Murder, Stage Left

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Pretty much the same on each of the messages: ‘Stop your evil actions immediately,’ and ‘If you do not cease your sinful behavior, you will pay dearly,’ and the third was similar. I may be paraphrasing slightly, but that was the essence. They all were printed in block letters in ink on cheap stationery, the kind you could buy at any dime store. We dusted them for prints, and the only ones were Breckenridge’s.”

  “Did you or your men mention these notes to the others involved in the production?”

  “We did not. And we haven’t told anyone in the press, either. Nor will you,” Cramer said in an ominous tone.

  “Agreed, sir,” Wolfe replied evenly.

  Cramer rose to leave a second time, his jaw set as he turned to me. “I hope you enjoy your time with Lieutenant Sievers,” he said before marching down the hall to the front door.

  Chapter 18

  The call came that afternoon when Wolfe was up in the plant rooms, although it was not from Cramer. A woman whose nasal tone had New Jersey flavorings informed me that “Lieutenant Sievers of Homicide expects you promptly at nine thirty tomorrow morning in room 411 at One Police Plaza. That is One Police Plaza. Nine thirty. Room 411.” She finished by snapping, “Do you have that information?”

  I told her I did, and she urged me to “make sure that you are on time.” I started to ask her if she had ever taught fourth grade, but the line went dead. Perhaps she had gone on to bedevil someone else.

  I have never liked One Police Plaza, a cold, square, hard-edged building down near the Brooklyn Bridge and done in a style referred to as “brutalist” by Lon Cohen, who is conversant on architecture, among myriad other things. But then, I never liked its predecessor at 240 Centre Street either, which was older and of a totally different design. I must be allergic to police stations.

  The woman with the Jersey accent would have been pleased to know that I arrived at One Police Plaza at 9:10, well-fed, freshly shaved, and wearing a suit and tie. Seated behind a desk in the lobby, a uniform who didn’t look like he was old enough to vote took my name and checked it against a list, then gestured me to a bank of elevators. I managed to locate room 411 and knocked, getting a crisp “Come in!”

  The windowless room contained a metal table; three metal chairs; a man, standing; and a woman, seated. “You would be Goodwin,” the man said, and I nodded. “I am Wesley Sievers, and this young woman is the stenographer, as you can see from the device in front of her. Do you have any questions before we start?”

  I said no, and he gestured me to one of the chairs while he took another on the opposite side of the table. Sievers wore a serviceable dark business suit that I would call “standard-issue police-detective style.” He was tall, lean, and in his mid to late thirties, and he had a strong jaw, blue eyes, and close-cropped brown hair. He reminded me of a colonel I had known in my army days.

  The stenographer, who I later learned was named Jeannette, was the only adornment in an otherwise drab room. Slender and in her twenties, she had a face worth memorizing—brown eyes, high cheekbones, a cute nose that just missed being turned up, and center-parted auburn hair. She looked like the type who smiled easily and often, although she wore a serious expression as befitted the occasion.

  Sievers cleared his throat. “Before we go on, Goodwin, you should know that I have little if any use for what you and your ilk like to term yourselves, ‘private investigators.’ To me, you are no more than a motley collection of keyhole peepers and ambulance chasers looking to make a fast and easy buck while getting in the way of the duly commissioned officers of the law.”

  “You are entitled to your opinion,” I answered, deadpan.

  “So I am,” Sievers said. “Now that you know where I stand, I will say that you will be treated fairly by me.”

  “That is good to know.”

  “Okay, let’s get right to it,” Sievers said when my eyes lingered a beat too long on Jeannette’s visage. “This interview with Mr. Archie Goodwin of Nero Wolfe’s detective office commences at oh-nine-twenty-seven,” he said, addressing the steno.

  “All right, Mr. Goodwin, explain how you came to be impersonating a Canadian journalist named Alan MacGregor on the set of the Broadway production Death at Cresthaven.”

