Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [115]
A jolt of resolve replaced the panic. She turned on lights all over the house, frantically going from room to room, turning knobs and flipping switches, and listening for the doorbell to sound. When it did, she was in the foyer, a few feet from the door. She drew a series of deep breaths, unlocked the door, and opened it.
Bancroft entered without saying anything. He walked past her and went into the living room, where he went to the fireplace mantel on which photographs in oval frames were displayed along its length.
“What do you want, Sydney?” she asked from the doorway.
Bancroft picked up one of the photos: Jeremiah standing with his mother in a garden setting.
“How old was he in this picture, Clarise? Ten? Eleven?”
She said nothing. He replaced the picture on the mantel, turned, and said, “I need your help.”
“You have a strange way of asking for it, Sydney, barging in here like this. I’ve had a very trying day, and wish to go to bed. Now, what is it you need that couldn’t wait until tomorrow at the theatre?”
His smile was crooked as he sat in a red leather wing chair to the side of the hearth, crossed his legs, and motioned for her to take a matching chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. She hesitated, unsure of whether to leave the room or to take the chair. Her legs felt heavy, and her heart raced. Slowly, like an IV, the reality of why he might be there, and what he intended to say, dripped into her consciousness.
“Now, Clarise,” he said calmly after she was seated, “it is time for us to rearrange our lives and put them in order. I assure you I have nothing but your best interests at heart in coming here tonight and explaining why you should be open and generous to what I am suggesting.”
“Go on,” she said, not wanting to hear more.
“I met in London with my former agent, who is absolutely dying to represent me and my one-man show. He’s extremely excited, Clarise. He feels it will take the West End by storm. There’ll be a world tour, of course.”
“I—that’s wonderful, Sydney.” She relaxed somewhat. He was exaggerating, lying about his so-called show. What he was claiming was preposterous. Poor, demented Sydney. Was that his purpose for coming there, to spin his fanciful yarn about a one-man show that existed only in his imagination?
“I knew you would be thrilled for me,” he said. “In a sense, I have you to thank for this good fortune.”
“Oh?”
“I have no illusions, Clarise, about why you’ve kept me on at Ford’s. On the one hand, it has been demeaning to be patronized, to be the object of scorn by those inferior to me. I shan’t say it hasn’t hurt, Clarise, hurt deeply.”
She started to speak but he stopped her.
“On the other hand, ‘he is well paid that is well satisfied.’” He observed her for a reaction. “The Merchant of Venice, Clarise. Keeping me in pocket change must have given you immense satisfaction, my benefactor, my savior.”
Another attempt to say something was interrupted.
“Or should we more properly term it hush money? A bribe to poor, old Sydney Bancroft, to keep his infernal mouth shut.”
Clarise shifted in her chair. She had sensed he would eventually get to this, and deeply resented him for it. She said, “I suggest we drop this right now, Sydney. Right now!”
“Of course you do, dear, sweet Clarise. It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Makes you squirm a bit, hey? Well, a bit of squirming might be in order right about now. Of course, we can avoid all this by coming to a sensible agreement.”
“Get out!” she said, half rising from the chair.
His hand went up, then made circles in the air. “I suggest you relinquish your important, powerful woman stance for a moment, Clarise, and listen to me. Yes, you had damn well better listen to me.”
The force of his words pushed her down.
“What do you want, Sydney? Money?”
“Yes.”
“I have been giving you money for years. Your salary at Ford’s, the extras, paying for trips—”
“Trips for me to charm some rich, fat bloke into giving money to you and your precious Ford’s souvenir shop. How humiliating.” He