Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  “I say, be careful.”

  And then I let her go.

  * * *

  Afterward, in need of distraction, I dawdled by a newsstand. The night was extremely warm, the air so humid, you could hardly call it air; every few seconds, it seemed, I had to tug at my collar or swipe my wrist across my brow. The papers were full of the divorce of the duchess of Westminster. Yet another leader was out of power in Mexico—although he, unlike his predecessor, was still living. A color illustration of daredevil Pearl White beamed on the cover of the latest edition of Photoplay, the new magazine devoted to movies—Blanche Arden’s favorite magazine, in fact. The murder of Lulu Bailey was still on the front page, as was the murder of Sidney Warburton. So far, there was no report of his liaison with Violet and I wondered how Fullerton had managed to keep the chatty waiters of Rector’s quiet. The police were still looking for others who may have taken part in the bombing; it was believed someone had helped Michael Murphy leave the country. The financiers were anxious about the difficulties between Austria and Serbia.

  Taking in the miasma of headlines, I had the curious sense of approaching disaster. But when I searched inside myself for energy to resist, to say, No, we shall do this and not that, we shall change course, I felt numb exhaustion. It was late, probably later than I thought.

  Really, it was clear where I should go. The Tyler home was not far. The elevated would take me. A streetcar would get me close. I could even walk, the streets were bustling enough for safety. And yet I found myself in front of the Sidney Theater. When I rang the bell at the stage door, I was not surprised when Leo opened it. It occurred to me to ask why he was there. But then he pushed the door wider and I simply went in.

  The theater was dark and empty. Leo had set up a work lamp by the piano. On the stage, there was a phonograph; a record lay on top of the piano in a paper envelope. Leo sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling. And sighed.

  “What isn’t working?” I asked, leaning on the piano.

  “What is working? I’m trying to decide what should happen at the end.”

  “Who gets Claude?”

  “I know it has to be Blanche. But I want Nedda to have…”

  He shook his head.

  “… want Vi to have a moment where the audience will think, No, he should have chosen her. It’s a song. She sings it, not him. But I can’t hear it.”

  “Do you have anything?”

  He came to the piano, played a melody. It was brief, melancholy, and uncertain.

  “That’s how it begins?”

  “That’s the whole thing. I know, it’s not much of a moment. More a … crawl off the stage and die.”

  “Why don’t you go home? Maybe you’ll be inspired.”

  Leo’s eyebrows had always been expressive. Their message now was that inspiration did not lie at home.

  “I’m sorry about…” I knew of no tidy way to refer to Violet’s affair with Warburton. “It must hurt.”

  “Terribly,” he said flippantly.

  Tired of casual talk about feelings, I said, “I don’t think there’s any shame in admitting you don’t enjoy hearing about your wife with another man. It has to be a shock if nothing else…”

  “Well, it would be a shock if I hadn’t known all along.” He played a pretty string of notes. “Sidney and Violet went way back.”

  “How way back?” He shook his head. “How way back, Leo?”

  “Before me. During me. And before you ask, no, I didn’t mind. I was the piano player with one hit song. If Violet Tempest wanted to try and make her married boyfriend jealous by playing around with me, I wasn’t going to say no. Sidney was getting tired of her—both onstage and off. He booked a bigger star to come on right after Vi’s act. The big star wanted more time, which meant Violet got less. Vi’s whole act is, she goes down the stairs slow and the audience gets a good look, right?”

  I agreed that did seem to be the whole act.

  “But to please the big star, Sidney made Violet go down the stairs faster. Too fast. One time she tripped and she let him have it. He was yelling, she was yelling. I felt bad for her, so the next time she did it, I played the song slow. After rehearsal, Violet came over to the piano and said, ‘Stop by the dressing room later, I want to show you something.’ Said it loud enough so Sidney would hear. I went by and she showed me something.”

  “How on earth did you end up married?”

