“What do you think the reason is behind Mr. Ennis’s apparent suicide attempt?”
“That was terrible, just terrible,” Peters said with feeling. “Is there any news on his condition?”
“Nothing has changed in the last couple of days,” Hewitt put in.
“To rephrase my question: What reason would Mr. Ennis have for trying to kill himself?” Wolfe asked.
Peters shook his head. “I really don’t know, unless he had recently received a bad medical diagnosis. It was clear to all of us that his health wasn’t good, although he seemed somehow to get energized at the beginning of every performance. I don’t know how he did it.”
“It has been said that he and Mr. Breckenridge quarreled and exchanged heated words in the days before the poisoning. Do you have any knowledge of that?”
“No sir, I do not. If such a quarrel took place inside the theater, I think I would have heard something. Our dressing rooms are jammed in close together in the basement, and the walls are pretty thin, so there really is not a lot of privacy.”
“Who are you closest to among the cast and the staff?”
“Mmm, nobody in particular,” Peters said as I noticed beads of sweat forming on his forehead and his upper lip. “By that I don’t mean to suggest we weren’t friendly to one another during the production. Overall, relations were really quite cordial.”
“Miss Cartwright is nearest to you in age. I would have thought you might have developed a friendship, given that everyone else in the cast is at least a generation older than the two of you.”
“Oh, we are certainly friendly,” he said, his face reddening. “I guess you could say we were maybe a little bit closer to each other than to anybody else. After all, we were playing an engaged couple.”
“Was Miss Cartwright comfortable around each of the other members of the company?”
“Yes sir, she seemed to be, as far as I could tell. I never heard Melissa complain about anyone. But then, she does not seem like a complainer by nature. She has a very positive attitude.”
“Did she have any reason to have animus toward Mr. Breckenridge? Perhaps anger over some criticism he made during rehearsals?”
“Not at all. If anything, he tended to favor her.”
“In what way?”
“When he did have a criticism about her, he was much gentler than he was with any of the rest of us.”
“Why was that?”
Peters turned his palms up. “Maybe he felt she was the most sensitive one in the cast and might be easily hurt by criticism. That’s all I can think of.”
“Did that favoritism engender resentment among others in the cast?”
“Not that I was able to detect.”
Wolfe finished the beer and glared at the empty glass. “Let us now make the assumption that Max Ennis did not attempt suicide, but rather was the victim of a murder attempt.”
“But that does not seem probable, does it?” Peters said, clearing his throat.
“Please, sir, humor me and indulge my assumption. Who might be most likely to want Mr. Ennis dead?”
“No one!” Peters barked, then recoiled, shocked at his own vitriol. “Everyone liked Max. How could you not? Offstage, he was like everybody’s favorite uncle, as somebody else in the cast, I can’t remember who, described him. I can’t conceive of anyone wanting to hurt Max.”
“And I gather you also cannot conceive of him wanting to do harm to anyone himself?”
“No, I cannot. For one thing, Max is an avowed pacifist. I remember hearing that he was a conscientious objector during World War I. It is not something I have ever heard him talk about, but apparently he did his service in a military hospital or drove an ambulance, or maybe both. But he did not carry arms.”
“Admirable,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Breckenridge came to me because he said he had some vague feeling of unease about the production. Do you have any thoughts as to what may have been the cause of that unease?”
Peters shrugged. “I really felt things were going quite well. The rehearsals went smoothly, more so than in the other plays that I have been involved with. And the performances also seemed to go on without any serious snags. I have no idea what Mr. Breckenridge could have been concerned about.”
“Steve, he must have feared someone or something,” Lewis Hewitt said. “And those fears, whatever they may have been, certainly were justified as it turned out.”
“I guess so,” the young actor replied. “I’m afraid that I have not been much help to you. I simply can’t explain any of it.” Peters looked absolutely miserable.
“We appreciate your having come here tonight, however,” Hewitt said, aware that Wolfe was unlikely to do much thanking. Saul escorted the young actor down the hall to the front door, and I left the alcove and went to the office, thankful once again to get off my feet.
“Some impressions?” I asked Wolfe after Saul had returned from his doorkeeper duties.
“The young man articulated it best. He was of little or no help. Your thoughts, Saul?”
“I agree. He seems younger than his years, and more than a little naive, which I find unusual in an actor. Either that or he is putting on one hell of an act as the wide-eyed male ingénue. And he also was nervous. I could smell the perspiration. He must have been sopping when he walked out of here.”
“The guy acted pretty much the same when I talked to him,” I said. “He was self-deprecating, referring to himself as ‘a small cog’ in the operation. He talked about all the razzing that he took from the old pros, who called him a ‘Yalie’ because he graduated from the drama school at Yale.”
“Did he resent the razzing?” Saul asked.
“I got the impression he did at first, but he said he considered the kidding to be good-natured. He also admitted to being nervous early on in the production but said he gained confidence as he settled in. “
“Why would he have been nervous?” Saul posed. “He had been in Broadway plays before.”
