“If you have to.”
“I do. There is a dead man – you may recall that.”
That sobered her up a little. “Rehearsal was to begin at ten o’clock, right?”
“Right. It should have been nine o’clock but Geoff was such a lazy . . . ”
“Right,” he said snapping her off. “And did Geoff make the schedule that called Laertes and Ophelia in first, or did you?”
“He did. I tried to talk him out of it but . . . ”
Chen entered the room without knocking and indicated that Ms. Pants should stand up. She looked to Fong, who shrugged his shoulders with his best it’s-a-Communist-country-what-can-I-do look. Then Chen pointed her to the corner of the room and barked a country nursery rhyme in Mandarin. She went to the corner then Chen indicated with his finger that she should turn around and face the wall. He barked the nursery rhyme again but backwards this time. She resisted, but Chen screamed the opening lines of Mao’s red book at her.
Captain Chen was having fun.
Ms. Pants finally turned around and faced the wall still clutching her red zippered binder with the ever-so-valuable insights on the show’s progress.
Fong smiled then the two of them left the office and quietly shut the door. Once they were outside Chen asked, “Is she a suspect?”
“Of what?”
“Mr. Hyland’s murder?”
“No.”
“So what is she suspected of doing?”
A person like Ms. Pants, Fong assumed, could have organized a killing and staged it to look like a suicide but he couldn’t for the life of him think what her motive for doing so would be. Besides, the whole thing had artistic touches. The way Geoff was dressed, the positioning of the ladder, the flowers – artistic. And this woman didn’t have an artistic bone in her tight-assed body. “She’s suspected of being offensive to art. And of bad manners.”
Chen just stared at Fong. Fong pointed toward the room. “Get her passport then let her go.”
Chen turned to the office then stopped. “I don’t speak English.”
“No, you don’t.” Fong smiled. “Just keep yelling in Mandarin until she figures it out. It’s good for a person like her to feel powerless. It’s what she enjoys doing to others. Maybe it will make her think twice before acting that way. Then again maybe it won’t.” Fong turned on his heel and headed toward the interrogation room the cops nicknamed the Hilton because it had a chair with all four legs and had been cleaned at least once in the past fiscal year.
The other Screaming me-me, Ms. Marstal, sat looking as if her hands needed a cigarette. She didn’t stand when Fong entered but that was okay. Fong moved to the far side of the table and sat. He opened a folio and quickly leafed through the pages despite the fact that he already knew all the data there by heart.
“So you are here as an adviser to the production?”
“That’s not how I would describe it.”
That surprised Fong. “How would you describe it then?”
“My ex-husband put up the money for this. We were going to try out the concepts that Mr. Hyland had over here. Don’t ask me how Geoff talked my ex into doing it in Shanghai. If he wanted out of town we could have done New Haven or something.”
Fong nodded although he had no idea what she was talking about. “Your money was behind the production?”
“Yes. My ex-husband’s.”
“Didn’t the theatre academy produce the show?”
“They gave us the space and actors . . . ”
“That’s not producing a show?”
“Well, if you count that, I guess it was, but really the actors here . . . ” She didn’t complete her thought.
Fong knew that Geoff was able to attract the finest actors in China. “You had a problem with some of the actors?”
“Not a problem, they just aren’t very talented.”
“Really?”
“Especially the poor thing playing Gertrude.”
Fong stopped listening as Ms. Marstal slandered Hao Yong’s work in the play. Fong understood what this was all about and began to nod and smile.
“Something funny, Detective?”
“Inspector.”
“Fine. Inspector, what is so humorous?”
Fong took a breath and remembered Fu Tsong’s comments about actresses who married rich producers. “They deprecate and fawn, Fong, and continually try to prove they haven’t slept their way into their roles. They usually have good tits but not enough brains to do the work. They always get attracted to the ethereal side of acting. There is real magic in good acting, Husband, but not the way their small brains can comprehend.”
When he looked up, Ms. Marstal was talking again.
“Geoff is so didactic – I’m interested in the spontaneous – channelling is the height of the form.” Then she laughed. Fong assumed she did that because she thought he didn’t understand what the hell she was talking about. He did – joke on you, lady. Then she rose and sort of posed against the door jamb, “Geoff didn’t find me attractive.” She waited for Fong to contradict Geoff’s taste. He didn’t. Finally she unfurled herself from the door and said, “Fool, him.”
Fong wanted to say, “Geoff chased skirts not rags,” but thought better of it. Then he remembered the rest of that conversation with Fu Tsong about actresses like Ms. Marstal. “And then when they get older they use phrases like ‘old dames like me’ or ‘has-beens like me,’ but never believe them, Fong. They think they are still sixteen and want to be treated as if they hold the key to the secret gates to ecstasy all by themselves.”
“Ms. Marstal, is it hard to find work at your age?”
“Excuse me?” she said, clearly caught off balance by Fong’s question.
“I believe you heard me. It must be difficult for an actress of your age in a field so dedicated to youth.”
She softened. “Well, it’s hard for old dames like me, yes.”
“And Gertrude was your role to play once the show moved back to North America?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
Fong just smiled. “Why were you at the theatre for a ten o’clock call?”
“I attend most rehearsals.”
“But no Gertrude scene was called.”
“True, but Geoff needed guidance. I noticed him moving the show in a most unacceptable way.”
“What way was that?”
“Conceptual. As if his concept were more important than the actors.”
“And that didn’t suit the show?”
“No. It almost entirely undermines Gertrude’s character.” Fong smiled again and nodded. Ms. Marstal saw it and wasn’t pleased. “Gertrude is Hamlet’s mother. Her story is central to the whole thing. And she’s a sexually alive human being. She’s the sexual centre of the play itself.” She did that smiley thing again and said, “I mean how many times do has-beens like me get a chance to strut our stuff? I was at rehearsal to protect my role. If you knew anything about actresses you would understand my position.”
Fong let that pass. “So what happens now?”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“Who looks after the show after Geoff is gone?”
“That duty falls to me. I’ve always wanted to direct. If I weren’t a woman I would have been asked to do so years ago. Did you know that Elinora Duza played Hamlet?”
No, Fong didn’t know that. Nor did he know what an Elinora Duza was – perhaps some form of puffy Italian pastry or maybe it was the name for a Big Whopper in Rome or something. What he did know was that this woman wasn’t smart enough to plan the demise of Geoffrey Hyland. And even getting a chance to direct was not motive enough for murder. If, through some bizarre alignment of the stars or some trick of alchemy, the killing of a talented director would revive the career of a mediocre actress then Fong would have arrested Ms. Marstal on the spot. But since there wasn’t a hope of any such extraterritorial happenings he unceremoniously demanded her passport and left her to find her own way out of the police station.
It was already dark as Fong entered his office. He sat at his desk and thought, “So much for the keyholders and those who were in the theatre just before and those called to be in the theatre just after Geoff’s death.” He slid the dossiers into a desk drawer. Then he noticed a piece of paper with a phone number on it. Beneath the number was Chen’s notation: Shakespeare Expert.