Queens Full (2 page)

“If I have to hang from a rafter. I haven't had the pleasure of attending one of Mr. Manson's performances in—” Ellery had been about to say “in a great many years,” but he changed it to “in some time.”

“How are things at the Embassy, Mr. Green?” the actor asked sadly, tilting his cocktail glass, finding it empty, running his forefinger around the inside of the glass, and licking the finger. “You should have seen me with Booth, sir. John Wilkes, that is. Those were the days.
Garçon
, may I trouble you for an encore?” The wavering finger pushed the empty glass into alignment with nine others, whereupon Manson smiled at Ellery and fell asleep. Head thrown back, he resembled a mummy; his gentle, fine-boned face was overlaid with a mesh of wrinkles.

The waitress took their orders. Manson woke up, courteously ordered
Chaud-Froid de Cailles en Belle Vue
, and fell asleep again.

“What's that?” the waitress demanded.

“Never mind, honey. Bring him a rare T-bone.”

Scutney looked peevish. “I do hope—”

“Don't worry, Bluefield. He never misses a curtain.”

Ellery turned, surprised. The speaker was the man introduced to him as Archer Dullman. He had immediately forgotten Dullman was there. He now saw why. Dullman was not large and not small, neither fat nor thin, ruddy nor pale. Hair, eyes, voice were neutral. It was hard to imagine him excited, angry, amorous, or drunk. Ellery paid close attention to him after that.

“Are you Mr. Manson's manager, Mr. Dullman?”

“It's a buck.”

Even so, it was some time before he realized that Dullman had not actually answered his question.

Ellery buttered a roll. “By the way, isn't it an Actors' Equity rule that members may not perform with amateurs?”

It was Scutney who answered; in rather a hurry, Ellery thought. “Oh, but you can almost always get Equity's permission in special cases. Where no Equity company is playing the area, and provided the amateur group initiates the request, deposits the full amount of the member's salary with them, and so forth. Ah, the soup!” He greeted the return of their waitress with relief. “Best chowder in town. Right, Minnie?”

Ellery wondered what was bugging the little man. Then he remembered.

The “Archer” had fooled him. Around Broadway, Dullman was better known as “The Dull Man.” It was a typical Broadway quip; Dullman was supposed to be sharper than a columnist's tooth. If Scutney Bluefield had allowed himself to be suckered into a Dullman deal …

“They've been calling us the Haunted Playhouse and laughing their heads off,” Scutney was chortling. “Who's laughing now?”

“Not me,” Rodge Fowler growled. “That scene on the couch between Manson and Joan in the first act is an absolute disgrace.”

“How would you expect Don Juan to act on a couch?” Dullman asked with a smile.

“You didn't have to direct it that way, Dullman!”

“Oh, you're directing?” Ellery murmured. But nobody heard him.

“Think of the dear old ladies, Fowler.”

“I'm thinking of Joan!”

“Now, Rodge,” Scutney said.

Manson chose that moment to wake up. He peered around the crowded dining room and staggered to his feet. His hair-piece had come loose and slipped to one side, exposing a hemisphere of dead-white scalp. He stood there like some aged Caesar in his cups, bowing to his people.

“My dear, dear friends,” the actor said; and then, with simple confidence, he slid into Dullman's arms.

Scutney and Roger were half out of their chairs. But Ellery was already supporting the actor's other side.

“Manson can walk, Dullman. Just give him some support.”

Between them they dragged Manson, graciously smiling, from the dining room. The lobby seethed with people attending a Ladies' Aid ball; a great many were waiting for the elevators.

“We can't maneuver him through that mob, Dullman. What floor is he on?”

“Second.”

“Then let's walk him up. Manson, lift your feet. That's it. You're doing nobly.”

Ellery and Dullman hustled him up the staircase toward the mezzanine. Dullman was crooning in the actor's ear, “No more martinis, huh, Mark? So tomorrow night you can step out on that stage in those sexy tights of yours and give these Yokelsville ladies a thrill. You're the great Mark Manson, remember?” Manson made small pleased noises.

Scutney and Roger came running up behind them.

“How is he?” Scutney panted.

