by Parnell Hall
This time it had to.
Going for me was the fact Avery Allington was an asshole, and she knew it. Plus, I’d managed to hammer that point home.
Going for me was the fact that, in this show at least, he was a bad actor and I was a good one. And she had recognized that fact from the start.
Going for me was the fact that I was a nice guy and he was a prick. Though that didn’t always work with women—often the reverse was true.
Going against me was the fact that, like it or not, Avery Allington was a TV actor, minor light though he might be. And I wasn’t any kind of actor.
Though I was a private detective. Which had elevated me in Beth’s eyes. Ironically enough, almost as unfairly as being a TV star might have elevated Avery Allington.
Well, come on, schmuck, time’s a wastin’.
I took a breath, looked over at Beth.
On the debit side, put down the fact Avery Allington was probably only in his late twenties, while I was old enough to be her father.
Never mind.
Time to make my move.
I leaned in, looked her right in the eyes.
“Hey,” I said. “Whaddya say you and me get the hell out of here?”
She did!
46.
ALICE SHOWED UP RIGHT AFTER the matinee.
I greeted her with mixed emotions. I was glad to see her on the one hand, and didn’t have time for her on the other. Plus I was all keyed up from the events of the past twenty-four hours.
Not to mention the show I’d just done. You wouldn’t have believed the way the matinee played. If Avery Allington had been hostile before, today he was out of sight. When he challenged me to a duel in Act Three, I could see it was all the poor man could do to keep from drawing his sword and running me through on the spot.
No problem for me, playing the calm, cool, efficient Captain Bluntschli. The wilder he got, the cooler I got. And the funnier it became, and the more I had the audience eating out of my hand. Even the matinee audience, once again consisting of the very old and the very young, this time found themselves getting a kick out of me.
Boy, Avery, when things go bad they just go bad, don’t they?
Twit.
Anyway, I got offstage from the matinee and went downstairs to my dressing room to discover a half-naked Nellie Knight and a fully clothed Alice. Not an ideal combination.
“You were right,” Alice said, after Nellie Knight finished dressing and finally went out the door.
“About what?”
“Your roommate has nice tits.”
“Uh huh.”
Alice looked at me. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Sorry, Alice. I’m a little distracted.”
“I can see why.”
“That’s not it.”
“Oh? What then?”
I looked at her and thought, where to begin. I hadn’t had a chance to call her last night, so she didn’t know I’d cracked the case.
Among other things.
“I have a lot to tell you,” I said. “But right now I’ve got to see Mary Anne.”
Alice frowned. “Mary Anne? Who’s Mary Anne?”
“The costume mistress. I gotta catch her before she leaves for dinner.”
“Stanley—”
I held up my hand. “One moment. Be right back.”
I ran out of the dressing room, hurried through the greenroom to the costume shop. It wasn’t until I walked in that I realized I was holding my pants and running around in my underwear. Not particularly unusual for summer stock, but what must Alice think? Particularly after Nellie Knight.
Mary Anne was just gathering up her purse.
“Hi,” I said. “Glad I caught you.”
She looked at me holding my pants, frowned. “What’s the matter? Did you rip your trousers?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Lose a button?”
“No.”
“You don’t need me to sew them then?”
“Actually, I do.”
She frowned, then cocked her head and smiled. “I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”
“First off I want you to be quiet.”
She frowned again. “I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, don’t tell anyone about this. It’s kind of a secret.”
“What is? What do you want?”
“I want you to sew a pocket in my pants.”
47.
IT WAS THE BEST SHOW yet.
Sometimes you get your wish. Alice had seen a bad show, and I really wanted her to see a good one. She got it and then some.
First off it was standing-room only. Literally. With the show sold out and people still clamoring for tickets, Herbie, after caucusing with the fire inspector and other local powers that be, had begun selling standing room, and damned if people weren’t buying it. Which was beyond me. I wouldn’t pay good money to stand up and see a show, no matter how many people had been killed in it.
