by Linda Barnes
“I cannot allow the sunlight,” said Langford tersely. “I told Arthur we should rehearse only by night, but he would not accommodate me. Often, when the sun is too bright, when I feel I cannot stand the glare, I sleep here, on my cushions, until such time as the vampire can safely walk.”
Spraggue nodded, grateful that no other response seemed expected. The late-afternoon sun hadn’t seemed to bother the vampire when he’d run off with Emma in his chauffeured car. Spraggue felt the hypnotic power of Langford’s presence and voice. The tone was full and deep, with faint traces of English upbringing, controlled by years of American acting. The result was diction that made everyone else on stage sound like they were reciting through mouthfuls of Cream of Wheat. The voice, a stage whisper, filled the room. What made it so special, Spraggue decided, was its enormous power. At absolute full volume, Langford always seemed to have a lion’s roar still in reserve.
The actor sank cross-legged to the carpet, spread his palms on his knees, nodded at Spraggue to join him. When their eyes were on a level, Langford spoke:
“I do think Arthur might have consulted me before bringing in a detective.”
Spraggue grinned. His identity was no secret anymore.
“He’s overreacting, of course,” Langford continued. “No real harm done yet. If Arthur had just asked me—”
“I’m sure Arthur didn’t want to distract you from your performance,” Spraggue said. A little flattery seemed called for.
Langford beamed.
“I’d be very glad to hear any ideas you might have about the joker.” Keep it humble.
Langford’s face turned solemn. “I take the psychological approach myself,” he said condescendingly.
“Ah.” Spraggue nodded, young Hawkshaw to veteran sleuth. All he had to do for this investigation was to figure out which part he’d been cast for in each actor’s fantasy. Caroline wanted flirtatiousness; Langford wanted respect, recognition of his authority. Spraggue found himself wholeheartedly sharing Karen’s antipathy for members of the second oldest profession. Difficult, since he had to count himself among the membership.
“Take a man like Gus Grayling,” Langford said sagely.
“I haven’t met him yet.”
“No need. I’ll show him to you. Gus is the perfect second banana. All his life he’s done the stooge parts. No heroes. No romantics. No leads. So naturally, those are the only parts he wants to play. He tries to create romance for himself. He has a tortuous theory about Van Helsing’s frustrated passion for Mina. Don’t mention it to him; he’ll talk about it for days! What does a man like that want most, Spraggue?” Langford hesitated, but not long enough for an answer. He was doing a soliloquy, not a dialogue. “Attention!” Langford boomed. “And what might a man do to get attention?” He nodded slowly at Spraggue. It was time for the bright pupil to answer.
“Tricks?” suggested Spraggue.
Langford smiled. “If it weren’t for one thing, I’d say that Grayling had the perfect psychological makeup for our joker. But that one thing is very powerful. Georgina!”
“Georgina? She’s after Arthur Darien.”
Langford closed his dark eyes, gave a careless half-smile. “They all love Arthur. He’s a teddy bear. But he’s not interested in a real woman. His mistress is this theater, this play. Gus wants Georgina. And he will get her. And that will satisfy his urge to hurt me, because, you see, I have been carefully leading him to the conclusion that I am interested in our young ingénue.”
That would suit Langford perfectly. A faked interest in Georgina would throw Caroline off the true target of the leading man’s straying affections. But would a game that fooled Gus and Caroline necessarily fool Greg Hudson? He was certainly an interested party.
Spraggue said as much to Langford.
“Hudson? A trivial personality. He must have known from the beginning that Emma cared nothing for him. Such an uneven match. A ‘fling’ on her part. Probably curiosity. Perhaps she felt she could ‘cure’ him.” Langford shook his head. “I find it hard to understand bisexuals. I see Hudson as an enigma. Perhaps we’d better leave him in our field of suspects.”
Perhaps we’d better! “What about Eddie?” said Spraggue.
“Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something?” said Langford coolly. “I doubt I’ll have time to go over this material again.”
