Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 288 - Merry Mrs.MacBeth

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MERRY MRS. MACBETH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
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I.
REHEARSAL was over at the Half Moon Theatre.
Costumed as Romeo, Alan Fenway finished his impassioned plea to the balcony where the ghost of
Hamlet's father was standing with folded arms. Vera Scharn, otherwise Lady Macbeth, ceased her
somnambulistic prowl, tucked her dagger into the sash of her ruffled negligee and shrugged her way off
stage.
In the background, the Three Witches quit their chant of "Daily Double, boil and bubble" and left the
huge cauldron which smoked with compressed steam in the glow of artificial firelight.
Oswald Bodelle turned around in seat D-3, gave a broad-faced smile and queried:
"Well, Terry, what do you think?"
Terry Dundee took off his tortoise-shell glasses, gave a sharp squint of the shrewd eyes that flanked his
long-beaked face and responded:
"You're asking for it, Ossie. Confidentially--"
"Never mind the rest," interrupted Bodelle, with a warding wave of his fat hands. "But since you're being
honest, tell me this." Tone lowered, Ossie put the question sincerely. "Can you kid the public, into
thinking it's good?"
"Why not?" queried Dundee in confident style. "A wacky idea usually goes over with the chumps, and
this is about the wackiest yet. Mixing about half of Shakespeare into a musical is something different.
Good title, too: 'Merry Mrs. Macbeth,' only she doesn't look so merry."
"She does in the opening." This came from an earnest looking man who had just arrived from the steps at
the side of the stage. "You see, there's a prologue where she sings a parody to the Merry Widow Waltz,
telling how Macbeth has just been slain. Then she goes into her dance."
Ossie Bodelle shoved a big thumb toward the arrival and said to Terry Dundee:
"This is Fred Guylan. He wrote the script. Owns a piece of the show, too."
Dundee nodded as though accustomed to meeting such people. It was the kind of nod that reserved
opinion; then, feeling it would be politic to say something, Dundee put the compliment:
"She's a good actress, Vera Scharn."
That brought a worried look to Guylan's already nervous face. He was a rabbity man, and in keeping
with his style he threw an appealing look at Ossie Bodelle, who handled the situation quite blandly.
"Thought I told you, Terry," remarked Bodelle. "Vera Scharn is just the understudy for Lady Macbeth.
She plays Desdemona as a regular part."
"Then who's the leading lady?"
"The regular Lady Macbeth? A girl named Joy Trevose."
"Joy Trevose?" Dundee blinked. "Never heard of her. Has anybody else?"
"A lot of people will," returned Bodelle, planking his big hand on Dundee's shoulder. "They've got to hear
about her, if you take over the publicity for this show. It will be your job to make them--or else."
Guylan immediately looked relieved while Dundee looked puzzled. Then:
"I don't get it, Ossie," said Dundee. "A smart promoter like you passing up a good bet like Vera Scharn
for a nobody like this Joy Trevose."
Before Bodelle could explain, a spokesman did it for him.
Alan Fenway, the leading man, came down from the stage. He was very hot under the ruffled collar of his
Romeo costume.
"Bodelle doesn't pass up any bets," stormed Alan. "He's a smart promoter all right, but he didn't promote
this show. What he promoted was Howard Harthorne."
Dundee's eyebrows went up.
"The big chewing gum guy?" Terry's tone was incredulous. "I thought he'd lost his extra shirts on those
last two flops he backed. How come he fell for Merry Mrs. Macbeth?"
"He liked the cauldron scene," returned Bodelle. "It made him think of bubble gum. That right, Guylan?"
Guylan gave a feeble smile that Alan didn't share. For all his frills, the Romeo boy was pugnacious.
"Why lie about it, Bodelle?" Alan's fist was acquiring an itch. "Harthorne would have backed any show
that included Joy Trevose in the package. Where is Joy right now when she ought to be here for
rehearsal?"
"Out with Harthorne, I suppose," returned Bodelle. "She always is."
"And always is the word," retorted Alan. "From the moment Harthorne gave Joy the glad eye at the
summer theater where she and I were playing stock, you did your best to fix them up with a beautiful
friendship!"
