by Ed Ifkovic
Jackson saw me looking at the ladder. “I’m planning to open a new revue the middle of January. A reinvented life for us. Turning a corner.” But he was nervous, his voice cracking as he stammered, “Is this about Belinda and Dougie?”
“What else?” Irritation in my voice. “Why else would we be here?”
“I can’t help…”
I broke in, sharply. “Of course, you can. You may be the only one with answers.” I backed off that statement. “Or maybe—some answers. Others…” I faltered.
“You’re not making much sense.” He grinned an unhappy grin.
I breathed out. “‘He created a life for her and was furious when she wouldn’t live it.’ Someone told me that about you.”
A puzzled look on his face. “Just wait a minute now. You’re not going to accuse me of anything.” Wildly, he swung around, looking to the wings, pushed the ladder away from him, then looked back at us.
“Another thing you told someone some time ago. ‘Nothing gets past this city boy.’”
He squinted at me. “Yeah?” He punched the air. “I say a lot of things, lady.”
Enough. Watching his face contort, I chose my words carefully. “Jackson Roswell died three years ago up at Harlem Hospital. He’s on a list of folks buried in a pauper’s grave in Queens. Just a name in a column.”
Silence. Long and awful.
“What?” From Noel, startled.
I watched Jackson’s face. Suddenly a bemused smile, though his eyes betrayed wariness. “You do your homework, Miss Ferber.”
“Who are you?” I asked, and waited.
He didn’t answer for the longest time, biting his lips, a faraway look in his eyes, but finally, spreading out his palms in a gesture of surrender, he hissed, “I should have known you’d discover that because of your nosiness. Lord, do you invade everyone’s life with such impunity?”
“Only the ones with something to hide.”
“How did you know?”
“I had an idea.” I counted seconds. “And actually I do have an idea who you are, in fact.”
“You could be wrong.”
I pursed my lips. “I doubt it.”
Noel smiled at him. “She allows herself to be wrong only when I point it out.”
I ignored Noel as I held Jackson’s eye.
“Tell me,” he said. “I can see you can’t wait.”
“The nameless suitor who swept Linda Roswell off her feet back in Sayville, whisked her off for a marriage that didn’t take, and then, probably cowering before her father’s shotgun, someone who disappeared for good.”
He laughed a long time. “Not exactly for good. Obviously.”
“Bingo.” Noel nodded to me.
Jackson made an exaggerated stage bow, then curled out his hand in a melodramatic flourish. “Eliot Pittman, at your service.”
I smiled back at him. “You were your own first creation.”
“Unintentionally, ma’am.”
“Tell us what happened.”
He rocked back on his heels, unhappy, but, oddly now, a part of him savoring the moment. Mistaken identity. Playing a part. The actor in his moment. “If you must know—and the look on your face suggests you’re unrelenting and a little forbidding, actually a horrid woman—this all happened by chance. Yes, that ill-founded romance in that hick town, running off, a foolish marriage. I was older, early twenties, headstrong, delirious with the girl. I loved her—thought I loved her. We eloped, so romantic, only to have it end with a thud. A welcome thud. Together in a fleabag hotel in Hartford we realized we’d made a mistake. It’s amazing how a spark can turn to cinder in a flash. Luckily, her one-brain-cell daddy come a-knocking with the sheriff and the marriage that lasted a day or so was dissolved. A quickie divorce that seemed a dream come true. Sand through your fingers.”
“And so you left town?”
“I was from Bridgeport.” He smirked. “The big city I obviously mentioned to someone in passing, who spread the news to you. I wanted theater, New York, Schubert Alley, Times Square, acting, directing. I came here.”
“And you met Linda and Jack?” asked Noel.
