Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 823 & 824, March/April 2010

Vincent Lardo is the author of several novels, including the mysteries The Hampton Affair and The Hampton Connection, published by Putnam in 2000 and 2002. China House, his first novel, has been selected by the Author’s Guild for their back-in-print program and is available on the web via iUniverse.com, Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. The Sacramento Star said of China House that its “recipe of spice, the supernatural, and suspense is blue ribbon. It may become a classic.”

1

They had just finished dinner in a neighborhood restaurant. As the waiter cleared the table, Tom emptied a bottle of Chianti into their glasses. Waving away the dessert menu, he said to Colin, “You look very pensive. Are you thinking about next weekend?”

“You might say that,” Colin responded. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about Rosemary’s Baby. Do you know it?”

“The book or the film?”

“Either, because it’s the plot that concerns me,” Colin said. “The story of an actor who sells his soul — or his wife’s body — for a starring role in a Broadway show. I forget how it all turns out.”

“She has a boy,” Tom told him. “He wins a Tony, they go to Hollywood where they live happily ever after in a modest mansion in Beverly Hills. The boy becomes a producer known primarily for his religious epics. You can’t fault Satan for his ironic sense of humor.”

“I think they all go to the devil,” Colin countered.

“And that’s where you’ll go,” Tom assured him, “if you don’t get this role. Your bio says you’re twenty-four. I know you’re twenty-six, and on a clear day you can see thirty. From juvenile to supporting player — at best — to oblivion. You’ve got to get the starring role in Freddy’s new play, Colin, or you’re as viable as yesterday’s mashed potatoes.”

“And for it I have to kill him?”

“Think of it as one small murder for man and one giant kindness for mankind. Besides, I’m doing the dirty work with your help.”

“It’s called aiding and abetting.”

“You talk like a character in those dreadful soaps you keep appearing in.”

“They pay the rent,” Colin said.

“And little else,” Tom reminded him. “Now, shall we go over it once more before the weekend?”

The man whose life these two handsome young men were plotting to end this coming weekend was none other than Fred Langton, the legendary writer/director of the successful Broadway team Langton and Langton. With his wife, Vera, wearing the producer’s hat, this extraordinary couple were solely responsible for no less than a half-dozen Broadway hits, all of which had found their way to Hollywood, where Tonys turned into Oscars. Fred Langton was often called a Renaissance man when his name appeared in print and a bastard when it was bandied about in private. A variety of more descriptive and colorful expletives were also attributed to the Renaissance man with the Machiavellian touch, who was as ruthless as he was talented. This combination attracted envy and hate in equal amounts, and the fact that Fred Langton was not done in years ago attested to luck also being one of his abiding traits.

However, it appears that his luck ran out when he signed the virtually unknown Tom Harrington for the lead in his last Broadway show, making Harrington a matinee idol and a very happy actor. Alas, joy turned to disappointment, then anger, when Tom received the longed-for offer from out West and was told by Langton’s lawyer that he could not accept it because he owed Mr. Langton his services in another play. Tom knew he had signed with Langton and Langton for two plays, but he didn’t know that until he had fulfilled the second obligation he could not appear on stage, screen, television, or radio without the permission of Langton and Langton which, the lawyer made clear, was not likely to be forthcoming in the immediate future. So strident was the second-play clause and such a bitch was Fred Langton that Tom Harrington could not even appear on TV to solicit subscriptions for PBS.

When he asked how he could get out of the contract, Tom’s agent, without malicious forethought, read aloud the final sentence in the binding agreement.

Upon the demise of either party, this contract is rendered null and void.

Revenge has no greater champion than an actor thwarted from strutting his stuff before a camera. There, in his agent’s office, Tom decided that he was going to Hollywood and Fred Langton was going to hell.

The slow leak in Fred Langton’s lucky vein began to hemorrhage when he gave Tom not only the venue for the crime but a scapegoat to go with it. The Langtons, like many of their colleagues in the New York theater world, kept a second home in Westport, Connecticut, a convenient one-hour-plus ride from Grand Central station. Here they employed a cleaning woman in the person of Rosa Ortiz. On a Saturday morning, before taking the Metro North to Westport, Fred went to his friendly ATM in Grand Central station and withdrew two hundred dollars in twenties before boarding his train. Rosa was just finishing her weekly chores when he arrived at the house.

