Actor

by Parnell Hall

  Chief Bob held up his hand. “Please. I do not wish to get involved in metaphysical speculation. I want facts. Failing that, I want theories grounded somewhat in reality.”

  “The fact is a light almost fell on my head.”

  “Which may or may not mean anything.”

  “Granted. But will you concede the possibility that it does?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then we have that fact. A light falling. And it wasn’t a light from the show. That’s very interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? It means someone carried a light up there and tried to drop it on us.”

  “Why?”

  I looked at him. “Why does it mean that, or why did someone drop it on us, or—”

  “No. Why did someone carry a light up there? There’s nothing but lights up there. If someone wants to drop a light on your head, why not drop one of those? Why go to the trouble of finding another light and dragging it on up?”

  “Maybe he didn’t have a wrench.”

  “Huh?”

  “The lights hanging from the grid are bolted onto pipes. That’s how they’re hung. You can only loosen them with a wrench.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “My experience in theater has always been from the performing end. I’ve never worked lights.”

  “Yeah, well, I have.”

  “Oh, really? Excellent. No wonder you’re so keen on this.”

  I stopped, looked at him. “My theory that someone tried to drop a light on my head has nothing to do with the fact I once ran lights.”

  “No, no, of course not. I’m just saying you know the ins and outs. Well, that’s interesting. Someone wanting to kill you with a light from up on the grid could only do so if they had a wrench. So they have to go find another light, bring it up there and drop it on your head,” Chief Bob frowned, shook his head.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “The theory. I can’t say I like it. I mean, the killer has to go and find another light. They’re big, bulky, cumbersome and hard to hide. Assuming the killer isn’t Ridley or the tech director, to be seen carrying a light would arouse suspicion.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So why would he get a light? Why not a wrench? A small crescent wrench, he could slip it in his pocket, no one would see it, he could climb up on the grid and unbolt the light.”

  I opened my mouth, closed it again. I felt incredibly frustrated.

  “I don’t know why he didn’t do that,” I said. “I don’t know why he got a light instead. But the point is he did.”

  “Then there must be a reason,” Chief Bob said. “No one does things for no reason. If the killer brought a light instead of a wrench, he must have had a reason.”

  “Suppose he just didn’t think of it?”

  Chief Bob shrugged. “That’s a reason,” he said. “It’s a bad one, but it’s a reason. But I’m not accepting it until I see some evidence pointing in that direction. In the meantime, I would suggest that we still look for an explanation of why the killer would have done that.”

  I kept quiet. As far as I was concerned, Chief Bob was talking in circles and I didn’t want to get him started going around again.

  He went around anyway.

  “We also need an explanation for why this light would be dropped on you. Your being a private detective simply doesn’t wash. If this were postcrime, yes. Then that’s a theory worth investigating. But the way things stand, with the light falling first, it simply makes no sense. The murder would have to happen first. Before Herbie brought you in.”

  My eyes widened.

  “Yes?” Chief Bob said. “What is it?”

  “I just realized why I’m here.”

  Chief Bob frowned. “You mean because you’re a murder suspect?”

  I waved it away “No, no. I don’t mean here at the station. I mean here.”

  He frowned again. “I don’t understand. What do you mean? Why are you here?”

  “Because Walter Penbridge died.”

  34.

  CHIEF BOB WASN’T CONVINCED.

  “You don’t understand the problems,” he said.

  “You don’t think this is worth investigating?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said you didn’t understand the problems.”

  “Pardon me, Chief, but I don’t give a shit. I’m a murder suspect here, I have a theory that can clear me, and come hell or high water it’s going to be investigated.”

  “No need to get testy. I didn’t say I wouldn’t investigate. I said there were problems. And there are. I’m sorry if you don’t like that, but I have my responsibilities as chief of police. And they go beyond this murder investigation. Responsibilities to the people in this town.”

  “Politics? You’re talking politics?”

  “Worse than that. I’m talking public relations. Like it or not, I gotta live in this town. I can’t go trompin’ on everybody’s toes.”

  “This is a murder investigation.”

  “No. Goobie Wheatly is a murder investigation. Walter Penbridge?” He held up his hand, waggled it back and forth.

  “I can’t believe you’re pulling that.”

  “Pulling what?”

  “You can’t investigate Walter Penbridge unless it’s a murder. But you’ll never find out it’s a murder unless you investigate it.”

  “That’s hardly fair.”

  “Fair? Who’s talking fair? You won’t investigate the one thing in this case that might clear me because it might piss someone off and you’re talking to me about fair?”

  “If you’d just hold your horses a minute, maybe I can get something done.”

  “Oh? You’re gonna do something?”

  Chief Bob ignored that and picked up the phone. “Felix,” he said. “You know that actor from the playhouse, dropped dead last week. Name’s Walter Penbridge ... that’s right. Listen, look that up for me, willya? Find out what happened with that. Attending physician, disposition of the body. Whatever they got.”

