Chapter Eight

Arthur Darien decided against the police. Buoyed by Darien’s concern and his offer to pay all damages, Eddie went along with him. Spraggue called them anyway, dialing a number three years hadn’t made him forget.

The pay phone on the corner of Huntington Avenue was in typical shape: door kicked in, phone book ripped out. But it had two advantages: it commanded a view of the front door of the theater, and was far enough from that front door so that no one entering or leaving the theater could overhear Spraggue’s end of the conversation.

Lieutenant Detective Fred Hurley grabbed the phone on the first ring. “Hurley. Records,” he snarled.

“Charming as always,” said Spraggue.

“Huh?”

“Did you happen to find an envelope on your desk this morning?”

“Yeah, but I figured I was seeing things ’cause the guy that sent me the envelope, I haven’t seen him for years. Is that you, Spraggue?.”

“You don’t recognize my voice?”

“After all these years? Christ!”

“Can you help me out?”

“You back in the business, Spraggue?”

“No. Just a little thing I’m handling for a friend.”

“Some little thing. Must be ten names in that envelope.”

“Eleven. All I want is a rundown, anybody with a record. I listed birthplaces and last known addresses. That should help.”

“You’re all heart. Look, I’m busy, but I’ll try.”

“Just charge a little of that overtime to me instead of the city. That’s all I’m asking.”

Hurley’s voice took on a new note. “You going to tell me who you’re working for?”

“No harm in that. I’m acting again, for Arthur Darien, over at the Fens Theater.”

“Over by Symphony, right? Old District 4. Interesting.”

“Why?” Spraggue asked. Hurley’s brain was like a camera. Once it photographed information, the image stayed put. That was the department’s excuse for sticking the former homicide specialist at a desk in Records.

“You help me, I help you, right?” said Hurley.

“Right.”

“Then keep your eyes open. That area’s very intriguing to your local police force.”

“You have to tell me what to keep my eye on, Hurley. I’m just an amateur.”

“Sure. Anything out of the ordinary. But especially drugs. Somebody’s doing some fancy cocaine dealing around there. Neighborhood’s going to hell. Burglary, arson.…”

“If I stumble across the odd kilo, I’ll dump it at your door.”

“I’ll owe you for anything that helps get me out of this crummy desk job. Those other two items you want are going to take me some time. The accident report from New York and that Chicago business—”

“Probably just gossip-column fodder, but I’d appreciate it if you’d get me a copy of the death certificate.”

“Geoffrey Ambrose, huh?”

“Right.”

“Like I said, I’ll try. Call me in a couple days.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Fred.”

“Great. I love to talk: But don’t expect anything until at least the day after. I can’t tell the cops that I’m holding up their stuff just to do you a favor, you know.”

“Talk to you tomorrow, Fred.” Spraggue hung up.

Outside the theater a limousine halted, tooted its horn twice. John Langford, swathed in a shapeless black cloak, wearing huge dark glasses, descended the theater stairs at a regal pace. The uniformed chauffeur got out of the car and opened the rear street-side door.

But the limo didn’t move. It disrupted traffic on Huntington Avenue for the next few minutes. Then red-haired Emma appeared on the front steps, ran swiftly downstairs, and vanished into the car. The limo took off, just catching the tail end of the yellow at the intersection, and roared out of sight.

Spraggue left the phone booth and strolled back to the theater to find Georgina Phillips.

She was in her dressing room, eyes closed, feet propped up on the ledge that served as a makeup table. Spraggue was willing to bet that Georgina rated a private room only because no one else would put up with dressing in a closet. The cubicle reminded him of the phone booth he’d just vacated. Standing dead center, he could touch all four walls without stretching.

Georgina had tried to make the phone booth livable. The far wall boasted a Sierra Club poster, framed to imitate the window the room sadly lacked. A paper lantern attempted to soften the glare from the bare bulb on the ceiling. Photographs covered up some of the peeling plaster. One was probably Georgina as a child. Hair ruffled, slender body hunched in sleep, she looked much the same now.

She must have sensed his presence. Her eyes opened and she smiled. “What are you thinking?”

