David Rotenberg - The Hamlet Murders

“What now?” demanded the old worker from the far reaches upstage.

“Thanks for joining us,” said Fong in an effort to calm the waves of open aggression coming from the man.

The old worker looked at Fong then did a double take as he glanced at Chen. Chen was used to that. “What do you and your intensely ugly friend want?”

Fong started to defend Chen, but the younger man spoke first, “You work the fly rail here?”

“Some nights,” the old worker replied warily.

“Which nights?” asked Fong.

“Whichever they assign me. What is this? I was told I had to work on this shit. I don’t know squat about it. It’s ridiculous. I’m a rigger. A professional, not some stupid rope puller. I worked on skyscrapers in the Pudong then all of a sudden I’m told to go pull ropes for faggots. What’s that?”

“These ropes that you pull, they are all your responsibility?”

“Yeah, there are seven sets of lines and they are all mine to work – on the nights I have to waste my time here.”

“And each of the ropes . . . ”

“Lines. They’re called lines.”

“Okay each of the lines has counterweights on them?”

“Naturally. Some of the flying units weigh close to half a ton. Without counterweights no one could lower the thing in without smashing it to the ground, let alone fly it out.”

“Yeah, I get that, but whose responsibility is it to set the counterweights?”

“Mine . . . for the . . . ”

“ . . . nights you waste your time and talent here. Right. So this was the line Geoffrey Hyland was hanged from?”

“Who?”

“The director who was hanged. You may recall that incident.”

“Yeah. It was tied off to the pinrail when I arrived that morning.”

“How much counterweight was there on that line?”

“A lot.”

“More than usually is on the line?”

“Way more.”

“Do you know how much more?”

“I’m a professional, of course I know how much weight was . . . ”

“How much?”

The man went into the small production office in the back and came out with a well-kept leatherbound notebook. He turned to the date and pointed to a figure. The man’s handwriting was like a draftsman’s. The columns were perfectly in line. The whole thing was a work of mathematical precision. Fong looked at the man. Perhaps his talents were, in fact, wasted here.

“So there were three hundred and forty pounds of counterweight on that line that night?”

“That’s what it says, so that’s what was there.”

Fong nodded. “How much does that line usually carry?”

The man checked his notes. “Forty pounds when I work it and sixty when the other guy does.”

“Because . . . ?” Fong prompted.

“Because I’m stronger than the other guy who isn’t a guy at all but an old woman who needs the extra counterweight to move the damn thing.”

“What do you pull up and down on this line?”

“You mean what’s flown in and out on this line?”

“Yes, I guess I mean that.”

“Several vertical white panels. Used for the ghost’s appearance in the bedroom and for Ophelia’s madness walk with the flowers.”

“Just canvas panels?”

“That’s it. Pretty light but that director was very specific about how he wanted the panels flown in and out. It was in time to this real slow music so we needed enough counterweight to make the move smooth. When it worked it was . . . good, you know.”

Fong nodded. Even this resentful old man saw the beauty in Geoff’s work. “Where are the counterweights kept?” He pointed to four stacks of iron weights on a rolling cart upstage of the last pinrail line. Fong thanked him for his help. “Just one more thing.”

“What?”

“Did actors use the chair that was here?”

“There’s not supposed to be any chair here.”

“No?”

“No. I wouldn’t allow actors here. This is my territory and I’m . . . ”

“A professional, you’ve told us already.”

“Yeah. And I wouldn’t use a chair because it was my job to be ready.” He was clearly about to reiterate that he was a professional but decided against it. He just harrumphed. Then he said, “Anything else?”

“No. Thanks again for your help.”

As the man left, Chen went to get the counterweights, and four cops shut the various doors to the theatre and then stood by. The rest of the cops muscled the black bag onto the stage and cracked it open. First, they took out a duplicate of the noose that had suffocated Geoffrey Hyland. Then they propped up a mannequin weighted to be just under a hundred and eighty pounds. Geoff’s weight.

Fong walked the stage floor while, with the use of ladders, the noose was threaded through the pulleys and then brought down to the pinrail stage left. Then Chen added 340 pounds of counterweight to the flyline.

The mannequin was set centre stage and the noose put around its neck. “Captain Chen, are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Chen as he took up a position by the pinrail.

“Now, unloop the line and pull.”

Chen untied the line and gave it a yank. The mannequin rose easily off the stage toward the fly gallery. The cops were impressed. Fong signalled Chen to drop the line back in. He did and the mannequin slid gracefully to the stage. “Do it harder, Chen.”

Chen did and the mannequin moved faster toward the fly gallery. “Let it back down, Chen.” The dummy moved smoothly back to the stage. “Now do it hand over hand as fast as you can?”

Chen did and the mannequin moved rapidly all the way up to the fly gallery and stayed there.

Fong shook his head and began to pace. Chen approached him. “It works, sir. With the counterweights, the murderer didn’t need to get Mr. Hyland to climb the ladder. So it answers that question, doesn’t it?”

“That question, perhaps, Captain Chen.”

“But it shows how someone could have hanged Mr. Hyland.”

“Partly.”

“Why partly? The counterweights make it easy enough to lift him.”

“Fine, Chen, but how did they get the noose around his neck? He wasn’t drugged. Even if you could get the noose around his neck, how do you stop him from taking it off if he’s in the centre of the stage and you are all the way over stage left at the pinrail?” Then Fong stopped and looked at the scuffmark on the stage-right proscenium arch. He flipped open his cell phone and punched the speed dial for Forensics. “Lily, have you done the paint match yet?”

“Yes. Very simple. The paint on the arch and Mr. Hyland’s shoe match.”

“Thanks, Lily,” Fong said and snapped shut his phone.

Fong took off his right shoe and tossed it to a cop standing by the pinrail door. “Smear mud on that.” The man was about to ask why then thought better of it when he saw the set of Fong’s jaw. Moments later, he returned and gave Fong his now muddy shoe. Fong took the shoe and put it on the mannequin’s right foot, lacing it up, careful not to get mud on his hands. “Bring the mannequin over beside you at the pinrail, Captain Chen.” He did. “Now put the noose around its neck. You’ll have to let in more line to do it.”

Fong closed his eyes for a moment. A new horrific image was ready to force its way into the sack around his heart, increasing the ghostly weight yet again.

“It’s ready, sir,” said Chen

“Now pull hard, hand over hand.”

Fong hopped down off the stage and headed to the back of the auditorium.

“Ready, sir?” Chen called out.

Fong didn’t turn around; he didn’t have to. “Yes, Chen. I’m ready.” Fong knew exactly what would happen.

The mannequin rose out of stage left in a large arch, flew across the stage like the base of a pendulum. The mannequin’s right shoe hit just above the scuffmark on the stage-right proscenium, leaving a muddy slash, and then the mannequin swung obscenely back and forth as it was hauled to its resting place just below the centre of the proscenium arch.