Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  So, this was the “one girl” who had Claude Arden’s heart. “Does Ruth have emerald eyes?” I asked, hopeful.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. Claude won’t give up performing, but he loves Ruth still. He even writes to her when he’s feeling exceptionally desperate and I gather she writes back.”

  “Why didn’t she come with him?”

  “And leave Rocky River?” said Blanche, as if aghast. “Leave the dear old mill? For something as disreputable as the theater?”

  “But isn’t it difficult for you?” The whole conversation had become so improbable; we had entered a wholly different realm, where truths were told, souls bared, and nothing deemed shocking unless it was cruel. Or tacky.

  “Oh, Lord no. Sidney put us together. My old partner got herself in the family way in Detroit. I could dance. Claude could sing. I needed a partner, he needed a new act. The Castles have made matrimony so bankable, and Sidney wanted a double act, so he insisted we get married. Claude made it very clear to me that he would never ‘love another,’ as he put it. I said that was fine with me as long as he didn’t expect me to play by those rules.”

  She looked fondly at Mrs. St. John. Then said, “The only thing I do mind is that he gets so gloomy. Deep down, I think he feels the sacrifice of Saint Ruth is only worth it if we become the biggest stars in the history of the stage.”

  “He does seem in bad temper at times,” I said.

  “Claude is not a natural dancer and he gets very anxious with a new show. The only way for him to cope with the stage fright is to do it again and again and again, work it into the muscle to the point where we could do it in our sleep. Not to mention, this has been a fairly fraught production. Dalliances I’m used to. But this is my first dead producer.”

  Peering at me, she asked, “What on earth made you think Claude had shot Sidney?”

  Not wanting to mention her romantic interlude, I said, “I overheard you and Mr. Arden arguing on the dance floor. You said something about the family business, so I thought perhaps he was jealous.” Blanche looked puzzled. “Both men were wearing yellow spats, you see, Mr. Warburton and Mr. Hirschfeld.”

  “You had been putting on a show for Mr. Hirschfeld,” Mrs. St. John reminded her.

  “I had not,” said Blanche. “I was putting on a show for you, my darling. But yes, Claude assumed it was Mr. Hirschfeld and said I was making a scene. He was worried Sidney wouldn’t like it. Sidney was jealous of Mr. Hirschfeld, I think. All that youth and talent.”

  She said this with a warmth that made me remember that interlude in the wings. I didn’t want to hurt Mrs. St. John, but I wanted to be sure. “You’re certain Mr. Arden didn’t think you were … dallying with Mr. Hirschfeld? At times, you seemed not unenamored.”

  “It’s never a bad idea to have a talented man aware of your charms,” she said crisply. “Besides, don’t you think it’s possible you were seeing things through a rather green-eyed lens?”

  It was possible. Even likely. And several other things had now become distinctly unlikely. I couldn’t think of any reason for Blanche to shoot Warburton and if the Darling Ardens were a fiction and the “one girl” was back in Ohio—there was no reason for Claude to have shot him either. This left me with a list of names that made me very unhappy.

  Mrs. St. John said, “You seem distressed.”

  “I admit I was attached to the idea of Mr. Arden killing Mr. Warburton in a fit of jealous passion because it cleared Mr. Hirschfeld.”

  Blanche’s eyes brightened. “That would make a wonderful movie. Sidney as a dirty-fingered cad, tormenting a hopeful young actress. One day, he goes too far, she screams. Her costar, secretly in love with her, races in and shoots the villain…”

  “And goes to prison where he is hanged,” finished Mrs. St. John. In love with the dramatic Mrs. Arden she might be, but I could not imagine her killing to defend her honor; histrionic proofs of devotion—they, too, I realized, were make-believe. Too bad, they sounded fun.

  “So who did kill our dirty-fingered cad?” Blanche Arden wondered.

  Three pairs of female eyes met: how candid were we to be?

  “Mr. Hirschfeld does have motive,” said Blanche. “Sidney was horrible to him, slept with his wife…”

  “If you shot everyone who…,” drawled Mrs. St. John. Blanche shooed her quiet.