Which, by the way, as far as the public was concerned, was still one. Much as it might have tortured him, Sy, the medical examiner, was sitting tight on the rather juicy tidbit that Walter Penbridge had been murdered too, and that Ed Macy had blown the death certificate.
Even without that information, two hours after it went on sale, standing room also sold out.
Fortunately, Alice had a seat. That’s because one of my few fringe benefits as an actor was getting two complimentary tickets to the shows. Of course, like everything else in this production, nobody told me about it, and I wouldn’t have even known I had them if Herbie hadn’t asked me for them back after the show started selling out. In fact, I’d paid for Alice’s ticket the first time she’d seen the show. But when Herbie asked, being from out of town and having no one I wanted to invite, I had cheerfully relinquished all my complimentary tickets except one for the final performance, which I held on to just in case Alice managed to get up for the last night. Alice had, and so there she sat, center orchestra about halfway back, a prime location from which to see the show in this standing-room-only crowd.
And what a show it was. Act One played like gang busters. I knew it was going to be good before I even got onstage. The women even got laughs in their simple, expository scene of locking the windows, which didn’t usually happen. When Margie-poo blew out the candle, hopped into bed, and I came climbing through the balcony window with my gun drawn, you could feel the electricity in the air. There was an expectant hush from the huge crowd, waiting for something to happen.
They ate it up when I held Raina at gunpoint. They liked it even better when I grabbed her robe and put the gun down, saying the robe was an even better weapon, I’d keep it so she made sure no one came in and saw her without it. And then, when the soldiers bang on the door, and I relent and give her back her robe, and she relents and hides me from them, I could tell the audience was with me all the way.
Tonight I paid attention while the young Russian officer searched the room. He was, of course, Beth’s would-be suitor, the young apprentice whose name I naturally couldn’t remember. He was young, handsome, dashing and very earnest in the performance of his three-line role.
Then he was gone and Margie-poo and I were into the scene and it was great. Really great. As good as I felt on opening night, this felt even better. Act One finished to a thunderous ovation.
Tonight even Act Two went well. Or as well as it could have, given the handicap of Avery Allington’s performance. Though, to give the devil his due, tonight even his part seemed to play. Or maybe it was just that the audience was so into it. But by the time I made my entrance at the end of the act, I had no doubt this was the show to end all shows.
Act Three.
The last act.
The final act.
Zero hour.
Oh, boy.
I could feel the adrenaline surging as the curtain went up.
This is it.
The beginning of the act, no problem, everything plays f
ine and before you know it the other actors are offstage and it’s just me and Margie-poo. No letdown there. Margie had been getting better throughout the run, and tonight the scene was just aces. It was almost a disappointment when Nellie Knight appeared onstage to bring me the letter that led to my exit.
Almost, but not quite.
Because this was the time it happened. Not exactly now, I mean between now and the end of the show. But this was the time Goobie Wheatly died. And the last time I would ever be going over that ground.
The moment I got offstage I went to the stage-right stairs, sat on the top step and began reading my script, which I’d left there just before the start of the show. I was sitting with my back to the stage, just as I had the night of the dress rehearsal. It was an exercise I’d performed many times since, re-creating the scene of the crime, so I knew exactly what would happen next.
Margie-poo and Nellie played their scene onstage. Then Margie exited and went past me, down the stairs to her dressing room.
Onstage, Nellie played the scene with Peter Constantine/Nicola, who had entered from down left.
Moments later, Avery Allington came up the stairs. He passed me and took up his position for his entrance. I turned and watched him while he disappeared from sight behind the masking flat. Then once again I turned my back on the stage as if I’d been absorbed in my script.
From there I heard Avery Allington enter, Peter Constantine exit, and then Avery’s scene, coming on to Nellie Knight.
And then it was over and I was onstage again.
