The Fourth Wall (10 page)

“Probably a great number of things,” I said in answer to Sergeant Piperson's question, “none of which I know. He never talked about it.”

“Tell me about his wife.”

“What do you want me to tell you? Her name's Rosemary, she's young, she's pretty. She and Hugh have been married only about a year.”

“And you don't like her.”

I had to laugh. “That obvious?”

“Mmm. What don't you like about her?”

“What I don't like is the way Hugh dotes on her. More like an overfond father than a husband. He's a lot older than she is.”

“Twenty-nine years.”

“That much? I didn't realize. I've known Hugh a long time, and I don't like seeing some bland young girl exerting that kind of power over him. There are other ways of recapturing one's lost youth.”

“But what's
she
like?”

“Well, she has no humor. She never thinks—she doesn't
do
anything. She likes being waited on. Rosemary never questions her right to be adored—she casually accepts Hugh's worship as her due. Hugh gives her everything she asks for. In short, she's one of those vacuous girls to whom things come without any effort on their part.”

The Sergeant smirked. “Wow, I'd hate to have you mad at me.”

“I've told you nothing you couldn't see for yourself just by watching the two of them together. And you did ask me, you know.”

“And you were quick to slip the needle in when you got the chance.”

I turned on my stool so I was facing him. “Sergeant Piperson, you're the most peculiar cop I've ever met. You ask me for information I know you already have. And when I try to oblige, you make me feel like a fool or a traitor or worse for trying to co-operate. This isn't the first time you've done this to me.”

He laughed. “God, are you theater people touchy! You snap and hiss and crackle at everything I say. All of you. Talk about temperament!”

There it was again:
you theater people
. “Sergeant, where did you get your ideas about theater people? From Tallulah Bankhead? The twenties?
The Royal Family?
Theater isn't like that any more. You insult me and when I object, you brush me off by saying ‘you theater people.' As if that explained something.”

“Take it easy, nobody's insulting you. Simmer down.”

“
Don't tell me to simmer down
. I dislike being spoken to as if I were some yo-yo you just pulled in for shoplifting. You're damned condescending, do you know that?” I glanced up to see the bartender watching us with interest. “Don't set any more traps for me. And if you don't know how to talk to people civilly, then maybe you'd better send around someone who does.”

He didn't like that. “Look, lady, I'm in charge of this case and I'm the one you'll talk to. Whenever I say, and as often as I say.”

I gave up. For the second time, I turned my back on him and walked away.
Rudeness for rudeness, a tooth for a tooth
.

Outside I waved for a cab. Damn that Piperson. All along I'd been overestimating him, giving him credit for some clever but indiscernible plan of investigation when in truth he was nothing more than that stereotype of bad fiction, the dumb cop. I doubted that even now he understood how offensive he'd been, implying that my judgment was not trustworthy simply because I worked in the theater.

To hell with him.

10

All was peace and quiet until two days before Christmas. I was on my way out to meet some friends when the telephone stopped me.

It was Leo Gunn, the stage manager. “Goddamnedest thing has happened, Abby. We're going to have to shut down for a while. Somebody wrecked the set.”

It came at me too fast; I had trouble taking it in. “What do you mean, somebody wrecked the set?” I said stupidly.

“Somebody got in the theater during the day and tore the set apart. The flats are ripped up and there's paint all over the place. I've called Gene Ramsay and the police.” Silence for a moment. “Abby?”

I came to. “Yes. I'll be right there.” I called my friends and then hurried to the theater.

The sight that greeted me was an ugly one. As Leo Gunn had said, the flats were ripped up and yellow paint was splashed over everything. The stage furniture had been chopped up with an ax; I couldn't see one piece that looked as if it could be repaired. All the set decoration—lamps, pictures, books, and so on—all of it was smashed. The sky-drop was in shreds. Wiring had been ripped up, the control console smashed, and all the glass in the lighting instruments was broken. Whoever had done this had taken his time and made a thorough job of it. Someone hated
Foxfire
with an intensity I couldn't begin to understand.