Going directly to the master bedroom, Fred put his wallet, keys, and loose change on his dresser before doffing suit and tie for jeans and polo shirt. Vera, as often happened, had an appointment with her hairdresser and would join him that evening. Fred decided to go to the local pub for a burger and beer that afternoon. Retrieving his wallet from atop the dresser, he paused to count his money and discovered his total assets were a five-dollar bill and a few singles. The twenties were gone, and only Rosa had been in the house since his arrival. Subtlety was not Fred Langton’s strong suit. He picked up the phone and called the police. They picked up poor Rosa and hauled her into the police station, along with her husband, Alonzo. There, accuser and accused came face to face and the fight was on. In the melee that followed, Rosa denied taking the money; Fred said he would tell all the people who employed Rosa that she was a thief; Alonzo spat in Mr. Langton’s face and threatened to kill him. The evidence against Rosa was circumstantial at best so the police sent everyone home before blood was spilt and relegated the missing twenties to the cold-case file.

The hot-blooded Mexican, Alonzo, had threatened to kill Fred Langton within earshot of a room full of police officers. When Fred told this story to anyone who would listen, Tom knew that an angel or devil was sitting on his shoulder. Uncertain of the identity of his benefactor, Tom was torn between lighting a candle in St. Patrick’s Cathedral or mounting a cross on a black ribbon — upside down.

What Fred didn’t tell anyone was that when he went to hang up his trousers that evening, two hundred bucks fell out of a side pocket. In his rush to make the train, he had stuffed the money into his pants pocket and not in his wallet. He did not tell the police he had found the money. He did not apologize to poor Rosa, and he went to bed happy to have his money back. If ever a man deserved to be murdered, it was Fred Langton.

Tom now knew that Fred would meet his maker in the house in Westport and could only hope that Alonzo Ortiz had an iron-clad alibi for the time of the murder. If he didn’t — so be it. The fast track to fame does not take scenic routes, so when boarding it’s best to keep your eyes on the goal and not on the passing parade. The murder weapon was a problem until Fred, once again, came to Tom’s aid. Having the writer’s flair for the dramatic and being a bit of a ham himself, Fred flaunted his fear of the villainous Alonzo Ortiz — who was most likely an illegal immigrant — and announced that he had transferred a gun he kept in the Manhattan apartment to the house in Westport. The desk in the den Fred liked to call his summer office became the repository for the gun.

The victim, to date, had provided a likely suspect, the venue, and the means to have himself bumped off. Did a murderer ever have such good fortune?

After many a sleepless night, Tom came up with a plan he thought was ingenious, to say the least, but he needed an accomplice to bring it to fruition. Enter Colin Delaney. Colin was an aspiring actor who eked out a living via soap operas, voice-overs, and an occasional gig as “escort” to women of a certain age and gentlemen of a certain persuasion. Colin lived in the same SoHo brownstone Tom Harrington called home, albeit Tom occupied the entire first floor, with access to the backyard, while Colin lived in what real-estate agents like to call a bed-sitter in the brownstone’s converted attic.

The young men had a nodding acquaintance but kept their distance. After all, Tom Harrington was a star and poor Colin did walk-ons and a little modeling on the side, as they say in the trade. But even from a distance, Tom could recognize a hungry actor, which is just what he needed to move his plan from the drawing board to the launching pad.

Fred Langton put the finishing touches on his new play, which could go into rehearsal in six weeks. Tom’s agent informed him that the Hollywood producer would give Tom a month to resolve his contract problem before looking for another actor to fill the role. The clock was ticking, and the countdown was on.

Vera Langton was one of those women of a certain age who enjoy the company of younger men. Being a successful Broadway producer, she was never in want. Vera was forty-something and endowed with a trim figure and a pair of shapely legs that made her wisely shun slacks and pant suits. She kept her hair, like her hemline, short, with a no-nonsense do that looked deceivingly simple but in fact required the weekly attention of a Madison Avenue stylist. Tom introduced Colin to Vera and suggested him as stage manager for the new Langton and Langton offering, as yet untitled. Vera interviewed Colin, who had little experience as a stage manager, for which he compensated by his experience in charming women of a certain age. He got the job.

“She’ll have you in the sack in a week,” Tom told him.

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Alas, yes. One does what one has to do for one’s art.”

“And what does one do when her husband gets wise?” Colin wanted to know.

