The Fourth Wall Read online

  She sighed. “Some of them are bright, they really are. But even the bright ones can be so dumb you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Do you like teaching?” I asked her.

  “It pays the rent. But there’s so little to show for all your effort.”

  It was the kind of admission a rested and careful Claudia would never have made. “I know,” I said. “I’ve had more than a few of those jobs myself. Sisyphus work.”

  We talked a while longer, and eventually the conversation got around to Loren Keith. Claudia had never met Loren, but Jay Berringer had told her about the blinding.

  “Is Loren Keith the sort of person who arouses strong feelings in other people?” she asked.

  That surprised me; most people would have asked if he had many enemies. “No, not at all. In fact, Loren is one of those accepted people. Who belong wherever they are, whatever they’re doing.”

  She nodded. “Could it have been a mistake? Maybe the acid was meant for someone else.”

  Maybe. Probably we’d never know.

  Back in the theater the cast was assembled for rehearsal. This time I sat with Claudia so I could hear what she said to the actors. She summarized the points I had made the day before and managed to convey the impression that it was time for the cast to wake up and begin acting like actors. Then she gave detailed instructions to the individual performers, and rehearsal began.

  The two little open-mouthed actresses did everything Claudia told them to do and did it with much more animation than they’d shown before. My opinion of them rose about a hundred per cent. They took direction far better than Jay Berringer did.

  In one scene Claudia told Jay four times to stop edging toward the center of the stage; he was upstaging the actress with whom he was playing the scene. Claudia directed him to hold onto the back of a chair, to anchor himself in position—an insulting direction to give to a professional, by the way, but it washed right over Jay. He’d place his hand on the chair as instructed, but soon his fingers would start drumming and the hand would slip away—and there he’d be, upstage center. Claudia finally told the actress to sit down and face the front—and deliver all her lines directly to the audience. This of course frustrated Jay’s center-of-attention posture, so he started moving about the stage, adding business for himself, even waving his arms once or twice. He wasn’t going to give up without a fight. But the more Jay flailed about, the more statuelike the actress became. A funny thing sometimes happens in a play; the audience may find itself watching the quiet person on stage, perhaps as a rest from all that other busyness. In this case I think I’d call it a draw.

  In spite of these shenanigans, however, I had to admit the play was looking a lot better. We were taking a break when the secretary from the front office came down the aisle and told me I had a phone call.

  It was John Reddick. “Abby, something terrible has happened. Someone put acid in Sylvia Markey’s cold cream. Half her face is eaten away.”

  6

  “Abigail James?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Sergeant Piperson. Sorry you had to wait. Come in, please.”

  I followed him into an office, wondering if Sergeant Piperson’s first name was Tom. We were at Midtown Precinct South on West Thirty-fifth, only a few blocks down the street from where I lived. Sergeant Piperson had asked me to come in for a talk. Sylvia Markey was still in critical condition and wasn’t able to speak.

  Inside, the Sergeant said, “Have a seat, Abby.” So he was one of those policemen who call strangers by their first names. An unusual-looking man: he had a five-sided face. Straight across the top, straight down both sides to the tops of the jaw, which angled in from both sides to meet in a knobby little chin. His features appeared curiously flattened. He was about my age, forty; and so blond his eyelashes were invisible.

  “I saw your show,” he said. “I liked it.”

  “Thank you.” Play, not show.

  “You were out of town when Sylvia Markey had her accident?”

  I noted the euphemism. “Yes, in Pittsburgh.”

  “I have to ask you this, Abby. Can you give me the name of someone who saw you there on the twenty-seventh?”

  I gave him Claudia Knight’s name and told him which hotel I’d been staying in.

  “All right,” he said, making notes. “Now for the obvious question. Do you know anyone who would want to see Sylvia Markey disfigured? A stage rival, perhaps, or someone she’d hurt in the past?”

  I shook my head. “No. You know about the vandalism and the cat? Someone who’s obviously sick likes to hurt her. I don’t know who that could be.”