  Wolfe had said to leave nothing out, so I took Sievers from the time Hewitt called us to ask that we see Roy Breckenridge on through to when Breckenridge’s body was found. Sievers interrupted several times with questions, including “Have you ever impersonated a magazine writer before?” (No) and “Are you conversant with the workings of the Broadway theater?” (No) to “Had you previously met any of the members of the play’s cast and crew?” (No).

  Here is a further example of the morning’s session:

  W.S.: Would you say that you are a student of human nature?

  A.G.: As much as anyone, I suppose.

  W.S.: Come, come, Mr. Goodwin. As a longtime private investigator, you surely have had numerous opportunities to interrogate a wide variety of individuals and gauge their responses.

  A.G.: That is true.

  W.S.: We know, of course, that you spent time one-on-one with each of the cast members of Death at Cresthaven, as well as with the play’s stage manager, Mr. Hollis Sperry. Given your wealth of experience, did you draw any conclusions as to the possible murderer of Mr. Breckenridge?

  A.G.: I did not.

  W.S.: Really? When you reported back to Nero Wolfe, did you not suggest to him a likely candidate as the killer?

  A.G.: I did not.

  W.S.: Is it not true that you and Nero Wolfe were hired by Mr. Breckenridge because he was fearful of something or someone?

  A.G.: Yes.

  W.S.: Did he tell you what or whom he was fearful of?

  A.G.: He did not.

  W.S.: Did you, as a seasoned private investigator, ask him for specifics?

  A.G.: I did, but he seemed unable to articulate the nature of his fears.

  W.S.: Would you say that you were a failure in this endeavor?

  A.G.: I had not yet completed my investigation at the time of Mr. Breckenridge’s death.

  W.S.: Do you think it is likely that if you had had more time, you might have identified a potential killer?

  A.G.: We will never know.

  W.S.: So true, Mr. Goodwin. You were among those who discovered Mr. Breckenridge’s body after the performance. Yet you did not choose to inform the police. Why?

  A.G.: Mr. Sperry, the stage manager, already had gone to call them.

  W.S.: At your urging, as I understand it. And then you left the scene. As a duly licensed P.I. in the state of New York, you had a responsibility to remain at the crime scene. Your actions could very well endanger your license.

  A.G.: I exercised bad judgment in the heat of the moment.

  W.S.: I could not have said it better, Mr. Goodwin. Do you have anything else to add that could aid the police in the investigation of Mr. Breckenridge’s death?

  A.G.: No, sir.

  W.S.: (Scowling) Interview terminated at oh-nine-fifty-three.

  “This has been one colossal waste of time,” Sievers snarled as he rose to leave. “If it were my call, I would pull your license so fast you wouldn’t even realize it was missing. However, that is in the hands of people at a higher level than mine, so it is possible that you may get by with this.”

  I had no response, so I merely grinned at Jeannette, who sent me the hint of a smile in return. Apparently, she was not as repulsed by my presence as was Lieutenant Wesley Sievers.

  I was back at my desk in the office when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven. Once he got settled, riffled through the morning mail, and rang for beer, I gave him a verbatim account of my visit to One Police Plaza. “It will not go down as one of my shining moments,” I said.

  He moved his shoulders slightly in his version of a shrug. “N
o matter. We have shown all our cards to Inspector Cramer and his minion. He cannot accuse us of being furtive.”

  “I suppose that is true, but there remains the issue of my license. He could very well pull it.”

  “Pah!” Wolfe said, flipping a palm dismissively. “Although he will never admit it, the inspector finds us useful. He knows that were he to do that, we would cease to cooperate with him, not just on this case, but on future ones as well. Do you feel it fair to say we have aided him immeasurably over the years?”

  “There’s no question about it.”

  “Not only that,” Wolfe continued, “but we have, in most instances, shunned the spotlight and let the police department in general and Inspector Cramer in particular take the credit. I believe your license to be safe.”

  “I will take solace in that. Where do we go from here?”

  Wolfe was about to answer when the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver. “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Good—”

  “Yeah, yeah, enough with the formalities,” Lon Cohen said. “Still interested in the Breckenridge murder, for whatever reasons you don’t choose to share with me?”

