Murder at the Mikado (9 page)

“Blond and blue-eyed,” Drew said. “Still, that’s not much proof of anything. I understand Mrs. Landis was blond as a child.”

Benton shrugged. “Just a theory. But what happens to her happy marriage if Ravenswood decides to claim the boy as his own?”

Drew looked at Nick. It had been obvious from that night at dinner and afterward that Landis doted on the boy.

“Legally, the boy is Landis’s,” Drew said.

“Legally,” Benton agreed. “That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have tossed the child and his mother into the street if Ravenswood had made that claim and Landis believed it. It’s been known to happen.”

“Let’s go back to the night of the murder,” Drew suggested. “What do you remember?”

Benton knit his brows, thinking. “We did the show. Came off rather well that night, and we got an extra round of
applause when Johnnie announced it was our fifth anniversary at the Tivoli.”

“And after?” Madeline asked.

“We came back to his dressing room and had a bit of a party. Just the cast. The orchestra and the hands had gone. We had some remarkably fine champagne too, if you ask me. Even old Grady had a sip, and he’s a temperance man,” Benton said, smiling faintly. “Just a few drinks, a little reminiscing about when we each joined the company and who’s not with us anymore. Didn’t last long, as I remember. Everyone had fairly much cleared out by one.”

“Why hadn’t you gone yet?” Drew asked.

“I’d noticed there was something chewing at the wiring in my dressing room. A rat or something, I expect. I was talking to Grady about trapping it or poisoning it or whatever it is one does with the little beasts. Then I heard a noise and went to see what or who it was, and that was when I saw Fleur running down the corridor.”

“Running where?” Drew asked.

“Out the door that goes into the alley. I don’t know why it wasn’t locked. It generally is. Anyway, she dashed out, and I didn’t see her after that. A few minutes later, Simone called to get Grady to give Johnnie a message. When we couldn’t rouse him, Grady and I broke down the door. And, naturally, he was dead.”

“How long after you saw Mrs. Landis did Miss Cullimore call?” Madeline asked.

“As I said, only a minute or two.” Benton considered for a moment. “Couldn’t have been more than five at the outside.”

“And Grady saw this cloaked intruder?”

“No. He was behind me.”

Nick grinned at the actor. “So how do we know you didn’t set this all up yourself, and there was never anyone there but you? Did you kill Ravenswood?”

“I was with Grady the whole time. He had taken Johnnie his usual steamed towels, and I caught him as he was coming out. Johnnie was fine then. I saw him there on his sofa, smoking a cigarette. Grady and I were together the rest of the time, until we broke down the door and found the body.”

“Steamed towels?” Madeline said.

“Oh, yes, Miss Parker. He was very particular about taking off his makeup every night. Didn’t want to lose that youthful glow, you know. Had to have steamed towels and then cold cream. Afterward he would lie down for half an hour with a cold towel over his face. Never changed.”

“So he was a man of regular habits, was he?” Drew asked, watching the actor’s eyes.

“Ruddy machine, he was,” Benton said, sneering again. “Once he set himself on something, there was no shifting him. Every prop, every bit of business, every line, every inflection in every word had to be the way he said and had to be the same night in and night out. The only thing he liked to change up regularly was his women.”

Benton chuckled, and there was a touch of irritation in Madeline’s eyes.

“What about the lady reporter?” Drew asked. “Josephine Tracy.”

“What about her?”

“Was she at the party the night Ravenswood was killed?”

“Yes, I believe she was, come to mention it. She was talking to Johnnie and scribbling like a maniac in her notebook.”

“Scribbling what?” Nick asked. “Do you know?”

Benton shook his head. “I assumed she was going to put something about the anniversary in her column and Johnnie was telling her what he wanted in the story. I’m surprised it wasn’t in that rag the next day.”

Drew frowned. “It wasn’t?”

“No,” said Benton, again shaking his head, this time directed at Drew. “Just the usual society rot. Same thing, different names, over and over again.”

“You don’t think this woman could have had anything to do with Ravenswood’s death?”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

“Anyone else at this little bash you had after the show?” asked Nick. “I mean, it was the cast and the lady reporter and your stageman Grady. Who else?”

“Zurrie . . .” Benton thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, I’m certain he was there.”

“Zurrie?” Drew said.

“Lew Zuraw. Manages the business side of things. Simone insisted Johnnie find someone to do it. He was frightful with figures and hadn’t a clue whether we were making a profit or where that profit might have gone. The second time we had our lights cut off, she told him he had to engage a business manager. Simone’s never liked the man, but he was better than leaving that sort of thing to Johnnie, so they kept him on.”

“Why didn’t she like him?” Madeline asked. “Didn’t he do a good job?”

“I suppose so. We didn’t have the lights cut off after that anyway. I don’t know what it was exactly. Simone never cared for foreigners, I suppose. They just never quite hit it off. But as I said, he was better than Johnnie, so she didn’t complain.”

