Read Online Murder at Ford's Theatre by Margaret Truman - Free Book Online

tell her I’ll be late again.”
    Klayman thought it was good he didn’t have to call anyone, but didn’t say it to his partner. Besides, there was that fleeting moment when he wished someone were waiting for him to arrive home; that thought came and went now and then. He heard Mo say, “Hey, baby, got to put in the overtime again. That kid who got killed at Ford’s Theatre.” After a pause, and a sly glance at Klayman, he said, “Of course I love you. Don’t wait up.”
    Klayman picked up his phone and dialed Sydney Bancroft’s number. The British actor’s live voice startled him.
    “Mr. Bancroft?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m Detective Klayman, First District Crimes Against Persons.”
    “‘Crimes Against Persons’? Who else could crimes be committed against?”
    “Used to be called Homicide.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    “I’d like to be able to come and talk with you.”
    “About the death of that dear, dear girl, Nadia.”
    “Yes, sir, that’s right.”
    “How dreadful to die that way, at the hands of a madman in a filthy, barren alley. We all wish to die peacefully in a warm, dry place in the presence of loved ones, don’t we?”
    “Yes, sir. That would be preferable. Would it be too much of an inconvenience to come to your home tonight?”
    Johnson frowned at Klayman and mouthed, Would it be too much of an inconvenience . . . ?
    “To determine whether I killed her, I presume,” Bancroft said slowly and with practiced diction.
    “Just to ask a few questions, sir,” Klayman said. “It won’t take long. My partner, Detective Johnson and I, are working the case and—”
    “I would love to meet you and your partner,” Bancroft said, exaggerating his pleasure. “Real, live detectives. Are you like those on TV?”
    Klayman laughed. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. We can be there in a half hour, if that’s okay.”
    “That is
quite
okay,” Bancroft said. “You undoubtedly have my address.”
    “Yes, sir, we do.”
    “Then come as quickly as you can. I am tingling with anticipation.”
    Klayman hung up and shook his head.
    “He quote Shakespeare to you?” Johnson asked.
    “No, but he talks like an actor. I think we’re in for an interesting evening. Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
    Bancroft lived in a well-maintained, small apartment building on tree-lined G Street, in Foggy Bottom, not far from the Kennedy Center, the Watergate complex, and George Washington University. The two men said little as they made their way across the city in their unmarked car.
    “This one’s yours, Ricky,” Johnson said as they turned down G.
    “What do you mean?”
    “He’s all yours. Actors make me nervous.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. They’re always—well, you know, always onstage. You never know whether they’re being themselves or playing some part.”
    “Okay, I’ll lead.”
    They parked in front and entered the lobby, where a middle-aged uniformed doorman was reading a magazine. Klayman flashed his badge: “Mr. Bancroft is expecting us.”
    “It’s about that intern, isn’t it?” the doorman said, getting up from behind his small desk and going to the intercom board. Johnson and Klayman said nothing. “She worked for Senator Lerner,” the doorman said, running his index finger down the row of buttons. “Like what happened with Condit, huh, intern and big shot politician?”
    Johnson was about to tell the doorman to speed it up when he pushed a button, and the now familiar voice of Sydney Bancroft came through a small speaker. “I know, Morris, I know,” he said in his distinctive British accent. “Scotland Yard is here to audition. Send them up by all means.”
    Johnson and Klayman smiled at each other as the doorman opened an inside door. “Elevator’s on your right. Hope you catch who killed her. He’s on Seven. Seven D.”
    Sydney Bancroft stood in the open door to his apartment as Klayman and Johnson stepped off the elevator. The picture he presented was unusual enough to