The Final Curtain

by Gilbert, Morris

  He grew gentle then and patted her hand. “Sure—so do I, but we’ve got a killer loose, Boss, and the best thing we can do is put him away. That’s the way we make our living.” He sat there, staring at the street. “Better hang on to that Christian faith you have, Dani,” he warned. “It’s tough making it work in the Big Apple!”

  9

  A Slight Case of Burglary

  * * *

  The hands of the clock raced around for Dani, and Monday night found her standing in the wings, waiting for the curtain to go up. Nothing seemed real, though, and a thought floated through her mind, one that made her remember the old Twilight Zone reruns. Her real world had gotten lost in some sort of time warp, she imagined, and she and all the other members of the cast were caught up in some sort of terrible situation for all eternity, playing the same role over and over again.

  Then Jonathan’s voice broke through, and her mind returned to the sounds and smells of the Pearl Theater. “You’ll be fine, Danielle, just fine.” Jonathan’s face was filled with excitement, the way it always was when he was about to perform. The curtain went up, and he moved out onto the stage—and as on the opening night, a sudden explosion of applause reached her ears. Dani watched as he stood there in the strong lights, a handsome, dramatic figure, his head inclined as the ovation swept over the theater.

  Dani caught a movement to her right and saw Mickey Trask caught in a moment’s repose. His still face and the turn of his lips showed bitterness, a dissatisfaction that was reflected by a sudden gesture. He slapped his hands together, and she heard him mutter, “The great man!” Suddenly he turned to find Dani’s eyes on him, and at once he smiled cheerfully. “He’s an awful man—but they don’t know that, do they?” He looked out on the stage again and said quietly, “They don’t have to work for him.”

  Dani had no time for reflection, for her first cue had been given. She felt Mickey’s hand on her shoulder, heard him say, “Go get ’em!” and she walked out into the light. For one bleak instant her mind seemed to stop. Jonathan walked toward her, kissed her cheek, and spoke his first line to her, and it all fell into place.

  She spoke her lines and moved around the stage, unconsciously falling into the patterns Simon Nero had drilled into her. Nero had asked her once what she thought about when she was performing, and after a moment’s reflection, she explained, “Why, nothing, Simon—I mean nothing except the lines and the movement.”

  “That the way it’s supposed to be.” He had nodded. “It’s what all the great ones can do. The ones who aren’t great are busy in their heads with their own business—what they’ll do after the performance, or, How do I look in this new costume? But a real actor or actress is able to set all that aside for a brief moment and live the character. When it becomes real for an actor, it becomes real for the audience.”

  But Dani didn’t even think of this as the scenes rolled by. She left the stage, waited for her next cue, then went back again. With part of her mind, during those moments offstage, she was aware that several policemen watched—including Goldman and Jack Sharkey—and the stagehands were in constant motion, performing their complicated art. From time to time someone spoke to her, but so great was her concentration that, when the play moved to its end, and the curtain fell, a slight shock passed over her as she transferred from the world of make-believe to reality.

  Jonathan took a bow and moved toward her. Taking her by the hand, he led her onto the stage, declaiming, “You hear it so often, the line I am about to say, that you may automatically discount it. I beg that you do not, for it is truth, right from my heart.” He suddenly kissed Dani’s hand and announced, “If it were not for this young woman, I doubt if I would be on this stage at this moment, for her courage and talent have given me the heart to continue.”

  Dani curtseyed as applause filled the theater, then moved back as the rest of the cast were introduced. He does it so well, she thought. No one would ever believe the tensions that exist between Jonathan and most of the cast.

  Finally the curtain closed, and Dani went to her dressing room. Goldman stopped by to say, “I’m impressed.” He stood there, a handsome figure, sharp-eyed and competent. With a smile he admitted, “I was pretty nervous tonight. And I don’t usually get that way. But you were as cool as a piece of ice. No fear at all.”

  “Not hard, when you’ve got something else to think of, Jake,” she excused herself. “But it’s times like these that I don’t like.”

