“Before I tell you about Who’s Who in the Theatre,” Pop said, breaking the silence. ”What’s this about climbing down the side of a twenty-foot platform? I don’t like it, child. I don’t like it.”
Ignoring his fatherly concern, Percy sat up on the sofa with renewed energy.
“What I found peculiar was the direction Laverne fell in, as if her attacker had been standing on the end of the platform and she came up the steps behind him. Might have surprised him in the middle of something. Or her.”
“Maybe it was a rendezvous that went afoul.”
“That’s a possibility, too, but we’re second guessing.” She moved to the edge of the sofa. “Let’s work on what we have and make a few conjectures.”
“Conjectures? What’s that?”
“A well-informed guess, Pop.”
“In my day we called it a ‘hunch’.
“Same thing. I got the term out of one of the law books Jude leant me.”
“So that’s where your brother gets all his five dollar words.”
“We’re getting off the track, Pop.”
“So we are, Persephone. Go on with your conjectures.”
“Okay. When Laverne was stabbed and fell to the platform, her killer would have had to run past the injured woman in order to get down, except she almost covered the entire width of the platform. And for the minute or two Laverne was still conscious, the killer never knew in which direction her body was going to spasm, possibly knocking him or her off the platform if they tried to pass. The killer had to get out of there before someone else showed up. Laverne can’t have been stabbed more than fifteen or twenty minutes before I found her; she would have bled to death. It was a chancy act, probably spontaneous. What I think they did in order to get away was to crawl down from the side, sliding most of the time on the crossed two by fours to the floor, but I had to prove it.”
“Why father’s go gray,” Pop remarked to himself, with a shake of his head.
Ignoring him, Percy went on. “After the paramedics took Laverne away, and the cops had examined the scene, I snuck back up when they weren’t looking.”
“Persephone, you know to never tamper with a crime scene.” His tone was as sharp as it was shocked. Pop had been a cop alongside his brother, which led them to starting Cole Investigations. Both had a deep respect for the methods of law enforcement.
“I didn’t tamper with squat, Pop, and I was very careful not to touch or step in anything. Or tumble off the platform, either,” she added. “When you look down, it’s quite a drop. But, like I say, the killer had no choice. And it can be done. Especially if you’re in pretty good shape and leave the dagger behind, which he or she did.”
“How did you get down?”
“Three sets of two by fours are nailed together on the frame and form an ‘x’, one below the other. The frame juts out a good six inches more than the platform itself, probably for maximum support. I sat down, inched my way to the side of the platform, and rolled over on my belly. Then I put my feet down on the angled board of the top ‘x’. I got lucky; my rubber-soled shoes kept me from slipping. I dropped down, straddled the board, and lay flat on my stomach. Then I slid down to the first ‘x’, to where the two boards were nailed together. It was like sliding down a very narrow banister.”
She leaned in to her father, who was listening to her intently. “Here’s something that might help us out, Pop. I happened to look up and I barely missed a nail driven into the plank. A mistake, and I think carpentry just left it. Anyway, it came through the other side of the board by a good two inches. I reached up and touched it. It was sticky with someone’s blood.”
“That means…”
“Somebody has a helluva scratch on them, but whether it’s an arm, torso, or leg, I don’t know. Anyway, Pop, I used the next two crosses of the ‘x’ like a ladder. The whole process took less than a minute. So my conjecture is the attacker has a fairly serious scrape. If we can find out who that is, we might have our murderer. Tell me what you found out at the library.”
Pop removed a small notepad from his breast pocket. “I wrote everything down. There was quite a lot, though with the war it hasn’t been published for awhile, nineteen-forty, to be exact.” He read through his notes at a fast pace. “The British producer, Jacob Cohen, Wainwright’s partner for thirteen years.” Pop looked up at his daughter. “Well-known for producing ballet and classical theatre for the past twenty years or so in the U.K. All started to fall apart when he was accused of being anti-Semitic, even though he was Jewish. Cohen came from a wealthy, upper crust family. His father was a member of the House of Commons, whatever that is.”
