Murder at Ford's Theatre

by Margaret Truman

  Johnson said to Klayman: “Ricky, got to call Etta, tell her I’ll be late again.”

  Klayman thought it was good he didn’t have to call anyone, but didn’t say it to his partner. Besides, there was that fleeting moment when he wished someone were waiting for him to arrive home; that thought came and went now and then. He heard Mo say, “Hey, baby, got to put in the overtime again. That kid who got killed at Ford’s Theatre.” After a pause, and a sly glance at Klayman, he said, “Of course I love you. Don’t wait up.”

  Klayman picked up his phone and dialed Sydney Bancroft’s number. The British actor’s live voice startled him.

  “Mr. Bancroft?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Klayman, First District Crimes Against Persons.”

  “‘Crimes Against Persons’? Who else could crimes be committed against?”

  “Used to be called Homicide.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “I’d like to be able to come and talk with you.”

  “About the death of that dear, dear girl, Nadia.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

  “How dreadful to die that way, at the hands of a madman in a filthy, barren alley. We all wish to die peacefully in a warm, dry place in the presence of loved ones, don’t we?”

  “Yes, sir. That would be preferable. Would it be too much of an inconvenience to come to your home tonight?”

  Johnson frowned at Klayman and mouthed, Would it be too much of an inconvenience . . . ?

  “To determine whether I killed her, I presume,” Bancroft said slowly and with practiced diction.

  “Just to ask a few questions, sir,” Klayman said. “It won’t take long. My partner, Detective Johnson and I, are working the case and—”

  “I would love to meet you and your partner,” Bancroft said, exaggerating his pleasure. “Real, live detectives. Are you like those on TV?”

  Klayman laughed. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. We can be there in a half hour, if that’s okay.”

  “That is quite okay,” Bancroft said. “You undoubtedly have my address.”

  “Yes, sir, we do.”

  “Then come as quickly as you can. I am tingling with anticipation.”

  Klayman hung up and shook his head.

  “He quote Shakespeare to you?” Johnson asked.

  “No, but he talks like an actor. I think we’re in for an interesting evening. Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

  Bancroft lived in a well-maintained, small apartment building on tree-lined G Street, in Foggy Bottom, not far from the Kennedy Center, the Watergate complex, and George Washington University. The two men said little as they made their way across the city in their unmarked car.

  “This one’s yours, Ricky,” Johnson said as they turned down G.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s all yours. Actors make me nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. They’re always—well, you know, always onstage. You never know whether they’re being themselves or playing some part.”

  “Okay, I’ll lead.”

  They parked in front and entered the lobby, where a middle-aged uniformed doorman was reading a magazine. Klayman flashed his badge: “Mr. Bancroft is expecting us.”

  “It’s about that intern, isn’t it?” the doorman said, getting up from behind his small desk and going to the intercom board. Johnson and Klayman said nothing. “She worked for Senator Lerner,” the doorman said, running his index finger down the row of buttons. “Like what happened with Condit, huh, intern and big shot politician?”

  Johnson was about to tell the doorman to speed it up when he pushed a button, and the now familiar voice of Sydney Bancroft came through a small speaker. “I know, Morris, I know,” he said in his distinctive British accent. “Scotland Yard is here to audition. Send them up by all means.”

  Johnson and Klayman smiled at each other as the doorman opened an inside door. “Elevator’s on your right. Hope you catch who killed her. He’s on Seven. Seven D.”

  Sydney Bancroft stood in the open door to his apartment as Klayman and Johnson stepped off the elevator. The picture he presented was unusual enough to cause the detectives to stop in the middle of the carpeted hallway and stare. The British actor wore a yellow T-shirt, a black, waist-length leather jacket with silver studs, jeans, and black cowboy boots etched in red leather. His thinning hair, worn long, had an orange tint common with male hair dyes. What especially struck Klayman was how short Bancroft was, no taller than five six, or seven. His screen presence, at least as Klayman remembered it, was that of a taller man. His face was thin and pinched, nose long and pointed, cheeks sunken, skin slightly jaundiced. Was he wearing makeup? It looked that way.

