Early Sunday afternoon, July 13, 1947
We finished at the main library and headed to the theater, parking once again on Michigan Street. It was a short walk from there to the alley, which ran through to Everett Street in the next block, a convenient thoroughfare for trash collection, deliveries, and service vehicles. It was well-lit from the afternoon sun this time of day. Alan and I walked to the stage door, where Oliver was already leaning against the rusted metal railing that bordered the stoop on three sides. As we climbed the steps to meet him, he smiled, discarded a cigarette onto the concrete landing, and ground it out with his shoe.
“Nice to see you again, Heath, Alan.”
I tipped my hat. “Thanks for meeting us here, Oliver. The station needs Mr. Berkett’s contact information and his next of kin.”
“Yeah, that’s what the fellow on the phone said.”
“Are you aware of any family he may have had?”
He shook his head. “He never spoke of anyone to me, anyway. But we didn’t talk much off the stage. I’ve got his file in my office. Shall we go in?”
“Let’s.” I handed him the keys, and he opened the door, turning on the lights as we stepped into the dark interior. Using another key, he disengaged the alarm bell and closed the door behind us as he pushed his fedora back on his head, revealing a shock of his snow-white hair. It was eerily silent as we glanced about, and it gave me an uneasy feeling, though nothing had changed since the night before.
“My office is on the other side, as you may remember. Probably easier and quicker if we go across the set.” Oliver flicked some more levers in a panel on the wall, turning on additional lights before stepping through the doorway onto the stage. “This way.”
I removed my hat and followed along behind, with Alan bringing up the rear, his hat also in hand. The spooky set did nothing to allay my uneasiness. We walked past the chalk outline of Shelby’s body on the floor, surrounded by dried tea stains and shards of ceramic pieces the lab boys didn’t take. We hadn’t gone far when I heard Alan gasp behind me, and I turned to find him staring up at the stairs on the set that led to the scaffolding.
“What is it?” I said. He had dropped his hat and stopped dead in his tracks. “You look as shaken as a good martini.”
Alan looked at me, clearly startled. “I like my martinis stirred.”
“A good martini has vodka and a pickle,” I said. “Shaken or stirred doesn’t matter all that much.”
“You’re both wrong,” Oliver said. “A good martini has gin and two olives. So what did you see?”
Alan pointed to the stairs of the set. “I thought I saw someone or something on the stairway landing of the set,” he said as he picked up his hat and brushed it off.
The three of us looked where he’d pointed, but there was nothing there, at least not that I could tell.
“What did you see?” I said.
“I’m not sure, exactly. It was gray and misty, dark. The size of a man almost,” Alan said softly.
I felt a shiver run down my spine.
“It’s gone now, if it was ever there. Maybe I’m seeing things,” he said.
“Maybe. It’s a tad creepy here, especially with only minimal lights on. I’m sure all our imaginations are running wild,” I said. As a precaution, I walked back, climbed a few of the steps, and looked about, but I didn’t see anything. The prop portraits on the fake walls stared down at us glumly, but other than that the place appeared empty.
“I guess I was mistaken,” Alan said, and I could tell he was embarrassed.
“Might have been a shadow or a bird that got in somehow.”
“Would have had to have been an awfully big bird,” Alan said.
“The shadow of a bird, perhaps, or a bat from up in the scaffolding and catwalks. Or a cloud of dust.”
Oliver took a few steps back and looked around. “I didn’t see or hear anything, and I don’t see or hear anything now. There’s no one here but the three of us,” he said.
Alan looked at him. “I know. It was just for a moment. I could swear he was there…”
“Who?” I said, instinctively feeling for my revolver but leaving it holstered.
Alan shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure why I said that.”
“You’re thinking of Alexander Lippencott, aren’t you?” I said.
Alan looked sheepish. “Maybe. You can’t discount those things, despite what you believe or don’t believe. But if something or someone was there, it’s gone now.”
“All right, then, let’s keep moving,” I said.
Oliver turned around and led us across the stage and down the hall to his office. We waited as he unlocked the door, turned on the light, and ushered us in, placing his hat on a hook next to the door.
I must admit I was glad when Oliver closed the door behind us and we were safely in the coziness of his office. I think Alan was even happier.
“The theater can be an eerie place sometimes,” Oliver said, as he went behind his desk to a bank of battered old oak file cabinets.
“Yeah, I noticed,” Alan said, taking a seat in one of the chairs as I took the other, our hats on our laps.
