by Linda Barnes
Spraggue held out a wrinkled brown paper bag that cradled a $1.98 bottle of muscatel. “Last chance for a hit before I leave,” he warned.
“Get out of here.”
Spraggue extricated himself from the rear door of the van, taking care to slide unobtrusively into the shadows. His down-and-out drunk act didn’t fit with the inconspicuous gray vehicle parked on one side of the Charles Street entrance to the Boston Public Garden. He was grateful for the crummy hat; it was just starting to rain.
He made a wayward circuit of the Garden, pausing often to hoist the muscatel. When, he wondered, had the neat signs describing each tree given way to clumsily gouged and intertwined initials signifying undying love? An occasional wino tipped his hat, but the drizzle served as a convenient shield. Man couldn’t be expected to socialize with his head buried in his collar, shoulders hunched to ward off the chill raindrops.
All quiet along Charles, along Beacon Street, Arlington, Boylston. The glistening windows of the Ritz-Carlton dining room seemed worlds away, not just across the road. The rocking gait Spraggue had adopted for his skid-row character got more comfortable, felt more real. He traversed the central Garden paths, headed for the lagoon.
In the bright daytime, the lagoon was the bustling center of the Garden. Popcorn and ice-cream hawkers shared the bridge with the tourists, the field-tripping schoolchildren, the hurrying businessmen and women who craved the half-hour’s sunshine more than their lunchtime tuna-on-rye. Clouds of colored balloons decorated the green bridge railings. Below, the graceful, elderly swan boats, bicycle-pedaled by vacationing Harvard students, steered precarious paths through V-shaped duck formations.
At 1:15 A.M. the bridge was empty. A semi-deflated pink balloon, string slip-knotted to an iron piling, hung forlornly down toward the dark water. An occasional courting couple strolled by, reflected in the glow of the high globular bridge lamps; the bums passed more frequently. Spraggue imitated their tottering steps as he descended the stairs on the Charles Street side, taking care to shield his face from the intrusive lights.
No one familiar in the Garden tonight. Not yet. The sudden noise of a cracking twig spun him around to face emptiness. His face relaxed into a grin. Less chance than usual of getting mugged in the Garden, with every other tramp a plainclothes cop. He wondered about that last entwined twosome crossing the bridge. Very romantic. If they weren’t undercover cops, the police would probably find them breaking several statutes in the bushes by the lagoon.
The small tunnel under the bridge was the meeting place. Spraggue walked through casually, his eyes photographing the graffiti-blotched gray stone. An empty bottle of Southern Comfort adorned the path. For a moment the mist cleared, then he was back in the open again. He circled the lagoon once, dawdled by the Edward Everett Hale statue, headed back toward the van.
“Jesus,” said the recruit who answered his discreet knock, “I was gonna tell ya the Salvation Army’s up the road.” He gave Spraggue a wide smile and a hand up. “You’re soaked. Guys out there’ll be bitchin’ for days.”
“Lieutenant up front?” Spraggue cut him off.
“Yeah.”
One twenty-eight: Hurley was staring at his watch when Spraggue came in. One of eight walkie-talkies lined up on a narrow table suddenly crackled into life.
“Target One entering now from Boylston Street. On time.”
“Any sign of—” Spraggue began.
“No,” Hurley snapped. “Bad night for this. Drizzle makes it hard to see. Maybe nobody’ll show.”
“Maybe,” Spraggue agreed. “Did any of them call the cops?”
“Just your Miss Ambrose. She came wailing in about dinnertime, going like a siren. We should have filmed the scene and sold it.”
“Others?”
“Nope. We could draw a crowd—or a blank.”
“Lieutenant?” The big tape deck, set up against the right-hand wall of the van, began to whirl. Eddie’s whisper filled the van. “I’m going under the bridge now. Nobody in sight.”
Hurley slammed his fists down on the table. “I told that kid not to contact me! I should have used a decoy!”
“A double could lure your murderer into the park, under the bridge, but he couldn’t trap him,” said Spraggue coolly. “I can see it in a courtroom. ‘Naturally, I was curious, Your Honor. I wanted to know what could be in that box to make it worth fifty thousand dollars. I should have called in the police, I know, but—’”
“We’d have the money,” Hurley said. “That’s confession enough.”