A strange look came into his eyes, annoyance maybe, mixed with a little anger. “Christ, I was wandering the forlorn streets of Morningside Heights, way uptown, near Harlem, staying in a flop house, dirt poor, the world crashing down on me and on the whole damn country, when I spotted Linda and Jack grubbing for food in some local eatery. Jack was sick—he was always sick. Linda was surprised to see me—friendly even, but by then she was desperate. Leaving Sayville was a mistake for them. Of course, Jackson couldn’t stand me. After all, I’d violated his little sister, but he was suddenly too sick to do anything about it. One day he collapsed, died the next day, and Linda discovered that he was the one who took whatever money the family had squirreled away. Dollars and cents, hidden in a soup can. My eyes lit up, let me tell you. Linda had no idea he’d taken it. Jack was aiming his sights down here—Broadway. But refusing to spend a plug nickel to survive. He was waiting for the right time.”
“So you took over his dream.”
A smug expression. “Exactly. It was already my dream. But I realized—I already knew—that Linda had the talent—that angelic voice, those looks, even that zany comic strain. Everything. A godsend, that girl. She was so young, trusting. A little…stupid. It was then that I decided to make her—and as a corollary, me, in fact—rich off her talent. I talked to her through the nights, convincing her to play my game. I created Belinda Ross out of simple Linda Roswell. I used the money to rent this deathtrap theater, an old forgotten vaudeville house. Those rat-infested rooms upstairs. But close to the Great White Way, near enough to get someone—like that old fool Cyrus Meerdom—to wander in to listen to Linda.”
I thought of something else. “Another thing I recalled, sir. Your life as an acrobat—fit, able-bodied.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, good one. Jack was a fragile vessel, always dying. Thank God he finally did. Conveniently.”
“And you began the journey?”
He nodded. “Galatea and Pygmalion. Myths and legends.”
“But,” Noel began, “why did you take on Jackson’s persona? Why not be—Eliot Pittman?”
“Simple. You know this unforgiving town. You know America with its puritanical codes. Vestal virgins. Wink wink. Lord, haven’t you been aware that we’ve lived under tight-laced Republicans throughout the twenties? Belinda had to be the young, untouched ingénue, the pretty young thing of men’s desires. You couldn’t have her be a girl who was once married and then—horror of horrors—divorced. Living upstairs with ex-hubby. Christ, imagine what that ass Winchell would have made of that in his ‘Broadway Calling’ column?”
“The Roaring Twenties?” Noel said. “Flaming youth? What am I missing here?”
“You’re missing image. There’s a boundary line, you know. Divorce? Never. Not for what I wanted to create.” A sly chuckle. “Of course, once famous she could be as carefree with her favors as could be.”
“So you became the dead brother.”
A ta-da motion with his hands. “I had all the documents, of course. Step one, step two. Each calculated step. According to plan. Getting Cyrus Meerdom to discover Belinda and carry her to Broadway. I knew that he was a doddering letch, so that sale was effortless. The rest was history. I sat back, counting the pennies that flowed my way. My plan was to abandon this hole-in-the-wall dump and manage a legitimate theater. Like the New Amsterdam. Classy, noticed. I’d be able to keep my dream of being in theater in these horrible times.”
“Belinda went along with it?”
Noel added, perplexed, “She willingly followed your orders?”
He fretted. “Blindly, at first. To be sure, she wanted fame on the stage. I gave her that. Cyrus and the other fools loved her—she laughed at that, drifted th
rough their lives like she was soaked with laudanum. Fame is a powerful aphrodisiac, my friends.”
“Then there was Dougie.”
“A wrinkle in the fabric I wove.”
“She fell in love with him.”
He clapped his big, beefy hands together, a sound that reverberated throughout the theater. “And he with her. Money, yes, but she suddenly had reservations. She didn’t want to be the girl I created for her. She backed off.”
“And you were furious.”
He eyed me closely. “But I didn’t kill her.” His words thundered across the stage. “If that’s where you’re headed with this interrogation.”
“I know that,” I said.
“Then what?” Puzzled, his brow furled. “Why are you here now? The story is over.”
“Dougie.” I waited. Then I said his name louder. “Dougie. Dead now.”
“Christ, you can’t think that I had anything to do with that horrible death.”
“Did he ever suspect the fraud—that you were not Jackson?”