  “Ah, the cavalry has arrived,” Bancroft announced, his face breaking into a smile. “Welcome, welcome. You are . . . ?”

  “Detective Klayman, Mr. Bancroft. This is Detective Johnson.”

  “As you promised you would be. Please. Come in.” He stepped back and bowed slightly as he indicated with a hand that they were to enter the apartment. “As is said, sorry to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”

  They passed through a small foyer and into the living room where rock-and-roll music came through speakers while a black-and-white movie played on a large-screen TV. Klayman recognized the film almost immediately. “Fool’s Gold,” he said.

  “Yes,” said a pleased Bancroft. “I see you are a connoisseur of fine films.”

  “It was a good movie,” said Klayman. “You were good in it.”

  “Thank you. Thank you indeed. Please, make yourselves at home.” He went to a table and lifted a snifter in a toast of sorts. “Join me?”

  “Thank you, no,” Klayman said, joining Johnson on a couch. “But you go ahead.”

  Bancroft took a sip. “The bartenders call it the ‘stabilizer’ aboard the QE2 and other ships. Half brandy, half port, quite effective for a queasy stomach. Indian food. I had Indian food tonight and should have known better. I’ve lectured on Shakespeare on the QE2 a number of times. Wonderful experiences. Sure you won’t join me?”

  “My stomach’s fine,” Johnson said.

  Bancroft pulled up a yellow director’s chair with the title of one of his movies stenciled on its back. A half dozen other such chairs were scattered about the room. The walls were covered with large posters from Bancroft’s film and stage appearances; four life-sized mannequins dressed in period costumes occupied the room’s shadowy corners.

  “Now,” said Bancroft, continuing to sip from his drink, “let us talk about Nadia.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. When he opened them, he displayed a wan smile. “What a lovely young thing, so vibrant, so filled with joie de vivre.”

  “We understand you were out of town last night,” Klayman said. Johnson pulled a pad and pen from his pocket and was poised to write.

  “That is correct,” Bancroft said, “unless you don’t consider Alexandria to be ‘out of town.’”

  “You were in Alexandria last night?” Klayman said. Alexandria was only a fifteen-minute cab ride to Ford’s Theatre.

  “Yes. Visiting a dear friend.”

  “You stayed with this friend overnight?”

  “Correct again, Detective.”

  “Your friend’s name?”

  Bancroft drew himself up to full height in his chair and slowly shook his head. “I see no reason to inconvenience my friend,” he said, one leg over the other, the boot bobbing up and down.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bancroft, but you’ll have to give us his name.”

  “To see whether I was actually there at the time poor Nadia was killed. Sorry, Detective, but—”

  “Maybe you’d rather come to headquarters and discuss it there,” Mo Johnson said in his big baritone.

  “What a marvelous voice,” Bancroft said. “Reminds me of my dear friend James Earl Jones. Have you ever considered acting, doing commercials?”

  “The name, Mr. Bancr
oft,” Johnson said in a tone that carried with it an implicit threat.

  “Ah-ha,” said Bancroft, draining his drink. “‘Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs.’”

  “Pardon?”

  “Shakespeare. Henry the Fifth. My friend’s name is Saul. Saul Jones.” He laughed. “It sounds as though the only people I know are named Jones, doesn’t it? Well, I assure you that Mr. Saul Jones’s personality is not nearly as bland as his name.”

  “Address and phone number?”

  After Bancroft had reluctantly given that information, he was asked about his activities the previous night, where he and his friend went, whether they were together the entire time—boilerplate questions out of the handbook on a suspect’s alibi. When he was asked about his relationship with Nadia Zarinski, he said, “You do realize, I’m sure, that I have no obligation to speak with you?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Bancroft,” Johnson responded.

