Collinsport. Along and stormy night continues in Collinsport, as Doctor Artemis, from the Miskatonic University finds himself unable to rest. His concern for David Silva and his belief that the young man is not the reputed “Vampire Killer,” has brought him to what he hopes will be a source of information: The Collinsport Star. But he is about to discover that his singular obsession with a singer at the Blue Whale, Alison Drew, pales in comparison to the true threat that may be posed at Collinsport—and beyond.
background: [www.rainymood.com]
Rain lashes against the window
Lightening flashes.
The dark structure of the old three story Second Empire building, with it’s grey slate Mansart roof, molded cornices, and an erect tower, arising grimly from the right of the main façade, is eerily illuminated against the night sky by the sudden streak of lightening. The rain drips heavily from the eaves. The tall, doors with the intricate crown molding are adored with the letter “T”.
Thunder rolls.
“Mister Berenstain.” Bellows a voice from on high – from the open air second floor landing.
“Yes, Mister Tillinghast.” Replies a voice from below
“Would you come up here a moment?”
“Certainly Mister Tillinghast.”
A small man in a grey pinstriped vest and white buttoned-down oxford shirt with sleeves rolled up rises from his desk and hurries up the stairs to the second floor.
“Mister Braithwaite this is Mister Berenstain. Mister Berenstain is my general manager.”
“Yes, I know tobas.”
“Mister Berestain hasn’t everything I’ve written in the Star about the Mimecom Corporation factual?”
The deep, charismatic voice can be heard booming from somewhere above as Dr. Artemis closes the door and steps into the dim, incandescent light of the lobby of the Collinsport Star. He’s arrived in the midst of some disagreement it would seem.
Lightening flashes in the tall window at the end of the room.
Dr. Artemis stand with the tall, thick oak door with its gothic back “T”, large and ominous center-set, closing behind him. A quick glance at the office and he can not help but feel that he has suddenly stepped back into time. The whole of the large open space of the office behind the antique reception desk could have been the City Room from the 1930’s.
“Oh, yes, Mister Tillinghast.”
“There, Mister Braithwaite, as I said The Star prints only the truth!”
“The truth as you see it, Tobas.” Comes the response
There seems to have been very little renovation or modernization.
“Muckraking Tobias, absolute muckraking.” The other voice is heard to angrily retort.
It was Miss Trevelyan, Tillinghast’s efficient secretary and receptionist, who now greets the doctor as he approaches the tall reception desk.
Her voice seems to lack all emotion, “And how may I help you?”
Dr. Artemis, looking up the L-shaped stairs as the voices continue from above, says, “Terrible weather we’re having, eh?”
“I am sorry, Richard, truly I am,” the deep voice from the second floor landing says now sympathetically, as it seems now to echo down from aloft, “But if there is muck to rake, then I, and the Star are going to rake it. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Richard, I love to rake muck. And as the publisher of the Star I am going to rake as much of it as I can.”
She smiles but says nothing, just stands and looks at the doctor.
“Tobias, in this economy Collinsport needs every investment, every business venture, to succeed. There is no need for you to continue this campaign against Kreutzer. The man’s father is dead. There is no good purpose served by you continuing to raise questions about him or his odd religion.”
“And who, Richard, who will represent the hard working men, the decent, everyday folks of Collinsport from the Collins’, and the Brewsters, and yes, now the Kreutzer’s if not the Star and Tobais T. Tillinghast. Look down there Richard. You see those portraits? That is Charles and Anne Tillinghast, still looking out for the citizens of this great city of ours, through the eyes and ears and fingers of Tobias T. Tillinghast, and as long as there is a Tillinghast in Collinsport there will be someone to stand up to the empowered and the money-mad elitists who continue to try and run this city from their dimly lit offices and darken studies.”
“Tobias, have you looked at this place? You haven’t modernized in years, the lighting is incandescent, which is soon to be an antique, and what, your using 40-watt bulbs —Tobias, this IS a dimly lit office and a darken study. It is your own darken sanctum.”
