Murder at Ford's Theatre

by Margaret Truman

  The bartender, and a waitress at the serving bar, laughed as they usually did at Bancroft’s entrance. They enjoyed having Sydney as a customer; he was unfailingly polite, even when engaged in a heated debate with other regulars. “Nice guy, a little strange, but pleasant enough,” was how he was summed up by others at the bar.

  Bancroft took the mug of half beer, half lemonade handed him by the bartender—accompanied with a look of displeasure at having to make the drink—to a vacant high table next to the window overlooking E Street. The sidewalk was busy with people leaving their jobs and heading for home, most out of the city. It was estimated that 80 percent of those in the District during the day lived in surrounding suburbs, turning Washington into a relatively desolate place when darkness fell.

  Bancroft was a regular at Harry’s, although he was partial to the Star Saloon, directly across from Ford’s Theatre, whose history went back to the Lincoln assassination. He chose Harry’s on this day because there was less chance of being engaged in conversation than at the Star. Harry’s was big enough to find some relative seclusion.

  He needed time to think, along with some alcohol to steady his nerves, although he would never admit that to others. The teenage production he’d been directing, and that was to be performed that weekend, was as good as it would ever be. The cast was more willing than talented—he detested having to try to pull anything decent from a group of teens who seemed more interested in what they wore and what gossip was being spread than in following his stage directions. It had been a most unpleasant experience, one that had caused him physical discomfort, pains in his stomach, headaches, even a bout of nausea. And now the murder and the distasteful, insulting interrogation by the police.

  Surely, Clarise would understand his need to get away for a few days, to escape the source of his discomfort. His assistant could carry on in his absence, as untalented as she might be. Besides, he had business in London, important meetings that could raise him out of this temporary lull in his professional career and rekindle his passion for the theatre—more important, the theatre world’s passion for him as an actor.

  The past two years at Ford’s had been dismal, although he knew he couldn’t express that to Clarise. From her perspective, she’d done him a great favor bringing him onto the staff and giving him a steady paycheck. Perhaps the most wounding thing was that Clarise viewed it, and him, in precisely that way, doing him a favor, bailing him out of what had been an unpleasant period of financial insecurity. Should he be grateful? Of course he was, but only to a point. She’d gotten her money’s worth, he was certain, parading him in front of potential personal and corporate donors, Sydney Bancroft, the British Shakespearean actor—“Remember him?”—all those British movies occasionally rerun on the cable TV channels—“Tell them that wonderful story, Sydney, about when you appeared in that love scene with Margo Sinclair and dropped her on the way up the stairs”—“I could never be an actor, Mr. Bancroft, especially Shakespeare, because I could never remember all those lines”—(An aside from Clarise: “Just as long as he remembers to write the damn check.”)—“Didn’t you used to be Samuel Bancroft, the British actor?”

  He went to the bar and ordered another shandy, and a shot of Irish whiskey to go with it. Soon, fortified, he bid the bartender a flowery farewell, stepped out onto E Street, admired a passing young woman whose fine figure was amply demonstrated in the tight black pants and white sweater she wore, and walked to the corner of Tenth and E where young people milled about in front of the Hard Rock Café. He walked down Tenth and paused in front of Ford’s Theatre’s box office, then looked across the street to the Star. The saloon had originally been where the box office was now situated, attached to the theatre, and where John Wilkes Booth had downed a few shots before going inside the theatre to shoot Lincoln as he sat with his wife, Mary, and Major Henry Reed Rathbone and his fiancée, Clara Harris, who happened to be Rathbone’s stepsister. General and Mrs. Ulysses S. Grant were to have accompanied the Lincolns to the theatre that night but had begged off at the last minute, the general citing the pressures of work. The truth was that Mrs. Grant disliked Mary Lincoln and found any excuse to avoid being in the first lady’s company. Julia Grant had been on the receiving end of Mary Lincoln’s jealous, volatile tirades on more than one occasion, and had been accused by the first lady of coveting the White House for herself and her famous military hero husband.

