The Role Players (22 page)

*

Once again, Morrison was waiting at the door when I got off the elevator.

“Dick; good to see you,” he said as we shook hands and he led me into the living room. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks,” I said as he gestured me to a seat in the comfortable living room. I'd not had a chance to look at it closely the last time I was there, since we'd gone directly into the dining room for breakfast. I noticed several sealed boxes stacked beside the front door—Rod's things, I imagined. The wall opposite the windows was covered with framed movie posters and playbills of films and plays he'd written. On the lamp table next to my chair I noticed a framed photo stand of an incredibly handsome young man—Rod Pearce. There should be a law against people being that beautiful.

Morrison took a seat opposite me, smiled, and said, “So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Though he was cordial and appeared to be at ease, I could sense, as I had every time I'd been in his presence, a definite air of…sadness about him. I felt truly sorry for him.

Here we go
, I thought.

“I can appreciate everything you and Tait have gone through with
Impartial Observer
,” I began. “The play is your baby, and the Whitman is Tait's and they are inextricably linked by your long friendship and Rod's death. Tait has told me of your hope of possibly moving it to Broadway. And it's obvious what a shadow Rod's murder has cast over everything…and everyone.”

“Including me?” Morrison asked calmly, with an only slightly raised eyebrow.

“Everyone,” I said. “Have the police spoken with you at all?”

“No,” he said.

“Because Tait and probably several other people told them you came into New York the morning after Rod's body was discovered.”

“Apparently,” he said.

“But you actually came in the night before.”

He looked at me calmly and said, “True, though I'm curious as to how you found out.”

Well, I'd gone this far so I might as well tell him, and I did, including Tait's having hired me to rule out everyone at the Whitman, and his firm belief that Morrison could not possibly be involved.

“However,” I said, “the elimination process involves looking into areas most people wouldn't. And precisely because you would be the most logical suspect, following up on your arrival time in New York was a natural. Why
didn't
you contact the police?”

He allowed himself a small smile. “The answer to that should be obvious,” he said. “I knew if the police knew I'd come in the evening before I was scheduled to, they would waste a great deal of time and effort trying to prove that I murdered Rod, while whoever
did
kill him would get lost in the shuffle. Though I'm certain Rod's death was the senseless and random act of some soulless individual who will never be caught.”

He had a point, if he was telling the truth now.

“So why
did
you come in early?” I asked.

He sighed. “To confront Rod,” he said, “childish as that may sound. I had reached the point where I was literally consumed by…well, let's face it, by jealousy. I arrived here around nine o'clock, hoping against hope that he would come home right after rehearsal. If he had, well…it might have given me some reassurance that things were not as bad as I knew in my heart they were.”

“You didn't go to the theater?”

“If I had,” he said, “then there would have been no reason for him
not
to come directly home. My waiting for him here was the only way to know; a final ‘test,' if you will.”

We both remained silent for a moment, until he said, “I waited for him all night, like a love-sick teenager waiting for the phone to ring. I'm certainly not proud of it. Jealousy is one of the most destructive of human emotions. As a Scorpio, I'm sure you can understand.”

Unfortunately, I could.

“It was well after sunrise when I laid down on the couch, and that was the last I remember until I awoke around noon. My first thought was to call Tait, but I was too upset and too embarrassed. I didn't want him to know I'd been here all night, waiting. So I waited until I would have arrived home had I taken the flight I'd originally booked, then called him. And that's when he told me what had happened.

“I knew then and know now that the police would consider me the prime suspect if they knew I'd changed flights. And that undoubtedly would have led to a public airing of my relationship with Rod. So I can only hope they don't find out—and I would hope that you do not feel obligated to tell them.”

“Not at this point,” I said. He had a logical story, I had to admit.

Uh, Hardesty…
one of my mind-voices interjected
… He's a
writer
, remember?
Writers tell logical stories.

“I'm curious,” I said. “Had anyone from the Whitman known Rod before you brought him here for the auditions?”

“Just Tait, to my knowledge.”

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“I'd not seen Tait in several months,” he explained, “but we exchange phone calls frequently. Shortly after I met Rod, I mentioned the fact to Tait in passing. Since we do not discuss the more intimate details of our private lives, and I had not mentioned another man in some time, Tait wanted to know if it was serious. He's always very solicitous of my welfare. I told him I'd not even considered the possibility—though of course I had.

“The following week, Rod's grandfather, who had lived with Rod and his parents for years and with whom Rod had been extremely close, died, and Rod had to return to Connecticut for the funeral. Rod had always had a rather strained relationship with his parents, I gathered, and was extremely nervous about spending any time at all with them. Tait happened to call as Rod was packing for his flight, and I told Tait that I wished that Rod was able to spend a day or two in New York after the funeral to relax, but that I'd lent my apartment to a writer friend who was in New York on business. Tait said that Rod would be more than welcome to stay at his apartment and, when I extended the offer to Rod, he was grateful to accept. He spent two or three days at Tait's after the funeral, then returned to California.

“So later, when I was writing
Impartial Observer
and had Rod in mind for the lead, I mentioned it to Tait, and he thought Rod would be perfect for the part.”

“And was he?”

A look of sadness crossed his face. “Unfortunately, we never had a chance to find out. But from everything Tait and Arthur McHam have told me, I understand that yes, he was…or would have been.”

