Bullets for Macbeth

by Marvin Kaye

  Back in the main lobby of the station, there was a police cordon around the wounded actor. A uniformed cop tried to prevent me from crossing the line, but a detective recognized me and passed me through.

  Mills was on his face, a policeman’s jacket draped over him.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “Bad,” said a grizzled lieutenant named Furness. “Look at the size of the hilt. There might be four inches inside.”

  “Is it better to leave it in?”

  The detective nodded. “Bleeding is minimal. If we pull it out, the situation might change. Besides, the shock could kill him.”

  The sound of an ambulance siren, far off, began to grow louder. There was a commotion at the edge of the crowd. The wailing ululation drew close, peaked, then died away. Police cleared a path to the Forty-second Street entrance. Stretcher-bearers hurried in, loaded Mills on, and rushed back to the waiting van.

  Furness asked me if Mills had said anything before he’d been stabbed.

  I shook my head. “Nothing significant. How about afterward?”

  “I caught one word, but damned if I can figure what it meant.”

  “What was it?”

  “I had to get my ear pretty close to catch it I think he said ‘win.’ That ring any bells for you?”

  I shook my head, pretending ignorance.

  ... win ...

  How could I tell Furness that it was the second syllable of the name of the man whom I’d chased into the shuttle station—a man whose brains had been blown out only three days earlier at Felt Forum?

  ACT III: Explication

  Macbeth How now you secret, black & midnight Hags?

  What is’t you do?

  All A deed without a name.

  11

  I DIDN’T TELL IT to Betterman, either, though he kept me with him most of the rest of the night, probably on the theory that if he had to be called out on his day off, he might as well make it miserable for all concerned.

  Around eleven-thirty, I got time off to make a phone call. Hilary didn’t answer at the office, and she wasn’t at Melanie’s, either, so I tried the Commodore in Washington, instructing the operator to charge it to my office exchange.

  She wasn’t registered at the hotel. Never had been. Reluctantly, I asked for Harry Whelan’s room. I found her there.

  “Gene,” she said brightly when she heard it was me, “I was hoping you would call! How are you?”

  I shook my head to clear it. Maybe there was something wrong with the connection?

  I heard Hilary ask Harry to do her a favor and get a can of soda for her from the machine. She chatted pleasantly at me—I didn’t get a word in—until she was alone, then her manner changed.

  “I figured it out,” she said in a tense whisper.

  “What?”

  “The Third Murderer problem.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because,” Hilary said, “I don’t want Harry to know. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

  “When’s that going to be?”

  “Tomorrow.” Abruptly, she brought her voice back up to normal. “Yes, dear, if you’d like to meet us at the train, that would be very nice!” She never talked to me that way, and she never called me dear; what the hell was she up to?

  Then she sent Harry into the bathroom to get a glass and told him to go back into the hall and fill it with ice. Again, she dropped the artificial manner and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone.

  “I’m not sure when I’ll be getting in, Gene, so don’t worry about meeting me. That was just for Harry’s benefit.”

  “How come?”

  “Never mind. It’s personal.”

  “Okay, it’s not important, anyway. I have to tell you something unpleasant.”

  She took a breath, didn’t answer right away, then, with trepidation, asked what it was.

  “Somebody tried to murder Mills.”

  Oh, God!” she murmured. “What happened?”

  I gave her the main points. It took several minutes, during which time Harry must have reentered the room, though she failed to acknowledge his presence.

  “What condition is Mills in now?” Hilary asked.

  “Critical. The knife penetrated a lung. He’s unconscious, in shock.”

  “Do they give him any chance of making it?”

  “Very iffy, but it’s possible.”

  She murmured something I didn’t catch, then asked whether there was anything else.

  “Yes,” I admitted, reluctant to mention the last detail. I hesitated, and she asked me what it was.

  “Hilary, brace yourself. I chased the killer into the shuttle, and he got away, but I got a glimpse of his face.”

