Blood Will Have Blood (7 page)

Hurley's voice took on a new note. “You going to tell me who you're working for?”

“No harm in that. I'm acting again, for Arthur Darien, over at the Fens Theater.”

“Over by Symphony, right? Old District 4. Interesting.”

“Why?” Spraggue asked. Hurley's brain was like a camera. Once it photographed information, the image stayed put. That was the department's excuse for sticking the former homicide specialist at a desk in Records.

“You help me, I help you, right?” said Hurley.

“Right.”

“Then keep your eyes open. That area's very intriguing to your local police force.”

“You have to tell me what to keep my eye on, Hurley. I'm just an amateur.”

“Sure. Anything out of the ordinary. But especially drugs. Somebody's doing some fancy cocaine dealing around there. Neighborhood's going to hell. Burglary, arson.…”

“If I stumble across the odd kilo, I'll dump it at your door.”

“I'll owe you for anything that helps get me out of this crummy desk job. Those other two items you want are going to take me some time. The accident report from New York and that Chicago business—”

“Probably just gossip-column fodder, but I'd appreciate it if you'd get me a copy of the death certificate.”

“Geoffrey Ambrose, huh?”

“Right.”

“Like I said, I'll try. Call me in a couple days.”

“I'll call you tomorrow, Fred.”

“Great. I love to talk: But don't expect anything until at least the day after. I can't tell the cops that I'm holding up their stuff just to do you a favor, you know.”

“Talk to you tomorrow, Fred.” Spraggue hung up.

Outside the theater a limousine halted, tooted its horn twice. John Langford, swathed in a shapeless black cloak, wearing huge dark glasses, descended the theater stairs at a regal pace. The uniformed chauffeur got out of the car and opened the rear street-side door.

But the limo didn't move. It disrupted traffic on Huntington Avenue for the next few minutes. Then red-haired Emma appeared on the front steps, ran swiftly downstairs, and vanished into the car. The limo took off, just catching the tail end of the yellow at the intersection, and roared out of sight.

Spraggue left the phone booth and strolled back to the theater to find Georgina Phillips.

She was in her dressing room, eyes closed, feet propped up on the ledge that served as a makeup table. Spraggue was willing to bet that Georgina rated a private room only because no one else would put up with dressing in a closet. The cubicle reminded him of the phone booth he'd just vacated. Standing dead center, he could touch all four walls without stretching.

Georgina had tried to make the phone booth livable. The far wall boasted a Sierra Club poster, framed to imitate the window the room sadly lacked. A paper lantern attempted to soften the glare from the bare bulb on the ceiling. Photographs covered up some of the peeling plaster. One was probably Georgina as a child. Hair ruffled, slender body hunched in sleep, she looked much the same now.

She must have sensed his presence. Her eyes opened and she smiled. “What are you thinking?”

“Oh, something like, ‘There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face—'”

“Stop it!” Georgina sat up angrily. “That's from
Macbeth
! You should know better than to quote the Scottish play in a theater, of all places!”

“I forgot,” Spraggue said. “I never really believed in—”

“Some of us do.”

“I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You were probably thinking I looked dumb, and now I've just proved it.”

“Pretty. I was thinking you looked pretty.”

“Same thing, huh? Men equate ‘pretty' and ‘blonde' with ‘dumb' in these parts, or haven't you noticed?”

“I've noticed,” Spraggue said, “but it's another thing I don't believe in. I was wondering if you could help me.”

Georgina shook her head, grinned ruefully. “Want to start over? I'm sorry. I guess you scared me. I woke up and there you were, towering over me.…”

“Forget it.”

“Want to talk in the lounge? It's kind of cramped in here.”

“Let's go for a walk,” Spraggue said.

“So nobody'll overhear us?” Georgina whispered.

Spraggue nodded solemnly. Georgina's gray eyes gleamed. She maintained a dignified silence until they marched down the front steps of the theater. Then she looked around carefully before murmuring: “I found the stuff you wanted.”

With effort, Spraggue kept a straight face. She was playing a part from an old Hitchcock movie. “Yes?” he said.