  Here he hesitated. “Violet wanted Warburton to leave Mrs. W and all the little W s. It wasn’t going to happen, but Violet, as you’ve noticed, doesn’t always think things through. So she tells him there’s a sixth W on the way. He gives her some choices, none of which involve matrimony. Then he suggests she tell me it’s mine and I better do the right thing. She says, he won’t believe it, which I wouldn’t have, because…”

  This involved a level of detail best left to the imagination and I cleared my throat.

  “At any rate, Sidney comes to me and we have a very frank conversation about my bright future and Violet’s role therein. I end up married and writing the score to his new show. Not a bad deal all in all.”

  “But she was so upset when he died. How on earth can she still care for him?”

  “You don’t understand. Violet and Sidney—whatever he did, she forgave. After he gave her the good news that she would be getting married, only not to him, she was mad for a few weeks. For the ‘honeymoon’ he sent us to some dump in Niagara. I worked, she complained about Sidney. It was extremely romantic. But on the train back, she says, ‘Did I ever tell you about the time he met me in the hotel lobby with a single rose?’ I said, ‘Vi, you hate this guy now, forget the rose.’ She goes crazy, starts hitting me. ‘How dare you, Sidney and I are special, I will never forget that rose.’ Why are you laughing?”

  I covered my mouth, mumbled, “I’m sorry.” It had been the image of Leo dodging blows on the train.

  Then remembering their frequent absences, I observed that he seemed to have made the best of things.

  “Half the time, I was trying to calm her down because Sidney had been rotten to her.”

  “And the other half?” He shrugged. “Once you knew there was no baby, why stay married?”

  Swinging his leg over the bench to face me, he said, “I’ll do you a why, Miss Prescott—why did you leave?”

  Startled, I said, “I had to go with Mrs. Tyler for her sister’s wedding. In Europe.”

  “Why did you leave me?”

  His antic face still for once, and for a moment, I felt remorse. Then reality asserted itself. “Oh, you would have stood at the docks, pining…”

  “Yes.”

  “For all of five minutes.”

  “At least ten. Maybe even fifteen.”

  “Don’t pretend your heart was broken, Leo Hirschfeld.”

  “Fine, it wasn’t broken. But you put a good dent in it. Why do you think I wrote ‘Why Not Me?’”

  “Because there’s a certain pleasure in maudlin self-pity.”

  I had meant to sound light, theatrical. But Leo launched himself off the bench and demanded, “Why are you so angry at me? What the hell did I do?”

  Well, I thought, that was a grave strategic error on his part. I took a deep breath, preparing to elucidate in full.

  Only to find the words wouldn’t come. It was not so clear-cut, what Leo Hirschfeld had done or hadn’t done. Except that everything he did made me feel one way, while everything he said made me feel foolish for feeling that way. He never pretended I was the only girl and made it clear marriage held no interest for him. Therefore, what was given should be given freely. At the time, it felt like there was a certain honor in that. But he had been honest to my face and lied to my heart. Or the other way around, I couldn’t tell. Dancing, it had started with dancing and it should have stayed with dancing. Moonlight, Luna Park, the movies … I should have known better.

  Hands in his pockets, he said, “I took out my old summer pants for cleaning the other day. There was s
till sand in the cuffs.”

  Somewhere in my room was a straw hat, the band still stiff with salt from the sea air—a good summer hat, if I changed the band. Yet I hadn’t.

  He slid the phonograph record across the piano. “Look what I got today.”

  I picked it up, read “But on Fridays” on the label. Under the title: “Sung by Claude Arden.”

  “The mouse type at the bottom, Leo Hirschfeld—you squint, you can just see it. Almost as minuscule as my royalties. You want to listen?”

  “All right.”

  He climbed onto the stage and put the record on. After a few scratches, the melodious voice of Claude Arden floated into the air. “A working girl’s life is endless toil…”

  “It used to be ‘a maid’s,’” I said, absurdly disappointed.

  “Arden’s change. It’s how he got half the royalties. Sidney got most of the rest.”

  Then Arden sang, “They … dance,” and Leo held out his hand. There seemed no point in refusing.

