Blood Will Have Blood (14 page)

“No.”

She stood on tiptoes and lightly kissed his chin. He felt as if he'd been licked by a wag-tailed puppy.

“Pack a bag,” he said sternly. “I'll put you in a taxi.”

“But you won't tell.…”

“Not yet, Georgie. Not yet.”

Chapter Seventeen

Spraggue walked the mile and a half back to the theater. Breathe in for four counts, hold for eight, breathe out for eight. Two blocks of that and his head felt clear again.

Georgina: guilty or innocent? Guilty: hell of a motive; concealment of her background; secrecy about the decapitated doll. No. That wouldn't play. If Georgina had planned the doll bit, she'd have shouted her injury from the rooftops … unless she was subtler than he thought. Innocent: he wanted her to be.

If someone else—X, the joker—had broken into Georgie's place, he'd be a fool not to use the material it offered. So the joker could have planned on making Georgie a scapegoat, knowing her background from the silent witness of her room. Even the poster was there, a standout: Samuel Borgmann Phelps presents
Macbeth
.

Georgina
could
have planted the doll herself. Maybe there had been no doll, just a story to match Deirdre's. But then, couldn't that be said of all the other pranks? Was anyone in the clear?

The trick that had brought him in: Frank Hodges's Bloody Mary banquet, for instance. Frank could have had a secret penchant for drinking blood. Or he could have tipped back his regular vodka-and-tomato-juice and put on a performance for Darien. Had to remember he was dealing with actors. Why would Frank fake it? To get out of the show. Why? To be able to harass the cast more freely. Obstacle: Frank was safely in New York. Or was he? Spraggue had dialed a New York number, heard a voice on the phone, no more. Frank's motive? A blank; none known.

What about the other jokes? The tricks seemed to group themselves effortlessly. The decapitated dolls, the sculpted, bloody head of Gregory Hudson, the blood bath. None of the victims injured in any way. Victim and perpetrator could be one and the same in every case. The bucket of blood, hung up for Emma. Delayed action, so the redheaded seductress could have set it herself, stepped deftly aside at the last moment, screamed effectively. The trip wire. Again, set up beforehand. For Caroline—or Emma. By Caroline or Emma. Neither could be eliminated.

Eddie's case—slightly different. Eddie had made actual contact with the joker. Ruled him out, right? Wrong. The entire episode could be fabrication. What evidence did Eddie have to back up his claims? The writing on' the walls, the wrecked apartment created by Eddie himself? The balancing act on the chair, the rope burns—would the joker go so far as to inflict wounds on himself?
If
he were crazy enough, or committed enough. Spraggue saw no reason to doubt either possibility.

That left the actors who had not been annoyed by X—yet: John Langford and Gustave Grayling. If the tricks were being performed in the same order as Dracula's attacks on his victims, wouldn't that tend to cast suspicion on the leading man? Spraggue smiled as he recalled the great actor's “psychological” insights. Either the man was an idiot.…

No. Not stupid. A fine actor, and that took intelligence—an instinctive, narrow brilliance, an imitative gift. Spraggue had known extraordinary actors who were hardly safe outside the theater, but he would never have called them stupid.

An illusionist; that's who he was up against, a master of disguise and misdirection. Both he and Eddie had actually seen the joker, the mysterious X. What could either say about him?

Eye color.… Why hadn't he concentrated on that with the joker only twenty feet away? Eye color, height, weight: those were the things the police wanted to know first in any description, the immutables. How immutable in an actor?

Then there were the nonactors: Darien and Dennis Boland, the Spider. And Karen. Spraggue quickened his step.

He overtook the Boylston Street pedestrians, the brightly dressed summer tourists and the harried lunch-break shoppers. Envied the hand-holding couples at the sidewalk cafés. Passed the Copley Square fountain, the library, the Prudential Center. Rounded the corner at Mass Ave, pressed on. No time for lunch. No time for—

He heard running steps behind him, turned, and almost collided with Eddie Lafferty.

“Geez, you walk fast!” The company's madman was breathing hard. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, dripped onto his round, hornrimmed glasses. “Darien was looking for you right before break.”

“Sounds ominous.” Spraggue started walking again, slower. Eddie matched his stride.