“Precisely, Richard Precisely.”
“But I suppose we need the rain.” Dr. Artemis smiles at the lovely Miss Trevelyan.
She just looks at him disapprovingly, “How can I help you?”
“I wish to speak with the editor.”
“My time is valuable Tobias – I don’t have time to argue with a wall.”
“Good night, Richard.”
A gentleman in a dark overcoat, tweet jacket and dark slacks suddenly makes his way rather quickly down the stairs, his face unable to conceal his irritation. He glances briefly at Artemis as he passes and then moves over to the umbrella stand, where he takes his out and opens the door.
Lightening flashes to illuminate the darken street visible through the open doorway.
The man opens his umbrella and closes the door behind him.
The gentleman who must obviously be Mister Berenstain slowly descends the stairs, his fingers reaching up to adjust his glasses as he takes notice of the visitor at the reception desk.
“Mr. Tillinghast?” The blonde receptionist calls up to the second floor landing.
“Yes, Miss Trevelyan?”
“There is a . . ..”
“Artemis, Doctor Artemis.”
“A Doctor Artemis to see you.”
“Send him up, Miss Trevelyan, by all means, send him up.”
As he moves across to the foot of the stairs, the doctor looks out across the city room to see that it is dimly lit and lined with old desks upon which sits antique typewriters. The only indication of the modern era is a set of three television screens mounted upon a far wall where their screens reveal the broadcasts of three cable news organizations And, there is the faint glow of computer monitors on only three desks below them.
Dr. Artemis mounts the stairs and walks up to find a rather tall, sturdy gentleman with a shadow of a beard. He has a cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth, smoke rising above his head as he stands beside his desk.
He looks like a young Orson Welles.
“Hello, Mr. Tillinghast. I am Dr. Artemis.” And he extends his hand.
Tillingahast raises an eyebrow and takes the proffered hand, shaking it with a strong, firm grip, “Artemis, Artemis, where do I know that name?”
“Greek mythology? Perhaps.” The doctor says as he takes a seat before the huge desk. He notices that the top of it is neat, orderly, and almost deserted save for a monitor, a keyboard, a silver framed picture, and what looks alike a small snow globe. He thinks that odd.
“So, what can I do for you Dr. Artemis?” Tillinghast says as he takes the cigar out of his mouth, and then suddenly snaps his fingers, “Oh, wait now I know—”
Artemis looks at him. “I am with the Miskatonic University in—“
“Artemis of the Miskatonic. Tony Peterson—he was here looking in the archives about you.”
“—oh. Was he now? Good for him . . . I think.”
Tillinghast moves around behind his desk and waves the hand with the cigar, “So doctor, tell me, what have you done to get Evan Hanley so interested in you.”
“Interested in me?”
“Looking into your background, sir.” Tillinghast asks putting back his chair, sitting down and leaning his elbows atop his desk. “Yes, sir, he is certainly looking into you.”
“And what is there about me in your files?”
Tillinghast looks at him for a long moment, and then says, “Not sure. What do you think might be in there?”
“But, you said Tony Peterson – not Hanley.”
“Peterson is a Private Investigator, who works mostly, well, only for Hanley in fact.” Tobias T. Tillinghast takes a puff off his cigar, “And Hanley? Well, here in Maine he is known as a Legal Wizard. And that’s because he doesn’t just win cases—he destroys prosecutions. It’s amazing how evidence against his clients seems to go missing or it isn’t at all the same as when it was first collected, and some evidence, well, it just shows up at the house of someone other than a Hanley client, who suddenly ends up getting arrested for the crime – it’s almost like magic.”
Dr. Artemis nods, “Magic. Of course.”
“Hmmm,” Tillinghast sits back in his chair now and places his feet up on the desk, “And now he is interested in you. So, Doctor as I was saying, whatever have you done to attract Evan Hanley’s interest?”