  “He’s a rather romantic boy in his own way. Remember how he stood up for Violet every time Sidney insulted her?”

  “I remember he was enraged to be called a drooling chimp. Come to think of it, what about Mrs. Hirschfeld?”

  “I’d love to get rid of her. But with everything she’d had to drink that night?” Blanche shook her head. “I can’t imagine her handling a gun in the best of circumstances. At any rate, why? She enjoyed playing one man off the other. You can’t do that if one of them is dead.”

  Guiltily, I thought that an imprisoned Violet Tempest would solve a host of problems. But remembering her savagery when she spoke of Warburton’s killer—and my promise to be her ally—I said, “I think she loved Mr. Warburton. She may really believe Mr. Hirschfeld killed him.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. St. John. “But she’s lost one meal ticket and when she saw the two of you the other night, she realized she was about to lose another. Hence her sudden memory lapse.”

  Leaning her head on her hand, Blanche asked, “What’s he like, little Leo?” Probably like Peanut, Mrs. St. John opined, but more attractive.

  Wanting to be off that subject, I asked them, “Did you know Mr. Warburton for a long time? Mr. Hirschfeld said he’d made a lot of enemies along the way.”

  Both women shook their heads. “I’d say other than Claude, Roland Harney has known him the longest,” said Mrs. St. John. “You could ask Miss Biederman. Maybe she keeps a list of Warburton’s enemies in that book of hers.”

  “If anyone should have shot him, it’s Miss Biederman,” I said. “He was so cruel to her.”

  I had meant it as a joke, but Blanche took it seriously. “Was she even there that night?”

  “Ran out early to keep the fiancé happy,” said Mrs. St. John. “I can’t see it. A loyal servant to the last.”

  The issue of loyalty raised, I recalled Adele St. John’s sudden—and untrue—defense of Roland Harney. She had said he was at the table the entire time when in fact, he had disappeared to the bathroom. I was trying to think of a polite way to raise the subject when our conversation was interrupted by the sound of shoes clattering down the stairs and shouting from Violet: “Miss Biederman, kindly inform the director that until Mr. Harney is sober, I shall not go on!”

  Then, from a distance, Leo’s rejoinder: “Miss Biederman, will you kindly tell my wife that if we wait until Mr. Harney is sober, she will never go on.”

  Then “That’s fine with me!” from Violet and a slammed door.

  Blanche whispered, “Dare we hope that was the last straw?”

  “I doubt it,” said Mrs. St. John. “She’s got Mr. Hirschfeld over a barrel and she knows it. Right now, she might be playing ‘I was too drunk to remember,’ but one firm accusation from her and the detective puts him in handcuffs.”

  “I don’t understand why she wants to stay,” I said with more petulance than was ideal. “She isn’t good and the critics will be cruel.”

  Blanche Arden laid a hand on my arm. “She’s an actress, dear. And it’s a part. A very, very good part.”

  The grip tightened slightly.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, I was on my way to rejoin Louise in the theater when I passed by the office and heard Leo on the phone. “… No, Mrs. Warburton, I wanted you to hear it from me personally. Sidney meant the world to me. I would never, never have harmed him. I miss him every day, I swear to you.”

  Then he caught sight of me and waved frantically that I should come in. As I did, he said, “Yes. My wife is … well, she’d had a little too much to drink. She was confused.”

  There was a pause as he li
stened to the reply. From her tone, I had the sense that Mrs. Warburton was not unaware of Violet’s connection with her husband. And not disposed to think well of her. Leo made noises of faint objection, but did not defend his wife.

  Finally he said, “I can’t wait for you to see it. Yes. Sidney’s song, you’re going to … bring several handkerchiefs, that’s all I can say. Yes. Good-bye. Yes.”

  Hanging up, he set his hands against his forehead, then pulled his hair straight up, eyes popping as he did so. Then coming around the desk, he said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I never meant for you…”

  His arms were open, I felt intent to embrace. I had promised Violet not to embarrass her, promised Louise not to cause more trouble.

  I put a hand between us. “It was mutual stupidity.”