Gene Ramsay was yelling at the guard. “Where the hell were you? You're supposed to prevent this kind of thing! Where were you?”

“I was right here, Mr. Ramsay, at four o'clock,” said the guard. “The same time I always come in. The damage had already been done. You didn't contract for round-the-clock protection. Somebody got in before I got here.”

“Did you check all the doors when you left last night?”

“Of course. Every one of them was locked.”

“You overlooked something.”

“No sir, I did not,” said the guard firmly. “The police are trying to find out right now how he got in, and if you'll excuse me, I'll go help them.” The guard walked away and spoke to Sergeant Piperson, whom I now saw for the first time.

The stage and backstage areas were swarming with people, writing things in notebooks, taking pictures. Leo Gunn was poking at a broken chair with the toe of his sneaker. Carla Banner was there, popeyed and open-mouthed. First she'd walk from stage right across the front of the apron to stage left, where she'd stand gawking for a few moments. Then she'd make her way back across the apron to stage right and gawk from that angle for a while. Then she'd repeat the whole process. Carla was feeling stupid and helpless, the way a big shock often leaves you.

“What I don't understand,” I said to Leo Gunn, “is how all this could have been done without anyone hearing it. The regular watchman was on duty, wasn't he? And somebody was in the box office during the day.”

Leo nodded toward the wings. “There's the watchman.” An older man I hadn't noticed before was sitting on a wooden chair; he was thin and trembly, and his face had an off-color cast to it. “He was chloroformed,” said Leo. “The people up front heard nothing, never looked into the auditorium. The doors were closed.”

The doors at the entrance to each aisle separated the seating area from the lobby; they were specially built to deaden sound. Deaden it—but shut it out completely? I didn't think so.

Sergeant Piperson came over to where we were standing. Leo and I looked at him expectantly, wondering what he had to say.

“I paid for your drinks.” That was what he had to say.

“Huh?” said Leo.

I must have looked blank, for the Sergeant went on to explain, “Last Saturday, at the bar. You walked out without paying for your drinks.”

I slumped against Leo. “All right, Sergeant. I owe you for two drinks. I am grateful. Now will you tell me why we're standing here talking about my bar bill? What about this set?”

Sergeant Piperson grinned. “He went too far this time. Nobody can do a job this big without leaving a calling card of some kind. We'll get him now.”

“Sure you will,” said Leo, deadpan.

The watchman suddenly began to moan. “I feel sick.”

“You're lucky you're alive,” Sergeant Piperson told him bluntly. “Most people don't know chloroform can be lethal. Be thankful you got a safe dose.”

The old man moaned again, and Carla Banner went over to help him. She half-walked, half-carried him to the men's room, where we could hear him throwing up.

Piperson turned back to Leo and me.

“We've already picked up a couple of things that might give us a lead, and we're just getting started. Whoever this guy is, he's told us something we didn't know before.”

“What's that?” asked Leo.

The Sergeant looked directly at me. “This nut isn't carrying on a personal vendetta against Sylvia Markey or Ian Cavanaugh. They were targets only because they were acting in
Foxfire
, It's you he's after, Abby. Somebody's out to close your play.”

A television camera crew had been waiting outside the theater, so I had the dubious pleasure of seeing myself on the late news. Wooden-faced, I answered questions into the mike stuck under my nose. No, I had no idea who had destroyed the set, or why. Yes, the play would close temporarily until a new set could be built. No, I didn't know what steps the police were planning to take—see Sergeant Piperson.

Piperson's announcement that
I
was this madman's target left me more confused than ever. If he'd attacked Sylvia Markey and Ian Cavanaugh simply because they were in my play, why had he gone after Loren Keith as well? Loren had nothing to do with
Foxfire;
our designer was a man who'd been in Paris for the last two months working on sets for a ballet company. Did that mean Loren's blinding was coincidental after all? It looked that way, but I couldn't quite bring myself to believe it.

“Stay tuned for the CBS Late Movie,” the well-informed newscaster told me. “Tonight it's
The Life of Emily Zola
.” Starring Paul Muni as Emily?