“Beginning to feel pain, I think,” Ellery said. “How about it, Manson?”

“My dear sir,” the actor said indulgently. “Anyone would think I am intoxicated. Really, this is undignified and unnecessary.”

He achieved the mezzanine landing and paused there to recuperate. Ellery glanced at Dullman, and Dullman nodded. They released him. It was a mistake.

Ellery grabbed in vain. “
Catch him!
” But both Scutney and Roger stood there, stunned. Manson, still smiling, toppled backward between them.

Fascinated, they watched the star of
The Death of Don Juan
bounce his way step after step down the long marble staircase until he landed on the lobby floor and lay still.

ACT I. Scene 3.

They went straight from the hospital to Dullman's room at the Hollis. Dullman sat down at the telephone.

“Long distance? New York City. Phil Stone, theatrical agent, West Forty-fourth Street. No, I'll hold on.”

“Stone.” Scutney was hopping about the room. “I don't know him, Archer.”

“So you don't know him,” the New Yorker grunted. “Phil? Arch Dullman.”

“So what do you want?” Ellery could hear Stone's bass rasp distinctly.

“Philly boy,” Dullman said.

“Please, Archie, no routines. It's been an itch of a day, and I was just going home. What's on your mind?”

“Phil, I'm on a spot up here—”

“Up where?”

“Wrightsville. New England.”

“Never heard. Can't be a show town. What are you, in a new racket?”

“There's a stock company here just getting started. I made a deal for Mark Manson with this producer to do
Death of Don Juan
.”

“What producer?”

“Scutney Bluefield.”

“Whatney Bluefield?”

“Never mind! Opening's tomorrow night. Tonight Manson falls down a staircase in the hotel and breaks the wrist and a couple fingers of his right hand, besides cracking two ribs.”

“Old lushes never die. That's all?”

“It's plenty. There might even be concussion. They're keeping him in the hospital twenty-four hours just in case.”

“So what?” The agent sounded remote.

“The thing is, they've taped his ribs and put a cast on his forearm and hand. He won't be able to work for weeks.” A drop of perspiration coursed down Dullman's nose and landed on the butt of his cigar. “Phil—how about Foster Benedict?”

Stone's guffaw rattled the telephone.

“Foster Benedict?” Scutney Bluefield looked astounded. He leaped to Dullman's free ear. “You get him, Archer!”

But Ellery was watching Rodge Fowler. At the sound of Benedict's name Roger had gripped the arms of his chair as if a nerve had been jabbed.

Dullman paid no attention to Scutney. “Well, you hyena?”

Stone's voice said dryly, “Might I be so stupid as to ask if this Bluefield and his company are pros?”

Arch Dullman spat his cigar butt, a thing of shining shreds, onto the carpet. “It's an amateur group.”

“Look, crook,” the agent boomed. “This backwoods Sam Harris wants a replacement for Manson, he's got to contact me, not you. He's got to satisfy Equity, not you. You still there, Archie?”

“I'm still here,” Dullman sighed. “Here's Bluefield.”

Scutney was at the phone in a flash. Dullman picked up the butt and put it back in his mouth. He remained near the phone.

“Scutney Bluefield here,” Scutney said nervously. “Do I understand, Mr. Stone, that Foster Benedict is available for a two-week engagement in
The Death of Don Juan
, to start tomorrow night?”

“Mr. Benedict's resting between engagements. I don't know if I could talk him into going right back to work.”

“How well does he know the part?”

“Foster's done that turkey so many times he quacks. That's another reason it might not interest him. He's sick of it.”

“How much,” Scutney asked, not without humor, “will it take to cure him?”

Stone said carelessly, “Fifteen hundred a week might do it.”

“Give me that phone!” Dullman said. “Who do you think you're dealing with, Phil? Benedict's washed up in Hollywood, dead on Broadway, and TV's had a bellyful of him. I happen to know he's flat on his tokus. I wouldn't let Mr. Bluefield touch him with a skunk pole if Manson's accident hadn't left us over this barrel. Seven-fifty, Phil, take it or leave it. You taking or leaving?”

After ten seconds the agent said, “I'll call you back.” Dullman gave him the number of the Hollis phone and his extension and hung up.

