by Marvin Kaye
“Yeah,” Katz told the inspector. “His costume’s crumpled on the floor. Dirty tissues smeared with makeup in the wastebasket. He must’ve left in a hell of a hurry.”
The night wore on. Betterman questioned the electrician, Carol Fassett, but got little information from the old man beyond what he’d told me. He did mention, though, that the door to the Center Cinema was usually kept locked, which indicated the killer probably made sure to open it beforehand for a fast getaway. Premeditation, if there was any doubt about it.
It was almost 2 A.M. before Betterman was able to talk to everyone. By that time, the stagehands were bellyaching and starting to threaten Grilis with union action if he didn’t pay them all overtime. Naturally, he didn’t like it; the producer screamed that he wasn’t responsible for police delays. It didn’t make a dent.
Betterman asked me if I was going home, and I said I thought I’d better see if I could find Hilary at Bellevue. He asked me to wait up while he talked to some of the detectives, then he would give me a ride, since he was also headed toward the hospital. I figured he wanted some more information out of me, but besides that, he probably thought he needed a buffer in case he locked horns with Hilary.
Betterman, Katz, and I left together. The night was clear and cold and the moon glinted like crystal on the pallor of the crisp new snow. We had to walk a long block to reach the squad car, and my feet were numb before we were halfway there. Progress was slow plowing through the drifts. As we walked, Betterman questioned me further.
“No,” I stated, “I can’t think of anyone who’d want him dead. He didn’t get along all that well with his partner, Grilis, or with Dana Wynn, but they managed to maintain a working relationship.”
“Hm,” Betterman grunted. “We won’t know how good a relationship it was till we start prying around. Meantime, how about Mills?”
I made a noncommittal gesture, one that Betterman could hardly see with his head pulled deep into his collar. “Nobody is wild about Mills,” I said, “except maybe the kid, Evans. They seem ... close.”
Betterman told Katz to make a note to question Evans. Just then we reached the car and I got in the back with the inspector, glad to get my feet out of the wetness. The plainclothesman got behind the wheel and pulled out, swinging into the first side street heading east
I asked Betterman whether they’d picked up anything useful that night. He shook his head.
“A little this, a little that, not much help,” he replied “Motive? Nobody had any ideas who’d want Godwin dead. Means? A lot of them knew about Mills’ gun. He bought it last week because he got mugged. The vigilante syndrome. Kept it in his dressing room.”
“So practically anyone could’ve walked in and taken it?”
“Kee-rect. But nobody down there saw anything. Oakes was in the room before the murder, but he was asleep.”
“Did he tell you that? Asleep?”
“We-e-ell,” the inspector drawled, “you could call it sloshed.”
The car slowed at an avenue, but there was no cross traffic at that time of night, so Katz shot the light. Betterman appeared not to notice, and I wondered whether I ought to make a citizen’s arrest.
“Any word on Mills yet?” I asked.
“Naah. Our number one candidate didn’t go home.”
“How about Evans’ place, did you check it out?”
He nodded. “He’s not there, either.”
“You mentioned motive and means. How about opportunity?”
Betterman made a vulgar sound of disgust “Look at this, will you?” he complained, extracting his notebook and turning to a double page of scrawlings. “There’s nearly fifty people I had to pinpoint, and almost any one of them could’ve grabbed Mills’ gun and ran around onstage to use it.”
“Is there any chance that somebody other than the Third Murderer could’ve shot him during the blackout?”
“It’s possible, but not very likely. The angle was right from what everyone tells me of where this Third Murderer was standing. Besides, it’d be kind of risky sneaking out after the lights went out to plug him. The Third Murderer had a fix on Godwin’s position, remember.”
“Okay. But how about Mills, now? He should’ve been waiting for his entrance. Did anybody see him?”
“Nope,” he lamented, snapping his notebook shut. “Hardly anyone recalls who else was standing near them in the wings.”