  Perhaps because we were worn out, neither of us felt inclined to hop, trot, or wiggle. Instead we held. And swayed. And occasionally dipped, which for some reason we both found comical. Then not comical. There is risk in dipping; both parties can only go so far before losing balance. If one person is careless, the other can fall, or both can if arms flail and feet go out from under. At the very least, pride is endangered. And yet you cannot remain planted firmly on the ground, you have to allow for flight. And trust that the other person has you and knows what they’re about.

  Then Leo pulled me up, holding my hand to his chest. The hand on my back slid to my waist. I was aware of his open shirt collar, the smell of him; of roughly similar heights, we fit well. I had missed that, fitting well, fitting easily. He was starting to kiss along my hairline, nudging gently so I would look up. I looked up.

  Of the kiss, I expected the sweet, the familiar. It was neither. Was it the time apart? The difference between a boy with a crowded calendar and a married man? For all his eagerness, Leo had never been one to push. There had been a few game attempts, a few light removals and refusals. Now there was an urgency, a neediness I hadn’t felt before … from him. It was all coming from him, this new intensity, wasn’t it? He stopped for a moment, as if surprised himself. It was the point to step back, to say, Well …

  But we didn’t. And had Violet Hirschfeld not walked in, I am not sure what would have happened.

  But she did walk in.

  And then she walked out.

  The following morning Violet went to see Detective Fullerton and told him that on the night of the murder, she had been very unhappy. She had had a great deal to drink. So much so, that while she had been with her husband, she could not be entirely certain that she had been with him at the time of Sidney Warburton’s death. In fact, there was a stretch of time where she had no idea of his whereabouts.

  As Leo said, you could hardly blame her.

  13

  Detective Fullerton may have terrified the waiters at Rector’s into silence, but he was helpless in the face of the press’s infatuation with Violet Tempest. Having subsisted on the detective’s deliberately dry and dull reports, the newspapers were gleeful at this revelation from Jelly on Pins. Violet was not directly quoted, but Leo’s original alibi and her confession that she had been too drunk to “know if it was morning or midnight” was reported in correct and sober language. The cartoonists were bolder. One showed Violet, tipsy and confused as she tripped over Sidney Warburton’s body. Another depicted her in a boozy embrace with her husband—gun in his pocket—asking, “What’s THAT, honey?”

  I was horrified that Leo had been publicly announced as a suspect and terrified that my lapse in judgment would make its way into the papers. But few took Violet’s accusation seriously. A murder investigation could not rely on the testimony of a chorus girl who had overindulged in champagne. Feminine spite was assumed. As was feminine stupidity.

  The morning after the story broke, conversation at the Tyler breakfast table was all too audible as William demanded to know just what was going on with “this theatrical fiasco” of Louise’s while Louise said it was all a silly misunderstanding and the newspapers looking to make things up.

  “How on earth,” William demanded, “do you misunderstand a man shot dead in the washroom?”

  That, Louise conceded, was true. But the show was going just fine without him, better, really, and …

  “How can the show be fine if Mr. Hirschfeld is going to jail?”

  “He’s not going to jail.”

  “His own wife says he’s guilty.”

  “She didn’t say he was guilty, she said she wasn’t sure where he was at the time of the murder. She’s not the sort of woman who thinks clearly in the best of circumstances, and she was far from it that night. We made that very point to the police.”

  “So now you’re talking to the police about drunken chorus girls.”

  Throughout, I paid great attention to my eggs and toast, well aware that William had had a telephone call from his mother the day before. The senior Mrs. Tyler had made her views on Louise’s activities abundantly clear. Tyler women did not dine at Rector’s. Tyler women did not associate with theater people. They certainly did not involve themselves in business and while patronizing the arts was all very well, such interests should be restricted to the opera or orchestra. In short, Tyler women listened to their mothers-in-law and came to Oyster Bay when they were told to.

  Then I heard Louise say, “I’m sorry, William, but I won’t give it up.”

