Murder at Ford's Theatre (13 page)

“As long as it doesn’t have to do with the young man inside and the charges against him.”

“Are you the Mackensie Smith who teaches the course at GW on Lincoln and his law career?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. I’ll be in your class Saturday morning.”

“Oh?”

“I take courses at GW, nonmatriculated. I’m already enrolled in a history course, but when I saw you were teaching a second section of the Lincoln course on Saturday mornings, I signed up quick.”

“You have a special interest in Lincoln the lawyer?”

“In Lincoln, period. I guess you could say I’m a Lincoln buff. I’d like to say Lincoln scholar, but I’m a long way from that.”

“You might be closer than you think, Detective. I’ll look forward to seeing you Saturday.”

“Thanks. Nice meeting you—Professor.”

Smith drove back to the Watergate, where Annabel and Rufus were waiting.

“I can’t believe you did that, Mac,” Annabel said.

“I’m having some trouble believing it, too. Clarise was very upset, and I thought . . . well, I wanted to help out. I’ll call Yale first thing in the morning and turn it over to him.” Yale Becker, one of Smith’s former partners in the criminal law practice, was considered a top criminal attorney, perhaps the District’s best now that Mac Smith was no longer in the saddle.

“Clarise called,” Annabel said.

“I said I’d call her. She should be at Jeremiah’s hearing tomorrow. Being in a parent’s custody is helpful when setting bail.”

“Is he in big trouble?”

“Yeah, I’d say so. They’re charging him with resisting arrest, and assault on an officer. Those are serious felonies, as you know. What really concerns me, though, is that they want to question him about the murder at the theatre.”

“Clarise didn’t mention that. Did he know the girl?”

“He claims not to, but he’s lying.”

Annabel didn’t ask how her husband knew Jeremiah was lying. His instincts about such things were uncannily accurate.

“I’ll get hold of Yale and see if he’ll take the case.”

“Maybe Clarise or the senator won’t want him. The way Clarise talked, she won’t settle for anyone but you.”

“Out of the question. By the way, one of the detectives involved in the case—a nice young man named Klayman—is signed up for my Saturday session. He says he’s a Lincoln buff.”

“Conflict?”

“Not as long as we keep any discussions to Lincoln, and avoid any talk about the Lerner case. Know what bothers me, Annie, besides not believing Jeremiah?”

“Tell me.”

“Clarise seemed more concerned about her confirmation hearing than what was happening to her son.”

“She’s an ambitious woman, Mac. We know that. And I suspect she was never much of a nurturing mother. I don’t mean a loving mother. She obviously loves Jeremiah. But she’s spent her life chasing a career, not motherhood.”

“She was annoyed that Senator Lerner was away at some retreat and wouldn’t bother coming back until tomorrow.”

“Sad. I dealt with a lot of parents like that when I was handling divorces, and kept in my desk a copy of something Dickens wrote. He said, ‘I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured and priced everything’—and went on to say that what couldn’t be weighed, measured, or priced didn’t exist.”

“Let’s not be too judgmental, Annie. Lots of kids are brought up in such circumstances and end up solid citizens. I had too many young people in trouble with the law, and with generally screwed-up lives, who blamed their parents. It’s a convenient excuse for avoiding responsibility. Speaking of responsibility, I’d better walk the beast.”

“Mac!”

“Sorry. I forgot about his fragile ego.”

SEVENTEEN

S
YDNEY
B
ANCROFT EXITED
the Delta Shuttle at New York’s La Guardia Airport, went to a large electronic board on which airport hotels were displayed, and called one. Ten minutes later, he boarded a shuttle bus and checked in at the lowest price offered, which included a senior citizen discount.

“Tricked you,” he told the dour young woman at the check-in desk. “I’m actually thirty-five but made myself up to enjoy your old fogy rate.”

She handed him his room key without breaking a smile.

