Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (24 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

I stomped out of the theater in a black mood. I wondered whether I should say goodbye to my fellow young ladies in the chorus, but I didn’t want to go up there and admit I was being given the boot. I’m not one that takes failure gracefully. I was really angry as I passed Henry and stepped out into the night. I couldn’t tell if I was more angry at Miss Lovejoy or at myself. I had been given an opportunity and I had failed.

I started to walk blindly down Broadway, pushing my way through the crowd. Newsboys were shouting out the latest headlines. Something to do with the ghost and the theater, from what I could hear. By tomorrow they would include the news about the spiritualists. Fine, I thought. Let her pay good money to hire those old quacks. A lot of good they’d do her.

Then I stopped dead in my tracks. Something wasn’t right here. The way I had been brought onstage at the perfect moment. The grand announcement to the press. It had all been staged for the maximum effect. Blanche hadn’t needed me there to make that announcement, in fact she had already told me that my services would no longer be needed. Then it dawned on me: Blanche was putting on another play. She had cast me in the role of ineffective detective, as often happens in these little melodramas. She hadn’t expected me to come up with anything because there was nothing to uncover.

I stood there, unmoving, while the crowd surged around me. Then I made my way out of the main stream of people and found a little café, where I sat with a cup of strong coffee, trying to put my thoughts in order. I was tempted to walk to Daniel’s place and talk the thing through with him. But after all my talk of being an independent woman and able to handle my own business life—very well, thank you—I could hardly go running to him when a perplexing problem turned up.

I sipped the coffee and tried to make sense of what had just happened. I thought through each of the incidents onstage—the face at the window that nobody else but Blanche saw, the wind machine, the jug of liquid flying all over her, and then the pillar falling, missing her by inches. Was it possible that Blanche had somehow orchestrated these things herself? It was, after all, her play. Maybe she and Bobby Barker had thought this up between them—even rigged it up between them. But why? The jug of lemonade was just annoying, but the pillar could have cost her her life.

Unless—unless she knew it would miss her because she had carefully moved her own mark a foot to the left. She was a veteran actress. She knew that timing was everything. She had timed the events to perfection.

The words
veteran actress
played over and over in my brain. I toyed with my spoon and gazed at the crowds surging past the window. Everyone had commented that Blanche was getting long in the tooth, too old really to play the ingenue, especially at a time when the
Florodora
girls had set the standard of beauty at a sweet sixteen.

So Blanche wanted to make a big comeback on Broadway. She had the play. It was good. She would shine in it, but . . . But she had to get people into the theater. And what better way than a mystery? Poor brave Blanche. The show must go on. What a trooper, continuing with a play even when her own life was in danger. And even a real detective couldn’t find any human explanation for the shocking events that had happened.

I saw it all now. When I had been brought in Blanche had seemed desperate to keep any news of the phantom out of the press, knowing full well that one of her cast would be bound to spill the beans, thus creating that delightful atmosphere of secrecy. She had built the tension perfectly and had achieved the desired result. The show was sold out for weeks. And I had played my part and was no longer needed.

I was really angry now. I suppose I was still too much the naïve little country bumpkin, but I had been used too many times recently. I wondered if Oona Sheehan was in on Blanche’s little scheme from the beginning and had calmly enlisted me for a second time to be made a fool of. I was about to go and confront her here and now, and let her know exactly what I thought of her. Oh, and to collect the money she still owed me.

Then I decided no, I’d go and confront Blanche instead and let her know exactly what I had discovered. I wasn’t such a bad detective after all, was I? I was sure that she had hired me because she knew I would fail, but I hadn’t failed. I’d come up with the truth, all on my own. And I’d make sure Blanche paid me well for my services, or I’d let the word out about what she was doing.