“Why didn’t she just do the books herself?” Nick asked.

“Simone Cullimore? Keep books?” Benton snorted. “Miss Cullimore, in case you didn’t know, is an actress. No, pardon me, she is an
artiste
. A leading lady. She has far better things to do with her time than tot up the receipts and pay bills.”

Drew nodded. “How did this Mr. Zuraw get along with Ravenswood?”

“Well enough,” Benton replied, looking a little disgusted. “Everyone did, you know.”

“No quarrels between them?”

“Not that I ever heard. Zuraw was engaged here only four or five months ago. Quiet fellow. Thick mustache. Thick glasses. Thick middle. Polish, I believe. He has a bit of that accent, though I think he came here when he was young. Lived in Hounslow or something, British schools and all that.”

“And where might we find him?” asked Drew.

“His office is down at the end of our storage rooms, but I don’t believe he’s in now. Ought to be tomorrow. He’s rather a night owl and likes to keep the same hours we do. Made it nice for Simone and Johnnie, I suppose, to be able to pop in and check up on the receipts whenever they liked.”

“I see. I’m a little unclear on this point. Did Ravenswood own the theater? The troupe?”

“He did,” Benton said. “It wasn’t much, but I fancy he would rather have run the whole thing at our little place here than work at someone else’s posh theater in London. I suppose it’s Simone’s now, mortgaged as it is.”

“Any idea how much of it was his free and clear?”

Benton shook his head. “Zurrie would know. He keeps to himself, though, so I don’t know how much you’ll be able to get out of him. Doesn’t matter. If you’re looking to find out
who killed Johnnie, I’ve already told you it was Fleur. No matter that I couldn’t see her face.”

“She claims she was home,” Drew said. “With her husband.”

Benton laughed. “She claims.”

“She says she turned down your advances, turned them down flat, and that’s why you’re claiming you saw her after the murder. For spite.”

The actor snorted at the thought.

Madeline looked the man in the eye. “Is all this just to get back at her, Mr. Benton?”

He crossed his arms and was silent for a while. Finally, he said, “Very well, it’s true. After a fashion. When I realized she and Johnnie weren’t seeing each other, I thought perhaps she and I could have a bit of fun together. No strings, you know. But that was more than a year ago now.”

“What did she say to you?” Drew asked.

“Just laughed and said she wasn’t that desperate.”

“Rather harsh, eh?”

Benton shrugged. “A bit of a slap, I’ll grant you, and meant to be. It’s not as if I were brokenhearted over her. I didn’t fancy I loved her or any such nonsense. Didn’t actually even like her, not even back then. But I figured there had to have been something about her that kept Johnnie coming back as long as he did. Looking as she does, I wanted to give it a go myself. That was all. I never really thought twice about it since.”

“So you aren’t just trying to get back at her by saying you saw her? Not at all?”

Benton’s expression turned grim. “Not at all. I admit she wasn’t very good for my ego, but I’d be rather a beast to try to get her hanged for it. This is murder we’re talking about after all.”

“True.” Drew gave the actor his card. “If you think of anything else that might pertain to the case, do telephone.”

“All right.” Benton put the card in his waistcoat pocket. “But I already told you who did it. I don’t know what else there is to say.”

H
e seems awfully certain,” Drew said as they walked from the dim theater into the wan winter sunshine.

“But why would she have killed Ravenswood?” Nick asked. “It doesn’t quite fit together.”

“Benton said something about the little boy being blond like Ravenswood,” Madeline said. “And they did break things off while she was expecting. You don’t suppose Ravenswood was going to tell Mr. Landis that Peter is his child, do you?”

Drew opened the passenger side door and helped her in and then got behind the wheel. “I still don’t know. If Mrs. Landis confessed her affair with Ravenswood after the boy was born, surely Landis had to admit the possibility that the child wasn’t his. If he didn’t send her off then, why should he now?”

Nick climbed into the backseat. “True enough. Unless she had convinced him the affair was over before the child was conceived.”

Drew gave him a rueful smile. “Hardly a question a gentleman could ask a lady.”

“Unless that gentleman happens to be with the police and
specifically given the duty to ask, I suppose.” Nick shook his head. “What a bit of work this Ravenswood must have been. That song in
Penzance
might have been written for him. ‘Shocking tales the rogue could tell . . .’ ”

“Yes, well, evidently ‘nobody can woo so well.’ It’s a wonder our Miss Cullimore stayed with him as long as she did.”

“The theater,” Madeline said in reply. “He gave her the starring roles, equal billing with him, as best I can tell, paid the bills and let her do fairly well as she pleased. Seems she found that enough reason not to leave him.”

“As Tennyson said, ‘The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honor feels.’ ” Drew frowned, considering. “I wonder what this newspaper woman has to do with any of it. What do you say? Shall we go see if she’s in?”

The offices of the
Winchester Tattletale
were on the fourth floor of a ramshackle building in the older part of Winchester’s business section.

