Smart Moves (19 page)

“King Arthur,” Shelly mumbled under his breath.

“William Gillette,” she said triumphantly. “I suggested his Sherlock Holmes costume. You,” she went on pointing at me. “Neck fifteen-half, jacket forty, waist thirty-six, inseam thirty-two. Sleeves thirty-six.”

“Right.”

“And you,” she said, turning her finger to Shelly, “neck sixteen-half, jacket forty-six, waist forty-four, inseam twenty-nine, sleeves thirty-two.”

Shelly started to applaud grimly. The woman folded her arms in triumph across her chest.

“Perfect, Mrs. Leone,” I said. “And you can just deliver them to room twelve-thirty-four at the Taft Hotel.”

“I’m not Mrs. Leone,” she said, backing into the darkness with a sly smile. “My name is … of no consequence.” And then she was gone.

“I suppose we should applaud,” Shelly proposed.

“The performance was fine,” I said. “Let’s hope she can deliver the tuxedos on time.”

Back outside we found ourselves on Forty-fourth Street near Times Square. We strolled toward a restaurant sign and went into Streifer’s Restaurant, where we were shown to a table not far from the door. I sat facing the street and Shelly, seeing the menu, temporarily lost interest in the guy with the hat.

“It was just your imagination,” he said after ordering the seven-course Jewish dinner for seventy-five cents.

“You’re right,” I said, seeing the figure stop outside the window and look toward us. I couldn’t make out a face but there was something familiar about the guy.

We ate and Shelly talked. The guy with the hat disappeared but I didn’t think he was far away. I think I had a chopped liver sandwich with a slice of raw onion. I know Shelly ate anything that dared come within five feet of our table.

“Great pickles,” he said.

“Great pickles,” I agreed, and paid the bill.

I didn’t see our tail on the subway platform and I didn’t see him get on the subway car with us. He had either given up or was better than he had seemed. Shelly tried to talk, but I pointed to my ears and shouted that the train was too noisy. He crossed his arms and sulked for the seven or eight stops before we got off.

I didn’t have much trouble finding the little theater where I had met Robeson and where Albanese had been shot the night before. I wasn’t prepared for the small crowd of people in the upstairs lobby when we got there. We headed for the theater entrance and were stopped by two men who asked us for our letters.

“Letters?” asked Shelly. “I’m a dentist.”

“I’m sorry,” said one of the young men, “but this is an invitation-only dress rehearsal of
Othello
.”

“We’ll buy a ticket,” I said.

“No tickets. Only potential backers have been invited,” said the second young man.

“Tell Mr. Robeson that Toby Peters is here,” I said.

The young men looked at each other, at me, at Shelly. Then one of them repeated my name and disappeared. Shelly and I watched the crowd of rich people waiting, talking, drinking coffee. They didn’t look rich. The men wore sports jackets or suits. The women wore dresses with frilly shoulders. Most of the women had their hair up off their neck. There were some nice necks in the crowd and some that had been around. The young man who had left returned and motioned for us to follow him. Shelly and I entered the theater, which was set up for a performance. The stage was bare. Our guide led us past the stage, beyond a curtain, and into a dark, narrow corridor that smelled like Chinese food. He stopped in front of the door, knocked, and when Paul Robeson’s deep voice said, “Come in,” he opened it and stepped back.

We went in and the young man took off, closing the door behind him. The dressing room was small, more like a closet. Robeson was seated on a white painted metal chair facing us. He wore a silky shirt with white trim and a shiny coat with a row of big gold lion-head buttons running down each side. This time he looked older than he had the day before. I could see flecks of grey in his sideburns. He looked at me and at Shelly.

“This is Dr. Minck,” I said. “Shelly Minck. He’s a friend.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor,” Robeson said, but he had something more important on his mind than polite introductions. Robeson reached across his dressing table for a piece of paper and handed it to me. The writing was neat, in large inked letters, but it wasn’t in English. It made no sense to Shelly either.

“It’s German,” Robeson explained. “It says that I will be killed onstage tonight if I dare do a love scene with Uta.”

“It’s probably Povey and his people,” I said, handing the note back to Robeson, who seemed neither frightened nor angry. If I had to describe his mood, I’d call it “depressed,” but it wasn’t quite that either. “They’re trying to make it look as if you’re the primary target, trying to stir up publicity.”

