Murder at Ford's Theatre (11 page)

FIFTEEN

“G
OOD AFTERNOON,
Mr. Bancroft.”

Morris, the doorman at Bancroft’s apartment building, opened the door to G Street for the aging actor and took note of how he was dressed. Bancroft was seldom seen in the same outfit, nor was he partial to conventional clothing. It was obvious to the doorman, and to others who knew Bancroft, that he costumed himself daily rather than simply dressed, which provided a show of sorts, and a mirror into what life-role Bancroft was playing on any given day. He wore a pinched-waist blue double-breasted pinstripe jacket with a floppy red handkerchief bulging from its breast pocket, white slacks in need of pressing, tan loafers sans socks, a white shirt with a high collar, and a blue-and-green ascot. Pancake makeup had been applied with a heavy hand.

“Good afternoon, Morris,” Bancroft replied, the words rolling off his tongue, each syllable enunciated. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Sure is, Mr. Bancroft.”

Bancroft suddenly squared himself to face the doorman, hands on his hips, his face set in exaggerated anger. “Good God, Morris, how many times must I tell you to call me Sydney? Mr. Bancroft makes me sound so dreadfully old.”

Morris laughed. “Goes with the job, Mr.—Sydney—referring to tenants by their last names from age three up. Polite, you know.”

Bancroft inhaled as though to say that he had no choice but to accept the logic of it all. “A taxi, please.”

Morris went to the corner, where he hailed a passing cab driven by someone of obvious Middle Eastern origins. Bancroft’s face mirrored his dismay at the vehicle and its driver. He said, “My kingdom for a London taxi, Morris. ‘The London taxi is a relic for which my zeal is evangelic . . . It’s designed for people wearing hats, and not for racing on Bonneville
Flats . . . A man can get out, or a lady in . . . when you sit, your knees don’t bump your
chin . . .’”

The doorman had heard Bancroft recite Ogden Nash’s ode to London taxis countless times, but listened as though it were the first.

“‘The driver so deep in the past is sunk that he’ll help you with your bags and trunk . . . . Indeed, he is such a fuddy-duddy that he calls you Sir instead of Buddy.’”

The driver blew his horn and shouted something in Arabic, undoubtedly to the effect that he didn’t have all day to sit idly while some crazy man on the sidewalk recited poetry.

“Hold your bloody horses,” Bancroft said, going to the taxi and entering through the door held open by Morris. “E and Eleventh Streets, Northwest,” he told the driver. “And drive sanely, you bloody wog. I am in no rush.”

Nor was he in a rush to tip when they pulled up in front of the Harrington Hotel, around the corner from Ford’s Theatre. He added ten cents to the fare, admonishing the driver to learn better manners in the future if he wished to benefit from living in a civilized society, slammed the door, and entered Harry’s Bar. A bartender, wearing a red polo shirt with H
ARRY
’
S
S
ALOON
written on it in white, announced to others at the bar, “Hey, look who’s here, Richard Burton.”

“Don’t insult me by mistaking me for that second-rate actor,” said Bancroft. “And be quick with the shandy. I am absolutely parched.”

The bartender, and a waitress at the serving bar, laughed as they usually did at Bancroft’s entrance. They enjoyed having Sydney as a customer; he was unfailingly polite, even when engaged in a heated debate with other regulars. “Nice guy, a little strange, but pleasant enough,” was how he was summed up by others at the bar.

Bancroft took the mug of half beer, half lemonade handed him by the bartender—accompanied with a look of displeasure at having to make the drink—to a vacant high table next to the window overlooking E Street. The sidewalk was busy with people leaving their jobs and heading for home, most out of the city. It was estimated that 80 percent of those in the District during the day lived in surrounding suburbs, turning Washington into a relatively desolate place when darkness fell.

Bancroft was a regular at Harry’s, although he was partial to the Star Saloon, directly across from Ford’s Theatre, whose history went back to the Lincoln assassination. He chose Harry’s on this day because there was less chance of being engaged in conversation than at the Star. Harry’s was big enough to find some relative seclusion.