  Chief Bob hung up the phone, turned back to me.

  “You gotta exhume the body,” I said.

  He made a face. “Let’s not go jumping the gun.”

  “What do you mean, jumping the gun? How else are you gonna find out if it was a suspicious death?”

  “All in good time. We find out what the facts are, we know what to do next. Now then, while we’re waiting, let’s hypothesize. Suppose you’re right? Suppose he was killed?”

  “Then it all fits.”

  “What all fits?”

  “Well, the light falling, for one thing. Just like we were talking about. The murderer kills Penbridge. Then Herbie brings me in, and the murderer thinks that’s why.”

  “Because you’re a private detective?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then he must have a lot of faith in your abilities. The murderer, I mean. To think that you could figure this out.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t take it personally. But since we can’t figure this out, since we can’t even seem to get started, the motive must be somewhat obscure. And if it is, why would a killer fear some investigator stumbling on it?”

  “Well, we don’t know what was in the killer’s mind. Since his motive must be perfectly clear to him, he may not realize it wouldn’t be perfectly clear to us.”

  “That’s really stretching.”

  “Give me a break. We’re speculating on the unknown here. You ask me to justify why someone would do something when we have no facts to go on.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “What?”

  “That we can’t form theories without facts to go on. I got the impression we were doing exactly that.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Chief Bob held up his hand.

  “Anyway, let’s go on with this theory. Take it for granted Penbridge was murdered. Can we assume that explains why some
one wanted to kill you?”

  “I would think so. Wouldn’t you?”

  He frowned. “I’m not all that happy with it. But, for the sake of argument, say it’s true. What does that tell us?”

  “Well, for one thing, Herbie and Amanda are in the clear.”

  “That’s obvious. We know they weren’t up in the grid dropping lights on their own heads. But what about everybody else?”

  I thought a moment. “I was told they were at dinner. The actors, I mean. And we subsequently picked Margie up at a restaurant. I can’t vouch for the others, but it’s something we could check out. Margie should at least remember who was there. There’s only four in the company, plus Margie and Avery Allington. The four in the company were in the show that night. Margie joined me for rehearsal ...” I broke off, frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “Avery Allington. It hadn’t occurred to me before, because I didn’t know. But he’s not in the regular company, and he wasn’t in that night’s show. But he didn’t come rehearse with me. It was just me and Margie.”

  “So?”

  “Well, that’s a little strange. Here I am, fitting into the show on short notice. Since Avery didn’t have a performance that night, you’d have thought he could have come along to run our scenes.”

  Chief Bob considered. “I don’t think that’s all that strange. The man’s a prima donna. Thinks he’s hot stuff. A real star would be apt to be gracious, show up, put himself out. But a no-talent schmuck playing star, it’s the other way around. They’re too big to go to the rehearsal.”

  “I’ll buy that,” I said. “But the point is, he wasn’t in the show. So when Herbie said the actors were at dinner, I don’t know if he meant him.”

  “He wasn’t in the show, but he would have been at rehearsal that afternoon, wouldn’t he?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, it’s something we can check. Which is good. It gives us another point of departure: Where was everyone that night during dinner? And this Ridley—you say he came and fixed the light?”

  “Right. Herbie asked the girl in the box office to call down to the diner and have him come back. Which she did.”

  “She reached him there?”

  “She must have. ’Cause he came back and fixed the light. I saw him working on it myself.”

  “But you don’t know if he showed up as a result of her phone call. Do you?”

  I frowned. “No, I guess not.”

  “So if Ridley had been in the theater that night and dropped that light himself, and found out people were looking for him to fix it, he could have conveniently showed up and gone to work.”

  I looked to him. “You’re taking this thing seriously?”

  He shrugged. “For the purpose of this discussion. If we’re going to consider this, there’s no point being half-assed about it. The point is, was there anything you observed that night that would eliminate that possibility?”

  “That Ridley did it?”

  “Yeah.”

  I considered. “No. I don’t think there is. But if Ridley did that ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Then he killed Walter Penbridge. And why would Ridley want to kill Walter Penbridge?”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Walter Penbridge? That’s another matter which we may or may not get into.”

  “Depending on local politics?”

  Chief Bob frowned. “Not at all. Depending on whether or not it turns out to be relevant. Anyway, that’s another thing we need to check out. Whether Ridley was actually at the diner that night. I assume if he was, he was not alone?”

  “No, apparently it’s an apprentice hangout.”

  Chief Bob nodded. “That will help.”

  The phone on his desk rang. He scooped it up. “Yes?” He listened a moment, said, “Thanks, Felix,” and hung up the phone. He exhaled, said, “Shit.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Walter Penbridge.”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

  “Perhaps because I don’t.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The attending physician was Ed Macy. He signed the death certificate.”

  “So?”

