Ed McBain_87th Precinct 47 (10 page)

“Right, the sixteenth,” Morgenstern said. “A Thursday night. The day before Passover
and
Good Friday. That should bring us luck, don’t you think? A double whammy? So let me tell you
just
what I’ll earn if this play is a hit, okay? Which, I’ll admit, seems a good possibility. We’re getting the cover of
Time
next week, you know. It’ll be on the stands Monday.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. But this has become a continuing television drama, anyway. You can’t tune in a news broadcast without seeing and hearing
some mention of Michelle Cassidy, Michelle Cassidy, Michelle Cassidy. Nothing television likes better, right? Beautiful girl
with big tits gets stabbed, they eat it up. Wring their hands in public, but in private they’re licking their chops. I won’t
be surprised if they make the story a miniseries. Not that I’m any different. In fact, if you want to do me a big favor, you’ll
arrest
somebody before we open. Keep the story going, you know?”

“You were about to tell me …”

“Right, my finances. What do I stand to gain? Why did I stab Michelle, right?”

“I didn’t say you’d stabbed her.”

“I know you didn’t. I’m just kidding.
I
didn’t say I stabbed her, either. Because I didn’t.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Carella said, and sipped at his coffee, and then buttered and jammed another piece of toast.

“Although my piece of the show would seem to justify it,” Morgenstern said.

“Justify what?”

“Murder.”

“Uh-huh. What exactly
is
your piece of the show?”

“Which is what you asked in the first place.”

“And which you still haven’t answered.”

“In a nutshell, I get two percent of the gross, fifty percent of the profits, and office expenses.”

“What’s the gross expected to be?”

“At capacity?”

“Yes.”

“If we move it downtown, you mean. Which is what we’d do with a hit. So let’s say we move it to a five-hundred-seat theater
on the Stem. Your top ticket would go for fifty bucks on a straight play, which this is. As opposed to a musical. The top
on a musical is sixty-five, seventy, it depends. So let’s say a top of fifty, an average of … listen I’ve got this all broken
down, what’s the sense of doing it in my head?”

“Got what all broken down?”

“My business manager made an estimate for me. In case we move to the Stem.”

“I guess you’re anticipating that.”

“Well,
now
I am, yes.”

“When did he make this estimate for you?”

“Yesterday. Right after Michelle got stabbed.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. If you want a copy of it, I’ll give it to you before you leave.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“My pleasure,” Morgenstern said.

“So what does your business manager estimate the profits will be if you move to the Stem?”

“In a five-hundred-seat house? At capacity? Seventy grand a week.”

“In other words, Mr. Morgenstern, if this show is a hit, you’ll be taking home quite a bit of money.”

“Quite a bit, yes.”

“How long do you figure it’ll take to recoup?”

“At capacity? Thirteen weeks.”

“After which you start getting your fifty-percent share of the profits.”

“Yes.”

“Who gets the
other
fifty percent?”

“My investors.”

“How many of
those
are there?”

“Twenty. I’ll give you a list of them, too, if you like.”

“How much does your playwright get?”

“Freddie? Six points.”

“Before or after recoupment?”

“Pre
and
post, all the way through. A straight six percent of the gross.”

“Nice business,” Carella said.

“Except that for every play that makes it, you’ve got a dozen that flop. Frankly, you’re better off putting your money in
mutual funds.”

“I’ll remember that,” Carella said.

“Have another piece of toast.”

“Thanks. Few more questions and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Here comes the rubber hose,” Morgenstern said, and smiled again.

“As I understand this,” Carella said, “last night …”

“See? What’d I tell you?

Carella smiled. He picked up another piece of toast, buttered it, put jam on it, bit into it. Chewing, he said, “Last night,
Michelle was delayed at the theater some fifteen, twenty minutes. The
others
all broke for dinner, but she …”

“Yes, that’s my understanding, too.”

“You weren’t there?”

“No. Who says I was there?”

“I thought …”

“Earlier maybe. But not when they …”

“I thought you were there during the rehearsal.”

