by Barbara Paul
“That’s something I can check on.” She finished her wine and stood up. “Don’t say anything about this, Kel.”
“I won’t.”
Just as Marian left Kelly’s dressing room, she saw Mitchell Tobin coming out of his. “Mr. Tobin—a moment, please.”
“Yes?” He waited for her to catch up with him.
“Have you ever seen John Reddick’s theater collection?” she asked.
He looked surprised. “You don’t suspect John, do you? But to answer your question, yes, he showed it to me once. Not much there, really—two or three items other collectors might want, but mostly it’s play programs and scripts, other directors’ notes. Letters, a lighting plot or two. John’s a director, and he’s interested mostly in things to do with directing.”
“Is anyone else here a collector?”
“Not that I know, and I’m not sure even John Reddick would qualify as a real collector. Leo Gunn keeps souvenirs from the plays he works—hell, we all do that, a little. But Leo usually manages to get the best stage props.”
“You mean he just steals them?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t know what kind of arrangement he has.”
The call of Places, please was sounding backstage, so she let Tobin go. Ian Cavanaugh was already on the stage, concentrating; he looked right at Marian and didn’t see her. Frieda Armstrong sailed up to join Mitchell Tobin; they were to enter together and stood silently until their cues. Marian looked across the stage and saw Kelly waiting on the other side.
John Reddick. Leo Gunn.
Finally it was time. The stage lights came up, the curtain opened, and the audience applauded the sight of Ian Cavanaugh standing there looking through an address book. That had impressed Marian the first time she’d seen it and it impressed her now, how the man could draw applause just by being there. After some stage business the actor had, Tobin and Armstrong made their entrance, and Marian listened as the now-familiar dialogue began to unfold.
She stood rooted to the spot until Kelly made her entrance; then she had to resist the urge to do a little dance at the way her friend marched out and took over the stage. Kelly and Ian were antagonists in the play; they squared off nicely in this first scene, and The Apostrophe Thief was off and running.
Marian felt a light touch on her arm; she turned to find the play’s author standing next to her. Abby James crooked a finger at her and walked away; Marian followed.
When they were near the stage door, Abby said in a low voice, “Care to join me for a drink?”
“I’d love to,” Marian whispered.
“Don’t whisper. Whispers carry.”
Marian nodded, and was surprised to see the other woman leaving through the stage door; she’d thought they’d be going to Ian Cavanaugh’s dressing room or someplace like that. Outside, she said, “Don’t you want to watch the play?”
Abby said no. “I agonize too much. When it’s been running six weeks or so, then I can watch with a little objectivity.” A thought occurred to her. “Oh—I’m sorry! You want to watch.”
“I wouldn’t get to see all of it anyway,” Marian said, “so I might as well have a drink while I can. Where are we heading?”
Abby led her to a bar about half a block away that was virtually empty. “This place will be packed during intermission. Do you mind sitting at the bar? Hello, Fred.” Fred took their orders and brought their drinks. “Ah, that helps,” Abby said after her first swallow. “By the way, where’s your friend who talks in blank verse?”
“Uh, Holland? He’ll be along later. Blank verse? Really?” Then she realized. “Oh, dammit!”
“What’s the matter?”
“We’re supposed to go for a late supper—but I can’t make it and I forgot to let him know.”
“There’s a pay phone on the wall.”
“Wouldn’t do any good. The only number I have for him is a voice service, and he won’t be checking this late.”
“Well, how far away does he live? You could grab a cab—”
Marian groaned. “I don’t know where he lives!”
“Hm. You don’t know his home phone, and you don’t know where he lives—just what do you know about the man?”
“Not a hell of a lot. He’s a very secretive person. He’s never mentioned his childhood, or anything earlier than the recent past that I already know about … how can he do that? How can anyone never mention what’s happened to him?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t. Ah, well—you’re a detective, you like mysteries.”
“I hate mysteries. What I like are solutions.”
Abby laughed. “And you like Holland.”