He reached into a breast pocket, took out a cigarette wrapper. As we watched, he rolled loose tobacco from a pouch into the paper, carefully licked it, and then, with a flourish, lit it. He breathed in, closed his eyes. “What did it matter? I know Belinda threatened to confess to him ‘I want no secrets,’ she babbled. But I made her promise.”
“No one else knew?”
A voice from the wings yelled out, “I knew.”
Millie Glass charged onto the stage, her face contorted. “Lord, Eliot, you have a big mouth.” She poked him in the chest. “Put a ham actor on a stage and he sings all his sins to the known world.”
Startled, I jumped, bumping into Noel’s sleeve.
“For Christ’s sake, Millie,” Eliot swore. “You’ll give us all heart attacks. Every time I turn around you’re at my back, watching, watching. You gotta give me some room to breathe.”
Her glance shot from me to Noel. “You’ve done enough breathing on your own. I’ve been listening to you spill the beans to these two. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
I ran my tongue over my lower lip. “I don’t think he had any choice, Millie, my dear. He gave himself away long before today. This is just the unpleasant denouement.”
That perplexed her, though she stood close to Jackson—or Eliot—and linked her arm into his elbow possessively. Involuntarily, his body pulled away from hers, his eyes dark, but she leaned into his side and stared up into his face. “Yeah, I suppose so. What does it matter now, anyway?” she said to me, her eyes cloudy.
“Perhaps it doesn’t,” I told her. “But there are still many questions.”
“But not about this,” she said, hurried. “It was a game we played when Belinda was alive. The curtain has come down.”
Noel stared at her. “How long did you know about the ruse?”
She considered whether to answer, but finally, clicking her tongue, “Not at first. I was just”—she spat out the words—“the hired hand around here. Not until Eliot and I fell into a relationship.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“When Belinda moved out.” Her voice swelled, joyous. “Or maybe earlier. Yes, earlier. We kept it a secret, of course. It didn’t matter—Eliot and Belinda were brother and sister. Supposedly. So the world thought. So you two thought—but we were afraid you would crack the secret. Too many questions. That visit to Connecticut. But…” She lingered on the word.
“What?”
She frowned. “Belinda didn’t like me. She didn’t approve of me and Eliot.”
“They were no longer married, right?” Noel said, puzzled. “What did it matter?”
“No matter. But she was spiteful. She thought me—common.”
Eliot smirked. He blew a smoke ring into the air. Millie glowered and stepped away from him. “Talk about your revelations and confessions, my dear.”
Millie drew in her cheeks. “She didn’t care about us. There was no us to her, that selfish bitch.” She pointed at Eliot. “She simply couldn’t stand me.”
Eliot suddenly dropped his cigarette, stomped on it. His face was flushed and he flicked his head toward Millie. “Millie, enough.”
She preened. “Funny how life turns out, really. Him and me—we’re a team now. Together we’ll build a life without Belinda.”
“You really have no choice,” I commented.
I caught Noel’s eye as he nodded back at me. Eliot was unhappy with what was happening, but, more so, his expressions hinted a problem with Millie. Oblivious, she strutted about, cocky, commanding the stage. Watching his transparent face, it dawned on me that Eliot had reconsidered his decision to get involved with Millie. A man used to being in control, a man purposeful—and solitary. A convenient romance, perhaps, pleasant at one time, probably shelter from the unraveling Belinda scheme. But the bitter look on his face suggested Millie wrote herself a large speaking part in that bedroom farce, and the only critic that mattered wanted the show closed on Saturday.
“What does that mean? No choice?” Millie stared into my face.
“You know, dear, there’s still the mystery of unsolved murder.”
She rolled her eyes. “That has nothing to do with us. Do you mean that weasel, Dougie? He murdered Belinda. Everyone knows that. Then someone kills him. Karma, as they say. An underworld of thugs in this city. You play with the hookers and thieves, you get a knife in the back. Fat-cat money men. Dougie betrayed us. A fawning, annoying suitor—and benefactor. Charity begins in the theater aisle. He was a man of empty promises. Where was he when we had to shutter our doors? The creditors pounding any hour of the night.”
