The London Deception (2 page)

Frank feared he would never have time enough to climb up to the catwalk to save Joe before his legs gave out.

Spotting a coil of electrical cable in the booth, he grabbed it and hurried down to the front row of the balcony.

“Jennifer!” Frank shouted as he grasped one end of the electrical cable and flung the rest up toward the young lighting technician. She snatched the other end out of the air.

“Frank?” Joe called in a pinched voice, straining to
cling to the catwalk with his legs while maintaining his grip on Jennifer's ankle. If he didn't let go of Jennifer soon, he would lose his leg grip and they would both plummet onto the seats far below.

“Hang on!” Chris shouted from below.

“Wrap the cable around your wrist, Jennifer!” Frank called, while he looped his end several times around the balcony railing.

“Now what?” Jennifer called.

Just then Joe's muscles gave out and he lost his grip. He and Jennifer fell headfirst toward the audience below. Then, like jumpers attached to a bungee cord, their fall was abruptly broken as the electrical cable around Jennifer's wrist pulled taut. Joe flew past her, swinging from her ankle like Tarzan from a vine.

Joe's feet almost clipped the tops of the seats on the main floor of the theater. He and Jennifer swung up and down several times, then finally came to a rest.

Frank held firmly to his end of the cable with his back pressed against his seat and his feet braced against the short wall in front of the balcony's first row.

“Hold on, Joe, I'll pull you up!” he shouted, unable to look over the edge of the balcony to check on his brother.

“Don't sweat it,” Joe called back as he let go of Jennifer's ankle and dropped three feet to the floor between two rows.

“Let go, Jennifer, I've got you,” Joe said. Jennifer let go of the electrical cord and dropped into his arms.

“Jennifer? Joe? Are you sound?” Chris asked as he ran up with his father.

“If by ‘sound,' you mean ‘all right,' then the answer is yes,” Joe replied.

“Now I know what it's like to be a trapeze artist,” Jennifer added, shaking out the taut muscles in her arms.

“I'm just grateful that you're as
strong
as a trapeze artist,” Joe said to her with a smile.

“Joe, are you two okay?” Frank called, having reached the orchestra section from the balcony stairs.

“Fine, Frank,” Joe assured him. “Thanks to the life line you threw us.”

“What happened?” a short, muscular man with a dark complexion asked Joe and Jennifer, as he and the other crew and cast members surrounded them.

“Three of the lamps blew, Neville,” Jennifer explained. “Joe Hardy, this is my assistant, Neville Shah.”

Frank saw a short, balding man with blond hair hurry in from the lobby escorted by Mr. Paul's stage manager, Corey Lista.

“Corey says there was an accident!” the balding man exclaimed.

“We blew three lamps, Mr. Jeffries,” Jennifer explained.

“Three at once?” Jeffries exclaimed, turning angrily to Mr. Paul. “Are your people incompetent? The sparks from those lamps could have set fire to my theater!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jeffries,” Mr. Paul replied. “There must have been a power surge.”

“But none of the other lights got brighter,” Joe pointed out.

“Perhaps the computerized light board is on the fritz,” Mr. Paul suggested.

“I had taken lights nine, fourteen, and seventeen out of the lighting plot all together,” Jennifer countered. “They would have had to be turned on manually.”

“Maybe they were,” Frank offered. “I thought I saw someone in the lighting booth.”

“Let's have a look,” Jeffries suggested.

The Hardys and an entourage of cast and crew members followed Jeffries through the lobby and up the stairs to the balcony. Jeffries strode up the aisle steps to the lighting booth and threw open the door. “There's no one here.”

“I know,” Frank said, stepping up behind Jeffries. “The person must have gone out the door at the back.”

Jeffries tried the door, then pointed to the dead bolt. “The door is locked, as it always is.”

“Someone could have unlocked it with the key,” Chris suggested. “Where does it lead?”

“To the back stairway,” Jennifer replied.

“Only myself, Mr. Paul, and Miss Mulhall have the key to that door,” Jeffries explained. “I was in the theater office downstairs.”

“Mr. Paul was directing, and you know where I was,” Jennifer added.

“So who did Frank see?” Joe asked.

