We located a switch and the room that lay before us came alive with light. And what a room it was! No luxury had been spared in its décor, and one would never guess this had once been an empty space above a theatre. It was as architecturally detailed as any Beaux Arts building on Central Park West, and the soft pools of lamplight accentuated the sleek, curved lines of modern sofas, banquettes, and upholstered silk chairs in the latest Art Deco style. Wall sconces sent inverted triangles of light toward the ceiling, and scattered about with deliberation among the furnishings were sculptures by leading artists of the day. We crossed the thick white carpet toward the blond-birch mirrored bar.
“This is some joint!” I said, as Mr. Benchley poured neat whiskies into three crystal tumblers. I looked over the bar’s shelves and found a box of pretzels. I fed one to Woodrow Wilson, and offered the box to Aleck.
“Odd,” I said, looking around the vast expanse, “for a man with an extensive collection of Impressionist Art, the walls are blank.”
“Maybe Myrtle nabbed them in the divorce settlement,” said Mr. Benchley.
“Perhaps. . .”
Aleck handed me a drink, and we sipped in silence.
“Heavenly,” I cooed, enjoying the smooth, warm ribbon of liquid as it made its way down my throat. The boys hummed agreement.
“Let’s find something to eat,” said Aleck, looking around for the entrance to a kitchen. There were several doors to choose from, but like a boar rooting out truffles, Aleck opened the door leading to the kitchen and butler’s pantry on his first try. Mr. Benchley and I followed, and as if he hadn’t eaten less than an hour before, Aleck attacked the icebox. His huge figure blocked our view to its contents, but a moment later he turned to face us with a gleeful chirp, holding up a turkey drumstick.
“What?” he asked, mouth full, as we looked on with disapproval. “Want a bite?”
“Thank you, no. And don’t you dare give that bone to Woodrow Wilson. Please move aside, now.”
I peered inside to see a wheel of Stilton alongside the remains of the bird, a couple bottles of Taittinger, but little else, not even a stalk of celery.
I thought Mr. Benchley was at my side, but I heard him call to me from a distance. Returning to the salon, I followed a narrow rectangle of lamplight through the opened door of Reginald Pierce’s library.
Here was the marvelous art collection, and I was immediately drawn to the little Renoir.
“So here is my pastel.”
“What’s this?” said Aleck. “A portrait of our Mrs. Parker?”
“This is the Renoir he bought out from under me. It really does look a little like me!”
“Spitting image,” said Mr. Benchley, before losing interest and walking away to peruse other objets d’art.
“Yes, me wearing a bonnet I’d never be caught alive in, wearing too much Coty lipstick and rouge. . . .” I considered it for another moment. “I do love it, though.”
Mr. Benchley said, “I see Reginald lived with his ‘Mummy.’”
“Whatever are you babbling about?” I asked.
“Come and see this sarcophagus coffin.”
“From some play—last season’s Anthony and Cleopatra no doubt; Jane Cowl was indeed marvelous as the Egyptian Queen,” said Aleck through his food.
“Not on your life, Aleck. This is the real deal.”
“’Lot of junk in here.”
I turned away from the Renoir to join Mr. Benchley. I said to Aleck, “That piece of junk you’re looking at is an altar triptych from the 13th century.”
“Refill?” asked Aleck, leaving the room to fetch the bottle from the bar.
“Shit, Mr. Benchley,” I said as I approached the huge coffin. “It looks like the one at the Metropolitan. Open it up!”
Just then, Woodrow Wilson yelped, and Aleck came bounding back in from the salon, decanter in hand. “Someone’s coming up the elevator!”
We searched the room for a hole of escape, like mice who’d stolen the cheese when the cat fell asleep in a dish of cream. The cat was opening one angry green eye, and there was nowhere, no closet, no sofa, big enough to conceal us.
The curtains were drawn closed and extended the entire exterior wall of the room. We killed the lights and dashed behind the drapery, Aleck, decanter in hand. If someone entered, we wouldn’t be seen right away—that is, as long as no one looked toward the floor, where they’d see two pairs of size-tens flanking size-five pumps.
