Actor

by Parnell Hall

  “Not at all. At first I took it at face value. Someone tried to kill me. Why? Because I’m a private detective. They thought I was there to solve the crime, so the murderer tried to kill me. So the murderer couldn’t be you.

  “Then I twisted it around. The murderer was you. And the light was dropped onstage deliberately for the express purpose of convincing me that the murderer wasn’t you.

  “See what I mean?”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Not at all. I admit that theory doesn’t wash. How could you possibly do it? Be standing there and engineer the light to fall. You’d have to have an accomplice. Someone other than Amanda, who was standing there herself. Well, Margie would fill the bill, but she was out dining with the other actors. And I can’t see her doing that anyway. I can’t see her having the nerve.”

  Herbie shook his head. “Stanley ...”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s crazy. Like I said, it was wrong. The real explanation was much simpler. You gave it to me yourself. Ridley’s a lousy electrician. The first thing you said when it happened. And it happens to be true. He is a bad electrician, and the light fell because he did a bad job.

  “That’s the secret of the light. No one was trying to kill anyone. The light just fell.”

  I shook my head. “See, I missed it the first time I questioned Ridley. Which was stupid of me. I took his story at face value. Which I shouldn’t have. He kept protesting, “It’s not my light, it’s not my light.” Of course that’s what he’d say. A punk kid, he doesn’t want to take the blame. So he made up this story and, you know, I even helped him do it. Of how when he got a new light put together and went to hang it up he found out he didn’t have to hang it because all his lights were there. I take the blame for that—I led him into that lie, and then I let him tell it.

  “But what else could he do? He’d painted himself into a corner. If it wasn’t his light that fell, then no light needed to be replaced. And he couldn’t hang the one he’d just built.

  “First time I missed that, stupid me, but the second time I nailed him on it. If Ridley hadn’t hung the light, where was it? According to him he’d put it together because there were no working Lekos on hand. Which meant that now there would be one and only one, the one he put together that he couldn’t hang. I challenged him to show me a working Leko not in the show.

  “Which of course he couldn’t do. Because the light that fell was his light. And the light he put together is now hanging in its place in the show.”

  I smiled. “Well, not really in its place. See, Ridley’s not a quick thinker, or he might have pointed out that when that light fell you were still doing Zoo Story—so there was a strike night and the lights were all rehung. But even so, the light plot for Arms and the Man would have used every available Leko. And it’s all academic, since Ridley confessed. Because he’s not a quick thinker, it never occurred to him, and when I challenged him with it he caved right in.”

  I shook my head. “The light falling was an accident, Herbie. It had nothing to do with the murder.

  “It doesn’t give you an alibi anymore.”

  “An alibi? An alibi for what? For killing Goobie Wheatly? That doesn’t make any sense. That happened the night before.”

  I put up my hands. “I know, Herbie. I’m saying it badly. The light falling wasn’t an alibi. I thought it gave you an alibi. It was only when it turned out to be an accident that I realized you didn’t have one.”

  Herbie frowned, put his hand on my arm. He looked concerned, “Stanley,” he said. “Are you all right? I know you been spending a lot of time with Chief Bob. On top of the pressures of doing this part and all ...”

  I shook his hand off. “No, Herbie. Let me finish. The problem isn’t just the murder of Goobie Wheatly. The problem is Walter Penbridge.”

  “Walter Penbridge?” Herbie said. “Walter Penbridge died of a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, but what if he didn’t? What if he was murdered too?”

  “But he wasn’t.”

  “Play the game, Herbie. Say he was. And say the evidence points to you.”

  “What evidence?”

  “This is very painful for me, Herbie.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not enjoying it a hell of a lot myself. Whatever it is, spit it out and let me get back inside. I just sold out a Monday-night house. My first Monday-night house. I don’t care if it’s just because my stage manager died, and, no, I didn’t kill him just to get a full house, if that’s the kind of screwy theory you’re playing around with. And Walter Penbridge died of a heart attack, for Christ’s sake, and what’s any of this got to do with me?