“I’ve . . . “
Tillinghast, suddenly reaches over and picks up his cell phone and checks a text and then tosses the phone back on his desk.
“. . . no idea.”
“Damn,” Tillinghast says in response to the text message.
“Say. . . “ The doctor begins –
Only Tobias T. Tillinghast abruptly pushes his chair back, and strides over to the balcony overlooking the City Room below, where he looks down upon his reporters below, “Mr. Berenstain?”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Tillinghast.”
“Why are you sitting there?”
“Sorry, Mr. Tillinghast?”
“Why are you not on your way to Bangor!”
“What do you know about an Alison Drew?” Dr. Artemis asks in his preoccupation with the singer at the Blue Whale, even as he watched the Collinsport Star editor yelling down into the City Room.
“Sir? Bangor?” Mr. Berenstain asks pushing his glasses back nervously.
“Yes, Bangor. Your ass should be on the way there now don’t you think Mr. Berenstain?”
Dr. Artemis awaits silently now.
“And why is that, sir?”
“Because it seems our Vampire Killer has escaped.” Tillinghast explains as he rolls his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, “Get thee to Bangor Mr. Berenstain; and write it up! Yes—Crazy Cult Killer Sprung By Love Nest Babes!”
“What? “ The reporter cranes his neck to look up at the editor above, “What are you talking about Mr. Tillinghast? They said that was a rumor. His escape and all.”
“A good question Mr. Berenstain, now how about you asking them that at Windcliffe?”
Dr. Artemis looks at the editor and publisher shocked—love nest babes?
Evelyn Morris hangs her head over the typewriter trying not to be noticed while Tillinghast continues to yell down at Berenstain.
“Facts Mr. Berenstain, go and get me the facts so I can spin them.”
The large editor turns with a bright smile, “News Doctor! News!” He seems to tap dance a bit, “Damn big news! This night is full of it.”
Dr. Artemis glances down at the other reporters, cowering.
Tillinghast strides back to his desk and picks up the phone, he dials a number.
“Dames, crazy dames.”
“What?” The doctor asks, his eyes widening.
“It would appear that two rather crazy dames helped bust him out.”
Dr. Artemis watches in odd fascination, the man seems absolutely giddy.
The phone is answered and he can hear in the background a male voice saying: “What is it?”
“Lieutenant Mills, this is Tobias T. Tillinghast,” his deep voice sounding like an old radio actor, “Yes, Yes, I know. At the crime scene now – well, Stella will be there shortly, and you be mindful of the freedom of the press, my dear. Freedom of the Press! This IS The Collinsport Star madam! And, access IS the news. So, nothing like the last time at the dock warehouse and that shocking display with our reporter as they were trying to get an interview with your Vampire Killer. Speaking of which, that’s the reason I called. Wanted your comment as I am more than certain the Town Council is not going to like the news that your Vampire Killer has escaped—well, yes. He did work for the Collinsport Police now didn’t he? Crazy Cult Killer back on the prowl—“
Tillinghast looks up at the doctor with a wry smile as he now puts the call on speakerphone. There is silence on the other end of the line. The doctor notices that his cigar seems to have gone out as he chews on the end of it looking down at the phone expectantly.
“We are working with Bangor City and State Police.” Lieutenant Mills tells him, as she seems distracted and to be walking as she is talking on her cell phone, “If we know anything further . . . we . . . Stephenson, get him over to the emergency room . . . will make a statement. We . . . regret that the asylum staff . . . did not . . . let the public know sooner.”
“You were aware weren’t you?” Tillinghast asks, detecting that the Lieutenant is making up the statement hurriedly.
“Certainly.” Lieutenant Mills says.
Tobias T. Tillinghast takes a box of safety matches from his desk drawer, strikes one and puffs up his cigar and whips the match flame out, “I must say, it does all sound a bit crazy. The way I hear it, two women just walk in and somehow overpowered the maximum security guards and their lockdown procedures.”
“Maybe there was something like a minor power outage in a heavy storm?” She says, not aware of all of the facts.
