Читать книгу Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical - Karen Cantwell - Страница 10

Clarissa is determined to be an actress and perform at Syracuse’s grand new movie palace, the State Theater. When her plans take an unexpected turn, PI Harry Jerome is on the job.

Clarissa always said she was born to be in the theater.

She was a sweet young thing, barely twenty, with curly red hair and freckles betraying her origins on Tipperary Hill, when I met her serving drinks over at Art’s speakeasy. But she was quick to tell me she was only doing that to keep body and soul together until she could fulfill her real destiny—to be an actress.

She even had her stage name picked out, Claire de Vianne. “I think it makes me sound classy and French,” she said with a giggle.

“It sure does,” I said. “I understand Claire, but where did you come up with that last name?”

I got a whiff of her favorite scent—lilacs—and felt a curl brush my cheek as she bent over to whisper in my ear. “Promise not to tell anyone? It was on a box of glass sconces being delivered to the State Theater site. I saw them on the loading dock yesterday on my way to work.” She crowed, “That place is gonna be something grand! Can you imagine? Glass shades all the way from some factory in France!”

Art’s is over on Jefferson Street, and from the day in 1926 when they started building the grand new State Theater on the corner of Jefferson and Salina, Clarissa spent even more time dreaming about the day she’d tread the boards.

“Harry,” she said to me one day as she served the free whiskey Art promised me for life the day I tipped him off to federal Prohibition agents heading for his joint.

“Yeah, doll,” I said, raising my glass and nodding thanks to Art behind the bar.

“Promise me if I’m an actress, you’ll come and see me over at the State?” She had a sweet little pout and employed it now.

“Darlin’, if you play the State, I’ll be there in the front row.” I savored a sip of my rye, and then added. “And don’t say ‘if’. It’ll be when.”

She beamed at that as she skipped back to the bar to ferry another round to a raucous group of flappers and swells smoking and drinking on the velvet settee. They were in for a scolding. Everybody knew Clarissa hated cigarettes. I grinned when I heard her tell one dapper young man to “Put out that coffin nail!”

Whenever I came in, Clarissa made it a point to recite to me all the facts about the new Oriental-style “movie palace” which would feature both vaudeville acts and first-run moving pictures.

“The Herald says the State will have 2,900 seats, all upholstered in red velvet,” she told me one day. “And the Wurlitzer organ that plays during the movies? It has 1,400 pipes and can make the sound of hoof beats, a locomotive, even birds in the trees.” She looked at Art’s ceiling, starry-eyed. “Syracuse is going to have one of the grandest theaters in the whole country, and I’m gonna play it. You mark my words!”

With the building site just down the street, it wasn’t long before the big shots behind the project found their way over to the speakeasy. Art was only too happy to have them, along with their fat wallets.

It also wasn’t long before those big-city types noticed our little Clarissa.

One of the builders took quite a shine to her, and filled her head with promises of a career on the stage. Who knows, maybe they weren’t meant as empty promises. We’ll never know, now.

* * * *

No Prohibition-era wedding had as generous a bar as Clarissa and Felix’s. Art made sure of that. All the regulars gathered to toast our little beauty and her beau.

Just before the couple left to catch the train to Niagara Falls, Clarissa extracted one last pledge: “Remember your promise, Harry. You’ve got to come see me act at the State Theater.”

* * * *

As I watched the theater construction from the vantage point of my fourth-floor office on Salina Street, I often thought about Clarissa and hoped her dream would come true.

Meanwhile, I kept busy with the missing persons cases, suspicious husbands and wives, and the occasional lost or stolen valuables which were bread and butter for me, Harry Jerome, PI.

In the decade since I’d returned to my hometown as a private detective, I’d revived my reputation as a finder. My old nickname from the force—The Hound—started appearing in headlines for my most high-profile cases and reporters gave them mysterious-sounding names like The Lady in Black back in ’19 and The Freelance Accountant in ’24.

Except for quiet moments alone in my digs, I almost forgot about the circumstances under which I’d left the force and Lara left me. Those were the times I headed for Art’s for a little bootleg whiskey and some companionship. And of course, the latest news about “our Clarissa,” as we regulars still thought of her.