“If he brings any money. He might just bring his trusty knife. If at first you do succeed—”
Hurley wiped his big hands on his pants’ legs. “I bet the kid’ll blow it.”
“I coached him. He’s not a bad actor—should remember his lines—”
“He’d better.”
“He’s got a hell of a lot of motivation,” Spraggue said quietly.
“Why doesn’t somebody report in?”
“Stop stewing, Hurley! Think you’d never been on a stakeout before—”
“My ass is the one in a sling if anything goes wrong, Spraggue. You know what old Captain Menlo’s like.”
“Menlo’s busy.”
“Yeah. Working on a phoned-in hot tip. I’d just like to know if it was you phoned it in.”
“He’s out of the way, right? And if you cop Langford’s murderer—”
“My life’s going to be just peachy no matter how this plays out.” Hurley looked so glum, Spraggue wanted to laugh.
Another walkie-talkie sputtered. “We got a guy entering from Arlington Street. Looks good. Nervous. Collar pulled up, hat pulled down—”
“A big, fat man?” Spraggue demanded.
“You know the talkies only go one way, Spraggue. You’ll find out soon enough.”
“How long do you figure it’ll take him to get to Eddie?”
“If it’s not some lonesome dude setting off for an evening’s frolic in the Combat Zone—”
“Come on, Hurley!”
“Depends. He may be cautious, circle the park first. He may just decide to get the damn thing over with.”
Sound came from the tape-deck speaker: someone clearing his throat. Spraggue concentrated on relaxing his neck and shoulder muscles. Time passed. Bells chimed out two o’clock. Something would have to happen soon or—
“I ought to turn you in to the cops.” The voice over the speaker was low, whispery, but recognizable.
“Who the hell is it?” Hurley thundered.
Spraggue swallowed audibly.
“I brought you along on his little outing ’cause I can’t tell the players without a program. Who is it, Spraggue?”
“Darien,” he said.
“You thought it was the house manager, the one they call Spider, didn’t you?” There was a shade of triumph in Hurley’s deep voice.
“No,” Spraggue answered flatly. “I knew it was Darien.”
“Do that.” Eddie’s light tenor was surprisingly, tauntingly loud. “Call the police.”
No noise. Darien hesitating? Maybe all the figures added up to a wrong conclusion. Damn tape recorders, anyway. Spraggue longed for a TV screen, a way to note the subtle shift in a forced smile, the sudden lift of an eyebrow.
“Why did you phone?” Darien asked.
“I told you. I have something that belongs to you. I’m not in a position to convert it to cash, so I thought you might like to buy it back.”
“That’s Caroline’s, I believe.” Good. Eddie must have shown him the box. Spraggue nodded at Hurley. Everything according to schedule.
“I’m not asking you to buy flowers, Darien. You can buy silence, though—with a little nose-candy bonus.”
“Five thousand was all I could get.”
“That leaves forty-five to go.”
“How will I get in touch with you?” Darien asked.
“You won’t. I’ll get in touch with you. On my terms. Believe me, you’ve got no choice.”
A brief crackle.
“He’s passing the envelope,” Hurley said exultantly. “We’ve got him!”
“Don’t go.” It was Eddie’s voice, unexpectedly harsh. “I’d like to count it.”
“Hurry up.”
“Don’t order me around, Darien! I want to take my time, look at you, figure out what a woman like Alison saw in you—”
“Let go of me,” Darien whispered.
Hurley’s eyebrows shot up.
Eddie’s voice was a grim monotone. “Listen to me, Darien. You’re not getting away with it. Not because of Langford’s death. Because of Alison’s. Look at me. Can you see her in me? Can you? I’ve got you trapped, hooked and wiggling. This place is teeming with cops. I’m working with them. See this microphone? Everything you’ve said—”
A sound of ripping fabric, of splashing and cries, tore through the sound system.
“Jesus, Spraggue!” Hurley yelled. “You teach the kid those lines? Nice quiet arrest on the way back to the hotel—”
Hurley turned. He was talking to air. Spraggue had vanished.