  “And?” she insisted.

  “And—it was Michael Godwin!”

  It took her a long time to say anything, and when she finally did, it was an abrupt good-bye.

  I stared in astonishment at the dead phone in my hand.

  Was she too upset by what I’d said to continue the conversation? Or did she think I was playing some ghastly joke on her? Was she angry at me again?

  I didn’t have time to decide, because, just then, I got a signal from the desk sergeant at the far end of the room that Betterman wanted me back in his office.

  The police officer hadn’t bothered to throw on a tie when he left home. He sat behind his desk scowling, a mountain of fat in a bright yellow shirt that was missing a button where it tried to meet over his great paunch. His hair was a mess, and he sported enough stubble on his chin and cheeks to qualify for a Norelco commercial.

  “Look at this!” he growled, flapping several sheets of paper at me. “Most of them have no verification! How the hell am I going to break this down?”

  He was referring to the respective alibis of a good third of the cast and crew of Macbeth, all that could be reached by detectives or via telephone in the four and a half hours since Mills had been attacked.

  I scanned the sheet. Grilis was at his home in Westchester; Harry, of course, was in Washington; Dana Wynn had spent part of the evening with Olin Oakes. None of the other names—including Evans, Stockton, Blake Peters, Pat Lowe, and E. K. Chambers—could corroborate where they’d been. Stockton claimed he’d spent the evening alone, listening to music at the apartment of a friend who was out of town. I knew, of course, what apartment that had to be; apparently, Stockton had been in recent touch with Mills, and I wondered whether they’d planned to meet there after the actor got finished at Grand Central.

  Evans claimed he left his pad around six o’clock to pick up some booze and, on an impulse, went to a movie. He didn’t want to say which one, which meant either it was an X, or else he was lying.

  I dropped the papers on Betterman’s desk. “Pretty inconclusive,” I agreed. “How are you doing on tracing the knife?”

  “It’s a theatrical property,” the policeman replied. “We hauled in Stockton earlier and he recognized it as one of the daggers used in Godwin’s Macbeth production.”

  “Did he know which character it belongs to?”

  “Negative. And, anyway, they’re supposed to be kept locked up.”

  “Who has a key?”

  “Fellow named Mendoza. He’s in charge of props.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Couldn’t reach him.”

  “Figures. Everybody’s out Saturday night.”

  “Uh-huh,” Betterman muttered sourly. “Just when it looked like the mess was going to get ironed out ...”

  “Lou,” I said, “it’s late. Can I go home?”

  “Stick around awhile, I may need you yet.”

  He made it sound like a request, but I knew better. Betterman kept me there till almost 3 A.M., but the extent of my utility for the rest of that time consisted of one brief trek in the slush to bring him back some wor shu opp and wonton soup.

  “Jee-zus H. Kee-rist!” the old man swore. “Don’t you ever work at a normal hour?”

  I tempered my ap
ology for rousing him from the depths with another fiver. It bought my way back in, but it didn’t allay his suspicions when I asked him to use his passkey to open the G&G offices.

  “I lost mine down a grating,” I lied, “and there’s some papers I have to study over the weekend.”

  “Why in hell didn’t you come on by during the day when the super could’ve cut a dupe?” he argued.

  “I live up in Westchester,” I explained, improvising the details. “Mr. Grilis, my partner, called me this evening to discuss a contract, and I realized—” Et cetera. He finally bought it, but only after he checked my driver’s license against the name I’d signed and compared the photo on my BankAmericard with my face.

  It was twenty after three when I entered Grilis’ office and switched on the lights. The old man hung around outside the door, but that scarcely bothered me because I was sure it wouldn’t take long to find what I was looking for.

  It didn’t. The phone number was right on a card inserted into a Wheeldex on the receptionist’s desk. I jotted it down in my pocket notebook.

