Death in the Fifth Position

CHAPTER FIVE

1

The last night was a triumph. The box office reported that we had beaten all previous standing-room records for the Met and the audience was in a frantic mood, drowning out the music with almost continual applause for the stars who danced, I must say, with more skill than usual. If the audience was disappointed that the cable didn’t break in Eclipse, they didn’t show it for they called Jane back on stage seven times after the ballet. Swan Lake was magnificent in spite of several veterans who saw fit to heave a couple of firecrackers onto the stage … as well as a stink bomb which fortunately didn’t go off.

Backstage, after the audience had left the theater, a great deal of vodka was stashed away by the Russian contingent … those members of the company born in Europe and their hangers-on … all singing and laughing and drinking vodka among the trunks and costumes. Eglanova was roaring drunk, weeping and laughing, her talk a mixture of Russian and English, all very confused.

Jane and I left early. Mr. Washburn caught us at the door and grandly gave me the next day off … after extending my contract another week. Jane, however, had to report at three-thirty the next day for rehearsal with Wilbur.

We spent the morning in bed, reading the newspapers and talking to people on the telephone, to dancers who were also spending this wonderful morning in bed, in various combinations. It was very cozy, like being part of a large family with, at the moment, no serious feuds to shatter the pleasant mood.

None of us could get over the fact that the investigation was finished, that Gleason was no longer a part of our lives.

“But,” as Jane said in her most professional voice over the telephone to one of the boy soloists, a Greek god with a voice like Bette Davis, “where are we ever going to get another conductor as good as Miles?”

“I think Gold’s working out fine,” I said, when she had hung up the telephone and was sitting cross-legged beside me on the bed, idly pinching my belly, trying to find a serious fold of flesh to complain about: she has always thought I do too little exercise … the reason, I always tell her, why I can eat everything and stay slim while she exercises, eats like a horse and has to watch her weight.

“You don’t have to follow him,” she said irrelevantly, breathing deeply, rib-cage thrust forward, chin held high, breasts moving all of a piece, not quivering like jello the way most breasts do in this age of starch.

I grunted and shook her hand off my stomach as I read about our company, on page twenty-seven, in the Globe: “Murdered Dancer’s Husband Dead” … “Suspected of Murder.” An interview with Gleason followed, on page twenty-eight, without photograph.

“Kind of nice not to be on the front page,” I said.

“Don’t say that or you’ll be thrown out of the press agents’ guild or whatever it is that makes people like you the way they are.”

“The bitch goddess.”

“The what?”

“The ignoble concern with ephemeral reputation which has created people like me … professional criers, drum-beaters, trumpeters of brazen idols with feet of clay.”

“Oh, shut up. Does John Martin say anything in the Times about us?”

“He says that the Grand Saint Petersburg Ballet is leaving town next week for a five-month tour.”

She grabbed the Times away from me and read the column on “Dance” with the desperate concentration of a ballerina hunting for a good notice.

“Certainly a plug for Eglanova,” she said at last, critically.

“Well, she’s had a lot of them in her day.”

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she retired of her own free will?” said my good-hearted girl.

“I don’t see why. She’d be miserable. She doesn’t want to teach. I think it’s real fine the old woman can keep going like this … and still be a big draw all over the map.”

Jane scowled. “It’s so hard on the rest of us … I mean, it keeps everybody back.”

I snorted. “Listen to her! A week ago you were one of those lousy cygnets in Swan Lake pounding up and down the stage with three other girls in a Minsky routine and now you’re thinking of the day when you’ll succeed Eglanova.”

With one long liquid line as a certain ballet critic might have described it, Jane Garden dealt me a thunderous blow with the pillow. After a stiff fight, I subdued her at last … quite a trick considering she is a solid girl and, in spite of her lovely silklike skin, all muscle.

“It’s not true!” she gasped, her hair like a net over the white sheet as I held her tight on her back.

“Delusions … that’s what it is.”

“Everybody feels the same way. Ask any of the girls.”

“Vicious group … ambitious, untalented.”

“Oh!” And she twisted away from me and sat up in bed, breathing hard as she pushed her hair out of her face.

“It wouldn’t surprise me one little bit if you knocked off Ella just to get her place in the company.”

Jane laughed mournfully. “I don’t need to tell you that our company works on the caste system. I was number seven ballerina before Ella died.”

“But now you’re number two because you knew that if Ella was out of the picture I’d see to it you got her part.”

“Everything has worked out nicely,” said Jane, beaming.

“You have no conscience.”

“None at all. Especially now that the case is over.”

“Were you afraid of being caught?”

“Well, seriously, I didn’t feel so good when poor Miles died.”

“Why?”

“Well, darling, I was there.”

“There?”

“I saw him about an hour before he died … I stopped off on my way to the party.”