Shame. He had tried to brighten her day. Young fogy. The room was small. It had one window, which faced a highway, beyond which jet aircraft arriving and departing could be seen—and heard, though muted. He freshened up, checked himself in a mirror cracked in one corner—he was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a tan safari jacket, his usual flying outfit—and went downstairs to the restaurant and bar. It was empty except for the bartender, a waitress whose fatigue showed through her heavy makeup, and two men in business suits with an attractive, middle-aged woman who Bancroft immediately decided was a prostitute.

“Yes, sir?” the bartender asked.

“Scotch whisky, a double, sir, with water on the side.”

After a second round, he took a table and ordered a shrimp cocktail, and another drink. “And please bring rolls,” he told the waitress. “And butter. Lots of butter.”

He was drunk when he returned to his room, and a little queasy, which was fine with him. Without the alcohol as a sedative, sleep would elude him. He called the desk to reserve the shuttle to Kennedy Airport the following morning, but was told the hotel didn’t provide that service. The severe young woman who’d checked him in said he’d have to take a taxi. Bancroft didn’t argue. He placed a wakeup call with her, stripped off his clothing, and stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, trying not to notice the folds of skin on his slender body that obeyed gravity. He smiled at his mirror image, yellowing teeth returning the affection. He vowed to use one of the teeth-whitening products on the market the minute he got back, a pledge he’d made to himself countless times.

“Ah, Harrison, how very good to see you again,” he said to his mirror image. “Me? . . . couldn’t be better . . . top of my game . . . how’s things here in the West End? . . . ah-hah, as I suspected . . . yes, I heard Mendes was leaving Donmar Warehouse . . . and Trevor is leaving the Royal National . . . see, Harrison, old chap, I’ve been keeping up with things while in Washington . . . how are things progressing with sprucing up the West End? . . . it’s been looking shabby for years . . . the last time I was here it was positively slummy . . . what it needs, Harrison, is a bit of the old glitter . . . that’s what I intend to bring in with my one-man show . . . I tell you, Harrison, it will be the talk of London . . . and the touring potential is absolutely marvelous, dear chap . . . now, I know we’ve had our little spats over the years, but isn’t that supposed to happen between client and agent? . . . the creative always butting heads with the money end of things . . . Ford’s Theatre will be absolutely devastated with my leaving . . . I sometimes think I’m the only person in Washington who knows
anything
about Shakespeare and how to present him . . . I—”

His eyes became heavy in the mirror; he shook his head to no avail in an attempt to revive. Exhausted, he sprawled on the bed and fell asleep to the sound of a jet taking off across the highway.
Thank God for sleep,
he thought,
anesthesia for tormented souls.

The following morning, an insufferably talkative cab driver drove him across Queens to the larger airport, where his Virgin Atlantic flight to London would depart. Bancroft had bought the cheapest available coach seat and tried to charm the ticket agent into upgrading him to what Virgin called Upper Class. “You may have seen my films, dear girl,” he said. “I’m heading for London to negotiate my one-man show, and I’d be delighted to tell audiences that I only fly Virgin Atlantic. Wonderful press for you, you know.”

“I’m sure it would be, sir, but I don’t have the authorization to upgrade you. Perhaps when you get to London you should call our executive offices and propose something to them about your show.”

“Oh, I certainly intend to do that. But surely in anticipation of it happening, you could find me one of your empty seats in Upper Class. I’m afraid my back has been acting up, and—well, I really need to work on my show and would find it terribly difficult to be in the back with crying babies and—”

“Sir, there is nothing I can do for you,” she said. Coughs from those behind him in line expressed their displeasure at his holding things up.

“Yes, well, cheerio, my dear. I understand. Yes, I understand.”

He slept most of the way to London. When awake, he kept going over what he would say to his agent, and to theatre people from his past. It had been almost six months since his last trip to London, and that had been a disappointing visit. This time it would be different. This time he had something tangible to offer, a one-man show featuring the former great Shakespearean actor Sydney Bancroft, whose return to the stage had “lifted the theatre world to new and refreshed excellence. His very presence on the stages of the world has audiences howling in their seats, and shedding tears as this gifted thespian presents the words of William Shakespeare as no other actor of his generation can.”

