The Last Dance

by Ed McBain

  I remember Marilyn Hollis.

  I remember loving Marilyn Hollis. I remember poison, I remember those sons of bitches shooting the love of my life, killing Marilyn Hollis. If I should die here in this place in this minute in this bed …

  There must be fifty at least, don’t you think?

  At least.

  Let’s dance, Marilyn.

  Marilyn?

  Would you care to dance?

  May I have this last dance with you?

  Bryan Shanahan, the detective who’d caught the Martha Coleridge murder downtown, could find no indication that anything had been stolen from the old lady’s apartment. So he had to assume someone had broken in there looking for something to steal and—when he hadn’t found anything—had turned on the old lady in rage. That sometimes happened. Not all your burglars were gents. Matter of fact, in Shanahan’s experience, not any burglars were gents.

  He went back to the apartment that Wednesday afternoon without his partner, first of all because he didn’t want the burden of answering a rookie detective’s interminable questions, and second because he thought better when he was alone. This wasn’t what he would categorize as a difficult case, some junkie burglar breaking in and messing up. At the same time, it wasn’t a simple one because the killer—whoever he was—hadn’t left anything for them to go with. No latents, no stray fibers or hairs—which in any case wouldn’t have done them any good unless they caught somebody to run comparisons on.

  Maybe he went back alone because it annoyed him that somebody had killed a lady old enough to die without any outside help. Or maybe he went back alone because while he was reading Martha Coleridge’s play he’d fallen half in love with the farm girl who’d migrated to America from England’s East Midlands. Maybe her play had given him a little insight into age and aging, death and dying. Looking down at the fragile old lady with the broken neck, he’d never once considered that once, a long time ago, she might have been a spirited and beautiful nineteen-year-old who’d come to this city and discovered a world beyond her bedroom window. For a long time now, a corpse had been only a dead body to Bryan Shanahan. All at once, reading Martha’s play, a corpse became a human being.

  So he went through the apartment yet another time, alone this time, savoring his aloneness, searching for the young girl in the old lady’s belongings, hunting for brown photographs or handkerchiefs lined with lace, mementos from Brighton or Battersea Park. On a shelf at the back of her closet, he found a satin-covered box that once might have contained sachets, the fabric faded and threadbare, the little knob on the lid dangerously loose to the touch. There were letters in the box, all tied with a faded red ribbon. He loosened the bow and began reading.

  The letters had been written by someone named Louis Aronowitz. The ink had turned brown over the years, and the writing paper was brittle. Shanahan almost feared turning pages, lest they would snap as easily as had the old lady’s neck. The letters had all been written in 1921, two years after Louis returned to New York from the war, a year after Martha sailed from Southampton to America. The letters chronicled a love affair that started in April of that year and ended in December, just before Christmas. It was Martha who’d ended it. Quoting her in a letter dated December 21, Aronowitz wrote, “How can you say you see no future in a relationship between a Christian girl and a Jew? I love you! That is the future, my darling!” His last letter was written on New Year’s Eve. It told her that he was going back to Berlin, where his parents had been born, and where “a Jew can call himself a Jew without fear of being judged different from any other man. I will love you always, my Martha. I will love you to my very death.”

  Clearly, the letters formed the basis of the love story Martha used in her play the following year. But juxtaposed to her heart-wrenching tale of a doomed love was the contrapuntal story of a young girl finding a new life in a rich and vibrant city: the world beyond the windows in her room. Shanahan gently closed the lid on the brittle, fading box. There had been nothing in it that told him who might have killed the old lady.

  But there was another letter.

  He found it in a folder of paid bills. The letter was typewritten. Shanahan sat in an easy chair under a lamp with a fringed shade, and read it in the fading light of the afternoon.

  My name is Martha Coleridge, author of a play titled My Room, which I wrote in 1922, and which was performed for one week only at the Little Theater Playhouse on Randall Square in September of that year. I am enclosing a copy of the program. I am also enclosing a copy of the play itself for your perusal. I do not know your separate personal addresses, so I am sending all of this to Mr. Norman Zimmer’s office for forwarding.

  I recently learned from an article in Daily Variety, the theatrical and motion picture journal, that a musical based on a play titled Jenny’s Room is being readied for production next season. Your name was listed among the others involved in one way or another with the pending production.

  I wish you to know that in 1923, when the play Jenny’s Room opened to spectacular success, I wrote to its alleged author, a Miss Jessica Miles, and warned her that I would bring suit against her on charges of plagiarism unless I was substantially rewarded for the work from which her play had derived, namely my play, enclosed. She never replied to my letter and I did not have the means at that time to pursue the matter further.

  However, since reading the Variety piece, I have contacted several lawyers who seem interested in taking the case on a contingency basis, and I am writing to all of you now in the hope that together or separately you will wish to make appropriate compensation to the true creator of the work that will be engaging you all in the weeks and months to come. Otherwise, I shall be forced to initiate litigation.

  I close in the spirit of artistic endeavor that embraces us all.

