Free The Fourth Wall by Barbara Paul

remember—”
    â€œI expect you to remember one thing at a time. Start with your first meeting.”
    â€œBut that will take hours!”
    â€œThen we’d better get started, hadn’t we? Why the reluctance, Abby? What’s your problem?”
    People who say “What’s your problem,” for one thing . I started talking, trying to remember “everything.” Most of it was trade talk, but Piperson was more interested in details of her personal life—most of which I suspected he already knew. All I could tell him was what I had personally seen and heard during rehearsals and performances of my own three plays Sylvia had acted in.
    Piperson showed an interest in Sylvia’s sex life that bordered on the prurient. “Jake Steiner’s her third husband,” I said. “Her first husband died—in a traffic accident, I think—and she divorced her second. She and Jake have been married, oh, three or four years.”
    â€œLovers?”
    â€œBetween marriages, yes, I think so. After Jake, I don’t know. Sylvia’s not the type to gush out intimate details of her personal life.”
    â€œOh, come on, you’ve got to know more than you’re letting on. A woman like that—”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘a woman like that’? Some people brag about their lovers to bolster their self-esteem. Sylvia’s always had enough self-esteem for ten people. She didn’t need to brag.”
    â€œGive me some names.”
    â€œI can’t. I don’t know any.”
    â€œWhat about John Reddick?”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    Piperson showed his annoyance at my obtuseness. “Did he ever have an affair with Sylvia Markey?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    â€œBut he could have?”
    I shrugged.
    â€œHe thinks he’s a regular Don Juan, doesn’t he?” Piperson persisted. “You mean to tell me that a man like that wouldn’t make a play for a woman like Sylvia Markey?”
    I was beginning to get angry. “I’m not telling you anything. I simply don’t know .”
    â€œI’ll say you’re not telling me anything. Next you’ll be saying John Reddick lives the life of a monk.”
    â€œWhy are you trying to antagonize me? What’s this all about?”
    â€œThink. Rejection, jealousy—”
    â€œOh, bull. John Reddick would no more put his star out of action than he’d slit his own throat. And whatever John’s problems, he’s not suicidal.”
    â€œThen he does have problems?”
    â€œOf course. Who doesn’t?”
    â€œWhat kind of problems? He’s on speed, isn’t he?”
    I sighed, not really liking to talk about John to this prying policeman. “No, John’s not ‘on’ anything except a natural-born high. John is a very gifted, intense, high-strung individual. He needs continuing confirmation of his talents, his worth—his ‘manhood,’ if you like. All this sexual activity is just a part of his seeking reassurance.”
    â€œYou don’t sound as if you like him very much,” Piperson smiled nastily.
    That did it. “I love John Reddick, dammit! He’s the best director I’ve ever had! That might not mean anything to you, but it’s important as hell to me. Why all these snide little insinuations? John Reddick is a good man who wouldn’t knowingly hurt anyone.”
    Sure , his expression said. What’s the penalty for throwing an ashtray at a police officer.
    When Piperson finally let me escape, I felt as if I’d been put through a wringer. When I’d calmed down a little, I began to wonder about the Sergeant. What kind of life could he have—poking into other people’s affairs, needling, prodding people into saying things they’d rather not say? What does a job like that do to a man? Or rather, what kind of man is suited to a job like that?
    When I’d