And all at once the whole thing seemed as if it were a dream.
Because there was Avery challenging me to a duel. And there I was, making my usual cool responses. And there was the audience, roaring with laughter and eating it up.
Yet at the same time I knew this wasn’t all that was going on. I had so much other stuff in my head.
And then Margie made her entrance and the three of us had at it, Bluntschli getting the best of it from all points of view, particularly with the audience. And Avery Allington/Major Sergius Saranoff getting the worst.
And then Nellie Knight is discovered listening at the keyhole and we go at it four ways, gradually sorting the relationships out.
And then Major Petkoff enters wanting to know about the picture of Raina inscribed “to her Chocolate Cream Soldier” he found in the pocket of his coat. Which leads to a sorting out of the relationships all over again, including the revelation that Sergius Saranoff is now infatuated with Louka.
Major Petkoff, quite confused, says that this is impossible, since Louka is engaged to Nicola.
Peter Constantine, in his one halfway decent scene, says she is not engaged to him, they gave that information out only for her protection, and he bows and exits.
Downstage left.
The opposite side from which Goobie Wheatly was killed.
But the audience isn’t aware of that—they’re roaring at every revelation.
And then the woman playing Catherine, whose name I still hadn’t learned, enters from upstage right—the side from which Goobie Wheatly was killed—only to find Nellie Knight in the arms of Avery Allington.
“What does this mean?” she demands.
Whereupon Major Petkoff, in one of the most marvelous understatements in the history of the English theater, replies, “Well, my dear, it appears that Sergius is going to marry Louka instead of Raina.” When she is about to break out indignantly at him, he adds, “Don’t blame me. I’ve nothing to do with it.”
The lines that come next are ones that I know well. Catherine exclaims, “Marry Louka! Sergius, you are bound by your word to us.” Whereupon he folds his arms, striking his classic pose, and announces, “Nothing binds me.”
Not tonight.
Before Catherine could say, “Marry Louka!” I stepped in.
“Excuse me, madam,” I said. “Let me set the record straight. Major Sergius Saranoff is not going to marry Louka either. In fact, he is not going to marry anyone. I’m afraid I simply can’t allow it.”
All eyes onstage turned to me in utter astonishment. The audience had no way of knowing this wasn’t in the script, but the actors sure did.
The actress playing Catherine appeared to be looking at me, but her eyes were actually darting around wildly, imparting the message, “I’m totally lost, I have no idea what’s going on.” This was not entirely new to me. In the course of my career I had been onstage before with actors who had said the wrong line, missed a cue, forgotten a prop, or in some way or another screwed themselves up so royally that they had no idea what to do next. “You’re on your own,” was what that look said. “Please do something because I can’t.”
I was fully prepared to carry on myself, but at that moment the actor playing Major Petkoff, with all the coolness of a seasoned pro, picked up the cue and fed me a line.
“Why, may I ask, is that?” he said. “Why should Major Sergius Saranoff not be allowed to wed?”
“Because he’s HIV positive,” I said.
I reached into the pocket that Mary Anne had sewn into my pants and pulled out the white plastic bottle I’d pilfered from his room just before the show.
“I have the proof right here. A prescription for AZT pills made out in his name. I’m sorry to say it, but I’m afraid there’s no mistake. The man has AIDS.”
There came a rumbling from the audience. They may not all have known exactly what was going on, but the majority of them sure as hell knew George Bernard Shaw never wrote about AIDS.
And even without the anachronism, they would have known something was wrong. Because Avery Allington looked like he’d just been slugged in the solar plexus. I’ve heard the expressions before—his face drained of color, his face went white as a sheet—but this was the first time I’d actually seen it.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. Which was just as well. I was fully prepared to carry the ball.
“Now,” I said, spreading my arms. “That in itself would not be a bar to his marriage.” I turned and pointed. “But he was ashamed of having the virus. Thought it carried a stigma. To cover it up, he murdered two people. And that is why I cannot allow this match.”