  “But she must have had enemies. First, nobody rises to the top of a profession—any profession—without stepping on a few toes along the way. And show business is even more dog-eat-dog than most, isn’t it? Second, from what I understand from the other people I talked to, Sylvia Markey was a bit of a bitch. No one really liked her.”

  “You’re talking about her in the past tense,” I said to the Sergeant.

  “Am I? Didn’t realize. She’s very much alive, and I’m making sure she stays that way. I’ve posted a guard in the hospital. Let’s go at it from another direction. D’you know anybody who’s close to her?”

  “Just her husband, Jake Steiner. Sylvia doesn’t make friends easily. Sometimes I think she’s deliberately off-putting, to prevent people from trying to get too close.”

  “‘Intolerant, condescending, imperious, egotistical,’” Sergeant Piperson read from a file folder. “Everyone seems agreed that Sylvia Markey is not a nice lady. Yet nobody will name names or tell me who might have a grudge against her. What’s this all about? You sticking together to protect a member of your little group?”

  Sylvia Markey wasn’t the only one who could be condescending. “Look, Sergeant,” I said, “you’ve got the wrong idea. Nobody in our ‘little group,’ as you call it, is trying to protect anyone. Personally, I want this maniac found and the sooner the better. What I’m trying to tell you is that Sylvia never hurt anyone, not really. Oh, she hurt a lot of feelings, sure—but she never caused any serious harm.” How to explain? “Actors and actresses are under a tremendous strain—a special kind of strain that’s impossible to understand unless you’ve gone through it yourself. They put themselves on the line every night, risking rejection and even ridicule. Every once in a while they have to blow up, let off a little steam—”

  “Sure, sure,” the Sergeant interrupted impatiently. “I know all about temperamental stage people. But—”

  “But Sylvia Markey doesn’t have temper tantrums, I’m trying to tell you. Beneath her dignity. Instead of blowing her top once in a while the way other people do, Sylvia lets out her frustrations in a series of little acts—the dig, the snub, the cutting remark. What you’re trying to make out to be the cause of these attacks on Sylvia is simply her way of handling pressure. That’s all.”

  Sergeant Piperson was totally unconvinced. “But someone hated her enough to want to end her career. Someone who could take the snubs and the digs only so long before putting acid in her cold cream—”

  “Excuse me, Sergeant, was it carbolic acid?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe we’ve released that information.”

  “Does that mean yes? Because if it was carbolic, there might be some connection with what happened to Loren Keith.”

  “Loren Keith? Who’s he?”

  Like most people, I don’t know much about police procedure. I had simply assumed the New York police knew about Loren’s blinding. But there was no reason they should be aware of one particular incident that took place on the other side of the country. Briefly, I told the Sergeant what had happened.

  Sergeant Piperson told me to wait and left the office. He returned ten minutes later with a Telex in his hand. “How did you know about this?”

  I explained about Jay Berringer and his friend who was acting in the movie Loren had been working on.

  “It cou
ld be coincidence,” said the Sergeant. “But carbolic’s not all that easy to get hold of—you can’t buy it over the counter. Did Sylvia Markey and Loren Keith know each other?”

  “Yes, they were both with the Manhattan Repertory Company several years ago. And I think Loren designed one of her later plays as well.”

  “Is he like Sylvia Markey? Snubbing people, putting them down?”

  “No, just the opposite. Loren is very likable. Pleasant to work with, a real good-guy type.”

  Sergeant Piperson looked disappointed and after a few more questions told me I could go.

  Snow, ice, and sludge had descended on New York while I was in Pittsburgh. I sloshed my way through three short blocks before I could get a cab, which proceeded to give me a thrill ride all the way to St. Luke’s Hospital. I told the driver to wait. Sylvia Markey was off the critical list, but the receptionist said no visitors were being admitted. I got back in the cab and held on for dear life.