“He claimed he was intimidated by the presence of Ashley Williston and Brad Lester in the cast. But he said part of the reason he became more confident was that Williston took him under her wing.”
“She probably wanted to take more than that,” Saul said. “And who knows, maybe she did.”
“Could be,” I said, turning to Wolfe. “That is something to ask the lady. She will be our guest tomorrow at eleven.”
He grunted, got to his feet, and left the office, wishing us a good evening.
“Well, does anyone want to give odds on Mr. Peters’s guilt?” I asked Saul and Hewitt.
“For some reason, don’t ask me why, I don’t trust him,” Saul said. “It wasn’t just his nervousness; a certain amount of that is understandable. I felt he was being . . . evasive.”
“I think I agree with Saul,” Hewitt said, “although part of that may well be the difficult position Ashley has put him in.”
“Yeah, he undoubtedly does not want to talk about her attempts to seduce him,” I added.
“And maybe, just maybe, they were more than attempts,” Saul said.
“So Mr. Peters has his hands full dealing with Ashley Williston. What about him as a murderer?” I asked.
“I just don’t see how the two things are connected,” Hewitt said.
“Neither do I,” I answered, “but something is definitely eating at Steve Peters.”
Chapter 24
The next morning, I settled in at my desk with coffee after having devoured a breakfast of Fritz’s brioches and grilled ham, along with a blueberry muffin and orange juice. I was working on the orchid germination records when the phone rang.
“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”
“Of course it is. Who else would be answering?” Lon Cohen said.
“What can I do for you, gazetteer of the going
s-on of the great, the near great, and the not so great?”
“Gazetteer, is it? You have been around Nero Wolfe too long. He is the only person I know who would use such a word.”
“Now you know two who would, and besides, where do you think the name of your very own and esteemed newspaper comes from? Now, to what do we owe the honor of this call?”
“I trust that you have not seen our early edition?”
“No, our Gazette gets delivered around noon. Until then, we are forced to subsist on a diet of the Times.”
“The almighty and exalted Times, however, did not carry an item that we did, which is an item I believe you and your boss will find most interesting.”
“Is this a guessing game?”
“No, guessing is what I have to do when trying to figure out why you and Wolfe are so interested in the late Roy Breckenridge.”
“I believe Mr. Wolfe said you would be the first to know about any developments involving Mr. Breckenridge’s death—that is, if we are even working on a case involving him.”
“I am going to guess that you are, and I am also going to guess that an ad in today’s edition will pique your and your boss’s interests.”
“Try me.”
“On page twelve, main news section, lower right-hand corner, full-page width, five inches deep, bordered in black, is a box containing the following: ‘Wanted: Information Pertaining to the Death of Producer Roy Breckenridge. Reward: $50,000, payable at the discretion of Ashley Williston. Direct all responses to: Box 21, the New York Gazette.’”
“I will be damned.”
“I am sure that you will. One of her stipulations in placing the ad was that no one on our editorial staff be allowed to interview her. Our hands are tied.”
“Cheer up. That ad must have brought at least a few thousand shekels into the Gazette’s coffers.”
“Cheer up, my foot. Did Wolfe bankroll it? He’s been known to buy space in the papers before.”
“No comment.”
“Is he in touch with Williston?”
“No comment.”
“Come on, Archie, give me something here. You know that every other paper in town is going to be after her, and we could very well end up getting scooped on our own bloody ad.”
“I doubt that very much. Do you know whether any of the other papers are carrying the ad?”
“No, and neither does our advertising department. It was not in this morning’s Times or Daily News, and we’ll be scouring the other afternoon papers when they hit the street, of course.”
“If I were to speculate, I would say the lady chose your paper and your paper only.”
“But why not the Daily News? It’s got more readers than we do. And so does the Times, although not by much.”
“Maybe she figures your readers are the ones who would be more likely to know something about Breckenridge’s death. After all, the Gazette has the fifth-largest circulation in the country, never mind that those two other rags you just mentioned are bigger. And you have the best Broadway coverage of any daily in town. I know that because you’ve told me so on several occasions.”
“Thank you for that acknowledgment. By the way, you must not call the Times a ‘rag,’ Archie. Try to show at least a little respect for our worthy competitor.”
“Sorry, I got carried away. Back to the subject at hand, I believe I speak for Mr. Wolfe in saying that if and when we have any information regarding the Breckenridge death, you will be the first publication to know.”
“Where have I heard that line before?”
“I cannot imagine. Stay tuned.”
No sooner had I hung up than the instrument rang again. It was Inspector Cramer.
“Did Wolfe place that damned ad in the Gazette?” he roared.
“No, he did not, that much I can assure you. When he does run newspaper advertising, he directs all responses to himself.”
“Huh! Have you been in touch with the Williston dame?”
“Not recently,” I told him, which would still be the truth for a couple more hours.
“Has Wolfe gotten anywhere at all on the Breckenridge business?”
“No sir, unless he knows things he has not chosen to share with me. Would you like him to call you?” My answer was a hang-up. I then dialed Wolfe in the plant rooms.
