“Max, as far as I know, although still in a coma, is holding his own. As for you being suspects, I cannot speak for the police department, nor would I presume to do so. However, is it not fair to say each of you had the opportunity to dispatch Mr. Breckenridge?”
“Well, obviously, we all were in the theater when he died, if that’s your point,” Sperry huffed.
“Do you think Mr. Ennis had a motive for murdering the producer?”
“If he did, I’m surely not aware of what it was,” Sperry said. “As far as I could tell, they seemed to get along quite well.”
“Were you aware of Mr. Breckenridge’s penchant for Coca-Cola?”
“Of course, and so, probably, was everybody else connected with the show, including the crew. He drank the stuff by the gallon. Always had. He claimed it gave him the jolt he needed.”
“You had known him for a long time?” Saul asked, giving Wolfe a chance to drink his beer.
“I had, probably twenty-five years or close to that. He always said I was his favorite stage manager, probably because I put up with his obsession for control. After all, Roy liked to function as both producer and director, and a lot of the time, he functioned in effect as the stage manager as well.”
“Did you find that discomfiting?” Wolfe asked.
“Yes and no. I don’t believe in false modesty, and I happen to be very good at what I do. I have been stage-managing on Broadway for more than half my life, and it’s irritating when somebody tries to tell me how to do my job, even someone as successful as Roy. To his credit, though, when I pushed back against some of his decrees—and that’s what I called them, decrees—he would back off and allow as to how I was correct.”
“Did he have any enemies you were aware of?”
“I can’t imagine anyone involved in Death at Cresthaven. Oh, of course Ashley Williston could be hard to get along with, always wanting to change her lines or alter some stage direction. During rehearsals, both Roy and I would cringe whenever she began with ‘I think this scene would work better if . . .’ One or the other of us frequently had to rein her in and remind her that we don’t mess with the playwright’s work. It seems incredible that someone with all her experience would suggest some of the things she did.”
“Did the actress ever threaten Mr. Breckenridge?”
“Even Ashley, as arrogant and full of herself as she is, knew better than to go up against Roy too often. He was not a vindictive man by nature, but if someone got on the wrong side of him, he could be tough to deal with, very tough.”
“Could he, and would he, blackball someone?” Saul asked.
I could see the tic in Sperry’s face again, and he struggled to get comfortable.
“If so, I never heard about it, at least not in a formal sense,” he replied. “However, although I was not involved in the particular production, I do know of one case where an actor with a fondness for the bottle showed up for rehearsals loaded two days in a row, and Roy blew his top. He threw the guy off the cast and said, ‘You will never work for me again!’ That comment got around town fast, and to my knowledge, it pretty well finished the schmo’s career, at least in big-time productions. Last I knew, and that was some time back, he was reduced to working in summer stock and small regional theaters.”
“You have mentioned frustrations with Miss Williston,” Wolfe said. “Did Mr. Breckenridge find any others in this cast difficult to work with?”
“Not at all. Every one of them, even the young ones, are very professional and even-tempered. The only problems any of them had that I was aware of were with Ashley and her dominating personality. I’ve also heard that she showed a, shall we say . . . nonprofessional interest in Steve Peters, who, as you probably know, is at least a generation younger than she.”
“Was that interest reciprocated?” Wolfe asked.
“It was not, which led to some tension, as you can imagine. The two of you have been asking a lot of questions,” Sperry said. “Now I have one for you: Has anything been heard of that mysterious Canadian writer, MacGregor, who hung around the set and interviewed all of us, supposedly for a magazine article? I’ve read in the papers that the cursed magazine doesn’t even exist, and that even the police don’t seem to know who this character is.”
“We cannot help you there, sir,” Wolfe said. “Did he seem genuine to you?”
Sperry shrugged. “I suppose so. I have not been interviewed all that often in the past, stage managers rarely are, so I don’t have anyone to compare him with. Mine is not exactly what you would refer to as a glamour job, nor is it a popular job. Actors hate being scolded, and my role entails plenty of scolding.”
“I would like to return to your comment about Ashley Williston and Steve Peters. Was Mr. Breckenridge cognizant of the tension between them?”
“Of course he was; Roy doesn’t—didn’t—miss much.”
“Such has been said of him, which brings me to a salient point: I am told he recently expressed concern about a malaise that he felt permeated the atmosphere at the theater.”
Sperry jerked upright. “Huh! Where did you hear that?”
“The source is immaterial. You may have known Mr. Breckenridge longer than anyone else involved in the play, with the possible exception of Mr. Ennis. Are you saying he never appeared to show concern over what he viewed as problems with the production or its participants?”
“If something was bothering Roy, he didn’t let it show, at least not around me,” Sperry said. “Going back to the business with Ashley and Peters, he did say to me, ‘That woman is up to her old tricks again.’”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Ashley has always had an eye—and more than an eye, really—for younger men, particularly good-looking ones, and Mr. Peters definitely falls into those categories.”
“Did Mr. Breckenridge take any action to stifle Miss Williston’s predilection?”
“If so, he did not tell me, although in the last few days, she didn’t seem to be flirting with Peters like she had before, so it’s possible Roy said something to her.”