  Safe at home again, I called Jake Steiner: no answer. After that I just sat and stared at the wall, not wanting to read, think, or even snarl at the television.

  The one-acts in Pittsburgh had gone as well as could be expected, I suppose. I’d exchanged a few noncommittal words with Brian Simpson’s assistant from San Francisco; Simpson himself hadn’t made the trip after all. Jay Berringer had just about driven me nuts, gibbering endlessly about Sylvia and obviously enjoying all the excitement. I’d been right about him the first time; he fed on other people’s bad luck. Claudia Knight had been quietly sympathetic, for which I was grateful.

  When I first got back I had taken calls from seven different periodicals asking me to write profiles of Sylvia Markey. Scandal mongering, pure and simple. I told them no as politely as I could and switched my phone over to the answering service. My downstairs neighbors told me a couple of reporters had been by looking for me.

  Shortly before curtain I went to the Martin Beck. Vivian Frank had performed in Foxfire three times since Sylvia’s “accident,” and I wanted to see what kind of job she was doing.

  The theater was packed. The ghouls were out in force to see the play Sylvia Markey had been acting in when she lost half her face. I stood in the back and watched Vivian Frank do a good workmanlike job; she hadn’t hit her stride yet, of course. The rest of the cast was down, way down. Understandable. The humanoids in the audience kept waiting for something terrible to happen; nothing did. I didn’t go backstage during intermission, and I didn’t much want to go back after it was over, either. But I’d have to put in an appearance sooner or later, so it might as well be now.

  The first person I saw backstage was a total stranger, a huge man bending over the prop table. Wild-haired and wearing Coke-bottle glasses, he was over six feet tall and must have weighed at least three hundred pounds. He wore a beard and a flowered shirt and he should have worn a bra. I stopped Carla Banner, the assistant stage manager. “Who,” I asked her, “is that?”

  “Oh, that’s our new props manager,” said Carla. “His name is—”

  “Wait—let me guess. Tiny?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Howja know?”

  “What happened to Jerry?” I asked.

  “He quit. Right after Ms Markey, uh.”

  I remembered how jumpy Jerry had been even after the cat episode. “Any other defectors?”

  There weren’t. The wardrobe mistress had called in sick the day after Sylvia had been rushed to the hospital, but she’d got her courage back and returned.

  I heard someone having a sneezing fit. When I realized who it must be, I rushed over to Hugh Odell’s dressing room. “Hugh! You’re not having an asthma attack, are you?”

  “No, no,” he snuffled. “Just got some dust up my nose. It’s okay.”

  I looked around the dressing room. “Where’s Rosemary?”

  “Home. Something on TV she wanted to watch.”

  John Reddick was in Vivian Frank’s dressing room, formerly Sylvia’s. He’d taken notes during the performance and was still coaching the new leading lady, trying to help her over the rough spots. Even with his tremendous energy, John looked tired. He was due to begin rehearsals for a new play next week, yet he still had Vivian to worry about and he had to find a new understudy.

  The three of us talked for a while and John suggested we adjourn for a beer.

  “Just let me finish changing,” said Vivian. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  While we were waiting for her, I decided to introduce myself to Tiny. He was locking up the prop room when I found him. “Tiny? I’m Abigail James. How—”

  “Oh, yes,” said Tiny, his face lighting up. “You mumble mumble a long time mumphle the play gringeshockle for years mumble sniff.”

  I thought this over and then said, “Thank you.”

  He grinned and nodded, so that was all right. I tried again. “Are you managing all right? Any trouble with the props?”

  “Oh, no,” he shook his shaggy head. “They don’t mumphmumble on the skrammel except for the glomb.”

  “That’s good,” I nodded knowingly. “Well, I’m glad you’re with us, Tiny.”

  “Mh.”

  I rejoined John, who was grinning broadly. “How did your conversation with Tiny go?”

  “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “More fun this way.”

