Death in the Fifth Position (16 page)

“In ten years she will be ready to take your place,” said Alyosha gallantly.

“Dear friend!” said our star, her eyes black slits as she watched Jane do her stuff.

Then the door to the hall opened and Mr. Washburn peered in at us; he gestured for me to join him. I slipped out of the hall and joined him in the reception room.

“More trouble,” he said with a sigh.

“About the hearings in Washington?”

“Exactly. I think it’ll be in all the papers tomorrow. I was trying to hush it up but now it’s too late. The F.B.I. is mixed up in the case.”

“He’s not guilty, is he?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think that they have anything important. They only want to question him … but that’s enough to get all the witch-hunters in this town against us. Not to mention Chicago.”

“What can we do?”

“Make it appear that he’s testifying of his own free will … which I suppose he is, in a way. We’ll try and make a big thing of his turning informer … you know what I mean: ex-liberal telling what he knows about Communism in the theater.”

“Seems kind of sick-making.”

“So what? We’ve got a long tour ahead of us and I’ve tied up a good deal of money in Wilbur.” You and Alma Edderdale and twenty other patrons, I thought.

“Have you talked it over with Wilbur?”

“Oh yes … just before rehearsal this afternoon. He’s going to follow the same line. He doesn’t want trouble … especially if he’s innocent, and signed to do the new Hayes and Marks musical in the fall …” he added irrelevantly.

“What do you want me to do then? Get in touch with
the papers directly? Or work through the columnists?”

“Get to the papers directly; but first you’ll have to handle Elmer Bush. He’s on his way over to look around, he says, but of course’s he’s going to try and get some kind of exclusive out of Jed or me. Now I’m going to keep out of sight and I’m going to keep Jed away from Bush, if possible. Your job is to head him off … even if you have to hint that Jed has got some wild revelations for the committee in Washington.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, like the Spartan youth with the fox at his vitals.

“Good fellow,” said Mr. Washburn, hurrying down the hall to the classroom of tiny tots where he intended, obviously, to hide out until Elmer Bush, a symphony in blue: shirt, suit, socks and tie, appeared in our reception hall, causing a bit of a stir among the dancers who were sitting on the benches waiting to go into class … it was five minutes to the hour.

“Why hello there,” said Mr. Bush, flashing that television smile of his, the dentures superbly wrought and fitted. “Washburn or Wilbur around? … old friend of mine, Ivan Washburn.” In spite of his fame and power he still had the reporter’s nervous habit of trying a little too hard to establish friendship with persons in high and interesting places, for the moment interesting, for the moment news.

“They aren’t here right now, Mr. Bush … is there anything I can do for you?”

“Call me Elmer,” said the great man mechanically, taking in the room with a reporter’s eye, a lecher’s eye too, for his gaze paused longer than necessary over one
of the girls, a slim brown-haired number with a T-shirt. “Nice place you people have here. Terrible neighborhood, though. Been fighting for years now to get it cleaned up. Made absolutely no headway. When do you expect Wilbur?”

It took me a moment to separate the question from what had promised to be a thoughtful Elmer Bush report of city-planning. “Well, you know he’s pretty busy with that new ballet.”

“They’re rehearsing it here.”

Since this wasn’t a question, but a statement, I had to agree. “But nobody’s allowed in the studio while he’s working. He’s very difficult.”

“We’ll see how difficult he is when that committee gets through with him in Washington.”

“How did you know about that … Elmer?” I asked, very folksy, my eyes round with admiration.

“Never ask an old reporter to tell his sources,” chuckled Bush, pleased with the effect he thought he was making.

“Why, I only heard about it an hour ago.”

“That so? Then tell me this … how do you people plan to get your big wheel off the spot?”

“Well, for one thing we happen to know he’s not a Communist and for another thing he’s going to tell all he knows about the Reds in the theater.”

“It’s a closed hearing, too,” said Bush thoughtfully. “Got any idea about some of the names he’s going to mention?”

“Nobody very big,” I invented glibly. “A few of the old North American Ballet Company people, that’s about all.”