  “Sydney!”

  Bancroft turned to see Michael Kahn, The Shakespeare Theatre’s longtime artistic director, approaching. Over fifteen years, Kahn had molded the theatre into one of the country’s preeminent Shakespearean venues, its productions routinely acclaimed by local and out-of-town critics. His multiple honors, including six Helen Hayes Awards, and the coveted Will Award, testified to his preeminence. But Bancroft wasn’t a fan of the theatre, or of Kahn. He’d been turned down for roles there, and he’d once approached Kahn during lunch at the Banana Café, Kahn’s favorite lunchtime spot, and had been, in Bancroft’s estimation, summarily dismissed by the director. His bitterness toward Kahn was palpable.

  As Kahn closed the gap, Bancroft ducked into the box office and looked back out through the window to see Kahn shake his head and walk away. “Copper-bottomed bastard,” Bancroft muttered, and waited until Kahn was well out of range.

  “Can I help you, Sydney?” the woman in the box office asked.

  “What? Oh, no, thank you. Just stopped in to see how things were.”

  “Everything is fine.”

  “Good. Smashing. Nice to hear. Well, must be going. Excuse me.”

  He entered the building through the front door, greeted the park ranger on duty, and walked into the darkened theatre. The last tourist tour of the day had been conducted, and a lovely calm and quiet permeated the historic room. He went down the aisle and up onto the stage where a few work lights provided muted illumination. He looked up at the presidential box in which Lincoln had been shot and began to quietly recite a line from Othello: “An honourable murderer, if you will; For nought I did in hate, but all in honour.”

  A cough emanating from the house caused him to turn. He peered into the auditorium and saw Bernard Crowley seated in a shadowy corner, on the opposite side from the presidential box.

  “I thought you were home sick,” Crowley said.

  “I have recovered.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  The corpulent controller struggled to get up and approached the narrow orchestra pit. Bancroft glared down at him.

  “Pretending you’re Mr. Booth?” Crowley asked.

  Bancroft pulled himself to full height and sneered. “And what would you know about John Wilkes Booth, Crowley? That he was a demented madman who acted upon his convictions when he shot old Abe, a lowlife lacking social grace and talent? The man was a brilliant actor, from a family of brilliant Shakespearean actors. His father, Junius, conquered the London stage at seventeen. Three of John’s brothers also became fine actors, but none as fine as John Wilkes Booth. Did you know, Crowley, that just a few years before his fling at ultimate fame as America’s most illustrious assassin, he was being paid six hundred and fifty dollars a week in New York for his stage appearances? The man was brilliant, a star of great magnitude, an interpreter without peer of Shakespeare and—” He’d been speaking to the empty presidential booth. Now, he turned to see that Crowley was gone, had had the audacity to walk away in the middle of his lecture.

  “I met a fool i’ the forest,” he proclaimed loudly to the empty house. “A motley fool.” He added softly, “And he is Crowley.”

  Bancroft stepped down from the stage, went through the yellow doors connecting the theatre with the adjacent building, and climbed the stairs to Clarise Emerson’s office. Crowley was behind her desk.

  “Where is she?” Bancroft asked.

  “At a party, and then dinner with potential contributors,” Crowley answered without looking up from a set of figures he’d been examining.

  “Oh.�
�� Bancroft chewed his cheek before asking, “Why do you hate me so, Crowley?”

  Now, the controller raised his eyes. “I don’t hate you, Sydney. I just think you’re on a free ride, compliments of Clarise, and wonder why. I know one thing. Paying you to do virtually nothing is a drain on the bottom line, and the bottom line is something I care very much about.”

  “You sound positively jealous,” Bancroft said, striking a pose with one elbow on a file cabinet.

  “Jealous? Of what?”

  “Of Clarise’s affection for me.”

  “I wouldn’t call it affection,” Crowley said, returning his focus to the numbers on the green sheets of paper. “I’d call it pity.”

