Death on the Aisle (21 page)

Mullins said “Huh?” and Weigand's fingers tapped toward him. Mullins shook his head and returned to his notebook.

“We're interested in anything we can find out about anybody mixed up in this,” Weigand told him. “We were interested in discovering, only a few minutes ago, that Alberta James is Miss Fowler's niece. We'd be interested in discovering, say, that Humphrey Kirk is your—son. He isn't, is he?”

Tilford smiled and shook his head.

“Berta is Mary's niece,” he said. “I was Mary's husband at one time. Neither of those relationships has ever been a secret. You couldn't, indeed, have kept any secret about Mary in those days—not about Mary Evans.”

“Mary who?” Weigand wanted to know.

“Evans.”

Tilford's smile excused Weigand's bewilderment. Naturally, for people not of the theatre …

The Lieutenant might not know, Tilford thought, about Mary, although surely the name? Mary Evans? It could hardly fail to convey something, even to so young a man as the Lieutenant. Mary Evans as Hedda? As Joan? As the lovely Maria in “The Lady Forgets”? As Juliet once, and another time as Nora? Tilford scanned Weigand's face and shook his head.

“Ah,” Mr. Tilford said, “the public! The public!”

He was gentle, but despairing. But Weigand was remembering—not clearly, but remembering.

“
That
Mary Evans?” he said. “But surely—” He broke off.

“It was a good many years ago, Lieutenant,” Tilford said. “Before your time, almost. Twenty years ago. Mary was very lovely, then, when we were all so much younger. And a very great actress, who had a tragically short career. Half a dozen years, when she might have hoped for twenty—for thirty or more. I, myself, although never as successful as Mary, have been in the theatre more than forty years, Lieutenant. Although you would hardly think it, to look at me.”

“Wouldn't I?” Weigand said to himself. But to Tilford he nodded, the nod being an invitation to go on.

“Mary now is somewhere in her late forties,” Tilford said. “I could tell you of actresses that old who still—but no matter. She might still be playing but—”

“What happened?” Weigand asked. Tilford raised his eyebrows.

“But surely, Lieutenant,” he said, “you've noticed. You could hardly fail to notice—her eyes. Quite tragic, in its way.”

Naturally Weigand agreed, he had noticed the eyes. But he had assumed—well, he had assumed that Miss Fowler's eyes must have been—noticeable—all her life. He had never thought of eyes changing, in quite that fashion. Tilford nodded.

“It was strange,” he agreed. “The doctors could make nothing of it. It happened—within a few weeks. Or so I've been told. It was after Mary and I had separated.”

That, Tilford said in answer to more questions, was about fifteen years ago—fifteen years ago the June just past; fifteen years ago on the twelfth of that June. He remembered very accurately, Weigand decided. They had then been married about five years, their marriage spanning the period of Mary Evans' greatest success. The name? That was simple. Mary had been married before, briefly to a young actor named Evans. They were divorced, but by that time she had begun to be known under the name of Evans. She kept it, for stage purposes, during her marriage to Tilford.

And then it was Tilford who stopped and stared at Weigand.

“Evans,” he repeated. “
Evans!
But surely,
not that Evans!
It would be—preposterous!”

“Why?” Weigand said. “Did he die, the young actor named Evans? Did you know him, at all, personally?”

“No,” Tilford said. “I never ran into him. He was out of Mary's life—we hardly spoke about him. I don't know whether he's alive or dead. If he's alive he'd be—well, somewhere in his fifties, probably. And this janitor—this Evans in the hospital is—how old would you say, Lieutenant?”

He would, Weigand said, have guessed the middle sixties. But,—

“He might look older than he is,” Weigand agreed. “His job wouldn't—well, keep him young. Especially if he had thought, once, of quite a different life. However, there's no use guessing. We'll find out. It would be a coincidence, of course.”

But, Tilford pointed out, an entirely reasonable coincidence.

“We of the theatre,” he said. “We stay in the theatre. Doormen have often been actors, you know. And wardrobe women. Evans might have found some job he could do in the theatre when it turned out he couldn't succeed as an actor. As Mary found a job, finally, in the theatre after she couldn't go on acting. And if both of them stayed in the theatre for a good many years, their paths would cross a great many times. As they may have now.”

