The Plain Old Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Sarah couldn’t have cared less one way or the other. She had too many others lined up waiting for her artistry. It occurred to her as she got toward the end that Sebastian Frostedd wasn’t among them. Maybe he’d decided to do his own face tonight, now that she’d set a pattern for him to go by; or maybe he just thought he’d wait and avoid the crush. He had lots of time, since he didn’t appear until so late in the first act.

  She did think of sending one of Frederick’s hired guards to check on him, but then Ridpath Wale slid into the chair beside her, so she asked him instead. Ridpath only grunted, “In the men’s room, most likely,” and demanded her full and undivided attention to his makeup, as well as a good deal of sympathy for his heroism in going on with a damaged ankle. He must not have noticed that he only limped when he’d made sure somebody was watching.

  At last Sarah got everybody painted up who required painting and was free to mull things over while she put the finishing touches to her own cheeks and eyes. By the time Lady Sangazure sailed forth in her purple panoply, Sarah had both her face and her mind made up.

  “Aunt Emma, I’ve been thinking. Once I’ve gone offstage, I’m not needed at all till after the intermission. Martha could manage that little business of handing Dr. Daly the teapot. That would give me a chance to dash back to the house and check on Gillian.”

  “Let me think.” Emma hunted around on her bosom for the large gold watch that was one of Lady Sangazure’s many accouterments and studied the time. “Yes, you could. You’d never be missed in the teapot scene, there’s such a mob milling about then. You are supposed to be in the Marvelous Illusion number singing the soprano part with Aline, but that’s a tricky one and you haven’t had a chance to rehearse with the group, so perhaps it’s as well you don’t try. Besides, we all wind up shrieking at the tops of our lungs, and I don’t suppose one shriek the fewer would matter. You’d have to be back here for your big number with Frederick at precisely nine thirty-five; but for heaven’s sake don’t cut it that fine or I’ll have a heart attack and mess up the finale. Now if you forget your lines during the opening scene, just hurl yourself on Martha’s shoulder and begin to cry. She’ll clue you in. Ready? Places, everyone.”

  Chapter 18

  THE OVERTURE ENDED, THE curtain parted. The bells rang forth their clarion sound, and from the throats of men and maids poured assorted sounds of rejoicing. Sarah dithered in the wings. Martha squeezed her hand. The male members of the chorus proclaimed for one last time that joy did definitely and incontrovertibly abound, then made their exit. The two Partletts entered, one downcast, the other perturbed, to show how wrong men can be about women.

  Beginning in trochaic tetrameter and winding up in iambic pentameter, Mrs. Partlett begged to know the cause of her daughter’s strange depression. Constance delivered her agitated rebuttal, insisting that all her blushings and palings, her long-drawn sighs and tremblings of limb were nothing for a mother to fuss about. Undeceived by this reply, as what concerned parent would be, Mrs. Partlett motioned the girl choristers offstage and left Constance free to make her plaint. She made it, all forty lines of it, without a hitch.

  From then on it was a piece of cake. Aunt Emma, as a last-minute inspiration, had provided Sarah with a beribboned basket, in the bottom of which lay a well-marked script, and Emma’s friend Millie, the prompter, sat ready to hiss from the wings, but Sarah needed none of their help. That was mostly because she had hardly anything to say once Dr. Daly hove into view bemoaning those long-gone, halcyon days when love and he were well acquainted, little noting that he was still the object of a comely young woman’s affections. Mrs. Partlett tried her hand at matchmaking, the effort came to nothing, Sarah fell sobbing on Martha’s bosom and was led away to be comforted.

  The applause from the audience was sweet, the hugs and hand-squeezings and slaps on the back from members of the cast back-stage were sweeter, but Sarah didn’t pause to revel in their accolades. Dragging Frederick aside, she whispered, “Where’s that policeman you hired?”

  “Which one?”

  “I’ll take any one I can get. Quickly!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I have to go check on Gillian, and I’m not going alone. And I have to be back here by half-past nine, so quit stalling and find me that policeman.”