“For every stud Vera beds, Freddy helps himself to two ingénues and the balance of power is maintained as long as neither sets his or her sights on the other’s dessert tray. By the way, you do know what to do with a lady in bed.”

“Yes,” Colin assured him. “You had to do it in high school or you didn’t get invited to the best parties.”

“Good,” Tom said, relieved. “It’s like riding a bike. Once you master it, you never forget.”

“I owe you big time,” Colin said to his new pal. “How can I ever repay you?”

“As a matter of fact, Colin, there is something you can do for me. Come down to my apartment this evening and I’ll explain the details over Chinese takeout and a bottle or two of expensive wine.”

By the time the second bottle of wine was uncorked, Colin was privy, in detail, to Tom’s plans for severing his contract with Langton and Langton. Colin was surprised — perhaps shocked — but not appalled by Tom’s proposition. As he held up his glass for a refill, Colin could only think that all he had to do was cooperate with Tom and he, Colin Delaney, would be in line for the starring role in a Langton and Langton production, for this was the irresistible bait Tom had dangled before the hungry actor. It was an offer Colin couldn’t refuse.

“I withdraw from the new play and Vera, who has long itched to direct, inherits the keys to the Langton and Langton kingdom and looks about for a new face to replace this old one. You, Colin, are it.”

“But she’ll want a star,” Colin protested.

Tom shook his head. “I hate to admit it but Freddy’s little comedies are so brilliant they don’t need a name, only competent actors with pretty faces. That’s how I, and a few others, got their start in a Fred Langton play. Unknowns are ingratiatingly thankful, do as they’re told, and come cheap. Besides, Vera enjoys discovering new talent to tread the boards or her bed and has already suggested you as my understudy. You’ll be invited to Westport next weekend, and every weekend thereafter, to scrutinize the script and toss around ideas, as Freddy likes to put it.”

“Suppose the widow cancels the new play and goes into mourning for the dearly departed?” Colin questioned.

“Vera in mourning?” Tom exclaimed. “My dear boy, Vera will hold a memorial service on the stage of Freddy’s last hit looking splendid in white. After the eulogy she’ll announce that she could pay no greater tribute to Fred Langton than to put his new play into production — immediately. Exit Vera to a standing ovation.

“Now, shall we go over the plan once more before you trot up to your garret?” With a pause, Tom added, “By the way, when I go west, you can move down here for the duration of my lease, rent free.”

The plan.

Tom knew from experience that when a new play was being mounted, the weekends spent in Westport never varied. Fred Langton and guest or guests would go up on Friday evening. Vera would join them on Saturday, after her hair appointment. For now, the only guests would be the play’s star, Tom Harrington, and the stage manager, Colin Delaney. Fred didn’t think Colin was necessary at this point but Tom (again from past experience) counted on Vera insisting that Colin be part of the team from the beginning. Tom, of course, was right in this assumption.

On the first weekend Colin would get the lay of the land (no pun intended) and Tom would show him where Fred kept the gun. By the second weekend Fred would be used to having Colin around. The third weekend would be their last in Westport and Fred Langton’s last on earth. On that weekend, Colin would meet Fred in Grand Central, as usual, and say that Tom had pressing business to attend to that would keep him in town that night and he (Tom) would come up with Vera on Saturday. Thanks to Alonzo Ortiz, Fred didn’t like being alone in the Westport house, so he would have no objection to going up with Colin on Friday.

Colin was assigned on their first weekend to pick up Vera at the train station on Saturday at five. Once established, that was his job. On the third weekend, Colin would leave the house to pick up Vera and Tom. First, he would have removed the gun from the desk drawer and planted it under a cushion on one of the outdoor patio chairs. The door to the patio led directly into Fred’s summer office.

When Vera got off the train she would be alone. She would tell Colin that Tom called her cell to say he was delayed but would make the 5:15. Colin would suggest that he and Vera have a drink, then pick up Tom at the station. If he drove Vera home, he would have to drive back to the station almost immediately. Vera, to be sure, would be delighted to have a tête-à-tête with Colin. First, she would call Fred to tell him what was happening.

Actually, Tom would take an early train to Westport and walk to the house, where he would hide in a wooded area just beyond the patio. When he saw Colin leave, he would come onto the patio. He had no fear of being seen, as Fred loathed fresh air and never went outdoors unless forced to do so. Fred would be at his desk with his back to the patio door. Tom would wait until he heard the phone ring and Fred answer it. This would be Vera’s call. When Fred put down the phone, Tom would pick up the gun and enter the den.

