Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [110]
“Shakespeare?”
“Hamlet again. Youthful lust. Nadia was a sensuous woman, Rick. I’m afraid it led to her unfortunate and premature demise.”
“Do you feel—I mean, really feel in your bones, Sydney—that Jeremiah killed her?”
“No question about it, sir. You and your colleagues should be immensely proud of your accomplishment in bringing him to justice. I salute you.” He motioned for another scotch.
“Did Nadia seem to have money, Sydney? I mean, lots of available money?”
One of the actor’s eyebrows arched impossibly high; Klayman was tempted to try it but knew he’d fail, and look foolish in the process.
“Money? Oh, yes, she always seemed to have money, Rick, flashing it around. I often wondered about it.”
Klayman came to the conclusion during dinner that Bancroft pretended to know a lot more about Nadia than he actually did. He’d seen that same tendency in other people he’d interviewed about crimes. For whatever reason, perhaps to inject interest into otherwise mundane lives, they offered testimony far beyond their actual knowledge, necessitating caution on a detective’s part in culling truth from fanciful thinking.
“What about other young men working at the theatre?” Klayman asked over Bancroft’s dessert, and two coffees. “Any chance one of them had something against Nadia?”
“I thought you had your man, as they say.”
“Oh, we do, but that doesn’t mean we don’t keep looking, if only to come up with witnesses to use at trial.”
“She died in Baptist Alley, where Booth’s horse was tethered,” Bancroft said absently, as though not hearing what Klayman had said. He became animated, and leaned into the table. “Are you aware, my intelligent and curious young man, that Booth had accomplices at the theatre who aided him in his escape—his getaway, as you would say?”
“I’ve heard that,” Klayman said.
“And John Wilkes Booth would have made a faster getaway had he not broken his leg leaping from the presidential box after putting a hole in Mr. Lincoln’s head.”
Klayman looked away and adjusted himself in his seat. Bancroft’s description of the killing of Abraham Lincoln was almost joyful. He’d termed Booth’s murderous act “heroic.” It caused Klayman discomfort.
“Come,” Bancroft said after Klayman had paid the bill. “We go to the theatre, where your lesson will continue.”
“My lesson?” Rick asked, laughing.
“Yes. Your lesson in how one great man was slain at the hand of another.”
As they crossed Tenth Street, Klayman asked how Bancroft’s one-man show was shaping up.
“Splendid, Rick, splendid. I am on the verge of obtaining significant financial backing. Unfortunately, money rules, even in the arts. The learned pate ducks to the golden fool.”
“Translation?”
“Even geniuses must toady to rich idiots. Timon of Athens. Of course, Shakespeare was a genius and rich. Pity I can’t say the same—about being rich.”
“Neither can I,” Klayman said pleasantly as they entered the theatre, where a park ranger sat behind the tiny ticket window.
“Good evening, Mr. Bancroft,” the ranger said.
“Good evening.”
The ranger came from his position to ask Klayman for identification.
“A detective,” Bancroft said with authority.
Klayman showed his badge.
“Working late?” the ranger asked, returning to his perch.
“A learning experience,” Bancroft said, “for my young but learned friend.”
The theatre was empty. A few work lights illuminated the stage, and wall sconces provided minimal lighting for the rest of the house.
Bancroft dropped his leather shoulder bag on a front-row seat and bounded up to the stage. Klayman watched with amusement as the aging actor walked left and right as though surveying his working surroundings. Rick sat in the front row. He was obviously about to be treated to a performance, perhaps a sneak preview of Bancroft’s one-man play.
Bancroft went to the large electrical board and pulled levers, sending spotlights into action. “Let