by Linda Barnes
“Sounds ominous.” Spraggue started walking again, slower. Eddie matched his stride.
“I was hoping to find you, too.” Lafferty hesitated. “I wanted’ to thank you for what you did at my apartment.”
“You already did.”
“And … um … I had no idea Arthur hired you to find the joker.”
“Eddie.” Spraggue stopped and faced Lafferty, trying to pin down the elusive blue eyes. “How did you see that trip wire? You never wear your glasses in the theater.”
“Um … no, I don’t. It’s … uh … a character thing. I see Renfield as sort of an unfocused being, so I—”
“You saw that trip wire from at least ten feet away.”
“The light bounced right off it! Really. It was just one of those freak things.”
“You didn’t know it was there?”
“Of course not. If I’d set it, why would I spoil it by warning Caroline? That’s what I wanted to talk to you—shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Watch out. Here she comes.”
Spraggue spun around. Caroline Ambrose half-ran behind him on spindly high heels, fast closing the gap.
“Stick around,” Spraggue whispered to Eddie, pleading. The young actor grinned, blue eyes wide and slightly vacant.
“Darling!” Caroline caught at Spraggue’s arm. “I’m breathless from pursuing you.”
Spraggue further shortened his step, but said nothing.
“And Eddie,” the star prattled on. “Did I thank you for saving my life, darling?” She wove an arm through Eddie’s, caught up Spraggue with the other, skillfully arranging a threesome. Spraggue had to admire her technique: herself in the middle, a man on each arm, she prepared to approach the theater.
Eddie mumbled vaguely. Caroline took it for consent. “I’m glad. It’s a wonder I remember my own name sometimes! Of course, on stage it’s different. I never forget a line, never forget a cue.” Caroline giggled, flashed perfect teeth. “But I shouldn’t interrupt you two, I know.” She smiled up at Eddie. “I’ll bet you’re helping Michael solve the company mystery!”
Neither man spoke. She giggled again.
“No need for alarm. I’m very discreet. I did tell you, Michael, about my dressing room? Turned topsy-turvy with all my powder upset on the floor. Very expensive powder. I have it made up specially; my skin is so sensitive. Just the sort of thing a spiteful, jealous—”
“You think the joker’s a woman?”
Caroline was elated by Eddie’s response. It followed her script exactly. She smiled vivaciously, first at Eddie, then at Spraggue, posing for some imaginary photographer.
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” Caroline said gravely.
They turned the corner at Huntington Avenue. She peered ahead anxiously. Spraggue and Lafferty exchanged glances. They understood the plot. The three of them were to arrive, supposedly back from a delightful lunch, laughing and bright, right under John Langford’s nose. If Emma were present, so much the better. Caroline must have been lurking in a shop, waiting for a likely male to pass by. She’d gotten two—a bonus.
She chattered on as Spraggue held the door. Eddie ushered her into the theater. She kept a tight grip on his arm.
“These fake torches always make me think I’ve just walked into a scene from Macbeth,” Eddie said dreamily.
Spraggue watched him curiously.
“Don’t say that,” Caroline said sharply. “Bad luck. Never mention the Scottish play inside a theater!”
“You believe in that?” Spraggue asked innocently.
“I was brought up in theaters. I never whistle in my dressing room, either. Silly, isn’t it?”
Their entrance went unnoticed, much to Caroline’s chagrin. John and Emma had not returned, ergo Caroline was not prepared to let the men go. She clung with stubborn persistence.
“I have hot water in my dressing room,” she cooed. “Coffee and tea. And I hate to be alone. I’d feel so much safer.”
She’d feel safe enough as soon as Langford returned and got an eyeful of Miss Popularity. She simpered at Eddie, who’d stepped ahead into the dressing room.
“Turn on the light, darling. To the right. And watch out for Wolf. He’s sleeping. I left him in my little basket—”
“Don’t come in!” Eddie’s voice was choked, a barely controlled whisper.
Spraggue turned Caroline around by the shoulders, held her. “Take her into my dressing room, Eddie. Stay there.”
“It’s the dog.” Eddie made a retching noise and ran down the hall. Blessedly, Caroline followed.