“We'll find out,” Weigand said. “Guessing gets us nowhere. Get Stein on it, Mullins.”

Mullins went to the door and called. When Stein appeared, he got Stein on it.

“Pending that,” Weigand said, when Mullins was back at his notebook, “we'll get on. Mary Fowler, under the name of Mary Evans, was a successful and widely known actress—”

“Actor,” Tilford corrected. “A great actor. We prefer that in the profession. Some of us.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “She had been—great—for some five years, during most of which time you and she were married. Then fifteen years ago, you separated. Right?”

Tilford inclined his head.

“Why?” Weigand said.

Tilford hesitated. Then he smiled.

“It was long ago,” he said. “But vanity lingers on. Even now I hesitate … However, Lieutenant, to put it bluntly—she left me for another man.”

“And the man was?” Weigand said. Tilford hesitated again. Then he spoke without embroidery.

“Bolton,” he said. “Carney Bolton.”

The name hung in the air for a moment. Then Weigand nodded, slowly.

“I wondered whether that was it,” he said. “How long did it last?”

“About a year,” Tilford told him. “Until—she had to leave the stage. When that happened—well, shall we say she no longer interested Dr. Bolton?”

There was more than the actor's inflection now in the elderly actor's voice. The words curled with bitterness.

“He ditched her?” Weigand said. “When her eyes—went bad; when she couldn't act any longer—he ditched her?”

“Yes,” Tilford said, “that was the way it was, Lieutenant.”

“And she?” Weigand said. “How did she feel about that?”

Tilford shrugged.

“How would she feel?” he asked, simply. “There was a time when I—well, Lieutenant, when I would have been glad to stick a dagger in Bolton's neck. A bare bodkin, as Shakespeare says. How must she have felt?”

Weigand started to speak, and then waited as Tilford seemed about to go on.

“But, oddly enough, there was never anything to show that she did feel bitterly toward Bolton,” he said. “She must have, but if she did it was hidden. She seemed—well, rather resigned than anything else. I saw her infrequently, of course. Others may have seen more. But to me she seemed only that—resigned. It was as if, with so many things happening, she merely drew into herself; allowed herself no feelings. Of course, we of the theatre—”

“Quite,” Weigand said. “Some people do behave so. Not only in the theatre, Mr. Tilford. And, naturally, we can only guess how she really felt. How you felt, now—”

Tilford looked for a moment surprised, and then his voice became casual—almost convincingly casual.

“But my feelings, Lieutenant,” he said, “how can
they
matter? To be sure, I once felt resentfully toward Bolton—he had taken away a woman I loved deeply, and had abandoned her in an hour of need. But that—that was a very long time ago, Lieutenant. I am—too old a man to encompass such emotions nowadays. I must leave emotions for the young, Lieutenant.”

Tilford's voice became ten years older as he spoke. It quavered slightly. By it, he was eighty.

“By the way, Mr. Tilford,” Weigand asked, “just how old are you?” He saw Tilford hesitate. “The Theatrical's ‘Who's Who' will tell me, of course,” he added. Tilford smiled, amused.

“Oh, will it, Lieutenant?” he said. There was mockery in the tone.

“Well,” Weigand said.

“However,” Tilford went on, “I don't mind telling you, Lieutenant. I was sixty-four last month. When Mary and I were married I was in my forties.” He paused, reflectively. “A good age, Lieutenant,” he said. “A good time, the forties. Enjoy them.”

Weigand said he hoped to. But to get back.

“I'm to take it, then,” he said, “that whatever you may once have felt against Bolton, you have felt nothing of late years? You were—indifferent toward him?”

Tilford seemed to be reflecting.

“I seldom thought of him,” he said. “I still preferred not to be in any contact with him. When I found he was backing this play I—however, it is a good part. An actor hates to turn down a good part.”

“And,” Weigand went on, “so far as you can tell, Mary Fowler felt no real bitterness toward him?”

“So far as I can tell,” Tilford agreed.

“Why Fowler?” Weigand said.

