by Marvin Kaye
At seven o’clock, I made sure to be back in front of the Forum. I wanted to see whether Harry intended to show up at rehearsal.
He did. At a quarter past the hour he swung down the street, cocky as ever. The suitcase was gone.
I dedicated myself to a long vigil. Evidently he planned to do his traveling after the run-through. I didn’t know what he had in mind, but I had every intention of finding out.
Time dragged by. My legs grew stiff and I was frozen to the marrow, but I stayed put, not for an instant letting the front door out of my sight. I wasn’t particularly concerned about Whelan ducking out the back way. I figured he’d dropped off the bag in Penn Station; the depot was right smack underneath the Madison Square Garden complex and it was even money or better that Harry intended to catch a train that night. Since no rehearsal was scheduled till Sunday, there was little likelihood he’d be missed until then.
Nearly four hours later, the cast began to leave. I spotted Harry making a right outside the main doorway; as I expected, he was heading for Penn Station. In another moment he entered its Thirty-third Street door.
There wasn’t time for elaborate strategies. I hurried down the street, entered the station, rode the down escalator, and hoped I hadn’t lost him a second time. Wherever he was going, he probably had already bought a ticket when he’d dropped off the bag.
I was in luck. Whelan’s distinctive height made him easy to find; he was just going through a gate on the far side of the main waiting room. I sprinted across to the same place and ascertained from a conductor that I could pay the fare on the train. The first stop was Philadelphia.
We pulled out almost as soon as I stepped aboard. I worked slowly along the train, car by car, until I spied Harry sitting in an aisle seat, the back of his head toward me. I dropped down in a vacant place nearest the exit. For the next ninety minutes there was nothing else for me to do but construct theories to account for Whelan’s behavior.
One thought struck me. In all the talk about the Third Murderer, nobody had ever suggested Macduff, the part Harry was playing. At first, the idea didn’t sound sensible, but I mulled it over until it did. Point One: Macduff does not show up at Macbeth’s banquet, the one where Banquo’s ghost appears. Point Two: when Macduff flies to England to stir up sedition against Macbeth, the king immediately suspects him and punishes Macduff by having his wife and children murdered. Did Macduff know too much because he was privy to the usurper’s heinous designs?
Harry didn’t disembark in Philadelphia and I had to pay the conductor to stay on till the next stop, Baltimore—only to repeat the same business when the train pulled out of that city, too.
Harry did get up once, but I’d already made sure the rest room was in the other direction before choosing my seat, so he didn’t pass by me.
I was worried about low funds. I’d forgotten to go to the bank. I asked the conductor what the eventual destination of the train was and he informed me it was Richmond. I hoped Harry would get off before then; I couldn’t afford to ride much farther.
I got my wish. The actor disembarked at Washington, and I was not far behind. I expected him to grab a cab outside the train station but he surprised me by walking around to the adjacent post office, then crossing North Capitol Street. There was an old hotel, the Commodore, on the diagonally opposite corner. Harry entered it.
I allowed him five minutes, then stepped into the lobby. It was small but not unattractive, a place that probably once had seen a lot of important visitors and still clung to some vestiges of elegance in case any of them should ever decide to drop in again. On my way over from the station I noted the hotel’s great convenience of location: the Capitol itself was visible in the near distance, less than a five-minute walk.
“Would you like a room?” the night clerk asked.
“That all depends,” I said, glancing at the register to see which floor Harry was on. “Do you take BankAmericard?”
“Certainly.”
“Fine. How about something on the fifth floor?”
“Very well. How long do you plan to stay?”
I shrugged. “Indefinite.”
He eyed me suspiciously, doubtlessly observing that I lacked luggage. In the most polite fashion, he requested a look at my credit card.
Several minutes later, I let myself quietly out of the room I’d been assigned. Whelan was staying around the corner, halfway down another hall. I trod softly over the worn tan carpet, reached his door, and put my ear to it. There was an indistinct murmur of voices, but I couldn’t tell whether he had company or if it was just the TV.