“My doors,” Eliot said quietly.
She snarled at him, “I’m part of this world, too.”
“I only mean…”
Millie’s voice sailed out over the theater, echoed back. “How dare he treat us like that? Do you see the breadline out there? The soup kitchen? Beggars with dead eyes.” Her voice quivered. “I don’t care what happened to him—not after what he did to us.”
Quiet on the stage, Eliot’s face got tight as he watched Millie’s gyrations. “Quiet, Millie, for God’s sake.”
She seethed. “No, I won’t. They say it’s impolite to speak ill of the dead, but so be it. I’ve never been one for proper behavior—fighting my way to this damn stage. Pulling myself up from every Podunk dance hall.”
Eliot, eyes dazed. “Stop it, dammit.”
“Someone needed to murder Dougie.” Noel’s words filled the room.
Millie twisted her head to the side. “So what? I’m not sorry.”
Eliot’s face suddenly looked sad.
I looked at him. “You never told Millie about Dougie’s check?”
He shook his head.
“What?” From Millie.
I took a deep breath. “Millie, Dougie didn’t abandon you. Just before he died, he sent Eliot a check so the theater could go on. Lady Maud told me so. In Belinda’s memory. He’d just forgotten it. He was paying his debts at the end.”
“What?” She lunged at Eliot. “He gave you money?” Her mouth fell open as she pounded her fists into his chest.
“Yes.” Eliot’s face closed in.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Eliot stepped back, folded his arms over his chest, his voice cold. “Because it was my money.”
At that moment something happened to Eliot. His eyes got glassy with fright, his shoulders dropped as his hands flew up to face. An awful moan escaped from deep inside his throat. Wildly, his eyes sought mine, then Noel’s, and finally, panicky, he groaned out loud. “Oh, Christ, no.” He stumbled backward. “Oh, Christ, no.” He grabbed the edge of the ladder he’d carried onto the stage, gripped the rungs, staggered, bent over it. He started to heave. “Oh, Christ, no.”
Millie watched
him, her face stony. “You goddamn fool.”
Quietly, I said to Millie, “You shot Dougie, Millie.”
A flash of fire as she sucked in her breath. A ragged voice. “I hated him. We were gonna have to be in the street. Me—Eliot. We’d lose the theater, the…”
I faced her. “That had nothing to do with Dougie.”
She screamed at me. “It had everything to do with him. I hated him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He broke my dreams into little pieces. How the hell did I know what was going on?”
“Oh, Christ, no.” Eliot’s body shook. Crazily, he stepped toward her and reached out to touch her shoulder.
“Don’t you dare touch me, you damn fool.” With both hands she pushed him away. She spun around, her eyes looking into the wings, then to the back of the orchestra. “I don’t wanna be touched by you.”
“You followed him?” I said to her.
“Day in, day out. Whenever I could get away from here. The crazy man wandered the streets. Lost in Central Park among those people. Finally, I had my chance.”
Eliot’s voice broke. “Christ, Millie. No.”
She rushed at him, thrust out her hand, and slapped him across the face. He winced, swung his head to the side, and swore. “Christ, no. Belinda. Dougie.” He looked back at her, pain in his voice. “Did you kill Belinda, too?”
Her laugh went on too long. “No, of course not. There were other people in line ready to do that dirty little job.”
Eliot’s voice was thick with anger. “But how could you…?”
Suddenly, her head dipped into her chest, Millie looked frightened. Her body shaking, she looked over her shoulder toward the wings, as though expecting a squad of police. A strange gurgle came from her throat. Then she started to sob. An awful wail, so loud we all backed up. She bent over, clutching her sides, and the wailing grew louder. On that old stage, facing the empty house seats, her crying filled the room, echoed off the old walls. Eyes closed now, rocking, rocking, she slipped onto the floor, her body writhing. When Noel leaned over and reached out his hand, she slapped him away.
“Don’t you touch me, any of you. Don’t nobody come near me.”