Bullets for Macbeth

by Marvin Kaye

  “Is that all? I thought—”

  “I mean, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight! Everywhere he went, he’d cart me along. Especially after rehearsals. Armand is a loner—at least, he pretends to be. We’d always leave as soon as rehearsal was over. But all that changed; we spent much more time with the rest of the cast at Shakespeare’s. And I had to be by his side constantly.”

  “I see. Tell me, when you were out sick, did Mills talk you into coming back the next night?”

  He replied in the affirmative. “He was afraid I’d jeopardize my role on legitimate union grounds, and insisted on my returning right away.”

  “By the way,” I asked, “wasn’t that about the time Stockton was sick with pneumonitis?”

  Evans stiffened “I’m sure I don’t remember. ...”

  Just then, the water began to whistle and he offered me coffee, but I declined. I’d heard all I needed and wanted to get going as fast as possible.

  This time, Evans let me out without fuss.

  Olin Olvis Oakes regarded me through bleary, bloodshot eyes.

  “Yes,” he said, “she was certainly with me last night. Very sweet of her, I thought, to call on an old man. I don’t remember when she left, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s not important,” I said, “but I would like to know whether any of you ever worked together in the past.”

  “My heavens, yes!” the old actor rumbled, his bushy head leaning back on a soft pillow specially propped for that purpose on top of his sofa. He had on a black silk smoking jacket of obviously Oriental manufacture and a pair of lamb’s-wool slippers that had seen better days.

  He was a veritable time machine. As his memory cast itself backward, reliving past glories, I learned of several instances when one or two of the present Macbeth company had worked with him in some comedy or tragedy staged in the hinterlands of America.

  After a time, I asked him whether there wasn’t some occasion when the Godwins and Mills might have appeared in the same show.

  “Let me see,” he mused, “there was a time—” He snapped his fingers, extending the arm by force of habit so the last rows of any balcony would have recognized the gesture. “Yes, it was Troilus and Cressida, I do believe! Michael directed and played Ulysses, Melanie was Cressida, of course, and I was naturally Nestor. Let me see. ...” He rose and rooted among the cluttered relics of his career. After several moments of fruitless search, he proudly removed a yellowed program booklet from the interior of a large cardboard box. “Here it is,” he proclaimed, pleased with himself, “I have them all.” Oakes opened it and ran one gnarled finger down the inside right page. “Yes! Mills was Hector—and look! Charles Stockton was Pandarus. Even David Bluestone, I see—portraying a variety of roles, as usual. ...”

  “What about Bill Evans?”

  “Oh, no, he surely would have been too young.” But then Oakes’ eyes narrowed as he examined the program. “I beg your pardon,” he said, holding up his index finger in emphasis, “he was indeed involved as an apprentice in the company.”

  “May I borrow that?” I asked.

  “Certainly, young man, but take good care of it. An actor has no other monuments to his achievements save his memory and such mementos as these. And our memories,” he added ruefully, “seem to fade even faster than the paper on which these words are inscribed.”

  “I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” I remarked, scanning the program. “You must have remembered wrong. Mike Godwin didn’t play Ulysses, according to this.”

  “What? Let me see that!” He took back the program and scrutinized it, forehead furrowed in concentration. At last, he raised his eyebrows and nodded his head in relief.

  “Of course!” said Oakes. “I’d forgotten! Michael originated the part, but he received a tempting offer to play Cyrano on the West Coast, and he simply couldn’t turn it down. We had to run the tour several months without him. As I recall, we made do, albeit somewhat limpingly. We all missed him.”

  Pat Lowe was last on the list of the people I needed to see. I’d put her off till the end because I dreaded the necessity of broaching the subject of her love life. I knew how shy she was.

  To my surprise, however, she displayed an actor’s willingness to articulate experiences others might regard as too private. She evidently needed to talk to someone who would accept her as the heroine of her tale, and I did my best to accord her the sympathy she craved.

