Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

The Tan Hat Man had been running on Broadway for three hit months when a pistol shot sounded like a cough during the middle of Act Two and leading man Walter Wiley pitched off the apron of the stage into the orchestra pit — dead. That’s a long sentence but it gives some idea of the length of Walter Wiley’s hold on the public. Also, there hadn’t been a murder in a playhouse since Lincoln.

Not even the hastily-struck overture by the baffled musicians could drown out the screams of a terrified matinee audience. Theatre parties and vacationing matrons from the Coast and Mid-West had packed the plush seats of the Dover. The death of Walter Wiley stunned the entertainment world. Or so the Manhattan tabloids blared. Broadway’s Mr. Excitement — the singing, dancing sensation known as Walter Wiley had been strangely, inexplicably murdered. I’m quoting again.

Like the assassination of Honest Abe, an unknown killer had struck from the audience. But the cops didn’t even have a John Wilkes Booth to contend with. Walter Wiley’s murderer remained. Nobody for three whole days while the official police machinery rolled. Producer David Merrick fumed, but kept on selling tickets for The Tan Hat Man. He would re-open when Monks found the murderer.

“A theatre crowd of fifteen hundred people,” Monks groaned at me over a bottle of pop. “Might just as well have been Yankee Stadium.”

“Take it easy,” I said. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

Monks’ smile was sheer irony. “No? Pray tell us more. I’m not using your private crystal ball, Noon.”

“Since when did you let numbers bother you? Fifteen hundred customers. So what? You can whittle that down.”

“I’m still listening, Noon.”

“Okay. Wiley was killed with a .22. Through the heart. Front and center. A perfect shot under any conditions. Knowing what you know about .22’s, you can eliminate the mezzanine and second balcony. The distance is too great.”

Monks scowled and put the empty pop bottle down behind one of the flats that was designed to represent a Manhattan skyline. “Go on.”

“Also, you couldn’t shoot a man onstage from a sitting position. Not in a packed house with someone sitting in front of you. Wiley was center stage when he fell. He hadn’t moved for a good two minutes before the shot. I know this show. Saw it last month and remember the stage business. Wiley was singing The Tan Hat Man. You know — where he stands still marking time like a soldier with a cane slung over his shoulder. So you know he was shot while he was standing there facing his adoring public.”

“So?”

“So the killer stood up in the dark to fire. And since from the standpoint of range, we eliminate the last twenty rows of the orchestra section — at least twenty — I’d say your killer had to be placed somewhere from Rows A to D. Or E.”

Monks now regarded me with almost a detached air. Too often my meandering led somewhere. Since he had long ago decided to allow a private detective the greatest of latitudes in Headquarters affairs, he knew this could be another of those times.

“All right, Ed. What about the musicians? Remember them? The pit would place them right in front of Wiley.”

“No good, Mike. The killer would have been seen. Also, he would have had to fire up. A Broadway orchestra is always below stage level. The trajectory of the slug in Wiley’s heart showed the barest angle of entry. Far too gradual for a shot from the pit. The bullet had to come from Row A on.”

Monks sighed. “Okay. So you like that location. So we checked all the ticket holders in that area. So we found out it was a high-priced theatre party from Rhode Island. So we found no one with a motive for killing a Broadway star. For most of them, it was the first time they’d seen the great Wiley. So what?”

I took a memo pad out of my coat. Once Monks had given me the go-ahead on his murder case, I’d done a little snooping.

“I’ve checked the stagehands, ushers and candy concession crowd. Also the doormen and porters. And a guy named Terrini who’s Head Electrician. Seems he roams the whole building, front and back, while the show is on, to make sure things run smoothly during a performance. Ever since the first rehearsals and tryouts, The Tan Hat Man has been one big happy family. No bad blood in any department.”

“Terrini wears glasses thicker than milk bottles,” Monks grumbled. “And has double vision to boot. I ruled him out, on your theory, the first time I talked to him. And the rest of them—”