“They might at least have an elevator,” Nick huffed as he reached the landing between the third and fourth floors. “I thought gossip columns and smut were all the rage. Oughtn’t they be making money hand over fist?”

“Perhaps the owner merely keeps all the profits for himself,” Drew said.

Madeline grinned at him. “Maybe the squalid setting keeps the writers in the right frame of mind. I mean, just look at the kinds of stories they specialize in.”

She scampered up the last flight of stairs, with Nick and Drew right after her. They all stopped short before an open door with a glass insert. The lettering on the glass was backward
from that side, yet Drew could still read
Winchester
Tattletale
stenciled on it. Even if the lettering hadn’t been there, he would have had no doubt that they were in the right place.

There was the clash of voices from a number of telephone conversations, half-shouted, rapid-fire questions, the scribble of blunt pencils on scratchpads, and the clattering away of several typewriters. Above that was the sound of arguing, the voices belonging to a large middle-aged man in a shiny suit and a short thirtyish woman with unnaturally red hair. Neither of them seemed the slightest bit concerned about the rather pungent vocabulary they were both using.

Drew knocked, quite politely, on the doorframe. “Pardon me.”

Neither the man nor the woman noticed him, and the rest of the office roared on unabated.

Drew cleared his throat. “Pardon me, but I’m looking for Miss Tracy.”

Again no one took notice, and finally Nick put two fingers into his mouth and gave a piercing whistle.

“Good afternoon,” Drew said into the sudden silence, his voice pleasant. “May I presume you are Miss Tracy?”

“No,” she said, penciled brows drawn tightly together. “I’m Audrey Sherman, her secretary. Who are you?”

Drew removed his hat. “I’m Drew Farthering. My friends and I would very much like to speak to Miss Tracy. Could you please direct us to where we might find her?”

The redhead placed her hands on her hips. “Well, I wish I knew. I’ve been trying to reach her all day. I suppose she’s getting the story on Ravenswood, seeing they were such friends and all, but it’s not like her to not at least call in. Not after three days.”

“Oh, come along, Audrey,” the man said, scowling at Drew. “I need you to type up my story for me. Won’t take a minute. There’s really nothing to it.”

“If there’s nothing to it, you type it. I’ve got to get Miss Tracy’s column ready in case she doesn’t get back in time again.” She gave Drew an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I really must get this seen to.”

“Do you typically write her column for her?” Drew asked.

“Not write it, no, but I have been known to type up her notes now and again when she’s out on a story. She was planning on a column about that duchess who’s carrying on with her chauffeur behind her husband’s back, you know the one, but I’m sure she dropped it when the Ravenswood news broke. Came in Monday morning at seven as always, read the front page, and was out like she was shot from a cannon.”

“Did she say where she was going?” Madeline asked.

“Never said a word to me or anyone as far as I can tell,” Audrey said. “Just grabbed up a stack of papers from her bottom drawer and dashed off. But she has a nose for a story, so I’m certain she’s off about Ravenswood.”

“Very well.” Drew handed her one of his cards. “I would be very much obliged if you would ask Miss Tracy to telephone me when she comes in. Tell her I won’t keep her but a moment.”

“All right.” Audrey grabbed a paper clip from a nearby desk and clipped the card to her notepad. “Can’t guarantee she’ll call, but I’ll tell her.”

“She might like to know it’s about the Ravenswood case,” Drew added. “Unofficially, of course.”

The man had said nothing all this while, but now he looked uneasy. “Are you with the police?”

“Just this morning, in point of fact,” Drew said, ignoring Madeline’s reproving look. “Do you know anything about the Ravenswood matter, Mr. . . . ?”

“Poste. Alvin Poste.” The man looked a bit green. Drew nodded at Nick, who pulled out a small notebook and jotted down the name. “Look here, besides what’s been in the paper, I don’t know anything about Ravenswood.”

“You work here at the
Winchester Tattletale
, do you, Mr. Poste?” Nick asked, his voice taking on an impersonal yet official tone as he scribbled away.

“I do.” The man squirmed and fidgeted with his collar. “Notable deaths is my line.”

Drew blinked. “And you aren’t interested in the Ravenswood case? I should think, as local deaths go, his would be considered ‘notable.’ ”

Poste shrugged. “I have what I need, and my column on him was in yesterday’s edition, thank you.”

Audrey smirked. “He mostly takes what he reads in other papers, fancies it up a bit, and puts it in his column. Or were you planning to get additional information from Miss Tracy when she gets back in?”

Poste merely looked down his nose at her and then looked at Drew, eyes anxious. “See here, I don’t want any trouble with the police.”

Drew shook his head. “I can’t promise you won’t have, Mr. Poste, but you can rest easy about us. We are just making an unofficial inquiry. As a personal favor to someone and nothing to do with the police at all.” He looked once again at the woman. “I hope to hear from Miss Tracy soon. It’s quite important.”

She tapped the card that was clipped to her notepad. “I won’t forget.”