  “I could—”

  “You could not. You’re on in about ten minutes. Frederick, move!”

  Grumbling something about Cousin Mabel, Frederick moved. He was back in a moment, towing a man who’d been trying unconvincingly to look like a stagehand.

  “Officer Murgatroyd,” Frederick barked. “Take him, he’s yours.”

  “Thanks,” said Sarah. “Come along, please, Officer.

  Officer Murgatroyd took a look at Sarah in her polka dots and curls—she’d have no time to change, of course, though she had remembered to park her basket backstage—and willingly followed her out to her car.

  “I suppose I should have told Sergeant Formsby I was leaving the hall,” he remarked as they got started, “only he told me not to bother him for anything short of murder.”

  “Yes, well, I hope it won’t come to that,” Sarah told him. “In fact, it may not come to anything at all. It’s just that there’s been another spot of bother.”

  She described the current bother, and he nodded. “I see what you mean. Too bad you had to leave the injured person by herself.”

  “I know, but there was nothing else we could do at the time. Miss Bruges refused to be taken to the hospital, her injuries looked to be ugly but superficial, and she wasn’t in a bad state of nerves, at least not by the time we left. In fact, she seemed to be taking the incident more or less in stride,” Sarah added rather caustically.

  “It takes them that way sometimes. It’s the shock. They get sort of I-don’t-care, then they fall apart later. The victim’s probably chewing her fingernails off up to the elbows by now, wondering if those two guys are on their way back to finish her off.”

  “I’m not sure but what she may have cause to wonder,” said Sarah. “That’s why I’ve been thinking we may be wiser not to drive straight up to the house. I don’t want to turn this into a melodrama, but I’d as soon leave the car somewhere out of sight and slip into the house quietly.”

  “But if she’s alone and okay, won’t she get scared if we go sneaking in on her?”

  “If she is, the chances are she’s asleep and we can just sneak out again without her even knowing we were there. My aunt gave her something for her headache. Why don’t we just drive by the house and take a peek in? I can pull up behind the neighbor’s hedge.”

  “Can’t do any harm.” Officer Murgatroyd peeked, and not in vain.

  “Say, is that your aunt’s van in the driveway?”

  “My aunt doesn’t have a van. I think we’re in business.”

  Sarah stashed her car, first dousing the lights, then led Officer Murgatroyd at a quick scurry through the hedge and around behind the carriage house to the side door. The special door key she carried would deactivate the burglar alarm.

  Warning each other not to make a sound, they went in. Luckily, Constance’s costume called for soft, heelless slippers. Officer Murgatroyd solved the dilemma of Mrs. Kelling’s polished floors by taking off his sturdy bluchers and carrying them in the hand that wasn’t resting on the butt of his gun.

  Sarah wasted no time checking the drawing-room sofa. She knew by now where Gillian would be. Beckoning the policeman into the breakfast room, she inched open the door that connected it to the big dining room. Through the crack they could spy somebody short and thin, in blue denim pants and jacket, examining one of Emma Kelling’s silver epergnes with what looked like professional interest.

  “Put that down.” The voice was Gillian’s, and she didn’t sound a bit frightened. “And for Christ’s sake, wipe off your fingerprints. Haven’t you any brains at all? You’re not lifting so much as a tooth-pick. We’re not leaving one single sign that anybody’s been here
but me. When that bunch get back, they’re going to find me on that couch just where they left me, nursing my goddamn eye. Did you have to slug me so hard, Lev?”

  “You said we couldn’t get away with any faking because the old dame knows too much about makeup.”

  That was the voice of a different male, and Sarah recognized it. The kind taxi driver who’d picked up Gillian after her mauling from the alleged car thieves and brought her safe to haven was back. “Besides,” he went on, “I’ve been wanting to hang one on you for quite a while.”

  “Thanks, lover. I’ll do the same for you one of these days.” Gillian sounded more sincere than usual, Sarah thought. “Come on, let’s move it.”

  “What’s the big rush?” That was the skinny one, nasal and whiney. “You told us the whole goddamn neighborhood’s down at that show you were supposed to be in.”

