Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  “Perhaps now is not the time for insults,” said Louise.

  Denied their preferred form of communication, the group fell silent. An unconscious Mr. Harney had been deposited in a corner. Peanut lay between his feet. Nedda Fiske sat slumped in a chair, chin on her hand like a sullen student kept after school. Claude Arden on the other hand was agitated, sitting with elbows on the table, eyes on the door as he awaited the arrival of the police.

  “This is intolerable,” he said more than once. “Intolerable.” His wife advised him to be quiet. He shot her an ugly look.

  Adele St. John said, “Where on earth are the police?”

  On cue, the door opened and an enormous man appeared. The more tactful “large” or unkind “fat” failed to do him justice. He was proudly, pointedly massive, belly straining at his tan overcoat with bombast as if he had added six inches to his girth since breakfast and wished to show it off. The sleeves were so tight about the arms I thought he must have to peel the coat from his body. A mere double chin was for amateurs, his was a treble, possibly quadruple. His cheeks had a perpetually stuffed look to them, the fullness of his face sinking his features in flesh, his mouth only noticeable by a bristling walrus mustache. His tiny, dark eyes took in the room, resting on each of us one at a time. Then he removed his hat with a flourish to reveal a gleaming pate spattered with a few strands of dark hair and announced himself as Detective Harrison J. Fullerton.

  Instantly, our little band regained solidarity. Glances were exchanged: This was the famous Detective Fullerton? The terror of the Tenderloin, said to dispatch villains and reluctant witnesses with one blow from his mighty fist? The man who smashed the infamous ticket scalpers ring of 1909 and jailed a wily gang of pickpocket usherettes? In his waddling girth, he looked more enfant than terrible.

  “A man is dead,” he announced.

  Shutting the door, he ambled into the center of the room and removed a small notebook from the tight confines of his coat pocket. “The deceased was one Sidney Warburton.” He spoke with the deep wheeze of a church organ, which gave weight to every word, even as it suggested that word might be his last. “Mr. Warburton, I know, was a man of the theater. You were all his”—a pause to wetly inhale—“associates.” Peanut cocked his head.

  Leo stood to introduce himself, holding out a hand, which was not taken.

  Detective Fullerton said, “I am told you argued with the deceased shortly before his demise.”

  “I did,” said Leo.

  “The subject of your … disagreement?”

  “Work.”

  Even to my ears, this sounded evasive. Blanche Arden spoke up. “I assure you, Detective, it’s very common for creative people to get passionate. What may look like a battle to some is just a healthy clearing of the air.”

  “Chairs were thrown,” intoned the detective.

  “Well, a chair,” said Leo.

  “And I would say toppled, rather than thrown,” said Mrs. St. John.

  “It just sort of fell over when he stood up,” said Violet.

  Seeing that Leo was protected by a web of feminine conspiracy, Detective Fullerton turned to a woman who had not spoken: Louise. He asked her name and she gave it as “Mrs. William Tyler.” Then introduced me as her maid, “Miss Jane Prescott.”

  “Where were you when the shot was fired?”

  “I was sitting at the table,” whispered Louise.

  “Did you witness the argument in question?”

  “Not really.” She kept her gaze averted from me. “Mr. Warburton had so many arguments with people, I didn’t pay attention. Not to speak ill of the dead, of course.”

  “What Mrs. Tyler means,” said Leo, “was that the deceased was a producer.”

  The detective turned to me. “And you, Miss Prescott? Did you hear anything of the argument?”

  I confessed to being on the dance floor at the time. Rubbing his notebook between pudgy thumb and forefinger, Fullerton inquired, “Mrs. Tyler, was Mr. Hirschfeld at the table with you when you heard shots fired?”

  Louise shrugged helplessly. “It was very crowded and very noisy.”

  This was true, but it was a poor excuse for not knowing whether someone was sitting two feet away from you. Fullerton let the silence stretch to make the point until Leo admitted, “I was upstairs. Warburt—Mr. Warburton keeps a room at the hotel. I … have a key.”

  Leo paused oddly before his confession concerning the key.

  “Did anyone see you in this room?”

  “Me,” said Violet.

