Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [23]
“We understand you were out of town last night,” Klayman said. Johnson pulled a pad and pen from his pocket and was poised to write.
“That is correct,” Bancroft said, “unless you don’t consider Alexandria to be ‘out of town.’”
“You were in Alexandria last night?” Klayman said. Alexandria was only a fifteen-minute cab ride to Ford’s Theatre.
“Yes. Visiting a dear friend.”
“You stayed with this friend overnight?”
“Correct again, Detective.”
“Your friend’s name?”
Bancroft drew himself up to full height in his chair and slowly shook his head. “I see no reason to inconvenience my friend,” he said, one leg over the other, the boot bobbing up and down.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bancroft, but you’ll have to give us his name.”
“To see whether I was actually there at the time poor Nadia was killed. Sorry, Detective, but—”
“Maybe you’d rather come to headquarters and discuss it there,” Mo Johnson said in his big baritone.
“What a marvelous voice,” Bancroft said. “Reminds me of my dear friend James Earl Jones. Have you ever considered acting, doing commercials?”
“The name, Mr. Bancroft,” Johnson said in a tone that carried with it an implicit threat.
“Ah-ha,” said Bancroft, draining his drink. “‘Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs.’”
“Pardon?”
“Shakespeare. Henry the Fifth. My friend’s name is Saul. Saul Jones.” He laughed. “It sounds as though the only people I know are named Jones, doesn’t it? Well, I assure you that Mr. Saul Jones’s personality is not nearly as bland as his name.”
“Address and phone number?”
After Bancroft had reluctantly given that information, he was asked about his activities the previous night, where he and his friend went, whether they were together the entire time—boilerplate questions out of the handbook on a suspect’s alibi. When he was asked about his relationship with Nadia Zarinski, he said, “You do realize, I’m sure, that I have no obligation to speak with you?”
“That’s right, Mr. Bancroft,” Johnson responded.
“I am entitled to a lawyer.”
“Of course. But we’re not here because you’re a suspect in the murder,” Klayman said. “We’re simply questioning anyone who might be able to help us understand something about the deceased, and maybe give us some leads as to any persons who might have wanted her dead.”
“Who could that possibly be?”
“How well did you know her?” Johnson asked gruffly.
“Not well at all. I’m afraid I cannot possibly be of any help to you. She was simply a pretty young thing who was enamored of theatre and seemed to enjoy being close to it. I suppose there was a modicum of hero worship in it, the starstruck young woman wanting to rub elbows with the stars.” His tone was world-weary.
Stars like you, I suppose, Johnson thought, not kindly.
Klayman had just started to ask another question when Bancroft silenced him with a finger to the lips and a loud “Shhhhhh.” The actor turned to the TV, where he was playing a romantic scene with an actress. They stared at the screen, and at Bancroft, in silence. The look of disgust on Johnson’s face wasn’t lost on Klayman, although Bancroft was too involved with what was happening on the screen to be aware of anything else.
As Klayman watched, he was reminded of how handsome a much younger Sydney Bancroft had been, not quite a leading man, but an actor with an intensity, eyes that drew you in, a nicely modulated voice, subtle virility—an actor who was undoubtedly attractive to women in his heyday, moviegoers and offscreen romantic interests alike. Klayman tried to recall what he’d read about the actor’s marital history. One marriage to a British actress early in the career, maybe another. Always lots of women, of course, plenty of drunken scenes, unpleasant public displays, a woman he slapped once in a restaurant bringing charges, an underage girl, if Klayman’s memory served him right. The scandal sheets had always focused on Bancroft’s hard drinking and its impact upon his artistic temperament. He’d become increasingly difficult, the detective