“I got there at five and left around six, six-fifteen. Right after the fight.”

“Oh? What fight?” Carella asked.

“The usual bullshit.”

“What usual bullshit is that?”

“The actress wanting to know
why
she’s. doing this or that, the director telling her to just
do
it.”

“Then this fight was between Michelle and Kendall, is that it?”

“Yes. Anyway, it wasn’t
a fight,
it was just the usual bullshit. You know the famous story about the phone ringing, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“There’s this scene in a play where the phone is ringing, and the actor is supposed to answer it and have a conversation with
the person on the other end. So this
Method
actor wants to know what his
motivation
is,
why
does he answer the phone? The director tells him, `Because it’s
ringing,
goddamn it!’ This goes on all the time, the bullshit between the actors and the director. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Who else was there? Was Freddie Corbin there?”

“No. Just the actors and the crew.”

“Were they all still there when you left?”

“Yes.”

“But they left the theater
before
Michelle did, is that right?”

“Yes, she had a costume fitting. The costume designer needed her for fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“So the
others
all. broke for dinner at six-thirty …”

“I think that’s what Ashley was planning. Yes, I’m sure he said six-thirty.”

“Which left just Michelle and the costume designer alone in the theater.”

“Well, Torey would’ve been there, too.”

“Torey?”

“Our security guard. At the stage door.”

“That’s his name? Torey?”

“Well, it’s Salvatore Andrucci, actually. But he used to fight under the name Torey Andrews. Do you remember Torey Andrews?
Good middleweight some twenty, twenty-five years ago. That’s Torey.”

“Know where I can reach him?”

“At the theater. You want some more coffee? I’ll get the
shwartzer
to bring some.”

“Thank you no,” Carella said. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”

“Then let me get that estimate for you. If you still want it.”

“I still want it,” Carella said.

Gillian Peck lived in a doorman building on the city’s upper south side. Kling had called ahead, and when he was announced
over the intercom, he could hear a British voice answering, “Yes, do send him up, please.”

The woman who opened the door seemed to be in her mid-fifties, a petite, mop-topped brunette wearing a green silk-brocade
tunic over matching bell-bottomed pajama pants and green slippers with a gold crest. She told him at once that she had a meeting
downtown at noon—this was now ten past eleven—and she hoped this would be short. Kling promised that it would.

She led him into a living room hung with framed drawings of the costumes she’d done for what appeared to be a hundred different
shows, but which she explained had been only ten. “My favorite was the
Twelfth Night
I did for Marvin,” she said, beaming, and walked Kling past a series of framed sketches of figures in brightly colored costumes,
the name of each character penciled in at the bottom of the drawing: Sir Toby Belch. Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Malvolio. Olivia.
Viola …

“I love the names he gave them,” she said. “Do you know what the
full
title of the play is?”

“No,” Kling said.

“Shakespeare called it
Twelfth Night; Or What You Will.
I took that as a cue for the costumes. I went for an uninhibited, anything-goes look.”

“I think you succeeded,” Kling said.

“Yes, quite,” Gillian said pensively, studying the drawings. “Well, then,” she said, turning away abruptly and walking toward
a seating group that consisted of a sofa done in red velvet and two side chairs done in black. She sat in one of the black
chairs, perhaps because she didn’t wish to appear too Christmasy in a green costume against a red background. Kling suddenly
wondered if she designed her own clothes.

“Sit down, won’t you?” she said, and gestured to the sofa.

He sat.

She looked at her watch.

“About Miss Cassidy,” he said.

“Oh dear, that poor child,” Gillian said.

“You were with her last night, I understand. Just before she got stabbed.”

“Yes. I fitted her for one of her costumes.”

“How many are there?”

“She has three changes. This was for the one in the first act. It’s white, very virginal, it’s when she’s supposed to be a
young girl, when she first becomes infatuated with the theater. Do you know the play?”

“Not really.”

“It’s a dreadful stinker,” Gillian said. “Quite frankly, Marvin should be grateful for all this publicity.”

“I’m sure he is,” Kling said.

