Murder, Stage Left Read online

  Wolfe leaned back and considered the producer through narrowed eyes. “Based on what you have told me so far, sir, I fail to see the need for a private investigator. You stated there have been tensions and animosity among the cast but have supplied no particulars.”

  Breckenridge nodded ruefully. “You are right; let me get specific. I believe the trouble really stems from Ashley and her oversize ego, which impacts everyone around her and sets off a domino effect within the company. She clearly resents Brad Lester’s presence, as I mentioned earlier, and her attitude toward Brad when they are not onstage has made him somewhat withdrawn. Then her transparent attempts to charm Steve Peters have caused him to be nervous and jumpy, and rather than lash back at her—he hasn’t got the nerve for it, given her stature in the business—he tends to take out his frustration by snapping at Melissa Cartwright offstage. That upsets her, of course, and she sometimes withdraws into herself.

  “One person in the cast who is not intimidated by Ashley is Teresa Reed, who, it is said, even chewed out the great John Gielgud once in London after a performance in which he had missed a cue. At least twice, Teresa has ripped into Ashley for her arrogance.”

  “How did Miss Williston respond to the attacks?” Wolfe asked.

  “She backed down, although the net result was more tension among the cast. The only one who has largely avoided the backstage theatrics is Max Ennis, but even he has been heard to mutter that ‘there’s more damned electricity here than in a power plant. I just hope nobody gets fried by it.’”

  Breckenridge finished his drink and shook his head when I made a move to get him a refill. “Now a certain amount of this behavior is to be expected in a play, particularly a drama. And the good news is that none of it seems to have spilled over into the performances to any degree—at least not yet. But I feel that something deeper is going on, although I can’t articulate what it is. As I said before, I’m a hands-on guy, so I prowl the backstage areas a lot, and I sense the presence of evil. I know, I know, that sounds histrionic,” he said. “You’re probably thinking, ‘this character has spent too much time in the thespian world,’ which probably is true.”

  “I cannot conceive of ever using the word ‘thespian,’” Wolfe said. “Continue.”

  “I don’t know what else to tell you,” the producer said, “other than to mention that whenever I’m walking around backstage, conversations suddenly stop, as if I’ve interrupted something that I am not meant to hear. I have never had that experience before.”

  “Do you feel personally threatened?” Wolfe asked.

  He paused before answering “I . . . I am not sure. But I do need help, and I have a proposal to put before you both.”

  Chapter 4

  Wolfe responded to Breckenridge’s statement by buzzing for a third beer, one over his usual morning quota. He then turned to the producer, the signal for him to continue.

  Breckenridge cleared his throat and readjusted himself. “Mr. Wolfe, I realize you do not venture out on cases, but Mr. Goodwin does, and I want to suggest an assignment for which I am prepared to pay your standard rates.”

  “I do not charge what you term ‘standard rates.’ Every commission is unique. What do you propose?”

  “I need someone in the theater whom I can trust and who can spot trouble before it arises. And arise it shall; I am absolutely sure of this.”

  “You suggest Mr. Goodwin be a Caleb? Don’t you already have people on your staff in that role?”

  “A Caleb? I don’t understand what you—oh, wait a minute. You are referencing the Bible, aren’t you?”

  “Caleb was a spy,” Wolfe responded. “In the Old Testament book of Numbers, he is identified as the son of Jephunneh of the tribe of Judah and one of twelve spies sent by Moses into Canaan.”

  “I am most impressed, Mr. Wolfe,” Breckenridge said. “I had no idea you were so devout.”

  “The Bible is literature, sir. One hardly need be devout to appreciate its intrinsic value.”

  “Of course. I do not see Mr. Goodwin taking precisely the role of a spy. My idea is that he would be a reporter for a Canadian theater magazine who has been sent to New York to interview the cast of Death at Cresthaven for a major feature in an upcoming issue. I would introduce him to everyone and ask that they make themselves available to him. I also would point out what good publicity this would be, especially given that thousands of Canadians are patrons of Broadway performances every year.”

  Wolfe exhaled loudly. “Am I to assume this publication would be fictional?”

  “It would. We can give it any name we please,” Breckenridge said. “It won’t mean anything to our cast anyway. I happen to know that not one of them has ever appeared onstage in Canada.”

  Wolfe turned to me. “Archie, your thoughts?”

  I did not like the idea. “What if someone recognizes me?”

  “When did your photograph last appear in one of the New York newspapers?” Wolfe asked.

  “It’s been at least a couple of years.”

  “Mr. Breckenridge, we will discuss your idea and inform you of our decision.”

  The producer rose, realizing he had been dismissed. “When are you likely to make that decision?”

  “We will not keep you waiting long,” Wolfe said, also rising. “Good day.”

  I walked Breckenridge down the hall to the front door and helped him with his coat. “I could really use your aid here,” he said, handing me his business card. “I hope you can persuade Mr. Wolfe to spare you for this project.”

  I did not respond, instead holding the door open. I watched the producer descend the steps to the street, hoping I could persuade Wolfe to not spare me for Breckenridge’s crackpot project. I was ready to argue with him if necessary, but that would have to wait until we had finished our lunch of Fritz’s superb sweetbreads amandine.