  “Yes,” the blond thespian murmured, her eyes cast down upon her hands folded in her lap, “I knew William had several homosexual affairs, but I sensed how he tried to reach out to me. At first, I only wanted to draw him out of himself, talk about his fears, the contradictions driving him, you understand. But later ... well, you must know how a relationship grows and changes. Empathy leads to desire, some kind of need to be the one to help where others failed.”

  She told me Evans’ story, how he’d changed his name when he left Minneapolis, how his parents were separated. She spoke of the women who preceded her, such as the niece of a professor at college who actually tracked him all the way to New York—only to discover that by then he had another kind of lover.

  When she was finished, I had one more thing I had to ask her. I really detested doing it. Naturally, she became upset, but she leveled with me. I knew she was sincere, and hated myself for causing her dismay. I wanted to comfort her somehow. Eventually, I excused myself and went home.

  In my absence, Hilary had come and gone. I called Harry to see if she was with him, but he told me he had no idea where she’d disappeared to. He sounded a bit cross, so I didn’t keep him long.

  I put the phone back on its hook. Much as I wished to see Hilary first, I knew I couldn’t delay the showdown any longer, so I made the first of two calls. I had to resort to thinly veiled threats, but I got the villain to agree to meet me in an hour. Next, I dialed the Godwins’ apartment and told the woman who answered that I had to speak with Melanie. She argued at first, but I positively insisted. When Melanie took the line, I outlined my plans succinctly and hung up before she could engage me in debate.

  I had an hour to wait. First I reassured myself that I still had the manila envelope with the photo-résumé. Next I reached into my bottom drawer and fished out a fifth of Irish.

  Why do things halfway? I asked myself as I dropped two cubes into a glass and baptised them with Bushmill’s. I took a couple of bottles of Schaefer’s from the refrigerator and brought them back to my desk, setting them just behind the drink they were meant to chase.

  I picked up one of the bottles and slowly, deliberately, removed the cap.

  12

  WHEN THE LARGE-BEAKED woman in white escorted me into the bedroom, there was a perplexed look upon her face and I thought she might ask a question, but Melanie ignored her.

  The invalid was sitting up for the first time in four days, but she looked worse than ever. Melanie was wearing a cheery pink dressing gown, but her skin had an unhealthy tinge that was accented by the proximity of the colorful robe. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was straggly and lifeless. She sat in an armchair near the bed.

  She tried to manage a smile, but it was pathetic. “You seem to have done some thinking,” she began in her faint voice, but I forestalled her by holding up a hand.

  “Before we start,” I said, “I think we can dispense with Ms. Casson’s services. ...”

  There was a brief silence. I heard the sharp intake of a breath behind me.

  “Who on earth,” Melanie asked, puzzled, “is Ms. Casson?”

  “She’s standing right next to me,” I replied. I turned to the other woman, who stared at me in surprise and dismay. “Would you care to introduce yourself?”

  “There’s some mistake,” said Melanie. “That’s my nurse. Her name is Mrs. Howard.”

  “Sorry, but her real name is Hilda Casson—unless she’s changed it professionally since then.”

  “This is a feeble excuse for a joke,” the “nurse” said,
addressing me coldly. “I have no idea where you got this idea about me, young man!” She was overplaying it, straight out of the soaps.

  I reached into the envelope I’d carried under my arm, yanked out the photo-résumé and stuck it under Hilda’s ample nose.

  “Recognize this?” I inquired politely. She blanched. I handed the picture to Melanie. “She’s no more of a nurse than I am. I found her photo in the G&G files. She acted the part of Nurse Preen in a Grilis revival of The Man Who Came to Dinner several years ago.”

  Melanie nodded, glancing first at the picture, then at the woman. “I remember when it played, but I was on the road and didn’t catch it. But why,” she demanded, “would the agency send a stage nurse instead of a real one?”

  “I think we’ll find she was privately engaged.”