“Well anyway, I keep the cast member files in here—their contracts, bios, photos, and legal papers, including emergency contact information.” He pulled open a drawer marked “A–C” and extracted a folder he put on the desk. “This is Berkett’s,” he said, sitting down across from us.
“May I?” I said, reaching for it.
Oliver drew it closer to him. “Sorry, Heath. I can give you the contact information, but I can’t allow you to have the whole file, unless you have a court order, of course.”
I withdrew my hand. “Fair enough. No court order for now, so tell me what’s in there.”
Oliver turned on the green glass banker’s lamp on the desktop and opened the file, flipping through the first few pages as I did my best to have a look upside down at the contents. I noticed there were headshots and bio sheets on Shelby, lots of legal-looking documents and contracts, and then, finally, the personal information page.
“He lists his permanent address as 422 West Sixty-third Street, New York, New York. For next of kin he wrote ‘None,’” Oliver said.
“Gee, really?” Alan said.
“That’s what he put. I remember him telling me his parents died when he was a teenager, and he was an only child. The contact person is a Merle Babcock, Shelby’s agent. There’s a phone number and an address in Brooklyn listed.”
“I’ll need you to write the phone number and address down if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, that’s fine.” He reached into his top desk drawer and took out a piece of stationery and a pencil, and jotted the information down, sliding it across to desk to me. “Anything else I can help you with?”
I put the paper in my suit pocket. “Now that you mention it, I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh? What about?”
“Last night, for starters.”
“Sure, ask away. Want a drink? I can’t manage a martini, shaken or stirred, but I do have this, you may remember.” He pulled open one of the bottom drawers of his desk and extracted the bottle of bourbon, a third full. “I still don’t have any ice, though. And only two glasses.”
I shook my head. “That’s all right. It’s too early, and we’re on official business anyway.”
He raised his thin white eyebrows. “I see.” He put the bottle back in the drawer and closed it. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”
“Not sure how else to say it, Oliver. I know we go back a ways, but this is business. You can understand that.”
“Of course. But what’s this about? You both seem so serious.”
“We are serious. Alan’s going to be taking some notes as we talk, if you don’t mind.” Alan had put his hat on the desktop and extracted his pencil and notebook from his inside pocket.
Oliver looked from me to Alan and then back to me. “Talk about what?”
“Last night.”
“You said that already. What about it?”
“You told Alan you went to your office here about six fifteen to make a phone call.”
“That’s right, I think. Only it was more like six ten. Besides making the call, I wanted to listen to my radio spot at thirteen after.”
“Who did you call?”
“My brother, Wally. He hadn’t shown up yet, and I was getting worried.”
“Where was he?”
“He had car trouble. I didn’t reach him, but he showed up just before curtain.”
“How long were you in here?” I said.
“I don’t know. Five minutes, maybe. Why?”
“Just curious. Did you close your office door?”
“Yes, I always do. Habit, I guess.”
“But you said before that sometimes when you’re in the theater alone, the door seems to close on its own, meaning it was left open. You attributed it to the building settling.”
Oliver appeared flustered. “Well, sure, sometimes when I’m here alone I leave the door open. The theater can be spooky, as we said before. But I always close it when there are people about. For privacy, you know. Just like it’s closed now.”
“Right. Were there people about last night? Did you see anyone on your way to your office?”
He shook his head. “No, not exactly. Everyone was getting ready for the show, I suppose. I’m not sure where they all were.”
“I see. And what about Peter Holloway?”
“What about him? Peter was passed out on the sofa when I came back out of my office.”
“So, he wasn’t there when you went in?”
“No, I don’t think so. I didn’t notice him, anyway. I had been up front in the ticket office, hoping for some last-minute sales. That’s when I realized Wally hadn’t shown up yet, so I decided to go to my office and call him. I went into the auditorium, up on the stage, behind the curtain, and back here. I guess I didn’t really look toward the dock door. Peter may have been lying there. He kind of blends in with his black butler livery.”
“But you did notice him when you came out of your office,” I said as Alan scribbled away.
“That’s right. In the short time I was in here, it seems the whole cast materialized.”
“So, you and Dick tried to help Peter to his feet, his pillbox fell to the ground, and you thought it fell from between the sofa cushions?”
“Yes, that’s right. Where else would it have come from?”
“Maybe one of Peter’s pockets?”
“Maybe, except Peter told us it had disappeared, and he seemed amazed to have it turn up, so why would it have been in his pocket? Unless he was putting me on.”
“A possibility. So, you picked it up after it hit the floor.”
“I wasn’t going to just leave it there. I opened it and noticed it was empty and had an odd odor about it. Peter wanted it back, but I figured it would be better locked in my office until after the show.”