  Crowley couldn’t see the anger manifest itself in Bancroft, the pulsating vein in his neck, lips pressed tightly together, fists clenched. When the actor said nothing, Crowley sat back, hands behind his head, a grin on his face. “I’m busy, Sydney. As I said, Clarise is—”

  “Tell her I’ve left town for a few days. Tell her I’ll be in London conferring with producers and my agent concerning my one-man show. Tell her the teenage production—if it can be called that without laughing—is in as good a shape as it ever will be, and that my esteemed assistant will carry things forward. I may be back in time for the performance. I shall try to be. But if I am not—”

  “Good night, Sydney. I’ll pass along your message.”

  As Bancroft turned to leave, Crowley said, “What shall I tell the police when they want to question you again?”

  “Why would they?”

  “Oh, because I understand you’re high on their list of suspects, considering the perverted attention you demonstrated toward Nadia.”

  The actor, for whom words were everything, was without them for a moment. Then, he spoke from between almost clenched teeth, “I wish you a dreadful disease, Crowley, a long, lingering, and painful one.”

  AT BISTRO BIS, on Capitol Hill, Clarise looked down at her appetizer that had just been served—galantine of duck with slices of seared foie gras in an apple-cherry compote. Her cell phone sounded.

  “Sorry, but I don’t think you’ll mind a phone call,” she told her dinner companions, two executives from AT&T. “I forgot to turn it off.” She ignored a stern look from a couple at an adjoining table and put the phone to her ear. The AT&T men, busy talking with each other, didn’t see her face sag as the caller, Clarise’s social secretary, relayed the message that Jeremiah had left during the single phone call he was allowed from First District headquarters: “Mom, I’ve been arrested. They beat me. I didn’t do nothing. I swear.”

  Clarise replaced the phone in her handbag.

  “You can never get away,” the female executive said lightly.

  “Thanks to us,” her male colleague said. “Trouble?”

  “No, no trouble,” Clarise said.

  They’d been discussing AT&T’s possible sponsorship of a play the following season when the phone had rung. “I’m afraid I will have to run right after dinner,” she said. “In the meantime, this looks scrumptious.” She picked up a fork and began to eat, saying between bites, “Let’s get back to the show you’ll be supporting at Ford’s Theatre. There’s a tremendous amount of goodwill for AT&T to come from your participation. Our lawmakers are keenly aware of corporations who support the arts here in Washington, and tend to look favorably upon them when specific regulatory legislation is being considered.” She smacked her well-shaped lips. “This galantine is extraordinary, don’t you agree?”

  SHE RACED HOME after dinner, flinging her raincoat on a chair as she moved through the house to her home office. Her secretary had left a note containing information from Jeremiah’s call from the police station. Clarise glanced at it and was about to reach for the phone to try to reach her ex-husband when its ring jarred her. She picked up.

  “Clarise, darling, it’s Sydney.”

  “Sydney, I don’t have time to—”

  “I know, I know. There was just a breaking news story on the telly about Jeremiah. I’m shocked, as I know you are.”

  “It was on the news?”

  “Just moments ago. Clarise, you know I’m leaving for London in the morning, but—”

  “You are?”

  “Didn’t Crowley tell you? He’s known about the trip for ages.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “At any rate, darling, I’ll only be away for a few days. The show is in tip-top shape. When I come back, call on me for anything. Anything, Clarise. I’ll be there at your side.”

  “Yes. Thanks, Sydney. I have to run.”

  “Of course. Stiff upper lip, Clarise. It’s probably all a mistake.”

  THE MOMENT BANCROFT HUNG UP, he dialed the number on the business card Detective Klayman had given him. It took a minute for the desk sergeant to locate Klayman. When he came on the line, Bancroft said, “Ah, Detective Klayman. So glad you’re there. I just heard on the news about Jeremiah Lerner being arrested. I presume it has to do with the murder of poor Nadia.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Bancroft?”