It was, Tilford told him, her maiden name. After she divorced him, and after she was forced to leave the stage, she returned to it.

“It gave her—well, anonymity,” Tilford said. “From the questions of strangers, at any rate. From pity. But it was never intended to conceal who she really was, of course.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “Now, as to Miss James. Tell me about her.”

There was, it seemed, little to tell. She was an orphan, the daughter of Mary Fowler's younger sister. Both her parents—who were not of the profession—were killed in an automobile accident when Berta was two. After that, Mary Fowler took care of her.

“She was only a little girl when Mary and I were married,” Tilford added. “During the last year or two of our marriage she was away at school. She was a very sweet child.” He paused. “And is,” he added.

“Yes,” Weigand agreed. “But about her parents—you're sure about them, Mr. Tilford? Of your own knowledge? She couldn't for example, be Mary's own daughter, and perhaps the daughter of this Evans?”

Tilford looked, Weigand decided, as if this were his first contact with that idea. The actor shook his head slowly. “I had always taken Mary's account without question,” he said. “I still do. I see no reason why she should prevaricate about Berta's parentage. Certainly there could be no disgrace in having a daughter like Berta. But of my own knowledge—that is a different matter. I never knew the Jameses, certainly. And, naturally, I never asked to see Berta's birth certificate.”

“Naturally,” Weigand said. “It's something for us to check on. But I imagine Miss Fowler is really her aunt, as she says. We merely—have to clean things up as we go along.”

Tilford waited for more questions. When they came they were routine. He had not been near Ellen Grady's apartment that evening. When Kirk let them go, he had taxied downtown to The Players for a drink and dinner. He had met several men he knew, both in the bar downstairs and in the dining room. From The Players he had come back to the theatre by cab, stopping nowhere and seeing no one. He was, he said, shocked by Ellen's death and could imagine no reason for it.

“She saw something,” Weigand told him. “Or knew something.”

Tilford said it was dreadful. Weigand agreed, abstractedly, and let him go. Weigand sat, and his fingers pattered on the desk. Then he sent Mullins for Mary Fowler.

*
No clue is hidden here. Weigand, as a layman, merely sought a professional opinion on a clue already in evidence. The lay reader, with the same evidence at his disposal, may easily ask Weigand's question of some friendly physician, although he may have difficulty in getting an answer.

XIV

W
EDNESDAY—12:55 A.M. TO 1:15 A.M.

But Mullins, on his way to get Miss Fowler, was interrupted at the door, which opened without ceremony. Mullins said “Ouch!” as one of Pamela North's high, sharp heels came down on his foot and Pam said, in an abstracted tone, “Sorry, Mr. Mullins.”

“Well,” Weigand said, looking at Mr. and Mrs. North and Dorian, “I was wondering where you had been.” He looked at them again. “And been up to,” he added.

“As for me,” Mr. North said, “I've just been sitting. As for Dor, she's been drawing pictures. As for Pam—well.” He looked at his wife with mingled doubt and affection. “Pam's been into things. That's why we're here.”

“Not me,” Mrs. North corrected. “I'm here because you two made me, although I told you it was confidential.” She looked at Dorian and Jerry, with slight rebellion. “It just proves,” she said, “that when you simply have to tell sombody something you shouldn't. Because they won't.”

“Won't what, Pam?” Weigand asked, feeling things slipping.

“Won't not tell,” Pam explained, as if it were very obvious. “They always think it's their duty or something.”

“Well,” said Jerry, reasonably, “you can't hold out on Bill. It wouldn't be legal.”

Bill Weigand shook his head, and inquired mutely of Dorian, who smiled at him, with a special smile.

“Aren't they?” she agreed. “The point is, Pam heard something. Back-stage somewhere, when she was exploring. And she wasn't going to tell you, because it was eavesdropping. But then she told us, because she was worried after Ellen Grady was killed. It's about Mr. Kirk and Alberta James.”

“I don't think it's anything,” Pam said. “And anyway I've forgotten and it's all vague. Except that they'd lost something. Or she had. They kept talking about that, and it worried them.”

Pam stopped, rather unexpectedly.

“That's all, really,” she insisted, after a moment.