“You’ve been having a busy time, haven’t you, Pete,” said Bush, suddenly focusing his attention on me for the first time in our long if superficial acquaintanceship.

“I’ll say.”

“They really wind that Sutton case up?”

“I think so … don’t you?”

“Haven’t heard anything to the contrary … worked out very neatly, from the police’s point of view … no trial, no expense for the state … perfect case.” While we talked I kept trying to edge him into the empty classroom before the hour struck, before four o’clock when Wilbur would take a break, on the dot, because that’s a company rule which even the most temperamental choreographers have to obey. But Mr. Bush wouldn’t budge: the secret perhaps of his success. At four o’clock the door to the studio opened and thirty tired and messy dancers came charging out, heading for the dressing rooms, the drinking fountain, the telephone … I have a theory that dancers, next to hostesses, spend more time telephoning than any other single group in America.

Elmer Bush kept on talking but his eyes looked like they were on swivels, like the chameleon who can see in all directions. At first he couldn’t spot anybody; then I waved to Jane who was standing by the door to the empty classroom, adjusting the ribbon to one of her toeshoes. It was five after four. She waved above the noisy crowd of dancers, parents and tiny tots (all the classes let out on the hour) and, breathless, came to us through a sea of sweating dancers.

“This is the young ballerina in
Eclipse
, Mr. Bush … Jane Garden.”

They shook hands and Jane was pretty enough to distract Bush’s attention long enough for Mr. Washburn to sneak past us, in the shadow of the corpulent teacher of dance with whom he pretended to talk. Before he got to the door, however, the first policeman had arrived.

It took them four hours to question the
corps de ballet
, parents, even the tiny tots, most of whom were whining loudly at this unexpected turn of events. But by the time Gleason had arrived, only the principals were left, all seated glumly in the studio, on that hard bench.

The body of Magda had been taken immediately to the morgue and though none of us had seen it the rumor was that she had been pretty badly smashed by her fall from the window of the classroom adjoining the rehearsal studio.

A policeman stood in the door of the studio, watching us as though we were wild animals. Inspector Gleason did not present himself to us upon arrival; we heard his full-throated Irish voice, however, as he had a desk set up for himself in the empty classroom. Here he received us, one by one.

We talked very little during those hours. Mr. Washburn, with remarkable presence of mind, had summoned his lawyer who waited now with a brief case full of writs calculated to circumvent any and every vagary of justice.

Eglanova, after one brilliant outburst of Imperial Moscow anger, had settled down to a quiet chat with Alyosha, in Russian. Alyosha was more nervous; he continually
screwed and unscrewed his monocle, wiping it with a silk handkerchief. Jane, who sat beside me, wept a little and I comforted her. Wilbur, after a display of Dubuque, Iowa, temperament, settled down for a long tense quarrel with Louis, a quarrel which had nothing to do with Magda. For some reason Madame Aloin had been placed under suspicion as well as the pianist, a worm-white youth who acted exactly the way you would suppose a murderer at bay to act. Mr. Washburn was not with us long, since he was the first witness to be called. I might add that Elmer Bush had contrived to remain with us in the studio, after first phoning his numerous staff: this was one exclusive he was sure of … television star or not he was the same Elmer Bush who, twenty years ago, was the best crime reporter in the country. He chatted with everyone now … first with one; then with another, conducting a suave investigation which, I swear, was a good deal brighter than the one the taxpayer’s burden was conducting in the next room.

“Come on, baby,” I whispered to Jane, my arm around her. “Don’t take it so hard. It’s just one of those things …” I whispered stupidly, soothingly, because after a while she stopped and dried her eyes with a crumpled piece of Kleenex.

“I can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “Not Magda … not like that.”

“Tell them everything, Jane … everything. This is serious. Tell them about your being at Miles’ place.”

“Poor Magda …”

“You’ll do that, won’t you?”

“What? Do what?” I told her again and she looked
surprised. “But what’s that got to do with Magda?”

“It may have everything to do with her, with all of us. Promise you’ll tell Gleason the whole story.”

“If you think I ought to.”

“I do. I’m sure all three of these things are connected.”

“So am I,” said Jane, unexpectedly.