Having watched them rehearse for several weeks, I could believe it. The closer they got to performance, the more the actors concentrated on their characters, and just before making an entrance, it was customary for them to “tune out” on the surroundings. It was like Harry warming up in the dressing room: you might say hello and they wouldn’t even hear you.
I asked about Grilis and Dana Wynn. Betterman said they were in the business office at the time of the shooting. I tried to recall where they’d come from when the lights went up, and remembered it was from the back of the auditorium, but that didn’t mean too much. The business office was in that direction, but so was the door to the dressing rooms and, ultimately, the stage.
Katz turned the wheels onto First Avenue and pulled up in front of the Bellevue emergency entrance. Betterman and I hopped out.
It took a while to locate Melanie. The orderlies on duty didn’t speak English too well and the night nurse was off somewhere in the maze of hospital corridors, but finally we were directed to the proper floor.
She was in a private room, asleep, heavily sedated. Hilary sat in a chair by the bed. When she saw Betterman, she motioned for him to go outside. She met us there.
“She’s been out for a couple of hours, and I don’t want to wake her,” she explained. “Let her stay unconscious, it’s better.”
“I have to talk to her,” the policeman said.
“I know, I know,” Hilary said, impatiently, “but can’t you save it till she’s over the first shock?”
Betterman shrugged. “It’s my job.”
There was a lounge halfway down the hall, deserted at that hour. The three of us took chairs, while Katz remained with Melanie, in case she should wake.
“There are two ways this can be approached,” the police officer remarked, shifting his considerable weight in a vain effort to get comfortable. “I can sift the testimony of a couple dozen people in an attempt to find out who was where at what time, and I can dig into everybody’s past, looking for a motive. That way presumes that anybody at all could have run onstage at the last minute and shot Godwin. ...”
“Doesn’t make sense,” said Hilary, shaking her head. “What about the actor playing the Third Murderer? If someone had substituted himself in the role, wouldn’t the original have spoken up by now?”
Betterman raised a hand, silencing her. “I know, little lady.” (She loved that.) “The other way I can run this investigation seems to be the logical one under the circumstances, but it catches me at a disadvantage.”
“Not being a Shakespearean scholar,” I commented.
“Kee-rect. We have to figure out who Godwin cast in the part. Why the hell,” Betterman bellyached, “did he have to be so goddamn secretive about it? Rehearsing in private, not telling anyone!”
“He has a flair for effect,” said Hilary dryly, then, realizing the error of verb tense, she winced slightly, trying not to show it.
I started to say something, but Betterman held up his hand, stopping me. Looking intent, he put a finger to his lips, rose, and walked quietly to the door.
“Something I can do for you?” he asked, sticking his head into the corridor.
“Sorry,” said a familiar voice, “but I didn’t want to walk in on a private session.”
“I see,” Betterman retorted, “but you didn’t mind listening to it, huh?”
The other started to stammer a reply, but Betterman waved him to come in and join us. Harry Whelan entered, dressed in white shirt and gray slacks. Traces of greasepaint still colored his neck and the shirt at the collar line.
&n
bsp; “Thought you might need me,” he told Hilary, sitting down next to her. She squeezed his hand for a second, and I felt the pressure, like a twinge.
“We were trying to figure who Godwin could have picked to play the Third Murderer,” the inspector announced. “You got any ideas?”
“That’s sticky,” the actor stated. “If I give you a purely intellectual opinion, based on the usual literary theories, I’ll be pointing the finger at somebody in the company.”
Betterman snorted in disgust “What the crap’s wrong with that? In case it hasn’t occurred to you, somebody in the company did shoot him.”
We all knew it, of course, but saying it somehow made it uglier. Whelan shifted his gaze away from Betterman’s sardonic scrutiny.
“Look,” the policeman continued, “nine chances out of ten Mills did it. It’s his gun, and he took a powder PDQ. How about furnishing me with some reasons why he might’ve wanted Godwin dead?”
