Ed McBain - Downtown

“Arthur Crandall? The director ? The man who did War and Solitude ? What are you saying?”

“Did she tell you it was Crandall who wanted my...?”

“Oh my God, was I auditioning for Crandall?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m trying to find out if...”

“Crandall, oh, God, I’m going to faint.”

“Would you know if...?”

“Why didn’t she tell me? I mean, I hardly even prepared! I mean, I went on cold! If I’d known I was doing it for Crandall ...”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to...”

“I’ll kill her, I swear to God! Why’d she give me that story about a birthday party? Crandall, I’m going to cry.”

“No. don’t cry, just...”

“I’m going to die, I’m going to kill her, I’ll go kill her right this minute.”

“You can’t, she isn’t home.”

“Then where is she?”

“I don’t know where she...”

“The theater!” Felix shouted.

The theater was on Thirteenth Street off Seventh Avenue, a ninety-nine-seat house in what had once been the rectory of a Catholic church. The church was still functional, although the theater — according to Felix — barely scraped by. All of the street lamps on either side of the block had been smashed by vandals, and the only illumination at one-forty in the morning was a floodlight bathing the facade of the church and causing it to look like a sanctuary for Quasimodo. A hand-lettered sign affixed to a stone buttress on the northwest side of the church advised that the Cornerstone Players could be found in the direction of the pointing arrow at the bottom of the sign.

“They’re rehearsing a medieval play,” Felix said, “an allegory of sorts.”

Michael thought it odd that a group of players would be rehearsing at this hour of the morning. Then again, he did not know anything at all about allegories. Perhaps an allegory had to be rehearsed in the empty hours of the night.

“They were supposed to open just before Christmas,” Felix said, “but the director’s wife ran off with another woman, and they had to bring in a replacement. They’ll be lucky if they make it before the end of the year. Even with all these crash rehearsals.”

He was leading them familiarly up the lighted alleyway on the side of the church, feeling very chipper now that Michael had stopped banging him against the wall and had released his grip on the parka. On the way downtown in the open convertible, he’d told them he was really looking forward to killing Judy Jordan. Michael doubted he would actually kill her, even though he sounded simultaneously serious and cheerfully optimistic about the prospect. Apparently, an audition with Arthur Crandall was an important thing. Working in an Arthur Crandall film, even if the movie didn’t make any money, could help an actor’s career enormously. Which was why Felix was so incensed that Judy hadn’t told him the detective role was an audition. Michael assured Felix it had been nothing of the sort, but Felix thought he was just mollifying him, Judy Jordan being a good friend of his and all, who’d even thrown a surprise birthday party for him. Michael was thinking that in his own way Felix was crazier than any of the people he’d met in the past few days. But Felix was an actor; perhaps he was only acting crazy.

There was an arched doorway near the rear of the church, which Felix explained was the entrance to the theater, but he walked right past it and around to the back of the church, where a metal door was set in a smaller arch. A sign advised that this was the stage door and asked all visitors to announce themselves. Felix pressed a button under a speaker. A woman’s voice said, “Yes?”

“Felix Hooper,” he said.

“Minute,” the woman said.

There was a buzz. Felix grasped the doorknob, twisted it, and led them into a space that looked like a one-room school-house, with students’ desks and a teacher’s desk and a piano in one corner, and an American flag in another corner. A dark-haired woman wearing a wide, flower-patterned skirt over a black leotard and tights came into the room, carrying a clipboard.

“Hi, Felix,” she said.

“Hi. Is Judy here?”

“Onstage,” she said.

Michael noticed that she was barefoot.

“I’m Anne Summers, the stage manager,” she said.

“I’m Connie Kee, the chauffeur,” Connie said.

Michael did not introduce himself because he was still wanted for murder, albeit the murder of a dope dealer fence.

“You look familiar,” Anne said.

“Everybody tells me that,” Michael said.

“Okay to go in?” Felix asked.

“Sure.”

“’Cause I want to kill Judy,” Felix said, and smiled.

“So does Kenny,” Anne said, and turned to Michael. “Kenny Stein, the director,” she explained.

Michael figured that in the theater, everyone had a title. He wondered if he was supposed to recognize Kenny Stein’s name. Anne was looking at him expectantly.

“Gee,” Michael said.

“You’d better sit way in the back,” she said to Felix. “Kenny likes a lot of space around him. Are you sure I don’t know you?” she asked Michael.

“Positive,” Michael said, and followed Felix across the room to a doorframe hung with a black curtain. Felix pushed the curtain aside, whispered, “Stay close behind me,” and stepped through the doorframe. Connie went out after him. Anne was watching Michael. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

There was darkness beyond the curtain.

And a man’s voice.

“Let’s take it from Judy’s entrance again.”

And then a voice Michael remembered well.

“Kenny, could you please refer to me as the Queen?”

Judy Jordan speaking. The woman who’d called herself Helen Parrish on Christmas Eve. Wishing to be called the Queen on Boxing Day.

“Because if I’m going to stay in character...”

“Yes, yes,” the man said patiently.

“... and you keep referring to me as Judy ...”

“Which, by the way, is your name.”

“Not in this play,” Judy said. “In this play, I am the Queen, and I wish you’d refer to me as that.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man said. “Can we take it from the Queen’s entrance, please?”

“Thank you,” Judy said.

Michael was following Felix and Connie up the side aisle of the small theater, turning his head every now and then for a glimpse of the lighted stage, where Judy Jordan was standing with three men. Michael stumbled, caught his balance, and then concentrated entirely on following Felix, who was now at the last row in the theater, moving into the seats there.

“What’s the problem?”

The man’s voice again. Kenny Stein, the director.

“Some problem, Your Majesty?”

“Did you want this from the top of the act, or from my entrance?” Judy asked.

“I said from your entrance, didn’t I?”

“That’s so close to the top, I thought...”

“From your entrance, please.”

Seated now, Michael turned his full attention to the stage. The set seemed to be an ultramodern apartment in Manhattan, judging from the skyline beyond the open French doors leading onto a terrace. But the people in the set — Judy and the three men — were dressed in medieval costumes. Judy was wearing a crown and an ankle-length, scoop-necked gown. One of the men was wearing a black helmet that completely covered his head and his face. Another of the men was holding what looked like a real sword in his right hand. The third man, younger than the other two, was wearing leggings wrapped with leather thongs, and a funny hat with a feather in it; he looked like a peasant.