That stopped me in my tracks, of course. Threatening her like that was pretty close to blackmail and I wasn’t about to sink to that level. This would need more thought. I wasn’t sure how to handle this situation. Part of me thought that the sensible solution should be to take my fee, walk away, and say nothing. After all, what harm had she really done, apart from ruining a costume or two? Except for that one costume that caught fire and could have resulted in harm to a chorus girl, the accidents had all been aimed at herself and heaven knows that people have done even more outlandish things to try to gain the public’s attention. Mr. Houdini had supposedly had himself locked into a box and been dropped over a bridge in London to gain notoriety. Probably all was fair on the stage as well as in love and war.

But I did not like being duped in this way. I did see that if I confronted Miss Lovejoy, she could play the wronged innocent and demand proof of how I came up with these slanderous sayings, and of course I could give her none. I hadn’t managed to discover how any of the accidents had been caused.

It was then that a devious idea came into my mind. Blanche might well have something spectacular planned for tonight and not want my observant eyes around at the time. Well, I would show her. I’d slip back into the theater—after all, only Blanche knew that I’d been dismissed—and take up a good position where I could observe without being observed. I marched right back to the stage door and went back inside.

Henry looked perplexed. “Didn’t you already sign in once tonight?”

“I had to slip out to buy some more face cream,” I said, smiling sweetly, and then hurried past him. I made as if to climb the stairs, but instead I went into the backstage area. All was quiet and dark there. The set was ready for curtain-up and the stagehands were probably taking a well-deserved smoke outside. I looked around to see where I might hide and not be noticed. Then the idea came to me that I could climb up one of those ladders into the flies. I could then perch on one of the crosswalks and have a perfect view of the stage. If anything happened tonight, I’d let Miss Lovejoy know that I was prepared to talk to the press should she try any more of her tricks.

I looked around once more and then found a ladder and began to climb. It is not easy to climb ladders in tight skirts and pointed shoes, trust me. I took it slowly and carefully and came out to a little platform, high above the stage. I don’t usually have a fear of heights but I have to confess that it did look an awfully long way down. I stood on the platform, holding onto the ladder that disappeared into darkness as it continued up to an even higher level. At eye level with me a walkway spanned the stage and behind it various backdrops hung, waiting to be lowered into place. It was a remarkably small space I was standing on and I didn’t want to let go of the ladder.

I had no idea what time it was and how long I would have to wait up here before curtain-up. It also occurred to me that I would be well and truly stuck after the performance started. Too bad for me if I needed a visit to the unmentionable. I wondered if I dared hitch my skirts up and sit, with my legs dangling over the edge. I was just considering how I might accomplish this when I felt the ladder vibrating in my hands. Someone was climbing up toward me. I was well and truly trapped, unless I dared to brave the walkway across to the other side. It was only about a foot wide, with thin railings on either side, and looked about as appealing as walking a tightrope.

It would surely only be one of the stagehands, I told myself, as I peered down to make out the top of a head coming toward me. He’d get a fright when he saw me, but I’d explain how I’d been instructed to keep a secret watch on Miss Lovejoy from up here and all would be well. I stood back against the wall and waited. A face appeared as a white blob in the blackness. I gasped as Desmond Haynes hauled himself up beside me with one fluid movement.

“So?” he said. “May one ask what you are doing up here? Taking up an aerial act, are we?”

“May one ask what
you
are doing up here?” I answered, sounding braver than I felt. He was a slim and elegant young man but he stood a good deal taller than me.

“As for that, I often study my choreography from above,” he said. “The patterns emerge, you know.”

“May I point out that nobody is onstage yet.”

“How true,” he said. “So would you care to answer my question, or should I summon the police right away and have you arrested as an intruder?”

“Have me arrested? I like that,” I retorted.

“Blanche told me she had fired you. So I ask you once again, what do you think you are doing up here?”

I tried to come up with a clever answer but my brain wouldn’t work in the rarified atmosphere of this great height. All I could think about was holding onto that rail for dear life in case he tried to push me down.

“Whatever it was,” I said, “I now have the answer to my problem. It was you all along, wasn’t it? I saw how alarmed you were when I joined the company.”

