Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [82]
Klayman couldn’t help but smile and shake his head as he hung up.
“He’s a whack job,” Johnson said.
“I like him,” said Klayman.
“You would. Because he talks that way?”
“Talks?”
“You know, with that British accent. Anybody with a British accent sounds smarter than the rest, cultured. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do, but it’s not his speech. I just—I guess I feel a little sorry for him. Once a star, now a has-been. The underdog. I always root for the underdog.”
“We’re going there now?” Johnson asked.
“Yeah. And be nice to him, Mo.”
“Oh, I will be, Ricky. I-will-be-nice.”
Bancroft was waiting for them in the hallway when they reached the seventh floor. This day he wore a red silk bathrobe and sandals.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Klayman said.
“I just hope we can make it quick, gentlemen. As I told you on the phone, I am exhausted, absolutely exhausted.”
“Won’t take more than a few minutes, sir.”
They settled in his living room. A small overnight bag lay open on the couch, its contents piled on the floor.
Klayman said, “You said you knew that the deceased, Nadia Zarinski, had been seeing Jeremiah Lerner, and that you’d warned her not to. Is that correct?”
He nodded.
Klayman gestured toward Johnson: “Detective Johnson is writing a statement for you to sign, sir. Is that all right?”
“You don’t trust me to write my own?”
“That’s not the reason, sir. Just trying to make it easier on you.”
“And I speak in jest. Please, write what you will.”
“When did you warn her, Mr. Bancroft? Do you remember when it was, the day, or night, the time?”
“Oh, no. How could I possibly?”
“Over the long weekend?”
“Long weekend? Labor Day, you mean. No. It was before that. Yes, the week before, possibly two weeks.”
“During the day?”
“No. At night. Definitely at night. A rehearsal, I’m sure. Nadia, poor thing, only came to the theatre at night. Yes, that was it. At night. A rehearsal.”
“How did you come to know she was seeing Jeremiah Lerner?”
He touched his fingertips to his mouth and assumed a wicked expression. “I eavesdropped,” he said. “I know, I know, that isn’t very nice. But you will admit it can be fun. You learn the juiciest of secrets.”
“Go on.”
“I heard her complaining about the Lerner boy to some of the other young people backstage. Frankly, I was shocked to hear she was dating him. I mean, after all, his mother, Clarise, runs the theatre, and considering the rumors about Nadia and Senator Lerner—well, I was shocked, that’s all, simply shocked.”
“So you were shocked,” Johnson interjected, more to break the boredom he was feeling. “What did you do?”
“I took her aside.” He feigned extreme concentration. “No, actually she took me aside, which wasn’t unusual. She valued my advice, I’m sure.” A laugh. “Once you reach my age, you have more advice to give than certain other things.” His arched eyebrows asked whether they agreed.
“She asked your advice about Jeremiah Lerner?” Klayman asked.
“Not so much asked for advice as complained to me the way he was treating her. I will tell both of you gentlemen something. Any man who lays a hand on a woman is, in my estimation, a scoundrel of the first order.”
Klayman thought about having read years back of Bancroft’s arrest for assaulting a woman in London, but didn’t raise it. He asked, “She told you Lerner had hit her?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s when you suggested she not see him anymore?” Johnson asked.
“Exactly.”
“Did she agree with you?” Klayman asked.
“Absolutely. But she evidently didn’t follow through, saw him one final, fateful time. I have a theory about the murder, gentlemen.”
“Is that so?” said Johnson.
“I believe that she decided to do what I said, break off their relationship, and met with him behind the theatre for that purpose. It sent him into a rage and he battered her to death.”
Klayman stood and said, “Well, Mr. Bancroft, thanks for your time and for being so forthcoming.”
Johnson handed Bancroft the brief statement