Dr. Artemis smirks at the comment.
“So, should I just run the usual, Lieutenant, you know, the investigation is on-going and we will continue to keep the community informed, as further information is forthcoming.” The large man winks at the doctor, “Oh course that isn’t going to sound so good what with these beheadings.”
“What are you talking about? There is absolutely no evidence to support that these are in any way connected—it is not even the same MO—.”
“And two and two sometimes adds-up to six here at the Star, Lieutenant!” And he suddenly hangs up.
“Are you saying . . . “ The doctor begins to ask.
“Not saying anything doctor. Just asking questions,“ Tillinghast says as he picks his cell phone back up, checks his text messages, taps something onto the keyboard and presses send.
A rather loud thunderclap is heard and the electricity fails for a second.
Dr. Artemis thinks to himself . . . beheadings, but is startled, by the flickering lights and looks around.
“Mr. Tillinghast?” He begins.
The editor and publisher of the Star looks at his cell and tosses it back down in frustration, ” “Miss Trevelyan,” He calls down the stairs to his secretary, “Where is Stella? She is not answering my messages, has she gotten out to Old Jerusalem Lot Road yet. I want something for the Morning Edition on these beheadings, and only Stella can write this up big. Jazz it up.”
“. . . Mr. Tillinghast? Do you have a generator?” The doctor asks as the large man, with the cigar, puffs past him and stands at the top of the stairs looking down at Miss Trevelyan.
“Generator? That’s why we have typewriters.” He says and removes his cigar from his mouth, “Nothing stops the news.”
“She is not answering text or phone, Mr. Tillnghast.”
The large man turns now with a sly smile, “Oh, by the way doctor.”
“Yes.”
“I just remembered something—West. Herbert West does that mean anything to you?”
Dr. Artemis coughs, “Herbert West . . . never heard of him.”
“That’s what Hanley’s got Peterson looking into. The death of Herbert West.”
“Which one?” The doctor asks.
Tillinghast bites down on his cigar, he knows he has a story now, “There’s more than one?”
“Well, yes.”
“And here I thought it was a slow news night.” Tillinghast walks back over to his desk and seems to tap dance for a brief second, “You tap dance doctor?”
“No.”
“You should—seeing as how you certainly think you can.”
“Pardon.”
Tilllinghast looks at him with a knowing smile, “West? You said you never heard of him – and yet, seems you know there’s apparently more than one.“ He puffs on his cigar, “I can spot tap dancing around the truth doctor—spot it as fast as I can a lie.”
“W-hat is this all about?”
“Not at all sure. All I know is Peterson says Hanley is looking into the death of some guy name Herbert West. Some old cold case. Seems, Evan Hanley thinks he has a new suspect in the case.”
Dr. Artemis’ eyes widen.
Tillinghast steps behind his desk and looks over to check his cell for a text message.
The electricity blinks out for a long moment, and then comes back on.
“As I follow wherever the news may lead me, doctor, I would have to say, it certainly sounds like a path of interest perhaps to follow . . . I might even need to look down this one myself—seeing as how Evan Hanley is involved.” The editor and publisher says taking the cigar out of his mouth and pointing the wet end at the doctor as he seems not to have noticed the lights had gone out.
Dr. Artemis looks around at the room . . . seeing if anything has moved or changed.
“He’s a legal wizard you know—has never lost a case.”
“. . . I’m sure.”
“Where the hell is Stella, Miss Trevelyan.”
“I do not know Mr. Tillinghast.” The voice of Miss Trevelyan calling up the stairs is calm and relaxed.
“This is her kind of a story you know—she loves this kind of insanity.” He looks at the doctor, “Collinsport. Murder and Sin,” a big grin, “You got to love it.”
Dr. Artemis nods.
Tillinghast steps back over and moves behind his desk, where he takes a seat and starts typing on his keyboard—whereas his staff is forced to use typewriters; he has a computer.