The door creaked open and there was the woosh of footsteps rushing across the Persian carpet; a pull of the lamp chain and a column of light came through the break in the curtain panels. As I was advantageously placed near that opening, I looked out to see the figure of a man lifting the seat cushion of the desk chair. Light from the desk lamp glinted off an object he retrieved: a key. With it, the man opened the front panel of the desk and began riffling through its contents. Then, the releasing pop of a metal spring, after which a panel opened to reveal a secret cubbyhole. The man removed something, which he placed into his pocket before shutting the small compartment. And then, oddly, he stood bolt-upright, frozen, as if listening, fearing he might be caught. Could he have heard us? Had Aleck belched? We were done for, now, I feared, for he turned in our direction. I held my breath, pulling back from the break in the curtain, and gripped the arms of the two men flanking me.
But I had seen the man’s face: He was young, Asian, and of small and slim stature. Suddenly the light was dashed, putting all of us in darkness. I heard the scattering of feet, and then, a thump, as if he had knocked into furniture in the scurry. After the brief moments of darkness, the pull of the light chain sounded once again.
I peeked out, but instead of the Asian there stood a woman, late twenties, early thirties, and dressed to the teeth in Chanel. The little Chinaman was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered where on earth he could have hidden himself?
The woman appeared to search the room with her eyes, walked over to the bookcases, changed her mind and returned to the desk. But, she didn’t stop there; rather, she moved toward us. Adrenalin sobered me quickly. I was sure she had heard my knees knocking, if not Woodrow Wilson’s panting.
She hesitated, and then, as if struck by a sudden revelation, spun on her heels and headed toward the refectory table.
Reaching inside a Ming Dynasty vase, she pulled out a fabric-wrapped item; after she removed the cloth, she was left holding the figurine sculpture of a duck—no, it was a falcon; well, it looked like some kind of bird, anyway. A smile crossed her lips, and it was uncanny how much she reminded me of Mary Astor, the actress, but for this girl’s blonde hair. Satisfied with her find, she threw the room into darkness and was gone.
I was afraid to move, but Woodrow Wilson squirmed in my arms, demanding freedom. The boys stood in their places, but the clink of decanter to glass as Aleck refilled his glass rang out. I’d had enough cloak-and-dagger for one evening, and as Woodrow Wilson made his break, so did I.
“You two can come out, now,” I said, walking over to the vase to peer into its dark interior. The smell of cigarette smoke and the faint scent of shoe polish lingered about the room and then was gone.
“But it’s quite cozy here, and somebody else may chance by,” said Mr. Benchley.
“So, we’ll say hello and offer him a drink. By the way, either of you see a little Oriental man standing behind the curtain with us?”
Aleck stepped forth and looked around the room. From the blank look on both their faces, I realized neither had been in a position to see all I had witnessed through the break of the curtain panels. I replayed for them the past couple of minutes.
“Strange, though, I can’t figure out how the Asian got out of here before the Mary Astor look-a-like came in.”
“Did you say ‘Mary Astor’?”
“Her blonde double.”
“Sounds like you saw Marion Fields, Reggie’s girlfriend,” said Aleck.
“Oh, I remember her,” said Mr. Benchley. “Pretty thing.”
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I asked, “You’ve met Marion Fields?”
“No, Mary Astor.”
Aleck rolled his eyes, and I grabbed the hand of a slightly inebriated Mr. Benchley, to lead him out of the apartment before more people descended on us.
The wake for Reginald Ignatius Pierce was held at Campbell’s Funeral Home on Manhattan’s East Side. Hundreds poured in to pay their respects and offer condolences to his widow, Myrtle, and his two sons, Richard and Raymond.
Held on a Sunday evening before the Monday funeral service and burial, the royalty of Broadway were in attendance, as most theatres were dark this evening. However you felt about Reggie, whether you loved, hated, or were disinterested, it was a stellar event for even the peripheral court members to be seen attending.