“The Ghost of Quill Garden,” Emily Anderson stated, her resonant voice carrying up to them from the stage, where she was seated at the defense table.

“Oh, not again,” Jeffries grumbled.

“Was it a figure in white?” Emily asked.

“Yes!” Frank called back, his voice echoing.

“The acoustics are quite fine in this theater,” Emily said in a normal speaking voice. “There's no need to shout, young man.”

“Ms. Anderson, this is Frank Hardy and his brother, Joe,” Chris told her.

“Oh, yes, the American exchange students,” Emily recalled. “Welcome to our haunted theater.”

“You saw Lady Quill, I'd wager,” Corey Lista said to Frank.

“Who's Lady Quill?” Frank asked.

“She's no one,” Jeffries said curtly. “She was the wife of the original owner.”

“Lord Horatio Quill,” Mr. Paul told the Hardys. “He owned most of the neighborhood a hundred years ago. Not an altogether sound gentleman. He caused quite a scandal among the nobility by allowing his wife to perform onstage.”

“Why?” Joe wondered.

“The acting profession was considered beneath the dignity of a noblewoman,” Emily Anderson replied with a wry smile.

“Lord Quill secretly planned to leave Lady Quill for another woman,” Mr. Paul went on. “So as a final gift to ease her inevitable disappointment—”

“You mean, to relieve his guilt for being such a cad,” Emily interjected from the stage.

“Yes, just so,” Mr. Paul agreed. “In any case, in 1909, Lord Quill produced a revival of an Oscar Wilde play—”

“A Woman of No Importance,”
Emily inserted.

“Yes, so it was,” Mr. Paul said. “In any case—”

“A vanity production,” Emily interrupted again.

Frank noticed Mr. Paul's face flush. He looked suddenly embarrassed.

“Emily, if you'd like to tell the story, please join us in the balcony,” Mr. Paul said, his mouth tightening in a straight line.

“What's a vanity production?” Joe asked.

“It's a show that is mounted not because of the merit of the play or the talent of the actors, but because someone has money and wants to show himself off,” Jennifer explained to Joe.

“Or show his
wife
off,” Emily added.

“Reviewers look down their noses at vanity productions, so even if they are good, the reviews tend to be especially critical,” Mr. Paul said.

“Are reviews that important?” Frank wondered out loud.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Paul replied. “They often spell success or failure for a play, and Lord Quill's production was no exception. The reviews tore Lady Quill's performance to pieces.”

“And on that same night, Lord Quill told her of his plans to leave her,” Emily said, staring straight into the fly space above the stage. “So she threw herself from a catwalk and fell to her death on this very stage.”

“So now she haunts the theater,” Lista added, “cursing other productions out of spite.”

“If everyone believes the place is haunted,” Frank asked, “why do you keep doing shows here?”

“Theater people love drama, Frank,” Emily said. “And what's more dramatic than a haunted theater?”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Jeffries growled, turning to Mr. Paul. “Don't think you and Mr. Kije are going to use this to get out of your rental contract.”

“Mr. Kije has every confidence that
Innocent Victim
will be a hit,” Mr. Paul snapped back at the theater owner.

“I've heard it all before,” Jeffries replied. “Then one day, the producer realizes the show's not so funny as he thought, or a star quits, and everyone gets the ‘flop sweats.' Next thing you know, they're knocking on my door trying to break their rental agreement and blaming it all on this blooming ghost.”

“I assure you, Mr. Jeffries,” Mr. Paul said firmly, “this show will go on.”

Jeffries huffed, turned, and left the balcony, grumbling to himself all the way down the stairs.

Frank studied the expressions on the faces of the cast and crew. They looked concerned, even fearful, and several private conversations were being muttered back and forth.

“We're all tired, I think,” Mr. Paul said, sensing the mood of the group. “Let's call it a night.”

“Right, everybody, actors are off tomorrow,” Lista said in a loud, clear voice. “Crew call is nine to five.”

As the group began to disperse, Joe glanced down at the stage. Emily Anderson was gone.

“Neville and I will stay behind to clean up, Dennis,” Jennifer offered Mr. Paul.

“I'm sorry, I cannot,” Shah said. “I will not stay in a theater with a ghost.”