“Oh, something like, ‘There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face—’”

“Stop it!” Georgina sat up angrily. “That’s from Macbeth! You should know better than to quote the Scottish play in a theater, of all places!”

“I forgot,” Spraggue said. “I never really believed in—”

“Some of us do.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You were probably thinking I looked dumb, and now I’ve just proved it.”

“Pretty. I was thinking you looked pretty.”

“Same thing, huh? Men equate ‘pretty’ and ‘blonde’ with ‘dumb’ in these parts, or haven’t you noticed?”

“I’ve noticed,” Spraggue said, “but it’s another thing I don’t believe in. I was wondering if you could help me.”

Georgina shook her head, grinned ruefully. “Want to start over? I’m sorry. I guess you scared me. I woke up and there you were, towering over me.…”

“Forget it.”

“Want to talk in the lounge? It’s kind of cramped in here.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Spraggue said.

“So nobody’ll overhear us?” Georgina whispered.

Spraggue nodded solemnly. Georgina’s gray eyes gleamed. She maintained a dignified silence until they marched down the front steps of the theater. Then she looked around carefully before murmuring: “I found the stuff you wanted.”

With effort, Spraggue kept a straight face. She was playing a part from an old Hitchcock movie. “Yes?” he said.

“Four-two-five-one.”

“How was it written?”

She bit her lower lip in concentration. “The four was like Roman numerals, a capital i and a capital v. Then the rest all in normal numbers. No spaces anywhere.”

Just like the other message.

“Does it mean something?” Georgina asked eagerly. “Do you know what it means?”

“Suggest anything to you?”

“I was thinking of playing it as my lottery number. Wait! How about a phone number? Is there any exchange that could be IV2? Just a minute!” She dove into the phone booth on the corner. “I is 4! V is 8! Is there a 482 exchange in Boston?”

“No. And you’re two digits short.” Georgina deflated. “But it was a fine idea,” Spraggue said.

“Four-two-fifty-one.” She was off again. “I-V-twenty-five-one. It’s a clue, right? A message.…”

“Could be.”

“What good’s a message if nobody can understand it?”

“Exactly,” Spraggue said. “That’s why I think it must be something fairly obvious. At first I thought it was the play—act, scene, and line. Actors would be sure to understand that.”

“Act, scene, and line! That’s good, Michael. It works. Even the Roman numerals.”

“Except,” Spraggue said glumly, “that it doesn’t. Look at your number. Starts with four. How many acts are there in Dracula?”

“Three.”

“Right.”

“Then it’s probably a five-act play,” Georgina said, “the one the messages are about.”

“That narrows it down.” He kept the sarcasm out of his voice.

“I’ll think about it, Michael. I’ve got to get back.”

“Thanks.”

“And I won’t say anything to anyone! ’Bye.” She turned and offered him a flashing grin. “I just hope it’s not Macbeth!”

Spraggue checked the time, turned, and crossed the street. Two blocks down, he entered a small secondhand bookshop.

“Plays?” said the elderly proprietor. “On your left, at the back of the store. Don’t get so much call for them anymore. Anything special?”

“Shakespeare.”

“Plenty of him. Second shelf from the bottom. Soon as the kids finish off reading him in school, they sell the books back to me.”

Spraggue found a tattered copy of The Complete Tragedies, fumbled through it until he located Macbeth.

“Four-twenty-five-one,” he mumbled to himself. Act Four, scene twenty-five—No. Not even Shakespeare had twenty-five scenes to the act. Scene two, line fifty-one.

He found it quickly, running a finger down the yellowed page.

“And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?”

Line 51, Macduff’s son to Lady Macduff. Her answer: “Every one.”

Hanged. Like Eddie in his vandalized room. Like Samuel Borgmann Phelps in his beautiful bankrupt playhouse …

Spraggue thumbed quickly through the pages. What was that other number? The one in Greg’s sack. 1538. Act One this time. Scene five. Yes, Act One was a long one, seven scenes. Line 38:

“The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my battlements.”

A raven … a raven. A big black bird like the one in Darien’s office.…

Spraggue paid three dollars for the dog-eared volume and hurried back to the theater.