The brown-and-white terrier that had caused such a fuss at rehearsal was laid out on the dressing table in front of Caroline’s gilt-edged mirror. His still body was horribly elongated. A pool of blood surrounded him, dyeing the white orchids carefully arranged on his breast. His throat was slit from side to side, almost severing his head from his body.
Spraggue slammed the door as he left. He passed Eddie in the hallway, horribly sick on the gray stone floor. He averted his head, the bile rising in his throat, and hurried out into the sunlight.
The phone booth was empty. He dialed his aunt’s number, surprised at the steadiness of his fingers. Pierce answered promptly.
“Mrs. Hillman’s residence.”
“Is she back from lunch yet?” Spraggue asked quickly.
“No. May I take a message?”
“Georgina, the girl I told you about, is she there?”
“No.”
Damn. Spraggue held up his left hand, stared at his watch. She should have arrived.
“Pierce, this is important. When Georgina gets there, question her. Make her write out a timetable, everything she did since she left me.”
“Is there any trouble?”
“Never mind. Just make a note of the number of the cab she arrives in. Okay?”
“Certainly.”
“Write this down. I put her in a Yellow Cab at twelve forty-five. Number 5503. If she arrives in any other cab, try to get ahold of Yellow 5503. Find out where he dropped her, if he waited, anything.”
“I will. And a Lieutenant Hurley has been trying to get in touch with you.”
“Thanks, Pierce. I’ll phone him.”
“Would you like Mrs. Hillman to return your call?”
“No. Just tell her I’ll see her tonight.”
Tonight. The pre-opening gala! Spraggue closed his eyes.
“Good-bye, then.”
“Thanks, Pierce.”
The butler hung up. Spraggue stood with the receiver in his hand for some time, thinking. Someone tapped on the booth, hoping to use the phone. Spraggue shook his head and the man stumped angrily away.
Chapter Eighteen
Spraggue hesitated, fingered the dial. 911: Police Emergency. The impulse to call, to ignore Darien’s injunction, was strong. To report what? A mutt’s murder? Warnings couched in blank verse? And when the police questioned him about suspects … was he ready to sic them on Georgina? Not yet.
He called Hurley instead. The phone rang ten times and Spraggue was about to hang up when someone lifted the receiver.
“Hurley,” snapped an angry voice, muffled by a hurried swallow.
“Lunchtime, huh?”
“Spraggue? Damn right. I get fifteen minutes to stuff a sandwich down my gut and—”
“Have you got something for me?”
“Uh huh.”
Spraggue had a quick mental image of the policeman, shoulder hunched against the phone, sandwich squashed in his left hand, his right hand moving unerringly for the spot on an overcrowded desk where Spraggue’s information resided.
“You’re working with a bunch of honeys, you know.” Hurley gave a snort of laughter. “Dennis Boland’s got a rap sheet as long as my arm—petty stuff, bad checks. Gregory Hudson: fag bust in New York—”
“Did you get the stuff on Darien’s auto smash?”
“Yeah, sure. That and the Ambrose dame’s first hubby’s death
certificate. The Darien stuff was tough to find, you know. No charges filed. I had to convince some young ass in New York to ferret through the beef sheets. Must have been a mess—that many years ago.”
“So I owe you, Fred.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figure. How about paying off with some tickets to your show? I mentioned it to my wife; she’s crazy about that Langford guy—”
Spraggue thought a moment, said, “How’d you like to come to a special preview tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night? We’d have to get a sitter.”
“Get one, Fred,” Spraggue said earnestly. “How’s this? I’ll send over a dozen passes. Hand ’em out to off-duty cops. A goodwill gesture.”
“Sure it is, Spraggue. Why don’t you hire a private security force?”
“Look, nothing’s going to happen, Hurley.”
“But if it does—”
“Having you there will give me a warm, secure feeling,”
“Great,” Hurley said.
“Think it over. You working tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you hang onto those reports until a little before eight o’clock? Then put them in a cab and send them over to my place on Fayerweather Street. Okay?”
“Will do.”
“See you tomorrow,” Spraggue said. He hung up, left the booth, and entered the theater by the employees’ entrance on Huntington Avenue, just ten feet down from the huge main doors, but practically hidden by an overhanging alcove and Greek columns. He took the steps to Darien’s office two at a time, entered without knocking.
“Where’ve you been?” Darien began angrily.
“Even snoops get a lunch break.”