“I was hoping to find you, too.” Lafferty hesitated. “I wanted' to thank you for what you did at my apartment.”

“You already did.”

“And … um … I had no idea Arthur hired you to find the joker.”

“Eddie.” Spraggue stopped and faced Lafferty, trying to pin down the elusive blue eyes. “How did you see that trip wire? You never wear your glasses in the theater.”

“Um … no, I don't. It's … uh … a character thing. I see Renfield as sort of an unfocused being, so I—”

“You saw that trip wire from at least ten feet away.”

“The light bounced right off it! Really. It was just one of those freak things.”

“You didn't know it was there?”

“Of course not. If I'd set it, why would I spoil it by warning Caroline? That's what I wanted to talk to you—shit.”

“What's wrong?”

“Watch out. Here she comes.”

Spraggue spun around. Caroline Ambrose half-ran behind him on spindly high heels, fast closing the gap.

“Stick around,” Spraggue whispered to Eddie, pleading. The young actor grinned, blue eyes wide and slightly vacant.

“Darling!” Caroline caught at Spraggue's arm. “I'm breathless from pursuing you.”

Spraggue further shortened his step, but said nothing.

“And Eddie,” the star prattled on. “Did I thank you for saving my life, darling?” She wove an arm through Eddie's, caught up Spraggue with the other, skillfully arranging a threesome. Spraggue had to admire her technique: herself in the middle, a man on each arm, she prepared to approach the theater.

Eddie mumbled vaguely. Caroline took it for consent. “I'm glad. It's a wonder I remember my own name sometimes! Of course, on stage it's different. I never forget a line, never forget a cue.” Caroline giggled, flashed perfect teeth. “But I shouldn't interrupt you two, I know.” She smiled up at Eddie. “I'll bet you're helping Michael solve the company mystery!”

Neither man spoke. She giggled again.

“No need for alarm. I'm very discreet. I did tell you, Michael, about my dressing room? Turned topsy-turvy with all my powder upset on the floor. Very expensive powder. I have it made up specially; my skin is so sensitive. Just the sort of thing a spiteful, jealous—”

“You think the joker's a woman?”

Caroline was elated by Eddie's response. It followed her script exactly. She smiled vivaciously, first at Eddie, then at Spraggue, posing for some imaginary photographer.

“Well, I'm sure I don't know,” Caroline said gravely.

They turned the corner at Huntington Avenue. She peered ahead anxiously. Spraggue and Lafferty exchanged glances. They understood the plot. The three of them were to arrive, supposedly back from a delightful lunch, laughing and bright, right under John Langford's nose. If Emma were present, so much the better. Caroline must have been lurking in a shop, waiting for a likely male to pass by. She'd gotten two—a bonus.

She chattered on as Spraggue held the door. Eddie ushered her into the theater. She kept a tight grip on his arm.

“These fake torches always make me think I've just walked into a scene from
Macbeth
,” Eddie said dreamily.

Spraggue watched him curiously.

“Don't say that,” Caroline said sharply. “Bad luck. Never mention the Scottish play inside a theater!”

“You believe in that?” Spraggue asked innocently.

“I was brought up in theaters. I never whistle in my dressing room, either. Silly, isn't it?”

Their entrance went unnoticed, much to Caroline's chagrin. John and Emma had not returned, ergo Caroline was not prepared to let the men go. She clung with stubborn persistence.

“I have hot water in my dressing room,” she cooed. “Coffee and tea. And I hate to be alone. I'd feel so much
safer
.”

She'd feel safe enough as soon as Langford returned and got an eyeful of Miss Popularity. She simpered at Eddie, who'd stepped ahead into the dressing room.

“Turn on the light, darling. To the right. And watch out for Wolf. He's sleeping. I left him in my little basket—”

“Don't come in!” Eddie's voice was choked, a barely controlled whisper.

Spraggue turned Caroline around by the shoulders, held her. “Take her into my dressing room, Eddie. Stay there.”

“It's the dog.” Eddie made a retching noise and ran down the hall. Blessedly, Caroline followed.

