Murder, Stage Left

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Here’s to your future,” I said, lifting my water glass in a salute. “Anything else you want to say to my dear Canadian readers?”

  “Drop everything you’re doing in Ottawa or Montreal or wherever you live, book a flight to New York immediately, and see Death at Cresthaven. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds like someone who could have had himself a career as an advertising copywriter,” I said.

  Lester laughed. “Thanks anyway, but I’ll stick to the worlds of celluloid and greasepaint. Speaking of greasepaint,” he said, looking at his watch, “I’d better start getting into character to play the somewhat vague and absentminded Carlisle Mills. Next time you see me, this hair will be salt-and-pepper, and I’ll be hunched over and slightly shuffling, as well as acting somewhat vague.”

  “I’ll leave you to it. Thanks for your time,” I told him as I left his dressing room.

  Chapter 15

  Walking along the basement hall of the old theater, I felt frustrated and more than a little useless. I had now spent some time with all the principals involved in Death at Cresthaven, and if there was some deep, dark plot or intrigue, as Roy Breckenridge had suggested, I failed to see it.

  There was a possibility, of course, that one or more of the cast had lied to me about the chemistry or attitudes among the troupe. After all, these people are skilled at wearing masks and playing at being characters they weren’t. And I reluctantly conceded the likelihood that I had not asked probing enough questions of them.

  But then, I was wearing a mask of my own: that of an ever-so-earnest reporter-writer for a fictitious Canadian arts magazine who also had to stay in character. If I, as a self-professed cheerleader for the theater world, began probing too pointedly about who disliked whom in the cast, I would have been seen as a potential scandalmonger, and everyone would have clammed up. I had not liked this idea from the beginning, but once Wolfe committed me, I gave it what I felt was my best shot.

  I would watch tonight’s performance, just so that I could say I had seen the show three times, and in the morning, I would tell Wolfe we were wasting Breckenridge’s money. Satisfied with my decision, I took my place in the wings at stage left with pencil and notebook in hand to continue my charade.

  The performance was the best of the three I had seen so far. The actors seemed energized; maybe either Breckenridge or Sperry—or both—had given them a pep talk. Or perhaps they were growing progressively more comfortable with their roles. Whatever the reasons, the show moved along at a brisk pace, and Ashley Williston, in particular, was in top form as she writhed and died of strangulation delivered in the parlor by Max Ennis, playing the neighbor who loved her and found that she felt nothing more for him than pity.

  As the cast took their collective bow, I noticed that both Ashley and Melissa Cartwright looked unusually animated, the color in their cheeks indicating to me an enthusiasm over a successful evening. Even old Max Ennis, the murderer, allowed himself a brief out-of-character grin when he urged the audience to keep the play’s ending a secret from future theatergoers.

  As the curtain came down and the applause subsided, the cast headed for their dressing rooms. The stagehands quickly scrambled onto the set to begin putting it in order for the next performance. I tucked my notebook in my breast pocket and walked across the stage toward the booth from which Breckenridge had been watching the performance.

  Hollis Sperry got there before me, knocked on the booth door, and poked his head in. When he emerged, his face was a study in terror, eyes and mouth wide. He started to say something, but no sound came out.

  In response to my “What is it?” he jabbed an index finger at the interior of the booth, still silent. I looked inside and saw Breckenridge slumped on the small desk just below the window that looked out onto the stage. His head was turned toward me, eyes and mouth open, face ashen. I loosened his collar and pressed my fingers against his carotid. He was gone.

  “Call the police!” I barked at Sperry, who came out of his trance and turned, loping toward the pay phone at the stage door. The stagehands went about their business, unaware of what had happened, which was fine by me for the moment. I left the theater in search of a telephone, finding a booth half a block west on the corner of Eighth Avenue. I dialed the number I know best.

  “Yes?” Wolfe snapped. He has no interest whatever in telephone etiquette.

  “Me. We don’t have a client anymore.” I succinctly fed him the details.

  “Confound it, where are you?”

  I told him.

  “Come home immediately.”

  That was one order I was happy to follow, and after a ten-minute cab ride, I walked into the office. Wolfe set his book down and glared at me.

  I glared back and sat at my desk. “What a fine kettle of fish we find ourselves in here,” I said.

  “This is hardly a time for banalities,” Wolfe grumped, draining the last of the beer in his glass. “You gave me a précis when you called. What more can you add?”

  “Not a lot, I am sorry to say. I watched two performances from backstage today, but I failed miserably in one respect: I can’t even tell you who might have entered Breckenridge’s little booth during the evening show. I was too occupied watching the action onstage. I am willing to hand in my resignation. Maybe Del Bascom will rehire me to work for his agency. I understand his business is good, and he’s been adding to his payroll lately. And as you have said before, Bascom is a good man.”

  “Enough! Did you have any reason to suspect Mr. Breckenridge was in mortal peril?”

  “No. And I realize of course that I haven’t talked to you about my interviews with the members of the cast and the stage manager. Would you like me to unload now?”

  Wolfe scowled, eyeing the wall clock and looking down at his closed book. “Very well, report.”