Tom would then walk back to the station, ditching the gun down a sewer, and meet Colin and Vera at the station, where it would appear that he got off the 5:15. He, Vera, and Colin would drive back to the house to discover the tragedy.

“Vera speaks to Fred when she gets off the train at five. He’s very much alive. When we get to the house at six-thirty, give or take ten minutes, he’s dead. You and Vera are having drinks in the pub and I’m on the train heading north when the murder occurred. It’s foolproof.” This was Tom’s mantra whenever he outlined the ingenious plan.

“Vera is well known at the pub, so you’ll have a dozen witnesses to back you up — if needed. I’ve arranged with a friend to say he ran into me in Grand Central as I was running for the five-fifteen — also if needed, which I doubt, thanks to Alonzo Ortiz.” At this point Tom usually began humming “California, Here I Come.”

Colin was not as optimistic. “There’s so much left to chance, or luck. I have to get the gun from the desk to the patio without Fred seeing me.”

“Fred tends to nature right after breakfast and sits on the throne reading the Times for a half-hour, at least,” was Tom’s standard response.

Colin continued, “Vera must have her hair done and finished in time to make the three forty-five — and she must agree to have a drink with me and wait for you to arrive on the five-fifteen.”

“Vera’s Saturday hair appointment is as regular as Fred’s morning stay in the bathroom and nothing will please her more than to have you to herself while sipping a dirty martini,” Tom reminded his friend.

“Fred must pick up Vera’s call and not let the machine get it,” was Colin’s final litany of the things that could go wrong.

Tom shrugged in exasperation. “I know there are pitfalls, but we have to chance it because it’s my only hope of getting out of that contract and your only hope of advancing from stage manager to star. The one thing we can control, and you must, is to keep Vera in that pub long enough so that you get to the station after the five-fifteen has been and gone. I’ll be on the platform.

“It’s over an hour’s jog from the house to the train station. I’ve timed it twice on my morning runs and I’m in good shape for the trip. If Vera calls Fred a little after five, and I do the job minutes later, I should get to the station a few minutes after the train has left. Make sure you get there after me. Don’t leave the pub till six-thirty or later. Understand?”

Colin nodded. “Do you have opening-night jitters?”

“I’m an actor playing a role and I intend to play it like the pro I am.”

“Break a leg,” Colin said.

2

Detective Sam Adler looked down at the mortal remains of Fred Langton. The detective was a big man, but he was careful not to disturb anything in the room as the scene-of-crime crew and the medical examiner had not yet arrived. He was first on the scene because he was at the station house when the call came in and he got to the Langtons’, with two uniformed officers, within minutes.

Adler didn’t need the M.E. to tell him that Langton had been shot through the back of the head while sitting at his desk. He must have died instantly, his body heaving forward to press his face into what appeared to be the manuscript of a play that lay open on the desk. The door to the patio was directly behind the desk. If Langton had heard the murderer enter the room he probably didn’t have enough time to turn around and see who hated him enough to kill him.

Reluctantly, Adler left the murder scene and returned to the living room to face the new widow and her two houseguests. The Langtons were known in Westport, as was the actor, Harrington. Adler didn’t know who the other guy was and had already forgotten his name. The three were seated on a humongous couch, with Mrs. Langton between the two young men, one of whom was holding her hand. It wasn’t Harrington. She looked stunned, as one might expect, but was not in tears. If she was in shock, the hysterics would come when it wore off.

Adler took a portable tape recorder from his pocket and switched it on. “It saves time,” he explained to the trio, who stared at the tall man hovering above them. Two uniformed officers performed sentry duty at the far end of the room.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Langton, but I must ask some questions ASAP, before time blurs the facts. Unfortunately, I speak from experience.”

Vera Langton nodded her consent, then blurted, “We employed a cleaning woman, Rosa Ortiz. Her husband...”

“I’m familiar with the incident, Mrs. Langton. Right now, please tell me where you and your guests were this afternoon.”

“Perhaps I should explain,” Colin Delaney said.

“Please do. You are?”

“Colin Delaney. I’m employed by Mr. Langton — or Mrs. Langton...” He paused. “I’m sorry. I’m very upset.”

“I understand, Mr. Delaney. Just take your time and speak in a normal tone. No need to shout. Now let’s start again.”