They say she took to visiting the construction site daily while her builder husband went about his business, sitting in the balcony’s Section B in a ladylike white dress, watching as the opulent theater rose up around her and dreaming of her moment in the footlights.

* * * *

“Did you hear about Clarissa?” Art asked one day, a concerned look on his face. “Some of the building crew were here last week, and one of the barmaids overheard them gossiping that her new husband isn’t quite as attentive as he should be. He’s been ‘auditioning’ some of the hoofers trying out for the vaudeville chorus line, if you get my drift.”

“Shame,” I said. “She deserves better.”

“Well, if what they say is to be believed, she may find it. There’s some electrician, name of Oscar, who notices her there in the balcony, day after day. Shall we say, maybe sparks will fly?”

I raised my whiskey in a silent toast that our friend would find the career—and the love—she deserved.

* * * *

One day in ’27, I opened The Herald and gasped. Builder’s Wife Falls to Her Death the headline blazed. Budding Actress Topples from Balcony After Witnessing Stagehand’s Demise.

Clarissa had been in her favorite seat, probably daydreaming about her career and watching workers get the theater ready for its grand opening, when Oscar misconnected two wires, electrocuting himself. Whether she ran to save him, forgetting she was on the balcony, or fainted from shock and toppled over the railing, we’ll never know, but she landed in the orchestra seating, breaking her neck.

The wake Art put on for her rivalled that of a mayor or a titan of industry. All the regulars were there, trading stories of our little sweetheart and drowning our sorrows in bathtub gin.

Some of the theater people were there, too, including Clarissa’s husband. The bereaved widower had wasted no time finding a new sweetie to squire around.

“That’s Vivian,” Art said, with a nod toward a brassy blond who was loudly offering her condolences to Felix as she hung on his arm. “They say he found her in the costume shop, where she was working as a seamstress. Used the same line, offering her a chance at stardom.”

I finished my whiskey and left, before I did something I’d regret.

* * * *

The theater opened February 18, 1928. Since no one had braved the Salt City’s lake effect snow that Saturday morning to seek out The Hound’s help, I decided to tackle the snowbanks myself and catch the matinee across the street.

They certainly spared no expense, I thought as I entered the lobby with its red-flocked walls and gilt trim. Up the grand, filigreed staircase, the architect Thomas Lamb, who’d just finished Madison Square Garden in New York City, had created an Oriental fantasyland on the promenade lobby. People ran their fingers through the water of a koi pond with real fish, and gawked at a replica Japanese pagoda fountain.

The house was packed to see the elaborate stage show Milady’s Fans, followed by the Syracuse opening of William Haines and Joan Crawford in West Point. It seemed everyone in the city had paid their two bits to check out the new theater.

As I headed for my orchestra seat to the accompaniment of the organist warming up on the Wurlitzer, I looked up at the magnificent Louis Comfort Tiffany chandelier in the lobby, originally created for Cornelius Vanderbilt’s mansion. Must’ve been a bit of glare from those hundreds of bulbs. My eyes started to water as my gaze drifted to the doorway marked Balcony B.

* * * *

It wasn’t long after the grand opening that the rumors started circulating. The new theater, everyone said, was haunted.

People reported seeing a young woman in a white dress sitting in a balcony seat. Some said areas of the building were unusually cold. Others swore they could hear a female voice, softly sobbing.

“I was looking for my seat when I saw a flash of white turning into the doorway for Box 5,” one matron told The Herald. “But when I got there, I could find no one.” She paused for dramatic effect. “That box was completely empty…and cold as the grave.”

At first, I dismissed the rumors as mass hysteria or, more likely, a publicity stunt by the management to sell more tickets.

Tongues wagged, of course. In the popular imagination, the ghost became equated with the tragic death of the builder’s wife. Some even dubbed the apparition “Clarissa.”

It saddened me and angered me in equal measure.

One day at Art’s I heard a stranger recounting another “ghost sighting” at the theater. I wanted to slug him, and probably would have, until something he said stopped me in my tracks.

“I was the first one up in Balcony B for Friday’s matinee, and suddenly the air smelled like my grandmother’s garden,” he told the barmaid. “There was no one there, so it couldn’t have been some dame’s perfume, but I swear I smelled lilacs.”

Lilacs. Clarissa’s favorite.

I’m not the superstitious type, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Clarissa was as determined as ever to be in the theater.