  “What if they find they can’t do it without me? I want that painting out of here pronto. Go ahead. One of you at each end.”

  Now all Sarah could see of Gillian and her crew was one pair of dirty bare feet. The man had been wearing heavy boots or running shoes with distinctive treads in the soles, she deduced, which Gillian had made him take off before he came in. There’d be no tracks in the carpets, no noticeable fingerprints, nothing to be missed because Ernestina was supposed to be already gone from the house. There’d be no locks forced, no burglar alarm sounded downtown because Gillian had been inside to shut it off and let in her henchmen without fuss or bother. She’d let them out again, turn the burglar alarm back on, and go back to being the stricken innocent. One had to give her credit for a well-planned operation.

  “How the Christ did you get this goddamn billboard under here all by yourself?” the taxi man was grunting.

  “That’s my business,” Gillian told him sweetly. “Just take it easy on that stretcher. One scratch and you’re dead. We’ve got maybe a couple of million riding on this deal, remember.”

  “Says you. Where’s it supposed to be coming from?”

  “I have my connections.”

  “Who, for instance?”

  “Think I’m fool enough to tell you? Look, you made out all right on that last job, didn’t you? I don’t remember hearing any complaints when you collected twenty thousand apiece for a couple of hours’ work, and never a sniff from the cops, either. Isn’t that one hell of a lot better than hustling Cadillacs out of parking garages?”

  Sarah didn’t wait to hear what the man had to say. She touched Murgatroyd’s arm, motioned for him to stay put, and mouthed that she was going to telephone for reinforcements. He nodded, and she left.

  Up in Aunt Emma’s boudoir, with its heavy carpet and tight-fitting door, those downstairs couldn’t possibly hear her using the phone. Nevertheless, Sarah kept her voice down as she described a robbery in progress at Mrs. Beddoes Kelling’s house, and gave the officer at the desk the number and description of a van that was parked at the top of the drive.

  “Officer Murgatroyd has them under surveillance right now. I should say your best plan would be to come along quietly and bottle up the driveway so the van can’t get out. I don’t believe they’re armed, unless they have weapons in the van. They think they have the neighborhood all to themselves, you see. But for goodness’ sake, if you do have to shoot, aim for the tires instead of the gas tank. What they’re stealing is a very large painting worth a great deal of money. And please hurry!”

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Good. I’ll go down and let Officer Murgatroyd know.”

  It was as well she went. Gillian’s men already had Ernestina out from under the table and were wrapping her in two of the large, padded mats movers use. They must have brought the mats with them. A thoroughly professional operation.

  Sarah could see both men’s faces now. The taxi driver was easy to recognize. The smaller, thinner man had an oddly shaped head that was narrower from side to side than from front to back, and a nose like a knife blade. She’d know him again.

  So would Officer Murgatroyd. He was being patient, like a good cop, his notebook out and his pencil busy scribbling notes of what they were doing and saying. He wouldn’t try to arrest them alone, not now that he knew help was on the way. He’d let them take the painting from the house, making sure a robbery had been well and duly committed, leaving no legal loophole for them to escape through. The police of Pleasaunce must have had lots of experience with clever criminal lawyers.

  Now they were passing strong cords around the mats and tying them. Gillian was testing the knots, leaving nothing to chance.

  “Okay, they’ll hold. You know exactly what you’re to do. No speeding, no funny stuff, no stopping except for traffic lights. Just get out on the pike and keep going till you reach the exit I’ve marked on the map, then stay to the right. It’s a low wooden building with a big sign out front that says ‘Fried Clams,’ and a little one stuck on underneath that says ‘Closed for the Season.’ Watch your odometer; it’s exactly two miles from the exit, on the right. Drive around to the back. There’ll be no lights showing, but somebody will be expecting you. Here’s the fake bill of sale. You’re all set for gas and oil? You’ve checked the tires?”

  “Yes, mother dear,” said the taxi driver.

  “No guns in the van, in case you get stopped and searched for any reason?”