“Oh, you’re right,” he said. “I have been keeping an eye on you, and I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you won’t be allowed into this theater again.”

“I bet,” I said.

“I told Blanche from the beginning she was a fool to hire you. Anyone could tell instantly that you’d never been an actress, never even been onstage. So now that I’ve got you here, I’m going to find out the truth. Who sent you? Who is behind this?”

“Behind what?” I stared at him defiantly, eye to eye.

“Do you want me to spell it out?”

“Finding out the truth about you, Mr. Haynes? Is that what you mean? Finding out that you were the one behind all those so-called accidents?”

I knew I was taking a huge risk. I kept telling myself to shut up but somehow I couldn’t. It’s always been a failing of mine.

I saw his eyes narrow. He was frowning at me. “Nice try,” he said, “but you won’t get away with it.”

“What do you plan to do? Try and hurl me to the stage? Oh, believe me, I’m no delicate little flower. I can deliver a nasty kick when I have to. And I’ve got a good set of lungs on me. One scream from me and everyone will come running.”

He was still frowning.

“How can you live with yourself, that’s what I’d like to know,” I went on, having now got my steam up. “Miss Lovejoy thinks you are her friend. She hired you. She gave you a job.”

“I am her friend.”

“Then why try to wreck her play?”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you trying to say that you were not planted here to cause the accidents?”

“What? I was brought here to keep an eye on Miss Lovejoy,” I said. “Strictly undercover, of course. I’m a private detective.”

“Good God,” he said. “And all along I thought you were the one up to no good.”

“And I thought you were the one acting suspiciously.”

“It seems I might have been under a misapprehension. I was so worried about these damned accidents. I thought somebody wanted to close our show before it started.”

“But they’ve had the opposite effect, haven’t they?” I asked. “Your show is a huge hit. It will run for months. People will come just to see if the ghost makes an appearance.”

“You’re right,” he said. “So do you think there is a ghost? I can’t really believe that, but I’ve no other explanation. God knows I was watching from the stalls each time and saw nothing.”

“And I was positioned onstage, in the glare of the lights, where it was impossible to see what was going on backstage.”

He nodded. “Whose idea was that?”

“Blanche’s. She wanted me near her. For protection.” I wondered about saying more. Should I hint that I suspected Blanche herself had orchestrated the whole thing? He was, after all, her friend. “Leave me up here this evening,” I said. “And don’t mention this to a soul. By the end of the night I may have seen something that can provide proof, one way or another.”

“All right,” he said. “One way or another, I’d certainly like to know.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Almost as soon as Desmond Haynes had climbed down, things started to happen. There were stirrings below, then the sound of electric switches being thrown, and the stage was bathed in light. Out beyond the curtain I heard the scrape of chairs and the orchestra tuning up. The whisper of voices floated up to me from backstage. Louder sounds, muffled by the curtain, came from front of house, hinting that the theater seats were filling up.

Then I saw the chorus girls lining up below me, ready for their first entrance. A round of applause sounded as the conductor came out. The tap of a stick and the overture started. The curtain went up. More applause. The girls ran onstage. More applause. The first song. The arrival of the motor car with the young men, and then I held my breath. Blanche Lovejoy made her first entrance. She was sparkling tonight. The audience roared at her jokes, clapped wildly at her songs. And nothing went wrong.

The first act finished and the lights were dimmed. I was becoming stiff and tired up here, but obviously I couldn’t get down for another hour. Were there to be no more ghostly appearances, I wondered, now that Miss Lovejoy had won over her audience and assured a sold-out house?

The second act got started. We came to a scene when the girls are onstage alone. It was a naughty song about how they would like to dance the cancan at the Moulin Rouge. At the end of it, the girls line up to do a high-kicking number in their underwear. Very risqué. I was enjoying the absolute symmetry of their line when suddenly something went flying down onto the stage. It struck the girl on the end of the line on the head, knocking her to the stage with a sickening thud. The girl beside her was pulled down to her knees. There were screams from the girls onstage as well as from the audience. The orchestra faltered as male actors rushed onto the stage. They lifted the thing off the girl and turned her over. It was Lily.

