“I don’t suppose it’s any use my telling you again what a mistake you made in going to Miles’ apartment that night, and not telling Gleason about it …”
“No use at all. What are you doing right now?”
“I have to see Wilbur on business. Then I’m off to dinner with some people … newspaper people. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Try and finish early. I’m going to be home all evening. I don’t know when I’ve ever been so jittery.”
I said that I would and she disappeared into the ladies’ dressing room. I was about to go into the studio where I could see Wilbur talking to some dancers, when Louis hove-to, flashing that ivory smile … uncapped teeth, by the way.
“What’s new, Baby?”
“About that Harlem deal,” I said. “I’d like to go up there some time.”
“That’s a good boy. I knew you come around.” He gave me a sweaty hug. “We go tonight … unless you rather go straight on to my place.”
“I’d like to see Harlem first. I’m writing a book.”
“That’s a hot one,” said Louis who liked only comic books about Superman and Prince Valiant and Terry and the Pirates. We made a date to meet at eleven in the Algonquin lobby.
I avoided Gleason who was, I gathered, in the classroom sifting evidence. Wilbur had obviously forgotten our appointment but he was pleasant enough and suggested I go to his apartment with him while he changed clothes.
Jed lived in a small apartment in one of the drearier housing projects on the East Side … one of those red brick fortress jobs with tiny windows, the perfect place for a true liberal to get that anthill feeling, that sense of oneness with everyman.
I sat in his living room while he showered and dressed. I cased everything, much the way I had in Eglanova’s apartment, and with the same result. It is difficult to search a room for nothing in particular; on the other hand, you get some feeling of the owner’s character. In this case, a rather negative feeling. Everything was functional, 1930-modern, lots of chrome and natural-wood finishes and no decorations other than an abstract painting on the wall, so abstract that it would take an art-lover more dedicated than I to tell whether it was good or bad. In the bookcase were twenty or thirty books on ballet, and nothing else. I was quite sure that the inevitable reference works of the left wing could be found in the bedroom, hidden away while the heat was on.
“I’ve never been so tired,” said Wilbur, coming back into the room wearing a T-shirt and a pair of slacks which hung loosely from his thin body. “Want a drink?” We had bourbon and water.
Then he sat at the other end of the gray and gold couch and looked at me expectantly.
“It’s about these Washington hearings,” I said. “I wanted to know when you were going down and when you’d be back and how you’d like us to handle the publicity … especially for Chicago where we may run into trouble. You see, Mr. Washburn has dropped the whole public relations end in my lap and I don’t quite know how to handle it.” I was dazzlingly glib.
“I wish I knew what to say,” said Wilbur, twisting a lock of hair. “Because of this murder business I can’t go away yet. It takes precedence, I gather, over a Congressional subpoena. I suppose, though, that as soon as they arrest whoever they’re planning to, I’ll be able to go down, testify, and be back in a couple of days. Don’t worry; they won’t find anything. Try and convince that fool Washburn, if you can. I’m sure he thinks I’m a Russian spy.”
“He’s an alarmist.”
“This mess all dates back to my connection with the North American Ballet. Two of the dancers were party members and the rest of us were sympathizers … I’ve already admitted that a hundred times. Unfortunately this is a competitive business and people have been trying to knock me off for years. If you get to the top they’ll use any stick to beat you with. This Communist scare was made to order for my enemies. But I’ll lick them yet; if I have to go through a thousand investigations.” Wilbur was properly truculent and I couldn’t help but admire his spirit. He was not going to knuckle under; the toughness that had got him where he was hadn’t deserted him. I felt, though, that he tended to over-dramatize the situation … I mean, after all, who really gives a damn about a choreographer, a dancing master, a twinkle-toes expert; it’s a minor art form in a second-rate theater, for which sentiment I could probably be run out of town.
“Have you much to do with Gleason?” I asked, before he could go into the inevitable “I-am-a-suffering-artist-who-has-struggled-to-bring-beauty-into-the-world” routine that so many of our talented corn balls slip into at a moment’s notice.
“Gleason?” He looked bewildered, the autobiography of Jed Wilbur, mid-twentieth-century choreographer, halted at the first chapter. “You mean that Inspector? No, not since yesterday when he had us all in. I’ve got enough to worry about without getting mixed up in these murders. Do you realize that they may not let us go to Chicago next week? That my ballet may not be ready even if we do go, what with all these damned interruptions? It was godawful today … I can tell you that. The company was worse than usual … if that could be possible. It was like running through molasses. I’ll tell you one thing, though, which I haven’t even told brother Washburn; if we’re not allowed to go to Chicago I’m going to break my contract. I’ve already talked to my lawyer and he says that I’ve a legal right to.”
“I’m sure Gleason will have solved the case by then, before the Chicago opening.”
“I hope so.” Wilbur poured himself another drink.
“Who do you think did it?” My question was abrupt.
“Did what? The murders? I haven’t the slightest idea. Tell me did that ape from the Veterans’ Committee show up today … what’s his name, Fleer?”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Washburn and I sent away most of the callers … including the press.”
“He has a personal grudge against me. I swear he has. This is downright persecution. Why, of all the liberals in New York, in the theater, did he have to go after me? The one who really cares just about as much about politics as … as Eglanova.”
“After all you said yourself the reason … I mean, you’re the first in your profession. You’re a big target. If they could knock you off that would really be something for them … a real victory. Justify their whole existence.”
This neatly tendered wreath of laurel was received in grateful silence as he absorbed my statement about his preeminent position in the ballet: Wilbur … then Tudor, Balanchine, Ashton, Robbins. This brief meditation put him in a good humor. His expression grew more gentle, almost relaxed.
I repeated my earlier question.
“Who killed Ella and the others? Well, I’m not sure that any opinion I would have would be worth a damn. You see, I’m new to the company. I don’t have much idea of all the politics and so forth.… As a matter of fact, I’ve been so involved in my own mess that I haven’t paid as much attention to all this as I probably should. But just remember that it isn’t easy to create two ballets, defend your reputation and worry about a few murders, too. I figure if I survive the next month I’m going to Bermuda for the rest of the summer, right after the Chicago première. I can’t take much more.”
“But you have known all the people involved for a long time. The ballet’s a pretty small world no matter which company you’re with.”