“Good God!” I sat up in bed and looked at her … “Did you tell Gleason that?”

“No, I didn’t. I … I suppose I was afraid.”

“You little fool.…” I was alarmed. “Don’t you realize that he had that building watched, that Miles was being watched every minute of the day and night no matter where he was? Did you go in the front way?”

“Did I go in …? Of course I did. What do you think …”

“Then he knows that you were there and that you didn’t mention it when he questioned you. What do you think he’ll make of that?”

“But … Miles did do it, didn’t he? The case is closed?” she asked in a small voice. I sometimes think that dancers have less brains than the average vegetable.

“I don’t know that he did and neither do the police. I have a hunch he didn’t but I may be wrong. Even so, no matter what the papers say or Gleason says, those boys are still interested in what happened to Ella … and maybe to Miles, too.”

“I think you’re exaggerating.” But she was scared.

“By the way, if I’m not being indiscreet, just what were you doing at Miles’ apartment that night?”

“I had a message for him, from Magda.”

“Who paid a call on him later, after he was dead.”

“I know … but she wanted me to see him and tell him something. Her family was watching her like a hawk and she told me she wasn’t able to get away and would I please go and see him.”

“This was before Don Ameche’s invention of the telephone or the establishment of a national post office.”

“I wish you wouldn’t try to be funny.”

“I couldn’t be more serious.”

“Then act like it.”

“I am acting like it … God damn it.…” We snarled at each other for several minutes; then she told me that Magda had not been able to leave her room for several days, that her family did not let her near the phone. Except for one stolen visit, Miles was not allowed to see her; as a matter of fact, the family had been reluctant to let her see even Jane.

“What did Magda want you to tell him?”

“What difference does it make now? … the whole thing’s finished.”

“Come on … what did she want you to tell him?”

“It was about the child. She wanted to know if Miles would like her to have an abortion.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He said no, that they were going to get married as soon as the trial was over.”

“How was he when you saw him?”

“High as a kite … he didn’t make much sense … he kept rambling about the new ballet … I mean about Eclipse and Mr. Washburn … he was angry at him. I don’t know why.”

“Had Washburn been to see him?”

“No, not then.”

“How did you know he did see him that night?” I was like a district attorney, ready for the kill. But it didn’t work.

“Because I saw Mr. Washburn outside in the street when I left and he asked me how Miles was, if he was high or not.”

“That was an awfully busy street that night, with half the company running in and out of Miles’ apartment.”

“Oh, stop trying to be smart. You sound like a movie.”

“That may be,” I said somberly. “Was Mr. Washburn upset when he saw you?”

“He was surprised; after all, we were both supposed to be at the party.”

“He didn’t swear you to secrecy …”

“Oh, stop it, will you? I don’t think it’s funny.”

“I don’t either. As a matter of fact it may be very serious … your having gone there without telling Gleason about it.”

“He didn’t ask me. After all, I didn’t lie to him.”

“What did he ask you?”

“Just a lot of questions … general things.”

It was no use; when Jane decides to be vague it is like collecting fragments of quicksilver from a broken thermometer to get a straight story out of her.

“You better go and tell Gleason what you told me.”

“I certainly won’t now that everything’s finished.”

“Then don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

At three o’clock I went to the office of the ballet and she went to rehearsal and neither of us was in a good mood. I was both angry and worried at what she had done. I wondered whether or not I should tell Gleason myself. For a number of reasons I decided not to. I did wonder if Mr. Washburn had told Gleason. This possibility had not occurred to me before; now, when I thought of it, my worry turned to alarm.

I found Mr. Washburn in his office playing with some silly putty which an admirer had given him; in case you haven’t come across it, silly putty is a pink substance which, if rolled in a ball, will bounce better than rubber, which will shatter if you hit it with a hammer and which will stretch to an unbelievable length if you pull it … there is no point to silly putty and I took it as a serious sign that Mr. Washburn should now be stretching a long pink rope of it, like bubble gum, across his Napoleonic desk.

“I told you you could have the day off,” said my employer, unabashed, beginning to plait the substance. Had his mind snapped under the strain?

“I thought I’d drop by and take care of a few things. Toledo wants some photographs, so I thought …” I watched, fascinated, while Mr. Washburn made a hangman’s noose.

“Wonderful house last night,” said Mr. Washburn. “The best so far.”

“Good press this morning.”

“Gratifying … gratifying. Did you ever see this stuff before?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful idea … relaxes the nerves.” He rolled the putty into a ball and bounced it on the carpet where it sank deep; Mr. Washburn had to duck under his desk to retrieve it.

“By the way,” I asked, “have you decided if you’ll open the Chicago season with the new Wilbur ballet?”

“Mid-season … we’ll do it our third week. I haven’t picked the day yet.”

“Shall we do anything about Miles’ funeral tomorrow?”

