[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders

by Agata Stanford

  The usually high-colored countenance that was Reggie alive was paled by death. The bright, compelling green eyes were shut and sunken under papery lids. The Max Factor pancake makeup looked false and powdery. The big, powerfully built body was shrunken, having exhausted all earthly energy. I was struck, suddenly reminded of the finality of death; my lofty attitude toward my own mortality frightened me. I shivered. I am loath to admit that bad times have recently sent me to the brink of death, most ashamedly by my own hand!

  As I stood contemplating the meaninglessness of human existence, I felt a hand on my shoulder, drawing me back into the crowded room. Expecting Mr. Benchley or Aleck at my side, I was taken aback by a devastatingly handsome face that proceeded to address me. I must have appeared peculiar, because he smiled, divinely, I must say, and cautiously backed away.

  “Mrs. Parker.”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Wilfred Harrison.”

  He reached to shake my hand.

  My usual firm handshake melted to a limp lump, giving meaning to the expression, “putty in his hands.”

  “I am the attorney for the Reginald Pierce family, and the executor of Mr. Pierce’s estate.”

  He must have thought me daffy, as my jaw dropped and my head bobbed inanely, as all reasonable thoughts were purged from my brain, along with the flow of blood, which rushed to other organs of my body. My silence prompted him to continue.

  “Mrs. Parker?”

  I blinked assent.

  I guess that egged him on, for he offered, “As you have been named in Mr. Pierce’s will, I am inviting you to attend its reading after the interment tomorrow morning.”

  Key words crank-started my brain once again.

  “Wait, let me understand this,” I said, in recovery. “I’m in Reginald’s will?”

  “Yes, that’s right. The burial is at ten o’clock, followed by a reception at the Dakota apartment of Mrs. Pierce. The reading of the will is at three o’clock, at Mr. Pierce’s apartment above the Reginald Pierce Theatre.”

  “Ahhh,” I gurgled.

  “Will you attend?”

  “Yes . . . I mean, yes . . . I didn’t say no, did I?” I babbled.

  He squinted, turned his head a little as if scrutinizing me with his best eye. And then, “Then we’ll expect to see you tomorrow.”

  “I’d be delighted. I mean, thank you for inviting—”

  An amused expression confirmed I was making a damned fool of myself. I pulled my groveling self up from his feet, lifted my chin (and jaw) in an effort to regain my dignity, and said, quite competently, “I shall be there, at three o’clock, Mister—?”

  “Harrison. Wilfred Harrison.”

  “Mr. Harrison.”

  “Call me ‘Will,’ Mrs. Parker.”

  “Yes. ‘Will,’ then, Mr. Harrison.”

  He released my cranking handshake. I sighed a huge breath of relief as he moved away. I hadn’t breathed since his approach, I don’t think; his animal magnetism was so strong, I felt unstrung and embarrassingly overheated.

  Aleck and Mr. Benchley were at my side, and by the way they looked at me I knew that they had witnessed my shameful behavior.

  “I’m jealous, Mrs. Parker,” said Mr. Benchley.

  “You, my darling Mr. Benchley, are in no danger of losing your place in my heart.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Benchley will be happy to know that,” said Aleck, with sardonic glee, referring to Gertrude, Mr. Benchley’s wife, tucked away with the kiddies in the suburban bliss of Timbuktu, and to the close, but platonic, relationship Mr. Benchley and I enjoyed.

  It has been rumored that we are more than just the very best of friends. The truth is that our deep love and respect for one another has never breached the bedroom door. Our mutual affection developed while working together, dining and drinking together, bucking each other up when one felt low, standing tall together in friendship (Mr. Benchley, so loyal a friend, had handed in his resignation when I was fired from Vanity Fair), and in sharing the sharp wit and humor that we have become famous for. We are very much on the same plane, our bantering dialogue almost an extension of each other’s, if differing in style. In fact, our celebrity is a result of our having set the style for our generation. I am willingly Mr. Benchley’s straight man, and he is often mine. We, along with Aleck and others of our Round Table Club, set a standard, unwittingly (excuse the pun!), but a standard, nonetheless, of all that is clever and fun and exciting in 1920s New York City. I can honestly say that in many respects Mr. Benchley might be dubbed the masculine side of Mrs. Parker. So maybe we are having an affair of sorts, an intellectual and emotional one, but certainly with no threat to either of our spouses.

