The Apostrophe Thief by Barbara Paul Page B

The director was on the phone when Marian stepped into the doorway, in the midst of trying to soothe whoever was on the other end of the line. “Relax, Gene, it’s under control. Most of the new costumes have been promised for four o’clock—that leaves time for fittings and whatever small adjustments have to be made. And the rest of the costumes will be ready by tomorrow. It’s all taken care of.” He held the receiver away from his ears and rolled his eyes; a man’s voice chattered unheeded from the receiver.
    Marian cleared her throat and held up her badge.
    Reddick’s reaction was one she’d never run into before; he positively beamed at her. “Gene, I’ve got to go—the police are here. Catch you later.” He hung up with a sigh of relief. “Producer,” he said to Marian with a scowl. “He’s supposed to take care of this kind of thing, but I end up doing it and he bugs me about it.” Reddick tried to peer around Marian. “Should I have said the police is here?”
    â€œMy partner’s out front. I’m Sergeant Larch, and I want to ask you about a play called Three Rings .”
    â€œAh, somebody told you about that. Have a seat, Sergeant. Yeah, those scripts were stolen too, but that’s all. No costumes or anything.”
    â€œDid you ever get them back?”
    â€œNope.”
    The only other chair in the office was piled high with bound papers; she picked them up and put them on the corner of Reddick’s desk—and then realized what they were. “New copies of the script?”
    â€œThey just came in. Some actors get panicky if they don’t have scripts, even after a play’s opened. Security blanket.”
    Marian sat down. “Why were the originals stolen, do you think?”
    â€œOh, they’ll be worth a few bucks on the black market. People will steal anything—hell, people will buy anything, anything at all connected with show biz.”
    â€œEven though they’re so easily replaced?”
    Reddick shifted his weight. “Well, you see, the originals are all marked up. A script with Ian Cavanaugh’s stage directions written throughout in his own hand has value to collectors of stuff like that.” He gestured toward the new scripts on the corner of his desk. “Now those, without anything written on them, aren’t worth anything.” He grinned. “Don’t tell Abby James I said that. I meant they wouldn’t bring anything on the collectors’ market.”
    â€œAnd that was why the personal stuff was taken too?”
    â€œAbsolutely. That old shaving mug of Ian’s wouldn’t be worth two cents if it belonged to Joe Blow.”
    Marian thought back. “You didn’t lose anything, did you?”
    â€œNo, they didn’t even bother breaking in here.” He laughed. “I feel insulted—they didn’t think I was worth stealing from.”
    A small, elderly safe was sitting in one corner of the room, doing double duty as a table. Marian pointed to it. “What about that?”
    â€œEmpty,” Reddick said. “Besides, I can’t even get into the damned thing. Our producer is the only one who ever thought to write down the combination. That old safe has been here so long I doubt if even the theater owners remember how to open it.”
    When Marian asked who actually dealt with stolen theater memorabilia, Reddick couldn’t help her. He pointed out that the legally owned material was sold through legitimate auction houses. Sotheby’s, for instance, wouldn’t touch one of the stolen copies of The Apostrophe Thief .
    â€œAnd none of the old copies of Three Rings has surfaced?” she asked.
    â€œNot that I know of. But it’s been only a couple of years. Someone’s probably sitting on them, to increase the value a little more.”
    Just then Perlmutter stuck his head in through the door.