Mr. Washburn draped the silly putty over his upper lip like a mustache, only it looked more like some awful cancerous growth; he frowned. “Better do nothing about it, Peter. The quicker this business is forgotten the better. Besides, it’s going to be a family affair. A couple of aunts and a grandmother appeared on the scene, from Jersey, and they’re in charge.”

“Are you going?”

Mr. Washburn shook his head and returned the silly putty to its egg-shaped plastic container. “I don’t think I will. I passed word on to the others that I thought it might be a good idea for them not to go either … papers would be sure to print a picture of Eglanova at the funeral, and give it space.”

“Then I won’t go either.” I was relieved. I don’t like funerals. Then I asked him, very casually, if he had said anything to the police about seeing Jane at Miles’ apartment the night he died.

Mr. Washburn looked at me gravely. “She was a very unwise young lady not to tell the police she was there.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No, I didn’t. Which was unwise of me I suppose, but I have no intention of losing Garden just as she’s begun to dance like a real ballerina. Under the circumstances I don’t think the police are very much interested. After all, it’s to their advantage to have the case finished.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“By the way, what did you tell that man from the Veterans’ Committee yesterday?”

“I told him that it was up to them to prove Wilbur was a Communist.”

Mr. Washburn chuckled. “You will be happy to know that you have been accused of being a Communist-sympathizer, a party-liner, a fellow-traveler and a degenerate by one Abner Fleer … have you got anything to say in your defense?”

“Nothing at all … except that I was driven into the hands of the enemy by Mr. Fleer and his kind in the days of my youth; even before my America First button had begun to tarnish, I found myself disenchanted with the keepers of the flame.”

“I sympathize with you. The charges against Wilbur are getting serious, though. The columnists are beginning to take up the question, and, frankly, I’m worried about Chicago. It’s not like New York. The Veterans’ Committee is a joke here but out there it carries a lot of weight and we may be in trouble if they decide to blackball us.”

“What can we do?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Couldn’t we take an ad and say that he’s already been cleared twice?”

“We’ll have to do something like that. Think about it, anyway. That’s your big assignment for the next week … getting Mr. Wilbur, and us, off the hook.”

“I’ll think of something,” I said with that same air of quiet confidence which has made a fortune for any number of movie actors, con-men and politicians.

Eglanova, in a summer dress and a set of sables (the day was hot but she wouldn’t be Eglanova without sable), swept into the office. We both rose and Mr. Washburn leaned across the desk and kissed her hand.

“Such wonderful last night!” she exclaimed, glowing with pleasure. “Such applause! Such loyalty! I weep to remember it.”

But her narrow mascaraed eyes were dry, the lashes as artfully curled as ever.

“Darling Anna! You are the prima of our time … the ultimate.”

“Such nice thing to say, Ivan. Of course last night I tried. That makes difference. But those awful people!” She scowled, looking like Attila the Hun or maybe Genghis Khan contemplating traitors. “Who are these people anyway? Who are people who throw things when Eglanova dances? Ivan, you must do something.”

“They weren’t throwing things at you, Anna. They were throwing them at Wilbur.”

“Even so they hit me when I dance Swan Queen. If they don’t like Jed why don’t they throw things during Eclipse?”

Mr. Washburn laughed. “I expect they intended to but they got their signals mixed. In any case, we won’t have trouble with them in Chicago … rest assured.” Eglanova did not look as though she were resting assured but she changed the subject.

“Dear Peter,” she said, turning to me and smiling a dazzling smile, “I must thank you for not telling police about those big scissors. It was sweet of you … very brave. I thank you.” And she patted my arm.

“I told her,” said Mr. Washburn. “I told her that you didn’t want to incriminate her.”

I mumbled something graceful and incoherent.

“So strange,” sighed Eglanova. “Why would Miles want to put scissors in my room? I who am last person to harm fellow artist.”

Both Mr. Washburn and I expressed wonder at the murderer’s intention; then, aware that some ballet plot was afoot, I excused myself. I was sure, even then, that Mr. Washburn had told the police about having seen Jane at Miles’ apartment.

2

Jane and I were very cool with one another that evening and even cooler the next morning when we got up early, at ten o’clock, and made breakfast. She was angry at my having scolded her and I was alarmed at her bad sense; the fact that the night had passed without love-making didn’t put me in a very good mood either.

It wasn’t until we had finished a pot of coffee between us, that I told her what Mr. Washburn had said.

“Well, there wasn’t any reason for him to say I was there.” She looked sulky and she wore her dressing gown which was a bad sign … usually neither of us wears any clothes around the apartment.

“Except that he could get into trouble, too, for not mentioning it … but I’ve got a hunch he did tell them … if only because they know already.”

“I think you’re making an awful fuss about nothing … that’s what I think,” said Jane, massaging her calves.

“How was the rehearsal?”