“He'll take.” Dullman lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Scutney began to hop around the room again.

“You're asking for it,” Roger Fowler said tightly. “Benedict's a bad actor, Scutney. And I'm not referring to his professional competence.”

“
Please
, Roger,” the little man said testily. “Don't I have enough on my mind?”

Twelve minutes later the telephone rang. From the bed Dullman said, “You can take it.”

“Yes?” Scutney cried.

“We're taking,” Stone's bass said. “But you understand, Mr. Bluefield, you got to clear this deal with Equity yourself before we lift a hoof.”

“Yes, yes. First thing in the morning.”

“I'll be waiting for Equity's go-ahead. Soon as I get it, Benedict's on his way.”

“Hold it,” Dullman said.

“Hold it,” Scutney said.

Dullman got wearily off the bed, whispered something, and returned to the bed.

Scutney pursed his lips. “According to my information, Mr. Stone, Benedict might start out tomorrow for Wrightsville and wind up in a Montreal hotel room with some girl he picked up en route. Can you guarantee delivery?”

“What's that sucker Dullman want, my blood? I'll put him on the plane. That's the best I can do.”

Scutney glanced anxiously at Dullman. Dullman shrugged.

“Well, all right, but please impress on Mr. Benedict …”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“He'll have to change planes in Boston, by the way. There's no through flight. I'll have a car waiting at Wrightsville Airport. If he makes an early enough connection we ought to be able to get in a quick run-through.”

“That's up to Equity. Like I said, he ain't moving a muscle—”

“Leave Equity to me. You just get Benedict here.”

“Up in his lines,” Dullman said.

“Up in his lines,” Scutney said, and he hung up. “Archer, that was an inspiration!” Dullman grunted. “Roger, would you run across the Square and ask the
Record
to hold the press? I'll phone them the new copy for tomorrow's ad in a few minutes.”

“You're dead set on going ahead with this?” Roger said, not moving.

“Now, Rodge,” Scutney said.

Dullman began to snore.

Ellery thought the whole performance extraordinary.

ACT I. Scene 4.

Ellery made his way around the Square and into Lower Main under a filthy sky.

It had been an exasperating day for Scutney Bluefield. The little man had been on the long-distance phone to Equity since early morning. By the time the details were straightened out to Equity's satisfaction and Foster Benedict was airborne to Boston, he was on a schedule so tight that he could not hope to set down in Wrightsville before 7:55
P
.
M
. This would give the actor barely enough time to make up, get into costume, and dash onstage for the 8:30 curtain.

Ellery walked into the lobby of the rejuvenated Bijou, pushed through one of the new black-patent leatherette doors, and entered Scutney Bluefield's Playhouse.

The elegantly done-over interior lay under a heavy hush. The cast, made up and in costume, were sitting about the nakedly lit first-act set either sipping from coffee containers that might have been poisoned or staring into the gloom of the theater in emotional rapport. A pretty blond girl he recognized as Joan Truslow was stretched out tensely on the set couch where, Ellery surmised, Don Juan Benedict was shortly to seduce her in the service of art. Roger Fowler, in coveralls, was stroking her temples.

Ellery slipped down the last aisle on his right and through the stage door. He found himself in a cramped triangle of space, the stage to his left. To his right a single door displayed a painted star and a placard hastily lettered MR. BENEDICT. A narrow iron ladder led to a tiny railed landing above and another dressing room.

Curious, Ellery opened the starred door and looked in. Scutney had outdone himself here. Brilliant lighting switched on in the windowless room at the opening of the door. Air-conditioning hummed softly. The driftwood-paneled walls were hung with theatrical prints. Costumes lay thrown about and the handsome tri-mirrored dressing table was a clutter of wigs, hand props, and pots and boxes of theatrical make-up, evidently as Manson had left them before his accident.

Impressed, Ellery backed out. He edged around an open metal chest marked
Tools
and made his way behind the upstage flat to the other side of the theater. Here there was ample space for the property room, the stage entrance, the lighting board, and a spiral of iron steps leading up to half a dozen additional dressing rooms. Beneath them, at stage level, a door announced
Mr. Bluefield. Keep Out
.