I turned and gestured toward the wings. “Officer,” I said.
And onto the stage strode. Chief Bob, giving his finest cameo performance ever. He was dressed in the Russian officer’s uniform from Act One. It had been made to fit the taller, thinner apprentice, so on Chief Bob it was a little long in the sleeves and snug in the waist, but in my eyes he looked quite splendid indeed.
Yeah, it was Tootsie time after all. As the standing-room-only crowd watched, Chief Bob strode across the stage straight up to Avery Allington.
“Major Sergius Saranoff,” he said, “alias Avery Allington, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Walter Penbridge and the murder of Gilbert N. Wheatly. You have the right to remain silent. Should you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say may be taken down and—”
It was, to the best of my knowledge, the first time in the history of law enforcement a Miranda warning was ever drowned out by a standing ovation.
48.
IT DIDN’T GET THE PRESS coverage it deserved because the reporter for the Daily Sentinel hadn’t been at the show. He’d asked to come, but Herbie wouldn’t give him a ticket. With the seats selling out, Herbie wasn’t about to give one away for free. A poor business decision, in the light of what happened, but I couldn’t really blame him. After all, he didn’t know anything special was going to happen during the show. Still, it was kind of a shame.
But that’s not to say the event didn’t get covered. It did, and not just by the Sentinel. It also made the New York Post and the Daily News.
Only thing was, it was just like the review all over again. You wouldn’t have known I had anything to do with it. Me or Chief Bob. It was all, “TV star Avery Allington.” Oh sure, there was mention of the fact that a police officer had appeared onstage to arre
st him in full view of the audience. But it was all from Avery’s point of view.
Naturally.
But despite the sensationalism of the headlines, it should be noted that at this time absolutely nothing had been proven. You wouldn’t believe how many times the word alleged appeared in the articles.
Because Avery hadn’t confessed as yet, and we certainly had no proof. We could prove he was an AIDS patient, but that was it. We couldn’t prove anything about the murders.
Because I certainly hadn’t solved the case in the classic way. I hadn’t, for instance, figured out where Avery could have obtained the cyanide and then sprung it on him in the classic manner—“Aha! You didn’t think we knew your Uncle Bart was a noted toxicologist and you would have had access to his laboratory, etc. etc.” Or I hadn’t manufactured some witness who saw him sneaking into the prop room on the day of the dress rehearsal to pocket the knife. Or someone who saw him tampering with Walter’s AZT. Or some witness to Goobie’s supposed blackmail attempt.
I’d done none of that.
No, I’d merely stumbled on a health form indicating that Avery Allington and Walter Penbridge had both seen the same doctor, who happened to be a specialist in the treatment of AIDS. Then searched Avery’s room and found his prescription.
But the rest of it—that he killed Walter Penbridge because Walter knew he had AIDS and could not be trusted to keep it quiet, that he killed Goobie Wheatly, either for the same reason or for knowing he’d killed Walter Penbridge—that was pure conjecture.
But I knew in my heart it was true.
It all fit too well.
Avery Allington had the star’s dressing room. Right across the hall from the prop room. You come out of the star’s dressing room and, bang—it’s right there in front of your eyes. If you’re walking down the hallway, the door is off to the side—you’d only see it if you turned your head. But coming out of the star’s dressing room you can’t miss it—you see right through the chicken-wire door, and right in front of you is a shelf labeled Zoo Story, on which there sits this large switchblade knife.
Because I’m sure Goobie put it there with the other props after Jack, the prop apprentice, returned it to him. I’m sure it was there that night, and Avery Allington picked it up. Not necessarily during Act Three—he could have got it any time during the dress. But he killed him during Act Three, and the reason he did, the son of a bitch, was he knew that then I would be the one to find the body. Because I would exit stage right, leaving everybody else onstage. Elevating me to the position of prime suspect that was rightfully his.