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Zusatztext “Classic. . . . The forerunner of the mod-and-sex mystery. . . Presented with perception and verisimilitude.” —Dorothy B. Hughes! Los Angeles Times “The case of the missing author is over. Gore Vidal has emerged from behind the facade of Edgar Box.” — The New Republic “Terse and lively. . . . Balletomanes will relish the book.” — The New York Times Informationen zum Autor Gore Vidal writing as Edgar Box Klappentext In Death in the Fifth Position, dashing P.R. man Peter Sargent is hired by a ballet company on the eve of a major upcoming performance. Handling the press seems to be no problem, but when a rising star in the company is killed during the performance-dropped from thirty feet above the stage, crashing to her death in a perfect fifth position-Sargent has a real case on his hands. As he ingratiates himself with the players behind the scenes (especially one lovely young ballerina), he finds that this seemingly graceful ballet company is performing their most dramatic acts behind the curtain. There are sharp rivalries, sordid affairs, and shady characters. Sargent, though, has no trouble staying on point and proving that the ballerina killer is no match for his keen eye and raffish charm. CHAPTER ONE 1 "You see," said Mr. Washburn. "We've been having trouble." I nodded. "What sort of trouble?" He looked vaguely out the window. "Oh, one thing and the other." "That's not much to go on, is it?" I said gently; it never does to be stern with a client before one is formally engaged. "Well, there's the matter of these pickets." I don't know why but the word "picket" at this moment suggested small gnomes hiding in the earth. So I said, "Ah." "They are coming tonight," he added. "What time do they usually come?" I asked, getting into the spirit of the thing. "I don't know. We've never had them before." Never had them before , I wrote in my notebook, just to be doing something. "You were very highly recommended to me," said Mr. Washburn, in a tone which was almost accusing; obviously I had given him no cause for confidence. "I've handled a few big jobs, from time to time," I said quietly, exuding competence. "I want you for the rest of the season, the New York season. You are to handle all our public relations, except for the routine stuff which this office does automatically: sending out photographs of the dancers and so on. Your job will be to work with the columnists, that kind of thing . . . to see we're not smeared." "Why do you think you might be smeared?" The psychological moment had come for a direct question. "The pickets," said Mr. Washburn with a sigh. He was a tall heavy man with a bald pink head which glittered as though it had been waxed; his eyes were gray and shifty: as all honest men's eyes are supposed to be according to those psychologists who maintain that there is nothing quite so dishonest as a level, unwavering gaze. I finally understood him. "You mean you are going to be picketed?" "That's what I said." "Bad labor relations ?" "Communism." "You mean the Communists are going to picket you?" The impresario of the Grand Saint Petersburg Ballet looked at me sadly, as though once again his faith had been unjustified. Then he began at the beginning. "I called you over here this morning because I was told that you were one of the best of the younger public relations men in New York, and I prefer to work with young people. As you mayor may not know, my company is going to premiere an important new ballet tonight. The first major modern ballet we have presented in many years and the choreographer is a man named Jed Wilbur." "I'm a great admirer of his," I said, just to show that I knew something about ballet. As a matter of fact, it isn't possible t...
