“We can, but progress won’t listen. Did you put anything in your memoirs about that day?”
“No, there was nowhere to go with it, so it wound up on the cutting room floor, as you Hollywood types might put it. We did write it up, though. My daughter Eleanor helped with the book, and that day was so imprinted on my memory that I was able to reconstruct it pretty much word for word onto a tape recorder. Didn’t miss a thing.”
“As I remember, Eleanor was just a baby at the time. But she joined the family business, too, didn’t she?”
“In a big way. She’s a better actor than her old man, as my father constantly reminded me. Does plenty of TV, plays, pictures.”
“But about that day in Danny’s apartment. I know you have a great memory, but I doubt if you can remember every conversation you’ve had and every social event you’ve been at since World War II.”
“No, but that one was unforgettable. Especially a little colloquy between Danny and his wife and Jerry Cordova about an old Gershwin song. Eleanor really enjoyed that part.”
“Any chance you or she could send me a transcript of your notes on that party? I might have a use for it.”
“Sure. Be happy to. Why the special interest, Seb?”
“I think that was when you and your dad hatched the Broadway Executioner murders.”
Arthur Belasco’s eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked around for a moment like a hunted animal. Then he intoned, his voice dripping with menace, “Seb, I don’t know what you think you know or how you know it. But if you hope to still be breathing when I leave, we need to come to an understanding.” His hand had moved to a bulge in his jacket pocket.
“You can’t get away with it,” I said. “You’re not going to shoot me in my own apartment.”
“There are other ways,” he said, a gleam of madness in his eyes. “I’m an expert at that, aren’t I?”
I’d kept a straight face as long as I could. I laughed at him. “Your dad was right. You are a lousy actor.”
Then he laughed, too, and pulled out a pipe. “I had you for a second, though, didn’t I?”
“Maybe for a second,” I agreed.
“Well, for a second, you had me, too. I heard about Danny’s crazy theory, you know, and maybe there’s something to it. But the old man and me as the murderers? Very far-fetched, and I’m glad you don’t really think that.”
“Oh, but I do,” I said. “Arthur, you and I both know the chances of getting anybody charged with a series of crimes the police don’t even admit were crimes after all these years is zero, and there’s nothing to prove my theory in a court of law. We also know that no matter what I say, you have nothing to fear from me and have no reason to pull out your roscoe and ka-chow it at me this pleasant afternoon. But I’d be happy if, just between us, you could admit what happened and tell me how you brought it off.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he said, still taking it as a joke. “First, tell me what your evidence is.”
“Okay, here goes. First, look at the songs. Two of the ones that carried clues were in productions of the Ziegfeld Follies, and we know your father worked for Ziegfeld in that period.”
“Uh-huh. So what?”
“How about this? Most of the songs, except for the Irving Berlin, were from lesser Broadway composers. No Gershwin, Porter, Rodgers, Kern. Instead Shean, Blitzstein, and Brown. But one song was by Kurt Weill, and he was your father’s choice as greatest Broadway composer.”
“Philo Vance and Charlie Chan would have thrown that one back.”
“Okay, but look at the alibis. Elmer couldn’t have committed all of the murders. You couldn’t have committed all of the murders. But between the both of you, you could have done them all. You and Elmer joked about his wanting you to join the family business. Could it be that he asked you in on this project as well?”
“Oh, if he’d been a serial killer, he probably would have. Great family man, my father. You got anything else?”
“The clue on Ned Spurlock referred to somebody running a marathon. The connection wasn’t as immediately obvious as some of the others. But Ned Spurlock and Elmer Belasco both worked on a flop musical called Boston Marathon.”
“I remember that one. It died in Boston, where else?”
“Maybe Elmer had been one of Ned’s victims.”
“Well, he hated him enough. Still, that’s pretty thin.”
“Oh, it’ll stay pretty thin, but I did save the best clue for last. The line about Massachusetts and New York came from a show called New Faces of 1952, which didn’t open till May of that year. In late 1951, when the murder of Justin Gentry occurred, you were working on a satirical musical revue that would introduce young talent. Sounds like New Faces to me.”
“It was. I’m proud to have worked on that show. Incredible cast. Paul Lynde, Eartha Kitt, Carol Lawrence, Alice Ghostley, Mel Brooks. But what was your point?”
“Just this. Before it opened, when it was still in preparation, how many people would have known the lyrics to that Lizzie Borden song? Somebody involved with the production would. Whoever put that line in the personal columns to foretell Spurlock’s murder had to have been involved with the show before it opened.”
“That one’s a little better, Seb, I have to admit. But you’re still talking through your hat. How do you know how long that song was in gestation before the show opened and who else might have heard the lyrics? The author might have been singing that at Broadway cocktail parties for a year. Jerry Cordova might have been playing it, for all we know.”
“Okay, it’s speculation, but I don’t expect to satisfy anybody else. I just want to satisfy my own curiosity. So, why don’t you just admit to me that you did it? You and your father.”
Arthur shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, Seb. Your theory is clever. Rosey Patterson would have loved it. But my dad and I weren’t murderers.” After a moment’s silence, he grinned slyly. “We could have done it, though, and if we had, it wouldn’t have been a crime. It would have been a public service. Remember that book O. J. Simpson did?”
“Where he said he didn’t do it, but this is how he’d have done it if he did it?”
“That’s it. Just for fun, I’ll use my imagination and do an O. J. number for you on the Broadway Executioner murders.”
“Starting with Claude Anselm.”
“Oh, that one would have been Dad’s alone. Assuming, that is, that it was really part of the series at all, and not just an anonymous mugging, like everybody thought. Dad hated Anselm’s guts. He’d worked with him, knew how he operated. He could have stalked the guy and killed him and left the scene knowing he’d never be suspected. But let’s say I found out about it. Maybe I saw him just after the killing, spotted something that tipped me off. Maybe he was disposing of the weapon. A bloody golf club would be appropriate. So, I’d get him to tell me the truth, and he’d make me agree to stonewall it. Certainly, I’d have had no problem with the morality of the thing. Then Rosey’s brainstorming on it might have inspired us. Dad had done it once. Why couldn’t he do it again, especially with me helping him? Put that line about Anselm’s lousy golf game in the personals the next day. It was no great trick to place a classified ad anonymously in those days. Then after that, we’d make it harder on ourselves, give ourselves a challenge. Sort of predict the murder to the papers before we actually committed it. Maybe I had this desire to show my dad I really was a good actor, that I could put on a fright wig and do a righteous killing and cover my tracks. Hey, this makes such a good story, I almost wish it really had happened this way. So, let’s see, what was the next one?”
“Monique Floret.”