  Aleck, on the other hand, is all things clever and bright and perfectly in tune with raising the bar to new heights, but sexually speaking, well, it is speculated that he has no sex life, as far as anyone knows. But, that is a story for another time. For now we had to face the widow and sons of Reginald Pierce.

  Gerald rose to his feet to greet us, and I leaned in to speak comforting words to Myrtle, who graciously, and I’m sure, for the thousandth time, gave her thanks for our attending.

  The sons, whom I had never seen before, appeared more interested in our celebrity than in the reason for our presence, and I got the very distinct impression that they’d had a few conflicts with the man in the box. They seemed impatient; not with their mother; with her they appeared protective. I can’t tell you why I felt an undercurrent of something not quite right, but I did, and I would soon discover the answer.

  We left a few minutes later to join Edna at her apartment across town for dinner, after which, it being two in the morning, we three piled into a cab and returned downtown to our respective apartments.

  I have recently moved into the Algonquin Hotel, on West 44th Street. Not only are my rooms convenient—I can roll out of bed around noon and simply take the elevator down to the lobby and stroll a couple of yards into the Rose Room for one o’clock luncheon with my friends. Better yet, if I’ve imbibed a bit too much, I can retreat back to my room on the aforementioned lift. I have room service, which is convenient, occasional dog-walking services, and the management doesn’t press too hard for my rent when I am short of cash, which is often. In spite of my various demands, they are thrilled to have me, a celebrity, in their midst.

  In truth, the reason for my move from uptown was not really for the Gonk’s convenient location, but because my husband of seven years and I have parted ways. To best alleviate my sadness, I sought new surroundings.

  When Eddie had returned from the War in Europe he was a changed man, and because of his war wounds, both emotional and physical, he found great solace in morphine and alcohol. He gave up his position at Paine Webber and returned home to the family manse in Hartford, Connecticut, and to the bosom of his family. We each had, in our own ways, tried to make our marriage work, but the demands of my career and his disinterest in his own future fractured our union. He wanted to leave New York, which he compared, unkindly, to Gomorrah, and I knew, deep in my heart, it was really for the best that we part ways. No rancor; we parted friends, and there is no reason to divorce as neither one of us has plans to wed anyone else. I needed to make a new start, and the rooms at the Algonquin suit me very well. Nothing fancy; I have never coveted possessions. All I’ve ever needed were three or four well-cut suits, my typewriter, Woodrow Wilson, and “a place to lay my hat and a few friends.”

  When I arrived home at 2:15 A.M., I stopped at the front desk to ask for an eight o’clock wake-up call, and then took Woodrow Wilson out for a quick pee. I was settled under the covers and just falling off to sleep when I was shaken from imminent slumber by the oddest thought, one so unexpected that I bolted upright and turned on the light. I had come to the realization that Reginald Pierce did not die from choking on a cherry tomato. He was murdered!

  The King and Queen of Broadway—the Lunts.

  Times Tower overlooking the Square

&n
bsp; The Algonquin—

  Where I live and lunch.

  Worth Gowns—

  Tallulah and I admired the one on the right in Bergdorf’s window.

  Two girls and a Man—

  A couple of swells between acts.

  Ziegfeld Follies—

  Billy Burke, Flo Ziegfeld’s wife, didn’t like the review I wrote of her performance. She got me fired from Vanity Fair.

  The Reginald Pierce Theatre—

  You can see Reggie’s pied-à-terre, the bank of windows on the left behind whose curtains Mr. Benchley and I spent many hours.

  Mary Astor—

  Marion is the spitting image of Mary Astor, but blonde.