  “Come out with me for a bite?” he offered.

  “I’m pretty tired,” she said. “Another night, perhaps.”

  “Sure.” He left at once, and she saw that he was aware of her fatigue. She changed into her street clothes, and when she was putting on fresh lipstick, a knock sounded. “Come in,” she invited.

  Savage opened the door, came in, and said quietly, “Everybody’s going to Twenty-One. Ainsley’s got some sort of celebration planned.”

  “That club’s not quite my style,” she hedged. “Are you going?”

  “No,” he said, then grinned. “Don’t forget. I’m going to burgle the Lockridge place tomorrow at noon. You want a report on what I find?”

  “They won’t be there,” she assured him. “They turned me down because they have a previous date. Come to my place when you’re done. And be careful,” she advised. “We don’t need you in jail, Ben.” He slipped away, and Dani finished her makeup, then left the Pearl with Jonathan, who had agreed to drop her off on his way to the club. In his excitement, the actor wanted to talk about the performance, but Dani was a poor audience, since her mind dwelled on Savage and his burgling.

  The next day Ben got into the year-old Escort he had rented from an agency. He had gotten tired of subways and taxis and had already made one trip to the Upper East Side apartment house where Lockridge and his wife lived. It was a large, buff-brick high-rise with a tight security system.

  Parking the car a block away, he moved down the street, walking right by the front entrance without so much as a glance at the uniformed doorman who stood just inside the glass doors. As soon as he was out of sight, he moved rapidly to the side entrance, where a sign indicated SERVICE ENTRANCE. The door was locked, as he had expected, so he rang the bell, then waited.

  The door opened and a middle-aged woman in a dark-blue uniform opened the door. She wore thick glasses and asked in a voice that had a faint English accent, “What is it?”

  Ben opened his wallet and held it up for her to see. “Bell Security Systems, ma’am. Time to replace the solenoid batteries.”

  “We didn’t send for you,” she said with a puzzled frown.

  “No, ma’am, this is part of our regular service. The batteries are good for two years, but we like to check them every quarter. Just in case. If they go out, the whole system is out of working order.”

  He had spent half an hour making the card with a set of rubber letters that fit into a stamp. The words BELL SECURITY SYSTEMS were printed on the back of his regular card, ROSS INVESTIGATIVE AGENCY. It was one of the handiest pieces of his equipment, and he had often wondered that a piece of paper had so much power and authority. Once he had told Dani that he thought it was possible to get into the War Room of the Pentagon with a handmade card.

  He stood there, looking bored, and as he expected, the woman said, “All right. Come on in.”

  “It’ll take about an hour to check all the systems,” he told her as he stepped inside.

  “Do you need keys for the apartment?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, I can’t go with you. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Sure will.” Ben walked briskly away, and the woman went to a door marked MANAGER. At once he took the elevator to the tenth floor, got off, and saw that nobody was in the hall. Going to apartment 1004, he bent down and peered at the lock. Then he took a small leather case from his inside pocket. Opening that, he removed several stainless steel picks. As he worked on the lock, he thought of Manny Sears, the cat
burglar who’d taught him to pick locks. He’d helped Manny out from under a bum rap, and Sears had been glad to pay him off by a course in picking locks. Most locks can be opened almost as quickly with a piece of steel as with the key, if a man knows what to do with it. He proved that by moving the sliver of steel carefully until a tiny click sounded. Quickly he turned the knob, opened the door and stepped inside.

  When he turned on the light, he saw that Sir Adrian and Lady Victoria lived very well indeed. The apartment was spacious, with one wall cloaked by a large velvet curtain. He looked behind it, saw that it was a nice view of the New York skyline. A pair of double doors opened onto a small balcony that had a round, wrought-iron table and four chairs.

  The other walls were lined with walnut bookcases and wainscotting made of the same material. Pale mauve walls, above the wainscoting, held original paintings, mostly landscapes from an English school. The furniture was white leather, and the tables hand-carved rosewood.