  “And what was the reason you went upstairs to this room following your argument?” asked the detective.

  “… Personal,” said Leo.

  “Everything is personal, Mr. Hirschfeld.”

  “Husband and wife personal,” said Violet. Who had the good grace to blush.

  A ripple of irritation went through the room. The detective bunched his mouth. Unbunched his mouth. Then he turned to Mr. Harney. But before he could rouse the sleeping comic, Mrs. St. John said, “Mr. Harney was at the table the entire time, Detective. There’s no point in delaying us all further by questioning him.”

  I glanced at her, unsure whether she was lying or mistaken. Mr. Harney had been rather dramatically unwell and it wasn’t inconceivable that he would have lurched to the nearest men’s room, say the one where Mr. Warburton had met his end. On the other hand, in his current condition, it seemed unlikely Harney could see straight, much less shoot straight. But he might have crossed paths with the killer. I wondered if there was a tactful way to inquire if anyone had seen a puddle of sick on the floor.

  Swinging left, Detective Fullerton boomed, “Mr. Claude Arden!”

  That gentleman had been sitting, head resting on clasped hands as if in prayer. Now he said, “Yes.”

  “Your whereabouts at the time of the shooting?”

  “I was dancing with my wife.” He extended a hand in Blanche’s direction.

  The Ardens had been dancing. But the burst of applause that greeted the end of their dance had come well before the shot rang out. Blanche had come back to the table. Claude had not.

  “As a longtime associate of Mr. Warburton’s, do you have any suspicions as to his killer?”

  The Ardens looked at each other. “Well, he did run afoul of the Syndicate,” said Claude.

  “A group of men that controlled theater for many years,” Mrs. St. John explained to Louise. “They owned most of the theaters. If you weren’t with them, you simply couldn’t get work. But Sidney bucked them by bringing actors to his side and won.”

  “We owe our careers to Sidney,” Blanche chimed in. “But the Syndicate’s all but died out. And I can’t imagine Frohman or Klaw coming after Sidney with a gun.”

  The detective flipped through his notebook, then asked, “Was Mr. Warburton in financial difficulties?”

  The Ardens looked surprised, Mrs. St. John intrigued. I recalled that heated conversation in Warburton’s office. What’s the problem? Your investor getting cold feet? Or maybe they’ve had enough of the lies. One article I had read suggested that his last show had been a failure, hence his eagerness to try something new. It raised the question: Where did Warburton’s money come from? Who was this shadow investor? And what lies had he told them?

  Then Leo said firmly, “The show is fine.” He looked to the actors as he said it and I had the feeling it was reassurance for them, rather than information for the detective.

  He added, “Detective, if you need financial details, I can arrange a meeting with Mr. Warburton’s assistant, Miss Biederman. I’m sure she has all the documents you need.”

  Harriet, I thought. She would be devastated.

  Then Detective Fullerton reached into his pocket with his handkerchief and took out a small pistol. At the sight of it, Nedda gasped. I knew nothing about guns, but even I could see it was a pretty thing. Small, easily concealed, with an engraved ivory handle and gold filigree on the barrel. It did not look like a serious weapon, alt
hough I had no doubt it could kill. It looked like a dandy’s pistol, something for the man who prized style above all else …

  “This was found on the floor of the washroom, not far from Mr. Warburton’s body. It is an unusual piece. Do any of you recognize it?”

  No one answered.

  “Anyone?” intoned the detective.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Blanche said irritably. “We all know whose it is.”

  Nedda Fiske sat up and fixed her with a hard stare.

  “I’m sorry to point fingers at the guilty party, Nedda, but I’m exhausted and I want to go home.”

  Mr. Arden joined his wife’s cause. “Come now, it’ll come out sooner or later.”

  Mrs. St. John put a kind hand on the comic actress’s arm. “You can’t protect him.” Miss Fiske struck the hand away.

  With a sigh, the detective said, “One of its more unusual features is an engraving. ‘To Floyd…’”

  Clapping a hand to her mouth, Nedda ran from the room. There was unease as she left—ought we to stop her? But Detective Fullerton called to a policeman outside; Nedda was to be detained, but treated kindly. Then he murmured, “Poor lady. Can anyone tell me about the owner of this firearm?”

