Murder, Stage Left

by Robert Goldsborough

  Wolfe turned again to me. “At the risk of making you repeat yourself, give us your impressions of your meeting with Mr. Ennis.”

  Even though I had told all of it to Wolfe before, I knew this was for Cramer’s benefit, so I unloaded again. “The first thing that hit me about Ennis was his lousy physical condition. Sure, he is overweight, that’s a given, but onstage, he seemed to handle it well. When I talked to him in his dressing room, though, he complained about his health, told me he felt like hell most of the time.

  “He said he was happy that Breckenridge had cast him in this play, but when I asked him if they were old friends, he did not answer directly, just said, ‘We go back a long way.’ He also told me that being in the production was a good experience, although he clearly had little use for Ashley Williston. Ennis conceded that she had talent, but added that she could be a bitch. He had been in the cast of a show with her some years back and said that if they had ever been on the stage at the same time—they hadn’t—he ‘might have done something violent.’”

  Wolfe turned to Cramer. “I assume you or one of your men interviewed Ennis.”

  “I did myself,” he growled, glaring at Wolfe and then at me, as if daring us to contradict him. “He was a long way from being healthy, all right. He seemed pretty broken up over Breckenridge, but then, he might have been putting on an act. After all, that’s what the guy gets paid to do.”

  “But you do not think he is the killer,” Wolfe stated.

  “I know it seems like I’m making things hard on myself and on the department as a whole,” Cramer said, waving a hand. “After all, there is an easy and believable way to end this investigation: We just state that we feel Ennis killed Breckenridge and then tried to do himself in. It makes perfect sense.”

  “But not to you,” Wolfe remarked. “Did your interviews with the others in the cast and crew suggest another option?”

  “Not really. Every one of them seemed genuinely fond of Breckenridge, or they at least respected him. I will say, though, that the Williston dame is one piece of goods. Arrogant, officious, enamored of herself. She acted as if she was surprised that we even talked to her. ‘Surely you cannot suspect me?’ the woman said at least three times. ‘I had only the highest regard for dear Roy, who was a prince, an absolute prince. You must find the individual who committed this dastardly deed.’”

  “She actually used ‘dastardly deed’?” I said.

  Cramer nodded glumly. “I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

  “Did you learn anything of substance from one or more of the others?” Wolfe asked.

  “Not really. Most of them seemed like they were in shock.”

  “It appears likely that Mr. Breckenridge’s cola drink was poisoned by someone entering that backstage booth from which he watched the performances. Was anyone seen entering the booth?”

  “We asked, and nobody seemed to notice,” Cramer said. “What about you, Goodwin? You were back there when he died.”

  “I was concentrating on the action onstage,” I said. “Once more, I seem to have struck out.”

  Wolfe ignored my comment. “The papers have written that the show will not be performed for at least the next few days to honor Mr. Breckenridge. Do you have any other information?”

  “No, although the cast and crew seemed more concerned about their loss of income than about Breckenridge’s death. And now, if the show is to be continued, it will need a replacement for Ennis. Say, why are you still so damned interested, Wolfe? You don’t have a client anymore.”

  “But I do, Inspector. Someone else has stepped forward.”

  “I might have known. So that’s why you’ve been pumping me for information. Who’s paying you?”

  “No, sir, that is not a topic under discussion here. But for your information, I am receiving no money for my services.”

  “Hah! That will be the day. So you are going to continue to pursue an investigation?” Cramer asked with a scowl.

  “As I assume you are, sir.”

  “Nuts! Everybody—the mayor, the governor, the artistic community, the do-gooder civic groups, and, of course, the press—wants a killer, and they all want him—or possibly her—immediately, if not sooner. Just out of curiosity, what makes you think it isn’t Ennis?”

  “You know far more than I about the intricacies of the case at this point, given all your resources, and you do not appear to be comfortable with Mr. Ennis as the killer. If you are not satisfied, why should I be?”

