Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [112]
“Come with me,” Bancroft said, leading Klayman down into the orchestra and up a staircase to the Dress Circle. “Booth moves easily through the throng. He’s recognized; he’s almost as famous as the president. A woman comments that John Wilkes is the handsomest man she’s ever seen, which he was. So handsome, so dashing.”
They went to a narrow hallway leading directly to the presidential box. A red velvet rope hanging from two stanchions barred their way.
“This is off-limits to the public,” Klayman said.
“But we are not the public, Rick. You are an officer of the law with every right to be here, and I am an important part of this theatre.”
Bancroft moved the rope and led Klayman to the door leading to the vestibule. He opened it and stepped back for Klayman to enter.
“See, Rick, see how he carved the wood to allow him to wedge the door shut behind him with a piece of a wooden music stand he carried upstairs with him?”
They stepped up to a Plexiglas partition that had been installed in place of the door to the box. The door itself was displayed in the basement museum.
“Alas, we won’t be able to enter the box,” Bancroft said. “But imagine what Booth was feeling as he approached, his forty-four caliber, single-shot Derringer concealed beneath his clothing.” He pulled an imaginary weapon from his waistband and pointed his index finger at Klayman. “Who’s here to protect the president of the United States?” He waited for a response. “Come now, Rick, you certainly know that part of the story.”
Klayman smiled and nodded. “He was supposed to be guarded by a member of the D.C. police force, a John Parker. Parker was here outside the box that night, but disappeared once the show started. The only person between Booth and Lincoln was the president’s personal valet, Charles Forbes.”
“Well done, Rick, well done. Booth comes here and hands Forbes his calling card. Forbes recognizes the famous John Wilkes Booth, of course. Booth says he has a message to deliver to the president, and Forbes ushers him into the vestibule. Once here, Booth wedges the outer door closed and views the president through the peephole. And he presses his ear against the hole and listens to the play being performed, waiting for that fateful line. Do you remember what it is, Rick?”
“Not precisely.”
Bancroft straightened and intoned, “‘Do you know the manners of good society, huh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap.’”
Bancroft’s face lit up, his eyes widened. “Do you hear it, Rick, the uproarious laughter at that line? Perfect! Booth enters the box and—” He pressed his index finger against Klayman’s head and said loudly, “‘Boom! You’re dead, Mr. President.’”
Klayman stepped away from Bancroft. A cold sweat had formed on Klayman’s brow and upper lip, and his stomach churned. Bancroft was staring at him, a maniacal smile on his pinched face. He was sweating profusely, causing his makeup to streak.
“It was so simple, Rick,” the actor said. “Were it not for that Plexiglas panel, I would leap from the box as Booth did, tangling my feet in the infernal bunting and breaking my leg on the stage in front of thousands witnessing the most memorable performance of my career.”
They returned downstairs. Klayman stayed by the seat he’d been in when Bancroft’s theatrical re-creation had begun. The actor wasn’t finished. He went to the stage, faced the empty house, raised his hands, and shouted, “Sic semper tyrannis!”
Thus always unto tyrants!
Lincoln had been Julius Caesar, the tyrant, and Booth saw himself as Brutus, killing the tyrant.
“I have to be going,” Klayman said when Bancroft came down from the stage.
“Yes, of course. Did you enjoy your little lesson?”
“I, ah—it was an interesting evening.”
“Cheerio, Rick. You’ve been a very good audience, indeed. And thank you for a lovely dinner. We must break bread again together soon.”
As Klayman turned and started up the aisle, the park