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Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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article indicated that Einstein and Paul Robeson would be performing at a benefit at the Waldorf in three days.
I checked the drawers and found out that Albanese didn’t have a gun, brass knuckles, or anything more dangerous than hotel stationery. He did have an assortment of clean clothes all neatly laid out in the drawers, most of it purchased in London. I also discovered that he wore size-32 underwear and shirts with a size-14 neck. Unless he was a Dingka tribesman, I outweighted Albanese, which gave me some comfort as I sat down to wait and continued to read my newspaper. There were a lot of plays to see with people like Eddie Cantor, Gertrude Lawrence, Danny Kaye, and Luise Rainer. Serge Koussevitsky even had the Boston Pops at Carnegie Hall a few blocks from the hotel, but what got me was the show at the Paramount in Times Square. The movie was My Favorite Blonde with Bob Hope. On stage, Tommy Dorsey, his trombone, Frank Sinatra, Buddy Rich, Ziggy Elman, Jo Stafford, and the Pied Pipers. If I didn’t get killed, I’d find time to get to the Paramount. I hummed “Moonlight on the Ganges” through twice before I heard the key in the door.
I shut up, got up, and moved into the washroom out of sight of the door. Albanese wasn’t singing when he came in. I reached over and took down the newspaper clippings. Then I quietly stood in the doorway of the bathroom and watched him walk to the window, look outside, and turn to the telephone next to the bed. He was somewhere in his twenties, thin, dark hair combed straight back. He had a thin mustache and not much of a chin. When he picked up the phone I also learned that he had an English accent, not quite Leslie Howard, but not far from it.
“Yes,” he said, “I’d like Ardmore six-five-oh-oh, please.”
I hoped I could remember the number. I couldn’t move enough to write it down and attract his attention.
“Ah,” Albanese said when someone came on the line, “Angela, would you be a good girl and cover for me? I’ll be a few minutes late for rehearsal. Tell him I had a call from my mother about the Blitz or something. Blame the Jerries.… I know … Yes, you are right, no more than half an hour. Promise.”
He hung up, his back to me, and said, “Did I sound persuasive? I mean, would you have covered for me with that call?”
“Hard to say,” I said, stepping into the room and gauging a leap over the single bed in case he turned with a handful of hardware. “Women sometimes go for that helpless, spoiled-little-boy act. The accent helps too. You really English?”
“Absolutely,” he said, turning to face me. “Family from Cornwall. Father’s an apothecary, mother’s a schoolteacher. We go back a hundred years when my great-great-great-grandfather came over from Naples to peddle pornography to the few literate Anglicans.” He looked me up and down and I held up the newspaper clipping.
“I’m an actor,” he explained, moving to the wooden chair near the window and sitting to face me. The light caught him from behind. Nice effect.
“You’re also a writer,” I said, watching his hands and stepping forward. I dropped the clipping on the dresser and pulled the threatening letters to Einstein out of my pocket. No reaction. I handed him one of the letters. “You wrote that.”
He glanced at the letter and nodded with an amiable smile.
“Indeed,” he said, handing the letter back. “Normally, I don’t write with quite so steady a hand, but I wanted to be sure the camera would pick up each letter, each word. I rather saw the letters as I see my performances.”
“Why did you write them?” I asked, hovering over him.
He looked up and the smile twitched. He also turned and lost the dramatic effect of the lighting. “Didn’t Connie put you up to this? This is one of Connie’s jokes, isn’t it? I mean, you look like a gangster out of … Conrad didn’t send you, did he?”
He tried to get up but I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed
I checked the drawers and found out that Albanese didn’t have a gun, brass knuckles, or anything more dangerous than hotel stationery. He did have an assortment of clean clothes all neatly laid out in the drawers, most of it purchased in London. I also discovered that he wore size-32 underwear and shirts with a size-14 neck. Unless he was a Dingka tribesman, I outweighted Albanese, which gave me some comfort as I sat down to wait and continued to read my newspaper. There were a lot of plays to see with people like Eddie Cantor, Gertrude Lawrence, Danny Kaye, and Luise Rainer. Serge Koussevitsky even had the Boston Pops at Carnegie Hall a few blocks from the hotel, but what got me was the show at the Paramount in Times Square. The movie was My Favorite Blonde with Bob Hope. On stage, Tommy Dorsey, his trombone, Frank Sinatra, Buddy Rich, Ziggy Elman, Jo Stafford, and the Pied Pipers. If I didn’t get killed, I’d find time to get to the Paramount. I hummed “Moonlight on the Ganges” through twice before I heard the key in the door.
I shut up, got up, and moved into the washroom out of sight of the door. Albanese wasn’t singing when he came in. I reached over and took down the newspaper clippings. Then I quietly stood in the doorway of the bathroom and watched him walk to the window, look outside, and turn to the telephone next to the bed. He was somewhere in his twenties, thin, dark hair combed straight back. He had a thin mustache and not much of a chin. When he picked up the phone I also learned that he had an English accent, not quite Leslie Howard, but not far from it.
“Yes,” he said, “I’d like Ardmore six-five-oh-oh, please.”
I hoped I could remember the number. I couldn’t move enough to write it down and attract his attention.
“Ah,” Albanese said when someone came on the line, “Angela, would you be a good girl and cover for me? I’ll be a few minutes late for rehearsal. Tell him I had a call from my mother about the Blitz or something. Blame the Jerries.… I know … Yes, you are right, no more than half an hour. Promise.”
He hung up, his back to me, and said, “Did I sound persuasive? I mean, would you have covered for me with that call?”
“Hard to say,” I said, stepping into the room and gauging a leap over the single bed in case he turned with a handful of hardware. “Women sometimes go for that helpless, spoiled-little-boy act. The accent helps too. You really English?”
“Absolutely,” he said, turning to face me. “Family from Cornwall. Father’s an apothecary, mother’s a schoolteacher. We go back a hundred years when my great-great-great-grandfather came over from Naples to peddle pornography to the few literate Anglicans.” He looked me up and down and I held up the newspaper clipping.
“I’m an actor,” he explained, moving to the wooden chair near the window and sitting to face me. The light caught him from behind. Nice effect.
“You’re also a writer,” I said, watching his hands and stepping forward. I dropped the clipping on the dresser and pulled the threatening letters to Einstein out of my pocket. No reaction. I handed him one of the letters. “You wrote that.”
He glanced at the letter and nodded with an amiable smile.
“Indeed,” he said, handing the letter back. “Normally, I don’t write with quite so steady a hand, but I wanted to be sure the camera would pick up each letter, each word. I rather saw the letters as I see my performances.”
“Why did you write them?” I asked, hovering over him.
He looked up and the smile twitched. He also turned and lost the dramatic effect of the lighting. “Didn’t Connie put you up to this? This is one of Connie’s jokes, isn’t it? I mean, you look like a gangster out of … Conrad didn’t send you, did he?”
He tried to get up but I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed
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