“It runs the government over there, Pop. Winston Churchill was a member of the House of Commons before he became Prime Minister. Go on, what happened to Cohen?”
“This is the interesting part. If you read in between the lines of Who’s Who in British Theatre, his death in nineteen-forty was listed as ‘mysterious’. So I looked up back copies of the Guardian, a London newspaper. It had several articles on his death and I learned quite a bit more. It seems Cohen had an illness of an ‘indeterminable cause’ for several months before he died, which was suddenly at a late dinner. Keeled right over in his soup. The implication in the Guardian was he was poisoned, even though the police couldn’t prove anything.”
“What do you mean they couldn’t prove anything? Didn’t they do an autopsy?”
Pop shook his head. “The Jewish tradition is to get them into the ground as soon as possible, so he was buried the next day, with the doctor writing ‘heart attack’ on the death certificate. Two days later, the cemetery was destroyed in the London Blitz. Everything was blown up or charred to cinders. ‘Charred to cinders’. Direct quote. So that just fanned the rumors already being spread by servants and locals that he had been poisoned. But nothing could be proved one way or the other. His wife had a nervous breakdown from it and was hospitalized. She threw herself off the roof of a sanatorium several months ago. Sad.”
“Weren’t there children? Two girls, I believe.”
“Not much information on them, just their names and ages. Evelyn and Elsie, nineteen and seventeen. They were in boarding school at the time of their father’s death. Didn’t say where. That’s about it. But back to Cohen’s suspicious death. Rumors were flying around that Wainwright poisoned him to get control of a hot property called Stars and Stripes Forever. He was even brought in for questioning by the local bobbies, but like I say, there was no body, so no proof.”
“Find out more about the girls, would you, Pop?”
“A conjecture or a hunch?”
“A thirst for knowledge. What else you got?”
“Dexter Wainwright, hit it big about when he became a junior producer with Jacob Cohen over in London. I remember him from before, and didn’t care for him much. Known for stealing anything he can. He’s been taken to court for plagiarism two times so far. He lost each time but never paid back nearly what he made. Must have a crafty lawyer.”
“Natch.”
“Married three times. His first to a theatre owner’s daughter in Chicago. That’s what gave him his start in show business.”
“Did you find out anything about anyone else?”
“Sir Anthony. Nothing you don’t already know, other than he is currently married to Wainwright’s second wife.”
“Are you kidding me? You know, his nibs is fooling around with the actress now doing Lady Macbeth.”
“His wife stayed in London. Lord only knows what she’s up to. About the director--”
“Hugo Cranston. Don’t tell me he was or is married to somebody’s ex.”
“Not likely. He doesn’t take to girls.”
“So I understand.”
“But he is in partnership with Wainwright on this production, a forty, sixty percent split; Wainwright having the lion’s share.”
“Another thing Wainwright didn’t tell me. Where’d you read that?”
“Didn’t.
I overheard Cranston telling Mick at the station this afternoon.”
“Good for you, Pop.”
“Eavesdropping is one of those things comes naturally to a good P.I., Persephone.”
“And you’re one of the best. I wonder if those two have a ‘You Die, It’s Mine’ clause.”
“Right of Survivorship?”
“If so, I’d better keep an eye on our illustrious director for his own protection. That is, if this play can resurrect itself.”
“Lots of ‘ifs’.”
The phone on the office desk and its extension in the hallway rang simultaneously. Percy looked at her watch. Eight-thirty. Father and daughter glanced at each other. Calls that late usually meant bad news.
“I’ll get it, Pop. It might be the theatre telling me the whole deal is off. If that’s the case, I’m only giving Wainwright half his money back, and he’s lucky at that, the lying S.O.B.” She rose and crossed to the phone.
“Hello? Mavis, what’s up?” Percy listened for a moment then threw a surprised look to Pop, who’d been watching her. “Nine o’clock it is. I’ll see you there.” She hung up the phone and walked back to her father.