  He stopped dead. “That’s … no, you’re right, stupidity’s a good word. I guess. I—”

  I felt questions in the air, ones without easy answers. I dispelled them with a simpler one: “Did you convince the widow Warburton you didn’t kill her husband?”

  “I think so. She’s not Violet’s biggest fan.”

  Retreating behind the desk, he said, “I suppose I should ask—do you think I shot Sidney Warburton?”

  “No.”

  “That was fast.”

  It had been fast. I turned the “no” over in my mind. Warburton had insulted Leo, insulted his wife. That might drive some men to murder—not Leo Hirschfeld. But Warburton had posed a threat to the thing that mattered most to him. When we first met, Leo had brashly predicted that one day, all Broadway would be one big Hirschfeld production. This show was the first step. Warburton had given Leo that chance—but he had also threatened to take it away in every way that mattered. I had to allow for the fact that dancing with a man or other intimacies didn’t tell you everything there was to know about him. In fact, they confused the issue considerably.

  There were very good reasons for Leo Hirschfeld to shoot Sidney Warburton. Why weren’t any of them good enough?

  “If you’re going to call the police, at least have the courtesy to give me a five-minute start.”

  I turned to him. “Mother Hirschfeld never lies. I hear her son takes after her.”

  “Yes, he does,” said Leo quietly.

  “He does omit facts.”

  “From time to time.”

  “Did you shoot Sidney Warburton?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then.” I crossed my arms. “I’ll tell you another reason you didn’t shoot Sidney Warburton: you’re arrogant. Ridiculously arrogant and it’s an insult to your talent to have to shoot someone who stood in your way. Delusional or not, you think your songs are too great not to be successful. Killing Warburton would mean a lapse of faith in your talent. And I can’t see that ever happening. ‘Warburton? What’s Warburton? I’m Leo Hirschfeld, damn it.’”

  “I really am madly in love with you.”

  “The question is what do we do about it?”

  “About…?”

  Hope was in his eyes. I doused it with a snap of the fingers. “Finding Warburton’s killer.”

  “Oh, that.” He waved a hand. “I told you, a thousand people wanted to kill Sidney. Anybody who ever worked with him.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a list of those people, would you?” I asked sarcastically.

  Then I remembered: there was such a list. At least a record. With pictures. People who had worked with Sidney Warburton, only to vanish except as a faded piece of paper in a book. Perhaps one of them had returned.

  “Call Mrs. Warburton back.”

  “Why?”

  “Tell her you need that scrapbook. Inspiration for the song you’re writing. Tell her I’ll be by this evening to pick it up.”

  Intrigued, Leo took up the phone.

  15

  Early that evening, I arrived at the Warburton home to the sound of screams. Alarmed, I put my head close to the door; a woman’s screams … but more in rage than terror. Two women? No, a woman and a child. Shriek after shriek, each punctuated by an explosive No!

  I rang again. Heard shouts and the pounding of feet. Then the door was yanked open and a young woman, her hair in disarray, stood before me. It was the sullen maid from our first visit.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Mrs. Warburton said I could come for the book.”

  “She’s not at home.”

  No, judging from the chaos behind her—rugs askew, lamps overturned, chairs on their side in the hallway—the house had been surrendered to the five little Warburtons who were now pillaging at will.

  Fearful that Mrs. Warburton had forgotten her promise, I said, “Did she leave it…”

  “Yes, she left it,” snapped the maid. “And now Simon has it and won’t let go of it.” She gestured toward the stairs. “He’s in his room, you’re welcome to try. I have to give the baby its bath.” And with that she stomped off.

  Gingerly I made my way up the stairs, following the path of rejected clothes, discarded towels, and thrown toys and books to the third floor. Stepping over a pillow that had been used as a weapon judging from the flurry of feathers, I saw a five-year-old boy sitting on a stripped bed, his arms wrapped around the scrapbook. With a riot of dark curls and a scowl on his tearstained face, he looked like a small Beethoven. He was either the nose-picker or the one whose foot had been stepped on. Seeing me, he screamed, “No!” as a warning shot.

  I asked if I could sit on the bed and was informed, “No!” But when I asked if the book in his arms was about his father, I got a sulky nod.