“Even though it was empty?”
“I didn’t want him dropping it onstage. He did that once during one of the rehearsals. It makes quite a noise when it hits the ground.”
“I imagine so.”
“Alan can tell you it’s quite loud. Right, Alan?”
“That’s right, Mr. Crane,” Alan said, looking up briefly from his notebook, pencil still on the page.
“I’m not disputing that, Oliver. Was the pillbox empty when it went missing?”
“Apparently not. When I opened it, Peter asked what had happened to all his pills. Of course, he may have taken them all and just forgotten.”
“That’s possible. The lab reports were conclusive that Shelby died from poisoning, by the way.”
Oliver’s white face looked ashen. “So the rumors are true. I kept thinking it must have been a heart attack or a stroke. Who would poison him? I mean, he wasn’t well liked but…hey, wait a minute, is this what this is all about? Do you think I killed him?”
“I’m not saying that, but since you brought it up, did you?”
He laughed nervously. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not.”
“Everyone’s a suspect, is that it?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Including me.” He looked nervous and paler than usual, his skin the color of milk. He undid his shirt collar and loosened his tie.
“You had opportunity and motive, Oliver. I can’t play favorites, I’m sorry.”
“But it doesn’t make sense, Heath. Think about it. Why would I kill my star performer on opening night? I told you before I have a lot invested in this show. Without Shelby Berkett, I’m not even sure I can reopen. I may be crazy, but I’m not insane. Sure, I admit I didn’t care for him, but I don’t think that makes for much of a motive.”
“Right, right. I thought about that, but as I said, I must consider everyone until proven otherwise.”
“Well, I can think of several other people who had the opportunity and a much stronger motive than mine.”
“Such as?”
Oliver took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Jazz Monroe, for one. I should think that would be obvious.”
“Yes, and Jasper, of course.”
“That’s true, but I’ve known them both a long time. Jasper hated Berkett with a passion, but I just don’t see him killing anyone, no matter how much of a motive he may have.”
“But you could see Jazz doing it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Not directly,” I said. “I would like to pay Jazz a visit and talk to Jasper. Do you have their addresses?”
He wiped his neck next, then put his handkerchief back in his pocket. “Sure, sure. Jazz lives on the east side, not too far from my place, and Jasper only lives a couple blocks from the theater.” He went back to the file cabinets, got the information, and handed it to me.
“Thanks. We’re all finished here, I think,” I said, putting their addresses in my other coat pocket.
“I hope I’m not,” Oliver said, turning off the banker’s lamp on his desktop. “I’m picking up Jasper after I leave here, since he lives close by. We’re going to go back to my place and run through some ideas.”
Alan and I got to our feet and Oliver followed suit. He put Jazz’s folder away and closed the cabinet drawer before walking us to the door.
“Ideas for the show, you mean?” I said.
“Yes, he’s my friend and sounding board. I take care of him. He doesn’t have much.” He opened the door and the three of us stepped into the darkened hall as he turned off the overhead light and took his hat off the hook. “If we can keep the show going, it will be easier to keep him on payroll.”
“What happens to Death Comes to Lochwood remains to be seen,” I said. “A lot depends on who killed Shelby Berkett.”
Oliver locked the door behind us. “I have a lot invested in this show, Heath. Not just money, which is considerable for me, but my time and my heart. Besides, it’s my brother’s first play, so that makes it even more personal, if that makes any sense.”
“It makes a lot of sense,” Alan said.
“Thanks. I’m glad you understand, Alan.” He shot me a look that hurt, but I ignored it as best I could. Being a police detective was hard sometimes.
The three of us headed back down the hall single file, but we hadn’t gotten far when we were stopped suddenly in our tracks by a loud, piercing noise. Alan covered his ears with his hands as the three of us glanced about, trying to determine the source.
I took a few steps forward. “What’s in there?” I said, raising my voice above the noise as I pointed to a door on my right. “It seems like that’s where it may be coming from.”
“The supply room,” Oliver said, “and there is a radiator in there. It may just be air in the pipes.”
“Is the door locked?”
“Always, but I have a key.”
“Open it,” I said.
I took my revolver from its holster beneath my sport coat as I nodded to Alan. Alan moved Oliver off to the side once Oliver had unlocked the door. I turned the knob and pushed the door open, flattening myself against the hall wall. The noise stopped as abruptly as it had started. I paused and waited, my eye on the doorway, but nothing was forthcoming, so I felt for a light switch.