By the next day the police had worked out what had happened. The theater building showed no sign of forced entry, so the vandal—hereafter known as
He
—must have hidden somewhere after the performance and spent the night in the theater. The night watchman was alone after about midnight, which was the time Gene Ramsay's guard left.
He
might have planned to wreak his havoc during the night hours; but the theater district is well patrolled at night, and
He
may have decided it was too risky with the police checking in every hour or so.

The night watchman went off duty at six, when his relief took over. The box office didn't open until ten, so that meant
He
had four hours to do his damage with only one frail old man to take care of. That way if any especially loud crash leaked through the auditorium doors, there'd be no one in the box office to hear it.

Here the police began to speculate. Anyone planning such extensive damage needed equipment—a knife for slashing, an ax for smashing, paint for throwing, tools of some sort for ripping out the wiring. And the chloroform. All this would make a sizable bundle, something one couldn't just leave with the coat check girl to be picked up later. So the police theorized that after chloroforming the watchman,
He
took the watchman's keys and unlocked the loading doors at the back of the theater. Then
He
could have driven a station wagon or a pickup to the loading area and moved his gear inside. This would have been in broad daylight; but to anyone who saw him,
He
probably looked like any workman doing his job. Police were now searching for witnesses.

Who the hell was this vicious set wrecker? The police said there were three possibilities:

1.   
He
was someone connected with
Foxfire
, someone who had a legitimate reason for being in the Martin Beck Theatre. This would include the cast, the backstage crew, the front-of-house crew, the producer, the director, the assistant director, and the playwright.

2.   
He
was someone who'd come into the theater as a member of the audience.

3.   
He
had come into the theater the previous day in the guise of a workman or delivery man and had just stayed.

And a sort of side category:
He
might be
She
.

The police were inclined to dismiss possibility number three. There are a lot of places to hide in a theater, the police said, but not
that
many. There were just too many people all over the place for too many hours for him to remain successfully concealed during the evening performance. Coming into the theater as a member of either the company or the audience and hiding after the performance was much more probable. If a member of the company,
He
would have had to check himself out on the doorkeeper's list but not actually leave. Tricky, but possible.

So there were all sorts of leads for the police to follow. A check on any deliveries made to the theater the preceding day. Possible witnesses to a workman unloading something at the back of the theater. What brand of paint was used, how much of it was required for the amount of mess that was made, where it was bought. Did the ax blows indicate a right-handed or left-handed person. It looked as if Sergeant Piperson had been right about one thing—it was impossible to do that big a job without leaving some sort of calling card.

I was now the subject of the same kind of intense investigation earlier given Sylvia Markey and Ian Cavanaugh. There was no doubt in Sergeant Piperson's mind that killing the play had been the prime object all along. Who would be hurt most if
Foxfire
closed? Not Gene Ramsay; he had two other plays running and was in no danger of starving. Not John Reddick; a play he'd directed last season had only recently closed and he'd just started work on a new one. An investigation of the play's financial backers had turned up nothing of interest. The actors would be hurt to a certain extent; New York always has a thousand times as many actors as it has roles for them to act. The crew people could find new jobs more easily than the actors, but eventually they would all move on to other things. So in the end it came back to me. A big hunk of my life was in
Foxfire
, bigger than anyone else's. And there'd be no weekly check for groceries until I had a new play in production.

The cliché speaks of someone's life being an open book; well, mine certainly was now. Sergeant Piperson did a job on me, all right—he didn't leave me a single secret. He dug up things I hadn't thought about in years, people I'd known, plays I'd worked on, organizations I'd belonged to. At first his suspicions were directed toward my ex-husband, even though I hadn't seen the man for ten years. But it turned out that on the day the set was wrecked he'd been in a clinic in Phoenix getting a hair transplant. Next Sergeant Piperson zoomed in on a man I'd lived with for six years, but he had been attending a workshop-seminar at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. Piperson obviously wanted to uncover a sexual motive; I hoped he wasn't too disappointed.