"Why not, since a show went with it?"
"A show!" Alan accompanied his sneer with a disdainful look at Guylan. "This farce still lacks imagination.
Why don't you put in Harthorne as King Lear so he can ogle at Lady Macbeth?"
"Not bad," remarked Bodelle. "Make a note of it, Guylan."
"And we'll write you in for a Cupids costume," Alan turned to Bodelle. "So you can go shooting arrows
at Harthorne. Real ones, with poison tips, and let's hope you don't miss."
"Easy, now."
There was belligerence in Bodelle's glare as he rose from seat D-3 and matched his bulk against the lithe
figure of Romeo. But a difference of some fifty pounds didn't phase young Alan.
"You've said a few things about Harthorne yourself," reminded Alan, "such as wishing he'd break that
long neck of his when he stretches it for a look at the chorus line when they're coming downstairs to
rehearse."
Alan's indignation brought an indulgent laugh from Bodelle. There was something subtle about Ossie,
though his style was elephantine. At Alan's words, Bodelle turned and nodded knowingly as he glanced
toward the three tiers of dressing rooms off to the right of the stage.
"You win, kid," said Bodelle. "If I'd known how you felt about Joy, I wouldn't have promoted Harthorne.
Only it's too late now."
"And why?" demanded Alan. "Joy isn't suited to the part. She doesn't belong in this show. Ask Guylan."
There wasn't time to ask Guylan. The playwright was beginning to hem and haw the moment his name
was mentioned. That brought more contempt from Alan.
"Don't ask him," sneered the loquacious Romeo. "He's afraid of offending Harthorne. But here's a man
who can give an honest opinion"--Alan was swinging to Dundee--"and he'll tell you that Vera Scharn is
the right bet for Lady Macbeth."
Dundee gave one of his emphatic nods.
"I've already said it," he declared. "Vera would be a cinch for a good press job. What other names are in
the cast?"
"Zachary Verne for one," put in Bodelle. "He's playing the ghost."
"He is!" Dundee spread his hands and looked around in happy surprise. "Old Zach Verne! No wonder
he was giving us the side glance from that balcony! Why I've known Zach for years, only I didn't
recognize him in that rig. Where did he go?"
"Out for coffee I guess," returned Bodelle, "unless he's taking a nap up in his third-floor dressing room.
He either does one or the other."
"Good copy, Zach," approved Dundee. "I'll get him interviewed, and plenty."
"You're taking the press job, then?"
"I'm considering it." Rising, Dundee put on his tortoise shells to give his listeners a sharper scrutiny. "Only
don't let this leading lady business develop into a scandal. It won't give the show a good start, if any."
"That's up to Bodelle," snapped Alan. "He sold Harthorne on the show, with Joy as bait. If he can prove
to Harthorne that Vera is better, all right."
"Maybe I could," conceded Bodelle, "if somebody could talk Joy into dropping out. That's your
department, Alan."
"Talking to Joy?" Alan gave a snort. "Our conversation consists of notes that I leave on her dressing
table. She chucks them in the wastebasket without reading them."
Bodelle shrugged.
"All I've suggested is for her own good," pursued Alan. "If she will jump this horse opera, so will I.
There's a little theater company ready for tour with spots wide open for both of us."
"Why not go with them, Alan?"
"And give Harthorne the argument that I ran out on the show, proving that I'm the heel he says I am?"
"No. I guess that wouldn't do." Bodelle clamped a big and friendly hand on Alan's shoulder. "You're in a
tough spot, fellow. I'll do what I can to help you out."
Bodelle's face showed the sincerity that went with his tone and Alan's resentment gave way to a mood of
appreciation. Dundee noticed this as he looked from one to the other, scarcely noticing Guylan who was
standing between. As rabbity as ever, the playwright looked as though he were trying to say something.
"All right," decided Dundee, turning away. "Keep things under control and I'll see what stories can be
planted. We need something sensational."
Going up the steps to the stage, Dundee found that Guylan was following him and turned to give the timid
man a parting nod. Then with a gesture toward stage rear, Dundee commented:
"Looks nice, the cauldron set. What are you going to do, jack-knife it on and off whenever you need the
witches?"
