Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [46]
“I’m glad you’re back. Clarise Emerson just arrived.” She nodded toward a corner of the room, where Clarise chatted with other guests. Wooby went to her.
“Hello, Bill,” Clarise said. “You’re looking well.”
“Thanks,” Wooby said. “So is the next head of the NEA.”
“Anything new here at the center?” she asked. “Besides this wonderful party and exhibition?”
“Anything new? Nothing a hefty grant from the NEA wouldn’t fix. No, nothing new, Clarise. Would you excuse me? I think I have a date with a bottle of scotch.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“GOOD AFTERNOON, Mr. Bancroft.”
Morris, the doorman at Bancroft’s apartment building, opened the door to G Street for the aging actor and took note of how he was dressed. Bancroft was seldom seen in the same outfit, nor was he partial to conventional clothing. It was obvious to the doorman, and to others who knew Bancroft, that he costumed himself daily rather than simply dressed, which provided a show of sorts, and a mirror into what life-role Bancroft was playing on any given day. He wore a pinched-waist blue double-breasted pinstripe jacket with a floppy red handkerchief bulging from its breast pocket, white slacks in need of pressing, tan loafers sans socks, a white shirt with a high collar, and a blue-and-green ascot. Pancake makeup had been applied with a heavy hand.
“Good afternoon, Morris,” Bancroft replied, the words rolling off his tongue, each syllable enunciated. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Sure is, Mr. Bancroft.”
Bancroft suddenly squared himself to face the doorman, hands on his hips, his face set in exaggerated anger. “Good God, Morris, how many times must I tell you to call me Sydney? Mr. Bancroft makes me sound so dreadfully old.”
Morris laughed. “Goes with the job, Mr.—Sydney—referring to tenants by their last names from age three up. Polite, you know.”
Bancroft inhaled as though to say that he had no choice but to accept the logic of it all. “A taxi, please.”
Morris went to the corner, where he hailed a passing cab driven by someone of obvious Middle Eastern origins. Bancroft’s face mirrored his dismay at the vehicle and its driver. He said, “My kingdom for a London taxi, Morris. ‘The London taxi is a relic for which my zeal is evangelic … It’s designed for people wearing hats, and not for racing on Bonneville Flats … A man can get out, or a lady in … when you sit, your knees don’t bump your chin …’”
The doorman had heard Bancroft recite Ogden Nash’s ode to London taxis countless times, but listened as though it were the first.
“‘The driver so deep in the past is sunk that he’ll help you with your bags and trunk … . Indeed, he is such a fuddy-duddy that he calls you Sir instead of Buddy.’”
The driver blew his horn and shouted something in Arabic, undoubtedly to the effect that he didn’t have all day to sit idly while some crazy man on the sidewalk recited poetry.
“Hold your bloody horses,” Bancroft said, going to the taxi and entering through the door held open by Morris. “E and Eleventh Streets, Northwest,” he told the driver. “And drive sanely, you bloody wog. I am in no rush.”
Nor was he in a rush to tip when they pulled up in front of the Harrington Hotel, around the corner from Ford’s Theatre. He added ten cents to the fare, admonishing the driver to learn better manners in the future if he wished to benefit from living in a civilized society, slammed the door, and entered Harry’s Bar. A bartender, wearing a red polo shirt with HARRY’S SALOON written on it in white, announced to others at the bar, “Hey, look who’s here, Richard Burton.”
“Don’t insult me by mistaking me for that second-rate actor,” said Bancroft. “And be quick with the shandy. I am absolutely parched.”
The bartender, and a waitress at the serving bar, laughed as they usually did at Bancroft’s entrance. They enjoyed having Sydney as a customer; he was unfailingly polite, even when engaged in a heated debate with other regulars. “Nice guy, a little strange, but pleasant enough,” was how he was summed up by others at the bar.
Bancroft took the mug of