“Pop, that was Mavis making calls to the cast and crew. Wainwright convinced law enforcement that Carlisle falling to his death and Laverne being stabbed were accidents. The show goes on tomorrow as planned.”
“I’ll bet Mick’s fit to be tied,” Pop interjected. “But La Guardia’s the boss.”
“My call is for nine, rehearsal at ten, notes from noon to twelve-thirty, break for lunch after, and half-hour call is seven-thirty. All very orderly. Performance at eight, as usual. Sold out to a full house; standing room only. There’s nothing like the ghoulish appeal of a few deaths to pack an audience. Happy Halloween.”
“A few? There’s only been one death that I know of, Persephone.”
“I’m counting the two elderly people who lost their lives in last week’s fire. They may not have been in the theatre, but they’re still dead.”
“You think that’s tied in?”
“I know it is.” She stood pursing her lips, deep in thought. “Pop, I’d planned on being at the theatre at eight tomorrow and snooping around a little, but I think I’ll take a trip back right now. I pilfered a key to the theatre before I left, just in case.”
“Now, Persephone? It’s going on nine o’clock. You’ve had a long day.”
“I’ve got a feeling, Pop. Can’t shake it. Mind if I take Ophelia? At this hour, the traffic shouldn’t be too bad.”
“Of course, but what are you looking for? Nobody’s at the theatre at this hour.”
“That’s what they’d like you to think. I’ve discovered a lot of people can be there at all hours and no one’s the wiser. I’ll throw on some clothes, take a little spin, and watch the stage door for a little while. Maybe I won’t go inside. I’ll only be gone an hour or two.”
“I should come with you, Persephone. Keep you company.”
“Naw, don’t bother, Pop. Let’s just call this my little drive around Manhattan in the moonlight.” She stood and removed the towel from her head, damp hair cascading down her back. “Tuck Oliver in for me, would you? Then go to bed. If I don’t see you before tomorrow, you show up at the theatre at nine-thirty with pride. You’re a spear carrier in a Broadway production,” she joked.
“If you say so.” He smiled, but added in a more serious tone, “Be careful, child.”
“Always.”
Chapter Twenty
What Percy hadn’t admitted to her father was part of the reason for going out so late was to get another hotdog. If the hotdog vender was gone, maybe she’d run over to Loretta’s Diner for chicken potpie. Luckily, Giuseppe was just closing up, and nice man that he was, he gave her two foot-long hotdogs in buns wrapped in newspaper for the price of one, mustard and sauerkraut included.
An idea came to Percy as she looked at the extra hotdog. She got into the car and instead of heading uptown, she made a slight detour a few blocks away to East Fourth Street. She drove slowly down the street, deserted except for a lone passerby and saw what she was looking for. Three small boys, ranging in ages from seven to eleven, stood huddled together on the sidewalk in the middle of the block. Flickering candles inside carved out pumpkins marked their spot on this chilly, dark night. Makeshift tables held a few other wares, probably also ‘lifted’ from the neighborhood.
Percy pulled over to the curb three or four car lengths away from them and thought about how to handle this. She vaguely knew the Carter boys, but she knew where they lived and heard their story. Up from the coal mines of Pennsylvania, their father had Black Lung disease. Their mother took in washing laundry. The five of them were crammed in a three-bedroom apartment with an elderly uncle. The boys were on their own most of the time, sad, skinny little boys who got into minor scraps more often than not. If things continued the way they were going, major trouble loomed in the not too distant future.
Next to the Carters, the Coles were well-off. It was hard to believe, Percy decided, but true.
Percy picked up one of the hotdogs and got out of the car, approaching the small boys. Even though it was in the low fifties, they wore only tee shirts and ripped pants. In front of each of the jack-o’-lanterns was a torn piece of paper with ‘five cents’ scrawled on it.
“Hello, boys.”
The three hadn’t seen or heard her walk up and started when she spoke. The smallest one, hardly seven years old, appeared too frightened to move, but the two older one looked as if they might flee at any minute.
