“Bob left to run across the street to dress. He’ll meet us downstairs in ten minutes,” said Aleck, relaxing on the sofa, having poured himself a whiskey. “So tell me about your evening.”
I filled him in on all we’d been up to since we parted after drinks at Tony Soma’s. He frowned when I told him about our breaking into Lucille’s apartment, gasped when I mentioned the sinister telephone call, and clenched fist to mouth when I talked about the arrival of the cops. Although his reactions were words enough, he reserved comment until I finished telling him about our lack of discoveries.
“I don’t like it,” was all he had to say, and knowing the normal loquaciousness of my friend, I knew he was serious.
“Neither do I, Aleck.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t like that you are taking such chances. You and Bob could have been arrested!”
“Then we’d’ve been mentioned in FPA’s column tomorrow after you bailed us out,” I said, making light of the situation, while checking my evening bag for essentials—lipstick, pressed-powder compact, eyeglasses, handkerchief, cash. I filled Woodrow Wilson’s water bowl and then waited as Aleck donned his cape.
At the door he touched my shoulder and said, “I worry about you, dear Dottie. There is a murderer out there. I fear what might happen should you get in his way.”
I was touched, really, by his genuine concern. We are good friends, but it is rare that a display of affection from Aleck arrives unaccompanied by insult. I kissed his cheek, and so I wouldn’t cry, as I am easily melted to tears by sentimental gestures—the appeal of doggie eyes, road-weary hack horses, and kind words—I changed the subject by asking what he enjoyed most about the show he’d seen earlier.
The Waldorf is a grand hotel, boasting several ballrooms, marvelous dining, and a first-class nightclub and orchestra, and is the midtown home of many famous visitors and residents. I adore walking into its spectacular lobby.
The opening-night party was in full swing when we arrived, and a glass of champagne was placed in my hand before I had barely crossed the threshold of the ballroom.
We three remained near the entrance as we perused the crowd. It was what usually is done. Not only can we be seen to best advantage, we can take in the entire room and determine whom to avoid and whom to approach. Mr. Benchley and I let Aleck take the lead tonight, and once he spotted her, he walked straight over to Fanny Brice.
Unfortunately, Ralph Chittenham was extolling the various virtues of Grace Moore’s performance and her glorious operatic voice just a few feet from where we stood. His loud baritone carried the distance.
“. . . While I was in Boston last Thursday, I caught a marvelous production of a little play entitled Grounds for Divorce, with Ina Claire and Philip Merivale. Ina and Phil gave delightful performances.”
“I’ve heard wonderful things about the play. Ina and I go way back, and I wish I could see the play when it comes to town, but that’s not likely with our performing on the same nights and matinee days,” said Grace.
“It’s a pity. But, then, she won’t get to see your terrific numbers in the Revue, either.”
Ralph spotted us. “Hello, you two!” he called out.
I nodded and smiled at the critic, greeted Grace with a hug and complimented her gown, told her I would be around soon to catch her show, even though I wasn’t assigned to reviewing it for Ainslee or The Smart Set.
Mr. Benchley greeted Grace, with whom he had starred in last season’s revue, with an embrace and kiss. Ever cordial and charming, he asked after her health, gently gossiped about mutual friends, and then fell into conversation about the vast number of laryngitis cases plaguing actors this past fall. Ralph Chittenham and Mr. Benchley enjoyed a friendly relationship. But then, Mr. Benchley was a much more tolerant person than I.
After Grace moved on to greet new arrivals, I lingered a while, observing the lovely assemblage of Theatre folk, as the two men swapped pleasantries and harmless gossip, before excusing myself to go “powder my nose.” I had no intention of powdering anything, actually; I just wanted to get some distance from Chittenham before he tried to engage me, too, in conversation. I took the opportunity to congratulate my friend Irving Berlin, and to share in a toast to the long run of his new hit show.
Light reflecting from impressive chandeliers flashed on sequins, drawing my eye, in particular, to a stunning gown worn by a familiar blonde. The Mary Astor look-a-like walked through the columned arch leading to the ladies’ lounge. It was not the surprise of seeing Marion at the party that prompted me to follow her; it was the man who made fast tracks after her that drew my curiosity.