  That seemed to stump Cramer, who rose and swore. “I know one thing: I have been in this job too damned long,” he muttered, slapping on his battered fedora, marching out of the office without another word, and heading down the hall in the direction of the front door. After he left the brownstone, I watched as he slowly descended the front steps in his heavy-footed gait and climbed into the backseat of a dark, unmarked car that was idling at the curb.

  I returned to the office, where Wolfe sat with his eyes closed and his hands steepled. “I thought the inspector was unusually candid today,” I told him.

  “Mr. Cramer is conflicted, and with reason, Archie. As he pointed out, it would be easy for him to make a case for Mr. Ennis as the murderer, but his conscience will not let him do so.”

  “Okay, that’s his problem, and I don’t envy him. After all, this is what he gets paid for. But what about us? ”

  Wolfe eyed the book on his desk blotter, obviously wanting to return to it, but he knew I was not about to let up on him until he made a decision. “Telephone Saul and see if he is able to come here this afternoon,” he said, picking up his book, Silent Spring by Rachel Carson.

  Chapter 20

  Over the years, many people have underestimated Saul Panzer, to their regret. He does not present an impressive facade: five feet seven, 140 pounds, and with a mug that always needs a shave and is about two-thirds nose. He usually wears a well-worn brown or gray suit and a flat cap. No fashion plate, that one.

  So much for statistics and appearance. Now on to the important stuff. Saul is simply the smartest and best freelance operative west of the Atlantic Ocean, and one Wolfe uses often. He can hold a tail better than any bloodhound, and his deep-set gray eyes never forget a face or any other detail. To Wolfe, the man can do no wrong, and more than once, he has said he trusts Saul “further than might be thought credible.” I agree, and I also concede, based on long and painful experience, that he is the best poker player I have ever come across.

  Saul sat in the red leather chair that afternoon, sipping coffee. “You have read about the death of Roy Breckenridge,” Wolfe said.

  “Yeah, heckuva thing. Somebody spiked his Coke with arsenic.”

  “Archie and I had been hired by Mr. Breckenridge to investigate what he felt were troubling aspects of the play he was producing.”

  “Lovin’ babe!” Saul said. That is the closest he ever comes to swearing. “So . . . that must be why the sketch of that Canadian ‘mystery man’ in the Daily News bore something of a resemblance to Archie. I thought about it briefly, and then I figured what the heck, these police sketches could be of almost anyone. Besides, at the time, I didn’t know about your connection with the play.”

  “Knowing you read each New York paper every day, I assumed you would have seen that sketch and noted the resemblance,” Wolfe said, his cheeks creased in what counts as a smile for him. “Let me explain the situation.” He then gave Saul a concise summary of the events from Breckenridge’s visit to us up until the present.

  “So let me get this straight. Cramer knows Archie masqueraded as Alan MacGregor, but he hasn’t said anything about it publicly, and Lon knows something funny is going on, but he isn’t quite sure what it is,” Saul said.

  “That is about the sum of it,” I said. “Quite a mess, huh?”

  “Where do I fit in all this?” Saul asked Wolfe.

 
“I have been engaged by Lewis Hewitt, a longtime acquaintance of mine who also was a friend of Mr. Breckenridge and an investor in Death at Cresthaven, to identify Mr. Breckenridge’s killer. I am going to ask Mr. Hewitt to request that each member of the show’s cast, along with the stage manager, come here individually for conversations with me. Mr. Hewitt will be present for these interviews, and I would also like you to be here as my assistant, Saul.

  “This is normally Archie’s function, of course,” Wolfe continued. “However, given his role as the ersatz Canadian magazine writer, he would be a distraction, to say nothing of the animosity he would likely generate among these individuals when they discover they have been gulled. He will, however, watch each of the proceedings from the alcove.”

  “As I suggested earlier, when you and Cramer were discussing me, just pretend I am not in the room,” I said. “Or, if you would rather, I could go to the kitchen and get under Fritz’s skin so you can say anything about yours truly that comes to mind.”

