Murder on Broadway

MURDER ON BROADWAY

A Novella of the 1920s

by

Bill Gutman

Text copyright © 2013 Bill Gutman

All Rights Reserved

Books in the Mike Fargo Mysteries Series

Murder on Murderer's Row – A Novel

Death of a Flapper – A Novella

Murder on Broadway – A Novella

Seven Days to Murder – A Novella

A Mike Fargo Trilogy – All Three Novellas

Roaring Twenties Cop – Mike Fargo's Own Story

Mike Fargo Mysteries Website: www.mikefargo.com

Contact the Author At: Bill@mikefargo.com

Cover Design by Jennifer Strang

Murder on Broadway is a novel that combines real people with the fictional. The real people are represented as they were. With the fictional characters, any resemblance to those living or dead is purely coincidental.

To David Ball, a true and trusted friend

in a time when that quality is becoming a

rare commodity. You have my sincere

thanks.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One – DEAD MEN CAN'T TAKE CURTAIN CALLS

Chapter Two – WONDERING ABOUT THE BOY WONDER

Chapter Three – WILL THE REAL BUDDY BARRETT PLEASE STAND UP

Chapter Four – THE MYSTERY MAN

Chapter Five – BUDDY'S WOMEN

Chapter Six – FARGO HITS THE ROAD

Chapter Seven – THIS AIN'T NO VACATION

Chapter Eight – PAYBACK DOESN'T SOLVE THE CASE

Chapter Nine – BUDDY BECOMES BRANDON

Chapter Ten – LOOKING FOR AN ENCORE

Chapter Eleven – THE CURTAIN FALLS

Chapter One – DEAD MEN CAN'T TAKE CURTAIN CALLS

Fargo, get your tail in here. We got ourselves a hot one.

Mike Fargo was sitting at his desk in the 17th Precinct, reading the Daily News and smoking a Lucky Strike, when Captain Lou Porter put the first crimp in his day. The veteran detective tossed the paper and headed into his boss's office.

Gimme a break, Cap, he said, as he entered. Was just reading about this guy Scopes, the one who was on trial for teaching evolution in Tennessee. Jury said he was guilty and they fined him all of a hundred bucks. Sounds like either a bad judge or a bad rap.

Not our business, the captain said. Porter was old school, tough but fair, and rarely minced words. As usual, he got right to the point. But a dead body on Broadway is.

Who's dead?

Buddy Barrett.

Who's Buddy Barrett?

Where do ya live, Fargo, in a hole somewhere? Wake up. This is 1925 and Buddy Barrett is the hottest director to hit Broadway in years. They call him the boy wonder.

Fargo smirked. Broadway's a little outta my league, Cap. I'm a vaudeville guy. I'll hit Broadway when Mae West gets there.

No, you'll hit it today. The Crittendon Theater at 47th and Seventh. Find out what the hell happened.

Whaddaya know already?

It sounds as if Barrett was shot, on stage, right in the middle of rehearsal.

That's one helluva'n exit. Wonder if he got any applause or a curtain call?

Funny man. Go find out exactly how it happened. The tabloids are gonna have a field day with this one. I don't want any loose ends. And Fargo.

What?

Dead men can't take curtain calls.

Fargo wasn't happy as he went outside. He decided to walk from the precinct on East 51st Street crosstown to 47th. The only problem was the heat. On this July 22nd afternoon the temperature must have been somewhere in the eighties, a hot, sticky day. His double-breasted suit made it feel like it was close to one hundred and he stopped several times to step into the shade and wipe his brow. By the time he reached the theater he could feel the perspiration creeping slowly through his clothes. That didn't put him in a good mood.

There was a crowd gathering outside when he got there, gawking and buzzing, with a uniformed cop making sure no one entered. Cat must be out of the bag already, Fargo thought. He flashed his badge at the uniform, then asked,

Whaddaya know about this?

Not much, except a guy's dead in there. We've been waitin' on you.

Naturally, was all Fargo said, as he began walking inside.

There must have been at least thirty-five or forty people in the theater, all milling around, some of the women crying and everyone looking like they were in a sweat box. The heat from outside had definitely made its entrance. Fargo had read that a newfangled invention called air conditioning had been installed several months earlier at the recently opened Rivoli Theater, a huge movie house at Times Square. But it hadn't come to the Crittenden yet. Too bad.

A couple of uniforms were on the stage making sure no one touched the body. When Fargo climbed up, the wiseguy in him wanted to take a bow, but he thought better of it. Instead, he walked straight toward the uniforms and the body of Buddy Barrett. It wasn't a pretty sight. The boy wonder was lying face down at the rear of the stage, a pool of dark blood forming a circle around his head. Whoever popped him had made a direct hit. It didn't take a genius to see that he had died instantly.