All the friends of our luncheon club, which had in recent years been dubbed the “Round Table,” came to the viewing. Groucho Marx said that he wanted to see for himself that Reggie was indeed dead, and that the whole thing was not some sort of practical joke. But, the truth was that a Broadway King was dead, and however much at odds many people had been in their dealings with Reggie, he was respected for his many talents. And even more, they came out of great admiration for his wife, Myrtle, who was, before retiring from the stage, not only a great dramatic actress, but instrumental in organizing the union, Actors Equity Association. Her involvement may have caused tension in their marriage, for she was, after all, married to a producer; it is common knowledge that there isn’t a producer out there who was ever willing pay an actor more than coolie wages if he could get away with it. But, Reggie didn’t try to stand in her way. He came around to the idea of fair pay in his later years, once he had built his great fortune from the sweat of underpaid performers. His disputes were with those from whom he demanded impossible deadlines; his fights were with temperamental playwrights, directors, and set and costume designers. And critics!
Outside the funeral home, those hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars lined the canopied entrance ten deep. More people were wearing black than all the widows of Greece. And it was raining, to boot, so the smell of wet wool predominated and mingled with the lavender fragrance that lay heavy over the viewing parlor. There were scores of black umbrellas dripping onto the entry carpet. No one in his right mind could possibly sort out his own umbrella from that sea of black!
Aleck Woollcott, Robert Benchley, and I were joined by George and Bea Kaufman; Edna Ferber (with whom we would have dinner afterward at her apartment) arrived with Irving Berlin. It was a veritable Broadway Who’s Who that greeted us: Jane Cowl, George Arliss, Irene Dunne, and Will Rogers; the Barrymore and Drew clans; the Astaires—brother and sister, Fred and Adele; all the Marx Brothers (for their show, I’ll Say She Is, was dark that evening); and Ed Wynn, W.C. Fields, and Gertie Lawrence were in town, as all had shows running, so they were there, too. There was Beatrice Lillie and Marilyn Miller, and then a commotion as Marie Dressler and Eleanora Duse bounded in off the street dripping wet after their shared umbrella was ripped by a fierce gale. Oh, my, I could go on! But I won’t.
We signed the guestbook and made our way through the crowd and into the parlor. There was a queue of people wrapped around the room, like a stalled conga line, to view the body. From where we stood, I could see little beyond the black-suited backs of those on line, and as I am a small cluck, an inch under five feet tall, I had to rely on the observations of my friends for any sense of what was going on around the room.
“George White and Flo Zeigfeld are actually talking to each other,” said Mr. Benchley, referring to the biggest producers of musical extravaganzas.
“Hot dog! Sam Harris just joined in. Wish I were a flea in David Belasco’s ear, because he and Lee Shubert’s just joined the poker game. Shall I lift you up on my shoulders to see the spectacle, Mrs. Parker?”
“Thank you, no; people already think me lofty.”
“Then you won’t be able to see your favorite critic and sewer-dweller, Ralph Chittenham.”
“Oh, ‘Shit-in-head’ is here?”
“Yes, and he’s got some nice little chorus girl cornered . . . in the corner.”
“Do you think there are refreshments?” Aleck asked, while waving hello to young Walter Huston.
“What do you think this is? A cocktail party?”
“Feels like we’re on line for the buffet.”
There are advantages to being of small stature in a tight crowd. As you’re rarely eye-level with anyone else it’s easy to go unnoticed. And this night, wedged between Aleck and Mr. Benchley, who fell into discussion with the promising young actress, Eva La Gallienne and our Round Table friend, newspaper columnist Frank Pierce Adams, who would undoubtedly mention our names in his column tomorrow as having attended RIP’s wake, I could do little but listen to the conversations around me, unable, due to my odd positioning, to easily identify the speakers. But I recognized the distinctive voices of a man and woman in conversation, so I leaned in closer to listen.
“Have you seen Lucille Montaine? She’s nowhere to be found. She doesn’t answer her telephone, and I stopped by her apartment, but she wasn’t there, and her neighbors haven’t seen her in days.”
The deep, distinctive British bell tones identified Evelyn Woods, the director of Reginald Pierce’s awful new play (which I panned), Trees in the Forest, starring the missing actress.
“I haven’t seen her here. Do you think she’s so upset about RIP kicking off that she’s gone off her rocker someplace, grieving?”