  “By whom? And why?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “If that’s our guest of honor,” I remarked, “you’ll soon set eyes on the person who hired Hilda. As for why, I’d rather you find out firsthand.” I spoke to the phony nurse. “Would you get the door, Hilda? And you’d better be on the other side of it when it shuts.”

  She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Gathering up her coat, purse, hat, and gloves, she hurried to the door, pushed past the newcomer, and departed, slamming it behind her.

  A few seconds later, Dana Wynn entered the room. She looked quite sensual in black slacks and sweater, both a bit too tight. She dropped her coat on the bed and regarded me with a mixture of resentment and uncertainty.

  “Where was Mrs. Howard going?” Dana asked.

  “I told Ms. Casson to get the hell out.”

  She must have been prepared for the possibility, because she didn’t flinch. “I must have misunderstood you,” Dana said, not the least bit ruffled, “I thought you called Mrs. Howard by some other name.”

  Melanie held out the résumé. Dana stared at the photo, but did not take it.

  “What is it?” she asked. “That looks like a picture of Mrs. Howard.”

  “It won’t work, Dana,” I said, “there’s no use denying you know her. I checked the program of The Man Who Came to Dinner, and your name is in it. You were in charge of the prop crew.”

  “Of course I was!” she said belligerently. “But what does that prove? You can’t show by some old coincidence that I remember her!”

  “Well, then, it’s going to be interesting talking it over with Hilda—especially when her potential position as an accomplice is made clear. ...”

  “Accomplice?” Melanie echoed, looking from me to Dana and back again in complete bewilderment

  “That’s the word,” I said. “Personally, I doubt that she has any idea how Dana used her, but we’ll know better once Hilda explains what she was hired to do.” I paused and stared significantly at Dana. “I hope you aren’t starting to make plans to murder Ms. Casson as well. ...”

  Dana spun on her heel and started for the door. “I don’t have to stay and listen to this!” she snapped.

  “Oh, yes, you do!” I grabbed her by the shoulders, whipped her around, and shoved her roughly into a chair. “You stay there,” I said harshly, “until I’m through with you!”

  She glared at me, but didn’t budge.

  “What’s this all about?” Melanie demanded anxiously. “I don’t understand!”

  “How could you?” I asked, pitying her. “Dana has effectively managed to keep you in the dark all the way along.” I gestured toward the culprit. “Melanie, I’d like you to meet the person responsible for the death of your husband and the stabbing of Armand Mills.”

  “It’s a lie!” Dana shrieked. “I was with Fred when Michael was shot! Last night, I went to see Olin Oakes—”

  “There’s one more thing I blame you for,” I said softly, cutting her off. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  “I see you have me cast as the Complete Villain!” Dana sneered. “What other heinous crime have I perpetrated?”

  I would have torn my tongue out gladly rather than say it, but there was no way to spare Melanie. I put it bluntly.

  “You caused Melanie to have a miscarriage.”

  That’s when Dana started to lose her confidence. She paled and cast a sidelong glance at Melanie, who gasped at what I said.

  Melanie stretched out her hand and rested it lightly on my arm to restrain me from speaking further.

  “You mustn’t accuse Dana of these terrible things,” she said, eyes averted. “I know they aren’t true.”

  “Yes, they are, Melanie,” I argued gently, clasping her hands in mine. “I know just what’s going through your mind right now, but I want you to understand that I chose my words precisely. I said that Dana is responsible—but I didn’t mean she actually wielded the knife or fired the revolver. We both know who did.”

  I stopped. The next words stuck in my throat, like the “Amen” that Macbeth could not utter after killing Duncan. But Melanie understood.

  “Yes,” she said simply, “I thought you realized it was I.”

  I inclined my head. “And I wish to God I didn’t.” I sat on the bed, suddenly very tired. Melanie put her hand on my shoulder—comforting me. Dana remained where I’d put her. She was doing her best to keep her face looking impassive.