Guylan shook his head.
"We'll have to fly it off," he replied. "It isn't as heavy as it looks. There's the rigging we're going to use to
test it"
Guylan pointed high to a sand-bag hanging above the right wing, stage front, and Dundee saw a rope
running over one pulley to another near the back of the stage, then down behind the scenery of the wing.
Approving the simplicity of the device, Dundee started out through the stage door, while Guylan wearily
removed a chair that was near the right front of the stage.
"For Mr. Harthorne," remarked Guylan, referring to the chair. "Only he didn't come to see the rehearsal.
"He never comes any more." Guylan gave his head a sad shake. "I'll have to ask him why when we meet
at his apartment this evening."
Terry Dundee caught those comments before he reached the stage door, but reserved opinion, even to
himself, until he reached the darkness of the outside alley. There in the dusk of the gathering evening,
Terry Dundee looked back and chuckled.
It was an ugly chuckle, indicating that Mr. Dundee had learned all he wanted--and more--regarding
Merry Mrs. Macbeth!
II.
IF Terry Dundee hadn't tried to include the entire Half Moon Theatre in his final glance from the street, he
might have seen the figure that moved from within the depths of the alley.
With a glide that would have done credit to the balcony ghost, the figure moved silently to the alley's
mouth and there took up Dundee's trail. Even then, it was doubtful that Terry could have spotted the
stalking form if he had looked back.
At no time did the tall stalker reveal himself along this darkened street. At all times he was shadowy,
giving only the impression of a figure in a dark cape. Apparently he had been waiting to pick up Dundee's
trail and did not intend to lose it nor let his part be known.
Hesitating only momentarily, Dundee gave a wide berth to the dim-lighted front of the grimy sidearm
lunch room where Zachary Verne had his coffee after rehearsal. Terry knew what it would mean to hold
a chat with the blathering old character actor; Verne would give him reminiscences galore and expect to
see them all in print.
Other business was more pressing, the sort that Dundee wanted to conclude secretly.
By the time Dundee had reached a better-lighted neighborhood, there wasn't a trace of the man who
stalked him. By then, Dundee's destination could have become apparent to anyone who knew.
On a side street very close to Broadway, Dundee paused between a shoe shine parlor and a hot dog
establishment; then stepped to a narrow doorway just between. Striking a match to light a cigarette,
Dundee turned and gave the street a double-squinted survey. Then he reached behind him, turned the
door knob and performed a back twist into a little entry which disclosed a flight of steep stairs leading
up.
Terry Dundee went up the stairs. They creaked under his weight and in the half-light filtering from upstairs
windows they showed dim-painted words of many years ago: "Walk one flight up and save five dollars."
Dundee could really chuckle at that one.
He was walking up one flight to make five thousand and maybe a lot more. At the top, Dundee paused
and listened before entering a doorway to the left. He was waiting for sounds of the street door opening
below, for creaks from the dingy old stairs.
The sounds didn't come until after Dundee had gone through the upper door and closed it.
The room that Dundee had entered was an office with another door on the far side. Going through that
door, Dundee reached a hallway belonging to an adjacent building. At the end was a door that looked
like a locked closet. There was fresh wallpaper beside the door and when Dundee pushed a bulge in that
paper, a button responded underneath. An elevator rumbled and stopped; Dundee opened the door,
entered, and pressed the car button that took him to the third floor.
Here was another corridor leading through the rear of a Broadway building. Opening what looked like
the door of a fire exit, Dundee went through a short passage, pulled up before another door and pressed
a visible button that buzzed a coded signal.
It wasn't long before a heavy bolt was drawn and Terry Dundee was admitted to the most lavish lair
known to man or beast.
Though many persons had heard about these premises, few had seen them, and still fewer knew of the
special entrance with its private buzz-signal. Terry Dundee had reached the innermost of the private
offices of Meigs Thurland, Manhattan's most eccentric and energetic theatrical producer.