  “So, you got a theory, do me a favor. Stop playing this question-and-answer shit you seem so fond of, and give it to me all in one shot. I’m not enjoying this and I’d like to get back in there before last call.”

  “Fine, Herbie,” I said. “Then the facts are these. You and Margie are having an affair. Only she’s got roving eyes. She stepped out on you with Walter Penbridge. You found out about it and you killed him.”

  He blinked. Once. Twice.

  “Walter Penbridge?” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Margie and Walter Penbridge?”

  “Right, Herbie,” I said. “I assume that’s why you had him in the dressing room with Nellie Knight. You threw him a bone. Tried to tempt him with the nubile Nellie Knight tits. Only Walter wasn’t having any. He had his sights set on Margie. You found out, you were outraged and you killed him.”

  “Walter Penbridge?” Herbie said again.

  “That’s right, Herbie. I’m sorry to have to say it.”

  He laughed. A short, braying laugh. Then he frowned, shook his head. Then looked back up at me.

  “Stanley,” he said. “Walter Penbridge is gay.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “He’s gay. I mean, he was gay. I thought everyone knew that.”

  “I never met him.”

  “I know. Then how’d you get that idea?”

  “Something I heard.”

  “You heard wrong. The man was gay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” He shrugged. “I suppose someone could get the wrong impression. He wasn’t flaming, campy gay. Or just-out-of-the-closet, talk-about-it-all-the-time gay. But the man was gay, there’s no doubt about it.”

  My world was crashing around me. “But then— Well, he wasn’t bisexual, was he?”

  “No. The man had no interest in women at all.”

  “Then he wasn’t interested in Margie?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And the reason you put him in the dressing room with Nellie Knight ...?”

  “Because Avery Allington got the star’s dressing room, not him.”

  “No, I mean you put him with Nellie instead of Margie.”

  “Was just how it worked out. See, the other actors were already in place. Well, three of ’em, anyway David had the star’s dressing room till Avery came. When he had to get out, he moved in with Peter Constantine. Aside from Avery, I had to add Margie and Walter Penbridge for the show. Julie Katz didn’t want to share with a man, so I stuck Margie in with her. Nellie Knight, as you know, couldn’t give a shit, so I put Walter in with her.”

  “Isn’t there another dressing room on the other side?”

  “Yeah. That apprentice boy has it. You know, the one who plays the soldier in Act One.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I rubbed my head. “Jesus Christ.”

  Herbie looked at me. “Stanley, I don’t know what any of this has to do with why Goobie Wheatly got killed. But can I tell you something? Frankly, I don’t care. The theater’s selling out and saving my life. Everything’s going fine. Don’t rock the boat. You got two more performances to get through. Tomorrow night’s sold out, and the way it’s going, Wednesday’s gonna sell out too. And the advance sale on Glass Menagerie isn’t bad either.

  “Now, I don’t know where you got this idea about W
alter Penbridge. He was gay, he died a natural death, and I had nothing to do with it.”

  Herbie punched me playfully in the arm. “This is an occupational hazard with you, right? You’re a private detective, so you think you gotta solve the case. Well, do me a favor, willya? Don’t solve it till closing night. I’ll tell you why. The way things look, it had to be someone in the cast did it. And if you were to bust ’em ...”

  “What?”

  Herbie shrugged. “I don’t have an understudy.”

  39.

  CHIEF BOB LISTENED WITHOUT INTERRUPTING till I was finished. Then he nodded, jerked his thumb at the hot plate in his office and said, “Want some coffee?”

  I took a breath. “Yeah, I want some coffee. I was also hoping for a reaction.”

  “What do you want, my sympathy? You got it. I would say you made a perfectly sound deduction, and Walter Penbridge turning out to be gay has to be a kick in the teeth.”

  “You think it’s true?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh? Did you know him?”

