Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [127]
“There’s Sydney Bancroft,” Annabel said quietly to Mac. The actor had crossed backstage and disappeared into the wings.
“Hmmm,” was Mac’s response, his jaw firmly set.
The countdown began. At precisely eight o’clock, an off-stage announcer proclaimed in a voice resembling a one-man gang, “Ladies and gentlemen, this—is—Festival—at—Ford’s—Theatre!”
KLAYMAN AND JOHNSON STOOD in the wings stage left. Other plainclothes detectives were dispersed throughout the theatre, some fortunate enough to have been assigned seats in the audience. They all knew how easy it was to become distracted by the performance and lose sight of the reason they were there: to be aware of everything and everyone within their sight and hearing. Those with seats had been given funds with which to rent tuxedos in order to better blend in, although it wasn’t difficult to identify them, solitary and silent men more interested in their seatmates than in the action on stage.
Earlier, in the midst of the seemingly frenetic yet orderly hustle-bustle on the stage, Klayman had spotted Bancroft and stopped him as he hurried past.
“Exciting night, huh?” the detective said.
“What? Oh, yes, hello, Detective.” He nodded to Johnson.
“Should be quite a show,” Klayman said. “I really enjoy Diana Krall.”
“Who is that? Oh, yes, Ms. Krall. Quite good, I hear. Excuse me. I have—I’m—I’m frightfully busy.”
Johnson laughed as they watched the British actor scoot away from them. “He’s wired, or high,” he said.
“High strung,” said Klayman.
“Showbiz hysteria.”
“I guess.”
“Hate to get stuck next to him on a long plane ride.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Mo.”
Klayman was unable to take his eyes off Bancroft as backstage preparations continued. Although their encounter had been brief, there was a look in the actor’s eyes that both detectives had picked up on, and that Klayman hadn’t noticed during their earlier meetings. Yes, Bancroft was a manic personality, with eyes constantly in motion, emoting through them, using them to provide punctuation. But this was different. Was it fear Klayman had observed? Or something else?
Diana Krall and her quartet opened the show, the popular Canadian jazz singer and pianist setting an upbeat mood for the audience. As she romped through her first number, a pulsating version of Gershwin’s “The Man I Love,” Bancroft stood on the opposite side of the stage from where Klayman and Johnson were posted. He’d avoided members of the stage and TV crews since arriving at the theatre late that afternoon, and had come in close proximity with Clarise only once when she’d come down to the theatre from her office to check on something with the house manager. They locked eyes, but she turned away, which didn’t especially nettle Bancroft; his anger at her unwillingness to even speak with him had peaked the previous day when she’d refused, through her secretary, to meet. It took every ounce of self-restraint to keep from physically barging in.
He’d left the theatre after being rebuffed by the secretary and had spent the afternoon in Harry’s, downing scotch with beer chasers until he was sufficiently drunk to anesthetize the pain. A cab delivered him to his apartment building where Morris, the doorman, helped him through the lobby and into the elevator. He slept for fifteen hours. When he awoke at noon, he was confused as to where he was. But as the room, indeed his life, came into focus, he could see nothing but the past, his performances on British regional stages as a young man, his days at Stratford-upon-Avon, the applause, the adoring women, shooting films in exotic locations, the parties, the applause, the excitement of signing a new contract, and the applause, always the applause.