“Yes. Dammit.”
“Well, you’ll just have to wing it when he gets here. Why can’t you keep the date?”
“Police business.” Then, realizing how abrupt that sounded, Marian explained. “My boss is coming tonight, and he’s going to inform everyone at the Broadhurst that Ernie Nordstrom’s killer is one of them. Then he and I will take statements from everyone—we’re looking for alibis.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Abby, you mind saving me a few minutes?” Marian pulled out her notebook. “What time did you leave the theater Tuesday night?”
“Tuesday … I didn’t go in Tuesday night. Something I ate didn’t agree with me, and I was afraid to get too far away from a bathroom. Ian came straight home after the performance.”
“So you were both at home from about midnight on?”
“From before midnight, yes.”
Marian thought a moment. “Abby, how well do you know Leo Gunn?”
“Very well, both professionally and personally. We go back a long way. Why?”
“The souvenirs he takes home from each show he works. How big a collection is it?”
Abby was shocked. “You can’t suspect Leo! Leo Gunn is a decent man—he wouldn’t stoop to theft, much less commit murder!”
“He knew Ernie Nordstrom. He’s a collector.”
“Of souvenirs, personal souvenirs! It’s a perk he arranges with producers before he’ll accept a job … he has the same deal with Gene Ramsay for The Apostrophe Thief. And what if he did know Ernie Nordstrom? A lot of people must have known him. Marian, take my word for it, you’re on the wrong track there. Leo and Ian and I have been through a lot together, and I know Leo. He’s not your killer.”
Marian knew there was no point in arguing with that kind of conviction, so she said, “John Reddick’s a collector, too, isn’t he?”
Abby almost fell off her stool. When she’d composed herself, she said, “John’s interested only in materials about directing. He keeps saying he’s going to write a history of contemporary directing, postwar theater to the present. I don’t know if he’ll ever get around to it, but that’s the only sort of thing he ‘collects’—the Bernhardt jacket would be of no use to him.”
“Yet he’s given over an entire room of his apartment to this noncollection.”
The playwright looked surprised. “How’d you know about that?”
“Then it’s true?”
“Yes, but only because John’s a bit of a procrastinator. If he’d ever sit down and sort through what he’s got, he could get rid of a lot of the stuff. Marian … I know you can’t just take my word for it, but John’s no murderer, either. The thought of having to kill someone would drive him wild. He’d be more likely to run away and hide until the trouble blew over.”
“All right, then, tell me who else is a collector.”
“Why, I don’t think anyone is. The kind of collecting you’re talking about, that’s a fannish sort of activity. I don’t know of anyone with the play who goes in for that. If Ernie Nordstrom was indeed killed for the Bernhardt jacket, I’d say the killer was someone who needed cash, not necessarily a collector. Didn’t you say Gene paid twenty thousand for the jacket?”
“Twenty-two.” Leo Gunn had thought the killer must be a collector, but Abby’s argument made sense. But the killer
would have to have a buyer lined up, if all he wanted was money.
“Oh, there’s John,” Abby said. “Must be close to intermission.”
John Reddick took the stool next to the playwright and started talking. “Whooee, are they ‘on’ tonight! You should have been there, Abby! Hello, Larch-Tree, why aren’t you watching the play? Fred—scotch, please. You should have seen Ian, Abby. In the passport scene, he got so into it that he actually picked Kelly up and threw her against the sofa!”
“Oh, my god!” Abby said. “What did she do?”
“Bounced right back up, of course! For a minute there I thought they were going to start swinging!”
“Are they mad at each other?” Marian asked, puzzled.
John laughed. “Anything but, Larch-Tree! They came off the stage grinning like hyenas and congratulating each other. They’d pulled off a good one.”
Abby said, “You were watching from backstage?”
“I started out front, but then I went back to see Leo—one of the spotlights looked crooked to me. God, Abby, I wish you could have seen it.”