“How do you think Cam is doing in the role?”

He leaned slightly forward in his chair. “I must say, I am impressed. He's not Rod, of course. Rod had an indefinable
something
. Every one of his lines fit him like a glove—hardly surprising, I suppose, since I wrote it for him. But Cam has a certain…well, sincerity…about him. I'm very pleased he is doing the part.”

He fell silent, looking at me steadily.

“So do you think I killed Rod?” he asked.

Did you?
my mind-voice asked.

I took several seconds before answering. “I find it hard to believe,” I said honestly.

“But you're not sure,” he said with a small smile.

I shook my head. “I've learned in my line of work that it is difficult to be absolutely positive about anything, much as I might want to be.”

The smile remained. “I can appreciate that,” he said, “but for however little it may be worth, I can assure you that I could no more murder Rod than you could murder Jonathan.”

Wow! He got you on that one
, I thought.

It took me another second to pull my thoughts back together.

“You'd told me that while you were in California you began hearing rumors about Rod's promiscuity,” I said at last. “From whom? Tait?”

He shook his head. “No, and I'm afraid I can't tell you the source.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because it really doesn't matter.”

“But obviously from someone from the Whitman,” I prodded.

The small smile again. “I have many friends in New York outside the Whitman. The theater community is rather small and tight-knit.”

I sensed it was time to call this particular session to an end.

“Well, Gene,” I said, “I know you're busy, and the guys are waiting for me back at the apartment, so I should be going. Thank you again for your time, and I very much appreciate your candor.”

“And I yours,” he replied.

We got up from our chairs and he walked me to the door.

“If there is anything else I can tell you,” he said, “please feel free to call.”

“I'll do that,” I said as we shook hands.

He closed the door behind me, and I walked to the elevator.

Damn, Hardesty! You forgot to call a cab again!

CHAPTER 9

Did I believe him? I wanted to. Just as he had said that he saw something of himself in me, I think I projected a part of an older me onto him. I really could understand his feelings for Rod, and what Rod's promiscuity did to him. And his comment about him being as incapable of killing Rod as I would be of killing Jonathan really hit home—maybe it was supposed to.

But the most frustrating part was the inescapable fact that of everyone I'd considered in this case, Gene Morrison was the
only
really logical suspect—the operative word here being “logical.” Joe Kenyon
might
have done it; Cam Roberts
might
have done it. Hell, even Russ the prop man
might
have done it. But the basic element of logic was missing with everyone I'd looked at, except for Gene.

I had no doubt at all that he would have one hell of a time proving he
didn't
do it if the cops were to know of his relationship with Rod, and that he'd come into town the night of the killing. How could he prove he was sitting in his apartment alone all night?

Which brings us back to the gun. If it was the murder weapon, that meant the murderer was from the Whitman. If there were prints on it that I couldn't see, that might solve the whole thing.

And I knew that by rights I should have insisted it be turned over to the police immediately. But then they'd want to know who I was and why I was turning it in and how I knew the murder weapon was a .38, and… I really believed that no one else was in imminent danger and that leaving it—or, now, it's duplicate—where it was was the best course of action.

*

A honking horn pulled me back to reality, and I realized I'd walked about six blocks without seeing a vacant cab, so I stopped at a pay phone in front of a drugstore and called for one. I also tried to call Tait, to let him know Gene knew Tait had hired me and that Gene had given a logical explanation for having arrived in town early, though I wasn't about to go into the details. The line was busy! Damn, I hoped Tait wasn't on the phone with Gene. I dialed a couple more times until the cab pulled up.

As soon as I arrived at Chris and Max's—stopping only long enough to exchange greetings and give Jonathan a hug—I asked to use their phone and dialed Tait's number again. This time it rang. I was rather surprised to hear Tait's voice answering the phone, and said so.

“I had just hung up from a long overseas call,” he said. “What can I do for you, Dick?”

I told him exactly what I'd intended to tell him. That I'd had to tell Gene that Tait had hired me to be sure no one at the Whitman was responsible for Rod's death, and that Tait did not believe Gene was at all involved. I also told him that Gene had a logical explanation for arriving early, and left it at that.

“I was hoping Gene wouldn't call you before I had a chance to let you know what's going on,” I said. “I didn't want to risk placing you or your friendship with Gene in a possibly awkward position.”

“I appreciate that,” he said.

“Gene mentioned that you had met Rod before the two of them came out for the auditions.”

“Yes,” Tait said. “He stayed here a few days after his grandfather's funeral, then returned to California. I didn't see him again until Gene and he flew in for the auditions. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason, really. I was just curious. Thanks for your time, and I'll keep you posted on anything else I might come across.”

“Do that,” he said.

We exchanged good-byes and hung up.

*

I made my apologies to the guys and asked what they'd decided to do for the day. I'm sure they were all curious about my meeting with Morrison but didn't pry.

“Chris is going to show us where he works,” Jonathan said, and then turned to Chris. “You're
sure
you don't mind, you being on vacation and all? I really want to see your windows, but we can go another time.”

Chris smiled. “Today's fine. We practically go past it if we go to the Chrysler Building and the U.N.”

Since it was nearly noon, Max suggested we head out. Chris said Barton & Banks had a very nice restaurant open only for lunch, and asked if we'd like to try it.