  Vivian checked out with the doorkeeper and the three of us betook ourselves (I like that word, betook) to P. J. Clarke’s. Two mugs of beer were placed before us; Vivian had asked for grapefruit juice with “just a drop” of vodka in it.

  “Have you talked to Jake Steiner lately?” I asked John. “I’ve tried to get him on the phone, but no luck.”

  “I think he’s pretty much camped out at the hospital. I was there yesterday but couldn’t get in to see anybody. You know they have a police guard outside Sylvia’s room?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you going to be here for Christmas?” John asked me.

  “No, I’m off to Boston.”

  “You don’t say Boston like a Bostonian,” Vivian remarked.

  “I’ve never lived there. But I have an aunt who maintains open house every Christmas where the scattered members of my family like to congregate. We brag about our lives and feel superior to one another and go off with our batteries recharged for another year.”

  “Sounds like my grandfather’s house,” said Vivian. “What about you, John? You’ll be here during Christmas, won’t you?” Vivian herself would be; the play was now sold out through February.

  “I’ll probably end up going back to Cincinnati for a couple of days,” John said glumly. “Every year I ask my parents to come here, but no—I’m supposed to go ‘home’ for Christmas. When I insist, they get on the phone and complain in these frail, hurt voices about how they never complain and all they want is for their boy to be with them on Christmas.”

  Vivian and I laughed. We all knew the shtick.

  We were interrupted by a couple of autograph hunters. When Vivian had signed and they’d gone away, I said, “Tell us about Androcles in Church.”

  Androcles in Church was the play John was to start rehearsing next week. It had been written by a young British playwright named Anthony Gordon, whose work I didn’t know. The play had had a brief run in London, where John had seen it and immediately coveted it.

  “Gordon calls it a ‘counter-Shavian’ play,” said John, “but that’s not quite accurate. The opinions it offers are counter to Shaw’s, but the rest of it—the wit, the debating, the verbal style—they’re all pure Shaw.”

  “Love imitative plays,” sighed Vivian.

  “It’s a young man’s play. Gordon’s still feeling his way, trying out different styles. Ten years from now he’ll probably disavow it. But Androcles in Church is funny, the characters are good—not one flat part in it. It’s an actor’s dream.”

  “But it didn’t have a long run in London, did it?”

  “No, but I think that was the fault of the directing more than
the play itself. The directing was so understated it almost wasn’t there at all. I think I can do better.” John talked on about the play with that intensity that’s so characteristic of him whenever he’s caught up in a new enthusiasm. As soon as I’d finished my second beer, he startled me by saying, “Abby, feeling a little mellow?”

  “On two beers?”

  “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “What?”

  “You know I’m trying to find an understudy for Vivian.”

  “Why?” interrupted Vivian. “Why isn’t Gene Ramsay taking care of it?”

  “He’s been in and out of town all week,” John said. “He asked me to see to it. Anyway, I’ve got to decide this week, because starting Monday I’ll be giving all my attention to Androcles in Church. That means Griselda Gold is going to have to teach the new understudy her blocking.”

  I groaned.

  “Griselda Gold?” said Vivian. “Is she the one who …” She thrust out her chin.

  “That’s the one,” John and I said together.

  John went on, “She won’t be doing any real directing, Abby. It’ll be more like prompting.”

  “You think so?” I said. “That girl is just aching to direct—she’s not going to let an opportunity like this slip through her fingers. And she’s nowhere near ready, John, you know that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She may be better than you think. You’re the logical one to do it. But Griselda’s my assistant director and for me to tell her now she can’t coach the new understudy—well, I just can’t pull the rug out from under her.”

  Vivian was looking puzzled. “If she’s not qualified to rehearse the new understudy, how did she get the job in the first place?”

  “Director’s choice,” I said grimly. “John and I have locked horns about this before. I say the job of assistant director should go to the most qualified person available. John looks on it as a sort of training ground. So far it’s never made any difference because John’s been able to handle everything himself. But now—”