“About what?” Shelly asked.

“Desdemona is white,” explained Robeson. “There are many people, not only Nazis, who don’t want this production to be mounted. If the backers believe that they are in danger or that a major racial controversy will arise, they will run for the exits with polite excuses.”

He looked up at me for a response and saw something he didn’t like. “‘Nay,’” he said deeply, “‘yet there’s more in this. I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate; and give thy worst of thoughts the worst of words.’ Othello says that to Iago in Act Three. Simply put, it means what’s on your mind? Tell me the worst.”

“I think it’s more than just a scare,” I said. “I think they’re likely to really try to kill you.”

“Toby,” Shelly bleated, mouth open. “You told me we were just going to see a play, have dinner, see a play. Then spies are following and someone’s trying to kill people again. I don’t want any part of this.”

“Your friend is right,” said Robeson, standing and straightening his jacket, checking it in the mirror. “I’ll alert the crew, the ushers. This is a very small theater. Everyone here has an invitation. An intruder will be easy to identify.”

“Then what?” I said.

“Then the police grab him,” said Shelly. “It’s a good plan.”

“The police won’t come here. And if they do and something happens, it will be in all the papers tomorrow. That’ll probably kill any chances of raising money for the production,” I said to Shelly. Then to Robeson, “Am I right?”

He shrugged and said, “Probably. Who knows? A racial attack might bring out a new source of liberal money. Then I’d probably be accused of staging the attack.”

“You worry too much about the maybes,” Shelly said, anxious to get out of this.

“I have a law degree,” Robeson explained. “It taught me to think too much of too many options. Options can freeze a man into inactivity.”

“We’ll be in the audience, keeping an eye out for Povey or anyone else who might not belong,” I said.

Robeson, arms folded on his chest, shook his head no and then explained, “There’s a fire marshal out there. All seats are taken. The audience is at the maximum. You could stand in the lobby, but if something happened you’d probably be too late.”

“You wouldn’t think of putting this dress rehearsal off for a day or two, would you?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Great idea,” said Shelly, rubbing his hands together. “Put it off and …”

But Robeson was shaking his head no again. This time the gesture was accompanied by a smile. “What we can do is get you on the stage,” he said. “From behind the door at the right, you could watch the audience and the rear entrance. However, no one but cast and minimal crew are allowed backstage.”

“Fire marshal,” I guessed.

“Fire marshal,” he acknowledged. “We could have paid him off, which is probably what he wanted, but I neither wanted to nor could I take a chance that a payoff could lead to a leak, which could lead to a scandal. This production is very important to me, Mr. Peters. Next week I will be forty-four years old. The opportunity for me to make aesthetic statements are limited.”

“So,” I said. “What’s your plan?”

His smile was broad and I wasn’t sure I liked it. I know Shelly, who was tugging at my arm, didn’t like it. Someone knocked on the door and said, “Five minutes, Mr. Robeson.”

“Gertrude,” Robeson called out, “come in, please.”

She was as thin as one of the tarnished instruments I had seen Shelly probe into the mouths of the unwary, somewhere in her thirties, washed-out red hair tied back in a ribbon. She wore a dull purple gown that dragged on the floor as she entered. Gertrude looked at Robeson and then at us.

“Gentlemen,” Robeson said, “you are about to make your theatrical debuts in a masterpiece by William Shakespeare.”

Gertrude looked at us in disbelief.

“There’s only five minutes, Mr. Robeson,” she began, “and …”

“Soldiers,” Robeson cut in. “They can be soldiers for this night and this night only. It’s important, Gertrude. Believe me.”

It was evident from her face that Gertrude would believe whatever Paul Robeson said. She nodded at us to follow her.

“She’ll take care of you,” Robeson said, a hand on my shoulder to guide me out.

“Take care?” Shelly asked, hesitating.

“We’ll see you after the show,” I said, giving Shelly a shove.

“You will see me on stage,” said Robeson, arms folded across his chest, gold lions growling at us.

In the hall Gertrude waited for us to clear the door, then closed it. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got about four minutes.”

We came on, following her down the short corridor. She pushed a door open and we stepped into a large room cluttered with props and costumes. An old man in a soldier costume and a helmet rummaged around in the props looking for something, a cigarette dangling wetly and incongruously from his lip.