  Cordially,

  Martha Coleridge

  Playwright

  Martha Coleridge’s letter had been written on November 26, the day after Thanksgiving. Stapled to it was a copying service bill dated November 27. There was another bill on that same date, from Mail Boxes, Etc. who had packed and mailed all the material to Norman Zimmer. A separate sheet of paper with his mailing address on it was stapled to a list of names and addresses to whom copies of the material were to be forwarded. The names on that list were:

  Constance Lindstrom, Co-Producer

  Cynthia Keating, Underlying Rights

  Gerald Palmer, Book Rights

  Felicia Carr, Lyrics Rights

  Avrum Zarim, Music Rights

  Clarence Hull, Bookwriter

  Randy Flynn, Composer

  Rowland Chapp, Director

  Naomi Janus, Choreographer

  When Norman Zimmer’s secretary told him two detectives were here to see him, he expected Carella and Brown again. Instead, there was a big redheaded cop named Bryan Shanahan and his shorter curly-haired partner named Jefferson Long, both of whom worked out of the Two-Oh precinct downtown. Shanahan did all of the talking. He told Zimmer they were investigating the murder of a woman named Martha Coleridge, and then they showed him the letter she’d written and asked if he had received a copy of it. Zimmer looked at the letter and said, “A crank.”

  “Did you receive a copy of this letter?” Shanahan asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “When, sir?”

  “I don’t remember the exact date. It was after Thanksgiving sometime.”

  “Did you respond to it?”

  “No, I did not. I told you. The woman’s a crank.”

  “If you didn’t contact her, how can you know that for sure, sir?” Shanahan asked.

  Zimmer was beginning to get the measure of the man. One of those bulldog types who came in with a preconceived notion and would not let go of it. But he’d said they were investigating the woman’s homicide. So attention had to be paid.

  “Whenever there’s a hit play,” he said, “or movie, or novel—or poem for all I know—someone comes out of the woodwork claiming it was
stolen from an obscure, unpublished, unproduced, undistinguished piece of crap scribbled on the back of a napkin. It’s Dadier’s Nose all over again.”

  “Sir?”

  “Le Nez de Dadier, a play written by a Parisian scissors grinder named Henri Clavère, in the year 1893, four years before Edmond de Rostand’s play opened. Cyrano de Bergerac, hmm? Well, Clavère brought suit for plagiarism. He lost the case and drowned himself in the Seine. If I responded to every lunatic who feels his or her work was later appropriated, I wouldn’t be able to do anything else.”

  “But you are, in fact, producing a show called Jenny’s Room, aren’t you?” Shanahan asked.

  Jaws clamped tight on the idea already formed in his mind, whatever that idea might be. His partner standing by deadpanned, listening, learning. Zimmer wanted to kick both of them out on their asses.

  “Yes,” he said patiently, but unwilling to conceal the faintest of sighs. “I am co-producing a show titled Jenny’s Room, that is a fact, yes. It is also a fact that the show has nothing to do with this pathetic woman’s play.”

  “Have you read her play, sir?”

  “No, I have not. Nor do I intend to.”

  “Then how do you know there are no similarities between her play and the play Jenny’s Room, upon which your musical …”

  “First of all, the play wasn’t even called ‘Jenny’s Room’ when it was written. It was called ‘Jessie’s Room.’ And ‘Jessie’s Room’ was a highly autobiographical play written by a woman named Jessica Miles …”

  “So I understand.”

  “… and not anyone named Margaret Coleridge.”

  “Martha Coleri …”

  “What ever her name is.”

  “Whose play is also highly autobiographical.”

  “Oh, is it?”

  “Yes. ‘My Room.’ The play she wrote. Which she claims was stolen by Jessica Miles.”

  “How do you know it’s autobiographical?”

  “I read it.”

  “I see. Did you know this woman?”

  “Not until I read her play,” Shanahan said.

  “You knew her when she was alive?”

  “No, sir, I did not,” Shanahan said. “I got to know her after I read her play. It’s a very good play.”

  “I see. You’re a theater critic, are you?”

  “There’s no need to get snotty, sir,” Shanahan said, and his partner blinked. “A woman was killed.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Zimmer said. “But I’m getting tired of detectives coming in here with their questions. What the hell am I producing? The Scottish play?”

  “What detectives?” Shanahan asked, surprised.

  “What’s the Scottish play?” his partner asked.

  “To ask about Martha Coleridge?”

  “No, to ask about Andrew Hale.”

  “I’m sorry, who’s …?”

  “Tell you what,” Zimmer said. “Go talk to your colleagues, okay? Carella and Brown. The Eighty-seventh Precinct.”

  “What’s the Scottish play?” Long asked again.

  9

  THE DETECTIVES were waiting in the lobby of Fitness Plus when Connie Lindstrom walked out early Thursday morning, her mink coat flapping open over black tights and Nike running shoes as she sailed past to start her working day. Her eyes opened in surprise when she saw Carella and Brown sitting on the bench. She broke step, stopped, looked at them, shook her head, and said, “What now?”