  Savage went through the living room efficiently, finding nothing of interest, then passed through a door that led to a suite composed of a very large bedroom, a study, and a bath. The bedroom had two full-sized double beds, more bookcases, and walls lined with pictures of the couple. Many of them were enlarged snapshots of the Lockridges with famous people. Moving from print to print, Ben recognized Peter Sellers, Laurence Olivier, a young Richard Burton, and a great many others he didn’t recognize.

  He moved into the bathroom, not expecting to find much, but going through the motions. Sir Adrian took a lot of medicine. There were two medicine cabinets, and Victoria’s was sparsely furnished, containing only aspirin and a laxative. But the other was crowded with pill bottles of every size and shape. Ben read the labels on some of them, but didn’t recognize most of them. Then one marked nitroglycerine caught his eye. “Maybe heart trouble,” he muttered, putting it back.

  The study he saved for last. One of the pair was doing some kind of editing work. Piles of magazines and newspapers were stacked along one wall; on a small table lay a scrapbook, a pair of scissors, and rubber cement. He flipped over the scrapbook and saw that it was filled with articles about their plays. What seemed strange was that the magazines were not just on drama, but on a variety of subjects. He moved his eyes toward the desk, and the first thing he saw was a new portable typewriter, a Brother. “It’s never what you want it to be,” he muttered, beginning to search the drawers of the roll-top oak desk. One of the pair was methodical, for all was neat and in order. Receipts, insurance notices, and warranties—all neatly tagged in place. The checkbook showed a lower figure than he might have guessed, but probably they had stocks and bonds.

  There were no signs of guns or ammunition in the chests or bedside table, but in the small study he saw a glass case with an old revolver, a .38, and a strange-looking knife with an odd, wicked-looking curve. He opened the case and, using a handkerchief, examined the revolver. It was ancient and dry, with a few flecks of rust on the cylinder. Probably wouldn’t even fire, he thought. But no ammunition, not even a box of pellets. Savage carefully replaced everything and went toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he stood there, thinking hard. He hated to be defeated, and somehow he had been certain that he’d turn up something. He let his mind wander over the apartment, trying to come up with a hiding place. Nothing. As he turned the knob, he thought: receipts. All tagged and in place. It was a long shot, and he was beginning to think that the pair might come back early, but he quickly returned to the study and opened one of the drawers. A thick sheaf of small slips of paper was bound together by a rubber band. He slipped it off and saw that the receipts were chronologically arranged beginning with January 1. He skipped the first two months, then began looking at each slip. He let himself hope a little, when he found a receipt from a drugstore for thirty-seven cents. That meant they didn’t throw anything away. Carefully he thumbed through them, noting that some of them were cash register slips that gave no reading of the actual purchase. Most of these, however, were from shops that would not sell ammunition, anyway.

  His eye picked up the words Empire Sporting Goods—and then he saw beneath: a box of Remington .38 shells. The date was March 12. Just a few days before LeRoi was killed, Ben remembered. He took down the date of the sale and the time, replaced the receipts, and left the apartment.

  On the way down in the elevator, he saw nobody and left by the service entrance. He drove straight to Dani’s apartment and parked the Escort. A new Lincoln Town Car was parked right in front, and he recognized it as Goldman’s. After hesitating briefly, he entered the building and went to her apartment. When he rang the bell, the door opened at once, and Dani stood there.

  “Come in, Ben,” she said. “I’ve got coffee on.”

  “Hello, Ben.” Goldman nodded. He sat on the single easy chair, holding a cup in his hand. When Dani came back with Ben’s cup of black coffee, Goldman said, “I’m off duty. How’d your visit go?”

  “No ammo in the place,” Ben said. He took a sip of the hot coffee, then added, “But there’s a receipt from the Empire Sporting Goods Shop for a box of thirty-eight shells.”

  “When were they bought?” Dani asked quickly.

  “Two-fifteen in the afternoon on March twelfth.”

  “You brought it with you?” Goldman questioned.