* * * *

My theory about a publicity stunt on the part of the theater management appeared to be wrong. About six months after the grand opening of the movie palace, my phone rang, and the operator announced a call from Jefferson 3-4-7-9.

“Mr. Jerome?” a nervous-sounding voice on the other end of the line said. “This is Sam Keene. I’m the box office manager over at the State. We need your help.”

Keene went on to explain that the theater management was getting concerned. The talk of a haunted venue at first seemed like it would draw audiences, so they encouraged it. But now they were beginning to see a fall-off in ticket sales, and wondered if some of the more timid theater-goers were staying away.

“We’d like to hire you to get to the bottom of this thing,” Keene said. “Whatever it takes.”

“I’ll need unfettered access to all areas of the theater—at all times of the day or night,” I told him.

“Of course,” Keene said. “We’ve thought about that, and we can provide you with a cover story. You’re doing follow-up work for Mr. Lamb, the architect, to make sure everything in the design is working out fine. That way, you’ll be able to talk to everybody from management to stagehands to patrons, and you can poke around the seating areas and backstage as well.”

I thought about it. I didn’t care about the theater’s sales numbers, but it might let me explore a bit about the rumors surrounding Clarissa. If I could help save her reputation and put the speculation about her to rest, it would be work well spent.

The theater’s generous fee for my services wouldn’t hurt, either.

“It’s a deal,” I said, and rang off.

* * * *

I arrived at the theater the next morning to begin my investigation. Keene met me at the door. He looked as nervous as he’d sounded over the phone. “I hope you understand, Mr. Jerome, we require the utmost discretion. We want to quell rumors, not start them.” He raised himself up to his full height, which came to my shoulders, and put on a most officious expression.

I fixed him with an icy stare. “I’m a professional, Mr. Keene, you don’t need to lecture me about discretion,” I said. “As to whether the rumors will be quashed by what I find, that remains to be seen.”

The cover story he provided for me worked well. I was given access to the public spaces, the stage area, even the dressing rooms.

I watched the scene painters go about their business creating the backdrops for live vaudeville acts, and got to visit the booth where the projectionist changed reels for the afternoon cinema. Even the organist let me up in the loft where the Wurlitzer’s pipes reverberated during the silent pictures.

They were all polite and explained to me whether their spaces worked for them, and noted problems they were having with the design. Like workmen everywhere, they had plenty of gripes.

They also had plenty of gossip, especially when they thought I wasn’t listening.

One day, as I pretended to sketch the rigging that soared eighty feet above the stage, I heard a stagehand named Tom Grady talking to his replacement at shift change. “I don’t want to put the heebie-jeebies on you, Frankie, but the oddest thing happened to me last night during the second show,” Grady said. “I was working the curtain between acts, and during intermission, I decided to take a cigarette break.” He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening. Because of the danger of curtains, scenery, and costumes catching fire and causing a stampede among three-thousand patrons, smoking was strictly forbidden in this area of the theater.

“I barely lit up when I heard a woman behind me scold, ‘Put out that coffin nail.’ I whipped my head back to see who was bossing me around, but there was no one there.” Grady nodded at his companion’s shocked expression. “Yeah, that’s how I felt. Very, very eerie, it was. Very eerie, indeed.”

I thought back to Clarissa chiding that swell over at Art’s with the very same words, and had to agree with Grady’s assessment.

For my survey of how things in the theater were working, some stagehands told me doors previously open were locked when they returned just moments later. Thespians complained about dresses falling off hangers or makeup jars toppling over. Even the organist said there must be a draft in his loft, because sometimes pages turned on their own.

I was walking down a corridor, wondering just what kind of a report I could write for Keene and how that would help the theater put the ghost stories to rest, when I heard voices raised in a dressing room a few doors down. With the hustle and bustle of act changes, no one noticed me as I positioned myself to hear better.

“Don’t you sweet-talk me anymore,” a woman’s voice said. “I’ve had it with your promises. You told me you’d give me a career on stage and a ring, and so far I’ve got neither!” I thought I recognized the voice as belonging to Vivian, the seamstress I’d seen on the arm of Clarissa’s husband at the wake.