“I have an excellent memory,” said Spraggue solemnly. The incredible vanity of the man!
“You suspect a man, don’t you, Spraggue?”
“I haven’t narrowed my suspicions down to one gender. Why do you say that?”
“You ask about the men first.”
Spraggue wondered if that was a sample of Langford’s psychological insight. “What do you know about Eddie Lafferty?”
“Little, I’m ashamed to say. He’s hard to know. A loner. I have noticed some attraction to our lovely stage manager—”
Damn, thought Spraggue.
“It’s difficult to evaluate Lafferty because he pretends he’s mad. One of these Method actors, works his role even when he’s offstage. Hiding his real personality. Since he revels so in being mad, I would suppose him to be very sane, very timid, conventional. Not a very interesting subject.”
“You’d prefer to go on to the women?”
“Always, my boy. Always. I won’t bother to mention Emma. The idea’s ridiculous! She is not a woman denied attention. But I’d have to agree with her that Caroline bears watching. I saw you come out of her dressing room. Very perceptive of you. Of course it could be something else, have nothing to do with the joker. But she is a jealous woman. Jealous and possessive. I would put her high on the list, yes, high on the list.… The other females. Deirdre. So intense. I dislike intense women. A little spooky, that one. A loner, too. Can’t help you much with her. And Georgina. She’s definitely out of it. A sweet idiotic child. The perfect ingénue.”
“And perfect ingénues don’t go around maiming dolls and setting trip wires,” Spraggue finished. “Have you any thoughts on our peripheral characters—Darien, the house manager, the stage manager?”
“Foolish to include Arthur in that group. Arthur wants one thing above all, to see this show succeed. Nothing would make him jeopardize that. The others, I don’t know. Technicians bore me. I find that I get along so much better with artists, with creative minds. I’m sure you understand.”
Spraggue decided not to say that he understood why Karen had ranked Langford chief among the bores. Instead he tried: “Have you ever played Macbeth?”
“Often. Both Macbeth and Macduff. I’ve directed the play at many universities, discussed my interpretation in educational films—” The great British actor stopped suddenly. “Has this anything to do with the joker?”
“Not really,” Spraggue lied. “I just find your voice so well suited to Macbeth.”
“Thank you, my boy. Others join you in that opinion. Quite a few others, some very influential men of the theater.”
Spraggue smiled. “And may I ask where you were Saturday night between ten and eleven o’clock?”
Langford’s eyes widened. “An alibi. For me? Of course we haven’t discussed me. But from a psychological point of view, I assure you, you’re wasting time. I have no need for more glory than I already have. I am undisputed star of this show. I feel that my performance will greatly enhance my reputation. I have no desire to hurt my fellow actors in any way. And I am quite satisfied with my personal life.”
No. Langford wouldn’t be the joker. But with that colossal ego, that incredible vanity, he might well be the target.
“If you insist on knowing my whereabouts,” Langford continued smugly, “speak to Emma. She will vouch for me—and I for her.” In one fluid motion, Langford got to his feet. He crossed silently to the far wall and tapped on it three times. After a moment came the reply, three muffled raps.
“Would you be so kind as to help me out, Spraggue?” Langford smiled photogenically. His eyes glinted in the candlelight. “
Just check to see that the coast is clear. I have no desire to play out one of those tedious scenes with Caroline Ambrose.”
So. The next room over, the one not conveniently linked by connecting door, was the gorgeous Emma Healey’s lair. And probably that was the reason for all the intrigue and secrecy. More than a need for Langford to spill his “psychological” gleanings, a need for a sympathetic goon to case the hallway and warn of Lady Caroline’s approach. And Langford must have figured that anyone leaving Caroline’s room after a prolonged chat would be sympathetic.
He played along, elaborately eying the hall, motioning Langford to hurry. Not until Emma’s door closed did he let his face relax into a rueful grin.