She looked at him.

“Mm,” she said. “Well, yes, I shouldn’t wonder. In any case, there are three changes, the virgin white one, and then the gray
one, when she sort of loses her innocence … it’s all such rot, really … and then the red one after she’s been stabbed, when
God knows who or
what
she’s supposed to be. Or even who’s stabbed her, for that matter. It’s rather a matter of life imitating art, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Do you have any idea who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“Life imitating art exactly,” she said. “In the play, nobody knows who stabbed her, either.”

“Well, we’re still investigating.”

“It’s frightening to think the person who stabbed her is still loose, isn’t it? And may
remain
loose. Which wouldn’t be too uncommon in this city, would it?”

“Well,” Kling said.

“No offense meant.”

“Where did this fitting take place, Miss Peck?”

“In Michelle’s dressing room.”

“At what time?”

“Six-thirty. Six thirty-five.”

“How long did it last?”

“Oh, ten minutes at most.”

“Till twenty to seven?”

“I’d say a quarter to.”

“Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you do
after
the fitting?”

“Well, we
left.“

“The theater?”

“No, the dressing room.”

“Together?”

“No. I went to the wardrobe room to hang the costume up again, and Michelle went to the loo.”

“Did you see her again that night?”

“Yes, just before I left the theater.”

“Where’d you see her?”

“There’s a phone just inside the stage door, on the wall there. A pay phone. She was standing there as I was leaving the theater.”

“Talking?”

“No. She was just dialing a number, in fact.”

“What time would this have been?”

“Oh … ten to seven?”

“What happened then?”

“I said goodnight to Torey, and went out.”

“Who’s Torey?”

“The security guard.”

“Where was he?”

“Sitting just inside the stage door. Where he always sits. There’s a stool there.”

“How far from the phone?”

“Five feet? Six feet? I really couldn’t say.”

“Did you see anyone in the alley when you came out?”

“No one.”

“You weren’t still
in
the alley when Michelle left the theater, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Then you didn’t see her actually leaving?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And I’m sure you didn’t see anyone stab her.”

“That’s correct.”

“Where’d you go after you left the theater?”

“To meet a gentleman friend of mine.”

“Where would that have been?”

“A restaurant downtown. I caught a cab just outside the theater.”

“At what time would that have been?”

“At five minutes to seven.”

“You know the exact time, do you?”

“Yes, I looked at my watch. I was supposed to meet my friend at seven-thirty, and I was wondering if I’d be late. The restaurant
is all the way downtown.”

“Which restaurant is that, Miss Peck?”

“Da Luigi. On Mersey Street.”

“Were
you late?”

“No, I got there
right
on the Dorothy.”

Kling looked at her.

“The dot,” she said.

Torey Andrews né Salvatore Andrucci studied the shield in the palm of Carella’s hand, and then looked at his ID card again,
and then said, “Is this about Michelle?”

“Yes, it is,“ Carella said.

“I was hoping you caught the guy by now.”

“We’re still investigating.”

“Long as
I
ain’t a suspect, huh?” Torey said, and grinned, showing a mouthful of missing teeth.

He was perhaps five feet ten inches tall, weighing in at two-forty or thereabouts these days, no longer the middle-weight
he’d once been. His left eye was partially closed by scar tissue, and his nose roamed all over the center of his face, and
he sounded like any of the punch-drunk pugs Carella had ever met. But there was intelligence in his lively green eyes and
Carella figured he’d quit the ring before they’d managed to scramble his brains.

He was wearing what Carella had always called a “bakery-shop sweater,” because this was the kind of sweater Carella’s father
had worn to work each morning. In Torey’s case, the sweater was a collarless brown cardigan, a bit frayed at the cuffs, one
of the buttons missing. He wore this with thick-waled corduroy trousers and brown loafers. He was sitting on his stool just
inside the stage door. The pay phone on the brick wall painted black was some seven or eight feet away from the stool. From
the stage, Carella could hear what sounded like two or three actors rehearsing a scene. The clock on the wall read twelve-thirty.