Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [120]
BERNARD CROWLEY WASN’T THE ONLY PERSON in Washington who’d been deeply affected by the news about Clarise.
Sydney Bancroft became absolutely frantic.
He’d started the morning in an ebullient mood.
After leaving Clarise’s home and receiving what he perceived to be her agreement to fund him through the NEA, he’d considered calling his former London agent, Harrison Quill. But it was the middle of the night in England. He waited until three that morning—eight A.M. in London—and called Quill’s home number. The agent’s wife answered.
“Sydney Bancroft here,” he happily announced, “with good news, very good news indeed, for your hubby. Put him on.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Wake him up, woman. I am about to make him the most important agent in London—again.”
It seemed an eternity before a sleepy Quill came on the line.
“What do you want, Sydney?”
“I have the money, Harrison, old boy. I have the money for my show.”
There was silence.
“Did you hear me, Quill? I said I have the backing for my show.”
Quill responded with a fit of cigarette-induced morning coughing. When it had subsided, he said hoarsely, “That’s wonderful, Sydney. Congratulations.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, Harry. It will take a few weeks for the funds to flow. When they do, I’ll be in London and we can begin lining up a theatre, production team, the works.”
“Sydney, I’m out of the bloody agenting business. I’m closing up shop. You’ll have to—”
“Fine,” Bancroft said. “Just as well. I’ll need someone fresh and with more energy, a young Turk with vision. No hard feelings, Quill. But remember, I gave you first shot.”
Quill’s announcement didn’t diminish Bancroft’s sense of jubilation. He’d meant what he’d said, that his former agent was over the hill, a dinosaur from another era. It was time for new blood to be infused into Sydney Bancroft’s return to the stage and stardom.
His elation lasted until nine-fifteen, when he heard the news on TV about Clarise. At first, he sat slack-jawed, unable to process what he’d heard. Not heading the NEA? But she’d told him she’d give him the money once she was ensconced as head of the arts agency. She’d bloody well promised! He screamed at the TV, his words decidedly not Shakespearean. He shook his fist at the tube, and at one point fell to his knees and cursed not only Clarise but the whole human race as well.
His first attempt to call Clarise resulted in a misdial; his hand shook as he sought the numbers on the keypad. He drew deep breaths to calm himself and correctly dialed her number. Her voice on the answering machine spoke to him: “Leave a message if you wish.”
He slammed down the receiver and paced the living room before calling Ford’s Theatre: “Clarise isn’t here, Sydney,” he was told.
“When is she coming in?”
“I really don’t know. She has a noon appointment with Bernard.”
“Does she? I must speak with her.”
“About the news?”
“Yes. Is she serious?”
“I think so. Yes, of course she’s serious.”
“She mustn’t do this.”
“I don’t think we have anything to say about it.”
“Well, I do. Oh, yes, I certainly do have something to say about it. When you see her, tell her I shall be there within the hour, and I must speak with her.”
“All right, Sydney. I’ll tell her.”
He spent the next half hour rehearsing what he would say to her, the words he would use to persuade her to change her mind, the emotions he would evoke, the reasoning he would employ to reach her senses. But while he engaged in this exercise, the futility of it was apparent, and his mood and