  Chapter 5

  Back in the office with coffee after lunch, I figured I would wait Wolfe out. Let him bring up Breckenridge’s proposal. But he decided to concentrate on the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle, and for a half hour, not a word passed between us.

  Finally, I gave up playing the silence game. “I thought for sure you would say something like ‘preposterous’ when the producer suggested I masquerade as a magazine writer. So since you have decided to go mute, I will say it: preposterous.”

  Wolfe set down the puzzle and his pen. “If you recall, you were the one who suggested we see Mr. Breckenridge and hear him out.”

  “I did, but that does not mean I have to like what I heard from him.”

  “I believe his proposal has some merit, Archie.”

  It was in that moment that I realized just how badly Wolfe wanted at least one of those Grammangis spectabilis orchids Lewis Hewitt possessed. This sort of thing had happened before, so I should not have been surprised. “What we have here is a case of orchid lust, is that it?”

  “I will not dignify that with a response.”

  “Heaven forbid you should. So you want me to become spy, a—what is it—a Caleb?”

  “You and I can debate terminology later. Call Mr. Breckenridge and have him come here tonight; we will discuss how to proceed.”

  “So it’s a done deal, eh? Okay, but he may not want to be away from the theater during a performance. After all, he has told us that he’s the hands-on type.”

  “Very well,” Wolfe snapped. “Make it eleven tomorrow morning.”

  I got hold of Breckenridge at his office, and he was delighted. “I’m so pleased Nero Wolfe is interested in pursuing this. I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow.”

  The next morning, our prospective client was right on time and beaming as I ushered him into the brownstone. “Last night’s performance was our best one yet,” he gushed. “Everyone was spot-on, and the audience responded with appreciation.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” I sai
d, steering him to the red leather chair in the office.

  “Good day, sir,” Wolfe said, asking our guest if he desired a drink, to which the response was a polite “No thanks.”

  “As you wish. Archie and I would like to hear more details of your plan. You have the floor.”

  “Thank you. Obviously, I do not want the cast, or anyone else involved in the production, for that matter, to feel that they are under surveillance.”

  “Although this is essentially what you are proposing,” Wolfe said.

  Breckenridge nodded. “Yes, it is, and I suggested Mr. Goodwin for the job because, through Lewis Hewitt, I am well aware of his tact and resourcefulness.” I had all I could do to keep from throwing my telephone at him and his patronizing attitude.

  “To review, you are suggesting Archie would appear at the theater as a magazine writer for a nonexistent Canadian publication specializing in theater, is that correct?”

  “It is, and I would introduce him to the cast and the rest of the company, requesting their cooperation.”

  “What about photographs of those quoted in the article? Magazines like pictures. Who would take them?”

  “I have already thought of that,” Breckenridge said in a smug tone. “We possess an archive of dozens of excellent color photos of each of our principals, many of them taken during dress rehearsals. And we also have some shots taken during a performance.”

  “How long do you propose Archie continue this masquerade? If it goes on for more than a few days, members of your troupe will surely become suspicious. Magazines have deadlines, and they expect their writers to be efficient. Further, each member of your cast surely has been interviewed before, probably numerous times. They certainly have a good idea about how much time writers need.”

  “Your point is well taken,” Breckenridge said. “I would expect this project to take two or maybe three days.”

  “What do you expect to gain from Archie’s presence in the theater?”

  The producer looked like he could use a drink after all, but I wasn’t about to volunteer my bartending skills unless asked. “I would hope he could discover the source of the miasma that is infecting the company so I can deal with it,” he answered. “That seems to be a reasonable expectation.”

  I felt as if I were watching a tennis match with me as the ball. And it seemed I had about as much say in the proceedings as the ball would.

  “Archie would be given a different name, of course,” Wolfe said. “And I assume you have created a title for this illusory magazine.”

  “Mr. Goodwin will be rechristened ‘Alan MacGregor,’ which is a good Scots-Canadian name, and the publication is to be called StageArts Canada, based in Toronto, which is a very fine theater city,” Breckenridge said, looking pleased with himself.

  “What do you think, Archie?” Wolfe asked.

  “Mine is not to reason why. The sooner we get started with this deception, the better, as far as I’m concerned. I am ready to go at any time the two of you agree on.”

  “Before we go any further,” Breckenridge said, “we need to discuss your fee, Mr. Wolfe. You will find me easy to deal with.”

  “It is very possible that after spending several days with the members of your company, Archie will not have come up with any information that will ease your concerns. I assume you understand that.”

  “I do. I am prepared to agree to any figure you dictate, and that figure is not contingent upon Mr. Goodwin’s findings or lack thereof.”

  “Very well,” Wolfe said. “Twenty thousand dollars now and another twenty thousand on completion of the assignment. Mr. Goodwin and I will be the sole judges as to when the assignment is concluded.”

  If Breckenridge was shocked, he did not show it. I can only assume Lewis Hewitt had prepared him for Wolfe’s demands. The producer smoothly drew a checkbook and a gold fountain pen from the breast pocket of his suit coat and began to write.