  Mrs. Avery grunted over her coffee and Ethel looked gleeful. Somewhat belatedly William said they should continue this discussion later.

  “Later,” said Louise, “I shall be at the theater.”

  * * *

  I would not be at the theater. When I had confessed my unfortunate role in Violet Tempest’s about-face, Louise had been understanding. She had also made it clear I was to get out the broom and start sweeping up the mess I had made. And that for the time being, my presence at the Sidney would be more hindrance than help. She would explain my absence to Mrs. St. John.

  Certainly, there was work to be done at home. Shoes to be cleaned, hems mended, fall wardrobe to be inspected, jewelry to be sorted. Louise’s room had not been tidied as she liked it for weeks. Ethel had done a passable job, but the trained eye could spot problems. As I shook out the satin coverlet of Louise’s bed and tucked her pillows just so, I thought, really, it was a good thing I had been banished from the theater. This was where I belonged.

  Just as I was tutting Ethel’s arrangement of Louise’s shoes on the floor of her closet—what had possessed her to line them up by color as opposed to purpose—the young lady herself appeared at the door and said, “Phone for you.”

  Hurrying down the stairs, I took up the phone and waved Ethel off. Then I said, “Hello?”

  And heard, “Exactly how much did Miss Tempest, excuse me, Mrs. Hirschfeld, excuse me, about to be former Mrs. Hirschfeld have to drink that evening?”

  “Enough that her word on anything should be taken with a grain of salt and several aspirin. You’ll notice that Mr. Hirschfeld is still at large.”

  “For the time being. Is the missus still with the show?”

  “I’ve heard nothing to the contrary.”

  “As fine a ‘no comment’ as I’ve ever heard. I don’t suppose you could come out to lunch?”

  My spirits rose at the word “out,” also the word “lunch.” “Why?”

  “Because I may have found the man who killed Floyd Lombardo.”

  * * *

  Louise was already unhappy with me. Stepping out for lunch with a reporter, even one she liked, wasn’t likely to get me back in her good graces. But any evidence that might connect the murder of Floyd Lombardo to that of Sidney Warburton and clear Leo—who had no grudge against the flamboyant gambler—should be welcome. At least that was my reasoning as I joined Michael Behan at a bustling Ukrainian café that served
large bowls of hot meat borscht and platters of pierogi, neither of which seemed desirable on a humid August day. I was surprised he had chosen to meet so far downtown and said so.

  “We’ll get to that,” he said, using his spoon to cut a chunk of meat in two. “Do I remember right that you said someone had busted Floyd Lombardo’s hand?”

  I nodded.

  “And that he’d been acting panicky about money?”

  I nodded again. “That was why he needed the gun. The people he owed were impatient.”

  “Which either means he was behind on his payment schedule or he lost big and owed them more than usual, and they were worried about getting it back. Guess what sporting event happened about a month ago?”

  Why did men assume everyone was as obsessed with sport as they were? “The Pig Aquatics Meet. I don’t know, Mr. Behan.”

  “Belmont. Exactly the sort of event where idiots bet big and lose big. Didn’t you say Lombardo said he broke his hand playing polo?”

  “Yes”—and I remembered Violet’s joke about Owney Davis’s interest in horses.

  Behan ran a piece of dark bread around the rim of his bowl. “So, I asked some of my friends who dabble in ponies…”

  “How do you have friends who dabble in ponies?”

  “I am an appreciator of the elite athlete, Miss Prescott, equine and human.”

  “Is that a nice way of saying you bet on horses?”

  “Getting back to ponies … my friends confirmed that Lombardo was a conspicuous presence at this year’s race. Furthermore—are you going to eat that?”

  He pointed to my bowl. I slid it in his direction.

  “Thank you. Furthermore, Lombardo was shot in the gut. Why shoot someone in the gut? It makes no sense.”

  “Shooting doesn’t make sense.”

  He paused, spoon halfway between bowl and mouth. “Well, it does if we concede that the goal was to stop Lombardo from breathing.”