Эд Макбейн - Ice

“Well, what did Annie get?” Carter said into the phone. He listened and then said, “That’s exactly my point, Dave. This is a bigger hit than Annie ever was. Well, that’s just too damn bad, things are tough all over. You tell Orion the price is firm, and if they can’t meet it, tell them to pass, they’re just wasting our time here. I recognize I’m talking deal-breaker, Dave, I’m not a babe in the woods. Tell them.”

He hung up abruptly.

“Forgive me,” he said, rising and coming to where the detectives were standing, his hand extended. “I’m Allan Carter, can I get either one of you a drink?”

“No, thanks,” Carella said.

“Thanks,” Meyer said, shaking his head.

“So,” Carter said. “Hell of a thing, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” Carella said.

“Any idea yet who did it?”

“No, sir.”

“Some lunatic,” Carter said, shaking his head and walking toward the bar. He lifted a decanter. “Sure?” he said. “No?” He shrugged, poured two fingers of whiskey into a low glass, added a single ice cube to it, said, “Cheers,” drank the entire contents of the glass in a single swallow, and poured more whiskey into it. “Philadelphia,” he said, shaking his head as if simple mention of that city explained his need for alcoholic reinforcement.

“When did you learn about her death, Mr. Carter?” Carella asked.

“When I got off the train. I picked up a paper at the station.”

“What were you doing in Philadelphia?”

“Trying out a new play there.”

“Another musical?” Meyer asked.

“No, a straight play. Big headache,” Carter said. “It’s a thriller... have you seen Deathtrap?”

“No,” Meyer said.

“No,” Carella said.

“It’s sort of like Deathtrap. Except it’s lousy. I don’t know how I ever got talked into doing it. First time I’ve ever done a straight play.” He shrugged. “Probably go right down the drain when it gets here. If it ever gets here.”

“So you read about Miss Anderson in the papers,” Carella prompted.

“Yes,” Carter said.

“What’d you think?”

“What could I think? This city,” he said, and shook his head.

“How well did you know her?” Carella asked.

“Hardly at all. Just another one of the dancers, you know? We’ve got sixteen of them in the show. Have you seen the show?”

“No,” Meyer said.

“No,” Carella said.

“I’ll get you some house seats,” Carter said. “It’s a good show. Biggest hit this town has seen in a long time.”

“Who hired her, Mr. Carter?”

“What? Oh, the girl. It was a joint decision.”

“Whose?”

“Mine and Jamie’s and—”

“Jamie?”

“Our choreographer, Jamie Atkins. But... are you asking who was actually there when the dancers were cast?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as I said — this would be the final selection, you understand — I was there, and Freddie Carlisle, our director, and Jamie, and his assistant, and our musical director, and an Equity rep, I guess, and... let me see... two of the stage managers were there, and our press agent, I think, and, of course, a piano player. And... well, sure, the composer and the lyricist and the book writer.”

“The book writer?”

“The librettist. I think that was about it. This was a long time ago. We went into rehearsal last August, you know. We must’ve been doing our final casting in July sometime.”

“Quite a few people,” Carella said.

“Oh, yes, decision by committee,” Carter said, and smiled. “But when you figure a musical can cost anywhere between two and three million bucks — well, you’ve got to be cautious.”

“So all these people got together and... well, what did they do?” Carella asked. “Vote?”

“Not really. It’s more a sort of general agreement on a finalist, with the choreographer having the last word, of course. He’s the one who’s going to have to work with any given dancer, you know.”

“How many dancers didn’t get a part?”

“Thousands. Counting the cattle calls, and the Equity calls... sure. We must’ve seen every unemployed dancer in the city.”

“Miss Anderson must’ve been a good dancer,” Meyer said.

“I’m sure she was. She was, after all, hired for the part.”

“How’d she get along with the rest of the cast?”

“You’d have to ask either Freddie or Jamie about that.”

“Your director and choreographer.”

“Yes. But I’m sure there was no friction... aside from the usual tension generated by a show in rehearsal. What I’m saying... let me try to explain this.”

“Please,” Carella said.

“The company of any show, particularly a musical, has to perform as a tightly knit unit. I’m sure if there was any friction between Miss Anderson and anyone else in the cast, Jamie would’ve had a good long talk with her. When two million five is at stake, there’s no room for fooling around with artistic temperament.”

“Is that how much Fatback cost?”

“Give or take.”

“How long was the show in rehearsal, Mr. Carter?”

“Six weeks. Not counting previews. We did two weeks of previews before we felt we were ready for the critics.”

“Were you present at all those rehearsals?”

“Not all of them. After Freddie had mounted a good part of the show, yes. Usually, you try to give your creative people a free hand in the beginning. Once the run-throughs start, a producer — well, this producer, anyway — tries to be present at all the rehearsals.”

“Then you would have noticed if there was any friction between Miss Anderson and any other member of the cast.”

“I detected no such friction. Gentlemen, I wish I could help you, believe me. But I hardly knew the girl. I’ll confess something to you. When I read about her in the paper, I had difficulty recalling just which one of the dancers she was.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“Little redheaded thing, wasn’t she?” Carter said.

“We didn’t see the body, sir,” Carella said.

“What?” Carter said.

“We weren’t there at the scene, sir,” Carella said.

“The body was found in another precinct,” Meyer said at once.

“Sir,” Carella said, “it would help us if we could get a list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers for everyone in the cast and crew, anyone who might have had even the slightest contact with Miss Anderson.”

“You don’t plan to visit them all, do you?” Carter said.

“Well... yes,” Carella said.

Carter smiled. “Maybe I ought to give you some idea of what that would involve,” he said. “Fatback is a very large show. We’ve got six principals, four featured players, sixteen dancers plus twelve other people in the chorus, eighteen stagehands, twenty-six musicians, three stage managers, three property men, fourteen wardrobe people, including the dressers, three electricians, two carpenters, one sound man, three lighting-board-and-follow-spot men, one makeup woman, and two standby dancers — what we call ‘swing’ dancers.”

Carella looked at Meyer.

“That comes to one hundred fourteen people,” Carter said.

“I see,” Carella said. He paused. Then he said, “But does such a list exist? Of all these people?”

“Well, yes, several lists, in fact. Our general manager has one, and our company manager, and the production secretary... in fact, I’m sure there’s a list at the theater, too. Near the stage door phone. That might be your best bet. If you could stop by the theater—”

“Yes, sir, we’ll do that.”