  “Floyd Lombardo,” said Claude Arden. “Also known as Lombardo LeRoi, also known as Nicholas Armisen, and Frederick Rosenbaum. He’s a gambler. With a singular talent for choosing the lame animal.”

  “He is a lame animal,” said Mrs. St. John.

  “Does anyone know why Mr. Lombardo should wish to kill Sidney Warburton?”

  Leo answered. “Lombardo is a leech. He borrows, steals, owes people money. He made himself a problem at the theater and Warburton threw him out. Warburton also told Miss Fiske that Lombardo had, uh, misbehaved himself, and that made her mad at him. She was his only source of income, so I guess that left him pretty desperate. Probably he thought with Sidney out of the way, she’d take him back.”

  “Does anyone know the man’s address? Associates?” asked Fullerton.

  “I believe there’s a wife somewhere,” said Claude. “Chicago, maybe.”

  “One in Florida as well,” said Mrs. St. John.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Orange Grove or some such.”

  Louise’s eyes were enormous.

  The killer identified, the exhausted group looked hopefully at the detective. Could we leave now? It felt selfish, but truthfully, what more needed to be said? Lombardo’s gun had been found by the body. Certainly he had motive, although I wasn’t sure how much was financial calculation and how much was revenge. He had not struck me as a thoughtful man, even in the best of circumstances. The swift decision, made on instinct, the grand gesture, bold action that risked all—that was his métier. Fortune favors the bold. With Louise’s money in play, he must have felt the show would go on without Warburton. Probably he was well experienced in reducing Nedda to groveling by withholding affection and making her worry. How like him, I thought, to ruin his own ill-gotten chances by dropping the weapon at the scene.

  I heard an odd bark, the rustle of clothes, and looked over to see that Roland Harney had emerged from the depths. For a moment, he gazed reproachfully at the group. “What’s going on? Why are we here?”

  “There’s been a murder, Mr. Harney,” said Louise. “I’m afraid Mr. Warburton has been shot.”

  “Shot?” Pouchy, bloodshot eyes darted around the room. “Which one of you bastards did it?”

  7

  “Poor Miss Fiske,” lamented Louise as we made our way out of Rector’s. “Do you think we ought to look for her? She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  I was more concerned with getting Louise home than the heartache of Miss Fiske. Outside the club, we encountered a mass of reporters. At the sight of Louise, they pounced, shoving, shouting, desperate for a quote. I searched for any sight of the Ghost as I held tight to Louise and shouted, “Please, let us through. We don’t know anything, please, just let us…”

  Then I became aware of a body between us and the crush, heard a lower, kinder voice say, “Ladies,” as we were redirected. I kept my head down and my feet moving as we maneuvered through the crowd. When the shouting had faded, and I could feel the warm breeze on my face, I looked to thank our deliverer and saw Michael Behan.

  Louise was acquainted with Mr. Behan, having met him when he visited me at her home following the death of George Rutherford. Sensitive to her anxieties, Mr. Behan had always been careful to show her the deference due a leading society matron, and he made a point of greeting her first.

  To me, he said, “And the next time you’re at a crime scene, for God’s sake, make them take you out the side exit.”

  Then he smiled and I smiled back.

  Louise thanked him for our rescue, then said, “You’re not writing about Mr. Warburton’s murder, are you?”

  He reached for his notepad. “Well, I was writing about a shooting at Rector’s. Now I gather I’m writing about Sidney Warburton’s murder.”

  “Oh—please, Mr. Behan, could I beg you not to?”

  “‘Mr. Ragtime Musical Shot Dead’? The story’s already out, Mrs. Tyler. Some of these fellows have waiters on the payroll.”

  Louise blinked. “That’s terrible.”

  “A sign of the times,” said Behan, raising his eyebrows at me, Is she really that innocent? I raised mine, Yes, and let her be.

  Then I said, “But you won’t mention Mrs. Tyler, will you?” I imagined Louise’s mother-in-law reading the headline: MRS. WILLIAM TYLER FLEES RECTOR’S AFTER BROADWAY SLAY! No wonder Louise was nervous.