  “Do you find this assignment acceptable to you?” Wolfe asked Saul.

  “Absolutely,” said Saul, who has been known to drop everything else on his plate to work for Wolfe. These two have a mutual admiration society.

  “Excellent. I will talk to Mr. Hewitt and make arrangements for him to inform the members of the production to come to the brownstone, preferably within a day or so.”

  “Do you think they all will agree to that?” Saul asked.

  “I believe they will if Mr. Hewitt insists upon it. After all, he is a heavy investor in the play and now has assumed the de facto production role.”

  “Right now, I would like Archie to give me a rundown on each of them,” Saul said, turning to me. “I need all the help I can get.”

  “I will leave you both,” Wolfe said, rising and walking out of the office, destination: the plant rooms.

  “So you have got a real treat in store for you,” I told Saul. For the next half hour, I gave him my thoughts on everyone in the cast, along with Hollis Sperry. He scribbled a few notes, but not many. Like me, he retains what he hears.

  “I realize that you had to tread lightly when talking to these people because of the role you got stuck playing, but Mr. Wolfe will have no such limitations,” Saul said. “Think there might be some fireworks?”

  “If so, some of them likely will come from Ashley Williston, she of the hyperactive ego. The woman acted shocked that Cramer would dare to even question her, and knowing him, I am sure he went easy. Just think how she is going to react when Wolfe bores in on her.”

  “Given his general attitude about women, and overbearing ones in particular, I would say such will be likely,” Saul agreed. “Well, you’ll get to watch any fireworks yourself, albeit from offstage.”

  He was referring to Wolfe’s comment that I would be observing the events from the “alcove.” That nook, at the end of the hall next to the kitchen, contains a peephole that allows one to view the office without detection. The peephole is camouflaged within a painting of a waterfall that hangs on one wall, and it has been put to use numerous times over the years by Wolfe, me, and in a few cases, a client. No visitor to the office has ever spotted it.

  “The next time I see you, you won’t see me,” I told Saul.

  “Are you saying you’ll have my back?”

  “Actually, from my vantage point, I’ll have your profile, and quite a profile it is.”

  “No nose jokes,” Saul cracked, “or I will be forced to remind you about that dandy pot in our game last Thursday night, when you kept raising me because you thought I was beaten by your small straight—make that a very small straight.”

  “Okay, I stand chagrined. I also stand light in the wallet, thanks in large part to those hot hands you kept having. What a run of luck that was.”

  “May I remind you that it is not luck, but rather, skill—skill honed over long years of studying the faces and habits of my fellow combatants. For instance, whenever you have what you think is a winning hand, you invariably . . . but no, I am not about to give away one of my many trade secrets.”

  “You are all heart, as I have often remarked. Whatever it is I do to telegraph my hands, I hereby resolve to stop it.”

  “Good luck with that, Archie,” Saul said. “How about we play some gin rummy to pass the time?”

  We did, and for once, I did surprisingly well. That is to say, we broke even.

  Chapter 21

  I put Wolfe through to Lewis Hewitt later in the day, and things started to move. The next morning, Hewitt called to say he had talked to all the principals in Cresthaven and had gotten them to agree to come to the brownstone, although not without some resistance.

  “I had one devil of a time with Ashley, which is hardly a surprise,” Hewitt told me, “but after I pointed out that her absence might be interpreted as suspicious, she relented, but she did plenty of whining, and believe me, she knows how to whine. I reminded her that the sooner we get to the bottom of what happened to Roy, the sooner the play can resume.”

  “Ah, she can still taste that elusive Tony Award, right?”

  “Yes, and now that I am in charge of the production by dint of my being its largest investor, I have no compunctions about exerting pressure on the woman in question.”

  “Is that what’s called playing hardball?”

  “You could say so, Archie. It will be fascinating to watch Ashley spar with Mr. Wolfe.”