He needed time to think, along with some alcohol to steady his nerves, although he would never admit that to others. The teenage production he’d been directing, and that was to be performed that weekend, was as good as it would ever be. The cast was more willing than talented—he detested having to try to pull anything decent from a group of teens who seemed more interested in what they wore and what gossip was being spread than in following his stage directions. It had been a most unpleasant experience, one that had caused him physical discomfort, pains in his stomach, headaches, even a bout of nausea. And now the murder and the distasteful, insulting interrogation by the police.

Surely, Clarise would understand his need to get away for a few days, to escape the source of his discomfort. His assistant could carry on in his absence, as untalented as she might be. Besides, he had business in London, important meetings that could raise him out of this temporary lull in his professional career and rekindle his passion for the theatre—more important, the theatre world’s passion for him as an actor.

The past two years at Ford’s had been dismal, although he knew he couldn’t express that to Clarise. From her perspective, she’d done him a great favor bringing him onto the staff and giving him a steady paycheck. Perhaps the most wounding thing was that Clarise viewed it, and him, in precisely that way, doing him a favor, bailing him out of what had been an unpleasant period of financial insecurity. Should he be grateful? Of course he was, but only to a point. She’d gotten her money’s worth, he was certain, parading him in front of potential personal and corporate donors, Sydney Bancroft, the British Shakespearean actor—“Remember him?”—all those British movies occasionally rerun on the cable TV channels—“Tell them that wonderful story, Sydney, about when you appeared in that love scene with Margo Sinclair and dropped her on the way up the stairs”—“I could never be an actor, Mr. Bancroft, especially Shakespeare, because I could never remember all those lines”—(An aside from Clarise: “Just as long as he remembers to write the damn check.”)—“Didn’t you used to be Samuel Bancroft, the British actor?”

He went to the bar and ordered another shandy, and a shot of Irish whiskey to go with it. Soon, fortified, he bid the bartender a flowery farewell, stepped out onto E Street, admired a passing young woman whose fine figure was amply demonstrated in the tight black pants and white sweater she wore, and walked to the corner of Tenth and E where young people milled about in front of the Hard Rock Café. He walked down Tenth and paused in front of Ford’s Theatre’s box office, then looked across the street to the Star. The saloon had originally been where the box office was now situated, attached to the theatre, and where John Wilkes Booth had downed a few shots before going inside the theatre to shoot Lincoln as he sat with his wife, Mary, and Major Henry Reed Rathbone and his fiancée, Clara Harris, who happened to be Rathbone’s stepsister. General and Mrs. Ulysses S. Grant were to have accompanied the Lincolns to the theatre that night but had begged off at the last minute, the general citing the pressures of work. The truth was that Mrs. Grant disliked Mary Lincoln and found any excuse to avoid being in the first lady’s company. Julia Grant had been on the receiving end of Mary Lincoln’s jealous, volatile tirades on more than one occasion, and had been accused by the first lady of coveting the White House for herself and her famous military hero husband.

“Sydney!”

Bancroft turned to see Michael Kahn, The Shakespeare Theatre’s longtime artistic director, approaching. Over fifteen years, Kahn had molded the theatre into one of the country’s preeminent Shakespearean venues, its productions routinely acclaimed by local and out-of-town critics. His multiple honors, including six Helen Hayes Awards, and the coveted Will Award, testified to his preeminence. But Bancroft wasn’t a fan of the theatre, or of Kahn. He’d been turned down for roles there, and he’d once approached Kahn during lunch at the Banana Café, Kahn’s favorite lunchtime spot, and had been, in Bancroft’s estimation, summarily dismissed by the director. His bitterness toward Kahn was palpable.

As Kahn closed the gap, Bancroft ducked into the box office and looked back out through the window to see Kahn shake his head and walk away. “Copper-bottomed bastard,” Bancroft muttered, and waited until Kahn was well out of range.

“Can I help you, Sydney?” the woman in the box office asked.

“What? Oh, no, thank you. Just stopped in to see how things were.”

“Everything is fine.”

“Good. Smashing. Nice to hear. Well, must be going. Excuse me.”

He entered the building through the front door, greeted the park ranger on duty, and walked into the darkened theatre. The last tourist tour of the day had been conducted, and a lovely calm and quiet permeated the historic room. He went down the aisle and up onto the stage where a few work lights provided muted illumination. He looked up at the presidential box in which Lincoln had been shot and began to quietly recite a line from
Othello:
“An honourable murderer, if you will; For nought I did in hate, but all in honour.”