“Neville, even if this ghost exists, it's never tried to hurt anyone,” Mr. Paul assured him.

Jennifer Mulhall raised her hand. “I beg to differ—Joe and I had to do a trapeze act to save our skins.”

“And look at my broken wrist,” Shah added, holding up his hand.

“You got that by falling off a ladder,” Mr. Paul reminded the lighting assistant.

A thought struck Frank. Neville Shah could be about the same height as the short figure he'd seen in the lighting booth. “Where were you when the accident happened?”

“Me?” Shah asked. “In the light storage room off stage left. I was looking for gels.”

“Gels?” Frank asked.

“You put them over the lights to create different colors,” Jennifer explained.

“Can anyone verify that you were there?” Mr. Paul asked.

“Why do you ask?” Shah wondered.

“Well, you're one of the few people who knows how to operate the light board,” Mr. Paul replied.

“Are you accusing me of something?” Shah asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Someone knew which control turned on the lamp beside Jennifer's head,” Joe pointed out.

“Then you
are
accusing me,” Shah said.

Corey Lista stepped over. “I'll be leaving now.”

“Mr. Lista, where was I when the accident occurred?” Shah asked without taking his eyes off Mr. Paul.

“Backstage,” Lista replied matter-of-factly. “I saw you run in from the wings.”

“That's true,” Chris agreed. “When I was looking for something to cushion your and Jen's impending fall, I saw Neville come from stage left.”

Mr. Paul cleared his throat. “Well, I'm sorry if we implied anything. You're an excellent lighting assistant—”

“You do not need to apologize,” Shah interrupted, “because I am no longer your lighting assistant. Right now, all that is broken is my wrist. So I quit before worse things happen.”

With that, Shah walked away.

“Should I try to stop him?” Jennifer asked.

“No,” Mr. Paul replied. “He seems to be quite decided.”

“Strangely decided,” Frank noted. “Like he was looking for a reason to quit.”

Mr. Paul sighed. “Well, we'll simply have to replace him.”

“For tonight, Jennifer, I'd be glad to help you clean up the mess,” Joe said.

“So will I,” Frank added.

“Thank you, that would be wonderful,” Mr. Paul said. “Chris, why don't you stay, too, and see that Frank and Joseph get home safely.”

Chris agreed, and Mr. Paul bid them all good night. While Chris cleaned up the glass shards from the main floor of the theater, Joe grabbed a wrench and helped Jennifer unfasten the broken lighting units.

Joe then handed the lighting instruments down to Frank, who was on a ladder in the balcony aisle.

As Frank took the second light from Joe, he noticed a shiny spot on one of the broken lamps. The spot was slippery to the touch. Rubbing his two fingers together, Frank realized it was some kind of ointment that had a faint oily smell.

“Jennifer, is there some reason to use grease on a lamp?” Frank asked.

“No, never,” Jennifer replied. “Why?”

“The lamps' blowing may not have been an accident tonight,” Frank told her. “It may have been sabotage.”

“Sabotage?” Joe repeated.

Frank showed Joe and Jennifer the traces of ointment. “It's some kind of tan-colored ointment.”

“Looks like greasepaint,” Jennifer said. “It's a type of stage makeup.”

“Could grease paint rubbed on a lamp cause it to blow out?” Joe asked Jennifer.

“Yes,” Jennifer replied. “Anything with fat or oil in it. The heat from theater lights is so intense, if the natural oil from your skin gets on one, it can be enough to make it blow.”

“Who would have had a chance to tamper with these lights?” Joe wondered out loud.

“Neville and I are the only ones who have been handling them,” Jennifer said.

“I think Joe and I ought to have a talk with Neville Shah,” Frank said, then leaned over the balcony rail. “Chris, do you know where Neville lives?”

“No,” Chris said and stopped sweeping up the glass. “I know in what direction he goes.”

“He must be long gone by now,” Joe said, frowning.

“No, I saw him leaving the theater with his satchel just a minute ago while I was emptying some glass into the dustbin,” Chris informed them.

“If you're okay here, Jennifer,” Frank said, “I'm going to take Joe and Chris and try to catch up with Neville.”