  “My money’s on my boss,” I said. “She won’t lay a glove on him.”

  “Do not be too sure,” Hewitt said. “Ashley is one cunning lady. I think you will find she can get under Nero Wolfe’s skin.”

  “I believe you are a fan of Rusterman’s Restaurant, aren’t you?”

  “I certainly am; it is probably the best place in Midtown, and maybe in the whole city, for that matter. Why do you ask?”

  “I propose a wager. If Wolfe gets the best of the actress, as I believe he will, you buy me dinner at Rusterman’s. If Miss Williston comes out on top, anything you want to order will be my treat.”

  “Ah, but who decides the winner?”

  “Let us stipulate that we both have to agree. And if we can’t, we each will pay our own way.”

  “That sounds good to me. You’re on,” Hewitt said.

  The schedule now was complete. Hollis Sperry would be Wolfe’s first visitor, at nine tonight, followed by Teresa Reed at eleven thirty tomorrow morning and Steve Peters at nine that night. The others would follow over the next couple of days. Wolfe was by no means happy, and I know he wished he had taken Hewitt’s suggestion that the theater people come to the brownstone en masse. But he had said, “It will be more instructive to see them separately, so they are not influenced by one another’s recollections and opinions.”

  He was now stuck with his plan, which meant that at least portions of several days would be disrupted, interfering with his reading but not, thank heavens, with his twice-daily séances with the orchids up on the roof.

  Five minutes before Sperry was scheduled to arrive, Lewis Hewitt settled in with a scotch and soda on one of the yellow chairs in the office. Wolfe was in the kitchen planning the next day’s meals with Fritz, and Saul was in the front hall, preparing to play doorman. I was in the alcove, peering into the office. Because Wolfe and I are both five feet eleven, we had the peephole made to suit us, and on the occasions when shorter individuals have needed to use it—including two female clients who helped identify murderers—they have stood on a stool. People taller than Wolfe and me who need to use the peephole . . . well, they just have to slouch a little.

  I heard the doorbell, and within a minute, Saul entered the room with Sperry, who was wearing a dark suit and who exchanged pleasantries with Hewitt before taking the red leather chair while Saul sat at my desk as if he belonged there.

  “I am supposed to meet with Nero Wolfe,
but frankly, I do not see the point of it,” Sperry grouched. “I have been interviewed twice by the cops, and they know everything that I know about what happened. I am wrung dry. You can’t get blood out of a turnip.”

  “I appreciate your frustration, Hollis,” Hewitt said. “But so far, and with all due respect to them, the police do not appear to be making much progress. Mr. Wolfe, who happens to be an old friend of mine, has uncanny abilities to discover the truth in cases that seem beyond the abilities of others.”

  Sperry did not look convinced and wore a frown when Wolfe entered the room, detoured around his desk, sat, and considered his guest. “Good evening, sir, and thank you for coming. I assume you already have met my colleague Mr. Panzer.”

  “Yes, I have, but I’m not really sure why I am here. I don’t see how I can be of any help,” the stage manager said, fidgeting in his chair.

  “We shall get to that,” Wolfe said. “But first, will you have something to drink? As you can see, Mr. Hewitt already has been served, and I am having beer.”

  “Thanks, but—oh, why the hell not? If you don’t mind, I’ll have a scotch on the rocks.” Wolfe gestured to Saul, who went to the serving cart against the wall and poured the scotch, handing it to Sperry, who clearly was uncomfortable. I noticed a tic on the right side of his face, one I hadn’t seen before.

  “As to why you are here,” Wolfe said after Sperry had sampled his drink and nodded in approval, “I have been engaged by Mr. Hewitt to determine the cause of Roy Breckenridge’s death, and in addition to you, I am going to be speaking to all the cast members.”

  “Even after Max’s suicide attempt, does that mean that all of us are suspects? By the way, do you know how Max is faring?”