“Yes?” He hates to be disturbed when he’s playing with the orchids, or the “concubines,” as he calls them.
“Sorry to bother you, but since we are seeing Ashley Williston just after you descend from on high, you should know about this advertisement that is running in the Gazette today.” I read it to him, word for word.
Wolfe cursed, a rarity for him. “I will be down at eleven,” he said, hanging up. Everybody seemed to be slamming down their receiver on me. At this rate, I could get a complex.
Saul Panzer and Lewis Hewitt came to the brownstone at 10:45, and I told them about the Williston ad in the Gazette.
“Leave it to Ashley to stir things up,” Hewitt said, shaking his head. “With the show at least temporarily shuttered, she is desperate for publicity.”
“You mean this move isn’t out of the goodness of her heart?” Saul asked with a wry grin.
“Hah! All of us know better,” the Long Island orchid grower replied. “If you look up opportunist in the dictionary, you are likely to see her picture along with the definition.”
“We already knew her meeting with Wolfe was going to be interesting,” I put in, “and with this latest development, it could be one of the better spectator sports events of the year.”
“There’s the doorbell,” Saul said. “Looks like it’s time for you to go into hiding again, Archie.”
And so I did. Saul escorted Ashley into the office, and from my hiding place, I saw her sweep in with a flourish that any director or stage manager would give a thumbs-up.
The actress was clad in a royal-blue suit, blue pumps, and a ruffled white blouse. She looked like she had just stepped out of a magazine spread for Saks or Lord & Taylor.
“Hello, Lewis,” she said to Hewitt, who stood. “Where is this famous Nero Wolfe I am supposed to see?”
“He will be here shortly.”
“I am here now,” Wolfe said, entering the office, settling into the chair behind his desk, and placing a raceme of orchids in a vase as Hewitt directed Ashley to the red leather chair. “Would you like something to drink, madam? Coffee or tea perhaps? I am having beer.”
“Nothing, thank you,” she said coolly, crossing one nylon-sheathed leg over the other. “I did not come here to socialize.”
“I admire your candor and also your businesslike attitude,” he told her. “You purchased an advertisement that is running in today’s Gazette.”
“I did. After all, someone had to do something. The police seem to have gotten nowhere, and if you have made any progress, I have yet to hear about it.”
“I am proceeding with my investigation,” Wolfe said, opening one of the two bottles of beer Fritz had just brought in and pouring some into a frosted glass.
“I certainly am glad to hear that, but just what do you have to show for your work? And has the mysterious Mr. MacGregor been located? It seems to me that he could be the solution to Roy’s death.”
“For reasons I cannot elaborate on at present, I can assure you Mr. MacGregor is not a factor in the death of Roy Breckenridge,” Wolfe said.
“Will you give me your word on that?”
“I could, but I know what my word is worth, and you do not.”
The actress frowned. “I restate my earlier question: Have you made any progress whatever?”
“Some, although I am not prepared to report at the moment. Now I will turn the tables and become the questioner. What do you expect to learn from the advertisement?”
“That should be obvious. I am h
oping someone will come forward with information about Roy’s murder.”
“Obvious? I think not. When you use fifty thousand dollars as bait, you will get a mighty poor grade of fish as your catch. Those responding will concoct myriad scenarios in order to collect a reward.”
“Ah, but you have failed to see a stipulation in the ad,” she said in a triumphant tone. “‘Payable at the discretion of Ashley Williston.’”
“I have made note of your stipulation, madam. Notwithstanding its inclusion, you are likely to become bombarded with preposterous dramaturgy. You also run the risk of incurring the wrath of the police department.”
“What do I care about the police department?” Ashley snapped, dismissing the entire force with a stagy hand gesture. “It appears to me that they have done nothing. I am told Inspector Cramer is a good policeman, and also a smart one, but I have yet to see progress of any kind on the part of either the man or his foot soldiers. And as to incurring the department’s wrath, I understand that, over the years, you have done a good deal of that yourself.”
“I have, but not recklessly, as is the case with this advertisement. Mr. Cramer, whom I have known for years, is indeed a good man, and it would not be wise to poke him in the eye with a stick. Setting the advertisement aside for now, do you have any theories as to Mr. Breckenridge’s assailant?”
“None. To my knowledge, Roy had no enemies. Other producers were envious of his success, of course, but professional envy is hardly a stimulus for murder. If that were the case, Broadway would be littered with the corpses of actors, directors, and producers.”
“Well put,” Wolfe said. “How would you describe your working relationship with Mr. Breckenridge?”
“Mine?” she said, wide-eyed, fluttering a slender, manicured hand to her breast. “We always got along, we understood each other. I had known Roy for years and had been in a couple of his other productions.”
“Did you respect his expertise?”
“Of course I did, and just why wouldn’t I?”
“I understand you frequently questioned his directorial decisions, sometimes in the presence of others, during rehearsals for Death at Cresthaven.”
Murder, Stage Left Page 14