  My feelings about children—especially screaming ones—were ambivalent. Part of me wanted to unbuckle his little hands and take the book without further ado. But I knew that would upset him. And I was reluctant to do that.

  “You will get it back,” I promised him. “We just want to look at all the wonderful things your father did, so Mr. Hirschfeld can write a song about him.”

  He shook his head, not wanting to be bargained with.

  “You’ll get to hear the song,” I tried.

  He lifted his chin off the book. “At the theater? Will he be there?”

  “Who?”

  “Papa.”

  A rush of sorrow as I realized hearing the word “dead” did not make a child understand its permanence. The little boy had decided that if his father was not home, he was where he usually was: working. At the theater.

  “Will you show it to me?” I asked him. “I’d love to see.”

  Slowly he set the book in the middle of the bed. I was allowed to sit. He opened the book and began discoursing with great knowledge about the performers. I asked his favorite: the fire-eater. His least favorite: Claude Arden. When I said perhaps when he was older, Simon wrinkled his nose.

  Then pointing to Zoltan the Mighty, he said, “He lifts trains.” He lifted his own arm and scowled in imitation of the strong man.

  I was about to ask if he had actually seen Zoltan lift this train when he added, “He got run over.”

  Unsure as to what “run over” meant to a child, I said, “That’s horrible. Did you know him?”

  A sharp shake of the head. Simon was too young to have seen Zoltan, but the strong man’s end was something terrible enough to be remembered—and repeated. Or … was it his end? Simon had not used the words “killed” or “dead.” Then again, he was still under the impression that his murdered father was somewhere, presently out of reach, but not gone.

  In the end, he relinquished the book, on my assurance that it would be returned to him before opening night.

  “Promise,” he said. “Or I’ll run you over.”

  Unsettled, I looked at him. “First, I don’t let people run over me. Second, you’re a gentleman and gentlemen don’t run ladies over. They don’t run anyone over. Third, I’m bigger than you.”

  I held out my hand. “But I promise to give your book back.”

  He took my hand and we shook on it.

  * * *

  That ni
ght, I sat alone at the kitchen table and gazed at the past. The first page of the scrapbook was dominated by a handsome studio portrait of Sidney Warburton himself. Taken close up to give the illusion of height, the photograph captured the bold theatricality of his high, silver hair, his large protuberant eyes that focused like stage lights, the full mouth ready to pronounce, the arrogant tilt of the chin. Beneath, one might expect the legend: “The Great Man.”

  How many careers had Sidney Warburton made? How many lives had he ruined? And was the person who had ended his life somewhere in these bright, happy images?

  Faces flickered as I turned the pages of the early years: the Cherry Sisters. The gentleman who sang with his duck. The lovely girl on her motorbike, a man who played drums with his feet. All gone and forgotten, except one: Claude Arden, first as the man who yearns for “She of the Emerald Eyes,” then reborn as half of the Darling Dancing Ardens.

  But where was everybody else? By all accounts, Roland Harney had worked with Warburton for years. Why was there no image of him in these pages?

  Or like Claude Arden, had he been reborn? And if so how? And why? Looking at the lively, painted faces, I couldn’t find anyone who resembled Roland Harney as a youth. True, many of the images were drawings, but I could not envision him as the Egyptian fire-eater or Buncey, the Man Made of Rubber. For a long while, I gazed at the father in the Flying O’Briens, but it was difficult to imagine Roland Harney ever flying through the air. Or having a wife and children. He seemed a confirmed bachelor. One of the posters did have a drawing of a flop-eared dog that resembled Peanut. But it was possible there had been a few Peanuts over time.

  I found the picture of the troupe standing outside the theater. Warburton in top hat and greatcoat was off to the side, dancers and clowns were allowed center place. I peered at the crowded back rows, mentally subtracted years and pounds. This one? Maybe. That one? Perhaps? The dour man with the violin caught my eye, as if he had cleared his throat to request my attention. I looked deeply at his face, but it gave me no answers. He was shorter than Mr. Harney, his face fleshy in the wrong way.