Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [22]
“This one’s yours, Ricky,” Johnson said as they turned down G.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s all yours. Actors make me nervous.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They’re always—well, you know, always onstage. You never know whether they’re being themselves or playing some part.”
“Okay, I’ll lead.”
They parked in front and entered the lobby, where a middle-aged uniformed doorman was reading a magazine. Klayman flashed his badge: “Mr. Bancroft is expecting us.”
“It’s about that intern, isn’t it?” the doorman said, getting up from behind his small desk and going to the intercom board. Johnson and Klayman said nothing. “She worked for Senator Lerner,” the doorman said, running his index finger down the row of buttons. “Like what happened with Condit, huh, intern and big shot politician?”
Johnson was about to tell the doorman to speed it up when he pushed a button, and the now familiar voice of Sydney Bancroft came through a small speaker. “I know, Morris, I know,” he said in his distinctive British accent. “Scotland Yard is here to audition. Send them up by all means.”
Johnson and Klayman smiled at each other as the doorman opened an inside door. “Elevator’s on your right. Hope you catch who killed her. He’s on Seven. Seven D.”
Sydney Bancroft stood in the open door to his apartment as Klayman and Johnson stepped off the elevator. The picture he presented was unusual enough to cause the detectives to stop in the middle of the carpeted hallway and stare. The British actor wore a yellow T-shirt, a black, waist-length leather jacket with silver studs, jeans, and black cowboy boots etched in red leather. His thinning hair, worn long, had an orange tint common with male hair dyes. What especially struck Klayman was how short Bancroft was, no taller than five six, or seven. His screen presence, at least as Klayman remembered it, was that of a taller man. His face was thin and pinched, nose long and pointed, cheeks sunken, skin slightly jaundiced. Was he wearing makeup? It looked that way.
“Ah, the cavalry has arrived,” Bancroft announced, his face breaking into a smile. “Welcome, welcome. You are … ?”
“Detective Klayman, Mr. Bancroft. This is Detective Johnson.”
“As you promised you would be. Please. Come in.” He stepped back and bowed slightly as he indicated with a hand that they were to enter the apartment. “As is said, sorry to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”
They passed through a small foyer and into the living room where rock-and-roll music came through speakers while a black-and-white movie played on a large-screen TV. Klayman recognized the film almost immediately. “Fool’s Gold,” he said.
“Yes,” said a pleased Bancroft. “I see you are a connoisseur of fine films.”
“It was a good movie,” said Klayman. “You were good in it.”
“Thank you. Thank you indeed. Please, make yourselves at home.” He went to a table and lifted a snifter in a toast of sorts. “Join me?”
“Thank you, no,” Klayman said, joining Johnson on a couch. “But you go ahead.”
Bancroft took a sip. “The bartenders call it the ‘stabilizer’ aboard the QE2 and other ships. Half brandy, half port, quite effective for a queasy stomach. Indian food. I had Indian food tonight and should have known better. I’ve lectured on Shakespeare on the QE2 a number of times. Wonderful experiences. Sure you won’t join me?”
“My stomach’s fine,” Johnson said.
Bancroft pulled up a yellow director’s chair with the title of one of his movies stenciled on its back. A half dozen other such chairs were scattered about the room. The walls were covered with large posters from Bancroft’s film and stage appearances; four life-sized mannequins dressed in period costumes occupied the room’s shadowy corners.
“Now,” said Bancroft, continuing to sip from his drink, “let us talk about Nadia.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. When he opened them, he displayed