Wolfe drank beer and set his glass down. “Do you believe Mr. Ennis attempted suicide?”
“It sure seems that way to me,” Sperry replied, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“Can you suggest a reason?”
“As you might know, Max is not in very good shape, to say the least. Hell, he has to be at least eighty, maybe even a little more. When he was onstage, he managed to look okay, but I knew how much effort that was taking for him—and taking out of him. Between acts and at the end of a performance, he sagged and seemed like he aged ten years. Maybe it all finally got to the guy.”
“Did he complain about being in pain?”
“I never heard any gripes out of Max, but then, he is old school, what they refer to as a real trouper.”
“Is he well liked by the others in the cast?”
“It seems like it to me. He is something of a father figure, you could say, at least for the younger actors, and also for the understudies. Several times, I noticed him huddled with either Steve or Melissa, apparently giving them encouragement or sympathy, maybe both, after a performance. He is a nice contrast to Ashley, who, obviously, is far from the nurturing type. She is much too busy thinking about her career and her desire for a Tony to worry about anyone or anything else.”
“Hardly a character reference,” Wolfe said dryly.
“I am sure you would get a similar response from dozens of others on Broadway who have come in contact with her over the years.”
“How did she and Mr. Ennis get along?”
Sperry snorted, eyeing his empty glass. “They were civil to each other, but hardly convivial. It was obvious to me that Max felt she had an exalted opinion of herself, while she tended to give him a wide berth. She knew she couldn’t bully him. He had too much stature in t
he business.”
“Did either of them ever criticize the other to you?” Saul asked.
Sperry waved the comment away. “Nah, they both were smart enough to know it wouldn’t accomplish a darned thing. For what it’s worth, I’ve got a reputation of not having much tolerance for whiners and backbiters, of which there are plenty in our little world. The same was true of Roy. Cast members were expected to be professional, to show up well prepared for rehearsals and performances, and to not make themselves look good at the expense of others. Sorry if that sounds like a sermon, but that is how both Roy and I ran a show. I told you before that we didn’t always agree on everything, and that his need for total control sometimes frustrated me, but there was nobody else I would rather work for.”
“It seems apparent he also valued you highly,” Wolfe said.
Sperry nodded curtly. “All I can say is that I was his stage manager on six . . . no, make that seven productions. Look, I really don’t know what else I can tell you,” he said, getting to his feet.
“I just hope that you, or the cops, or somebody, finds out who did this.” He turned to Hewitt. “I know you are more or less in charge of the production now, which is just fine with me. Any idea when, or if, we are going to resume?”
“That is hard to say right now, Hollis. It seems unlikely there will be any more performances until everything gets resolved. We will need a new director as well as a replacement for Max. All of which means that before the show can start up again, there will have to be another whole batch of rehearsals.”
“I know that, of course,” the stage manager said with a grimace. “A lot of people involved in Cresthaven—cast, crew, backers—would love to get it back on the stage, most of all Ashley, who sees her chance at winning that Tony about to go down the drain.” Sperry shook his head and walked out of the office without a good-bye, with Saul following him down the hall to the front door.
I emerged from hiding and sat in my desk chair as Saul was returning. “Well, what’s the consensus?” I asked.
“You like to give odds, Archie,” Saul said. “I make it three to two that Sperry’s clean.”
“I cannot imagine him as a killer,” Hewitt said. “But then, I frankly can’t imagine any of them committing murder, so I am a poor one to judge. Chalk it up to my naïveté.”
“After standing at that peephole for however long it was, I am just happy to be sitting down,” I put in. “But I will agree with Saul that the odds are at least three to two that the stage manager is in the clear, although he did seem nervous.”
“You’re right about that,” Saul said. “He seemed awfully antsy, but then, he was being subjected to an inquisition of sorts, which would make almost anyone nervous.”
Wolfe pursed his lips. “Mr. Sperry appears to be earnest and dedicated, although those attributes do not necessarily absolve him. I prefer to withhold judgment until we meet with the others.”
“Do you honestly think Death at Cresthaven will ever be performed again?” I asked Hewitt.
“I would like to think so, but in addition to being naive, I also am a realist, Archie. Getting a replacement for Max is possible, but finding a new director, that is a good deal more difficult, especially with Ashley in the cast. Heaven knows when we could be ready to perform again. And if Max Ennis should die, it would seem grossly insensitive to even contemplate continuing with the production anytime in the near future.”
“Yeah, two deaths are a lot to overcome all right. Any late word on Ennis’s condition?”
“As of about noon today, there was no change. He is still in a coma, although according to the doctor I spoke with on the telephone, his vital signs were strong.”
“Look on the bright side,” I told Wolfe. “Tomorrow morning, you will have the pleasure of spending some time with Teresa Reed, she of the keen eye and the sharp tongue.”
Wolfe glowered but said nothing. He has little use for women in the brownstone, particularly acerbic ones, and our next visitor was nothing if not acerbic.
Chapter 22
The next morning, Lewis Hewitt and Saul arrived at the brownstone at eleven, and the three of us sat in the office with coffee while Wolfe, fresh from his morning session playing up in the plant rooms, repaired to the kitchen, presumably to discuss the lunch menu with Fritz.