The brown-and-white terrier that had caused such a fuss at rehearsal was laid out on the dressing table in front of Caroline's gilt-edged mirror. His still body was horribly elongated. A pool of blood surrounded him, dyeing the white orchids carefully arranged on his breast. His throat was slit from side to side, almost severing his head from his body.

Spraggue slammed the door as he left. He passed Eddie in the hallway, horribly sick on the gray stone floor. He averted his head, the bile rising in his throat, and hurried out into the sunlight.

The phone booth was empty. He dialed his aunt's number, surprised at the steadiness of his fingers. Pierce answered promptly.

“Mrs. Hillman's residence.”

“Is she back from lunch yet?” Spraggue asked quickly.

“No. May I take a message?”

“Georgina, the girl I told you about, is she there?”

“No.”

Damn. Spraggue held up his left hand, stared at his watch. She should have arrived.

“Pierce, this is important. When Georgina gets there, question her. Make her write out a timetable, everything she did since she left me.”

“Is there any trouble?”

“Never mind. Just make a note of the number of the cab she arrives in. Okay?”

“Certainly.”

“Write this down. I put her in a Yellow Cab at twelve forty-five. Number 5503. If she arrives in any other cab, try to get ahold of Yellow 5503. Find out where he dropped her, if he waited, anything.”

“I will. And a Lieutenant Hurley has been trying to get in touch with you.”

“Thanks, Pierce. I'll phone him.”

“Would you like Mrs. Hillman to return your call?”

“No. Just tell her I'll see her tonight.”

Tonight. The pre-opening gala! Spraggue closed his eyes.

“Good-bye, then.”

“Thanks, Pierce.”

The butler hung up. Spraggue stood with the receiver in his hand for some time, thinking. Someone tapped on the booth, hoping to use the phone. Spraggue shook his head and the man stumped angrily away.

Chapter Eighteen

Spraggue hesitated, fingered the dial. 911: Police Emergency. The impulse to call, to ignore Darien's injunction, was strong. To report what? A mutt's murder? Warnings couched in blank verse? And when the police questioned him about suspects … was he ready to sic them on Georgina? Not yet.

He called Hurley instead. The phone rang ten times and Spraggue was about to hang up when someone lifted the receiver.

“Hurley,” snapped an angry voice, muffled by a hurried swallow.

“Lunchtime, huh?”

“Spraggue? Damn right. I get fifteen minutes to stuff a sandwich down my gut and—”

“Have you got something for me?”

“Uh huh.”

Spraggue had a quick mental image of the policeman, shoulder hunched against the phone, sandwich squashed in his left hand, his right hand moving unerringly for the spot on an overcrowded desk where Spraggue's information resided.

“You're working with a bunch of honeys, you know.” Hurley gave a snort of laughter. “Dennis Boland's got a rap sheet as long as my arm—petty stuff, bad checks. Gregory Hudson: fag bust in New York—”

“Did you get the stuff on Darien's auto smash?”

“Yeah, sure. That and the Ambrose dame's first hubby's death certificate. The Darien stuff was tough to find, you know. No charges filed. I had to convince some young ass in New York to ferret through the beef sheets. Must have been a mess—that many years ago.”

“So I owe you, Fred.”

“Yeah, that's what I figure. How about paying off with some tickets to your show? I mentioned it to my wife; she's crazy about that Langford guy—”

Spraggue thought a moment, said, “How'd you like to come to a special preview tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night? We'd have to get a sitter.”

“Get one, Fred,” Spraggue said earnestly. “How's this? I'll send over a dozen passes. Hand 'em out to off-duty cops. A goodwill gesture.”

“Sure it is, Spraggue. Why don't you hire a private security force?”

“Look, nothing's going to happen, Hurley.”

“But if it does—”

“Having you there will give me a warm, secure feeling,”

“Great,” Hurley said.

“Think it over. You working tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you hang onto those reports until a little before eight o'clock? Then put them in a cab and send them over to my place on Fayerweather Street. Okay?”

“Will do.”

“See you tomorrow,” Spraggue said. He hung up, left the booth, and entered the theater by the employees' entrance on Huntington Avenue, just ten feet down from the huge main doors, but practically hidden by an overhanging alcove and Greek columns. He took the steps to Darien's office two at a time, entered without knocking.