  “No.”

  Goldman looked relieved. “Good! As long as he doesn’t get rid of it, we can get a search warrant and pick it up.”

  “He’s a real methodical guy.” Ben shook his head. “I’d guess he keeps every scrap of paper he gets his hands on.

  “Pretty dumb to keep this one,” Goldman said. “But they all do something dumb.” He looked at the pair and shrugged. “It’s not enough to nail him, of course.”

  “No, but it’s enough to make us watch him, Jake,” Dani pointed out. “That was a good idea, Ben. Do you have any more?”

  “Well, I guess it wouldn’t be too smart to search everybody’s joint, would it?”

  “No.” She smiled. “But I feel as if we’ve done a little something to earn our money.”

  “Will you tell Ainsley?” Goldman asked.

  “Oh, yes, it’s his money.”

  Ben was staring at the wall. “There’s something else about that place that should mean something—but I can’t get a handle on it.” He frowned, then rubbed the scar on his forehead. “Maybe it’ll come later.” He finished his coffee, rose, and turned to the door. “See you later.”

  Surprised by the detective’s instant departure, Goldman asserted, “He’s pretty swift, Ben is.” A question framed itself in his eyes, and he asked, “You two are pretty close, I guess?”

  “Well, in a way, Jake. Ben saved my life in that Maxwell Stone case. I’m grateful to him for that.”

  “That all of it?”

  She shifted her body, and he saw that the question had disturbed her—which didn’t surprise him. Goldman had been intrigued by Danielle more than by most women. He liked women and his good looks and quick wit would have assured success with them; but his money made him even more sought after. One side effect of having made a great deal of money was a disillusionment with women. Keener-than-average discernment made him an excellent police officer, but it also caused him to read the smiles of the many women in his life. Most of them were shallow, and he realized he would never be certain if they loved him or his money.

  But he realized that this woman was different. At first, he had written her off as simply cold, but he quickly corrected that first impression. She was quiet, for the most part, but even as he leaned back and watched her, he was aware that beneath her smooth manner lay a spirit with a hunger for life. Some of this was reflected in the expression of her gray-green eyes that at times seemed too large for her face; when she was excited, they took on a sparkle. Her mouth was large and sensitive, but her nose was too short for real beauty, he decided, and her face a little too squarish.

  He asked suddenly, “Have you thought of me as a man you might fal
l in love with?”

  Taken off guard, she stared at him, finally shaking her head firmly. “I don’t really believe in ‘falling in love,’ Jake.” Dani leaned back on the couch, and when she threw her arm over the back, it brought her figure into prominence. She drew her feet up under her in a paradoxically girlish and sensuous gesture. She said no more, but let the silence run on. That was one of the things about Danielle that intrigued Jake Goldman—her ability to let a silence lie across a conversation. Most women, he had noticed, felt that somebody had to be talking all the time.

  “Don’t believe in love?” he prompted. “I thought everyone did.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe in love, Jake,” she responded. “It’s the falling part I have problems with. It’s a violent expression. The kind of word you use for a physical action, like, ‘The carpenter fell down the cellar steps!’”

  Goldman grinned. “Well, don’t you think love can be like that? I’ve got a few scars to prove it.”

  “It’s too—too much like a Hollywood cliché,” Dani explained. “You’ve seen the old movies. A man is walking along, and he meets a girl. Their eyes meet and they fall in love. Have never seen each other before in their whole lives; know nothing about each other. He may be a student of Etruscan pottery who spends his life in pursuit of knowledge, and she may be a brainless chorus girl, but that doesn’t mean a thing! They’ve fallen in love!” She smiled at his expression, but meant her words seriously. “According to that kind of thinking, love is some sort of chemical reaction.”

  “Well, there is something to that, I think. You must have noticed it.” He leaned forward, his eyes alert. “I mean, some men must repel you from the first—and others turn you on.”

  “Turn me on!” Dani said. “That’s just as bad as ‘falling in love’! What am I, some kind of light switch?”