There was an alcove diagonally across the way from his room. In it was a soda machine and large ice bin. I stepped inside and leaned against the ice container, resigned to an all-night watch. One of the reasons I left the detective business is the grinding boredom of much of the routine. I’m not the most patient person in the world, and the necessary waiting used to get on my nerves. That particular night, I’d already endured four hours in the cold and had put up with the monotony of a long train ride. I was just about beat.
The next thing I knew somebody was shaking me awake. I’d dozed off at an improbable angle, propped up between the soda machine and ice-maker.
“You got a room here?” a suspicious-looking porter asked. It was broad daylight.
“Yes,” I groaned, “but I never had a chance to use it. I must have been exhausted!” I showed my key to allay his fears, then asked as casually as possible whether the man in the room opposite had gone out.
A new light appeared in the porter’s eyes. He piously proclaimed that it was worth his job to gossip about the guests. Sighing, I handed him my last five-spot.
“Big guy came out ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago,” he told me, pocketing the cash. “Wanted to know the way to the Folger.”
That sounded familiar, but it didn’t enlighten me at first. I asked for the same information as Whelan, and the porter tried to gouge me again, but I pointed out he’d told the big guy for nothing. He begrudgingly instructed me to walk past the Capitol to First Street, take a right past the Supreme Court, and turn in at the next street beyond.
I hastened to do so. Washington looked cleaner than it deserved in its virgin blanket of snow, but I wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. I followed the porter’s instructions and stopped in front of a long, low white-stone edifice with the legend above it:
FOLGER SHAKESPEARE LIBRARY
My heart sank. I more than had a feeling that Harry was here on legitimate business for Hilary.
I entered a small alcove. To the left was a long gallery running nearly the length of the building; on either side of it were portraits from Shakespearean dramas and, beneath, glass cases with various relics of the Bard and Elizabethan England.
A second, narrower hall led straight back to the library section, but a guard stopped me and asked for a pass I didn’t have.
I would have gladly turned around and slipped out, but I had no choice but to send a message to Harry. The guard gave it to a librarian. I halted her before she went off to deliver it.
“Can’t I just go back there and find him myself?”
“I’m sorry”—she shook her head—“but we have strict rules about allowing only authorized scholars in the reading rooms.”
I wondered how Harry managed to get in, but I didn’t get a chance to ask him. Instead of the actor, my note fetched me a surprise in the shape of Hilary Quayle, looking livid.
She grabbed my elbow and steered me close to the front entrance. “What in hell are you doing here?” she demanded in a subdued but angry voice.
“I saw Harry leave his apartment with a suitcase and I thought he was running away like Mills.”
She glowered at me suspiciously. “Are you telling me that you didn’t follow me here?”
“I had no idea where you were! I was trailing Harry!”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Hilary grudgingly conceded. “But when you saw where he was, didn’t it dawn on you that
he was helping me?”
“Of course,” I admitted wearily. “I figured he was continuing to check literary sources pertaining to the Third Murderer.”
“That’s right,” said Hilary. “None of the books he bought were much help, so I decided to stop wasting precious time and visit Mecca.” Regarding me with a trace of amusement in her blue eyes, she sighed, “Well, as long as you’re here, you might as well help; we have our hands full. There must be tons and tons of books and pamphlets to wade through. Come on, I’ll try to get you cleared to use the library.”
I shook my head. “I’m too embarrassed,” I explained. “I’d rather not have to face Harry right away.”
“All right,” she said, nodding, “but if you knew you’d made a fool of yourself, why did you send him a note?”
“I didn’t know you were here, or I would’ve addressed it to you.”
“Why?”
“I wish I didn’t have to say.” I tried to avoid looking at her, but she took my chin in her hand and forced me to return her gaze. She scrutinized me with narrowed eyes.