I had to laugh, inwardly, at the unfortunate monogram Reginald Ignatius Pierce had had to live with all of his life. I pictured sweaters, towels, bed sheets, and handkerchiefs embroidered with his initials. Undoubtedly, he’d received many such gag gifts for Christmas and birthdays.
“If she’s grieving anything, it’s her reviews. Did you read Dottie Parker’s? If I hadn’t been laughing so hard, I would have cried. At least Parker didn’t mention my name; one can be thankful for that. Maybe people will take Ralph Chittenham’s review to heart. I don’t know why that old bastard was so nice. All I can say is, thank God there’s Rosemary Willard to understudy for Lucille. She was marvelous last night. She should have had the part from the start, had I had my way.”
“I don’t get it. Why didn’t she get the role in the first place, if she was so good?”
“RIP. He wanted Lucille. Nothing I could do would convince him.”
“Maybe Lucille is so distraught she’s taken her own life.”
“That’s not nice of you, Maddie, but from your lips to God’s ears!”
“Well, it’s one way to save the show. With Lucille in it, it will close as soon as interest in RIP’s death lessens.”
The woman speaking was costume designer Madison. She spoke with that affected New England twang that so many young actors were wearing these days.
The line was moving forward, and as we neared, I was able to glimpse, through a break in black, members of RIP’s family seated opposite the casket.
Two young men, of similar, but rather sullen features and build as the man lying prone in his coffin, sat to the right of Reggie’s wife, Myrtle. To her left sat Gerald Saches, Reggie’s business manager.
Both Reggie and Gerald were the children of immigrants, and from the same Lower East Side neighborhood. Both were adolescents when their fathers, who had become friendly while working as laborers digging in the tunnels of the New York City subway system, were killed in an explosion and cave-in. As each was the eldest son, each had to go out to work to support his family.
Green-grocer Robert Saches long had eyes for Gerry’s mother, and offered the boy a job delivering groceries and stocking and sweeping out the store. Gerry was a clever boy and saw the grocer’s interest in his mother. He was also a loyal friend to Reggie, who had few prospects for finding work, so he refused the offer from the storekeeper unless he hired his friend Reggie as well. A couple of years later, Gerry’s mother married the grocer, who adopted her children before promptly dyin
g of an aneurysm.
Gerry, at sixteen, took over the store. Reggie continued to work there, but he had big ideas for expanding the business. Gerry listened to those ideas, and although he was of a cautious nature, he was easily convinced by his outgoing and charismatic friend to take the leap. And a very successful leap it was.
Thirty years later, their frozen-food company supplied a great share of the city's restaurants, and they had discovered other markets in which to invest their money. The men had little other than their businesses in common, but for two things: Gerry’s middle name, Aaron, after his maternal grandfather, also gave him an unfortunate monogram, and both men had, at one time or another, been in love with Myrtle.
It was no secret that Gerald had pursued the young Myrtle Price, after seeing her photograph in an advertisement for Milton’s Castile Soap, and for a time, he believed she might agree to become his wife. Myrtle found Gerry a congenial young man, if rather conservative and plain in dress and demeanor. But, as their friendship grew, she realized that she could never think of Gerry as more than a precious and faithful friend, especially after being introduced to his business partner, Reginald Pierce. It wasn’t simply that Reginald was handsome and immaculately turned out. Myrtle was not a shallow woman; she had been wooed by many good-looking fellows dressed to impress. But Reginald excited her imagination with the zest with which he lived his life. She was swept into the gravity of the planet Pierce, and Gerald, gracious and understanding, if quietly broken-hearted, toasted the couple on their wedding day.
Now, as I observed Myrtle and Gerald, I could see what anyone but an idiot could see: Gerald was still in love with the wife of his closest friend.
I felt like a voyeur, watching his tender leanings, the way he took her hand in his own, the expression of pain that hung over his fair features as he spoke to her between interruptions of those offering condolences. There was such gentle intimacy there, and out of decency I turned away, my eyes taking in the lifeless mask of Reginald Pierce.
[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders Page 3