I was surprised … she had always been very unrealistic about the trouble … almost as bad as Mr. Washburn and his “accident” theories. I asked her why she had changed her mind.

“Something Magda said today … something about Miles … I don’t remember exactly what it was but she … I think she knew who killed Ella. I think Miles must have known all along and told her that day when he went to see her, when she was sick and her family happened to be out.”

“She–didn’t tell you who it was?”

“Do you think I would be sitting here like this scared to death if she had? I’d be right in there with that policeman, telling him I wanted somebody arrested before … before this happens again.” She shuddered suddenly and I felt cold myself. I looked about the room wildly, wondering who it was. Which of these people was a murderer? Or had someone who wasn’t even here killed Ella and Magda, a maniac in the
corps de ballet …
?

“I wonder just what happened?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I know,” said Elmer Bush smoothly; he had sat down next to me without my knowing it … what a break this was for him: witness, or near-witness to a murder, a flashy, glamorous murder. He could hardly keep a straight
face, hardly disguise his delight at what had happened. “A terrible tragedy,” he said in a low voice, the one used to announce the death of forty passengers on a transatlantic airliner, or corruption in Washington. “How did it happen?”

“She was pushed through the window … one minute after four o’clock,” said Elmer and the tip of his tongue, quick as a lizard’s, moistened his lips.

“By party or parties unknown,” I said.

“Exactly. Her purse was found on the floor; her body on the sidewalk seven stories below.”

“The purse …”

He finished my sentence: “Had been searched. Its contents were scattered over the floor. Whoever did it must’ve grabbed the purse away from her and then, quick as a flash, shoved her through the window and searched the handbag for something …”

“Robbery?” suggested Jane weakly.

We both ignored her. “I wonder what they were looking for?”

“When we know that,” said Elmer slowly, in his best doom voice, “we will know who killed Ella and Miles Sutton.”

I remember hoping at the time that the three murders were totally unconnected, just to prove this unctuous vulture wrong.

“Tell me,” said Elmer gently, turning to Jane, “did she seem at all odd to you when you went into that room together?”

“Sweet Jesus!” I cried softly, turning to Jane. “You weren’t with her, were you? You weren’t there, too?”

“Always on the spot,” said Jane with a faint attempt at lightness.

“Does Gleason know this?”

“I plan to tell him … honest I will, Peter.”

“He knows anyway,” said omniscient Elmer. “Did she say something which might throw any light on what happened?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Why did you go in there with her?”

“Now listen, Bush,” I snapped, “stop playing Mr. District Attorney. She’s gone through enough.”

“That’s all right, Peter.” She rallied a bit. “Magda wasn’t feeling well. She’s going … she
was
going to have a baby and she suddenly felt sick. I took her in there when the rehearsal was over … it was the only place on the floor where she wouldn’t be crowded. Then I left her and talked to you … Maybe she fell. She could have, you know. Those windows … well, look over there: they almost go down to the floor.”

“Fell? After first emptying her purse over the studio floor?” Elmer shook his head. “Somebody shoved her. Was there anybody else in the room?”

Jane shook her head wearily. “I said it was empty.”

“Anybody could have gone in there,” said Elmer Bush, staring at the door at the far end of the room, behind which we could hear the distant rumble of Gleason’s voice as he questioned Mr. Washburn.

The interviews went fairly fast. Eglanova, Alyosha, Wilbur, Louis, Madame Aloin, the pianist, Jane, myself. By the time my turn came around, it was already dark outside and the overhead fluorescent lights had been
turned on, a ghastly blue light, reflected by tall mirrors.

The first thing I noticed was the window. For some reason I had supposed that it had been open when she fell out. It hadn’t occurred to me that she would have been pushed through a pane of glass … which is what had happened.

Gleason looked much as ever and I noticed the same pale secretary was on hand taking notes; otherwise, the room was empty … no police, no furniture, no rifled handbag.

We got through the preliminaries quickly. I could see that he was not very much interested in me … possibly because Elmer had already told him that I was with him in the hall when the murder took place … what was that wonderful word they use to describe someone being pushed through a window: defenestration?

He wanted to know what, if anything, Magda had said to me that morning.