  “Never met the man.”

  “Then why do you say that?”

  “I’d be apt to take Herbie’s word for it. But, as it happens, there’s corroborating evidence.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  Chief Bob jerked his thumb. “Autopsy report. Among other things, Walter Penbridge had AIDS.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “That’s right. He had AIDS. That doesn’t necessarily mean he was homosexual, of course. But together with Herbie’s statement it’s a pretty good indication. I’m not saying it doesn’t warrant investigation, but I’ll bet you a nickel the guy was gay.”

  “So he wasn’t interested in Margie and my theory falls apart.”

  “I’m afraid so. But don’t take it personally. It’s all part of the game. If it takes a hundred wrong theories to get to the right one, those hundred wrong ones aren’t all bad.”

  Chief Bob poured two cups of coffee, handed one to me.

  “Tell me something, Chief,” I said. “Where do you get off talking like that? Like you solved a murder every other day. How often do people get killed in this town?”

  He shrugged. “Lately, we’ve been averaging one a week. But you’re right, it’s not an everyday occurrence. We certainly have enough crime—robberies, assaults, what have you. And basically, a crime’s a crime. Murder’s just a little extreme, that’s all. Anyway, you’re sure you didn’t tell Herbie that Walter Penbridge was killed?”

  “No. I just said what-if.”

  “And he didn’t tumble?”

  “Not at all. He pooh-poohed the idea. Said it was absurd.”

  “Good.”

  “How long you gonna withhold the fact he was killed?”

  “As long as I can. If the killer doesn’t know I’m onto it, it’s to my advantage.”

  “Why do you say as long as you can?”

  “Because it’s bound to leak out.”

  “Not through me.”

  “No, but there’s always Sy.”

  “Won’t he be quiet?”

  “He says he will. And of course I believe him. But that’s a funny situation there. On the one hand, Sy is all crisp, efficient and businesslike. He’ll do anything I tell him to help the investigation. His lips are sealed.” Chief Bob smiled. “On the other hand, the guy’s just bursting at the seams to be able to tell somebody Ed Macy fucked up a death certificate.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, I think I can count on him to bite the bullet a couple more days. Meanwhile, how’d you like to inspect the scene of the crime?”

  I frowned. “The theater?”

  “No. Not that crime. The Walter Penbridge murder. He was found in his room. Cyanide’s pretty fast-acting. We can assume the poisoning took place there.”

  I frowned. “You haven’t done that yet?”

  “When would I? The autopsy report came in late last night. I’m trying to keep a low profile here. The guy lived in a house with the other actors. What was I gonna do, go barging in there in the middle of the night and tell ’em to ignore me, that nothing’s wrong? Besides, it’s been a whole week already. What difference does one more day make? Anyway, you wanna take a run over there?”

  “Yeah, I do. Has it occurred to you, Chief, that Walter Penbridge was killed days before I got here?”

  “Right,” he said. “In order to pave the way for you taking over a role you’ve secretly coveted for over twenty years.”

  I looked at him.

  He smiled. “Couldn’t resist.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

  I took a breath. It occurred to me, god save me from a police officer with acting aspirations.

  I gave him a look, shook my head, and walked out.

  40.

  CHIEF BOB PULLED THE POLICE CAR up in front of the house.

  “What if the actors are here?” I said.

  “What if they are?”

  “I thought you were keeping this investigation quiet.”

  “I am, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Goobie Wheatly lived here too.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve been through his room already, of course. Not that I turned up anything. But no reason why I couldn’t check it again. The actors are probably at rehearsal anyway.”

  “One would hope.”

  It was a large frame house with a screened-in porch running along the front. We went up on the porch, tried the front door. It opened and we entered a spacious front hall with living rooms off to the left and right.

  “So this is how the actors live,” I said.

  “Oh, you don’t live here?”

  “Herbie put me in the apprentice house.”