“Yes, of course,” Colin began. “I’ve been here since yesterday. Tom and Vera, Mrs. Langton, came up today. I drove to the station at five to pick them up but Tom wasn’t on the train with Mrs. Langton.”

Tom broke in. “I was delayed, so I called Mrs. Langton and told her I would make the next train, which was at five-fifteen.”

Colin picked up with, “Mrs. Langton and I decided to have a drink and wait for Tom to arrive, rather than drive back to the house. That’s what we did. Mrs. Langton called Mr. Langton and told him we would be home as soon as Tom got here.”

“And you spoke to Mr. Langton?” Adler addressed Vera.

“Yes, of course. He was fine.” Vera’s voice trembled and Adler feared she was on the brink of breaking down. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible and have her taken upstairs before his crew and the M.E. arrived. Best for the bereaved not to see the body being photographed, examined, and carried out on a stretcher.

“What time did you speak to him, ma’am?”

“About five, when she got off the train,” Colin answered for her.

Adler looked down at Harrington. “And when did you get here?”

“I made the five-fifteen from Grand Central and got in about six-thirty. We drove straight here.”

Adler, once again, was not in need of the M.E.’s help to establish time of death. Fred Langton was killed between five and six-thirty. Here, the unmistakable sounds of police and ambulance sirens could be heard approaching the house. “Why don’t you men take Mrs. Langton upstairs,” Adler ordered. “Maybe she would like to rest until we’re done down here, and a good stiff drink might help all of you.”

As if sprung from a trap, the three rose with alacrity. Colin took Vera’s arm and led her out of the room as Tom went to the liquor cabinet and helped himself to a bottle of bourbon.

“You can go to the kitchen for ice,” Adler called after Tom.

Turning, Tom said, “They keep a mini fridge and mineral water in their bedroom.”

God bless the rich, Adler thought as the ambulance and police cars roared up the Langton driveway.

Once upstairs, Vera did not break down nor lie down but went straight to the phone and dialed Langton and Langton’s lawyer. Tom poured out two shots of bourbon and handed one to Colin. Eyeing each other, they touched glasses in a silent salute and drank. Tom poured a stiff drink for Vera, diluting it with branch water, and handed it to her just as she put down the phone.

“The press will race up here by car or helicopter when this breaks,” she said. “I don’t want to see them. You talk to them, Tom. You know the routine, say nothing in a few thousand words. My lawyer will make an official statement in the morning.” She polished off half her drink in one swallow. “Christ, I needed that.”

“Do you want to lie down, Vera?” Colin wondered aloud.

“I’m too keyed up for that,” she said. “Can you imagine that Mexican bastard...”

“Made you CEO of Langton and Langton,” Tom concluded.

“That’s crude,” Vera protested.

“Come, come, Vera. We’re alone now,” Tom answered. “No need to put on an act until the press get here.”

“Freddy is dead,” Vera cried.

Tom poured himself another shot of bourbon and raised his glass. “The king is dead. Long live the queen.”

Vera hesitated a moment — a very brief moment — then drank to the toast.

An hour later, alone in his bedroom, Tom looked out the window and watched the medics carry Fred Langton out of his home for the last time. As the ambulance drove away he began humming “California, Here I Come.”

At the station house, Detective Adler sat at his computer keying in his report. Occasionally he played back the tape on his recorder so he could quote, verbatim, his brief interview with Vera Langton, Tom Harrington, and Colin Delaney.

There was a tap on the office door and Sergeant Rick Anderson entered without being summoned. “Sorry I’m late, Sam. I went to the city today with the wife and kids. The boys outside told me one of our major summer celebrities has got himself killed.”

“Fred Langton,” Sam responded. “I’m just finishing my report. Have a look when I’m done.”

“Remember the Mexican?” Rick said. “What was his name?”

“Ortiz. Alonzo Ortiz. The boys went to pick him up if he’s still in town, which I doubt.”

“Sorry I wasn’t here to assist, Sam. There was a fire in Grand Central. Nothing serious. One of those track fires that happen when everyone is in a rush. I was going to make the five-fifteen but service wasn’t resumed until seven.”

Sam Adler turned slowly in his chair and rose to his impressive height of six feet plus. “What did you say?”

“I said there was no five-fifteen from Grand Central this evening. That’s why I’m late.”