The drizzle had intensified to bone-chilling rain. A gust of wind knocked Spraggue’s hat to the ground as he ran toward the bridge. He couldn’t see, but he heard the floundering in the lagoon, the squelching, running footsteps.
“Eddie!” he called.
“All right … I’m okay.” The answering voice was weak, but close enough for Spraggue to get a fix on. He waded into the waist-deep lagoon, dragged out the sodden bundle.
“All right. Get Darien. Across the lake.…”
Spraggue entrusted Gene to two tramps who came running forward, suddenly alert. Then he splashed on across the lagoon, toward the far shore and a fast-fading, half-running figure.
“Darien,” he shouted. The wind spat the word back in his face.
The silhouette disappeared, appeared, starkly outlined by a street lamp, then gone. Spraggue followed it. The lights at the park’s perimeter were stronger. Flashing blue lights, swirling over police cruisers, marked the exits. Their beams herded Darien, drove him toward the center of the Garden. Spraggue’s soaked pants’ legs flapped about his ankles. He hoped Hurley had warned his men not to shoot.
Darien ran for the bridge, bent over, stumbling. Spraggue cursed; his left shoe, lagoon-soaked, tripped him up. He kicked it off.
Darien was halfway across the bridge when the cruiser parked on the other side flashed its brights. He turned back; Spraggue blocked his path. The director retreated sideways toward the railing, pressing his back against a stone column.
“Don’t come any closer!” His voice was wrenched by great grasping breaths, but surprisingly strong.
Spraggue heard Hurley answer, voice mechanized by a bullhorn. “You’re surrounded, Darien. We won’t hurt you—”
Something glinted in Darien’s right hand. “I have a knife,” he said.
“There’s nothing you can do with it,” Hurley replied firmly. “Put it down.”
“Spraggue?” Darien turned to face him, the glare shining off his reddened eyes. Spraggue felt the silent support of policemen at his back. Darien’s gaze shifted. Spraggue knew that if he’d been alone, Darien would have tried to take him. Thirty years’ difference in age, a foot in height. No matter. Darien’s eyes were mad.
He surveyed the situation—water below and to his rear, police on either side. He measured the distance from bridge to water, a paltry eight-foot flop into muddy ignominy, no glorious Golden Gate dive. Through it all, those wide staring eyes never faltered; he kept the knife pointed, hovering in a wide semicircle. His mouth opened and closed and a harsh sobbing sound emerged. It took Spraggue a long time to realize it was laughter. When Darien finally spoke, his voice was totally controlled.
He talked to Spraggue as if they were alone—kind-uncle-anxious-to-explain. The knife circled; the eyes flashed warily from side to side. “I always wanted to do Macbeth,” he said, as if it were the natural beginning to a conversation on a bridge in the middle of the night, dead in the sights of five S&W six-shot revolvers. “Do you want to know why?”
From across the bridge, Hurley nodded eagerly. “Why?” Spraggue asked, too loudly.
“Because I find the ending so powerful. You remember, ‘I will not kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet.’”
“Yes,” said Spraggue. “Throw the knife in the water, Arthur.”
“Macbeth was wrong, wrong throughout the play. He traded honor for calumny, love for hatred.” Here Darien’s voice wavered. “But Macbeth dies a hero! That’s how I would direct it. He knows he’ll die, but still he fights. ‘Lay on, Macduff/And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’”
It should have been ridiculous. An old man with a knife, rain and tears pouring down his face, quoting Shakespeare to the police.
“Kill me,” Darien pleaded. “I will not yield.”
“No one’s going to kill you,” Hurley said. “Put down the knife.”
“You still don’t see. Don’t you know what I was? I drank, Spraggue, but I was a great director. People should remember my name, not like Nichols, not like Papp, but like Stanislavsky, Meyerhold. The classic men of the theater—”
“Like Samuel Borgmann Phelps,” Spraggue said.
“Yes. But the pressure, the pressure. I drank. And they knew. And the scripts stopped coming. No one would trust me; no one would back me. I needed that money, Spraggue. To prove myself again. It would have worked. This play would have put me back on top, where I belong. Don’t you see?”
“But Langford got in the way?”