  “I feel dreadful about this, absolutely dreadful, but I know I must act responsibly. It hadn’t crossed my mind when you visited me at my home, but seeing the news report brought it all back. I knew Nadia had been seeing the Lerner boy, and I warned her against it. She looked to me as a father figure, I’m afraid, and I was perfectly happy to play that role. From what I know of Jeremiah, he’s hardly the sort of young man a decent girl like Nadia should be involved with. And I told her that—in no uncertain terms, I might add.”

  “You’re sure he was seeing her.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite sure.”

  “I’d like to get a formal statement from you, Mr. Bancroft.”

  “Happy to accommodate, although I’m sure you can appreciate how delicate this situation is for me. Jeremiah is, after all, Clarise Emerson’s son, and she happens to be not only my boss but a very dear friend as well. I trust we can keep this between us.”

  “When can I meet you tomorrow?” Klayman asked.

  “I’m afraid that will be impossible, unless you wish to join me on my Virgin Atlantic flight to London. But I’ll only be away a few days. Agents, producers, meetings day and night. They wish to speak to me about a one-man show I’m mounting.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Saturday, if all goes well.”

  Klayman hesitated before responding. Should he press to see Bancroft tonight? He wouldn’t have time until much later. He didn’t need a statement to use that night when questioning Jeremiah Lerner; knowledge that there was someone to verify Lerner’s involvement with Nadia Zarinski in the event he denied it was good enough.

  “Please check in with me when you come back, Mr. Bancroft. And . . . do come back.”

  “Of course. You’ll be the first call I make upon my return. Good night, sir. Keep up the good work.”

  SIXTEEN

  “WHY DID YOU RUN? Why did you hit my partner?”

  Rick Klayman sat with Jeremiah Lerner in an interrogation room. A uniformed officer stood in a corner, arms folded across his chest. Firearms had been left outside the room; the only weapon in the room was a hefty nightstick suspended from the officer’s belt.

  Lerner slouched in the straight-back wooden chair, his coal black hair in disarray. Bruises on his left cheek and temple were turning from red to blue-green.

  “Why?” Klayman repeated. “All we wanted to do was talk to you, ask you a few questions.”

  “I didn’t know who you were. For all I knew, you were a couple of hit men.”

  Klayman looked up at the cop in the corner, who smiled.

  “Hit men? Come on, Jeremiah. That’s a dumb answer. We identified ourselves.”

  “You beat me up.”

  “You beat yourself up going down that ladder.”

  The door opened, and Herman Hathaway motioned for Klayman to join him outside.

  “What’s he saying?” Hathaway asked.

 
“He’s claiming police brutality. Nothing about the murder, and no questions from me about it. He made a comment when we brought him in, asked if the murder was why we came after him. I thought it was strange he thought of it.”

  “You didn’t rough him up, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Look, Rick, this is a potential mess. The kid may be a suspect in the Zarinski murder, but now he’s here on charges of assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.”

  “Which he did.”

  “Yeah, I know. I saw Mo’s cheek. And we can hold him on those charges. But the murder is another thing. He’s got a senator for a father. His mother, Mrs. Emerson, called. She says there’s a lawyer on his way. He ask for a lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “Mo’s talking with the family, see if the daughter ever mentioned dating the Lerner kid.”

  “I had a confirmation.”

  “Huh?”

  “A call from the actor at Ford’s Theatre, Sydney Bancroft.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He claims he knew she was dating Lerner, and says he counseled her against it.”

  “Thanks for sharing it with me, as they say.”

  “It just happened a couple of minutes ago, Herman.”

  “Get a statement from Bancroft.”

  “I will. He’ll be in London till Saturday. I’ll catch him when he gets back.”

  “Okay. We can hold Lerner on the assault-and-resisting charges until the preliminary hearing tomorrow. That’ll give us twenty-four hours. Maybe we can get him to talk about the murder, provided the lawyer doesn’t shut him up. Remember, he’s not a suspect in the murder, Rick. We just want to ask a few questions.”

  Johnson joined them. “The parents say she never mentioned Lerner,” he said, “the kid, that is. Their daughter talked a lot about the senator, what a great guy he was to work for.”

  “The affair with the senator? That come up again?”