He was in the midst of creating this self-review, saying the words aloud to the chagrin of an elderly woman seated across the aisle, when the flight attendant asked if he wished to purchase another drink.

“No, no thank you, my dear. I believe I’ve had enough. But thank you for asking. It was sweet of you.”

He rode the underground’s Piccadilly line from Heathrow Airport to Piccadilly Circus and walked to Beak Street, only a few blocks away, where he stopped in front of an Italian food shop. Sausages of every size and description hung in the window of the closed store, illuminated by red bulbs strung haphazardly from the ceiling. He looked up. Lights were on in the apartment above. He went to a door next to the shop and pushed the buzzer. A gruff male voice came through a tiny speaker: “Who’s there?”

“It’s Sydney. Open up.”

There was a harsh metallic sound as the lock disengaged. Bancroft opened the door and looked upstairs leading to the apartment. Standing at the top was the silhouetted figure of a burly man. “Well, come up, for God’s sake,” he said. “Don’t just bloody stand there.”

Bancroft slowly ascended the stairs and followed the man, whose stage name was Aaron Kipp—a variation of his birth name, Aaron Kipowicz—into the flat. Now, Kipp was fully visible—well over two hundred pounds, black-and-green flannel shirt hanging loose over baggy tan pants, frayed carpet slippers, his full beard as wild and woolly as his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Damn, Sydney, you’re as skinny as a pole,” Kipp said as Bancroft dropped his bag to the floor and collapsed on a couch. “What the hell have you become, one of those anorexic types?”

“The result of healthy living, Kipp, and a busy schedule. Got a drink, or are you on the wagon again?”

“Fell off that months ago, Sydney, but there’s no booze in the flat. Thought we’d pub it. Hungry?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Been working much?”

“Nah, just a bloody voice-over now and then. Hardly enough to keep the larder stocked. I’m up for a cartoon character. Imagine that. You?”

“Can’t keep up with it, although Washington is not like London, not for a serious artist. Come on, Kipp, I’m absolutely famished.”

They walked to The Round Table Pub, in St. Martin’s Court, a narrow, pedestrian-only cut between St. Martin’s Lane and Charing Cross Road. The Round Table was a popular watering hole for cast and crew from the Albery and the Wyndham Theatres, whose stage doors opened onto the court. The downstairs bar was packed, so they went upstairs and found a single empty table in a corner. Patrons were three-deep at the bar, some of whom greeted Kipp as he and Bancroft passed through the room. A chunky waitress with orange hair and a heavy Cockney accent took their orders—bangers and mash for Kipp, shepherd’s pie for Bancroft, and a two-pint jug of cask ale for each. Their beer had just been served when two men and a young woman approached. “Well, well, well,” said one of the men, “what have we here? The famous Aaron Kipp and the infamous Sydney Bancroft.”

Bancroft had seen them coming and had silently prayed they would pass. No such luck. He knew the two men; the woman was unknown to him. The older of the men, Philip Wainsley, was a relatively successful actor-turned-director, who years ago had worked with Bancroft on two Shakespearean productions,
Titus Andronicus,
with the Royal Shakespeare Company, in which Bancroft played the arrogant Saturninus, and Iago in
Othello,
at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon. Reviewers had not been kind to him in either role, although he had fared better with the critics in some of Shakespeare’s comedies, including the roles of Antonio in
Much Ado About Nothing,
the well-born but penniless lover, Fenton, in
The Merry Wives of Windsor,
and the treacherous Oliver de Boys in
As You Like It.
Perhaps the most scathing review he’d received had come toward the end of his stage career when an out-of-town reviewer, who’d followed Bancroft from his earliest days, wrote of his performance in
Julius Caesar:
“Sydney Bancroft, appearing in the minor role of Cinna, managed to remember his lines.” This came after years of reports in London tabloids of Bancroft’s bouts of heavy drinking, womanizing, and lack of professional reliability.

