Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [21]
“It’s a waste of time,” Hathaway said. “He didn’t see a damn thing. He’s an old drunk, that’s all.”
“We let him go?”
“Yeah.”
“We could hold him as a material witness,” said Klayman. “Give him a bed and a few meals.”
“Forget it,” Hathaway said. “We’re not running a flophouse for winos. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to catch a plane for Paris or something. He’s got a vagrancy and panhandling sheet going way back. We’ll find him again if we need him. Get him another candy bar and show him the door. The smell’s making me sick.”
“Any thoughts that he might have killed her?” Klayman asked.
Hathaway looked from Johnson to Klayman and back to Johnson. “Come on,” he said. “Get real.”
Partridge was escorted to the street by uniformed patrolmen, and Klayman and Johnson followed Hathaway to his office.
“You get hold of that Bancroft character?” Hathaway asked.
“No. Answering machine,” Klayman said. “I thought we’d give him one more try before calling it a night.”
Hathaway stroked the tuft of black hair on the end of his chain and gave out with a small laugh. “The night is young, pal. So’re you. You say the deceased’s landlady was no help coming up with names of boyfriends?”
“Right,” said Johnson. “But all that jewelry says somebody took good care of her.”
“Somebody’s got to know who she dated. She’s not out of college that long. American University. Get over there and ask around. She must have had a roommate, friends, somebody who knew about her sex life.”
“Okay,” said Klayman. “After we try Bancroft again.”
“And check everybody who worked with her in Lerner’s office.”
“What about the senator?” Klayman asked.
“I need the word from up top before we contact him. Don’t be strangers. Keep me in the loop. I don’t want any surprises.”
Klayman’s and Johnson’s desks butted up against each other in the detectives’ room.
Johnson said to Klayman: “Ricky, got to call Etta, tell her I’ll be late again.”
Klayman thought it was good he didn’t have to call anyone, but didn’t say it to his partner. Besides, there was that fleeting moment when he wished someone were waiting for him to arrive home; that thought came and went now and then. He heard Mo say, “Hey, baby, got to put in the overtime again. That kid who got killed at Ford’s Theatre.” After a pause, and a sly glance at Klayman, he said, “Of course I love you. Don’t wait up.”
Klayman picked up his phone and dialed Sydney Bancroft’s number. The British actor’s live voice startled him.
“Mr. Bancroft?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Klayman, First District Crimes Against Persons.”
“‘Crimes Against Persons’? Who else could crimes be committed against?”
“Used to be called Homicide.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I’d like to be able to come and talk with you.”
“About the death of that dear, dear girl, Nadia.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“How dreadful to die that way, at the hands of a madman in a filthy, barren alley. We all wish to die peacefully in a warm, dry place in the presence of loved ones, don’t we?”
“Yes, sir. That would be preferable. Would it be too much of an inconvenience to come to your home tonight?”
Johnson frowned at Klayman and mouthed, Would it be too much of an inconvenience … ?
“To determine whether I killed her, I presume,” Bancroft said slowly and with practiced diction.
“Just to ask a few questions, sir,” Klayman said. “It won’t take long. My partner, Detective Johnson and I, are working the case and—”
“I would love to meet you and your partner,” Bancroft said, exaggerating his pleasure. “Real, live detectives. Are you like those on TV?”
Klayman laughed. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. We can be there in a half hour, if that’s okay.”
“That is quite okay,” Bancroft said. “You undoubtedly have my address.”
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“Then come as quickly as you can. I am tingling with anticipation.”
Klayman hung up and shook his head.
“He quote Shakespeare to you?” Johnson asked.
“No, but he talks like an actor. I think we’re in for an interesting evening. Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
Bancroft lived in a well-maintained, small apartment