Hewitt turned to me. “Do you think all these interviews are likely to accomplish anything?”
“You should pose that question to Wolfe. He has his ways, and as long as I have worked with the man, I still don’t always understand his approach. But then, he is a genius.”
Saul nodded. “I agree. I have known Mr. Wolfe almost as long as Archie has, and I’ve seen him pull more rabbits out of hats than the Great Blackstone, magician supreme.”
“It will be interesting to see what kind of magic he can pull off with Teresa Reed,” I said. “Based on the single conversation I had with her, it wouldn’t surprise me if my boss got so frustrated, he got up and walked out of the office. I have seen that happen before, more than once.”
Hewitt chuckled. “She is something of a harpy, no question. She almost always plays acid-tongued characters, which is no accident. The difference between her stage persona and the real Teresa is almost imperceptible. The woman has taken sarcasm to new levels, and she has driven directors and stage managers to distraction, although I will say this for her: She is smart as well as being a fine actress, and she does not suffer fools gladly.”
“How did she get along with Breckenridge and Sperry?” Saul asked.
“Actually pretty well, from what I’ve been able to learn as something of an outsider,” Hewitt said. “Roy told me once some weeks back that she could be difficult, although nothing like Ashley. ‘When Teresa has a beef, there is usually a pretty good reason,’ he said. And I would agree with that. She takes a fierce pride in her professionalism.”
“This should be interesting,” Saul said as the doorbell rang. He went down the hall to greet the interviewee while I headed for the alcove and its peephole.
Teresa Reed marched into the office like an army officer about to review the troops, but when she saw Hewitt, she stopped short. “I know that you asked me to be here, but I did not realize you would be present. Why is that?” she demanded.
“Mr. Wolfe asked me to sit in on the conversations with members of the cast,” he replied amiably. “After all, as you know, this is, for all intents and purposes, my production now.”
“Huh! After what’s happened, is there even going to be a production?” she demanded, taking the red leather chair Hewitt was offering. “And where is this Nero Wolfe person that I am supposed to see? This so-called miracle worker?”
“Good morning, madam,” Wolfe said as he strode into the room and settled into the chair behind his desk. “Would you like something to drink, coffee perhaps? I am having beer.”
“Beer in the morning? How very quaint. Do you do that to burnish your reputation as being some sort of an eccentric?”
“I do it because I happen to like beer. Do you find such to be offensive?”
“Offensive, no; posturing, perhaps; unhealthy, almost surely. But it is, of course, your business and no one else’s.”
“Thank you for acknowledging that. Now I would like to—”
“Before we go any further, what is the latest word on poor Max?”
“He is hanging on,” Hewitt told Teresa. “Still in a coma, however.”
“And one more thing,” she said, “what about that MacGregor fraud who interviewed all of us? Why haven’t the police found him? I knew there was something phony about the man from the first. A reporter working for an arts magazine in Canada—hah!”
Wolfe drew in a bushel of air and exhaled slowly. “Madam, as far as I know, Mr. MacGregor has not been located by the police. He—”
“Speaking of the police, are they doing anything to fi
nd Breckenridge’s killer? Or have they turned the case over to you?”
“Enough!” Wolfe roared, slapping his palm down on the desk.
Teresa Reed’s thin rear end lifted off the chair in reaction to the gunshot-like sound, and I stifled a laugh. “I did not realize that you find it necessary to resort to shouting,” she said in a voice that carried the slightest quaver.
“Only when it is necessary to stop a barrage of interruptions. It is my understanding you came here to answer questions, not to ask them.”
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Nero Wolfe. Go ahead and ask whatever you want to,” she snapped.
“Thank you, I shall. Do you have reason to believe someone wished Mr. Breckenridge ill?”
“I do not. Granted, he wasn’t always the most likable person in the room, but he was an effective leader, good at what he did, in fact, very good.”
“What made him unlikable?”
Teresa squirmed in her chair. “Roy could be impatient with people to the point of rudeness. I saw this many times during rehearsals. Also, he had what I felt was an inordinate fondness for the ladies.”
“Including those with whom he worked?”
“I did not say that! But he had a . . . well, a reputation.”
“To what degree is that hearsay?”
“Hearsay—I assume that’s a fancy word for gossip.”
“To be accurate, it is synonymous with rumor,” Wolfe said.
“Same thing, as far as I’m concerned,” Teresa said, readjusting herself in her chair, aiming her hawklike nose at Wolfe and swallowing hard. “I have heard enough stories about him, and from reputable sources, to believe there is truth to it.”
“But I take it you have no specifics?”
She sniffed. “Well . . . no.”
“I have been led to believe there was a degree of tension among members of the cast. Did you find this to be so?”
“Well, any cast that has Ashley Williston in it is bound to have some tension. And that, sir, does not happen to be hearsay. I have seen it firsthand in Death at Cresthaven and also heard it from actor friends of mine who were in the cast with her in two other plays. She always feels she knows more than anyone else involved in a staging, whether it is a cast member, the makeup staff, the director, the stage manager, or even the producer, for God’s sake.”
Murder, Stage Left Page 12