  The thin fellow snorted. “What kind of jerks do you take us for? We’ve got brains enough not to set ourselves up for a murder rap. Unlike some people we know.”

  “You keep your mouth shut.” There was something in Gillian’s voice that made Sarah and Officer Murgatroyd exchange startled glances. “I do nothing that’s not an essential part of the operation.”

  “The hell you don’t. You didn’t say anything about wasting that old geezer when you roped us in to ferry the painting.”

  “Roped you in? That’s a hot one. You’ve been pestering me for months to—look, we haven’t got time for this. Just get out of here.”

  They didn’t go.

  “Okay,” Gillian admitted. “Daventer wasn’t part of the plan because I didn’t know he was in it, for God’s sake. He’d got laid up with gout or some damned thing before I managed to wangle my way into the cast. He’d never been to a rehearsal till Wednesday night. So all of a sudden here he is, reminding me we’d met in Newport at that house party where poor dear Mrs. Poofenwidget had her Rembrandt etchings stolen. So the same night poor dear Mrs. Kelling’s going to lose her Romney, and where does that put me?”

  “Couldn’t you have waited till the next night and set somebody up, just in case?” asked the taxi man.

  “No, I couldn’t. It was then or never. Just like it’s tonight or never for you guys to get this damned thing out of here. Will you quit stalling and go?”

  “I want to hear more about Daventer,” said the thin one. “What makes you think she’d have told him? I thought you had it all figured out she wasn’t going to say anything to anybody, between your fake ransom notes and her not wanting bad publicity for the show.”

  “She’d have told him. He was her boyfriend. Anyway, it went off like a breeze. He cracked his skull on the bathtub, taking a leak in the night. Happens all the time. They cremated him this morning, for God’s sake, and Mrs. Kelling’s having some kind of memorial thing tomorrow. None of that would be happening if anybody suspected there was anything phony about his death, would it?”

  “You ought to know.” He really was a mean little devil, Sarah decided. ‘You’ve been lucky before, haven’t you, Gillie?”

  “I’ll be lucky again if you don’t get off my back, Sid. Go on, get moving.”

  “Right,” said the taxi driver. “Come on, Sid, pick up the other end. So long, Gill. Get a good rest and don’t worry about a thing. See you in New York.”

  He’d be seeing her again sooner than that, Sarah thought. She waited till Gillian had let the two men out the front door, gone back to the drawing room, and resumed her pose as resident invalid. Then she showed Officer
Murgatroyd to a new post of surveillance from the library, left him to stand guard, and scooted through the hedge to her car. They must be almost to the intermission by now. She hadn’t much time.

  Still she didn’t start her car. She’d better wait till the van got off. They might panic and try something foolish if they heard another motor turning over in a place they were supposed to have all to themselves. She didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize the police trap. On the other hand, she couldn’t sit around here while Aunt Emma had that fit. Where were the police’ cars? She strained her eyes through the dark—not so very dark, since Pleasaunce was generous with its streetlights—but couldn’t see them. She could hear the van starting, moving down Emma’s drive, pausing at the bottom, turning—and driving away. The police weren’t there.

  Chapter 19

  IF SARAH HAD STOPPED to think, she might not have done what she did. But there wasn’t time to think. She was due on stage in seventeen minutes, and Ernestine was on the way to New York. She gunned her engine and went after the van full tilt.

  She wasn’t fool enough to try ramming the other vehicle, her idea was to force it off the road. But how did one manage that? She tried blinking her lights and pulling up alongside. They thought, of course, she merely wanted to pass. And what was there to stop her? The road was deserted except for themselves; everybody else in Pleasaunce must in fact be at the show. Including those miserable policemen who ought to be here doing this instead of her.

  She simply wasn’t getting her point across. She stayed with them, edging closer. The taxi man, who was driving, turned for an instant to stare at her. She honked and edged closer. He slowed down for a second, then speeded up. She stayed with him, neck and neck.

  This could get dangerous. She must do something, now, before they got going too fast. Deliberately, wondering, “My God, what’s Max going to say?” she pulled half a length ahead and angled sharply to cut him off.