“I seem to be in the way here, Mr. Tillinghast. . . “ The doctor says, thinking now would be best for him to make an exit, “Perhaps I should take my leave now? I came to see about Alison Drew.”
“Who the hell is that?” Tillinghast says as he continues typing.
Evelyn Morris, having ascended the stairs rather quietly moves now over to them and to stand at Tillinghast’s desk, where she hands him a couple of sheets of typewritten paper. He looks at them and places them on his desk, “You get any more on that Banks story, a couple of witnesses say he was going on about having seen something before he went crazy.”
“No—nothing as yet.” She tells him, “Other than what was in the initial reports.”
“What was it?” He asks the reporter, whose name seems to have eluded him at the moment, his attention now on whatever is on his monitor, “He was last working down at that dinner theater, the one being renovated—and he said he had seen – something—now, what did he call it?”
“The Yellow Sign, sir?” The young reporter reminds him.
The doctor’s eyes widen.
“Right. Find out what the hell that means.”
“Banks?” The Doctor asks as he looks blankly for a moment, staring at the lampshade.
“Yes, it seems the man just got into his car and systematically set out to destroyed his place of business by driving the car into all of the out buildings and his office—and then, set it on fire. For twenty years a fixture here in the community, a general contractor. He’s worked on almost everything there is in Collisnport, at one time or another, and, he was working on gutting the old Roxy Theater —turning it into a some new avent-garde dinner theater. That place Mr. Louis Castaigne, the restaurateur from New York, bought. Bought hell, stole is more like it. Got it for next to nothing. The Braithwaite’s just gave it away.”
The electricity flickers, but remains on.
Dr. Artemis blinks, looking up and all around as the lights flicker.
The young woman leaves the two men as she makes her way down the stairs, hoping the lights do not go out while she is on them.
“Castaigne . . . he’s is also a director?” The doctor asks, thought it sounds more like a statement than a question.
“Yeah. That’s what I hear. Producer, director, restaurateur, avant-garde on just about any-and-everything. Off Broadway stuff you know. Real independent art.” Tillinghast says now beginning to type on his keyboard, cigar smoke hovering above his head.
“I met one of his actors once.” The doctor says.
“Oh really?’ Tillinghast says absently as he types, “Word is he plans on hiring that Porn Star, Natasha Snow, to star in his opening play.”
“Really?” Dr. Artemis says, looking down. “Somehow, that’s fitting.”
“The play is crazy too, something from the 1930’s, something called The Queen, The Stranger and The Mask.
Dr. Artemis suddenly shudders
Tobias T. Tillinghast looks up a moment, “Now, I do think I was wrong, yes, I think it was in the early 20’s, actually, now that I think about it.”
“. . . Nineties.” The doctor mutters.
“Some whack-job of a movie director wrote the damned thing. Routhgate.” Cigar moving from the left corner of his mouth to the right, “Based it on some rather controversial old play, French I think.”
Dr. Artemis stands, eyes wide as he nods. “Some say it was originally written in English by Christopher Marlowe . . . But that version was lost.”
“Marlowe hey?”
“Mr. Tillinghast,” The voice of Evelyn Morris calls up from the City Room
“What can I do for you Norris?” He yells down from his desk.
“Seems someone just set fire to their house, said they had to get rid of The Yellow Sign.”
The doctor audibly gulps!
Tillinghast stops typing and looks seriously at the doctor, who has gone pale before him. “Why are still here? Get on over there, and find out what the hell this Yellow Sign thing is.” He calls out.
“Wait, sir. That might be dangerous.” Dr. Artemis says almost in a whisper.
“Doctor, you don’t look at all well.”
“Mr. Tillinghast, who was this person?” The doctor asks, “The one who burnt their house?”
He turns and looks at the doctor, then back down at the news room, “Norris, who was it—that burned down their house.”
“Morris, sir. It was Hester Banks, sir.” The reporter calls up.
“Banks. . . ?” The doctor repeats to himself.