“Have you made any progress? Are you getting any closer? That business with Caroline, if it should leak to the press—”
“That’s the least of our problems,” Spraggue said. He skipped over his meeting with Georgina, outlined the death of the dog. “I think it’s time to call in the police.”
“No. Absolutely not. Tonight’s the gala. Tomorrow, dress and preview. Tuesday, the official opening. We have to make it until then!”
“Cancel the damn party, Darien. It’s too dangerous.”
“No. I’ve got people in from New York, backers, press—”
“Then we’ll have to make some special arrangements.”
“What do you mean? What kind of arrangements? Everything’s taken care of.”
“What caterers are you using?” Spraggue asked. “Rachel’s?”
“They were recommended,” Darien replied, bewildered.
“Good. I’ll call her and set things up. One of the waiters will be my man. If he’s here, and my aunt, and Karen Snow—”
“The crew’s got work to do tonight, Spraggue.”
“The assistant stage manager will have to handle it or there’ll be no damn gala. I’ll need at least three observers other than myself—”
“I’ll help out.”
“No offense, Arthur. I need people I know have nothing to do with the joker, know on the evidence of my own eyes.”
“Have it your way, Spraggue.” Darien’s eyes were ice.
“Cops would be better.”
“No. What do you suggest I do now?”
“Cancel rehearsal and get Caroline out of this mess.”
Darien smacked his forehead. “God! Caroline! Someone’ll have to make a fuss over her or she’ll walk out!”
“I doubt John Langford is up for it. It’s your role,” said Spraggue.
“Did you leave her downstairs?” The little man practically flew toward the door. “She’s probably thrown a fit!”
Spraggue followed him down the first flight of stairs, veered off at the double doors to the stage. He pulled open the right-hand door just as Karen Snow shoved it from within.
“Thanks.” She had a grim look in her eyes, a bucket in her hand.
“I have to talk to you.”
“Well, you’ll have to follow me then. Goddamned mess! Have you seen Caroline’s dressing room? She won’t go in there. Says I’ve got to find her another room! And Eddie, the poor baby!”
Spraggue put a hand on Karen’s shoulder, turned her gently around. “Just give me a minute.”
“I haven’t got one, Spraggue!” She shook off his hand.
“You’re coming to Darien’s gala tonight.”
“You’re kidding,” she said sharply. “I’ve got a hundred things to do tonight. One of the fog machines is jammed—”
“The ASM’s going to have to take care of it. Darien’s orders. I need someone to help me keep an eye on suspects.”
“Can’t you get Darien to cancel the damn thing?”
“I tried.”
“Of all the stupid moves! When I first laid eyes on the schedule, I called him on it. Who throws a party at a time like this? Tonight should be dress rehearsal, tomorrow preview! What kind of maniac wants the press at a dress rehearsal? But that’s the way old Phelps used to do it, and that’s the way Darien’s going to do it!”
“Will you come? I’ll bring you flowers and pick you up at eight-thirty.”
She stiffened just the way she had when he’d suggested an after-rehearsal ice-cream cone. “I’m allergic to flowers,” she said, “I’ve got nothing to wear, and I’ll walk.”
“Sorry. I always seem to say the wrong thing to you.”
She stared down at the floor, shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. This isn’t a very good time for me.”
“But I did say the wrong thing.”
She smiled briefly. “At least you haven’t asked me why I decided to become a stage manager. Most guys try that one within the first ten seconds.”
“Why did you—”
“Spraggue!”
He smoothed back a wayward strand of her dark hair. “Find me a box and I’ll take care of the dog.”
“Would you? I’m worried about Eddie. I think he should go home.”
Damn. Still Eddie. Always Eddie.
“Darien’s canceling the afternoon rehearsal. Send the kid on his way,” Spraggue said.
“Thank God.” The stage manager breathed a sigh of relief. “With everybody out of here, we’ll have a chance to get ready for tonight!”
They walked slowly down the corridor toward a storage room. Karen found a large flat box, heavy cardboard. “Do you want gloves?” she asked hesitantly, a shudder showing her distaste for his task.
“My hands wash easier,” Spraggue said.
Caroline’s dressing room was as he’d left it, light off and door closed. He lifted the dog’s carcass carefully into the box. The orchids stayed in position, stuck in the partially congealed blood. He closed the cover. It reminded him of the bat, the beheaded bat in the birthday-wrapped box. But on a much larger scale.