“This is the second time,” she said, “that I’ve seen you blush in as many days. What gives?”
I couldn’t say it aloud, so I hauled out my wallet and showed the empty compartment. Then I explained how I’d run after Harry without remembering to go to the bank.
“What about credit cards? Don’t you have any?”
“The railroad won’t accept them.”
She shook her head, but made no further comment. I didn’t know how I’d expected her to react—with derision, a lecture, pique, ironic amusement; all were possible. But she merely opened her handbag, withdrew a pair of twenties, and gave them to me without a word, except to ask whether they’d be enough.
I was at a loss to know how to thank her, but she prevented me from attempting it. Laying a hand briefly on my arm, Hilary gently told me to go home and get some rest.
“Home?” I asked with a trace of bitterness. “Where’s that?”
“You know where I mean,” she said quietly. “Forget what I said yesterday, Gene. I was angry at you, but I had no right to be. I’m sorry.”
It was one of the few times she’d ever apologized to me, but I had no time to respond. She hurried away and returned to the library.
I was half tempted to hang around waiting for her, but I didn’t want to risk losing any of the small bit of ground I’d regained, so I tucked her money in my billfold and turned my feet toward Union Station.
On the way back to New York, I thought a lot about Hilary and Harry. I knew it was none of my business, but I wished I had the answer to one question:
Was it only the TV I heard when I stuck my ear up against the actor’s hotel-room door?
10
HILARY WAS RIGHT, I needed some rest, but events on Saturday weren’t about to let me have it.
I arrived back in New York at a little after one o’clock. I didn’t feel like facing an empty apartment right away, so I took a ride downtown to see how Melanie was doing.
The same nurse let me in. She was tall and skinny and had a comical face that came to a point in an extremely aquiline proboscis. Her lips had a habit of working back and forth as if she didn’t know what position they were supposed to relax in.
“She’s a bit more animated today,” she said of her patient; “I think you can go right in.” She jerked a hand to the bedroom door and continued herself down the hall to the living room.
Melanie was sitting up in bed. There was color in her cheeks, but no trace of a sparkle in her eyes. I greeted her, asked after her health, and explained where Hilary was and what she was doing.
“It’s a waste of time,” she said ruefully. “Nobody has figured out the identity of the Third Murderer since Shakespeare died. I looked over Michael’s prompt script myself, but there were no clues in it.”
“Yes, I noticed that. Have you any idea why he avoided explaining the mystery, even in his own directing plan?”
“He didn’t want me or Hilary to sneak a peek before he was ready to reveal the secret himself,” she answered. “He knows how Hilary and I are like schoolgirls when we get together, and he wanted to prevent our rooting through ‘teacher’s’ notebook.” She smiled faintly. “He knew us so well.” Then her chin trembled and she turned her face to the wall.
I held her hand and put one arm around her while she cried. It was going to take her a long, long time to get over her husband’s death—if she ever did. Silently, I cursed a murderer who had simultaneously managed to destroy two lives.
I let myself out of the apartment. The nurse was in the bathroom, but she called out that she would remember to latch the door, so I left.
I still didn’t feel like going home. Since I was already in the Village, I decided to walk over to headquarters and see whether Betterman was getting anywhere.
He wasn’t in, but his plainclothes assistant, Katz, gave me the inspector’s home number and I dialed it.
“Yeah?” he grumbled, annoyed at having his Saturday afternoon sportscast interrupted. “You got anything to tell me?”
I outlined my adventures of the previous evening, but the only part he was interested in concerned Armand Mills. I suggested he start tailing Dana Wynn, but he couldn’t see what for.
“She probably told you the truth,” Betterman asserted. “Mills must’ve wanted to check the promptbook, and she caught him there, so the only thing he could do was to bluff and pretend he was coming back to the show.”
The inspector was being lazy, as far as I was concerned, and I told him so.