Tillinghast watching the doctor, says loudly in order to heard below, “Well, get on over there Norris, a little rain isn’t going to hurt you.”
“Didn’t you mention the name Banks before?” Artemis asks quizzically.
“Edison Banks.” Tillinghast nods, removes his cigar from his mouth, “He was the one I told you about who destroyed his business by driving his car through the buildings over and over again – before setting it on fire. Hester is his wife.”
“Oh.” He doctor replies thoughtfully, “Do you know if either of them are actors? Or were they associated with the theater?”
“Actors?” Tillinghast laughs heartily, “No, Hester Banks might go to a theater to see a movie and Edison was working on one, but Hester is much too shy and Edison, he is a Republican.”
“Oh.” The doctor takes out his cell phone and dials Collins Investigations.
“He was working on that big renovation of the Roxy Theater, as I said they are going to turn it into a dinner theater, and call it the Imperial Dynasty—which sounds like Chinese buffet to me.”
Dr. Artemis absently replies, “It does, rather.” And then to himself mumbles, “Pick up, Esther. . . “
“Collins Investigators, answering you at the early hours of the morning because doing business at any other time would be silly. What can I do you for?” The doctor recognizes Esther Friedman’s voice, which sounds very tired.
“Miss Friedman, this is Doctor Artemis from the Miskatonic, is Miss Collins there, by any chance?”
“Yah know, she has a phone on her desk. I don’t even know if she is . . . “ and she yawns heavily, “In.”
“Miss Friedman, there’s something going on. Miss Collins might want to know about it.”
The doctor pulls the phone from his ear as Miss Friedman yells: “NIK! That Snooping Librarian Wants ta talk to ya!”
Nicole Collins’s voice comes on the line, “What can I do for you doctor?”
“Miss Collins, you are aware of the man who drove into his business and set his car on fire . . . ?
The soft British voice replies with little emphasis, “I do think I saw the story in the paper, yes.”
“Well, his wife just set their house on fire, trying to eradicate the . . . “ and the doctor’s voice trails off as he for a moment seems to stares at nothing.
“Eradicate? Eradicate what, Doctor?”
Tobias Tillinghast asks taking his cigar out of his mouth and sitting back in his chair with a look of growing interest.
“Well, I think this relates to a certain mental patient in Arkham.” The doctor tell Nikki Collins.
“Hmmm – which one?” Nikki continues to sound distracted.
“Her name . . . well, I shouldn’t say. Confidentiality and all . . . “ The doctor looks away from Tillinghast, “Her first name is Martha. She was involved with this fellow Louis Castaigne. She was one of his actors in a proposed play . . . “
“Play? An Actress? I am sorry doctor, but I don’t follow. How are the contractor and his wife – connected with a mental patient in Arkham?”
“They are connected to Castaigne.” He tells her, “And I’m afraid they will turn out like Martha O’Malley. Or worse . . . “
Nikki is silent for a moment; “I have heard the name mentioned earlier in connection with a new corporation in town Mimecom.”
“Mimecorp? The one David Silva was talking about?”
Tillingahst now sits back and ponders the conversation. Mimecom? Well, well, this is certainly interesting.
“I am not at all certain what he was involved in – before his rather tragic departure from mental stability.” She says, “But—I am aware of someone, who is a bit concerned that they might be involved in something rather ominous. Brainwashing, or something rather like.
“Brainwashing is putting it mildly.” The doctor nods. “This thing affects the mind. It changes people . . . “
Tillinghast sits puffing on his cigar silently listening to the doctor and mentally making notations – he has been on an editorial crusade against Mimecom and Senator Kreutzer’s son, Anthony, for weeks. So, Antony is still advancing his father’s old religion scam . . . brainwashing? And Richard wanted him to call off the hounds. He sits puffing now in satisfaction.
“What does?”
“And as I have said, Silva was many things, but he was not delusional.”