  “No, Mrs. Tyler, I don’t see any reason to bring you into it.”

  I smiled reassuringly, but Louise’s brow was creased with worry. As the Ghost pulled up, she asked, “Mr. Behan, have you ever ridden in a Rolls-Royce?”

  As it happened, Mr. Behan had not, but he settled in comfortably as Louise instructed Horst to take us on a scenic tour of Central Park. I perched on the jump seat opposite while she gave an account of her association with the deceased.

  “So, you’ve invested some money in this show,” said the reporter when she was done.

  Louise bit her lip. “Quite a lot, actually.”

  Being tired, I allowed a small, shocked utterance to escape. Louise turned to me. “It’s just I had no idea how expensive art can be. So much for the silk, a bit for new lights, a taxi home for the Ardens, well, you can’t expect them to walk, steak for Peanut…”

  Gin for his owner, I thought. Clearly, every member of the cast and crew had found a soft touch in their new patroness. This was just the sort of entanglement William had hoped I would help Louise avoid.

  “And I couldn’t leave poor Mr. Hirschfeld at the mercy of Sidney Warburton. It may have been his theater, but it was Mr. Hirschfeld’s vision.”

  Behan’s mouth quirked at the word “vision,” but he nodded with appropriate solemnity.

  “If you put Mr. Warburton being shot in a bathroom on the front page, it would hurt the show terribly.”

  “And there goes your investment.”

  “Yes, there goes my investment,” she echoed.

  Michael Behan let silence speak for him. He might like Louise Tyler, might feel some concern for my continued employment. But he had a baby on the way and his own employment to think about. A story had to be found.

  “Perhaps,” I suggested, “if you focused on the man suspected of shooting Mr. Warburton…”

  “There’s a suspect?” said Behan.

  “There is. A ghastly man just drowning in scandal. In fact, it’s a tragedy that such a distinguished man as Sidney Warburton—married with five children—should have his life ended by such a depraved character.”

  Behan glanced at Louise, a brief struggle between conscience, affection, and pragmatism playing out over his face. Happily, pragmatism and conscience came to an agreement, and he said, “Fine. Warburton’s an American treasure and the man who killed him a degenerate louse. And the man who killed him would b
e?”

  “Floyd Lombardo,” said Louise as Horst drew up in front of the Tyler home. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee, Mr. Behan? Jane can tell you all about him.”

  She glanced at the house where the first-floor light was on. William had waited up. I had a feeling she did not want me to hear what he had to say to her. Or she to him.

  * * *

  Michael Behan got his coffee. And a ham sandwich. Since I hadn’t eaten all night, I got one, too. When we were seated at the kitchen table, he took an enormous bite, then asked, “How did you let a nice woman like Louise Tyler get mixed up in a bug-ridden disaster like this?”

  “It’s not a disaster,” I said defensively.

  “This show’s been in trouble since the get-go. Warburton’s a vaudeville huckster, he’s got no business doing ‘musical theater,’ whatever that’s supposed to be. The Ardens are a collective pain in the arse, Fiske certifiable. Their salaries probably put the costs sky-high, so Warburton tried to go cheap by using a composer no one’s heard of. Then he drags in the wife of six months, the tempting Miss Tempest…”

  Stung, I said, “Is that what the people call her?”

  “So I’m told by those who know her least.”

  I bit into my sandwich with some savagery. “Well, it’s Mrs. Hirschfeld now.”

  Behan examined me; I had the distinct feeling he was pondering the sum of two plus two.

  “This composer—it wouldn’t be the songwriter you were running around with last summer, would it? The one who needed a punch in the nose?”

  “I said he didn’t need a punch in the nose.”

  “What’s your opinion these days?”

  “… Maybe a small punch.”

  Behan was quiet a long moment; a thought came to him and he jotted it down. Then planting a firm period on the page, he said, “That explains how Mrs. Tyler came to be in the exciting world of show business. Not to mention present at the scene of Sidney Warburton’s murder. And on that subject…?”

  Taking a long sip of coffee, I said, “To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t care less about Sidney Warburton’s murder.”