  “Sorry to bother you again,” Carella said.

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Ever see this?” he asked, and handed her a copy of the letter Shanahan had passed on to him late yesterday afternoon. Connie took it, began reading it, recognized it at once, and handed it back to him.

  “Yes,” she said. “So?” and hurried past them to the exit door.

  They came down the steps and into the street, Connie leading, glancing at her watch, walking quickly to the curb, looking up the avenue for a taxi. It was eight-thirty in the morning on a very cold day, the sky bright and cloudless overhead, the streets heavy with traffic. At this hour, it was almost impossible to catch a free cab, but the buses were packed as well, and getting anywhere was a slow and tedious process. Connie kept waving her hand at approaching taxis, shaking her head as each occupied one flashed by.

  “I have to be downtown in ten minutes,” she said. “Whatever this is, I’m afraid it’ll have to …”

  “Woman who wrote that letter was murdered,” Carella said.

  “Jesus, what is this?” Connie said. “The Scottish Play?”

  “What’s the Scottish Play?” Brown asked.

  “We have to talk to you,” Carella said. “If you want a lift downtown, we’ll be happy to take you.”

  “In what?” she said. “A police car?”

  “Nice Dodge sedan.”

  “Shotgun on the back seat?”

  “In the trunk,” Brown said.

  “Why not?” Connie said, and they began walking toward where Carella had parked the car around the corner. She was in good shape; they had to step fast to keep up with her. Carella unlocked the door on the driver’s side, clicked open all the other doors, and then threw up the visor with the pink police notice on it. Connie sat beside him on the front seat. Brown climbed into the back.

  “Where to?” Carella asked.

  “Octagon,” she said. “You’ve been there.”

  “More auditions?”

  “Endless process,” she said. “I don’t know this woman, you realize. If you’re suggesting her murder …”

  “When did you get her letter, Miss Lindstrom?”

  “Last week sometime.”

  “Before the Meet ’N’ Greet?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you handle it?”

  “Dadier’s Nose,” she said, and shrugged.

  “What’s that?”

  “Too long a story. Too long a nose, in fact. Suffice it to say that plagiarism victims surface whenever anything smells of success. I turned the letter over to my lawyer.”

  “Did he contact her?”

  “She. I have no idea.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Why should I care? We’re talking about a play written in 1922!”

  “We’re also talking about a play that seems to inspire murder.”

  The car went silent.

  Connie turned to him, her face sharp in profile.

  “You don’t know that for sure,” she said.

  “Know what?”

  “That the two murders are in any way connected. I suppose you’d both take a fit if I smoked.”

  “Go right ahead,” Carella said, surprising Brown.

  She fished into her bag, came up with a single cigarette and a lighter. She flicked the lighter into flame, held it to the end of the cigarette. She breathed out a cloud of smoke, sighed in satisfaction. On the back seat, Brown opened a window.

  “I know what it looks like,” she said. “Hale refuses to sell us the rights, so he gets killed. Woman writes a letter that could seem threatening to the show, and she gets killed. Somebody wanted both of them dead because the show must go on,” she said, raising her voice dramatically. “Well, I have news for you. The show doesn’t always have to go on. If it gets too difficult or too complicated, it simply does not go on, and that’s a fact.”

  “But the show is going on,” Brown said. “And that’s a fact, too.”

  “Yes. But if you think any of the professionals involved in this project would kill to insure a production …” She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “How about the amateurs?” Carella asked.

  Sometimes it was better to deal with professionals.

  A professional knew what he was doing, and if he broke the rules it was only because he understood them so well. The amateur witnessed a murder or two on television, concluded he didn’t have to know the rules, he could just jump in cold and do a little murder of his own. The amateur belie
ved that even if he didn’t know what he was doing, he could get away with it. The professional believed he had best know what he was doing or he’d get caught. In fact, the professional knew without question that if he didn’t get better and better each time out, eventually they’d nail him. The irony was that there were more amateurs than professionals running around loose out there, each and every one of them thriving. Go figure.

  The way Carella and Brown figured it, there were four amateurs involved in the musical production of Jenny’s Room, and three of them were still here in this busy little city. The fourth was somewhere in Tel Aviv, driving his taxi through crowded streets and hoping a bus bomb wouldn’t explode in his path. There was nothing that said an Israeli cab driver couldn’t have hired a Jamaican from Houston to hang an old man in his closet and later break an old lady’s neck, but that sounded like the kind of stuff a neophyte might devise. Distance also would have disqualified Felicia Carr from Los Angeles and Gerald Palmer from London had they not both been here in the city when Martha Coleridge had her neck snapped.

  Cynthia Keating always loomed first and foremost.

  Mousy little Cynthia, who’d hoisted her father off that bathroom door hook and lugged him over to the bed. Dear little Cynthia, who’d been worried about a suicide clause depriving her of a lousy twenty-five grand when there were hundreds of thousands to be coined in a hit musical.