“What the hell do you want from me?” he bellyached. “It’s my day off, don’t I get any rest? Look,” he continued, forestalling the protest I was about to make, “Mills is still my number one suspect, and until I find out different, I’m concentrating my efforts on catching him.”
“Any leads yet?”
“No,” he admitted. “He’s got a lot of friends in his set, but you know how they stay zipper-lipped. We’re still hoping Evans will lead us to him.”
“Speaking of Evans, did you find out anything about him?” I was talking to Betterman on Katz’s phone. As soon as I mentioned the kid’s name, the plainclothesman looked up from the papers he was studying.
“We asked a lot of questions about him,” Betterman told me. “Evans has been around—Mills now, Stockton before. And that’s not all—”
“I’m not interested in gossip, Lou.”
“No, this you’ll be interested in. Our little friend is evidently AC/DC.”
“Meaning?”
“He was running around with that little blond for a while.”
“What little blond? Pat?”
“That’s the one, Gene. Pat Lowe.”
“That’s very hard to believe.”
Betterman made a rude sound. “Nothing’s hard to believe these days. Don’t you know there are some gals who go looking for boys like Evans?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Another thing about Evans,” the inspector continued. “That time he was out ill? You were right. He had a good dose of clap.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said dryly.
“Wonder which one he got it from.”
“Spare me the debate, Lou.”
“One thing’s for sure—he’s an inconsiderate little bastard. We checked with his doctor. He should’ve stayed home a week. Almost the whole damn cast could’ve caught it from him!”
I saw Katz motioning to me. I asked the inspector to hold the line for a second. The other told me he had to speak to Betterman, so I handed him the phone.
“Inspector,” he said, “Katz here. I didn’t want to bother you today, but as long as you’re on the line, I thought I’d better let you know that Donnelly lost him. ... Yeah, you heard me, he got out from under!”
I heard Betterman’s voice squawk from the other end. Katz gave him a few particulars and I realized they’d had a tail on Evans, but he slipped away ear
ly that afternoon.
“Nothing fancy,” Katz explained. “He went into a subway, rode one stop, got out, and grabbed a cab. Donnelly couldn’t find another hack.”
The inspector hassled him for a while, then asked to talk to me again. I assured him I didn’t have any notion where Evans was, but would get in touch if I heard from him. I returned the receiver to its cradle and thanked Katz for its use, then left the station house.
I pondered where the hell Evans might be. It sounded as if he’d deliberately shook the man following him, but I wouldn’t have given the kid credit for thinking of such a move.
I didn’t have to wonder about him long. At half past three, I let myself into the office, parked the mail on Hilary’s desk, and stepped back to the refrigerator for a bottle of Schaefer’s. Just then the phone rang.
His voice was tense. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“What about? Mills?”
Evans hesitated. “I ... I’d rather not say over the phone.”
“All right. Where are you now?”
“My place.”
“Which is where?”
He gave me an address on Avenue D.
“Wait there,” I said. “I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
I hung up.
There are four alphabet-lettered avenues in Manhattan, and, to my mind, they’re the most depressing streets in town. I’ve seen safer blocks in East Harlem than along some parts of Avenue D.
Evans lived in a dark, narrow building on the third floor. There was no paint on the door, and his name was scrawled beneath the knocker in unstenciled white letters.
He opened the door at the first tap and invited me in. It was a studio apartment, which meant a single twelve-foot-by-twenty-foot room served as his main living space, supplemented by a small bathroom and infinitesimal kitchen. There were no rugs on the unpainted wooden floor, and the furniture, except for an army cot, consisted primarily of orange crates covered with a variety of cloths, some of them evidently sheets, others probably “borrowed” from the tables of neighborhood restaurants. Along one wall stood a pair of cinder blocks on which a board-and-brick bookshelf had been thrown together. A few theatrical posters adorned the grimy plaster walls. In the corners of the room I saw a number of roach traps.
