“Great idea to enlist her help,” Charlie said. Margaret had called Leigh that afternoon and explained that they desperately needed someone to keep an eye on a folder Charlie was going to drop off. It was seriously a matter of life and death, one Margaret would tell her all about later over drinks, but for now she needed her help. Leigh was tickled to be recruited for actual cloak-and-dagger work, not just playacting, and immediately agreed.

“So what now?” Margaret whispered.

Charlie scanned the audience. “Keep our eyes open,” he said.

“For?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “An anomaly. Maybe someone returning to his seat after meeting with Manny. Or maybe Manny coming back to talk to someone here.”

They surveyed the scene before them. Hope continued with his jokes. The audience sat there, responding obediently. The aisles were empty. In the corners and along the back of the auditorium, seat-fillers loitered. Up front, the orchestra began their next number.

Margaret pointed out a skinny young man wearing a pink rose boutonnière. He quickly stood to make room for a man returning to his seat.

“Who is that?” Charlie asked.

“Can’t tell,” Margaret said. “Should I check?” Charlie nodded.

She edged past him and exited the auditorium.

Outside in the hall, Margaret stood nervously for a second.

It was entirely possible that their foes intended to take the file and kill her friend Sheryl Ann Gold. But despite their precautions and plans for the night, it was clear that their enemies’ response would depend on their own—and their friends’—ability to ad lib.

Margaret walked down the hall and up a few steps into a control room in the back of the theater. She opened up a heavy door to see a producer with a headset and a map looking out to the audience.

“Richard Widmark leaving his seat, copy,” he said, glancing down at the map. “Row fourteen, seat H, gamma sector. Row one-four, seat H, as in hotel.”

“Copy,” said a voice from the radio.

Margaret took a step closer to the man. “You’re sending out the seat-fillers.”

The man jumped, startled. He looked at Margaret, quickly assessed that she was a harmless rich lady, and returned his attention to the audience.

“Yes, ma’am, our scouts sit up front and watch who’s getting up, and we have four teams scattered throughout so the odds of a pan to the audience showing an empty seat are close to nil—”

He was interrupted by a call on his walkie-talkie. Margaret noted he had several devices for communication—a headset, two walkie-talkies, and probably more.

“Shirley Jones is on the move,” the voice crackled.

“Copy that,” said the man, scanning his seating chart. “That’s row twenty, two-zero, seat B, as in bravo, also gamma sector, Carlos.”

“Copy,” said Carlos.

“This is so cool!” Margaret said.

The man smiled, happy to be appreciated and gushed over.