Blood Will Have Blood
Page 13
“I’m on duty, Emma. Keeping watch for the joker.”
“The party has to end.”
“What about John?” Spraggue asked.
Emma laughed. “He doesn’t own me. John will be going off to some other frightful event. A cocktail party at one of the backers’ homes. I’d love to miss it.”
The song ended. Emma pressed a scrap of paper, hastily pulled from her tiny red bag, into his hand. “Address and phone number,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.” She walked away.
Spraggue let out his breath. The hand that had touched the red dress felt hot, burned: What was behind this sudden seduction? A ploy to make John Langford jealous? Greg? A game to further infuriate Caroline? He slipped the piece of paper into his pocket. It might turn out to be a far better evening than he’d anticipated.
By midnight the party was acclaimed a success. The music blared louder, disco added to the more staid fare. Colors melded and swirled in a champagne haze. Caroline, Langford, and Darien stood out, stars of the evening. The ensemble chattered and danced, glossy as résumé photos.
Résumé photos. If he could just—
The lights went out. The music stopped raggedly, one reluctant clarinetist continuing long past the others. A stifled curse rang out in the sudden silence. Someone giggled. A tray overturned in a clatter of broken glassware. Then a new sound began, an eerie, thin whistle of wind.
It began indistinctly, welling up from the dance floor. The musicians stared dumbly at their instruments. The speakers had a life of their own.
The voices were whispers, high, thin, menacing—a curious singsong chant.
“Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whin’d.
Harpier cries; ‘’Tis time, ’tis time.’”
“God!” It was Caroline’s strangled voice. “It’s Macbeth. Not Macbeth!”
“What in hell is—” Darien started strong, faded off.
“It’s my recording.” John Langford’s tones were unmistakable. “My London recording. Who could have—”
Then came a woman’s voice.
“The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?—What, will these hands ne’er be clean?” The voice rose to a shriek, ended in sobbing.
Someone dropped a glass.
Spraggue saw the thin beam, felt the cold metal of the flashlight pressed against his hand. “Trace the wire,” Spraggue whispered, fixing his light on Pierce’s worried face. The butler nodded. They moved noiselessly up the stairs together.
Far away, the howl of a wolf joined the wind. Underneath, music grew—harsh and menacing. A new voice spoke.
“Rats,” the voice said. “Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds, thousands, millions of them, and every one a life; and dogs to eat them, and cats too. All lives! all red blood, with years of life in it—”
Spraggue and Pierce made their way through the hushed foyer, through the employees’ exit and down the steps.
“At least the bastard’s quoting Dracula now,” Spraggue said. “I’d hate to think he was terrorizing the wrong cast.”
“Wiring from below,” Pierce murmured. “I checked the dais. Neat little holes.”
“The dressing rooms,” said Spraggue.
In Gus Grayling’s cubicle the two men traced the voices to their source. A massive tape recorder lay hidden by a tarpaulin, camouflaged by the overflow of ivy from a large potted plant. Wires ran up and out one of the high windows; wooden shavings indicated drilled holes. But the tape recorder, the wires, were not the central focus.
Next to the equipment was a cage, a large metal prison. Beside it, another one, also empty. Stacked on every chair, piled on the floor: cages of every possible size. A sudden noise, an animallike chirrup, made Spraggue turn. Behind the door sat another cage, average size, tiny silvery bars. But this one wasn’t empty.
A single rat, red eyes burning in the flashlight glare, paced frantically back and forth. On top of the cage, neatly printed in all caps, a sign read:
RATS! HUNDREDS, THOUSANDS, MILLIONS OF THEM! GUESS WHERE THE OTHERS ARE!
Chapter Twenty-one
“All right.” Scarcely an hour later, Spraggue confronted his exhausted lieutenants in the main lobby. Aunt Mary and Pierce shared a rose velvet love seat. Karen stood nearby, tracing a pattern in the rug with one sling-backed sandal. “Tell me about Macbeth.”