“Tough.” She sighed. “It isn’t like a rehearsal with Alyosha … I’ll say that. Wilbur screams at you and half the time I think he makes up the ballet as he goes along.”

“I wonder if it’ll be any good?”

“I suppose so. They say this is the way he always works.”

“He wasn’t like this during Eclipse, was he?”

“He was pretty noisy … of course I wasn’t there too much of the time. He worked mainly with the principals … especially Louis.”

“How’s the big affair coming?”

“Not so well … I don’t think Louis likes him very much.”

“But he likes Louis?”

“Madly. You should see the way he looks at him, like a spaniel or something.”

The telephone rang. Jane answered it. She said “yes” several times then she said, “Come right over.” And hung up.

“Who was that?”

“Magda. She’s given up her apartment and she’s going to move in here.”

“I see.” I turned to ice, thinking of my own lonely apartment downtown.

“I thought I’d let her stay on here after we go to Chicago. She’ll look after the apartment and everything.”

“And for the next week?”

“Well, I mean it’s only a week …”

“And I can go home?”

“But think of all she’s gone through … not a friend in the world except me. As a matter of fact, she may be pretty sick starting tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“She’s found a doctor who’ll … you know … fix her, take care of the baby.”

“What about her family?”

“They’ve gone back to Boston, thank God.”

For a number of reasons, none charitable, I thought it best not to complain. With the air of a martyr surveying the flames, I packed my suitcase while Jane telephoned all her friends to discuss Magda, the ballet, Jed Wilbur and the doings of rival companies.

We were both dressed and ready to leave when Magda appeared, looking dumpy in a linen suit and carrying a suitcase. The two girls embraced tenderly.

“I hope I’m not being too awful … I mean moving in like this,” said Magda, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. She had obviously been weeping steadily for over a week now. I never felt more uncompassionate toward anyone in my life, at that moment anyway.

“Of course not,” I said, with an attempt at cheeriness. “I think it’s wonderful … now that your family’s gone.”

“We were just going to rehearsal,” said Jane. “Why don’t you make yourself at home. I’ll be back at five.”

“Do you think they’d mind if I went too? I’d like to sit and watch awhile … see what the new ballet’s like.” She sounded very wistful. “I can get my other bags later.”

“That’s a fine idea,” said Jane who seemed more pleased with this new arrangement than she had any reason to be. So I grabbed the suitcase, bade the ladies farewell and took a cab for my Ninth Street apartment. Then, after a visit with Miss Flynn at my own office, I walked to the studio.

The Grand Saint Petersburg Ballet operates a school over in Hell’s Kitchen, on the West Side. They occupy the fifth floor of a terrible old building which should have been condemned long ago. Their section, however, has been done up handsomely, very modern, and they have four classrooms as well as a large studio which is often used for rehearsal, sparing Mr. Washburn the unnecessary expense of hiring halls which he occasionally has to do during the season.

I arrived at about three-thirty and visited some of the classes before I went to the room where Jed Wilbur was creating like mad with Jane and most of the company.

There was a very chic-looking reception hall where the dancers often sit about in tights waiting for their hour in class, a long hall decorated with mobiles and paintings of dancers, with a desk at one end where Madame Aloin, formerly of the Paris Opera, sits in splendor and receives visitors and incoming telephone calls.

I said good afternoon to Madame Aloin who gave me a stately nod; then I wandered into the nearest classroom. Here a number of dismal tiny tots were being run through a set of exercises by a bored, overweight dancer who had once been celebrated before his thyroid had begun malfunctioning. The mothers, a row of somber ladies, gray and determined, glared at me as the piano plunked one two one two. I shut the door.

The next two classrooms were more interesting: lovely blond girls in black tights practicing intricate variations with a group of muscle-bound sissies. Somewhat aroused, wanting to be aroused since I was angry at Jane, at the celibacy she had arranged for me, I went to the fourth classroom which was empty, a cube of a room, like the rest, with mirrors at one end and a waist-high bar at the other end where the dancers did exercises, and tall windows which went almost to the floor. In one corner of this room is a door which opens into the rehearsal hall, a sneak entrance often used by the stars when they want to get out quickly, when they see the bores, the balletomanes, waiting for them at the main door.

The rehearsal looked like a panic. Most of the corps de ballet was there, in tights and T-shirts, drenched with sweat, as the piano banged out a phrase of Poulenc, over and over, while Wilbur shouted excitedly at them, his thin gray hair on end and his face flushed.

“Lift with the music! Lift with the music … it’s not that difficult. Listen … there is your phrase. Lift the girls on the second beat, start it then, finish on the fourth. Da da dum dada … hear? Da da lift … da da lift! Now try it again.”

I sat down on the long hard bench by the door and watched the corps de ballet go through its paces. They all looked tired and wretched in the heat. I was glad I wasn’t a dancer.