Whelan shrugged. “Damned if I can say. They knew each other pretty well, I understand, worked together years ago. Maybe something happened back then that Armand never forgot about. Except I find it hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Armand’s all poser he’s not a doer. If he were, he wouldn’t be in theater. Take away the stance, the calculating vocal technique, the sonority—you’ve got a non-mind in a non-person.”
Betterman turned to Hilary. “You know anything about Mills?”
She shook her head. “Michael didn’t care for him all that much, but he respected his talent. That’s about all I can tell you.”
“All right,” the policeman sighed. He sat down once more and clasped his hands above his ample middle. “Do you have any reason to believe he was playing the Third Murderer?”
Harry nodded. “Traditionally, it’s almost always one of three characters doubled to play the third assassin. Macbeth is the most likely.”
“Why?”
Harry turned to Hilary. “Do you remember the Paton arguments?”
She nodded her head. “Maybe not all of them.” She explained to Betterman. “A scholar by the name of Allan Paton once came up with eight reasons why Macbeth had to be the Third Murderer. Harry and I read about it a couple of weeks ago while we were trying to second-guess Michael.”
“Try to remember them,” Betterman suggested.
“I’m not sure if I can,” said Hilary. “Got a piece of paper and pencil?”
The policeman supplied the requests, and for a few minutes she and Harry put their heads together, making up a list of points. Finally, she looked up and nodded her head determinedly.
“I think we’ve got them.”
“I’m listening.”
“All right,” Hilary said, “first of all, Macbeth is supposed to be at a big banquet that starts at seven o’clock. But he doesn’t show up till almost midnight, which seems to indicate he must’ve been in the park waylaying Banquo. Second, when he does enter the dining room, it’s at practically the same time as the First Murderer, who comes to report how the assassination came off.” She ticked off the two points with the pencil. “Next, Paton figures the murder of Banquo and Fleance was so important to Macbeth that he couldn’t’ve gone to the feast without making certain it ran according to plan—which is pretty weak reasoning. Number four: if there had been a ‘perfect Spy o’th’time’ it would have had to be a chief confidant sent to supervise the other killers. Wouldn’t that confidant have given Macbeth the news of the plot long before the First Murderer showed up? (I’ll talk about this point in a second.) Point number five: when the body of Banquo is found, it’s discovered practically hacked to pieces. According to Paton, hirelings wouldn’t’ve been so savage—but Macbeth, who is renowned as a brutal warrior, might well have butchered his foe.”
Betterman shook his head. “Juicy stuff. People really expected to pay good money for a show like that?”
“Are you kidding, Lou?” I laughed without mirth. “Have you seen what’s playing on Forty-second Street lately? Macbeth may be bloody, but at least it’s quality gore.”
“True.” He nodded. “Go ahead, Hilary.”
“The sixth point which is supposed to implicate Macbeth,” she proceeded, “is that the Third Murderer seems to be unusually well acquainted with the instructions Macbeth gave the other two, and also seems to know much about the habits of the victims. He must, therefore, have struck out the torch to escape recognition.”
Harry snorted. “Except the lines clearly indicate the First Murderer doused the lights.”
Hilary turned to Harry. “Have you asked Blake Peters about that piece of business?”
“No,” he admitted, “I forgot”
“Is it important?” Betterman asked.
“Don’t know,” said Hilary. “Anyway, let me finish. Paton’s seventh argument is that Macbeth shows some levity at first at the banquet, and that seems to indicate that he’s relieved to know that Banquo is dead. (Notice how many times I have to say ‘seems’?) Finally, Macbeth sees Banquo’s ghost and says something like ‘In that black struggle, you could not possibly know me.’ ”
“But Paton’s wrong,” Harry commented. “The line he cites isn’t anything like what Macbeth actually says.”
“Sounds like you don’t buy the Macbeth theory at all.” It was Betterman.
“Well,” said Hilary, “not for Paton’s reasons, anyway. Too many objections. There’s no particular evidence Macbeth did stay away till midnight, and as for the savagery of the slaughter, Macbeth told the killers—what’s the line, Harry?”