The ways of Meigs Thurland were both stupendous and unscrupulous and his huge private office proved
it. The place was a mass of plush, in furniture and draperies, while the other decorations consisted of
framed show-bills advertising the numerous productions that Thurland had presented to the hungry
public.
All the setting lacked were the financial statements. They were in the big safe behind the even bigger desk
that stood upon an elevated platform. Those records were a tribute to Thurland's talent for turning red ink
into black, simply by letting other people take the loss.
Thurland's show-bills formed a veritable cavalcade of successful shows that had been gathered from the
junk-pile, polished, and refurbished for popular consumption at a fraction of the cost that the original
investors had squandered.
Nothing wrong with that sort of business, at least not the sort that Thurland openly avowed. Of course
there was the side that Thurland seldom talked about and then only by innuendo. How had some of those
magnificent productions hit the junk pile in the first place?
As for Thurland himself, he could most aptly be described by the term "a presence." He was showing that
quality now, after admitting Dundee into the plush-lined rendezvous. Back behind the huge desk that
showed his replica in its highly polished surface, Thurland was leaning upon his folded arms in a
Napoleonic fashion.
Even Terry Dundee felt uneasy in this presence.
No special characteristic of Thurland gave him that singular importance. There was nothing formidable
about thin, sleek hair, carefully parted above a rounded face that wore a perpetual half-smile. Thurland's
eyes were mild, in a way inquiring, with their lazy lids that lifted only on occasion.
However, when added, those features formed a whole which by its very lack of individual strength
precluded all notion of weakness. Somehow Dundee's self-assurance was always deflated when he met
with Thurland. Subtly, almost accidentally, Thurland made such visitors worry, giving him an immediate
edge.
What jarred Dundee on this occasion was the fact that Thurland hadn't bolted the private door.
All Thurland had done was drop the big plush curtain hiding the door's alcove. That gesture meant that he
expected the conference to be brief.
"I was around at the Half Moon," began Dundee, rapidly. "The set-up is just like I figured. Harthorne is
chucking a barrel of coin on account of the Trevose jane.
Thurland's eyelids lifted for more.
"Vera Scharn is the stand-in," continued Dundee, "and she'll have to play the lead if Joy Trevose misses
many more rehearsals. Joy's boyfriend, Alan Fenway, is about nine-tenths off the beam. He hasn't any
understudy so he can't keep tabs on Joy and Harthorne. Every afternoon he's tossing woo at a balcony
ghost, if that's any consolation."
Whether Thurland enjoyed this thumb-nail description, he didn't reveal. His lips kept the same smile, but
his eyes gave a brief turn toward the curtained doorway. Fearing that the interview might be clipped
short, Dundee gave a nervous glance in that direction too.
What Dundee saw made him blink and squint more closely. Terry could have sworn that the plush curtain
stirred just as he looked at it.
The great maroon drape was motionless on second glance, and it didn't occur to Dundee that the weight
of those massive folds was responsible. Dundee took it that the curtain hadn't moved at all and wrote off
the illusion as another evidence of the somewhat hypnotic effect that Thurland's presence induced.
True to form, Thurland helped the cause along with one of his customary dry remarks.
"Don't worry, Terry." The tone was a bit caustic. "Nobody knows that we do business--or do they?"
"There's one guy might," returned Dundee. "He knows about everything that isn't his business, so they tell
me."
Inquiry showed in Thurland's eyes.
"I mean The Shadow." put Dundee abruptly. "He's made trouble for a few of my friends and not so long
ago, either."
"You must have the wrong kind of friends," observed Thurland. "I thought The Shadow only dealt with
crooks."
Dundee started to say something; then thought better of it.
"Of course The Shadow may have his own definition of crime," continued Thurland, "but if so, it doesn't
agree with the law's. I always provided against meddlers who misinterpret legal matters."
Dundee nodded.
"I guess The Shadow would be too smart to put his neck out," he decided. "Funny for me to even think
about him. Guess it was what I heard them saying over at the Half Moon. If anything happened to
Harthorne, I might be able to guess who did it. That's sort of The Shadow's specialty too."
Thurland's eyes showed a glint that Dundee had rarely seen before. Terry had won his point; Thurland
would listen. Leaning forward on the big desk, Dundee stood wagging a finger like an attorney pleading
before a magistrate.