  For the next hour, I gave him a rundown on my conversations with each of the principals. I didn’t consult my notes, simply because I had not taken any. The notebook was just a sham. As I related the conversations, Wolfe listened, eyes closed, with his fingers interlaced over his middle mound. When I finished, he blinked once and came forward in his chair.

  “No one of them was overly forthcoming,” he remarked.

  “I blame myself. I was trying too hard to play the wide-eyed theater enthusiast whose job was to promote the business. I did not ask probing questions or I might have discovered that someone had it in for Roy Breckenridge.”

  “You were placed in a difficult position,” Wolfe conceded. “Also, we do not yet know how Mr. Breckenridge died. Is it possible he had a heart condition?”

  “Could be, I suppose.”

  “If he did not die of natural causes, it is likely we shall soon be hearing from Mr. Cramer.”

  Wolfe was referring to Inspector Lionel T. Cramer, head of the New York Police Department’s Homicide Squad and a longtime acquaintance of ours.

  “What makes you think Cramer will want to talk to us?”

  “Come now, Archie,” Wolfe chided. “We must be prepared. Mr. Alan MacGregor, representing what turns out to be a fictitious Canadian theater magazine, suddenly disappears after Mr. Breckenridge’s death. The police, of course, will interview members of the cast and staff about the suspicious MacGregor, and they will surely get one of their artists to sketch a likeness—of you.”

  “Yeah, as much as I hate to admit it, you have got a point. How do we play things from here on?”

  Before Wolfe could respond, the phone rang, and I answered. It was Lon Cohen.

  “You have got some explaining to do,” he barked as I nodded to Wolfe, who picked up his receiver.

  “Is that so? Explaining about what?”

  “Don’t play dumb, it does not become you. We just got word that Roy Breckenridge was found dead in the theater after tonight’s performance. That is the selfsame Roy Breckenridge you aske
d me to get you some information about just days ago. What would you like to tell me?”

  “I am on the line, Mr. Cohen,” Wolfe said. “Has the cause of Mr. Breckenridge’s death been determined?”

  “Not yet, as far as I know. Was he a client?”

  “I am not prepared to respond at present, but be assured that at such time as we have something concrete to report, you will be the first person we telephone.”

  “But can’t you give me something now?” Lon said in a pleading tone.

  “No sir, I cannot,” Wolfe said, cradling his instrument, which left me to placate Lon. “You heard Mr. Wolfe,” I told him. “We have always been square and given you the goods first, before talking to any other paper. It will be the same this time—that is, if we ever do have anything to tell you.”

  “You have not heard the last of me on this, Archie,” he snapped.

  “When have I ever heard the last of you involving anything?” I shot back, and we terminated the conversation.

  Chapter 16

  I did not have to wait long to hear from Lon Cohen again. The next morning, I had just settled in at my desk in the office with a postbreakfast coffee when the telephone made its usual sound.

  “I am sitting at my desk holding a copy of the Daily News, a paper I know you and Mr. Wolfe will not deign to soil your hands on. However, today’s edition might interest you.”

  “Really? I did not realize you were a fan of the tabloid that calls itself ‘New York’s Picture Newspaper.’”

  “I always read the competition, whatever I may think of it; you never know what you might find. Like this morning, for instance.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Out with it.”

  “I might make fun of the Daily News sometimes, but I have got to hand it to them. Those guys are bulldogs when it comes to knowing how to play a big story.”

  “As in the death of Roy Breckenridge?”

  “Exactly. First off, and we got this from the police, too, he died from a healthy—or I should say unhealthy—dose of arsenic in his Coca-Cola.”

  “A poison that is highly soluble in liquid and easy to get hold of.”

  “Right, as in rat poison, of course. So we’ll have it in our early editions, too. But we won’t have something that is in the News.”

  “Stop playing games, dammit.”

  “Okay, they have got a sidebar to the main story about Breckenridge’s death headlined ‘Have You Seen Mister Canadian?’ It seems that a man calling himself Alan MacGregor was on the set of Death at Cresthaven nosing around and interviewing the cast for the last day or so. He represented himself as a writer for a Toronto magazine called StageArts Canada, which, as it turns out, does not exist. Suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “But wait, there’s more. The sidebar includes a police artist’s facial sketch of the man said to be Alan MacGregor. Now, you and I both know these sketches are usually generic and bland, especially since the people supplying the details don’t all agree on exactly what the individual in question looks like.”

  “What’s your point, Lon?”

  “The point is, the sketch in the Daily News seems to look somewhat like you.”

  “I am sad to say there are plenty of people around who resemble me, and I do not envy them their bad fortune.”

  “Perhaps, but I have to wonder how many of these so-called Archie Goodwin ‘look-alikes’ have been seeking information about Roy Breckenridge.”

  “I think we have exhausted the subject for now,” I said.

  “It’s not going away, Archie, you can bank on that. Stiff me if you want to, but be prepared for more questions, very possibly from Inspector Cramer. This is one big story, and the heat is on the cops, which is hardly a surprise. I don’t have to tell you how important theater is in this town. It is one of the engines that generates the big bucks, not just for the theaters, but for the hotels and airlines and restaurants and cabbies. Trouble on Broadway means trouble for the whole city. If you don’t believe me, just ask the mayor.”

