Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [48]
“Sydney!”
Bancroft turned to see Michael Kahn, The Shakespeare Theatre’s longtime artistic director, approaching. Over fifteen years, Kahn had molded the theatre into one of the country’s preeminent Shakespearean venues, its productions routinely acclaimed by local and out-of-town critics. His multiple honors, including six Helen Hayes Awards, and the coveted Will Award, testified to his preeminence. But Bancroft wasn’t a fan of the theatre, or of Kahn. He’d been turned down for roles there, and he’d once approached Kahn during lunch at the Banana Café, Kahn’s favorite lunchtime spot, and had been, in Bancroft’s estimation, summarily dismissed by the director. His bitterness toward Kahn was palpable.
As Kahn closed the gap, Bancroft ducked into the box office and looked back out through the window to see Kahn shake his head and walk away. “Copper-bottomed bastard,” Bancroft muttered, and waited until Kahn was well out of range.
“Can I help you, Sydney?” the woman in the box office asked.
“What? Oh, no, thank you. Just stopped in to see how things were.”
“Everything is fine.”
“Good. Smashing. Nice to hear. Well, must be going. Excuse me.”
He entered the building through the front door, greeted the park ranger on duty, and walked into the darkened theatre. The last tourist tour of the day had been conducted, and a lovely calm and quiet permeated the historic room. He went down the aisle and up onto the stage where a few work lights provided muted illumination. He looked up at the presidential box in which Lincoln had been shot and began to quietly recite a line from Othello: “An honourable murderer, if you will; For nought I did in hate, but all in honour.”
A cough emanating from the house caused him to turn. He peered into the auditorium and saw Bernard Crowley seated in a shadowy corner, on the opposite side from the presidential box.
“I thought you were home sick,” Crowley said.
“I have recovered.”
“That’s good to hear.”
The corpulent controller struggled to get up and approached the narrow orchestra pit. Bancroft glared down at him.
“Pretending you’re Mr. Booth?” Crowley asked.
Bancroft pulled himself to full height and sneered. “And what would you know about John Wilkes Booth, Crowley? That he was a demented madman who acted upon his convictions when he shot old Abe, a lowlife lacking social grace and talent? The man was a brilliant actor, from a family of brilliant Shakespearean actors. His father, Junius, conquered the London stage at seventeen. Three of John’s brothers also became fine actors, but none as fine as John Wilkes Booth. Did you know, Crowley, that just a few years before his fling at ultimate fame as America’s most illustrious assassin, he was being paid six hundred and fifty dollars a week in New York for his stage appearances? The man was brilliant, a star of great magnitude, an interpreter without peer of Shakespeare and—” He’d been speaking to the empty presidential booth. Now, he turned to see that Crowley was gone, had had the audacity to walk away in the middle of his lecture.
“I met a fool i’ the forest,” he proclaimed loudly to the empty house. “A motley fool.” He added softly, “And he is Crowley.”
Bancroft stepped down from the stage, went through the yellow doors connecting the theatre with the adjacent building, and climbed the stairs to Clarise Emerson’s office. Crowley was behind her desk.
“Where is she?” Bancroft asked.
“At a party, and then dinner with potential contributors,” Crowley answered without looking up from a set of figures he’d been examining.
“Oh.” Bancroft chewed his cheek before asking, “Why do you hate me so, Crowley?”
Now, the controller raised his eyes. “I don’t hate you, Sydney. I just think you’re on a free ride, compliments of Clarise, and wonder why. I know