  Chapter Two

  Wearing a black wool suit, pink shirt, and satin-bowed patent-leather pumps, I put the final touches on my dressing. I fastened a brooch at the neck of my shirt, engulfed myself in a cloud of Coty’s Chypre, arranged my hair under my hat, and chose gloves, purse, and scarf, all while thoughts of murder raced through my head.

  I hadn’t slept since the light-bulb moment of the night before, and spent the remainder of the night tossing about in my bed while considering all the implications of RIP’s death. His murder. Because that is how he died—I had no doubt. Someone deliberately killed Reginald Pierce.

  While I tossed about I thrashed around all the possible suspects. After an hour of trying to sort it out, I realized I was only getting more and more confused. As his personality and success had bred the animosity of so many people, it would be impossible to point a finger at any one individual, at least not until I knew more about the complex relationships of his life.

  So I threw off the covers, grabbed a pencil and notebook, and began making lists: (1) Who hated RIP? (2) Who stood to gain by his death? (3) Were any of the individuals in columns 1 and 2 capable (in my opinion) of committing murder? There were many people who stood to gain by his death, but as I was ignorant of the dynamics of their dealings with Reggie, I was running blind. But for now I could stand by my belief that Reginald Pierce was murdered. For whatever reason, I might never know, but murdered he was.

  Mr. Benchley rang from the lobby to let me know that Aleck was outside waiting in a cab. We were all going to the funeral this morning. Mr. Benchley had rooms across the street at the Hotel Royalton, an exclusively male residence of the old bachelor style of the previous century. He’d taken the rooms in the city during the run of his Broadway show, as commuting home to Tipperary each evening at midnight after the final curtain proved difficult and began affecting his health. So, in Manhattan during the weekdays, he returns home by train to the hinterlands on weekends to be with Gertrude and the children. As for the big man, Aleck lives just a few blocks away, close to the offices of the New York Times and the Algonquin’s dining room, where he holds court.

  I whispered comforting words to Woodrow Wilson, whom I would be leaving at home, and he made that pathetic, forlorn doggie face that was intended to spread enough guilt throughout my day that I’d be loath to leave him behind ever again.

  In the cab I dropped my bombshell.

  Aleck ejaculated, “I knew it! The irony of RIP just popping-off so benignly tested credulity! Reggie was a man of The Theatre, after all.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I said, a little annoyed at his upbeat response. I had to stop myself from lashing out at Aleck. I was one of the few people who felt saddened by Reggie’s death. I looked at Aleck, who was in turn looking at me with expectation. And I realized that it wasn’t joy at Reggie’s passing that Aleck had expressed, but more a vindication that a man he respected (if he hadn’t liked him particularly) hadn't passed from this earth undramatically. A skewed point of view, perhaps, but in the Theatre an actor always tries to make a memorable exit from the stage. “Oh, I see,” I said. “Where’s the drama in gagging and dropping dead via cherry tomato?”

  Mr. Benchley was quietly taking in our conversation, while looking out the cab window at the passing parade of traffic, as we rode uptown to the service.

  “And how did you arrive at what should have been obvious to all of us?”

  “Aleck,” I began, saying his name sternly as cue that what I was about to say was serious. “Do you remember when we were at the opening-night party for one of Reggie’s shows a couple seasons back? You were with me. It was the one that Myra Sandstone debuted in—Reckless Love?”

  “Henry Thompson play, marvelous theatre! Yes, I remember. I wrote my review in record time, praising play and cast. Then I went off to join the party. I recall RIP’s expression when I entered through the doors, applause filled the air—”

  “Well, yes, all right; they were happy to see you,” I said, a bit impatiently, because Aleck does have a tendency to elaborate freely his recollections of self-aggrandizement. “Do you remember a story that was told that night? It was about Reggie, as told by Myrtle. You were sitting right there, at the table with us, picking from a bowl of strawberries.”

  “Strawberries?” An eyebrow shot up, making one eye look bigger than the other behind his thick glasses. “One or two, only, surely. You know I’m allergic to strawberries, Dottie.”