It was incongruous for a man whose ways were close to crime to sell an argument to a financial wizard
who was a master at the art of cover-up, with no compunctions in the process. But Meigs Thurland
wasn't to be the final judge in the cause that Terry Dundee broached.
Behind the maroon curtain stood a silent listener, that same elusive trailer who had dogged Dundee from
the neighborhood of the Half Moon Theatre.
He was a judge who could not only listen, but who was qualified to take a hand in whatever was to
come!
III.
THE pressure was off where Terry Dundee was concerned. For ten minutes straight he'd poured his
report on the Merry Mrs. show while Meigs Thurland, listening idly, kept gazing at an ornamental ship's
clock which stood on the desk, as though timing the length of Dundee's harangue.
It wasn't Thurland who interrupted; it was the clock. It gave six solemn dongs, which meant seven
o'clock, shipboard time. Dundee waited patiently until the strokes were completed; those bells always
called for silence, another of the peculiarities of an interview with Thurland.
Without waiting for the inquiring lift of Thurland's eyelids. Dundee summarized his findings.
"There's the nut-shell, Mr. Thurland," Terry declared. "Get Harthorne sore, have him junk the show, and
it's yours for cheap. If it's a flop, what can you lose? If it's a hit, you can pay Harthorne a percentage of
the net to pay off what little you do owe him."
Thurland gave Dundee a strangely cold stare, one that would have withered Terry if he hadn't known
what it really meant. The stare was part of Thurland's technique toward withering the wrong people when
they put forth such questionable propositions. It was a habit with Thurland to carry the ethical pretense to
the limit.
All the while though, Thurland was making notations in flourishing fashion on a sheet of paper. Finishing
these, he glanced at the sheet, crumpled it and tossed it into a wastebasket.
"How much will Harthorne have in the show. Terry?"
"About a quarter million, including what he's letting a few small-fry toss in as a favor to them."
"That's about what I figure." Thurland gave a nod. "How much would you appraise it for?"
"As a bankrupt job? Twenty grand at best. About ten percent is tops for scenery that fits nobody's order
and costumes that are only good for moth feed. Only this rates below regular."
"Because of unnecessary expenditures?"
"Right. Like two complete sets of gowns and what-not for Lady Macbeth because Vera and Joy don't
shape the same. And extra stage equipment like that hoist for the cauldron set I was just telling you
about."
Thurland made a few more notations, then gave his head a slow, sad shake.
"Too bad, that scandal business, Terry."
"You mean chances of a run in between Alan and Harthorne over that Trevose dame?"
"Exactly. It might ruin a good show, Terry. So good a show"--Thurland reached for the telephone; then
laid it aside--"so good a show that I was almost going to call Harthorne and ask for a half interest as
co-producer. But no, it wouldn't do."
As though finding a straight business deal impossible, Thurland made a few notations on another sheet of
his pad; then suggested:
"Do you know, if Joy Trevose left the show, it would really solve Harthorne's problem. Maybe she ought
to take that Little Theatre tour with Alan Fenway. We could get another leading man for Merry Mrs.
Macbeth."
"Only there wouldn't be any Merry Mrs.," returned Dundee. "Harthorne would really junk the works if
Joy quit--"
Dundee caught himself with that one. He was carrying the ball a lot too fast.
"I've been reviving some old time musicals lately," remarked Thurland, reflectively. "Odd the public
doesn't appreciate such fine shows the way they should."
Dundee could have told Thurland why. If anyone could trade on a name in name only, that gentleman
was Meigs Thurland.
"Picture it, Terry!" Thurland continued, spreading an arm as though casting a sweeping panorama on the
opposite wall. "A grand new musical offering under the aegis of Meigs Thurland, with the startling title of
Merry Mrs. Macbeth!"
Dundee didn't know what aegis meant, but the rest of the picture pleased him.
"Now if something should eliminate Harthorne," observed Thurland, "the show wouldn't have to be
junked. If I bought the Half Moon Theatre, something which I've contemplated, I could make a deal to
help the other backers. I suppose they're all deserving chaps like Guylan, the playwright."