Jane seemed worried as she did her solo in front of the company who were, in the meantime, doing a complicated movement behind her. Louis, who was not in this particular part, came ambling over to me with his usual grin. “Hi, Baby … long time no see.” For some reason, Louis, when he learned English, absorbed a great deal of Nineteen-twenty slang which sounds very funny coming from him, with his French accent and all. He sat down beside me, his knee shoved hard against mine. I moved away.

“You want to go up to Harlem with me tonight? I got a couple cute numbers there … oh, you like them fine.”

“I got enough where I am, Honey,” I said, falling into his way of talking.

“That’s too bad. We could have a swell time, you and me … up in Harlem.”

“Not my idea of a swell time.”

“What sort of boy are you? American boys all like …” and he made an obscene gesture. I glanced around nervously but nobody was watching us … the music covered our voices and Wilbur was giving the dancers hell.

“I guess I’m un-American,” I said.

“Maybe you like real young boys … maybe I’m too old for you.”

“Louis, you’re my idea of heaven … honest to God you are, but I’d feel selfish having you all to myself when the fellows in the company need you so much more than I do. Why I wouldn’t even know how to begin to appreciate you.”

“I teach you in one plenty fast lesson.” And I moved away as that sinewy leg slammed against mine. Then Wilbur saw his love and with a look of real alarm said, “Louis! That’s your cue.” And our hero bounded to his feet and joined Wilbur and Jane in the center of the room. “Adagio!” shouted Wilbur to the pianist; the boys and girls relaxed, wilted in decorative attitudes against the bar, talking to each other in low voices while Louis and Jane did their pas de deux.

I got up and stretched my legs. Magda came into the hall and smiled wanly at me.

“How is it going?” she asked.

“Damned if I can tell. Looks like a riot from where I’m sitting.”

“It usually works out,” she said vaguely, sitting down.

“How does Jane look?”

“Worried,” I said, flatly; I was angry with Miss Garden.

“Such a responsibility, having a new ballet being made for you.”

“And a few other people.”

Eglanova and Alyosha entered the room, like an old king and queen come to watch the heirs-apparent at play. They nodded regally to Wilbur and the company and then they sat down on the bench, very straight. I joined them.

I chatted with Alyosha while Eglanova and Magda watched Wilbur at work.

“Such great confusion,” said Alyosha. “No one can tell what it is. I hope he is nearly done, though.”

“Why?”

“He must go to Washington on Wednesday.” Alyosha did not bother to disguise his pleasure. “To be investigated?”

“Exactly … very secret hearing, but I found out … now it is not so secret!” Alyosha laughed. “Does Wilbur know?”

“I’m sure he does. So I hope the ballet will be ready in case he doesn’t come back from Washington for a few days.” Or years, I could hear our regisseur say to himself. Old Alyosha was, I knew, afraid that he would be retired one of these days, be replaced by one of the bright young men, like Jed Wilbur.

“Looks like the veterans have carried the day,” I said.

“Pretty girl!” said Eglanova as Jane did some glittering chené turns into Louis’ arms.

“In ten years she will be ready to take your place,” said Alyosha gallantly.

“Dear friend!” said our star, her eyes black slits as she watched Jane do her stuff.

Then the door to the hall opened and Mr. Washburn peered in at us; he gestured for me to join him. I slipped out of the hall and joined him in the reception room.

“More trouble,” he said with a sigh.

“About the hearings in Washington?”

“Exactly. I think it’ll be in all the papers tomorrow. I was trying to hush it up but now it’s too late. The F.B.I. is mixed up in the case.”

“He’s not guilty, is he?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think that they have anything important. They only want to question him … but that’s enough to get all the witch-hunters in this town against us. Not to mention Chicago.”

“What can we do?”

“Make it appear that he’s testifying of his own free will … which I suppose he is, in a way. We’ll try and make a big thing of his turning informer … you know what I mean: ex-liberal telling what he knows about Communism in the theater.”

“Seems kind of sick-making.”

“So what? We’ve got a long tour ahead of us and I’ve tied up a good deal of money in Wilbur.” You and Alma Edderdale and twenty other patrons, I thought.

“Have you talked it over with Wilbur?”

“Oh yes … just before rehearsal this afternoon. He’s going to follow the same line. He doesn’t want trouble … especially if he’s innocent, and signed to do the new Hayes and Marks musical in the fall …” he added irrelevantly.

“What do you want me to do then? Get in touch with the papers directly? Or work through the columnists?”

“Get to the papers directly; but first you’ll have to handle Elmer Bush. He’s on his way over to look around, he says, but of course’s he’s going to try and get some kind of exclusive out of Jed or me. Now I’m going to keep out of sight and I’m going to keep Jed away from Bush, if possible. Your job is to head him off … even if you have to hint that Jed has got some wild revelations for the committee in Washington.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, like the Spartan youth with the fox at his vitals.