“What do you want? We ain’t done nothing.” The eldest, Bobby, gave her his best snarl. Fear and confusion overrode any threatening body language he used.
“You’re Henry, Jaime, and Bobby, aren’t you?” She gestured with her head from the smallest to the largest child.
“Who wants to know?” Bobby snarled again. Tough guy. Barely three feet tall.
“You know who I am. I’m Percy Cole, Oliver Cole’s mother. We live over on East Houston.”
“So?” This time the middle child, Jaime was the one who spoke. He wiped his nose with the bottom of his filthy tee shirt.
“So I’m here to talk about the jack-o’-lantern you took from our door. You’re going to put it back, fellas, and you’re going to put back all these others, too.”
The smaller child, Henry, began to shake and tried to hide behind the middle brother, who brushed him away. “She’s a copper. I heard about her. She’s a copper,” Henry wailed.
The other two boys froze in terror at the thought of it.
“Ah, they ain’t got no lady cops,” Bobby said after a time, blustering his way through his fear. He turned to leave. Percy grabbed the elder boy’s shoulder. He struggled for a moment then went slack.
“You sure about that?” Percy’s voice was easy but frightening.
“You here to arrest us?” Bobby barely whispered.
All three looked about to cry.
“No.” Percy removed her hand from the child’s shoulder. “I just want you to put this stuff back. And anything else that might have found its way into your jumble.”
“We…we…” stuttered the middle boy, Jaime.
“You had any dinner?”
The change in subject confused the boys. They looked from one to the other.
“You boys up for a hotdog?” Percy drew out her penknife and set the foot-long hotdog on one of the makeshift stands.
The little one put his fist into his mouth and shook his head, huge eyes gaping at the food. The other boys stared into her face, as if trying to figure out why she was doing this.
She flipped open the knife and cut the dog into three sections, sauerkraut and mustard dripping from each piece. The three boys watched in silence. By the flickering light of a half dozen candles, she solemnly handed the food out to each boy.
“So kids, you put all this stuff back where it belongs, and I want it done tonight before you go to bed.” She paused to run
her fingers and penknife under a leaking fire hydrant next to her then pulled out her handkerchief, and dried her hands. “Then tomorrow, all three of you are going to go see Father Patrick at the parish on Fifth Street. You tell him I sent you.”
“We ain’t Catholic,” Jaime said, in between bites. “Ma says we --”
“This hasn’t anything to do with being Catholic. Father Patrick has a program after school and weekends for boys. It’ll keep you busy and out of mischief, plus it’s two squares a day, lunch and dinner.”
“Ah, what’s it cost?” Bobby shoved the last part of his share of the hotdog in his mouth. “We ain’t got no money.”
“It doesn’t cost anything. But you’re going to have to go every day. I’ll check to make sure you do, boys.” She raised one eyebrow, put her hands on her hips and glared at them. “And I mean every single day, starting tomorrow.”
“Or what? You’ll have us arrested if we don’t?” Jaime shivered and gulped down the last of the food.
“Something like that.”
The boys exchanged frightened looks then nodded.
“And remember, I know where you live. I know your names. I know you. Don’t mess with me. You fold up your tents now and you put this stuff back.”
“All of it?” Bobby looked around him in horror.
“All of it.” Percy’s voice was firm. “Just to help you out a little, I’ll take ours back.” She reached for the pumpkin with the crooked smile she helped carve, and turned in the direction of her car. She deliberately didn’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-one
With the smell of the lone hotdog lying on the seat beside her, she pulled the car into a no parking zone several car spaces down from the theatre. She had a clear view of the side alley, lit well by streetlights. If anyone entered or left by the stage door, she would see them. Saturday night, nine-forty-five p.m. and Manhattan was bustling. Every other theatre up and down Theatre Row was open, one of them regurgitating patrons at the end of the shorter-spanned show, “Beat the Band.” Well-dressed and lively people, chatted on the sidewalk as they first passed Ophelia and then the dark Royal Theatre, disappearing into various parts of the City.
Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse Page 10