  “Why do you ask?” I replied, nodding to Wolfe to pick up his instrument.

  “Because of something we just got from our man in the press room at police headquarters. One of the members of the cast in his play just tried to commit suicide and is on life support at New York Hospital.”

  “Mr. Cohen, this is Nero Wolfe. What has happened?”

  “According to the police, Max Ennis, who has been playing Harley Barnes in Death at Cresthaven, took a dose of arsenic at his flat in Greenwich Village and is in a coma. He probably would have been a goner, except that he hit the floor, apparently after taking the poison, and the woman in the apartment below him heard the thud. Then, after banging on his door and getting no response, she quickly called the cops.”

  “Did Mr. Ennis leave a note?” Wolfe asked.

  “Sort of. A scrap of paper on an end table near where he had fallen contained just two words, printed in pencil: ‘I’m sorry.’ The police, no surprise, feel they have identified Roy Breckenridge’s killer, especially because the same poison was used on both men.”

  “No doubt,” Wolfe said. “It would initially appear that Mr. Ennis has done their work for them.”

  “Yeah, so it would seem,” Lon replied. “There must have been bad blood between Breckenridge and Ennis. I know you and Archie had been interested in the producer, although I still don’t know why. Care to tell me?”

  “Not at the moment, sir. However, if anything transpires that is germane to the case, we will of course keep you and the Gazette in mind. I will turn you over to Archie,” Wolfe said, hanging up.

  “So I find myself stuck with you,” Lon said. “Is that what is known as a consolation prize?”

  “I have been called far worse,” I told him. “Have the police charged Ennis with murder?”

  “Not yet, but then, it’s somewhat awkward to pin the tail on a donkey who’s unconscious.”

  “Any word as to whether Ennis will pull through?”

  “Nothing that we have been able to find out. Maybe you and your boss would have better luck than us in worming information out of your old pal Cramer.”

  “You know better than that. The inspector is hardly what one would term our ‘old pal.’”

  “Still, you do have something of an in with him.”

  I laughed. “After what has happened, I doubt that we will be hearing much if anything from the inspector about the death of Roy Breckenridge.”

  “Do not be too sure,” Lon said.

  Chapter 19

  In my years working for Nero Wolfe, I have learned the meanings of many words I never knew existed when I was growing up in Chillicothe, Ohio. One of these words is prescient, which means, if I’ve got it right, “having foreknowledge of events.” The reason I bring this up is because Wolfe has described Lon Cohen as “prescient” more than once.

  I put aside all thoughts of the Breckenridge case the next morning, and by eleven o’clock, I had typed all the letters Wolfe had dictated the day before. I was stacking them on his desk blotter when I heard two sounds simultaneously: the whir of the elevator descending from the plant rooms and the ringing of the doorbell. I headed for the front hall just as Wolfe walked into the office.

  I took one look through the one-way glass in the door and did an about-face, retracing my steps. “Inspector Cramer has come to call on us yet again,” I told Wolfe as he settled into his chair.

  He drew in air and exhaled loudly. “Let him in.” I did and was ignored as the head of New York’s homicide police went by me without a word and parked as usual in the red leather chair. I waited for him to pull out a cigar, but he did not, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees.

  “I suppose you know that one of the members of that damned Broadway show, by the name of Max Ennis, tried to kill himself in his Greenwich Village flat yesterday,” Cramer said.

  “I read about it in this morning’s Times,” Wolfe said. “Is Mr. Ennis alive?”

  “Hanging on by a thread, so we are told.”

  “Was a note found?” Wolfe asked, knowing the answer.

  “Of a sort. There was a piece of notepaper on a bedside table near his body with two words, printed in pencil, ‘I’m sorry.’ There were no fingerprints on the note except for Ennis’s.”

  “Was there anything else of interest in his residence?”

  “No, not that my men found. Certainly nothing to indicate that he had any animosity toward Breckenridge.”