A cough emanating from the house caused him to turn. He peered into the auditorium and saw Bernard Crowley seated in a shadowy corner, on the opposite side from the presidential box.

“I thought you were home sick,” Crowley said.

“I have recovered.”

“That’s good to hear.”

The corpulent controller struggled to get up and approached the narrow orchestra pit. Bancroft glared down at him.

“Pretending you’re Mr. Booth?” Crowley asked.

Bancroft pulled himself to full height and sneered. “And what would
you
know about John Wilkes Booth, Crowley? That he was a demented madman who acted upon his convictions when he shot old Abe, a lowlife lacking social grace and talent? The man was a brilliant actor, from a family of brilliant Shakespearean actors. His father, Junius, conquered the London stage at seventeen. Three of John’s brothers also became fine actors, but none as fine as John Wilkes Booth. Did you know, Crowley, that just a few years before his fling at ultimate fame as America’s most illustrious assassin, he was being paid
six hundred and fifty dollars a week
in New York for his stage appearances? The man was brilliant, a star of great magnitude, an interpreter without peer of Shakespeare and—” He’d been speaking to the empty presidential booth. Now, he turned to see that Crowley was gone, had had the audacity to walk away in the middle of his lecture.

“I met a fool i’ the forest,” he proclaimed loudly to the empty house. “A motley fool.” He added softly, “And he is Crowley.”

Bancroft stepped down from the stage, went through the yellow doors connecting the theatre with the adjacent building, and climbed the stairs to Clarise Emerson’s office. Crowley was behind her desk.

“Where is she?” Bancroft asked.

“At a party, and then dinner with potential contributors,” Crowley answered without looking up from a set of figures he’d been examining.

“Oh.” Bancroft chewed his cheek before asking, “Why do you hate me so, Crowley?”

Now, the controller raised his eyes. “I don’t hate you, Sydney. I just think you’re on a free ride, compliments of Clarise, and wonder why. I know one thing. Paying you to do virtually nothing is a drain on the bottom line, and the bottom line is something I care very much about.”

“You sound positively jealous,” Bancroft said, striking a pose with one elbow on a file cabinet.

“Jealous? Of what?”

“Of Clarise’s affection for me.”

“I wouldn’t call it affection,” Crowley said, returning his focus to the numbers on the green sheets of paper. “I’d call it pity.”

Crowley couldn’t see the anger manifest itself in Bancroft, the pulsating vein in his neck, lips pressed tightly together, fists clenched. When the actor said nothing, Crowley sat back, hands behind his head, a grin on his face. “I’m busy, Sydney. As I said, Clarise is—”

“Tell her I’ve left town for a few days. Tell her I’ll be in London conferring with producers and my agent concerning my one-man show. Tell her the teenage production—if it can be called that without laughing—is in as good a shape as it ever will be, and that my esteemed assistant will carry things forward. I may be back in time for the performance. I shall try to be. But if I am not—”

“Good night, Sydney. I’ll pass along your message.”

As Bancroft turned to leave, Crowley said, “What shall I tell the police when they want to question you again?”

“Why would they?”

“Oh, because I understand you’re high on their list of suspects, considering the perverted attention you demonstrated toward Nadia.”

The actor, for whom words were everything, was without them for a moment. Then, he spoke from between almost clenched teeth, “I wish you a dreadful disease, Crowley, a long, lingering, and painful one.”

A
T
B
ISTRO
B
IS,
on Capitol Hill, Clarise looked down at her appetizer that had just been served—galantine of duck with slices of seared foie gras in an apple-cherry compote. Her cell phone sounded.

“Sorry, but I don’t think you’ll mind a phone call,” she told her dinner companions, two executives from AT&T. “I forgot to turn it off.” She ignored a stern look from a couple at an adjoining table and put the phone to her ear. The AT&T men, busy talking with each other, didn’t see her face sag as the caller, Clarise’s social secretary, relayed the message that Jeremiah had left during the single phone call he was allowed from First District headquarters: “Mom, I’ve been arrested. They beat me. I didn’t do nothing. I swear.”

Clarise replaced the phone in her handbag.

“You can never get away,” the female executive said lightly.