  I started to switch off the lights, then realized the old man would expect me to leave with something, so I walked over to an old filing cabinet and opened a drawer at random. It was crammed full of theatrical programs, clips of newspaper reviews mounted on black construction paper, photographs and résumés of actors—all pertaining to shows produced at one time or another by G&G or Grilis Entertainment Corp. The shows were filed chronologically, and the pictures (with attached résumés) of their respective casts had been arranged alphabetically behind the programs and reviews. I flipped idly through them.

  Suddenly, I stopped—transfixed by a strangely familiar face. Hastily extracting the photo from the drawer, I turned it around and read the name on the back. It didn’t mean anything to me, but I looked over the attached résumé just to be sure.

  “How much longer you gonna be?” the night watchman demanded, sticking his head into the room.

  “Five minutes.”

  “Hurry it up,” he complained, withdrawing his head.

  I rooted back through the file and saw that the performer whose picture I was holding had appeared in a Grilis Entertainment Corp. revival of The Man Who Came to Dinner.

  I had a hunch. Maybe it was too much to hope for, but I would have bet I was right. I pulled out the program for the Kaufman-Hart farce and scanned the roster of production personnel and cast members.

  My luck held; both names were there.

  I took a manila envelope from a pile on top of another cabinet, stuffed the photo-résumé inside, then turned off the lights and left.

  There was one more thing I could accomplish that night, but I decided to return to the office to do it.

  Picking up my phone, I dialed the number. A friendly woman answered.

  “Talent Exchange,” she said. “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I left a message for one of your clients yesterday afternoon, but I’m afraid it may not have been relayed.”

  “I’m sorry if that happened,” the operator apologized, “but it ought to be easy to find out. What’s your name?”

  “Armand Mills.”

  She took down the rest of the bogus information, then put me on hold for a few minutes. When she returned, she sounded puzzled.

  “Mr. Mills, was that a call placed by you at 12:42?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “According to our records, our client left a phone number to be given to you in case you phoned. Our call slip indicates that the number was indeed accepted by you in lieu of leaving a message. Therefore—”

  Therefore my suspicions were confirmed.

  Only it wasn’t as simple as I first thought. There were many unanswered questions, and one insurmountable obstacle to my theory. I started to outline it on paper, but it was already after four and my head hurt, so I reluctantly put my notes aside and turned in.

  I got some sleep, but little rest. In the distance a pale face floated in midair. It revolved like a spinning globe, drawing nearer and nearer, and as it did, the countenance swelled into a great bloated parody of the features of Armand Mills, surmounted by the crown of Macbeth. The swollen lips parted, formed syllables, and whispered.

  “Our fears stick deep.” The closed eyes gaped wide, fixing me with an ironical stare. Again the pale lips moved. “But surely,” they murmured in sardonic mockery, “you cannot object to carousing with a lonely member of the elite?”

  The disembodied head abruptly dwindled and changed. For a moment, it resembled Michael Godwin, but even as I recognized him, a bloody hand ripped away the shock of white hair and plucked out the eyes. Only a skull remained—but one whose fleshless lips still twisted in fiendish mirth.

  My eyes opened upon the pallid glare of a cold, wintry dawn. The house was quiet, the streets outside were hushed. The whole vast city, drained of vitality, lay exhausted and still. I raised my head from the pillow and pressed my knuckles into my eyes to clear them of the effects of a tormented sleep.

  I sat there on my bed, still tired, depressed by the fact that at last I really knew.

  I ought to have called Lou Betterman right away, but there was still a lot of guesswork involved, and I thought I might be able to get some answers, or at least clues to the precise truth, by talking to a few people. Besides, I wanted to discuss it with Hilary first. Unfortunately, I had no idea which train she’d be taking.

  In the meantime, I had no intention of sitting still. I couldn’t have if I’d wanted to. Action was the only remedy under the circumstances.

  It was much too early to see anyone, so I braced myself with a cold shower, shaved, got dressed, and went out to a neighborhood restaurant for breakfast. I forced myself to dawdle over pastry and coffee with a copy of the Sunday Times, but I avoided perusing the theater section.