I heard a man’s voice, but he was speaking lower, maybe even whispering, and I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

The woman raised her voice louder. “No, I mean it! I’m going to the cops. I found those wire cutters you had hidden in your office, and the bottle of laudanum, too. I bet you put that into the tea you asked me to take up to Clarissa that day. It must have made her dizzy and that’s why she fell when she saw Oscar die.” Vivian started sobbing hysterically. “How could you? That poor girl never hurt a fly.” Suddenly she screamed, “Felix! No!” and I heard a thud.

The door opened then and Clarissa’s husband stuck out his head, straightened his jacket, and looked to see if the coast was clear before stepping out.

That’s when he saw me. I watched recognition dawn in his eyes as he identified me from the honeymoon send-off over at Art’s.

One minute he was staring at me with a look of panic as he realized that I had heard everything. The next he turned and headed for the catacombs of the theater.

I was right on his tail.

The warren of hallways and secret passages connected backstage areas, dressing rooms, and exits. Even the actors and stagehands admitted to getting lost in the maze of dark, narrow passageways. I didn’t have a chance.

As a builder, Felix was likely to know his way around, I reminded myself, as I struggled to keep up with his zigzag course. One minute I’d catch sight of his coattails, the next there would be nothing there, only a pair of doors, unmarked, and me, wondering which he had run through.

Suddenly, I smelled it: a faint whiff of lilacs. Clarissa. I followed the scent into one of the doors and down a twisty hallway. I caught another glimpse of Felix’s jacket and followed.

Door after door appeared, some to the right, some to the left. I tried a couple and they were locked. One swung open slightly and I stepped in, just in time to see a streak of black ahead as my quarry turned another corner.

I lost track of how many turns I’d made and in which directions. Suddenly I skidded to a halt. The passageway ended and across the hall a swinging door led to a stairway going up. I could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs ahead of me and I followed. The stairway led to the second floor, and as I reached the top, gasping for breath, I could just see Felix entering another door. The lighted sign above it read Balcony B.

He tried to hold the balcony door closed, but I put my shoulder to it and heard him stumble backward. As I burst through, I saw him running toward the front of the balcony, a desperate look on his face.

“Give it up, Felix,” I said as I advanced. “I heard everything Vivian said. You can’t get away with this.”

“No one will believe you, Harry,” he said, a sneer turning up the corner of his mouth. “You’re just a down-on-your-luck gumshoe. I’m somebody. I brought a lotta jobs and money to this one-horse town with my work on this theater.” He squared his shoulders and preened a bit. “Anyway, I made sure Vivian won’t be doing any more talking. So it’s just your word against mine.”

“Clarissa was my friend, Felix.” I let the words hang in the chill air. “I’ll make sure you pay.”

With a roar, he lunged for me. His hands reached for my lapels and he almost had me, when suddenly his eyes widened and he started to shake. I realized he was looking over my left shoulder. The unmistakable scent of lilacs filled the air and out of the corner of my eye, I could see a flash of white.

Felix put his hands up, shouting, “No! No! Get away from me,” and tried to back up. He stumbled on the balcony stairs when his foot caught on the first row of seats and he started to tip, arms flailing.

“Felix! Grab my arm,” I shouted, reaching out to him. But it was too late. With a scream, Felix toppled over the balcony’s brass railing.

* * * *

Later that evening, after the police had sent a badly shaken Vivian to the hospital and Felix off to the morgue, they recorded my statement.

An electrician working on the lighting for the evening show had seen it all, and testified that I’d tried to save Felix, clearing me of suspicion.

“Any way to keep this out of the papers?” I asked the cop. “There’s nobody left to prosecute, and releasing the story will only harm the theater and bring Clarissa’s family even more sorrow.”

“It does seem like justice has been served,” the detective said, closing his notebook. With a tip of his hat, he set out to clear off a gaggle of reporters just outside the theater door.

Drained, I retrieved my fedora and headed for the exit. Once again I caught a whiff of lilacs. It was probably just the rush of outside air as I pulled open the doors of the theater, but I could have sworn I felt the gentle brush of a curl against my cheek as I stepped out onto Salina Street.

“Bravo, Claire de Vianne,” I muttered, as I realized I’d finally kept my promise. I’d been there to witness Clarissa’s debut performance at State Theater. Somehow, I didn’t think it would be her last.