He thought of Georgina as he washed his hands in Caroline’s sink. Where had she been? If she’d gone straight to Mary’s, he’d have an alibi for one more.
Caroline’s delicately scented soap was having no effect on his stained hands. He sprinkled on harsh scouring powder and scrubbed. “‘What, will these hands ne’er be clean?’” he murmured absently.
Macbeth. He jerked his dripping hands from the sink. “Who would have thought a dog had so much blood in him?” To paraphrase. He hunted around the room, even searching the dog’s now cold and repugnant corpse. No note. No message. What in hell was the joker trying to say?
And to whom?
Chapter Nineteen
Late. Dammit, he was late. After eight o’clock and Darien’s bash scheduled to begin at nine. Spraggue knotted his tie and checked his reflection in the mirror. Not that any of Darien’s carefully chosen society guests would deign to arrive on time. Where in hell was that cab?
He dialed Hurley’s phone number, slammed the receiver down after ten rings. He stood immobile, hand on the phone, his shirt a glistening white contrast to his elegant black trousers.
He ran swiftly through a mental checklist. The caterers: that was tak
en care of. Rachel had been near hysterics at the thought of Pierce decked out in her waiter’s livery. But Pierce had been amenable. He’d be a credit to Rachel’s steadily growing reputation for great pastry and prompt service. Aunt Mary had been bubbly, eager to get off the phone and dress for the party, but worried about Georgina’s reluctance to attend. Mary, at least, would keep her head and follow instructions. Or exceed them.
Karen. She’d sounded odd on the phone, rebellious and remote. Had she been waiting for a call from someone else? Would she arrive at the party escorted by Eddie? Hell, she’d do her job. She might not be romantically inclined in his direction, but she was reliable.
A raucous horn shattered the peace on the street below. Spraggue shrugged into his dinner jacket, straightened an unruly lock of dark hair. He’d do. No John Langford, of course. He smiled as he raced down the stairs. A plum-colored jacket with a spangled cummerbund, that’s what Langford would probably turn up in.
The cabbie was in the vestibule, searching for the right doorbell. He wore a doeskin cap pushed down over deep-set eyes and carried a thick Manila envelope under his arm. Spraggue grabbed him by the elbow and propelled him out the door, relieving him of the envelope and outlining the next step of the journey as the cab got underway.
The driver understood the word hurry. Spraggue averted his eyes as they shot through Harvard Square. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew the tiny flashlight he kept on his keyring with the picklocks. The Manila envelope was carefully sealed. He broke the wax.
Twenty pages of thin onionskin paper, typed, single-spaced; Hurley had done a thorough check. Spraggue skimmed through the pages as the cab sped down Mass Ave, over the Harvard Bridge into Boston. Slipped in with the loose pages, he found two long mailing envelopes, labeled: AMBROSE DECEASE, 1968, and DARIEN ACCIDENT, 1974. He opened the first, spread the folded pages out on his lap, scanned them with the flashlight.
The Ambrose envelope contained only two sheets of paper, clipped together and folded. The top sheet was a photostat copy: State of Illinois Medical Examiner’s Certificate of Death. Registration District Number and State File Number followed. An unevenly spaced, labeled grid informed that Ambrose, Geoffrey C., had been a white American of sixty-seven years when he’d died in the county of Cook, city of Chicago, on December 4, 1968. Married. Name of Surviving Spouse (maiden name if wife): Caroline Comeau. Was it maiden name? Or stage name? He skipped over Address. Social Security Number, U.S. War Veteran (Yes, No), down to the middle of the page. Number 18: Death Was Caused By: followed by the admonition to enter only one cause per line for (A), (B), and (C). (A) was labeled Immediate Cause. In a half-legible scrawl it said: “Arteriosclerotic Cardiovascular Disease.” The next column, labeled Approximate Interval Between Onset and Death, was blank. So was item 18B: Due To Or As a Consequence Of. So was 18C: Other Significant Conditions. At least there was no doubt about item 19A. Autopsy (Yes, No) had a large clear “No” printed under it. Item 20A was also adamant: Accident, Suicide, Homicide, or Undetermined (Specify) had been answered with the one word, “Natural.”