“Four-two-five-one.”

“How was it written?”

She bit her lower lip in concentration. “The four was like Roman numerals, a capital i and a capital v. Then the rest all in normal numbers. No spaces anywhere.”

Just like the other message.

“Does it mean something?” Georgina asked eagerly. “Do you know what it means?”

“Suggest anything to you?”

“I was thinking of playing it as my lottery number. Wait! How about a phone number? Is there any exchange that could be IV2? Just a minute!” She dove into the phone booth on the corner. “I is 4! V is 8! Is there a 482 exchange in Boston?”

“No. And you're two digits short.” Georgina deflated. “But it was a fine idea,” Spraggue said.

“Four-two-fifty-one.” She was off again. “I-V-twenty-five-one. It's a clue, right? A message.…”

“Could be.”

“What good's a message if nobody can understand it?”

“Exactly,” Spraggue said. “That's why I think it must be something fairly obvious. At first I thought it was the play—act, scene, and line. Actors would be sure to understand that.”

“Act, scene, and line! That's good, Michael. It works. Even the Roman numerals.”

“Except,” Spraggue said glumly, “that it doesn't. Look at your number. Starts with four. How many acts are there in
Dracula
?”

“Three.”

“Right.”

“Then it's probably a five-act play,” Georgina said, “the one the messages are about.”

“That narrows it down.” He kept the sarcasm out of his voice.

“I'll think about it, Michael. I've got to get back.”

“Thanks.”

“And I won't say anything to anyone! 'Bye.” She turned and offered him a flashing grin. “I just hope it's not
Macbeth
!”

Spraggue checked the time, turned, and crossed the street. Two blocks down, he entered a small secondhand bookshop.

“Plays?” said the elderly proprietor. “On your left, at the back of the store. Don't get so much call for them anymore. Anything special?”

“Shakespeare.”

“Plenty of him. Second shelf from the bottom. Soon as the kids finish off reading him in school, they sell the books back to me.”

Spraggue found a tattered copy of
The Complete Tragedies
, fumbled through it until he located
Macbeth
.

“Four-twenty-five-one,” he mumbled to himself. Act Four, scene twenty-five—No. Not even Shakespeare had twenty-five scenes to the act. Scene two, line fifty-one.

He found it quickly, running a finger down the yellowed page.

“And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?”

Line 51, Macduff's son to Lady Macduff. Her answer: “Every one.”

Hanged. Like Eddie in his vandalized room. Like Samuel Borgmann Phelps in his beautiful bankrupt playhouse …

Spraggue thumbed quickly through the pages. What was that other number? The one in Greg's sack. 1538. Act One this time. Scene five. Yes, Act One was a long one, seven scenes. Line 38:

“The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my battlements.”

A raven … a raven. A big black bird like the one in Darien's office.…

Spraggue paid three dollars for the dog-eared volume and hurried back to the theater.

Chapter Nine

At first Spraggue wasn't sure he'd get along with Karen Snow.

He was five minutes late for their private, Saturday-night session, preoccupied. Even though the joker hadn't disrupted the day's rehearsal, Spraggue was just about ready to go along with the handwriting on Eddie's wall: cancel the show. At least until he'd traced every actor's performing history vis-à-vis
Macbeth
. Karen was waiting, clearly impatient. She wore the same dark slacks and T-shirt she'd had on all day. He wondered if she ever took a break, if she'd eaten lunch or dinner.

“Sorry,” he said, taking the six steps up from the auditorium to the stage in two bounds.

“I didn't have anything better to do,” she answered drily, setting aside her clipboard and getting to her feet.

“I know how busy you must be—” Spraggue added apologetically.

“And that's why you're late,” she finished for him.

Spraggue shrugged. He wasn't about to grovel twice for a few lousy minutes. The stage manager had a glint in her dark eyes, but whether it signified suppressed humor or anger he couldn't tell. The woman's impassive face gave little away.