How, he wondered, would Greg Hudson react to Emma’s defection? A seemingly sensible guy, but one never knew. Had he realized from the beginning that Emma was not one to love exclusively? And Caroline? Did she have a script for spurned lovers? Or had she already written one for her glorious sixth marriage, to the great actor, John Langford? Would she satisfy herself with the “undergraduate” Eddie? If so, how would Karen take it? And with Karen involved, he realized abruptly, so was he.
Did all these tangled love affairs have anything to do with the joker?
Rehearsal time again. He strode hurriedly down the corridor.
Will Shakespeare had it right, he thought: “Lord, what fools these mortals be!”
Chapter Fourteen
A fifteen-minute break the next morning found Spraggue back in the Huntington Avenue phone booth. Someone had added fresh graffiti with a runny can of orange spray paint, but the phone still worked.
Aunt Mary answered on the second ring.
“Find out anything from Jamie Blakeley?” he asked.
“You again?”
“Sorry,” Spraggue said hastily. “I know I’m supposed to say hello and how are you and all that, but I just haven’t got the time.”
“I knew I’d raised you better than—”
“Come on, Aunt Mary.”
“Darling, I haven’t gotten a thing from him yet. I’m meeting him for lunch at the Cafe Plaza. He’s just the type to fall for Caroline Ambrose—”
“He wouldn’t cough up the information over the phone?”
“Not a word, but don’t worry. A bottle of claret with lunch and Blakeley will tell me more than I ever wanted to know about Arthur Darien’s financial setup. I only hope I can keep him from telling me about his divorce again.”
“You are a great lady.”
“I know. And I do happen to have some fascinating information about your actors.”
“Yeah?”
“Such as: Deirdre Marten is really Dinah Martowski.”
“You get that from Equity?”
“No. They’re remarkably closemouthed. One of the theater companies she worked for in Canada.”
“Aunt Mary, would you call Fred Hurley at Police Records and give him Deirdre’s real name?”
“Fred? You’ve got him working on this, too?”
“Yeah. And tell him he’d better hurry up.”
“I refuse to browbeat him. Now listen. Does it interest you to know that your Greg Hudson is an expert in stage fighting? Taught a course in it at Carnegie-Mellon and choreographs fights when he can’t get work acting.”
“Intriguing avocation.”
“So if he takes a swing at you, duck.”
“Anything else?”
“Lots of things. Your young Renfield, for instance. He neglected to put several major credits on his résumé. He’s actually done a New York Hamlet! Shakespeare-in-the-Park.”
“Eddie Lafferty?”
“So his agent says.”
“New York agent?”
“Right. Vacationing in Paris. My phone bill may bankrupt you.”
“Did Lafferty happen to play Macbeth, too?”
“No. Why?”
“That’s what I want to start focusing on. Find me any connection to Macbeth.”
“I trust you have a reason. Macbeth is a fairly popular play.”
“Macbeth was Samuel Phelps’s last production in the Fens Theater. And our joker sends messages from” Macbeth.”
“Phelps,” said Mary thoughtfully. “I tried to trace the family. Find out if they still had any interest in the Fens.”
“And?”
“Hard going. The wife died soon after Samuel. Two sons: George and Thomas. George attempted to make a go of the theater, but failed. He tried to sell it, wound up practically giving it to Boston State. They wanted it for a school. Then their enrollment dropped and it went back on the market. It belongs to some holding company now. You know, Michael, Acme or Bonded or Universal something-or-other. I’m trying to check the title now.”
“Keep after it. What about Phelps’s grandchildren?”
“A blank.”
“How about the résumé photos I asked for?”
“Time, Michael. It takes time. Maybe tomorrow—”
“I’ve got to run. Look, if I invite you to Darien’s backers’ gala tonight, will you come?”
“What’s tonight?”
“Monday.”
“Odd night for a party.”
“You’re telling me. Monday’s ‘dark night’ in Boston. All the theaters are closed. That’s probably why old Phelps held his soirees on Mondays. If Phelps did it, Darien can do it.”
“I’d be delighted to come.”
“Jamie Blakeley will be there,” Spraggue warned.
“Ah. But so will John Langford.” Aunt Mary sighed deeply.