“Are you going to keep the sofa-bouncing bit?” she asked.
“I don’t know. That kind of macho physical explosion isn’t really in character, not that early in the play. But Ian did it so gracefully, it made a terrific bit of stage business. Theatrical as hell. I may tell him to keep it in, but only when the momentum is right. That way Kelly will never know what to expect. It’ll keep her sharp.”
By then the bar was crowded with playgoers trying to snatch a quick libation between acts. Fred kept shooting glances at Marian’s empty glass, so she told Abby and John she’d see them back at the theater. She worked her way through the crowd, trying not to jar people holding drinks in their hands. Just as she was leaving she heard someone say, “And when he threw her against that sofa, I thought she was going to kill him!”
And Marian had missed it.
15
Captain James T. Murtaugh stood on the stage of the Broadhurst Theatre, his back to the empty auditorium. Facing him were the cast and crew of The Apostrophe Thief, displaying varying degrees of irritation and/or curiosity. A uniformed officer stood by the stage door, his function being to dissuade any member of the company from departing prematurely. A second uniformed officer was stationed in the lobby, and a third was positioned behind Marian Larch at the side of the stage. Marian looked around for Holland; no sign of him.
Captain Murtaugh introduced himself. “I’m sure you all know by now,” he said, “that the man who burglarized the theater was murdered Tuesday night. His name was Ernie Nordstrom, alias Eddie Norris. We now feel certain he was killed for the velvet jacket that once belonged to Sarah Bernhardt.”
If the captain expected a murmur to run through the crowd, he was disappointed. Murtaugh went on, “Someone with this play set up the burglary for the sole purpose of obtaining that jacket for himself. We don’t know if he planned on killing Ernie Nordstrom all along or if it was just a case of thieves falling out. We suspect the latter, because the killer hurriedly grabbed up several other items to divert attention from the one item he wanted, the jacket. If the murder had been planned in advance, the killer would have taken his time and picked out more valuable items—items that would have done a better job of confusing the issue.”
“Wait a minute,” John Reddick said. “You’re accusing one of us? Of murder?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. You are …?”
“John Reddick. What makes you think someone in the company set up the burglary?”
“The fact that Nordstrom knew the layout here well enough to pull it off. That plus the admission of his two accomplices.”
The director didn’t have a comeback for that; he nodded and fell silent.
“What we want from you now,” Murtaugh continued, “is a statement of where you went following Tuesday night’s performance.” The autopsy report had said that because of the low temperature of Nordstrom’s apartment, he could have died as early as eleven-thirty. Between eleven-thirty and two was the crucial time—but there was no need to make that public just yet. “We’ll ask you two or three other questions as well. Sergeant?”
Marian walked out on the stage. “This shouldn’t take long. If you know anything at all about Ernie Nordstrom or the Bernhardt jacket, now’s the time to tell us. Please come forward when Officer Dowd calls your name.”
The uniformed officer had the stage doorkeeper’s list of everyone in the company. Leo Gunn had set up two small tables with chairs on both sides for Marian and the captain to use. Officer Dowd called out two names, and the questioning began.
In addition to inquiring about alibis, Marian and Murtaugh also asked each interviewee if he or she knew of anyone in the company who collected theater memorabilia, rather than use the more direct Are you a collector? Additionally, they were all asked about Nordstrom/Norris and given a phone number to call if anything occurred to them later.
Marian’s prediction turned out to be right; it didn’t take long. Most of the company alibied one another. The rest gave names of people they’d been with and where they’d gone after the final curtain. Evidently no one in theater just went home to bed after the night’s work was done. Only Mitchell Tobin and Leo Gunn admitted to having known Ernie Nordstrom, and no new collectors emerged from the crowd. To Marian’s mind, the whole thing was a waste of time; but procedure demanded it be done.
She looked for Holland again and was wondering whether to get mad at being stood up when Murtaugh announced everyone could go. He came over to Marian’s table. “I got nothing. What about you?”