She pushed him through his scenes like a football coach bent on impressing a raw recruit. She was no actress, but she gave his cues intelligently in a warm, low voice. She knew her stuff; she had crosses and counters timed to the second, especially those that coincided with technical effects.

After an hour and a half, she granted him a five-minute break, adding a grudging “Not bad” and a thin secretive smile that Spraggue decided he'd like to see more of.

He glanced sorrowfully at the straight-backed prop chairs and stretched out on the hard stage floor, regretting the line-memorization binge that had cost him most of the previous night's sleep. Karen kept on working. Spraggue listened to her footsteps off in the wings, counted the clicks and bangs as she moved things about. She mumbled to herself and checked off items on her ever-present clipboard.

Spraggue stared up at the roof of the stage some three stories overhead. The sensation was of lying in a fireplace, gazing up the shaft of the chimney. A vast chimney: sixty, seventy feet wide, thirty feet long. At the very top, he could barely see the crisscrossed metal of the gridiron. The space just below the grid was crowded; lighting bars crammed with instruments and cables alternated with chunks of scenery. Eight suspension battens divided the space, each batten a long iron pipe running the width of the stage. Tied to each pipe, faintly rustling in the air currents, a part of the set hung down. Spraggue identified a rocky tower from Castle Dracula, a glimmering chandelier from Dr. Seward's sitting room.

“Watch out!” Spraggue gasped, and sat up even as he spoke. The crystal chandelier had descended a good five feet before stopping with a jerk that set its beads jangling.

“Sorry.” Karen's voice was muffled by the yards of drapery that separated the wings from the stage. “Just checking the counterweights.”

“Isn't there some customary warning cry before you dump the lamp on my body? ‘Fore' or something?”

Karen's laugh floated through the curtains. “We say ‘Heads' in the theater. Short for ‘Heads up.' Remember?”

“Yeah,” Spraggue said. “Good posture is so important right before you get smacked in the face.”

“I wouldn't worry about it. If one of these ropes breaks, you won't even have a chance to yell.”

“Comforting.”

“Don't fret.” Karen emerged from the wings and sprawled next to Spraggue on the floor. “The rope is two-thousand-pound test-weight stuff. Not cheap. This theater has one of the best counterweight systems I've ever seen.”

“Then why did the chandelier slip?”

“Improperly weighted. I released the rope clamp. If the weight on the carriage—”

“The carriage?”

“That thing backstage that looks like stacks of bullion in a bank vault. The weight on the carriage is supposed to equal the weight suspended from the batten. If it does, then no movement. The chandelier was a little underbalanced, that's all.”

Spraggue lay back on the wooden floor. “I think,” he said, “that it might be a lot more fun to watch a performance from here. You could see all the lights glow and dim. The scenery would come closer, then fly away.”

Karen leaned back on one elbow. “I've always preferred to watch the technical stuff. When I was a kid my mom kept taking me to the ballet, hoping I'd beg for dancing lessons. I couldn't take my eyes off the lights. Came home with a crick in my neck.”

Spraggue wondered how anyone could put in such long hours and seem so alert. He half-expected to see dark circles under her eyes, but the skin was as pale and clear there as elsewhere. No makeup, either.

He let the companionable silence deepen before breaking it with a carefully casual question. “You know a lot about this theater?”

“Old theaters are my love.”

“Tell me about this one.”

She pointed. “That's where Sam Phelps died. Hanged himself from the fourth pipe. Properly weighted, too. There was some scaffolding on the stage. He climbed up, fastened the noose, and kicked the scaffolding down. It was a Saturday night. He hung there until Monday morning.”

“You think he haunts the place?”

“He's supposed to put in an appearance every opening night,” she said. “Seriously, no. All theaters have legends attached to them. Show people are superstitious. ‘Break a leg' instead of ‘good luck.' No whistling in the dressing rooms.…”

“Never quote
Macbeth
.”

“Right.”

Spraggue hesitated. “Was
Macbeth
ever performed here? Do you know?”

“Once. It wasn't successful.”

“Never is. I've heard more
Macbeth
horror stories—car crashes the night before opening; chicken-pox epidemics; box-office flops.”