I flicked it on and swung into the door frame. I dropped to a crouch, my gun in both hands in front of me, but there was no one in the room. I got to my feet and holstered my gun.
“All clear,” I said. Alan released Oliver, and they both stepped into the light and looked into the room with me. It was more of a large closet, maybe six by ten, with shelves on the left side filled with bottles, jugs, sponges, toilet paper, and toweling. On the right side stood a row of brooms, mops, and buckets. I walked over to the iron radiator at the rear of the room and felt it with the back of my hand. “Ice cold,” I said.
“The heat’s off,” Oliver said.
“Right, so what caused that noise?”
“Old building, odd noises. It happens all the time,” Oliver said. “Might have been rats fighting inside one of the walls.”
I was doubtful but nodded just the same as I glanced about. One of the brooms seemed out of place, set closer to the front door than the rest. I examined it and noticed something sticky on the end of the handle.
“Curious,” I said, putting it back carefully. “There’s a sticky substance on the end of it.”
Alan had a look. “Sticky? From what?”
“Not sure. Glue or tape maybe.” I smelled my fingers, but that test was inconclusive.
“I wonder,” I said, more to myself than to either of them.
“What do you wonder?” Alan said.
“Did the lab crew check this room?”
“I don’t think so, it’s just a supply closet.”
“Still, this seems odd to me. I think you better call the station and get the boys down here again. I want to make sure nothing has been overlooked.”
“Yes sir. May I use your phone, Mr. Crane?”
“Certainly,” he replied, unlocking his office door once more as I continued to inspect the closet, inch by inch.
Alan and Oliver returned momentarily. “Crew’s on the way,” Alan said. “Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.”
I looked at my pocket watch. “I sometimes marvel at the efficiency of the Milwaukee Police Department.”
“I agree. Find anything else?”
“No, but maybe they will. Who all has the key to this room, Oliver?”
“I do, of course, along with Jasper and Dick. It’s the same key that opens the prop room.”
Alan and I exchanged looks.
“Interesting. Let’s go back out to the stage door and wait for the lab crew. I think I’ve seen enough here.” As I turned to leave, something shiny caught my eye, wedged between two paint cans on a shelf near the door. I extracted it carefully.
“What’s that?” Alan said.
“A hand mirror, a compact. Look familiar, Oliver?”
Oliver gave it the once over as I held it gingerly. “Seems to fit the description of the one that went missing from Eve’s dressing room.”
“Hmmm. And it’s sticky, just like the broom handle. Curious indeed.”
“What do you think that means?” Alan said.
“I don’t know, but let’s go let the lab crew in.” We all stepped out into the hall and I closed the door, leaving the mirror behind on the shelf where I found it.
“What are you thinking?” Oliver said. “What’s it all about? Or maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Maybe you don’t, Oliver, but I do.”
The three of us headed down the hall then and back onto the stage.
“I’m sorry about all this, Oliver, I really am. I know you had a lot invested in this play, and I’m sorry all this happened. Sorry for Shelby, sorry for you, sorry for whoever the murderer is.”
“Thanks, Heath. I appreciate that. I wasn’t sure I could reopen without Shelby, but I think I can still make it work. I’m sure Henry will be more than willing to take over the role of Roger, and Peter can take over the role of the inspector. Alan, maybe you could take over the role of the butler. I can find someone else to play the policeman.”
Alan grinned as we walked across the stage, the mystery vision on the stairs from earlier apparently forgotten.
“Before any of that can happen, we have a murder to solve,” I said, “and if it’s one of your other cast members, I’m not so sure you’ll be able to reopen.”
“You always were the voice of reason,” Oliver said glumly.
“Just doing my job. I intend to find the murderer no matter who it is.” I swallowed hard, avoiding his gaze. Even if it’s you, I added silently to myself.
True to their word, the lab boys showed up not more than fifteen minutes later. We retraced our steps to the supply room as I filled them in on what had transpired. I asked them to give the room the once-over, specifically the broom handle and mirror, which I wanted dusted for fingerprints. As they went to work, I decided to poke my head into the prop room directly across the hall.
“You said it’s the same key for this door as the supply room?”
“Yes. It just makes it easier,” Oliver said.
“Open it up for me, will you? That noise might have been coming from in there. The hall is so narrow it was hard to tell.”