“Same here. Alibis all around, nobody knows anything about the jacket. There’s one person who wasn’t here—Gene Ramsay, the producer. I’ll check with him tomorrow.”
“Why would Ramsay steal his own property?” Murtaugh mused. “He hadn’t donated it to the museum yet, had he?”
“Not yet. But I’ll get his alibi just the same. When you said everyone could go, did you mean me too?”
“You and me both. I think I’ll just take a look at the layout of the dressing rooms before I leave. See you tomorrow, Sergeant.”
As soon as he’d left, Marian heard, “Psst! Hey! Marian!”
She turned to see Kelly gesturing to her from the wings. “Psst, hey, Marian?” she repeated wonderingly.
“Are you off duty now?” Kelly asked in a stage whisper.
“Yes. Why are you whispering?”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” Kelly said in her natural voice. “Your date’s here. Come on.”
“Holland’s here?” He was, standing behind a tormentor, talking to Abby James. “Has he been here all this time?”
“He has,” Abby said.
“And a very long time it has been indeed,” Holland said archly.
“I’m sorry, I should have let you know. I goofed.”
“He wouldn’t let us tell you he was here,” Kelly said. “Not until you were finished.”
Abby smiled. “Preferring to suffer nobly, unseen and unheard.”
“So long as suffering finds its just reward,” Holland announced, “in ample gustatory compensation.”
“There,” said Abby. “That’s blank verse.”
“You mean you’re hungry,” Marian said.
“I mean I’m hungry.”
“So am I,” said Kelly. “But I wouldn’t dream of intruding.” She batted her eyelashes in mock coyness.
Marian laughed. “Not much you wouldn’t. Come along, then. What about you, Abby?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Do you mind, Holland?”
“Do I mind escorting three ladies to supper?” He raised an eyebrow. “And run the danger of being the envy of New York? I’ll risk it.”
“Good. I’ll go get Ian.”
Holland stage-sighed. “If you must.”
Kelly went with Abby, to pick up her purse and coat. Marian turned to Holland. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Captain Murtaugh s
prang this question-and-answer session on me late in the day, and I just didn’t think to call you.”
“It doesn’t matter. How is Murtaugh to work for?”
“So far, just fine.”
“Not another DiFalco?”
“No, thank goodness! Murtaugh was doubling for his lieutenant tonight—Lieutenant Overbrook’s recovering from a coronary.”
“Then I imagine he’ll be retiring soon.”
How quick he was! “Yes.”
He was quiet a moment. “You want his job.” Not a question.
Marian took a deep breath. “That’s what I’m trying to decide, Holland.”
“I see.”
An uncomfortable silence growing between them, they moved automatically toward the stage door. Captain Murtaugh returned from his inspection of the dressing rooms and said, “Security isn’t the greatest here, is it?” Then he spotted Holland. “Hello. Who are you?”
Marian introduced the two men, neither of whom offered to shake hands.
“Are you with the play?” Murtaugh asked. “Your name isn’t on the doorkeeper’s list.”
“No. I’m not with the play.” No further explanation.
Murtaugh’s eyes narrowed at Holland’s curtness. “Then may I ask what you’re doing here?”
“Yes. You may ask.”
The captain was aware that Holland was giving him the once-over, and he didn’t like it. Murtaugh was the taller of the two, towering over Holland by nearly a full head, but they still managed to lock eyes. Marian waited, but neither man seemed inclined to speak. “He stopped by to pick me up,” she said tiredly.
“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to have kept you so late, Sergeant. A policeman’s lot and all that. Good night.” He nodded to Holland and went on out.
Holland laughed shortly. “Did he really say, ‘A policeman’s lot and all that’? Stunning originality. And you’d rather work with that man than with me?”
“It’s not a matter of people, Holland, it’s a matter of jobs.”
“Are you sure of that?”
Just then the others arrived with John Reddick in tow, all four of them proclaiming a state of near-starvation, and Marian was saved from answering.