The triplet they were now about to rehearse yet another time…
It was Kendall’s conviction that this particular stretch would never play…
… consisted of a scene between the Actress and the Director sitting at a table in a restaurant, followed by a scene in which someone non-germane stabs the Actress, which is then followed by a scene in which the Detective interrogates ad infinitum the other two principals. There was simply no way to make this drivel come alive. The writing in the restaurant scene was so foreboding, so portentous, so fraught with foreshadowing, that any intelligent member of the audience would know the girl was going to get stabbed the minute she left the place.
“Why haven’t you told me this before?”
The Director speaking.
The one onstage. Not Kendall himself sitting out here in the sixth row.
“I… I was afraid you were the one making the calls.”
“Me? Me?“
This from Cooper Haynes, the dignified gentleman doctor of soap opera fame, looking thoroughly astonished by the mere idea of being the person making threatening phone calls to the actress he was directing. His stupefaction looked so genuine that it almost evoked a laugh from Kendall, exactly the wrong sort of response at this point in the play’s time.
“I’m sorry, I know that’s ridiculous. Why would you want to kill me?”
“Or anyone.”
Another line which — when delivered in Cooper’s wide-eyed bewildered way — could result in a bad laugh. In the dark, Kendall was furiously scribbling notes.
“You must go to the police.”
“I’ve been.”
“And?”
“They said they can’t do anything until he actually tries to kill me.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Yes.”
“With whom did you speak?”
“A detective.”
“And he said they could do nothing?”
“That’s right.”
“Impossible! Why… do you know what this means?”
“I’m so frightened.”
“It means you can be sleeping in your bed…”
“I know.”
“… and someone could attack you.”
“I’m terrified.”
“It means you can leave this restaurant tonight…”
“I know.”
“This very moment…”
“I know…”
“And someone can come at you with a knife.”
“What shall I do? Oh dear God, what shall I do?”
“I’m going home right this minute to make some calls. I know a few people downtown who’ll get on this detective of yours and see that he does something about this. Finish your coffee, I’ll drop you off on my way.”
“That’s all right, go ahead. I thought I’d walk, anyway. It’s just a few blocks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
“I worry about you, darling.”
“No, don’t.”
“I worry.”
“Good scene,” Corbin whispered.
Kendall said nothing.
He watched as Cooper walked over to Helen Frears, who was playing the cashier, and settled his check, and then pushed his way through the imaginary revolving doors to the street outside. As he walked off into the wings, Josie sat finishing her coffee at the table.
“Here’s where the fade should start,” Kendall said, and made a note to cue the fade earlier. Josie finished her coffee, picked up a napkin, delicately wiped at her mouth, with it, milking the moment, rose, put on her coat, still milking it — God, she was so good — pushed her chair back under the table, walked to the cashier, settled her bill, and then pushed through the same imaginary revolving doors.
The fade began.
As Josie began crossing the stage, the restaurant behind her — the table and chairs first, and then the cashier’s stand — slowly went to black. Clutching her coat collar to her throat as if protecting herself against a fierce wind, she moved out boldly, the light continuing to vanish behind her with each step she took. And then, ominously, the light ahead of her began to grow dim as well, so that now she was moving into deeper and deeper shadows beyond which lay only blackness.
Out of that blackness there suddenly appeared a tall man in a long black coat and slouch hat, Jerry Greenbaum himself, no jokes this time, Jerry Greenbaum playing it for real in a costume he had salvaged someplace and was wearing for the first time. Where in earlier rehearsals he had used a wooden stick to simulate the knife, now — and possibly inspired by the lighting — he was wielding a bona fide bread knife he’d picked up backstage someplace, holding it high above his head like Tony Perkins coming at Marty Balsam in Psycho, coming at Josie with the same stiff-legged long-skirted stride Perkins had used, enough to chill the blood from memory of the scene alone, if not exactly what Kendall himself had directed in this scene.
The knife descended viciously, its blade glinting with pinpoint pricks of light as Josie turned to shield the fake thrust from the audience. The stabber ran off into the blackness. Josie fell to the stage, lay there motionless.
And now the other actors materialized like mourners at an Irish wake, surrounding the stricken Actress, the Detective firing questions at each of them as if she were really dead, asking the Director what they had talked about at dinner, asking the Understudy whether they had argued recently, and finally turning to the Actress herself, who — surprise of all surprises! — wasn’t dead at all, but who rose from the stage now and fell back into a chair doubling as a hospital bed, and weakly answered the Detective’s questions along with the rest of them in a scene outstanding only for its sheer boredom and longevity.
“Thank you, people, it’s beginning to come together,” Kendall said. “Take ten and I’ll give you my notes.”
As the actors began moving off, Jerry popped onstage, still wearing the long coat and the wide-brimmed hat.
“How was that, boss?” he shouted to the theater. “Scary enough?”
“Very nice, Jerry,” Corbin said, and Kendall gave him a look.
“Little Hitchcock there, huh?” Jerry said.
“Very nice,” Corbin said again, and Kendall gave him another look.
The two men sat silently for a moment.
“She’s very good, isn’t she?” Corbin said at last.
“Josie? Yes. She’s wonderful.”
“Made it come alive for the first time,” Corbin said.
Kendall said nothing. The play was a long way from coming alive. Josie’s performance had given it a good boost tonight, but unless Corbin sat down and rewrote the damn thing from top to bottom…
“Almost a shame,” Corbin said.
“What is?”
“That he missed.”
The two men came into the theater while Kendall was giving the cast his notes. Both were wearing topcoats. No hats. In the light that silhouetted them from the lobby as they came through the doors at the rear of the theater, he could see that one was blond and the other had dark hair. They were both tall, wide-shouldered men of about the same height and weight, both in their thirties somewhere, he guessed. The blond had hazel-colored eyes. The one with the dark hair had slanted brown eyes.
“Mr. Kendall?” the blond one called, inadvertently interrupting him in the middle of a sentence, which Kendall didn’t appreciate one damn bit.