  “A number of years ago,” Melanie told me, “I committed an indiscretion. It was partially because of loneliness—but mostly from a misguided desire to show someone a little human compassion. I’m afraid it was a dreadful mistake.”

  “I know.”

  “How could you?”

  “I talked with Olin Oakes. He said that once, when you were on the road playing Cressida, Michael had to leave for a long time to play Cyrano out west.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “that’s when it happened.”

  “With Bill Evans.”

  She stared at me, surprised at the identification.

  “He has a history of attempts to shake off his proclivities,” I explained. “I gathered that from Pat Lowe. When I found out Evans was an apprentice in your production of Troilus and Cressida, I assumed that you also tried to provide him a little tea and sympathy.”

  Her lips twisted in a melancholy smile. “I thought I could ‘save’ him! He was lonely, and so was I, without Michael. At first, we just talked, or rather, he did and I listened. But then I began to think and worry about him. I fancied myself some kind of messiah, I suppose. Do you understand?”

  I assured her I did. “Did Mills know for sure what was going on, or did he only guess?”

  “He walked in on us. It was William’s room, but apparently I was not the only one who visited it.”

  “What happened?”

  “At the time, nothing. Armand stammered an apology and left. I was humiliated, of course, and angry at the child for being so offhand with my reputation. In fact, that ended my crusade.” Disgust was stamped plainly on her countenance. “The price one pays for being a caring person!”

  “What about Mills? Did he attempt to use the knowledge to his profit?”

  “Not then,” she replied. “He delighted, though, in torturing me. When Michael returned, Armand began dropping supposedly innocent remarks which had a dreadful double meaning to them. And yet he didn’t resort to blackmail till last year, when he heard about our production of Macbeth.”

  “Perhaps before then,” I suggested, “you had nothing that he wanted. But his career has been in gradual decline. His private knowledge was probably deliberately reserved in case an opportunity like Macbeth should ever come along.”

  “Possibly. Of course, Armand knew, from having worked under Michael’s direction before, that I have great influence in choice of cast.”

  “So he told you he wanted the lead, or else. And Evans—”

  “No,” she interposed, “Armand demanded the title role of me, but he saved the proviso that Bill play the servant for Michael’s ears. It was a shock when I heard about it, but I had no choice but to insist that Michael hire both of them. It was
one of the few fights we’d ever had in our marriage.”

  “Which you won.”

  “I had to! It made Michael very edgy, but I was forced into using wiles I’ve never needed before. Meanwhile, Mills dragged Evans around, so I would be constantly reminded not to let Michael fire the boy—even when his behavior called for dismissing him!”

  I remembered the first time I’d met Mills, and the way he’d insisted on including Evans in the party, in spite of Godwin’s distaste for the idea.

  I asked Melanie whether she simply couldn’t have leveled with her husband, but she vigorously shook her head.

  “It would have crushed him,” she answered. “Michael’s ego might have withstood a threat from a man more handsome than he, though even then it would have been a dreadful blow. But the thought of someone like Bill Evans, whom he detested ...”

  “And he would have believed Mills’ word over yours?”

  “Unfortunately, Michael had his suspicions when he came back from playing Cyrano. He was no fool, and Mills’ little innuendos weren’t lost on him. But I swore upon everything sacred that there was no truth to the idea.” She shook her head, blinking back tears. “It would have killed him if that ghost had been resurrected.”

  “As it did,” I observed.

  “Yes.” Her eyes brimmed over, but she made no motion to brush away the drops that flowed down her cheeks.

  “I wondered and worried about you,” I said to keep talking while she brought herself under control. “I knew you had a large amount of the responsibility of the production on your shoulders, and Michael was concerned about your health, especially since you’d had other miscarriages. But you were doing what you like best, after all; I couldn’t see that you were under such a strain that you’d lose the child. And yet Hilary had remarked how much you’d aged. No wonder. I realized—too late—that you were being blackmailed.”

  “If he’d just been content with the part of Macbeth,” she said bitterly, “but no, he had to have money, too!”