Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [58]
“Just a slip of the hand, my dear,” Bancroft said, bowing and forcing a laugh.
“Hey, Pops, hands off. She’s young enough to be your daughter,” Wales said.
Sydney regained his composure. “Practiced hands, sir, gentle, caressing hands that have brought pleasure to the world’s most beautiful actresses.”
Wales and Nadia now laughed together.
Bancroft adopted a pose, one hand placed jauntily on a hip, head cocked, a thin smile on his lips. He placed his other hand over his heart and said in stentorian tones, “‘Fair flowers that are not gath’red in their prime rot, and consume themselves in little time.’”
Wales and Nadia looked quizzically at him.
“From the pen of the Bard, my dear, young, ignorant friends. Waste not your youthful beauty, Nadia, lest it turn to rot. Good evening, all. I suddenly crave the company of the more enlightened. Or other old farts.”
“YOU ALL RIGHT, Sydney?” Kipp said, slapping him on the shoulder and feeling the bones through his clothing.
“Yes. Quite. Why shouldn’t I be?”
Their visitors left the table, saying they were meeting people at the Ivy. Bancroft hailed the waitress and ordered double shots of scotch.
“Drowning your sorrows, Sydney?” Kipp asked, joining him in the harder stuff.
“Sorrows? You’re daft, Kipp. After tomorrow, you’ll be able to brag to your chums that the next star of the West End, Sydney A. Bancroft, was a houseguest.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Meeting with Harrison about my show.”
“He still your agent?”
“You bet he is.”
“I thought you had a falling out, how many years ago, ten, twelve?”
“Nothing like bringing an agent a brilliant idea and talent to make him stand up and take notice. Have you ever known one, Kipp, who didn’t respond with open arms when someone waltzes into his office to offer the chance of a lifetime?”
“You?”
“Good for you, Kipp. You’re still quick on the uptake.”
They said little over the next round of drinks. When they were ready to leave, Kipp said, “Since you’re about to make a bloody fortune, Sydney, drinks are on you.”
Bancroft’s words were slurred. “You’ll have to put up some money, Kipp, add it to the pot. I am unfortunately short of funds, but only a temporary situation. Only temporary.”
Bancroft slept soundly that night on Kipp’s couch. But Kipp lay awake for hours, mulling over the night at the pub. “Poor, deluded bastard,” he said in a whisper before drifting off. “Poor, deluded bastard.”
HARRISON QUILL’S OFFICES were on the second floor of a four-storey office building on Shaftesbury Avenue, across from the Lyric, Apollo, Globe, and Queen Theatres. He’d been a theatrical agent for forty years, and his small suite of offices reflected it, as did Quill himself. He was a short, moderately structured man with a hawk-like nose, thin black mustache that curved down around his mouth Oriental style, and whose hairpiece was shiny black. He wore a red-and-blue awning-striped shirt with white collar, a wide black tie, and a gray wool tweed suit. He was reading the morning papers when his receptionist announced Sydney Bancroft’s arrival. Quill lowered the paper, closed his eyes, opened them, drew a bracing deep breath, and instructed her to send him in.
“Ta-ta,” Bancroft said, striking a pose in the open doorway. “Raise the curtain, Harry. Sydney Bancroft is back!”
Quill stared at the actor for a moment before getting up, coming around the desk, and accepting Bancroft’s outstretched hand. “Hello, Sydney,” he said.
“Come, come, Harry, you can do better than that. I’ve flown across an ocean specifically to see you and all I receive is that lukewarm greeting?”
They shook hands again, with more energy this time. “Please, sit down,” Quill said. “Coffee, tea?”
“A cup of tea would be wonderful,” Bancroft said. Quill passed an order for two teas to the receptionist.
“Well, Sydney, how have you been?” He said it as though filling a space. Bancroft often thought that Quill would make a good ventriloquist; his lips barely moved when he spoke.
“Quite well, thank you, Harrison Quill. And you?