“I’ve got to get back to rehearsal.”
“Michael, I’ve got papers that need your signature.”
“Financial drivel?”
“What else?”
“How about forgery?” Spraggue said. “I should just give you power of attorney.”
“Nonsense. That’s what the old and feeble give the young, not the other way around.”
“I’ll sign whatever you want, as soon as I get a minute.”
“There’s a report from your California vineyard. Not a half-bad investment.”
“Praise from the master is praise—”
“Even though I suspect you went into it more for the sake of a lady than a dollar. There is a letter from your co-owner, Kate.”
“Don’t open it. It’s probably obscene.”
“Michael!”
“’Bye, Aunt Mary. See you tonight.” He hung up and headed back toward the theater.
Had he forgotten anything? The Macbeth connection: Caroline had played Lady Macbeth. Langford had played Macbeth. The photos: one of the lesser-known actors could be using someone else’s résumé, substituting his own photograph. Stage names … Hudson, an expert in stage fighting … Jamie Blakeley: Mary would take care of him. She’d turn him nicely inside out, inspect the stuffing, and return him to his original shape.
Spraggue took the long cool corridor to the steps, descended to the dressing rooms. Just time to scan Karen’s book on Boston theater, check the index for references to Phelps, senior or junior.
Two sons: George and Thomas. Children when father Samuel had taken his life? Georgie and Tommy. No. Spraggue remembered the photograph, the white-haired gentleman with the massive beard. Must have been in his sixties when he died. Grown-up children. What was there about that photograph? Samuel Borgmann Phelps. Georgie Phelps. Tommy Phelps.
Georgie Phelps. Georgina Phelps. Georgina Phillips!
Spraggue found Karen’s book wedged into a crack on the shelf over his makeup table. He thumbed through it as he strode down the hall toward Georgina’s dressing room. Her door was closed.
Spraggue knocked. No answer. He opened the door.
The photograph was there in plain sight. Slightly younger, the beard trimmer, darker, the beady eyes unmistakable: Samuel Borgmann Phelps.
Spraggue shook his head in disbelief.
Chapter Fifteen
“Places! Three-five. Last act, last scene!” Karen’s cry reverberated through the
corridor, but still Spraggue didn’t move.
“Spraggue? You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything I can do?”
“You could call me Michael.”
He was rewarded with a fleeting, quickly controlled smile.
“Seriously,” he said, turning away from the photo on Georgina’s dressing room wall, “where’s Georgie?”
“She’s only on in Act One. Probably gone for a walk. Sure you’re all right?”
“Fine.”
“Places, then. Darien’s turning blue.”
Spraggue followed the stage manager up the steps.
Arthur Darien was fuming. “Where’s Langford?” he demanded. “Isn’t John down there? You said he was in the building—”
“In his dressing room, Arthur,” Karen said soothingly. “On his way.”
Caroline Ambrose, seated in the front row of the auditorium, tossed her dark hair and snorted. She crossed her legs and angrily tugged the hem of her skirt over her knees. “Does he have his little playmate with him, Karen? I do hope you knocked first. So embarrassing for you.”
Greg Hudson, waiting in the wings for his entrance, turned and walked away. Spraggue could barely see the left side of his face, the tic jumping in his clenched jaw.
Karen ignored Caroline, taking no notice of the actress’s rising voice, flushed cheeks. Darien reacted.
“Caroline,” he said severely. “I don’t want to see any of this onstage. You and Lucy are best friends. I don’t give a damn about your sex lives and I will not have this show affected by them. Understood?”
“I’m a professional, Arthur,” she answered coldly. “I do my job.”
Darien squeezed her arm, gave her his best kind-uncle smile. A pudgy, heavily jowled man, lounging against the stage, giggled. Spraggue stared: Gustave Grayling, easily identifiable from his résumé photo. Was Grayling chortling at the idea of Langford in trouble with both director and leading lady? Or did his jealousy of Langford exist only in that amazingly vain actor’s mind?