there.”
“No you don’t,” he said.
“I heard you playing,” I said. “And besides, you just answered me.”
“You’re smart. I’ll give you that,” he said.
“I appreciate your praise,” I said. “Let me in. Someone tried to kill Lorna Bartholomew again.”
I heard his steps move toward the door, and a bolt pulled.
“Why do you keep the door bolted if you’ve been the only one in the building for years?” I asked, stepping into the room and looking around.
“Lived a lot of years being cautious,” he replied.
“Can’t argue with that,” I said, looking around.
The room was lighted with three fancy, turn-of-the century lamps. Two plush couches faced each other in the center of the room. Behind them was a massive four-poster bed. The walls were draped with tapestries—one a scene of men in feathered hats about to shoot a deer, another a scene of two men with feathered hats whispering while two young women stood giggling at a fountain. A violin lay on one of the couches. A phonograph, an old wind-up thing with a megaphone speaker, sat on an ornate table. The chest of drawers in the corner looked as if it had been designed for a giant with a taste for fancy wedding cakes.
“Props,” he said. “Pulled ’em up here years ago. Gonna turn me in?”
“No,” I said. “You play the violin.”
“Play every damned instrument man invented,” he said proudly. “Even the lyre. Nothing else to do. One instrument a year, night after night. Plenty of music. Plenty of instruments. And I can repair them all. Can play any tune. You name it. Name the instrument and I’ll play the song on it. Even do ragtime on a French horn.”
“‘Sheik of Araby’ on a tuba,” I said.
“Hell, I can do that,” he said. “Do it sitting on a toilet.”
“Projectors,” I said as he looked around the room for either a toilet or a tuba or both. He stopped looking.
“Projectors,” he repeated, turning to me.
“Movie projectors,” I said. “One of them almost killed Miss Bartholomew.”
“Couple of old Edison projectors in the balcony,” he said, picking up his violin. “Can play this thing like a guitar. Listen.”
He started to plunk, and I put my hand out to stop him.
“Where were you fifteen minutes ago?” I asked.
“Where? Here practicing.”
“No one can be as eccentric as you pretend to be.” I looked him directly in the eye.
“Son,” he said, “it is not easy. I’m the harmless old coot. The character every good theater needs. If I didn’t exist, they’d have to go out and cast me.”
“I thought so,” I said.
“Thought so, hell,” Raymond said. “I’m the genuine article. Been playing this role so long I am it. Don’t know where my act begins and ends. Danger of playing any role too long. You want my secret? I was an actor. When this place was a theater, I was an actor in the last show. Quake came and went and I stayed. Didn’t have much money. Didn’t plan to stay. Went out for some roles. Didn’t get them. It just happened.”
“Someone who knows this place has killed a man, tried to kill me and Miss Bartholomew,” I said. “You’re the only one who knows this place that well.”
“Miss Bartholomew,” he said. “Tell my old Granny. I was with the fat guy when she came screaming. Ask him.”
He was right. He had come down the hall with Lundeen seconds after Lorna had come up the stairs after the Phantom … or someone … had tried to strangle her.
“Coming to you, son?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I don’t give up easy.”
“No man worth a brass turd would,” he said.
“Cut it out, Raymond,” I said.
“Told you, I can’t. Lots of people have been nosing around this place since they decided to open it up again,” Raymond said. “That fat guy.”
“He was with you when Miss Bartholomew was attacked, remember?” I said. “Lose him and you lose your alibi.”
“I see what you mean,” he acknowledged, reaching a bony finger to touch an itch
“No you don’t,” he said.
“I heard you playing,” I said. “And besides, you just answered me.”
“You’re smart. I’ll give you that,” he said.
“I appreciate your praise,” I said. “Let me in. Someone tried to kill Lorna Bartholomew again.”
I heard his steps move toward the door, and a bolt pulled.
“Why do you keep the door bolted if you’ve been the only one in the building for years?” I asked, stepping into the room and looking around.
“Lived a lot of years being cautious,” he replied.
“Can’t argue with that,” I said, looking around.
The room was lighted with three fancy, turn-of-the century lamps. Two plush couches faced each other in the center of the room. Behind them was a massive four-poster bed. The walls were draped with tapestries—one a scene of men in feathered hats about to shoot a deer, another a scene of two men with feathered hats whispering while two young women stood giggling at a fountain. A violin lay on one of the couches. A phonograph, an old wind-up thing with a megaphone speaker, sat on an ornate table. The chest of drawers in the corner looked as if it had been designed for a giant with a taste for fancy wedding cakes.
“Props,” he said. “Pulled ’em up here years ago. Gonna turn me in?”
“No,” I said. “You play the violin.”
“Play every damned instrument man invented,” he said proudly. “Even the lyre. Nothing else to do. One instrument a year, night after night. Plenty of music. Plenty of instruments. And I can repair them all. Can play any tune. You name it. Name the instrument and I’ll play the song on it. Even do ragtime on a French horn.”
“‘Sheik of Araby’ on a tuba,” I said.
“Hell, I can do that,” he said. “Do it sitting on a toilet.”
“Projectors,” I said as he looked around the room for either a toilet or a tuba or both. He stopped looking.
“Projectors,” he repeated, turning to me.
“Movie projectors,” I said. “One of them almost killed Miss Bartholomew.”
“Couple of old Edison projectors in the balcony,” he said, picking up his violin. “Can play this thing like a guitar. Listen.”
He started to plunk, and I put my hand out to stop him.
“Where were you fifteen minutes ago?” I asked.
“Where? Here practicing.”
“No one can be as eccentric as you pretend to be.” I looked him directly in the eye.
“Son,” he said, “it is not easy. I’m the harmless old coot. The character every good theater needs. If I didn’t exist, they’d have to go out and cast me.”
“I thought so,” I said.
“Thought so, hell,” Raymond said. “I’m the genuine article. Been playing this role so long I am it. Don’t know where my act begins and ends. Danger of playing any role too long. You want my secret? I was an actor. When this place was a theater, I was an actor in the last show. Quake came and went and I stayed. Didn’t have much money. Didn’t plan to stay. Went out for some roles. Didn’t get them. It just happened.”
“Someone who knows this place has killed a man, tried to kill me and Miss Bartholomew,” I said. “You’re the only one who knows this place that well.”
“Miss Bartholomew,” he said. “Tell my old Granny. I was with the fat guy when she came screaming. Ask him.”
He was right. He had come down the hall with Lundeen seconds after Lorna had come up the stairs after the Phantom … or someone … had tried to strangle her.
“Coming to you, son?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I don’t give up easy.”
“No man worth a brass turd would,” he said.
“Cut it out, Raymond,” I said.
“Told you, I can’t. Lots of people have been nosing around this place since they decided to open it up again,” Raymond said. “That fat guy.”
“He was with you when Miss Bartholomew was attacked, remember?” I said. “Lose him and you lose your alibi.”
“I see what you mean,” he acknowledged, reaching a bony finger to touch an itch
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