The younger man was Sam Botha, an Algerian-British playwright who’d been making his mark in avant-garde London theatre circles. He’d been introduced to Bancroft at a party the last time he’d been in London, and Bancroft had attended one of his plays, which he’d detested, terming it to Kipp “an exercise in arrogant self-indulgence. The man is obviously without talent.”

“This is Kitty Wells,” Botha said after Kipp, to Bancroft’s dismay, had invited the trio to join them at the table. “She’ll be appearing in my next play. In fact, I’ve written it for her.”

“How wonderful,” Bancroft muttered.

“And how are you, Sydney?” Wainsley asked.

“Couldn’t be better, Philip.”

“What brings you to London?” said Botha.

Bancroft’s first words of response came out in a stammer. “I—I—well, I suppose there’s no harm in letting the cat out of the bag, is there? Truth be to tell, I’m here putting the finishing touches on my one-man show.”

“How impressive,” said Kitty Wells. “A one-man show. What will it be about?”

“About me, dear girl,” Bancroft said as the waitress delivered their food. “It will be—well, let me say that it will encompass various highlights of my career, particularly my experiences performing Shakespeare.”

“Obviously a brief play,” Wainsley said. “If it depends upon highlights—”

“Are you suggesting I have had so few, Philip?”

“No, no, of course not, Sydney. I’m simply saying that few of us have amassed enough high points in our careers to sustain an entire evening on a stage—alone.”

“Speak for yourself, Philip,” Bancroft said, digging into his meal.

“Will you be opening in London?” Botha asked.

“Oh, yes, of course, London. London it will be. Is there any other place on earth to open?”

“Have a theatre yet, Sydney?” Wainsley asked.

“Purpose of my trip, make those sort of decisions on the spot. I thought I might incorporate film clips of the Bard’s plays on the silver screen. Zeffirelli and I go back a long way. I—”

“Is it already written?” Kitty asked. “Your show.”

“No, not quite finished,” Bancroft said through a full mouth.

She placed long, slender fingers tipped with red on his arm and said sexily, “Any room in your show for me?”

“I’m offended,” said Botha with mock seriousness. “Here I’ve written you a starring vehicle and you cozy up to him.”

“Maybe you could make it a father-daughter show, Sydney,” Kipp said, laughing. “Or an examination of how old men make fools of themselves falling for pretty young things and—”

As they bantered back and forth about how Bancroft’s show could be reconfigured to explore relationships between old men and young women, Bancroft fell silent. No, it was more than that. He’d slipped into what might be called a trance state, his eyes fixed on Kitty, his lips pressed tightly together. Their voices swirled around him like noisy insects, punctuated by her high-pitched laugh that seemed to become shriller by the second. She had long, silky black hair worn straight that reached her waist. Her lips matched the crimson of her nails; her eyelashes were long and curved, and her chalky white face was becoming ghostly. She came in and out of Bancroft’s focus, like someone manipulating a zoom lens. He rubbed his eyes. It was no longer the pretty face of a young woman he’d never met. It was Nadia’s face, smiling, then laughing at him after he’d patted her rear end backstage at Ford’s Theatre . . . a sharp, cruel laugh.

“J
ESUS,
S
YDNEY,
keep your hands off me. I don’t get off on old farts.”

Her words, and laugh, stung. He was embarrassed. Others had heard, including a handsome young stagehand named Wales in whom Nadia seemed to have an inordinate interest.

“Just a slip of the hand, my dear,” Bancroft said, bowing and forcing a laugh.

“Hey, Pops, hands off. She’s young enough to be your daughter,” Wales said.

Sydney regained his composure. “Practiced hands, sir, gentle, caressing hands that have brought pleasure to the world’s most beautiful actresses.”

Wales and Nadia now laughed together.

Bancroft adopted a pose, one hand placed jauntily on a hip, head cocked, a thin smile on his lips. He placed his other hand over his heart and said in stentorian tones, “‘Fair flowers that are not gath’red in their prime rot, and consume themselves in little time.’”

Wales and Nadia looked quizzically at him.