  “Do you feel you have identified your murderer?”

  The inspector did his own exhaling. “It certainly seems to look that way, on the surface,” he murmured.

  “You do not sound overly satisfied,” Wolfe observed.

  Cramer ran a hand across his ruddy brow. “Something doesn’t add up, and I can’t figure out why.”

  “I do not see how we can help you,” Wolfe said.

  “Maybe you can’t. But Goodwin here talked to all the principals in the show, and he might have some insights.”

  Wolfe raised his eyebrows. “Archie was already interrogated by a man you claim is a good interviewer.”

  “I’ve read the transcript, and off the record, I thought it was very poorly done,” Cramer said.

  “From what was related to me, I concur,” Wolfe said. “The lieutenant needs lessons in his approach, although Archie did not distinguish himself, either.”

  “Thanks a heap,” I said. “Just continue your conversation and pretend that I am not in the room.”

  “Inspector, let us back up a few steps,” Wolfe said. “Is it conclusive that Mr. Breckenridge was poisoned?”

  “No doubt about it; arsenic, the same thing that Ennis took. We found the stuff in his flat.”

  “Have you determined any motive for Mr. Ennis’s apparent animus toward the producer?”

  “We have interviewed everyone in the cast, along with members of the staff, and at least one person said the two were involved in a heated shouting match a week or so back.”

  “Indeed. Who heard this?”

  “A young actress, Melissa Cartwright, who said they barked at each other in Ennis’s dressing room after one of the performances. She said the door was closed, so she didn’t hear any details of their argument, only the yelling, which she told us went on for some time.”

  “You talked to Miss Cartwright,” Wolfe said, turning to me. “She said nothing about this occurrence?”

  “She did not. This appears to be my day to look stupid,” I said. “In my defense, bear in mind that I was supposed to be a friendly journalist working for a publication, albeit fictional, that supports and promotes stage productions. As we discussed earlier, I had to be very careful in asking my questions. I did touch
lightly on possible rivalries or disagreements among the cast, but got nowhere, either with Miss Cartwright or anyone else.

  “The actors themselves, of course, wanted to put the best possible light on conditions and on the performances. After all, it was to their advantage to have more people—including my so-called Canadian readers—attend the show. The bigger the audiences, the longer the run, and the larger the payday for everyone.”

  “Archie is correct,” Wolfe said. “In trying to ferret out information, he was put in an untenable position because of his role as a cheerleader for legitimate theater in general. I bear much of the responsibility for placing him in that position.”

  “Well, isn’t this just ducky now,” Cramer growled. “The man of action here is reduced to asking softball questions while trying to dig up information about supposedly strange and possibly nefarious goings-on at a high-visibility Broadway production. And the reclusive genius admits to an error in judgment in the handling of the investigation. Whatever is happening to the world?”

  “If you are finished flagellating us,” Wolfe said, “I have an obvious question: Why are you not convinced that Mr. Ennis is the murderer?”

  “On at least one occasion, I have heard you say that you are not a big fan of coincidences,” Cramer said. “You and I don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, but on this, we happen to agree. Something seems just too pat about what’s happened, including the use of the same poison twice. It seems to me that Ennis is trying awfully hard to tell us he is the killer. It makes me wonder if he was the author of those three notes found in Breckenridge’s co-op.”

  “Was there any similarity between that trio of notes and the one Mr. Ennis left at his home?” Wolfe asked.

  “They all were printed,” Cramer said, “although Ennis’s ‘I’m sorry’ note was in pencil, the others in pen. And the penned messages were all in capital letters. They either were not printed by the same person, or that individual—if it was Ennis—worked to make it appear like it was the work of two people. We showed all four messages to a handwriting expert we have used in the past, and he just threw up his hands. ‘Impossible to tell!’ he said. ‘Absolutely impossible to tell with printing. If I were to guess—and a guess is all it would be—I would say the so-called suicide note was written by a different person than the others, but then, he may have been trying to vary his printing intentionally.’”