Oliver unlocked the prop room door and stepped back as I turned the knob. The overhead light was already on. A musty smell hung in the air. The room was much larger than the supply room, filled with shelves and drawers full of all sorts of odd things, including clocks, telephones, books, boxes, vases, artificial flowers, glassware, cups, saucers, and small statues. On the left was a slop sink, a glass pitcher resting inside it. The faucet’s slow drip plunked steadily down into the now-full pitcher. A large container of sugar rested on a shelf above the sink. On the far wall stood a small metal desk. On the desk’s surface were a green felt blotter, large notebook, a pencil to the left of the notebook, and a radio, which was softly playing. Oliver and Alan had followed me in, leaving the door ajar.
“Maybe that noise we heard before came from the radio,” Alan said, looking at me.
“Perhaps.” I walked over to the radio and turned up the volume knob quite high. The sounds of a big band came booming out, followed by a man’s voice.
“This is WBSM, the WB network. And now, a word from today’s sponsor, Spritely Travel. Let Spritely Travel take you away to sunny Orlando, Florida, this winter.” As the commercial began, I went back out into the hall and closed the door. Then I stepped back in and turned the volume down.
“I couldn’t hear it out there at all, even with the sound turned up, so I don’t think that was the noise we heard. I’m mystified as to what it was,” I said.
“Old buildings, like I said before,” Oliver said. “Maybe rats. I have seen a few here and there. Jasper sets out traps, but they don’t do much good. He’s worried Pompom will get into them, so he only puts them in out-of-the-way places. I should get a cat or two.”
“Right. Cats are good company, too. Does Jasper keep the radio and the light on all the time, Oliver?” I said.
“No, he usually turns them off before he goes home. But you took his keys last night, so he couldn’t get back in here.”
“I left his keys at the station for safekeeping. What’s in the notebook on the desk?”
“Jasper keeps track of all the props, including what shows they were used in, who used them, all that stuff, and where they’re stored. It may look like organized chaos in here, but he has his own unique system.”
“Does anyone else make notes in the ledger besides Jasper?”
Oliver shook his head. “He’s pretty territorial about those things. Besides, no one else would even know where to begin.”
“I see.” I flipped through the notebook but, as Oliver had said, it might as well have been written in a foreign language. I set it back down and noticed a small wicker basket on the floor next to the desk, filled with a small, plump green and blue plaid cushion. “Pompom’s?”
“That’s right. Always by his side. The radio is more for Pompom than Jasper. Jasper says it soothes him.”
“The things people do for their dogs. Where did Jasper normally keep the teapot when the play wasn’t going on?”
“On the shelf right here by the door.”
The wooden shelf had a small ring the size of the teapot lid to the left of where the teapot must have been sitting. “That must be where the murderer set the top down when he or she filled the teapot with the poison.”
“What makes you think that?” Alan said.
“I imagine when Jasper put the teapot away after each performance or rehearsal, he would rinse it out and place it on the shelf here. When he filled it before each performance, he would fill it at the sink, where the sugar is, removing the lid over by the sink, not on the shelf. Something to ask him about, anyway.”
I looked about once more but couldn’t see anything out of place, so I turned off the radio and left, Oliver and Alan following, just as one of the lab guys was coming out of the supply closet.
“We’re all finished, Detective. We dusted the broom handle and mirror for prints and took a sample of the sticky substance for analysis downtown. We photographed everything, too, just in case.”
“Good, thanks. Did you notice anything else?”
“No sir. Just your usual mops, buckets, soap, sponges, brooms, and whatnot.”
I fished the contact information from Oliver out of my pocket. “Okay, give this to Sergeant Standish. Tell him it’s from me, and he’ll know what’s it for.”
“Yes sir.” The other lab tech came out of the closet carrying the sample in question, along with his camera.
“One more thing,” I said. “In the prop room, there is a ledger with a pencil to the left of it on the desk against the wall. Take the pencil and ledger downtown and give them the once-over.”
The one with the camera looked at the other one, then back at me. “Sure thing, Detective. Have something in mind?”
“Maybe. Too soon to tell.”
The one with the camera shrugged as the other fellow entered and carefully retrieved the pencil and book. When he had them secured, I turned out the light and closed the door, instructing Oliver to lock both rooms up.
The five of us exited the building. “I’ll expect a full report as soon as you have it, boys,” I said.
“Will do, Detective. Shouldn’t take long,” the taller one said as they put on their hats and got in their car.
I turned back to Oliver. “Thanks again for meeting us here.”
“You’re welcome. Please keep me posted. You know where to find me,” he said, handing me back the key ring.
“I do. See ya.”
“See ya,” Oliver said. He looked worried and tired.
When Alan and I were back in my car, I turned it toward downtown. “Let’s get some lunch before we visit Jazz. I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
“Good idea. I’m starved!”
I laughed. “Hardly starved, but I know what you mean.”