Knowing just what Thurland's deals were like, Dundee didn't have to agree that Guylan was deserving.
Terry watched Thurland wad another sheet of paper for the waste basket in preparation for another
series of notations.
"Equity would take care of the actor situation," reminded Dundee. "There's some good people in the cast,
Zachary Verne for instance."
"A fine chap, Verne," nodded Thurland. "There's always an opening for him in any of my revivals. Of
course they don't pay the money they did when they were fresh. We had a few heart-to-heart discussions
on that subject, Zach and I.
"This ghost part suits Zach nicely, so we'll keep him there. I'm thinking of someone else, though, who has
a longer future. If Harthorne should drop out for any reason, I imagine Joy Trevose would be too grieved
to stay. That would leave Vera Scharn."
Dundee gave an eager nod.
"I could really do a job for Vera--"
"Better talk to her then," interposed Thurland. "There are a lot of ways Vera could help. Yes, I might say
that the fate of this show is in her hands, like--well, for instance--"Like the dagger she lugs around." put in
Dundee.
"An excellent analogy, Terry. Now of course there are other persons who must not be forgotten."
"Like Alan Fenway--"
"We've placed Alan. He goes with Joy Trevose. I'm thinking how Ossie Bodelle might come in--"
"Or go out," added Dundee with a chuckle. "He's done one promotion job and that's enough."
"More than enough, perhaps." Thurland spoke very dryly. "I think it would be best to let Ossie still have
his say, particularly as he may say too much."
Thurland took a final look at his notation and tossed the paper in the basket as he pulled the cord of the
desk lamp. The room went dark, except for dim wall brackets that flanked a curtained archway.
Stepping down from behind the desk, Thurland beckoned Dundee in that direction.
The archway led to Thurland's private bar, and very soon the clink of glasses was drowning the
low-toned conversation that passed between the producer and the stooge who styled himself a press
agent. Dundee was getting confidential instructions regarding coming negotiations with Vera Scharn.
Those clinking sounds reached the thick curtain that hid the screened entrance to the office. This time
when the drapery stirred, a vague figure stepped into the gloom of the darkened office.
Like a creature practiced in ghostly ways, the obscured figure reached the desk and dipped into the
waste basket to acquire Thurland's pencilled jottings.
Louder words then came from Thurland's miniature bar-room.
"I'm telling you, boss, these fellows play it safe." Dundee's drink was making him argumentative. "They're
like a night-club crowd, in fact those are the spots where they hang out. Call any of the class joints and
ask for Louie. You'll get service."
"We may not be wanting any of their service," snapped Thurland, sharply. "It might lead back here."
"Not a chance. Whoever answers, you just tell him you're calling for Joe. He'll ask what you want and
you tell him."
"Then he passes the word along?"
"Why not?" Dundee sounded pleased. "The only guys that know about the password are the kind that
pay dough on the line--like me."
"You mean when you have it."
"When I haven't, I don't ask favors. So how about it, boss. Do I pass the word if I need quick action?"
"Very well, Terry, only call me first. If you can't reach me, use your own discretion."
Glasses were settling on the bar and voices were coming toward the door. The figure beside the desk
was on the rapid glide, back to its original curtain. The drape was closing with a slight ripple when
Thurland and Dundee reached the office.
The ship's clock toned seven while the pair were crossing to the secret exit. There, Thurland parted the
curtains and opened the door for Dundee, keeping his hand on the bolt, intending to lock up immediately
after Terry's departure.
There was no one in the fire tower when Dundee stepped there. The mysterious visitor was a thing of the
past, like the clock bells that had told the half hour. As to the future, that same visitor had gathered facts,
摘要：

MERRYMRS.MACBETHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?I.?II.?III.?IV.?V.?VI.?VII.?VIII.?IX.?X.?XI.?XII.?XIII.?XIV.?XV.?XVI.?XVII.?XVIII.?XIX.?XX.I.REHEARSALwasoverattheHalfMoonTheatre.CostumedasRomeo,AlanFenwayfinishedhisimpassionedpleatothebalconywheretheghostof...

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