  “I am entitled to a lawyer.”

  “Of course. But we’re not here because you’re a suspect in the murder,” Klayman said. “We’re simply questioning anyone who might be able to help us understand something about the deceased, and maybe give us some leads as to any persons who might have wanted her dead.”

  “Who could that possibly be?”

  “How well did you know her?” Johnson asked gruffly.

  “Not well at all. I’m afraid I cannot possibly be of any help to you. She was simply a pretty young thing who was enamored of theatre and seemed to enjoy being close to it. I suppose there was a modicum of hero worship in it, the starstruck young woman wanting to rub elbows with the stars.” His tone was world-weary.

  Stars like you, I suppose, Johnson thought, not kindly.

  Klayman had just started to ask another question when Bancroft silenced him with a finger to the lips and a loud “Shhhhhh.” The actor turned to the TV, where he was playing a romantic scene with an actress. They stared at the screen, and at Bancroft, in silence. The look of disgust on Johnson’s face wasn’t lost on Klayman, although Bancroft was too involved with what was happening on the screen to be aware of anything else.

  As Klayman watched, he was reminded of how handsome a much younger Sydney Bancroft had been, not quite a leading man, but an actor with an intensity, eyes that drew you in, a nicely modulated voice, subtle virility—an actor who was undoubtedly attractive to women in his heyday, moviegoers and offscreen romantic interests alike. Klayman tried to recall what he’d read about the actor’s marital history. One marriage to a British actress early in the career, maybe another. Always lots of women, of course, plenty of drunken scenes, unpleasant public displays, a woman he slapped once in a restaurant bringing charges, an underage girl, if Klayman’s memory served him right. The scandal sheets had always focused on Bancroft’s hard drinking and its impact upon his artistic temperament. He’d become increasingly difficult, the detective had read, alienating directors and producers to the extent that roles had become scarce and age diminished them further.

  The scene ended, and Bancroft turned back to the detectives. “I’m sure you virile young men never have a problem when playing your bedroom scenes. But let me assure you, it is never easy with cameras and lights and dozens of people gawking at you as you attempt to portray the seductive leading man.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s true,” Johnson said.

  “Any further questions?” Bancroft asked, standing to signal that the visit was about to be terminated.

  “Just one more,” Klayman said. “We were told by people at Ford’s Theatre that you showed a particular interest in Nadia Zarinski.”

  “Oh?”

  “They said you tended to try to . . . well, become close to her. I don’t know, touching her, things like that.”

  “And who might have made this outlandish claim?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “It is to me. I insist upon being able to face my accuser.”

  “Is there any truth to it?” Mo Johnson asked.

  “Absolutely not. While my libido might have suffered slightly in the aging process, I assure you I am still a virile man who is blessed with numerous female companions, none of whom are below the age of thirty. I have absolutely no interest in very young women, except perhaps to enjoy them in photographs, and I further ensure you that my interest in the young Ms. Zarinski was purely as someone she could look up to. No, my new friends, I never stayed close to her or touched her, as you so crudely stated. I barely knew her. She was there only occasionally at night. This is preposterous. I feel like John Wilkes Booth, being accused of some vile act.”

  “‘Accused of’ a vile act?” Klayman said. “He did kill Lincoln.”

  “And he had his reasons, I assure you. I have studied Mr. Booth in depth. A brilliant actor and dedicated activist. I don’t believe there is another person in this world who knows more about Booth, the inner man and great actor, than yours truly.”

  “I’m a bit of a Lincoln buff myself,” Klayman said.

  “Are you? How impressive. One would not expect that of a policeman.”

  “What do you expect of a policeman, Mr. Bancroft?” Johnson asked.

  “Certainly not scholarship, sir, and I mean no offense to you personally.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Johnson said. “By the way, how come you never showed up at the theatre for the meeting this morning? They say you called it.”