Darien tried to laugh, failed. “He knew. He came to me like some bright Boy Scout brimming with his news before the show. He never suspected I had anything—”
“Spider,” Spraggue said.
“Yes. He thought Spider was pulling the strings. No one ordered me around, Spraggue. I ruled. What was Langford? An actor, a puppet. I made him dance; I won him applause, awards. Me. I could do that for any actor. For you. What did I need Langford for?”
“Put down the knife, Arthur.”
“No.” With his left hand he unbuttoned his coat, loosened his shirt.
“Macbeth would never kill himself,” said Spraggue.
The director turned to him, a smile lighting up his mad eyes. “I remember. ‘Why should I play the Roman fool and die on mine own sword?’ Right? ‘Whiles I see lives, the gashes do better upon them.’” As he spoke, his voice grew wilder, stronger. He hefted his knife and dove at Spraggue.
“I can handle him!” Spraggue cried. “Don’t shoot!”
He jumped back, and the tip of the knife sliced by him, an inch from his chest. Blue light glittered off the blade. He ripped his sodden jacket off, wound it around his left forearm, used it as a shield, drawing Darien closer, waiting for Hurley to get in place, to twist the dagger from Darien’s grip.
He reckoned without madness. Darien fought like an animal, writhed, slashed; a shrill stream of abuse escaped from his bubbling mouth. The knife caught Spraggue’s shirt-sleeve; a thin line of fire burned down his right arm. He hooked a leg behind the director’s knee, tripped him up, and pounced on the hand that held the knife.
The battle changed; Darien no longer tried for Spraggue. He twisted the knife in, toward his own face, toward his eyes. They arm-wrestled in grim sweaty silence.
Other hands reached to help. Blue-clad bodies knelt at Darien’s side, surrounded him. The director cried out, went suddenly limp.
“His heart! How’s his heart?” The voice must have been Hurley’s.
“I don’t know,” Spraggue gasped.
How Darien pulled it off, how he twisted out of the melee armed with a police revolver, no one knew.
“Don’t—” Spraggue cried. His words were drowned in the blast of a single shot. Darien’s gun clattered to the ground. His hand reached up, grasped his side. He took a long time to fall.
Hurley bent over him, shaking his head as his fingers searched f
or a pulse.
“He didn’t have a—” Spraggue began. He looked down at Darien’s calm, baby-round face, white hair plastered down across his forehead. He shrugged, swallowed twice. “Christ, you did him a favor.”
Spraggue stood on the bridge, leaning against a column, deaf to all questions. He unrolled his jacket, put it on slowly. Inspected the cut in his arm: a scratch. Then he pulled his collar up around his ears and walked away. Voices called after him. He kept walking. After a while, the drumming rain blocked out all other noise.
Chapter Thirty
“You sound terrific,” Hurley said after Spraggue sneezed for the third time in two minutes. “Drink?”
Satch’s, behind police headquarters on Stanhope Street, was almost empty at three in the afternoon. They slid onto two bar stools.
“Just coffee,” said Spraggue. “Black. I’m all doped up on antibiotics.”
Hurley gave his order to the barmaid. Bourbon on the rocks. Spraggue raised an eyebrow.
“Coffee,” Hurley muttered sadly. “And here it was gonna be my treat. Serves you right for wandering around half the night soaking wet. I almost put out an APB—but I figured it might look bad: loony millionaire dressed up like a vagrant. What would people think? And with your luck, Menlo would have been the one to spot you. He’d shoot on sight.”
“What’s he want?” Spraggue asked, annoyed. “His case is solved.”
“My case, Spraggue. I’m grabbing a lot of points on this one. I’ll be out of Records so fast—”
The drinks arrived. Spraggue tried to smell his coffee, gave it up. The steam felt good anyhow. He cradled his cup. “So that explains the celebration.”
“And I thought you might like to know that we picked up your friend, the Spider. Got him at the airport.”
“Congratulations.”
Hurley sipped bourbon. “You know, based on those calls your boy, Eddie, made, only one out of four citizens calls the police when threatened with blackmail. Caroline Ambrose was the only one who came to us. Darien—well, Darien had reason not to. Spider heads for Miami—”
“Probably bound for points South American.”