He flushed but said nothing.
“Damn it,” Hilary said, agitated, “what else can happen? Say the miserable line!”
“Something about not leaving rubs nor botches in the work,” the actor mumbled. “Anyway, the two killers also think Banquo was their long-time enemy, which is reason enough for their butchery.”
“One more thing,” Hilary added. “This idea that Macbeth might have sent a confidant to supervise the murder—it makes as little sense as saying Macbeth was there in person. When the First Murderer comes to the banquet to tell Macbeth that Banquo is dead, the king is overjoyed. Then he learns Fleance escaped, and is plunged into depression. He clearly behaves as though he had no prior knowledge of the outcome of the ambush.”
Betterman mulled it over. I figured he didn’t follow most of it, but was trying to behave for Hilary. He turned to Whelan. “You mentioned two other possible choices for Third Murderer.”
The actor nodded. “Ross, and the servant Bill Evans is playing.”
“Evans, huh?” Betterman was interested.
“Ross,” Harry explained, “is supposed to be Macbeth’s henchman, running around to see that his dirty work is properly taken care of and—”
“Somebody once called him the most maligned minor character in Shakespeare,” Hilary interrupted. “There’s no convincing textual evidence to support the theory.”
“Just the same, who’s playing the part?”
“Charlie Stockton,” Whelan replied. Betterman made a note of the name, then asked to hear about the servant
“He’s on the scene when the assassins are first brought in,” Harry began, but I stopped him to relate what Godwin had said when I told him Bluestone’s theory about the servant being the Third Murderer.
“That sounds like Michael,” Hilary said, looking thoughtful. “It’s stupid to pick a character as the Third Murderer if the audience doesn’t know what the reason for the choice is as soon as they see the actor appear.”
Betterman wasn’t listening. He pulled out his notebook and flipped to the table of alibis.
“Stockton and Evans,” he said, half to himself, “both claim they were waiting offstage—where do you call it? Where everybody was.”
“The stage right wings.” I told him.
“Yeah. You’d think with fifteen people waiting in that area, I could get a better fix on who was and wasn’t there!”
Harry commented on th
e inspector’s complaint. “You have to remember it’s a pretty big area, and there are several tormentors to stand behind.”
“What in hell is a tormentor?”
“Kind of a curtain. Vertical masking flat.”
Betterman shrugged. “Whatever.” He put his notebook away. “All right, so now tell me about Stockton. Is there—” But just then Katz appeared in the doorway and gestured to the inspector.
“She’s awake,” he informed Betterman.
Hilary got up quickly and hurried to Melanie’s bedside. The police officer lumbered off behind her.
We couldn’t all crowd into the room, so Harry, Katz, and I waited outside. The plainclothesman yawned without covering his mouth, then leaned against the wall.
“Can I smoke in here?” he asked.
“Don’t see any signs otherwise,” I answered.
“You got a cigarette?”
I shook my head. “I don’t smoke.”
“The unhooked generation,” the pudgy cop mourned. Harry offered him some gum, but it didn’t remove the hangdog expression from his face.
Harry tried making conversation, but I was worn out and depressed and had little to contribute to pass the time. I wished I could be alone with Hilary. She was doing too good a job of functioning under the circumstances; I was sure she needed to take off the mask and let her feelings show.
Betterman came out, shaking his head. “She’s in bad shape—taking it damn hard.”
“Does she have any idea of who might’ve done it?” I asked.
“Naah, she’s too shellshocked to think straight. Most I could get from her was corroboration of another piece of testimony. Some gal, I forget her name, quiet little blonde—”
“Pat Lowe?”
“That’s her. Godwin asked his wife to go out and get some coffee during intermission. So she and this Lowe lady took off their costumes and went to some place on Eighth Avenue. Took a while, and when she got back, her husband was already dead. Came in and saw a bunch of people huddled together in the wings—”
“Hell of a way to find out,” Whelan said.
Hilary opened the door and shushed us. “Your voices carry through the door.”