“Is there a doctor in the house? Somebody call a doctor!” someone was yelling.

I had just started to climb down when I thought I saw a flash of movement, high on the wall on the other side of the stage. Did I dare to try and cross the catwalk? I didn’t have the nerve, and besides, I didn’t want to confront any kind of adversary at this height. I climbed down as quickly as I could. As my foot hit the bottom step I was grabbed.

“Got ya. This is the one who done it,” one of the stagehands shouted. “I caught her coming down.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I was up there spying for Miss Lovejoy. Besides, whatever it was that dropped, fell from the other side of the stage. Now let go of me and let’s see if we can catch the person that did it. Come on. Follow me.”

He did, unwillingly. We rushed around the back of the set.

“Did anybody climb down from any of the ladders over here?” I demanded of the stagehands who were standing looking shocked.

“Nobody.”

“Then I suggest some of you go up there and look for the one who did this. He or she will still be hiding up there.”

Again they did as I said, looking at each other uncertainly.

I turned to see the scene onstage. The curtain had been brought down. There was a buzz of anxiety from the audience. A group of people were kneeling or standing around Lily. I could now see that the object that had fallen was a sandbag, one of those used to secure the backdrops when they are hauled up into the flies.

“She’s dead,” I heard somebody say. “It must have broken her neck.”

Then I saw Blanche Lovejoy. She was standing there with a look of utter horror on her face. She had turned so pale that her face was almost green. I had seen her when the lemonade had been thrown over her, when the pillar had fallen, and she had looked shaken each time. Now I realized that she had been acting before. That had been stage fear. This was the real thing. Blanche Lovejoy was terrified.

All around me I could hear whispers about the ghost, quiet sobbing. I stepped out onto the stage. “Somebody call the police,” I said.

“The police? No, not the police,” Blanche said quickly. “This was either the work of the ghost or a horrible accident. Somebody left a sandbag balanced in the wrong place or a rope broke. And it couldn’t have been aimed at me this time. I wasn’t even onstage in that scene.” She sounded hysterical.

“Someone’s been killed. The police need to investigate,” I said. “If you don’t call them, I’ll do so myself.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? I fired you,” she said.

“Keeping an eye on you, Miss Lovejoy. Making sure you stayed safe.”

“And I did, didn’t I?” She put a hand to her mouth. “It was poor dear little Lily . . .”

I left the stage, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Lily, the one who couldn’t always be trusted to keep her mouth shut, who had made some interesting hints that she knew something . . . I started to climb the stairs from backstage to the dressing rooms. It had just occurred to me that maybe there was a walkway around the wall that led straight to the upper level without crossing the backstage area at all. It had also occurred to me that certain people were in the theater but not onstage when the accidents happened. People I had overlooked because they were so unlikely.

I ran along the narrow hallway and pushed open the door of the wardrobe room. Madame Eva looked up in surprise, pins sticking from her mouth.

“Whatever is it, my dear?” she asked.

“One of the chorus girls has been killed,” I said. “A sandbag fell on her. You didn’t see anyone in the hallways up here, did you?”

“My dear, I have been trying to fix the costume that had lemonade thrown all over it,” she said. “I haven’t had time to wander around. Poor Miss Lovejoy, she will be desolate.”

I closed the door and ran down the hall to Blanche’s dressing room. Martha looked up as I came in without knocking.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “You don’t just barge in here.”

She was dressed all in black, her little bird eyes darting as I came toward her.

“You planned this whole thing between you, you and Blanche, didn’t you? A great way to bring in the customers—let them think the place was haunted. And why not bring in a simple girl detective so that you can show the world that even a professional couldn’t solve your little mystery.”

“I don’t know what you’re rambling about, girl,” she muttered. “Go on, get out of here. I’ve got work to do, ironing Miss Lovejoy’s dress.”

