He’d panic, stuff some clothes into a suitcase, and run.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, and went into the bathroom and threw up.

  When I came out, Lieutenant Goodlow was in my kitchen mixing a spritzer—milk and soda water. He held the glass out to me. “Helps settle the stomach. Drink it down.”

  That was for before you threw up, but I took a couple of swallows anyway and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “I like big kitchens,” said the Lieutenant, looking around. “They’re one of the nicest things about these old houses. Are you feeling better now?”

  I said I was.

  He came over and sat down across from me. “That’s the end of the bad news. There may be one ray of sunshine in all this. Reddick may be completely safe now. There might not be any further attacks on him. It could be that his attacker never really intended to emasculate him at all.”

  I stared at him in disbelief.

  “Men have been emasculated and lived to tell the story,” Lieutenant Goodlow said, “but the attacker couldn’t count on it. Reddick could have died before an ambulance got there, and whoever our masked man is, he’s no dummy. He wouldn’t take a chance like that—since it would screw up his plan to keep his victims alive and suffering. Maybe it’s enough just to make Reddick think he’s in danger of being emasculated.”

  “Oh, Lieutenant,” I said incredulously, “you aren’t saying that whole scene was just to scare John?”

  “Well, yes, that’s what it comes down to Look. This man is out to destroy something that’s valuable to each of the people he sees as his enemies. There’s no delicate way of putting this, but aside from the theater, what’s the most important thing in John Reddick’s life?”

  I nodded; the answer was obvious.

  “Any man would panic, being threatened with emasculation,” Lieutenant Goodlow went on. “But a man who is a womanizer—why, the very idea of such a thing happening would be enough to make him lose his mind. Look at it from the murderer’s point of view—to him it’s a kind of poetic justice. Could there be any sweeter revenge than to force John Reddick to live out the rest of his life in absolute terror? You see what’s happened—this man has attacked Reddick’s fears, his insecurities. It’s the perfect revenge.”

  I was convinced. “That’s exactly the way it would happen. Fear of the event perhaps being worse than the event itself? Something like that. Yes. It makes sense. My God, you’ve got to find John. You can’t just let him run for the rest of his life.”

  Lieutenant Goodlow’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s this about running for the rest of his life? We might just catch the murderer, you know—did you ever think of that?” His tone of voice said he wasn’t offended.

  I smiled uneasily. “John didn’t think you would. He was convinced this faceless man would go on doing whatever he wanted to do as long as he felt like doing it.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  I shrugged. “Does it matter what I think?”

/>   Lieutenant Goodlow gave a short grunt. “That’s a cop-out if I ever heard one.”

  “Of course it is,” I agreed, “because I don’t know what to think. I want to think you’ll catch him. But frankly, my confidence is waning fast.”

  “Then give us some help. Tell me why these things are happening. What did your repertory company do?”

  “Nothing! We put on plays, that’s what we did!”

  “You were in operation for three years. Something must have happened during those three years.”

  I snorted. “A lot of things happened. Do you know what it’s like, putting on a play? It’s an obstacle course, from beginning to end. You don’t just wander into a theater and loll around being dramatic and creative and letting inspiration do all the work. And it is work, it’s hard work, and things go wrong. All the time. You get a little paranoid sometimes, seeing how things are stacked against you. What can I tell you? How can I pick out one incident and say yes, this is what caused Rosemary Odell to be murdered, this is why John Reddick was threatened with emasculation?”

  “You can narrow it down. We know the murderer isn’t some would-be playwright out in the boondocks who went off his rocker when you turned down his script. And it isn’t an actor who didn’t get a part. It’s somebody you know, and who knows you intimately, all of you. It’s somebody who knows the best way to hurt Hugh Odell. It’s somebody who knows how to reduce John Reddick to a bowl of jelly.”

  I could only shake my head. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  Lieutenant Goodlow stood up. “Could I have some soda water? My throat’s getting dry.”

  “Would you rather have a beer? Help yourself,” I gestured toward the refrigerator.

  He got himself a beer and sat back down. “I sent a man to Yale to look up the records of Manhattan Repertory. We’re not following up on it. Just too many names to check out—we have neither the budget nor the manpower to track down that many people. But I don’t think it’s necessary anyway. I think the answer is right here. With Foxfire. I think the murderer is actually in the company or at least someone well known to the company. For instance, how did he get backstage to kill Sylvia Markey’s cat? He must be someone whose presence wouldn’t be particularly noticed.”