“Good fellow,” said Mr. Washburn, hurrying down the hall to the classroom of tiny tots where he intended, obviously, to hide out until Elmer Bush, a symphony in blue: shirt, suit, socks and tie, appeared in our reception hall, causing a bit of a stir among the dancers who were sitting on the benches waiting to go into class … it was five minutes to the hour.

“Why hello there,” said Mr. Bush, flashing that television smile of his, the dentures superbly wrought and fitted. “Washburn or Wilbur around? … old friend of mine, Ivan Washburn.” In spite of his fame and power he still had the reporter’s nervous habit of trying a little too hard to establish friendship with persons in high and interesting places, for the moment interesting, for the moment news.

“They aren’t here right now, Mr. Bush … is there anything I can do for you?”

“Call me Elmer,” said the great man mechanically, taking in the room with a reporter’s eye, a lecher’s eye too, for his gaze paused longer than necessary over one of the girls, a slim brown-haired number with a T-shirt. “Nice place you people have here. Terrible neighborhood, though. Been fighting for years now to get it cleaned up. Made absolutely no headway. When do you expect Wilbur?”

It took me a moment to separate the question from what had promised to be a thoughtful Elmer Bush report of city-planning. “Well, you know he’s pretty busy with that new ballet.”

“They’re rehearsing it here.”

Since this wasn’t a question, but a statement, I had to agree. “But nobody’s allowed in the studio while he’s working. He’s very difficult.”

“We’ll see how difficult he is when that committee gets through with him in Washington.”

“How did you know about that … Elmer?” I asked, very folksy, my eyes round with admiration.

“Never ask an old reporter to tell his sources,” chuckled Bush, pleased with the effect he thought he was making.

“Why, I only heard about it an hour ago.”

“That so? Then tell me this … how do you people plan to get your big wheel off the spot?”

“Well, for one thing we happen to know he’s not a Communist and for another thing he’s going to tell all he knows about the Reds in the theater.”

“It’s a closed hearing, too,” said Bush thoughtfully. “Got any idea about some of the names he’s going to mention?”

“Nobody very big,” I invented glibly. “A few of the old North American Ballet Company people, that’s about all.”

“You’ve been having a busy time, haven’t you, Pete,” said Bush, suddenly focusing his attention on me for the first time in our long if superficial acquaintanceship.

“I’ll say.”

“They really wind that Sutton case up?”

“I think so … don’t you?”

“Haven’t heard anything to the contrary … worked out very neatly, from the police’s point of view … no trial, no expense for the state … perfect case.” While we talked I kept trying to edge him into the empty classroom before the hour struck, before four o’clock when Wilbur would take a break, on the dot, because that’s a company rule which even the most temperamental choreographers have to obey. But Mr. Bush wouldn’t budge: the secret perhaps of his success. At four o’clock the door to the studio opened and thirty tired and messy dancers came charging out, heading for the dressing rooms, the drinking fountain, the telephone … I have a theory that dancers, next to hostesses, spend more time telephoning than any other single group in America.

Elmer Bush kept on talking but his eyes looked like they were on swivels, like the chameleon who can see in all directions. At first he couldn’t spot anybody; then I waved to Jane who was standing by the door to the empty classroom, adjusting the ribbon to one of her toeshoes. It was five after four. She waved above the noisy crowd of dancers, parents and tiny tots (all the classes let out on the hour) and, breathless, came to us through a sea of sweating dancers.

“This is the young ballerina in Eclipse, Mr. Bush … Jane Garden.”

They shook hands and Jane was pretty enough to distract Bush’s attention long enough for Mr. Washburn to sneak past us, in the shadow of the corpulent teacher of dance with whom he pretended to talk. Before he got to the door, however, the first policeman had arrived.

3

It took them four hours to question the corps de ballet, parents, even the tiny tots, most of whom were whining loudly at this unexpected turn of events. But by the time Gleason had arrived, only the principals were left, all seated glumly in the studio, on that hard bench.

The body of Magda had been taken immediately to the morgue and though none of us had seen it the rumor was that she had been pretty badly smashed by her fall from the window of the classroom adjoining the rehearsal studio.

A policeman stood in the door of the studio, watching us as though we were wild animals. Inspector Gleason did not present himself to us upon arrival; we heard his full-throated Irish voice, however, as he had a desk set up for himself in the empty classroom. Here he received us, one by one.

We talked very little during those hours. Mr. Washburn, with remarkable presence of mind, had summoned his lawyer who waited now with a brief case full of writs calculated to circumvent any and every vagary of justice.