  “And they are mistaken, I assure you. I have little to do with the technical side of things. There must have been a miscommunication.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Bancroft,” Klayman said, extending his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “I am glad to have been of help.”

  Johnson didn’t offer his hand as the detectives left the apartment.

  “He’s a trip, isn’t he?” the doorman asked as they walked through the lobby.

  “Interesting gentleman,” Klayman said.

  “You ever see him bring young women up to the apartment?” Johnson asked.

  “Doorman-tenant privilege,” the doorman said, chuckling.

  Johnson glared at him.

  “Sometimes,” the doorman said. “Young. Old. You mean young like the kid who got it over at the theatre? No. No teeny-boppers. At least I can’t remember any.”

  “She wasn’t a teenybopper,” Johnson said sternly.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” said the doorman. “He’s really a pretty nice guy, polite and all, always holding the door for the women in the building.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” Klayman said, leading Johnson to the street.

  “What did you think?” Klayman asked once they were in their car.

  “Pain in the ass. Pretentious bastard. You catch that getup he was wearing? Man, there’s nothing sadder than an old guy trying to look young.”

  “I kind of liked him.”

  “You would. You starstruck, too? Only he’s no star. What’s he reduced to, working with teenagers at Ford’s Theatre? Some star.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why he works at Ford’s Theatre. Why he’d want to. Why they’d want him.”

  “We should ask.”

  “We will. What do you want to do now?”

  “Aside from cuddling up next to Etta? Let’s call this Saul Jones.”

  “Yeah, let’s.”

  “You think Bancroft might have done the girl?”

  “Done as in had sex with her, or done as in kill her?”

  “Either one. Or both.”

  Klayman said nothing as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialed the number for Saul Jones that Bancroft had given them.

  EIGHT

  RICK KLAYMAN ENTERED his apartment on Wisconsin Avenue, not far from the National Cathedral, turned on a floor lamp, and looked across the room to his answering machine. The message light was flashing; he counted the blinks, seven messages. He checked his watch. Almost t
en-thirty. Always a dilemma; too late to return calls, or early enough? Depended upon the caller, of course. Night people or day people? Early to bed or up watching late movies?

  He turned on a table lamp in his bedroom and slowly undressed, emptying pockets, blue blazer first, which he carefully placed on a hanger in the closet facing in the same direction as other jackets; then inserted wooden shoe trees into black loafers which he returned to their designated empty space on the closet floor; gray trousers joined other pants in their own section; tie carefully unknotted and nested with others on a battery-powered rotating tie rack; and blue button-down shirt removed and held up to the light to ascertain its usefulness for another day. It passed muster and was draped over the back of a desk chair. He deposited his underwear into a hamper, got into pale blue short pajamas, slippers, and a white terry cloth robe, and went to the answering machine, where he wrote down the callers’ names, numbers, and messages. The seventh call was from Mo, which surprised Klayman. He’d seen him just a half hour ago, when they’d signed out at headquarters.

  “It’s Rick.”

  “Yeah, Ricky, thanks for getting back so soon. You got home okay, huh?”

  “Of course.”

  “You alone?”

  Johnson meant whether there was a woman with him. “Yes, I’m alone.”

  “Ricky, you buy this guy Saul Jones’s story?”

  “So far. He says he and Bancroft were together all night, never lost sight of each other. They both said they had dinner at Duangrat’s and Rabieng, in Baileys Crossroads. Jones had the AmEx receipt to prove it.”

  “Yeah. So how come Bancroft said he had a bellyache from too much Indian food?”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s a Thai restaurant, Rick. Etta was there a month ago.”

  “So Bancroft got his cuisines confused. They’re all the same when your stomach’s on fire. We can stop by the restaurant and see if anyone remembers them together.”

  “I think they got together on their story. Too pat. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “I didn’t like either of ’em.”

  “So I gathered. Look, I’ve got a bunch of calls to return. See you in the morning. We’ll head over to American University and scout up her friends.”