  “Yes, of course you are, and although they are marvelous with champagne, which we happened to be drinking at the time, I asked the waiter to remove the bowl and bring back some grapes, or whatever else was to be had.”

  “Terrible hives! Since I was a little boy I—”

  “Yes, yes, of course you cannot eat more than one or two—”

  “Just a taste doesn’t hurt, but I think I’ve become more sensitive—”

  “—and that is my point. I move now from strawberries to tomatoes.”

  “Not so good with champagne.”

  “The point, my dear, idiot Aleck, is that, as we sat at the table that night, allergies became the subject of discussion. A rather pedestrian topic for a festive celebration, rather like displaying for amusement’s sake one another’s surgical scars, but discussed, nonetheless. And amazingly, I did not snooze through the chatter because it was a story that involved a doggie, my most favorite of creatures on earth, next to you two dears, of course,” I assured them.

  “Myrtle told us about it, and I remember the tale vividly for another reason, for practical purposes, should my dear Woodrow Wilson ever run into a skunk while chasing squirrels in Central Park: tomato juice!”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you are getting at, Dottie.”

  “Reginald and Myrtle gave their sons puppies as gifts. The dogs were of a herding breed, and chased anything that passed their way, or popped its unfortunate head out of the ground: automobiles, squirrels, rabbits, and skunks!”

  “Sweet,” said Aleck, smiling. “Country living is—”

  “Not so sweet, Aleck; rather a nasty stink, I should say.”

  “Ahhh, yes, skunks . . .”

  “Well, the tonic, the cure, the magic formula to eliminate the smell, once a dog has been sprayed, is a bath of tomato juice, a fact that I filed away for possible future use, knowing Woodrow Wilson’s propensity for chasing Central Park wildlife. Well, one day, you see, Reginald was caught between the dog and a skunk, and it was necessary for him to experience the delights of a sponge bath of tomato juice.”

  “He broke out in hives!”

  “You remember! But no one realized it was anything more than skin irritation caused by the assault of the skunk juice and the acidity of the tomato juice combined.

  “It was later in the summer at their Long Island estate, when the tomatoes were ripe on the vine, Myrtle told us, and Reggie, having salted and bitten into the first fruit to be picked, a great big juicy one, had a distinct and brutal reaction to the fruit, and had to be rushed to the hospital. So, I know he was murdered because Myrtle said that the doctor warned that the next time he ate anything made with tomatoes he might not survive the allergic reaction.”

  Our cab was nearing the synagogue where the funeral service was to be held, when I looked across at Mr. Benchley. �
�You are very quiet, very unlike the Fred I know.” (I often call him “Fred,” usually after a few too many, or when he is, or I am, in a blue mood. His name is Robert, Bob to the rest of the world, but almost always do we call each other by our surnames, as when we worked in the offices of Vanity Fair, and where our boss, Frank Crowninshield, first introduced us to each other: “Mrs. Parker, meet Mr. Benchley.” That silly and deliberate formality stuck, a joke, you see. But I sometimes choose to call him “Fred,” a name so comforting and secure in its homely, friendly sound.)

  “The other night, when we were at RIP’s apartment, we thought Confucius and the Mistress Marion were stealing valuables, but they weren’t really. They would have taken a few of the paintings, or the little Degas statuette, or the Ming vase, if they had been thieving.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right . . . . They were removing evidence, perhaps?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Of course, it could be they knew where the really valuable coins were, or diamonds, perhaps that sort of thing.”

  “Well, we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

  “We?” asked Aleck, paying our taxi fare.

  “But, we can’t just go and tell the police, don’t you see?”

  “Of course we can; if Myrtle hasn’t already told them of his allergy by now, I’d be surprised.”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s obvious she hasn’t told the police or it would be common knowledge by now that he was murdered.”

  “Enough people know he had a tomato allergy,” said Mr. Benchley. “It’s not a secret, really.”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “People know he was allergic, and for some reason, for fear of being suspected, or fear of being picked-off by the murderer for having suspicions, people in the know are pretending they don’t know.”