  Somehow I made it to 10 A.M., then, Sunday or not, I got on the horn and woke up Dave Bluestone, the character actor who had three parts in Macbeth. I put my questions hypothetically, though he was smart enough to suspect something was up. Still, he told me what I wanted to know without comment.

  The rest of my investigations involved footwork, and I had to decide who to disturb first I settled on Bill Evans.

  He came to the door in a bathrobe. His eyes were red, but whether from emotion or excess, I couldn’t say. As soon as he saw who it was, he tried to slam the door in my face.

  “Go away!” he said angrily. “You lied to me!”

  I played salesman and stuck my foot in the door. “What do you mean, I lied?”

  “You said you’d protect Armand,” Evans accused.

  “Hold on,” I protested. “All I said was I’d see what I could do—”

  “He’s liable to die!” he exclaimed bitterly, trying to push me back out. He was still indulging in histrionics, but this time I had no patience. I shoved him out of the way and entered the room.

  “Just knock it off,” I warned him. “If I hadn’t been there, it probably would’ve been a lot worse for him. The killer only got the opportunity to use the knife once. If Mills had been alone, he might be dead now instead of on the critical list. Your telling me might have bought him that chance.”

  I guess I said the right thing. Evans turned on the tear ducts, and once he’d calmed down, he thanked me after all.

  “Look, I’m in a hurry,” I said, cutting him short. “I need answers more than ever. No evasions, understand?”

  The kid nodded solemnly. “All right, maybe I should have listened to you in the first place. What do you want to know?”

  “Two things. You told me Mills started acting peculiar several weeks ago. I want details. Secondly, you said his odd behavior seemed to start up after a private talk he had with Dana Wynn, only you weren’t sure if it was her. I need to know why you think it might have been she.”

  Evans sat down on the edge of his bed and sighed. “It was Dana all right,” he admitted. “The fact is, I kind of hedged the first ti
me you asked because I got scared. I mean, she is the producer’s assistant. ...”

  “In many ways,” I agreed. “Suppose you tell me exactly what happened.”

  “All right. It was shortly after Armand and I were cast in Macbeth. One night he and I and Dana were drinking over at Shakespeare’s Pub when—”

  “Hold it. Is this the ‘private’ talk you mentioned?”

  He confessed it was. “Yes, I was there, only I didn’t think much of it at the time. I mean, there was nothing overt said, but I began to remember that night and wonder about it in later weeks.”

  “What happened precisely?”

  “I’m still a little fuzzy about the details. I was pretty smashed. Trying to drown my sorrows, and all.”

  “Why?”

  He flushed. “Armand ... he began to notice someone else.”

  “Uh-huh. Stockton?”

  “Yes.” It was practically inaudible. “The way things were, it looked like we were going to split after that night. I mean, Armand would have been content to keep me around, but I was jealous and he started taunting me in front of Dana, telling her how he’d gotten me the job in the first place, and how Godwin didn’t like me. Dana said she was a little surprised herself that Mills had gotten the part of Macbeth, because Godwin wasn’t crazy about him, either. Armand laughed and said that’s because he knew one or two little secrets, and it was good insurance not to rub him the wrong way.

  “That’s when Dana asked me to go over to the bar and get her a refill. While I was there, I saw the two of them with their heads together, talking sort of quietly.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “Only when I brought the drink back. Dana said something that didn’t register then, though it bothered the hell out of me later.”

  “Namely?”

  “That if she only could get her hands on a few juicy secrets, she’d bleed Fred Grilis for every dollar he had.”

  The kid rose, went to the kitchen, and began to boil some water. I asked him to answer my other question: how had Mills’ behavior changed after that night?

  “Well, like I said,” he told me from the kitchenette, “Armand and I were ready to split up. But all of a sudden, he started to become very solicitous, paid me lots of attention.”