  Chief Bob grinned. “That’s ’cause you’re a friend of his. Herbie’s a nice guy, but he has a tendency to impose on his friends.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hey, it’s nothing malicious and it doesn’t make him a murderer. It’s just, friends will put up with things other people will piss and moan about. And Herbie tends to choose the path of least resistance.”

  “Like Margie?” I said.

  We were talking real low, but when I said that I hoped to god the actors were all at rehearsal and there was no one there to hear that.

  Chief Bob grinned and led the way upstairs. At the top was a hallway with several doors.

  “You know which room is which?” I asked.

  “Only Goobie Wheatly’s. Which is this one here.”

  Chief Bob turned the knob and pushed the door open. He stepped aside and gave me a look.

  “Our next task,” he said, “is to check out the other rooms and note their proximity to Goobie Wheatly’s.”

  He said that in an unnecessarily loud voice, then gave me a wink, in case I hadn’t realized it was for the benefit of any actor who might be in one of those rooms.

  We started in on the rooms. The door to the right was unlocked and looked promising, but the name tag on the suitcase said “Avery Allington.”

  “I notice these rooms have bathrooms,” I said, as Chief Bob and I filed out.

  “You mean your room doesn’t?”

  “I’ve reached a point where I barely miss it.”

  We tried the door on the left. A bra and panties, rinsed out and hanging in the bathroom, gave a clue that we were on the wrong track.

  Third time’s the charm. And indeed the next room had an envelope on the night table addressed to Walter Penbridge. That looked promising but turned out to be from Actors Equity, so it was probably unimportant except in establishing that this was Walter’s room.

  Chief Bob closed the door and we began to search.

  It’s hard enough to find something you’re looking for. But did you ever search a place where you weren’t looking for anything? It sure makes it hard to find it.

  I was in the process of not finding anything when I heard Chief Bob whistle.

  I looked around a
nd saw him standing in the bathroom.

  It occurred to me it was the sign of a rather sick individual to envy a dead man his bathroom.

  “What is it?” I said.

  Chief Bob held it up. “Take a look at this.”

  I walked over, saw that what he was holding by the corners with his handkerchief was a white plastic pill bottle.

  “See what it says?” Chief Bob asked.

  I leaned in and squinted at the bottle. “Retrovir,” I said. “What’s that?”

  “It says it in smaller letters.”

  I squinted again. “Zidovudine. That doesn’t help.”

  “If I remember correctly, that’s the new name for azidothymidine.”

  I frowned. “Now why does that sound familiar?”

  “It’s AZT”

  “Oh.”

  Chief Bob turned the bottle around. On the other side was the druggist’s prescription label, made out to Walter Penbridge. “So this is a help. This prescription was filled in New York. This doctor, Dr. Kleinschmidt, will be a New York doctor. I can call him directly, cut through some of the red tape.”

  Chief Bob whipped out a plastic evidence bag, opened it, dropped the pill bottle in. “This goes right to the lab,” he said.

  “For fingerprints?”

  “For one thing. For another, to check out the capsules. See if they contain cyanide.”

  I shuddered. “Good lord.”

  “Well, that’s how the man died.”

  “I know. It’s just the idea of it.”

  “What?”

  “Cyanide in an AIDS patient’s AZT pills. Just seems inhuman.”

  “Whereas poisoning his Tylenol capsules would be positively humane,” Chief Bob said. “Well, let’s get on with it.”

  We searched the room, failed to turn up anything else significant.

  “Want to search Goobie Wheatly’s?” I asked as we went out.

  Chief Bob shook his head. “No, I’ve done that already.”

  “We might turn up something new.”

  “Such as? No, there’s nothing to find. I want to run this over to the lab.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “New Haven. It’s a bit of a drive. And I don’t want to trust it to anybody else.”

  Chief Bob came out the front door onto the porch and down the steps to his car. I followed somewhat reluctantly. As I climbed in, I couldn’t help glancing back at the house.