In a short time the theater had lost its feverish gala glow. Age seeped through the cracks in its makeup. Flowers drooped. Cigarette butts jammed the stinking ashtrays. The remnants of one shattered crystal glass decorated the stairway.
“Michael.” Darien entered the lobby through the auditorium doors. “Those rats—” Try as he might, the director couldn’t quite suppress a shudder. “When do you think—”
“The exterminators are working as quickly as they can. Thank God, all the rats don’t resemble that monster in the cage. They’re relatively harmless white ones.” Spraggue raised his voice over the sudden hum of speculation. “Arthur, that was a nice job of crowd control. When I came upstairs, I was expecting a stampede.”
Darien looked grim. “Ever had a bomb threat?”
“No.”
The director summoned a halfhearted grin. “Neither have I, but we all rehearsed them in the sixties. Never thought I’d have a rat threat.”
“More than a threat,” Spraggue said.
“Michael?” Aunt Mary spoke up. “Aren’t white rats much easier to purchase? Laboratories and such?”
“Yeah. I was wondering where our friend would pick up so many wharf rats.”
“Shall I start calling around? Pet shops, scientific-supply warehouses—”
“In the morning. Right now”—Spraggue paused slightly—“I want to know about Macbeth.”
“Shall I start?”
Spraggue nodded at his aunt.
“I was assigned,” she began, peering at the small circle of faces, “both John Langford and Caroline Ambrose. I tackled Langford first. As soon as I mentioned Macbeth, Michael, he was off. How many times he’s done it, who he’s played, who he’s directed in it, how he’d design it—”
“Did he mention any particular production? Any hard-luck production?”
“To hear him carry on, you’d think they were all hard-luck shows. Story after story after story.”
“But no strange reactions?”
Mary pursed her lips. “Just rampant ego.”
“Odd.”
“What, Michael?”
“Nothing. From something John said earlier, I thought he was on to the messages. Never mind. What about Caroline?”
“Well, to begin with, she only agreed to discuss the matter if I refrained from quotation and referred to Macbeth as the Scottish play.”
Spraggue grunted. “And?”
“She’s played Lady Macbeth three times. Only the ban on quotation kept her from illustrating. No allusions to any particular production. No guilty starts or jumps.”
“Hudson was mine,” Spraggue said. “He’s choreographed the stage fights in Macbeth four or five times, once for a John Langford production. Did Langford happen to mention that, Aunt Mary?”
“No.”
“Have to check it out. Hudson seemed quite willing to talk about Macbeth, but liquor may have made him more loquacious on the subject than he would have been otherwise. Karen?”
“I told you.”
“Tell the others.”
“I had Eddie. He’s never done Macbeth.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” The stage manager’s eyes were red-rimmed and shiny, her voice throaty with a curious gulp in it.
“Okay, Karen. You know what has to be done. You and Mary and Pierce make out the timetable. I want to know where everyone was at eleven-fifteen.”
“Why then?” Arthur Darien said curiously.
“Forty-five minutes of blank leader on the tape, Arthur. The fireworks began just after midnight.”
“I see.”
“Whoever jammed the lights must have sneaked out around then to diddle the fuse box,” she answered wearily. There was something in her voice that made Spraggue turn and regard her carefully.
“But you didn’t see anyone?” he asked softly.
She hesitated for only an instant. “No.”
Darien interrupted. “Michael, you know I appreciate your letting me sit in on this conference. I don’t want to take up time, but could you explain something? What about the other actors? You only asked about John and Caroline and—”
Spraggue motioned the director aside. “In a minute, Arthur, I’ll explain the whole thing to you. If you could wait …?”
“No trouble.”
“Aunt Mary?” Michael gently removed her from the corner where she huddled with Pierce and Karen, and walked her slowly across the room. “I’m planning to sleep in Brookline tonight. But don’t wait up for me. I’ll be late.”