Tobias T. Tillinghast smiles comfortably, ah now there is a name of interest: Silva. Is he involved with Mimecom? Are they connected in the Vampire Killings? What a great stoke of good fortune – this doctor, who seems totally oblivious to the information he is divulging.
“Nikki, it’s a play. Supposedly brilliant.” The doctor says, his voice growing more concerned as he thinks about it, “Marlowe was friends with Shakespeare and Johnson . . . They all wanted to top each other and they were all interested in the supernatural. Macbeth, The Alchemist, Doctor Faustus . . . But Marlowe’s last work surpassed them all. It may have been the greatest play ever written . . . and the most destructive. It does things to the human mind. It changes the very patterns of thought so that—“
He noticed Nikki’s voice now was less distracted, “You would not be talking about a play performed only once in France, now would you Doctor? Because if we are talking about the same play, well then, you see, there are certain visual memes, which are normally associated whenever that particular drama is attempted. Have they been seen?”
Dr. Artemis suddenly notices Tillinghast sitting, smoking and staring at him with intense interest.
“I’ll drop by later, Miss Collins.” And he suddenly hangs up.
“Destructive you say—now there’s a word I like.” Tobais T. Tillinghast cocks his head and there is a glint of almost bemused excitement in his eye as he slides the cigar to the other side of this mouth. “And, Mimecom, doctor, just what do you know about them? How is Anthony Kreutzer involved?”
Dr. Artemis blinks, and slips his phone back into his suit jacket pocket. “Mimecorp? Very little actually. David was very interested in them.”
“So—he was working for Kreutzer you think?”
“David—no, no, not working for them. Interested – he thought they . . . it’s the play I am interested in.”
He exhales a long plume of smoke, “What a night! And here I was thinking of heading home early, and instead it is news all night long. All the news that I can fit.”
“Mr. Tillinghast, you can’t print any of that, what you heard.” He doctor says taking a step forward, toward the man’s desk, “It will only excite interest. People will actually line up to see the play.”
“Now Doctor, I print just about anything, have been for years. Lies and half-truths and just about everything in-between. Hell this is Collinsport – one can’t report the real news or the Collins’ would have had my ass.”
“Understandable.”
“But this play—and Mimecom, destructive you say? And somehow mixed up with some nut in Arkham.”
“Gosh, Tillinghast it was only performed once, it was so boring.”
“Well, sounds like I need to have someone check into it. You know the play he is planning to open with was performed in LA back in the 20’s. Vera Endicott performed in it. Say, you know . . ..” His eyes now growing wider with excitement, “She was that actress who was murdered back in what, 1928? A rather grisly murder as I remember, when we ran that piece about the Film Festival last year . . . when some of her rare films were found by Ian Finch, and come to think of it, he was murdered too. And there were some films by this Routhgate, who did the play in LA. So this nut job of yours, this Martha, that was her name, right – she was an actress? You say, she knows this Castaigne?”
“I can’t answer that, Mr. Tillinghast. Doctor-patient confidentiality, you know.” The doctor shakes his head, “But this Castaigne? How do I find him?”
“The old Roxy Theater, they are renovating it and so he oversees the work pretty much every day – you would most likely catch him there.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Tillinghast.”
The doctor turns now to leave.
“A word of advice, doctor, if you got something you don’t want to be found out, best not have Hanley after you. He’s connected all the way up to the Governor.”
The doctor scowls, “Hanley . . . “ He turns around to look at Tillinghast, “Just who does he work for?”
“Anyone who can afford him. Does work for the Collins from time to time. “
“You never answered me about Alison Drew.” The doctor says irritated.
“Alison Drew, just who the hell is she?”
“There’s your story, Mr. Tillinghast. How can she afford him?”
Tillinghast takes his cigar out of his mouth, “What is she, another nut job? Look, I run a newspaper—I’m not the one who’s crazy. So, if you’re suggesting I take on Hanley – hell no. I’d rather take on the Collins’. There is just no way in hell would I cross that guy.”
Cue Music End of Episode