After examining the body for several minutes, Fargo told one of the uniforms to make sure the coroner was on his way and to get a few more cops to the theater to help take statements. Then he spoke his first words ever from a stage; only he wasn't acting.

Anyone see it happen?

I kinda saw it, a voice said, coming from group of people standing in front of the stage.

Fargo looked but couldn't pinpoint the voice. Annoyed, he threw his hands out to his side, palms up.

Hey, you can talk, but can you walk? Where the hell are you?

A fifty-something man stepped forward. He was small, nondescript, wearing old clothes and with a cap on his head. Fargo pegged him as the janitor.

I'm Benny Lawson, the stage manager, he said, quietly.

Okay, Benny. See, we're making progress. Suppose you tell me what you saw.

Well, Mr. Barrett had just ended rehearsal. He always walks the stage so he can see everything from all angles. He was over there, stage right, when he told everyone to break. Just then I heard someone call his name and he began walking across the back of the stage. That's when it happened.

What, exactly, did you see happen?

I dunno for sure.

Not what you just told me. Think about it, Benny. What did you see?

I just heard someone yell, 'Hey Buddy,' then heard a loud bang – echoed through the whole damned theater – and when I looked up Mr. Barrett was falling forward. I could see the blood gushing out. It was just terrible.

When did you know it was a gunshot?

Didn't realize it until I saw Buddy go down. That's when one and one started to make two.

It usually does, Benny. Where do you think the shot came from?

If I had to guess, I'd say up there. Lawson pointed to a narrow catwalk that ran across the rear of the stage. There were lights hanging on supports in front of it. It was also high enough that it couldn't be seen from the audience, and it was dark – a good place for someone to hide.

How do we get up there? Fargo asked.

You wanna go up there? It can be a little dangerous.

Ask Barrett if it's more dangerous up there or down here, Fargo said, as Lawson threw a quick glance in the direction of the motionless body.

How do we get up there? Fargo repeated, already tired of having to ask the same questions twice.

You go up that ladder, then walk across that narrow catwalk. Lawson pointed as he talked.

Let's go, Fargo said. Lead the way.

Let me turn on the lights back there so you can see better, Lawson said, as he ran offstage to hit the switch. He was back in a whisker.

Benny Lawson scampered up the ladder like a monkey, using both his hands and feet. Fargo followed carefully, making sure of each step before taking the next one on the narrow, creaky wooden ladder that shook continually. The catwalk was only about eighteen inches wide with a rope railing on each side. It shook, as well. While Lawson looked at home, Fargo felt like he was on the moon. Once on the catwalk, he managed to squeeze past the stage manager and slowly made his way out to the center.

What are you looking for? Lawson asked.

Evidence, Benny. That's what detectives do. They detect things.

Lawson didn't smile at the wisecrack, but Fargo couldn't have cared less. He was already looking closely at the surface of the catwalk, while still going slowly and holding on to the rope railing. That's when he saw something and picked it up carefully. It was an old glove, left hand.

Here you go, Benny, he said, holding the glove up.

Think whoever was up here dropped it?

It sure didn't fly up on its own. Tell me something. How fast could someone leave the theater from here?

Very fast. All he'd have to do was scramble down that ladder on the other side and there's a door that leads to the alley. Then down five steps and out.

Fargo nodded. It would have been easy for the the shooter to get himself out of the theater and onto the street before anyone knew what happened. He also figured the left-handed glove could have fallen out of a pocket. The shooter may have worn one on his right hand to keep the gunshot residue off his skin. But all that had nothing to do with the next question. Who would want to shoot the Boy Wonder of Broadway? And why?

Fargo climbed back down with an even bigger crimp in his day. He now had a high-profile murder on his hands and a theater full of possible suspects. Plus there was something else to consider. What if the shooter didn't leave the building? He could have ditched the gun, then circled back and blended in with the crowd. This kind of case was last thing he needed on a hot afternoon. He took a deep breath, lit up a Lucky, then spoke his second set of lines from the stage.

Nobody leaves here until we get your names and addresses. Shouldn't take too long.

A collective groan went up from those standing around so Fargo figured he wouldn't be hired for the run of the play. He laughed to himself. But with a murder that was sure to become tabloid fodder until it was solved, he knew the pressure would be on the department and that meant on him.

Just then, Fargo heard one of the uniforms holler, HEY, YOU. GET BACK HERE!

He looked up to see a man bolting from the theater, right through the front doors. Leaping from the stage, Fargo ran up the aisle and left the Crittendon just behind the uniformed cop, who was pursuing the fleeing man uptown on 47th Street. He quickly overtook his already panting cohort and gained ground on his adversary,