“Before your time,” he said with a sigh, looking toward the stage. “I was in the St. Louis and Chicago productions of The Girl of the Golden West. Played Jack. Had a voice. But you must hear stories like that all the time in your line of work.”
“Some,” said. “I know the police asked you, but can you tell me what you saw last night?”
“Saw? Let me think.”
He rubbed his hair some more. It was now almost comically wild.
“Saw,” he repeated. “Like what went on here?”
“Yes.”
“Not things I saw earlier, on the way here after breakfast.”
“No, before the shooting,” I said.
“Let’s see. People moving around in those costumes, moving that stuff, animals in cages. Everyone trying to be quiet ‘cause the show was going on you know.”
“I know.”
He looked at his pipe again.
“Thinking back,” he said. “Did see that one who got himself shot and killed. Talked to him. He was a talker. Asked questions. I had answers, but I don’t think they were the ones he wanted. He went upstairs. Think maybe I saw him going into one of the doors up there, dressing rooms.”
“You didn’t hear the shot?”
“Who says?”
“I thought …”
“No, I didn’t hear the shot. Nothing wrong with my hearing. I’ve got perfect pitch. Always did. Born with it. ‘God’s gift,’ my mother used to say. ‘God’s curse,’ my father said, because it got me into musical comedy, opera.”
He was lost in reverie. I pulled him back.
“Gunshot.”
“Never heard it. Buzz saw was going,” he said. “Looked up some point. Not too many people backstage then. Saw the one, what’s her name, long legs, little tiger costume.”
“Gwen,” I said.
“That’s the one,” he said with a nod. “She was about at the top of the stairs. Someone came out of the dressing room behind her. She turned and ran down the stairs, right past me, out that door there.”
“The other person, the one who came out of the dressing room?”
“Nice suit, beard, one of those turban things on his head.”
“What did he do?” I asked.
Raymond Ramutka was in no hurry. He played with the tobacco in his pipe with a stained thumb and hummed something.
“What did he do,” he repeated. “Don’t know. Don’t think he came down the stairs. Don’t know. I watched her go through the door.”
“Thanks,” I said.
About a minute later I saw Jimmy Clark, the freckled kid, carrying a wooden cage big enough for a cougar. There was a handle on top, and it took both his hands to carry it.
“Want a hand?” I asked.
“No place to grab except the handle,” he said. “But thanks.”
He put it down and looked at a spot behind the curtains, probably gauging how much further he had to go.
“The other night,” I said. “What did you see?”
“Police asked me this,” he said. “I’ll tell you the same. I was standing about here. Even with the buzz saw, I heard the shot. I knew it was a shot. I’ve heard lots of shots.”
“Army?” I asked.
“Yeah, a grunt. Infantry. Got this,” he said, touching his leg, “getting off a landing barge on a little island near Guam. Didn’t even make it out of the water. Jap shell hit about then yards away from me, went in, blew. Never got to the island.”
He didn’t look a minute older than eighteen.
“The shot,” I reminded him.
“Oh yea. I heard it. “I was standing there with Meagan and Joyce. I looked up, saw Gwen running down. Saw this guy up there. Turban, beard. I think he had a gun in his hand.”
“A pellet gun?” I asked.
“Don’t think so,” he said. “Looked bigger, heavier. Anyway, he came running down the stairs behind Gwen. I knew something bad had happened. Just had the feeling. Her tiger tail was wagging. You know?”
“I know.”
“The man?”
“Stage right and gone,” he said. “If I could run, I would have gone for him.”
“He had a gun,” I said.
“Yeah, right. Well maybe I wouldn’t have gone for him but I like to think I would have.”
“Did the guy with the beard look familiar?”
“Well maybe, yeah, sort of,” he said plunging his hands into his pockets. But I can’t place him.”
“Keep trying,” I said.
“I will,” he said.
He rubbed his hands together, took in a breath and picked up the box again.
I found Pete Bouton standing in the wings to the right of the stage. His arms were folded and he was watching his brother slowly go over a number in the act, one that involved swords and a colorful big box that was about the size and shape of an outhouse.
“High,” Pete said. “Anything?”
“Not yet,” I said.
He looked out on the stage.
“Want to know the real trick?’ he asked. The real skill?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Timing, practice, confidence, making it look easy. Don’t let them see you sweat. We used to work together on stage, but I’m more comfortable making things work, watching from the wings.”
“You were in the wings when Cunnningham died?”
“I was. I didn’t hear the shot, but I did hear people talking behind me. I turned. There were four or five people. Joyce, Meagan, Al Grinker, looking toward the stairs leading up to the dressing room. They tell me Gwen ran down. They tell me a man in a beard and a turban came out of the dressing room with a gun.”
“But you didn’t see this?”
“Not from here,” he said. “Just the people looking up.”
I looked back. I could see the bottom of the steps but nothing of the upper landing where the dressing rooms were.
I looked at Bouton who was definitely worried.
“I don’t like this dinner thing tonight,” he said. “When Ott showed up here after the shooting, he was wild, threatened Harry. But my brother doesn’t back away from a challenge.”
“Ott’s got some kind of surprise,” I said.
“So has Harry,” he said.
I talked to everyone I could find who had been there when Cunningham was shot. They all told pretty much the same story. The only difference, and it was a big one, was that some of them said they thought they saw the man with the beard and gun come down the stairs and either go into the shadows stage right, through the door to the outside, or saw him move the other way outside the dressing room. Some said he was holding a gun. Some said he wasn’t.
I went up the stairs, passing a girl in blue tights. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a kind of tail. She reminded me of Ann Miller, which reminded me of Ann Preston who used to be Ann Peters.
“You looked cute in that costume the other night,” she said as she passed.
“Cute is what I aim for,” I said.
There were two doors beyond the dressing room where Cunningham had been killed. One was a closet with no windows. The other was a storage room with no windows. Around the corner was a dead-end alcove. The alcove was small. Over the railing were rungs fitted into the wall, a ladder down to the stage level and up to the roof.
I didn’t bother to climb down. It would just take me where I had been. I went up, pushed the trapdoor open, climbed out, and looked around. Nothing much to see. I walked around the roof to see if there was some way onto it. There was-a fire escape. So, the guy in the turban could have climbed up the fire escape and through the trapdoor. I checked my watch. Useless. It had been my father’s. It kept its own time. I had another stop I wanted to make but I wasn’t sure I had time. I had a tuxedo to put on, shoes to polish, maybe a murder to stop.
I went back down the stairs, waved at Raymond Ramutka who leaned against the wall near the rear door, probably remembering the score of Tosca.
I decided to make a quick stop.
I checked the phone booth and found a listing for The Pelle-grino Agency, Robert Cunningham, confidential investigations. The address was on San Vicente. When I got there, I walked into The Pellegrino Bar.