Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [60]
“I understand that actors and actresses who have fallen out of the public limelight for many years think that the same public can’t wait for them to return. I understand that, Sydney, as much as I consider it sad. The truth is, your career was predictable, an actor with modest talent and fierce determination who managed to earn a living for quite a few years on the stage, and then in films. But Sydney, for God’s sake, be realistic. The critics didn’t rally to your cause except in a few instances. The films I managed to get you roles in certainly never set the world on fire at the box office. You’ve had a good run, Sydney. Enjoy having had it. Accept your age gracefully and revel in the fruits of having been—of having once been an actor.”
“Your cruelty has been duly noted, Harry.” Bancroft swallowed hard and turned to avoid having Quill see the wetness in his eyes.
“Now don’t be coming down hard on me, Sydney. I’m just an agent.” He forced lightness into his voice. “Tell you what, old friend. We do go back a long way, and I must admit a certain fondness for you, as well as respect for who you are and who you were. Raise the money for your show, Sydney. Go back to the States and hit up all those who’ve made fortunes in boring, probably illegal endeavors, and who would like to end their lives having rubbed elbows with the arts.” His snicker was his excuse for laughter. “Come up with the money to mount the show, Sydney, and then come back to me. As you say, it shouldn’t cost too much to produce your show, a couple of hundred thousand pounds. Costs are up. You wouldn’t believe what it costs these days to put on even a modest play with a small cast. You live in Washington, Sydney. There must be all sorts of funds available for the arts. What about that bird you had a fling with in your drinking days? What was her name? Claire, was it? She heads that theatre you’re working at these days, doesn’t she?”
“Her name is Clarise, Harry.”
“Ah yes, Clarise. Well, use your considerable charm and get her to back your show. Get someone, Sydney, to fund it. Anyone! Once you have, I’ll be delighted to help you find the right producer and director in the West End.” He came around the desk and offered his hand. “See? I never forget an old and valued client. Off you go now. I have—ah—I have an important meeting across town.”
Bancroft seemed unsure whether to take Quill’s hand, or even to get up from his chair. He looked down at the worn carpet at his feet, fingers working his chin. Finally, he rose, smiled at the agent, went to the door, turned, and said, “You shall hear from me again, Harry, despite your need to insult me. You shall hear from me when all of the West End and Broadway are clamoring for my show, outbidding one another for the privilege of being involved with it. And when that happens, Harrison Quill, I shall seriously consider allowing you to represent me.”
The receptionist came into the office after Bancroft was gone.
“Who the hell is he?” she asked.
“A sick man, my dear. A very sick man. I need another tea. And pour a spot of brandy in it. I’m feeling very depressed.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WHILE SYDNEY BANCROFT’S Thursday morning flight to London winged its way across the Atlantic, Mac Smith and his former law partner, Yale Becker, were passing through the metal detector in the lobby of the H. Carl Moultrie District of Columbia Superior Court. With six divisions—Criminal, Family, Civil, Multi-Door Dispute Resolution, Probate, and Special Operations—its Indiana Avenue building is one of the busiest courts in the country, with six hundred cases adjudicated each day; thousands of people flood its lobby, hallways, and courtrooms in search of justice, or to find themselves guilty of having denied justice for others.
Smith and Becker rode the escalator to the second floor and headed for one of the building’s seventy courtrooms and hearing rooms. They’d almost reached their destination when a rotund black man with a close-cropped gray beard, coming from the opposite direction, stopped them. He wore a black