  “Would you like to telephone my bank?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Wolfe replied.

  “When can Mr. Goodwin begin?”

  Wolfe turned to me. “I can start tomorrow,” I said.

  “Make it the day after,” Breckenridge said, rising. “That will give me time to prepare everyone for your visit.”

  “So I am about to begin playing Caleb,” I told Wolfe on my return to the office after seeing Breckenridge out. “Any instructions?”

  “Only to use your intelligence guided by experience,” he said, as he so often has. Before I could mount a snappy comeback, he had retreated behind his current book, The Status Seekers by Vance Packard. Rather than try talking to a wall, I got up and marched out to the kitchen to keep Fritz company as he prepared lunch.

  Chapter 6

  Two mornings later, I donned a glen plaid sport coat, brown slacks, a tan shirt, and a brown-and-maroon–striped tie and considered the result in my bedroom mirror. I decided I could pass as a writer for a serious arts magazine from north of the border. After a breakfast of orange juice, scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon—which seemed fitting—and a blueberry muffin, I stood and saluted Fritz, announcing that I was “off to conquer the world of Broadway.” His reply was a puzzled look, to which I said, “I will explain later.”

  I stepped out into a perfect August morning—bright sun, puffy clouds, and a tame breeze—so I decided to stroll the twelve blocks north to the theater district, where I was to meet Roy Breckenridge in a diner just west of Broadway.

  The joint was long and narrow, with a counter and stools along the left side, most of them occupied, and at the back, two rows of booths with white Formica tabletops and red vinyl bench seats. Breckenridge occupied the rearmost booth on the left and hailed me with a sweep of the arm. “You are right on time, Mr. Goodwin,” he said approvingly after checking his watch.

  “Make it Archie,” I told him. “I have never been big on formality.”

  “Excellent, nor have I. I go by Roy to almost everyone. Do you feel ready to go?”

  “Yes, and since I spent a long weekend in Toronto a couple of years ago, I can even discuss that city to at least a small degree if asked. And I’ve even looked up the names of a couple of their legitimate theaters.”

  “I would not worry about that if I were you. Actors, and that includes many among this bunch you are about to meet, tend to be a self-centered lot, egotists who rarely ask questions of others and mainly want to talk about themselves and their careers.”

  “That will work out just fine, because asking questions is my forte. I assume they know I am coming today.”

  “They do. I told everyone about you yesterday and said that your magazine had chosen to write about Death at Cresthaven because of the excellent reviews it has received in the New York press. You will have no trouble getting them to talk, quite the contrary; you may have a hard time getting them to shut up.”

  “Do you have any suggestions as to the order in which I interview the cast and others?”

  “You beat me to it with that question. For the purposes of keeping my most temperamental performer happy, I would appreciate it if you talked first to Ashley Williston. As you will soon learn from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, she has convinced herself that she is carrying the burden of the whole show upon her slim and graceful shoulders. She will be happy to share with you the trials and tribulations of being absolutely indispensable.”

  “I can hardly wait to sit down with the woman,” I said, grinning.

  Breckenridge laughed. “I am glad to see your sense of humor is intact.”

  “It hasn’t failed me yet, and a variety of individuals have put it to the test over the years.”

  “Including your employer, no doubt?”

  “I make no comment, on the grounds that anything I say might tend to incriminate me.”

  That brought another laugh. “Have some coffee,” he said, p
ouring a cup from a pot on the table. “The food here is only so-so, as you would expect, but the java is the best for blocks around, and I should know. Over the years, I’ve been in every hash house and beanery in the theater district.” Breckenridge may have been right about the coffee’s quality within the neighborhood, but the stuff wasn’t nearly as good as what I had downed forty-five minutes earlier in the brownstone.

  “I think of theater people as night types,” I said. “And you have gathered them to see me at ten thirty in the morning. Should I expect a grumpy bunch?”

  “Fortunately, we have a matinee today, so they’ve got to show up somewhat earlier than usual. Have you been backstage at a Broadway show before?”

  “Surprisingly, only once, given the number of times I’ve been in the audience over the years. I met an actor after one of his performances, because he wanted to thank Mr. Wolfe and me for helping prove he did not commit a murder in which he had been a suspect.”

  “Hah! There are a few actors I wouldn’t mind bumping off—no, just kidding,” he said, holding up a hand. “Well, I will be gathering the cast and the stage manager this morning in the green room, where I’ll introduce you. Then you can begin talking to them individually.”

  “Stage manager? Is he in charge of the action?”

  Breckenridge snorted. “Sometimes this particular individual acts like he is the producer and director, which, last time I looked, were my titles. But in a way, he does run the show, at least in a day-to-day sense. He’s an ornery sort, name of Hollis Sperry. Actually, I don’t mind orneriness in my stage managers. They keep the cast from getting lazy and missing their cues, which a surprising number of actors are wont to do. He will chew out any actor if he deserves it, no matter how big a name he has.”

  “Sounds like a drill sergeant.”