Eglanova, after one brilliant outburst of Imperial Moscow anger, had settled down to a quiet chat with Alyosha, in Russian. Alyosha was more nervous; he continually screwed and unscrewed his monocle, wiping it with a silk handkerchief. Jane, who sat beside me, wept a little and I comforted her. Wilbur, after a display of Dubuque, Iowa, temperament, settled down for a long tense quarrel with Louis, a quarrel which had nothing to do with Magda. For some reason Madame Aloin had been placed under suspicion as well as the pianist, a worm-white youth who acted exactly the way you would suppose a murderer at bay to act. Mr. Washburn was not with us long, since he was the first witness to be called. I might add that Elmer Bush had contrived to remain with us in the studio, after first phoning his numerous staff: this was one exclusive he was sure of … television star or not he was the same Elmer Bush who, twenty years ago, was the best crime reporter in the country. He chatted with everyone now … first with one; then with another, conducting a suave investigation which, I swear, was a good deal brighter than the one the taxpayer’s burden was conducting in the next room.

“Come on, baby,” I whispered to Jane, my arm around her. “Don’t take it so hard. It’s just one of those things …” I whispered stupidly, soothingly, because after a while she stopped and dried her eyes with a crumpled piece of Kleenex.

“I can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “Not Magda … not like that.”

“Tell them everything, Jane … everything. This is serious. Tell them about your being at Miles’ place.”

“Poor Magda …”

“You’ll do that, won’t you?”

“What? Do what?” I told her again and she looked surprised. “But what’s that got to do with Magda?”

“It may have everything to do with her, with all of us. Promise you’ll tell Gleason the whole story.”

“If you think I ought to.”

“I do. I’m sure all three of these things are connected.”

“So am I,” said Jane, unexpectedly.

I was surprised … she had always been very unrealistic about the trouble … almost as bad as Mr. Washburn and his “accident” theories. I asked her why she had changed her mind.

“Something Magda said today … something about Miles … I don’t remember exactly what it was but she … I think she knew who killed Ella. I think Miles must have known all along and told her that day when he went to see her, when she was sick and her family happened to be out.”

“She–didn’t tell you who it was?”

“Do you think I would be sitting here like this scared to death if she had? I’d be right in there with that policeman, telling him I wanted somebody arrested before … before this happens again.” She shuddered suddenly and I felt cold myself. I looked about the room wildly, wondering who it was. Which of these people was a murderer? Or had someone who wasn’t even here killed Ella and Magda, a maniac in the corps de ballet …?

“I wonder just what happened?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I know,” said Elmer Bush smoothly; he had sat down next to me without my knowing it … what a break this was for him: witness, or near-witness to a murder, a flashy, glamorous murder. He could hardly keep a straight face, hardly disguise his delight at what had happened. “A terrible tragedy,” he said in a low voice, the one used to announce the death of forty passengers on a transatlantic airliner, or corruption in Washington. “How did it happen?”

“She was pushed through the window … one minute after four o’clock,” said Elmer and the tip of his tongue, quick as a lizard’s, moistened his lips.

“By party or parties unknown,” I said.

“Exactly. Her purse was found on the floor; her body on the sidewalk seven stories below.”

“The purse …”

He finished my sentence: “Had been searched. Its contents were scattered over the floor. Whoever did it must’ve grabbed the purse away from her and then, quick as a flash, shoved her through the window and searched the handbag for something …”

“Robbery?” suggested Jane weakly.

We both ignored her. “I wonder what they were looking for?”

“When we know that,” said Elmer slowly, in his best doom voice, “we will know who killed Ella and Miles Sutton.”

I remember hoping at the time that the three murders were totally unconnected, just to prove this unctuous vulture wrong.

“Tell me,” said Elmer gently, turning to Jane, “did she seem at all odd to you when you went into that room together?”

“Sweet Jesus!” I cried softly, turning to Jane. “You weren’t with her, were you? You weren’t there, too?”

“Always on the spot,” said Jane with a faint attempt at lightness.

“Does Gleason know this?”

“I plan to tell him … honest I will, Peter.”

“He knows anyway,” said omniscient Elmer. “Did she say something which might throw any light on what happened?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Why did you go in there with her?”

“Now listen, Bush,” I snapped, “stop playing Mr. District Attorney. She’s gone through enough.”

“That’s all right, Peter.” She rallied a bit. “Magda wasn’t feeling well. She’s going … she was going to have a baby and she suddenly felt sick. I took her in there when the rehearsal was over … it was the only place on the floor where she wouldn’t be crowded. Then I left her and talked to you … Maybe she fell. She could have, you know. Those windows … well, look over there: they almost go down to the floor.”

“Fell? After first emptying her purse over the studio floor?” Elmer shook his head. “Somebody shoved her. Was there anybody else in the room?”

Jane shook her head wearily. “I said it was empty.”