“Jake,” Gertrude said, “two soldiers. Get them in uniform fast.”

“I can’t find the short sword,” Jake groaned. “Some asshole took the short sword.”

“Use a long one,” Gertrude said, unfazed. “It’s only a dress rehearsal.”

“Only a …” Jake began, looking at us. “She says it’s only.… What did you say?”

“I said Mr. Robeson wants these two soldiers ready for Act One in three minutes,” she said, opening the door.

“Can’t be done,” cried Jake.

Gertrude left. Jake looked at us, smoke almost closing his eyes. “Shit,” he said, turning and going quickly through uniforms on hangers on a wooden bar. He looked back at us, did some calculating in his head, and started throwing clothes at us.

“Show business is changing,” Jack sighed. “Amateurs in the theater. Even the movies are going mad. You know who they just signed to direct Deanna Durbin in
Three Smart Girls Grow Up
? Jean Renoir. Renoir? He should be doing Shakespeare. Molière, Ibsen.”

“What’s going on?” Shelly said, catching a cloak in the face.

“Get dressed,” I said. “We’ve only got two minutes.”

“The short sword,” Jake cackled. “Right here. If you two hadn’t come, I’d never have found it behind that rack.” He swung the sword a few times, spit on it three times for luck, and told us to hurry up.

“Don’t worry. Just stick with me. I’ll give you some pig-stickers to hold in your hand. And you,” he said, pointing at Shelly and coughing, “those glasses come off when you go onstage. They didn’t have glasses five hundred years ago in Venice. Even if they did, they didn’t look like that and soldiers didn’t have them. You don’t look much like a soldier anyway.”

I was undressing as fast as I could. Shelly stood there baffled.

“Get dressed, Shell,” I said. “We’re going to be in Shakespeare.”

“No,” shouted Shelly.

“Yes,” I said. “Think of all the lies you can tell Mildred. I’ll back you up on every one of them. Hurry up, Shell, we’ve got lives to save.”

“I’m not forgiving you for this, Toby,” Shelly said, unbuttoning his pants.

“Hurry up,” said Jake.

We hurried. With Jake guiding us through and Shelly stuffing himself painfully in a pair of tights, we made it in about five minutes.

“We’re late,” I said.

“Naw,” said Jake. “Dress rehearsal like this for backers always runs late, maybe ten, fifteen minutes. You look perfect.”

There was a mirror in one corner with a huge cardboard box in front of it. I kicked the box away and looked at myself. I didn’t look like a soldier. I looked like a fool in tights and a tin helmet. Shelly looked like a fugitive from a Wheeler and Woolsey movie. He was good for at least one prolonged laugh at Othello’s expense.

“The glasses,” said Jake, reaching out for them.

“Nooooo,” moaned Shelly as I took off his glasses and handed them to Jake, who folded them neatly and put them on the stack of Shelly’s clothes on the table. My clothes lay next to his, with holster on top. The .38 was tucked into my belt under my grey tunic. Jake led me and the blind dentist down the hall. We were ready for war.

Act I went fine. We followed Jake onto the small stage a couple of times and watched Robeson and the cast go along with no problems. No one laughed at me or Shelly. The stage is a wondrous place. I had trouble looking out into the audience, because of the overhead lights, but the audience was small and I thought I could see enough. Shelly couldn’t see anything. When we looked at the entering messenger, Shelly squinted back in the general direction of the curtain.

Robeson was too busy between acts to talk to us, though he did give Shelly an approving pat on the shoulder as he eased past us.

“What was that?” asked the myopic dentist.

“Paul Robeson letting you know you were doing a great job,” I said, looking through the curtain onto the audience.

“He did?” Shelly beamed, looking everywhere but the right direction.

“He did.”

We got well into the second act before trouble came. Robeson had just announced, “Come, let us to the castle. News, friends! Our wars are done …” when I spotted a head of white hair in the audience. Povey was seated behind a smiling woman. He peeked out and our eyes met. I didn’t like what I saw in his eyes.

“Povey’s here,” I whispered to Shelly.

Shelly panicked, turned, and tried to head for the exit, but he didn’t know where it was. When Robeson said, “Once more well met at Cyprus,” Jake led us out through the curtain.