  “There we have one fine speech, Mister Deadline, I will give you that. I almost stood up and saluted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must serve the needs of the man who signs my checks.” After hanging up, I took a deep breath. Lon had a point, and I knew it.

  I typed several letters Wolfe had dictated the day before, finishing the last one just before I heard the elevator bring the boss down from the plant rooms. No sooner than he had asked if I had slept well and settled in behind his desk, the doorbell rang. I went to the hall, and through the one-way glass in the front door, I saw a familiar bulky figure.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” I said. “What brings you around on this fine August morning?”

  “I will tell you when we have a fine morning, and this is not one of them,” Cramer snorted, gripping a crumpled newspaper in his hand, charging by me and heading toward the office under a full head of steam. By the time I got there, he had dropped into the red leather chair and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket.

  Wolfe, who had just rung for beer, considered his uninvited guest with raised eyebrows but said nothing.

  Cramer smoothed out the newspaper—it was that morning’s Daily News—and slapped it down on the desk blotter. “See that sketch?” he said, jabbing a thick finger at the page. “Does it remind you of anyone?”

  Wolfe peered at it, and so did I, moving around behind him to get a better look. “The gentleman, whoever he is, appears to be somewhat bland,” Wolfe said airily.

  “Bland, my aunt Betsy!” the inspector blurted. “You don’t even recognize your own employee?”

  “Mr. Cramer, if you please. You barge into my home unannounced, which I realize is hardly unprecedented, and you throw a newspaper at me, demanding I identify the man in an amateurish drawing. This is twaddle!”

  “I will give you twaddle, Wolfe. Sergeant Stebbins showed me the paper this morning and said ‘Whose picture is that?’

  “‘Looks a lot like Goodwin,’ I said, and he answered ‘Damned right it does. Let’s run him in.’ Now, I know how the two of you feel about Purley Stebbins, and I admit he can be abrasive sometimes, so I’m doing you a favor by not having him come here with me. I thought we could talk this out, the three of us.”

  “What is there to talk about, Mr. Cramer?” Wolfe said, opening the first of two beers Fritz had placed before him. “Archie, do you recognize that sketch as being your likeness?”

  “I flatter myself by thinking that I look a lot better than this poor schnook, whoever he is,” I said.

  “So there we are,” Wolfe said, spreading his hands, palms down, on the desk.

  “I could of course compel Goodwin to be part of a lineup downtown and have the cast of that play see if they could identify you,” Cramer said. “But I know damned well that you would then call your conspirator Cohen at the Gazette and charge police harassment, which would get spread all over that rag’s pages.”

  “It seems to me we are getting ahead of ourselves, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said calmly. “We have read in this morning’s Times about the unfortunate event at the theater last night. What makes you think Archie was in any way involved?”

  “Whenever there’s trouble in New York, and this business is big trouble, the two of you are invariably involved.”

  “That is patent nonsense, sir, and you well know it,” Wolfe said.

  “If you have got several hours to spare, I can list all the times you have gotten in the way of an investigation.”

  “Perhaps you also can enumerate all the occasions in which Archie and I have contributed to the resolution of a case that had you and the rest of the police department flummoxed,” Wolfe fired back.

  That drew a glower from the inspector, who stood, threw his unlit cigar at the wastebasket, and picked up his fedora. “Balls! I might
have known the kind of cooperation—or rather, lack of it—I’d get around here.” With that, he stormed out, leaving me to dispose of the chewed-on stogie on the carpet a foot from the dustbin.

  After Cramer had departed, I asked Wolfe, “What now, boss?” He hates it when I call him that, but in my current mood, I didn’t much care about his feelings.

  “Call Mr. Hewitt,” he murmured.

  “Oh, now I get it. One client dies on us and we get another one, right?”

  He threw me a glare that would have cowed a lesser man, but I merely shrugged. “If I reach him, should I stay on the line?” His response was the half-inch dip of the chin that passes for a nod.

  I dialed Hewitt’s Long Island home, and a lackey of the male species answered. I identified myself as calling for Nero Wolfe, and he told me in a supercilious tone that “I will endeavor to locate Mr. Hewitt, who currently is somewhere on the property.”

  Apparently, the lackey was able to locate the lord of the manor within five minutes, and I nodded back at Wolfe, who picked up his receiver.

  “Mr. Wolfe, you beat me to it; I was about to call you,” Hewitt said. The two men have known each other for years, and their relationship, despite their fierce competition in the orchid world, has been a cordial one. However, neither has ever called the other by his first name. I guess that is what is called “old school.”

  “You know, of course, of yesterday’s events,” Wolfe said.

  “I do, and I am saddened beyond words,” Hewitt said. “With your permission, I would like to pay you a visit.”

  “Come for dinner tonight, Mr. Hewitt. We are having shrimp bordelaise.”

  “Oh, please, do not think it was my intention to invite myself to break bread at your table, sir.”

  “That never entered my mind,” Wolfe replied. “It has been some time since we dined together, and I would be honored to have you here as our guest.”