“All right.”
“When you’ve finished the timetable, have Pierce call a cab. And take Karen home on your way.”
“Does that young woman usually tell the truth?” Mary asked.
“I think so.”
“She didn’t tonight. Not when she said she’d noticed nothing unusual at eleven fifty-five. Her voice was different. She lowered her eyes. Classic signs.”
Spraggue sighed. “Agreed.”
Aunt Mary patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll try to find out what’s worrying her on the way home. If I do, I’ll leave you a note under the jade bowl.” She smiled up at him. “I think she’s a very attractive person, Michael.”
Spraggue, busy with his own thoughts, looked up suddenly. “Huh? Who?”
“Karen Snow, dear,” Aunt Mary whispered. “I wonder why she lied.”
Spraggue returned his aunt to the huddle. Darien was still waiting, impatiently pacing the carpet in the far smoking lounge.
“What do you want to know, Arthur?” Spraggue said rapidly. He hoped the wait hadn’t soured the director’s mood.
“I want to know why you concentrated on asking about four of the actors. Just four.”
“Okay.” Spraggue sat on a chair by the fireplace, rested his hands on his knees. “Emma and Gus we’ve ruled out on appearance. That doesn’t mean they may not know something, but they’re out of the running for the joker. And Georgina.…” He hesitated briefly. “I think I can rule out Georgina.”
“That’s good. At least we’re getting somewhere.”
“Deirdre’s never been involved in Macbeth. We know that from our research.”
“And why Macbeth?”
Spraggue stood, stared Darien straight in the eye, and said “Arthur, you tell me about Macbeth.”
The director looked away, then spluttered, “Loathe the play. Why you should think I’d—”
“Arthur! You recognized that voice.”
“That whisper? I’d be damned good if I could recognize a voice through that kind of distortion!”
“Not the whisper at the end, Darien. Not the witches at the beginning. The middle voice. You dropped your glass when you heard it.”
“I was surprised. The lights had gone out.”
“The lights had been out. You didn’t drop the glass when they failed. You waited—until you heard that woman’s voice.”
“Wasn’t it from John Langford’s Macbeth? The one he directed in London? I don’t recall who he used for Lady Macbeth—”
“No, Arthur. The witches were from the Langford production. Then the quality of the tape changed. Scratchier. An amateur effort, I’d say. Possibly old.”
“I didn’t notice.” Darien was starting to sweat. His hands clenched and unclenched.
“What I don’t understand, Arthur,” Spraggue said mildly, “is why you don’t want to help me. It can’t be in your best interest to make this show fail.”
“In my interest!” Darien shook his head, stared at the ground. “I know the voice,” he said bitterly.
“Knew the voice, don’t you mean. It is Alison Arnold?”
“Spraggue, I had nothing to do with that woman’s death. The brakes failed on my car.” Darien was sweating in earnest now. “I could have been killed as easily as she. There were witnesses—”
“Dennis Boland?”
“Yes. That’s how I met Dennis.” The director spoke rapidly, as if his mouth were dry.
“You directed Alison Arnold in Macbeth?”
“The play was never presented. After her death—she was a total unknown, Spraggue. I was taking a terrific chance using her—”
“And you were drinking then.”
“I was not drunk that night! And I’ve never taken a drink, that day to this—”
“Arthur.” Spraggue stopped him with a glance. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Tell you what? I had no idea until I heard that tape tonight. Even then, I was hoping I was wrong, mistaken. I would have said something—in private—later.”
“You didn’t know about the Macbeth messages?” Spraggue’s tone was frankly skeptical.
“I didn’t know the messages were from Macbeth. I hate the play! I’ve forgotten the play! I don’t think about Macbeth!”
“You’re going to have to,” Spraggue said coldly. “First, Arthur, I think you should have protection. More protection than I can offer you. If you won’t go to the police, hire a private bodyguard.”
Darien didn’t speak. He just shook his head.