I noticed how easily she moved across the room. She was old, but she was still sprightly. And she was small. Had she somehow managed to hide herself in that table, maybe rigged with a little trapdoor, to knock over the jug at the right moment?

And then, of course, the bigger question—was she strong enough to have positioned a sandbag to fall on a chorus girl who couldn’t keep her mouth shut? Ridiculous, I thought. How could an old woman like her climb up and down ladders, let alone drag sandbags?

“Go on. Beat it. Clear off, I say.” She came at me with the iron in her hand. “Your services are no longer wanted here.”

“I’m sure they are not,” I said, backing away slightly because I could feel the heat from the iron. “The last thing you and Miss Lovejoy want is a detective who has uncovered the truth.”

That may have been a stupid thing to say, but I was banking on the fact that I could fend off an old woman if necessary. Fortunately I didn’t have to put this theory to the test. The door burst open and Blanche came in.

“Martha. She’s dead. A sandbag fell on her and she’s dead. How could that have happened?”

There was a horrible silence during which the women stared at each other. Martha’s face was defiant.

“You didn’t?” Blanche said in a trembling voice. “You couldn’t have done.”

She didn’t notice me as the open door now hid me from her.

“You silly girl,” Martha said sharply, “did you want to risk the truth coming out? Do you want to be the laughingstock of New York City? Blanche Lovejoy had to fake her own ghost to bring in the customers because she was too old and fat to be a leading lady any longer?”

“Stop it!” Blanche shouted. “This has gone too far. And now they’ll close us down anyway.”

“Of course they won’t if you keep your mouth shut,” Martha said. “I rescued you from the gutter, girl. Don’t you ever forget that. You and that baby of yours. You’d never be where you are today if it wasn’t for me. You owe me a great debt.”

“I know that. And we’ll be all right, won’t we. We’ll just keep quiet and say nothing. There’s no way anyone can ever prove this was anything but an accident. Nobody else suspects.”

“She does,” Martha said, pointing at me.

Blanche spun around. “You!”

“Yes, Miss Lovejoy. I’m not quite as simple as I look,” I said. “I’m sure you hired me because you thought I’d never come to the truth, but I did.”

“We’ll have to get rid of her somehow,” Martha said, pushing between me and Blanche, the iron still in her hand. “Lock the door, Blanche. Your headache powders. They should knock her out and then we can dump her somewhere.”

“No!” Blanche shrieked. “Don’t be silly. This has gone too far already. There is to be no more killing, Martha. A little hocus-pocus to bring in the crowds is one thing, but killing people?”

“That Lily would have gone on blackmailing you, and you’d never have known when she’d forget to keep her mouth shut. And this one—this one is dangerous.”

She waved the iron at me again in a threatening manner.

“Do you promise not to go to the police if I let you go?” Blanche asked in a trembling voice.

“I don’t need to go to the police,” I said. “They’ll be here by now. The truth will come out whether you want it to or not. Your friend Desmond Haynes—he already suspects. We spoke before the show tonight. And if Lily figured it out, you can bet she shared her suspicions with some of her friends. She was never one to keep her mouth shut.”

“But Lily—they’ll never be able to prove it wasn’t an accident, will they? You can’t prove it wasn’t an accident?”

“I don’t know. It depends if there were any witnesses,” I said. “I recommend that you tell the truth, Miss Lovejoy. Otherwise you’ll never be able to live with yourself.”

“We’ve got to get rid of her, Blanchie,” Martha insisted, shaking Blanche’s sleeve. “If not, we’re ruined.”

“We’re ruined anyway, Martha,” Blanche said. “You don’t think they’ll keep the theater open after this, do you?”

“But I did it all for you, Blanche. I’ve done everything for you.” Her old voice cracked. “I’ve worshipped you. I’ve given up my whole life for you.” She started to cry.

“Don’t cry, my sweet. We’ll make it all right.” Blanche took Martha into her arms and they clung together, swaying piteously in their joint misery. I took the opportunity to slip out of the room.