“Anybody could have gone in there,” said Elmer Bush, staring at the door at the far end of the room, behind which we could hear the distant rumble of Gleason’s voice as he questioned Mr. Washburn.

The interviews went fairly fast. Eglanova, Alyosha, Wilbur, Louis, Madame Aloin, the pianist, Jane, myself. By the time my turn came around, it was already dark outside and the overhead fluorescent lights had been turned on, a ghastly blue light, reflected by tall mirrors.

The first thing I noticed was the window. For some reason I had supposed that it had been open when she fell out. It hadn’t occurred to me that she would have been pushed through a pane of glass … which is what had happened.

Gleason looked much as ever and I noticed the same pale secretary was on hand taking notes; otherwise, the room was empty … no police, no furniture, no rifled handbag.

We got through the preliminaries quickly. I could see that he was not very much interested in me … possibly because Elmer had already told him that I was with him in the hall when the murder took place … what was that wonderful word they use to describe someone being pushed through a window: defenestration?

He wanted to know what, if anything, Magda had said to me that morning.

“She didn’t talk much to me … I know she told Jane about her abortion. She was going to have it tomorrow; that was her plan.”

“In the meantime she was going to live with Miss Garden?”

“That’s right.”

“Ordinarily you live in Miss Garden’s apartment?”

I blushed. “For the last week or so,” I said. “Do you plan to book me for lewdness?”

Gleason showed his teeth in a friendly snarl. “This is homicide, Sargeant, not the vice squad.” He enjoyed saying my last name; he made it sound like a police rank, a subordinate rank. “We have reason to think the deaths of Ella Sutton and Magda Foote were the work of the same person.”

“I think so, too.”

“Why?”

“Because a few days ago at the theater, Magda told us, Jane and me, that she knew Miles was innocent and that he knew who had killed Ella. I asked her then if he’d told her and she said no he hadn’t but I thought she was lying … I’m positive she was lying. I’ll bet anything Magda knew.”

“If she knew why didn’t she come to us?”

“I don’t know why. For one thing, she probably didn’t care whether you ever caught Ella’s murderer or not … after all she hated Ella and Miles’ death was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“As far as we know. Why wouldn’t Miles Sutton have told us who killed Ella when he knew he was our number one suspect, that we were going to arrest him the second we could break his alibi … and we broke it, finally.”

“According to Magda, he wasn’t going to say anything until the trial … or until you arrested him. I think he hoped you wouldn’t be able to pin it on anybody.”

“That wasn’t very realistic.”

“I’d hardly call a man as far gone on drugs as Miles realistic … remember that whoever killed Ella was doing him a service. He wouldn’t turn the murderer in … unless it was to save his own neck.”

Gleason asked me some more questions, about members of the company, about Magda, pointless questions, or so they seemed to me … and probably were in fact because it was quite obvious that the police were completely at sea. I was then told to come back the next day for questioning, to stay in New York City at an address where I could be reached at a moment’s notice … I gave him Jane’s address.

She was waiting for me in the reception hall. Everyone had gone except Louis and herself and Wilbur. Louis had apparently just come from the shower room for his hair was gleaming with water, the celebrated black curls damp and straggly. Jane was also in her street clothes, looking very pale, her face not made up. Wilbur was talking excitedly, “As if I didn’t have enough trouble without all this. A major investigation hanging over my head … I was supposed to go to Washington tomorrow … and a half-finished ballet and now one of those god-damned murder investigations this company seems to specialize in. I wish to hell I’d stayed in musical comedy. Nothing like this ever happened there.”

“Shows we were just waiting for you, Jed,” said Louis amiably. “It was all Mr. Washburn’s idea to knock you off so Alyosha would remain the greatest living choreographer.”

“Much help you’ve been through all this,” said Jed spitefully. Jane and I got out before the lovers quarreled.

We both took it for granted that I was not going to go to my place after what had happened. Jane was terrified at the thought of being alone.

“I’m sure it’s a lunatic,” she said, when we were back at the apartment, eating cold cuts and drinking beer from the near-by delicatessen. “How do we know he isn’t going to murder everybody in the company while the police sit by and let him kill us, one by one?”

“Come on, kid,” I said, as calmly as possible. “Get a grip on yourself. Your old buddy is right here with you.”

“I’m still frightened,” she said, chewing a piece of liverwurst thoughtfully. “Not just of the murderer either.”

“The police?”

She nodded.

“Did you tell Gleason about having been at Miles’ apartment?”

“I told him everything.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” I said heartily, beginning to slip out of my clothes.

“Pull the shade down,” said Jane.

“You are jumpy.” As a rule we never put the shade down or put the lights out either. But I went over to the window and drew the curtains; they stuck a little and by the time I had pulled them together I had seen the plain-clothes man across the street, watching the apartment.

I remember thinking how unusual it was to be making love to a girl who was thought by some to have murdered two, maybe three people.