“You’re in danger, Arthur.”
“If I’m in danger, I’ll take care of it, Spraggue.”
“Okay. I’ll need a list of everyone involved in that production of Macbeth. Get it to Pierce before you leave the theater.” Spraggue checked his watch. No way he could start investigating until tomorrow morning. He felt in his pocket. The slip of paper Emma Healey had given him was still warm to the touch.
Darien was talking. “But I can’t remember back that far. It was years ago.”
“Try,” Spraggue said firmly. “Does anyone in the cast seem at all familiar to you? You know, you can’t quite remember where you’ve seen that face before?”
“No.” The director shook his head. “Why?”
Spraggue raised one eyebrow. “Because,” he said, “I have a strong feeling that one of your actors is related to Alison Arnold.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Emma was living on Marlborough Street, in a sublet apartment in a typical Back Bay brownstone. The door opened promptly on his first ring. She didn’t ask for identification.
She had changed clothes. He would never find out how she wriggled out of that red dress. The outfit she’d put on had been designed to be gotten out of easily—loose, silky, ice-blue pajamas, tied at the waist.
The blue cooled her fiery hair. Stretched out on a shabby sofa, she looked relaxed, but one bare foot tapped a nervous rhythm. The room was lit only by candles.
“Romantic,” commented Spraggue. He took off his tie, stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
“Take off your jacket, too,” she said, eyes amused. “I use candlelight precisely because the place isn’t very romantic. It’s all I could find. I hate hotels.”
Spraggue tossed his jacket on a chair, sat near her on the couch.
She lit a cigarette, put it out after a glance at Spraggue’s face. “You don’t like women who smoke?”
“I don’t like anyone to smoke before I kiss them.”
She tossed the pack of cigarettes on an end table. “And unlike my friend, Gregory, you kiss only women.… How nice.”
“What about your friend, John?” Spraggue said.
She looked at him speculatively. “I like what you do with Seward.”
“How about what I do with Spraggue?”
“I don’t know. You’re still a mystery. Tell me, what do you think of our last scene together?”
“Definitely your best moment,” Spra
ggue said easily. “Vampirism becomes you.”
“I’ve often thought that,” she said smiling. “I love being the Woman in White. She makes the rest of Lucy—the simpy side—worth doing. For me, the climax is when I almost get you to betray Van Helsing, to join me and live forever, to let me kiss you and bite your neck.” She leaned forward and ran her tongue over even, white teeth. Spraggue realized how few of the buttons on her pajama top she’d bothered with. Her nipples pressed against the thin blue cloth. She moved closer.
“But I kill Lucy,” he said regretfully. “A stake through her heart, through your beautiful breast.”
Her smile widened. “Seward would never kill me. Van Helsing kills me. Without him, without his power over Seward, the scene would be much different.”
“How different?”
She laughed delightedly. “I love to experiment.”
“Was Greg Hudson one of your experiments, Emma? Do you experiment with everyone—or only men?”
“Does it matter?” She leaned over and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Men are much easier.”
“Doesn’t anyone ever refuse to play?”
“No. I enjoy that, too.”
“Power, Emma. Right?”
She laughed again. “I just want to make it harder for you to drive your stake through my heart.”
She untied her pajamas. They slipped off as easily as he’d thought they would.
They made love on the couch, on the floor. Emma was always inviting—receptive, passively initiating each beautifully controlled moment. Spraggue felt as if he were being led through a carefully choreographed dance.
When they were through, sated, it was as if he’d never touched her.
They showered together. Emma cupped her left breast, thrust it forward to be kissed. “That’s where the stake has to go,” she murmured. “It will be harder to kill me now, won’t it?”
“I kill the vampire. Lucy’s already dead.”
“But what about Emma?” she said, teasing yet serious.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“You don’t suspect me of being the joker now. Not after tonight.”
Spraggue splashed water on his face. Was this ersatz passion an exchange for excluding her from his investigation?