Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [121]
He poured himself a large water glass of scotch and downed it, and then drank another as he walked into his bedroom, opened the closet door, and frenetically shoved clothing in his closet back and forth on the rod, pulling out an occasional piece and disgustedly throwing it to the floor. He settled on a pale green linen jump-suit, and white loafers, stripped off his pajamas, and dressed. He brushed his teeth, popped a breath mint into his mouth, and grabbed his leather shoulder bag from where he’d dropped it near the bed the night before. He ran his hand through the bag’s contents, talking to himself, not making any sense, speaking nonsense, lines he intended to use to convince Clarise to change her mind, coupled with obscenities, curses at a God he didn’t believe in, snippets of Shakespearean dialogue, mumbles and grunts, the ranting of a man consumed by frustrated fury.
He returned to the closet, got down on his knees, and pulled shoes and shoeboxes from its floor. He finally reached what he was seeking: a cigar box wrapped in a discarded shirt. He removed the shirt and opened the box. In it was a Colt .32 caliber revolver. He stood, stared at the weapon for a moment, held it at arm’s length, placed it in the shoulder bag, and hurried from the apartment.
“A beautiful day, Sydney,” Morris, the doorman said as Bancroft crossed the lobby.
“What? Yes, lovely day. I need a taxi.”
Bancroft was dropped in front of Ford’s Theatre. He handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill, far more than the fare, but didn’t ask for change. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the nearly deserted street. The cancellation of tours at the theatre had sent tourists elsewhere in search of history and culture.
“Hello, Mr. Bancroft,” said the park ranger on lobby duty.
“Hello, hello. Splendid day out there.”
“So they say but you can’t prove it by me, cooped up here inside.”
Bancroft didn’t continue the pleasantries. He entered the theatre, where the stage crew and TV technicians were hard at work preparing for the telecast of Festival at Ford’s the next night. They ignored Sydney, which was fine with him. He went backstage and into a small room used for props. He paused inside. Confident no one was about to join him, he closed the door and stood before floor-to-ceiling metal shelving holding labeled boxes: WIGS, GLOVES, JEWELRY, SHOES, BOOKS, GLASSWARE, DRIED FLOWERS, KNIVES, TABLECLOTHS, PHOTOS WITH FRAMES—and FIREARMS. He took the firearms box down from where it sat on a top shelf, opened it, again checked that no one was about to come through the door, removed the Colt .32 from his shoulder bag, and placed the revolver in with the replicas of pistols and other handguns, nestling it beneath them at the box’s bottom. He returned it to the shelf, stood on his toes, and delivered to the otherwise empty room one of Brutus’s lines from Julius Caesar in a deliberate, harsh whisper, “‘Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream.’”
Waiting would be the hardest part.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ANNABEL REALIZED she hadn’t been paying enough attention lately to the gallery, and decided to spend Wednesday in Georgetown catching up on paperwork and other administrative chores. Despite having had only a few hours’ sleep, she and Mac felt surprisingly awake and alert that morning. They breakfasted on the terrace, with Rufus at their feet.
“What’s on your plate today besides eggs over easy?” she asked.
“Deliver the motion for Clarise to take custody of Jeremiah after his bail