  “There’s two doctors in town. Ed Macy and Sy. They happen to hate each others’s guts.”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “But they’re outwardly very polite to each other. Go out of their way to avoid stepping on each other’s toes.”

  “And?”

  “Sy’s the medical examiner. A case like this, he’s the one would have to make the examination.”

  “So what?”

  “Ed Macy signed the death certificate. Put the cause of death down as heart failure. You’re askin Sy to step in and contradict that determination, you’re stirrin' up a hornet’s nest.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Are you telling me it can’t be done?”

  “No. I’m just telling you before I ask something like that be done, I gotta be pretty sure of my grounds. Sy comes in, cuts up the body and proves he died from other causes—well, there’d be hell to pay, but I can ride out the storm. So can Sy.

  “But Sy comes in, takes a shot at it and can’t prove anything, then I am in deep shit. ’Cause Ed Macy is going to scream bloody murder, and I won’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “What if he doesn’t hear about it?”

  “Come on. In a town like this everybody hears everything.”

  “Well, that’s tough,” I said. “But you can’t just let it go. You’ve gotta exhume the body.”

  “Well, that’s another thing.”

  “What?”

  “We can’t exhume the body.”

  I stared at him. “Why the hell not?”

  “To exhume a body, you gotta dig it up.”

  “Yes, Of course.”

  “Which we can’t do.”

  I looked at him, gritted my’ teeth, “And why not?”

  “Because it isn’t buried yet.” Chief Bob smiled. “You can’t exhume a body that isn’t buried. You can autopsy it, but you can’t exhume it.”

  I looked at him in utter exasperation.

  Chief Bob held up his hand. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. But that’s the fact. This Walter Penbridge is from New York, but he’s got no relatives around here. His only living relative is some sister in Oregon no one’s been able to contact yet. So no one knows what to do with the body, and it’s still on ice at the morgue. Nice for our purposes, if it comes to that.”

  “What do you mean, if it comes to that?”

  “Just what I said. If we decide to go ahead with the autopsy, we’re all set.”

  “Yeah, well, on what do you intend to base your decision? The way I see it, the facts are all in. You’ve either gotta do it or not.”

  “The facts aren’t all in. I could investigate the possibility first.”

  “Of someone killing Walter Penbridge?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s almost a week ago. You’d be investigating in the dark, because you wouldn’t even know how he was killed.”

  “True.”

  “And you won’t know unless you do that autopsy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So, you gonna do it?”

  Chief Bob sighed. He grimaced and picked up the phone. “Felix. See if you can get Sy for me.”

  He hung up the phone and I said, “Thanks.”

  “Just doing my job. Can’t say I like it, but there you are.”

  I stood up.

  “Where you going?” he said.

  “I just got time to go back, get cleaned up, get something to eat before the show.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Funny, but I’d forgotten about that. But of course the show must go on. Do me a favor, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Watch out for yourself.”

  “Because of the light?”

  “There’s always that. But I was thinking of the ot
her thing.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “I don’t know if you considered this yet. But if your theory happens to be right ...” He shrugged. “Last guy to play your part got himself killed.”

  35.

  IT WAS NOT A GREAT performance. I suppose I could have guessed that from the seesaw nature of the performances ever since the dress rehearsal—last night was good, so tonight had to be a bust. But it wasn’t just that. I found myself sleepwalking through it. I was incredibly distracted and just couldn’t get into it.

  No, I wasn’t looking out for potential saboteurs. Despite Chief Bob’s caution, onstage I felt relatively safe. No, what was throwing me off was that right before curtain I called the police station and found out Chief Bob had located Sy, and the medical examiner had already started his autopsy. With that on my mind it was hard to think of anything else. I went through Act One on automatic pilot, barely remembered doing it, got offstage and immediately rushed to the pay phone to call Chief Bob.

  To no avail. It was early yet, and he hadn’t heard a thing. However, I considered it significant he was hanging around the police station to find out. Though it occurred to me to wonder why Sy couldn’t just call him at home. Maybe his home life wasn’t happy. Maybe he and his wife were at odds.

  Assuming he had a wife. It was a question that had never concerned me before, but I speculated on it during the idle stretches of Act Two. I sat in my dressing room, listening to the dulcet tones of Avery Allington wafting down over the speaker system and mulled the whole thing over in my head.

  Not that I came up with anything. Not even a halfway decent theory concerning Chief Bob’s home life. No, I kept getting hung up on speculating on the damn autopsy result. So much so that halfway through the act I snuck out to the pay phone to call Chief Bob again.

  Which answered one of my questions. No, not the biggie about the autopsy. The one about why he didn’t go home. He had. I got his voice on the answering machine giving me that number. I called it, got a woman, presumably his wife, who told me he was on his way home. I told her who I was, said I had no number to leave, but to tell him I’d call back.

  When I did, ten minutes later, he answered the phone himself.

  “What is with you?” he said. “Why aren’t you onstage?”