I squeezed around a clot of celebrants to the archway, where I found partial cover beside a palm. I hoped that no one would approach me while I peeked through the fronds. The ridiculousness of my concealment brought to mind scenes from Oscar Wilde plays, and the realization that everything I had done today held a fancy of intrigue.
There stood RIP’s mistress, Marion Fields, in huddled debate with Wilfred Harrison. I couldn’t do anything other than listen to their conversation, as Marion’s eyes were flitting about in search of eavesdroppers. She spotted me and our eyes locked. She touched Wilfred’s arm, and nodded in my direction.
There was only one thing for me to do, so rather than sheepishly retreat, I decided to draw full attention to myself, pretending to use the cover of the palm to re-fasten a wayward stocking. Rising up, I walked toward them as if on my way to the ladies’ lounge.
As I had never officially met Mistress Marion, all I could do was smile and nod in passing. I did know Wilfred, and even though he made sure his back was to me, I stopped short a few steps after passing, turned on my heel, and said, “Wilfred Harrison? Is that you?”
The handsome face that turned toward me blanched before a rosy flush colored his features.
“Oh, Wilfred,” I drawled, making a show of how delighted I was to see him again. “Fancy meeting you here, of all places! I suppose you are slumming it this evening?”
I touched his arm, batted my lashes in blatant flirtation, and although I knew that I sounded like an ass, I wanted to see Marion’s reaction.
“Hello, Dorothy, nice to see you again,” he said politely, but noncommittally. It was obvious he was anything but glad, and I wanted to know why.
As he did not introduce me to Marion, I became suspicious of his bad manners. I wouldn’t let it lie.
I stuck out my hand and said, “Hello, I’m Dottie Parker, marvelous party tonight.”
She met my handshake, “Marion Fields, Mrs. Parker.”
“Call me Dottie.” I looked up at the six-foot-tall Wilfred, waiting for him to offer something to the conversation, but the tongue-tied dullard only produced a tepid, “Yes, that’s grand.”
I wasn’t going to let either of them off so easily. “Lots of very interesting people here tonight, Marion; Theatre folk are lots more fun than we writer types, you know. I suppose Wilfred has introduced you to some of them?”
Wilfred dove in awkwardly. “Actually, I have only just now met Miss Fields. She dropped her purse in passing and I was helping her retrieve a lost lipstick that rolled under the table there.”
“Oh, well that explains it.” Now, to really put them on the spot, I said, “Forgive me, but it looked like you were avoiding me.”
He turned green.
“My silly paranoia, really, pay me no mind.”
Then, before he could say a word, I said, “You look awfully familiar, you know. Do you waitress at Schrafft’s?”
“Marion is an actress, and she has friends in the show. She was in the chorus of last’s year’s Music Box Revue.”
“My, you can learn a lot about a person while retrieving a lipstick,” I said, and added in my pathetic little singing voice before either could reply, “‘Yes, we have no bananas; we have no bananas today!’ Nifty little tune. Stays with you, you know—humming it around town all day, can’t seem to sleep because it’s rolling around your
head at three in the morning . . .” I was referring to Irving Berlin’s hit song from the 1923 Music Box Revue in which Marion was in the chorus. “But, it’s not from the show that I know you, is it? But from where?”
“I’ve been around—”
“I’ll bet you have,” I said, burying my words into the bubbles of my champagne.
“I was saying that I’ve been around many of the same places you frequent, Mrs. Parker.”
“Call me ‘Dottie,’ dear.”
“I used to work for Reginald Pierce. I was his assistant.”
Vanity revealed!
“Really, now! Why, I was just—” (I hoped to appear appropriately flustered) “Why, I didn’t see you at the wake or funeral or the reading of the will, so you must have been so devastated by his murder that you—”
“Murder!” she yelped. She looked genuinely shocked, or she was one damn hell of a good actress, for I glimpsed a feral flash of fear rush over her features. “I thought he choked on a cherry tomato?”
I knew in that instant that she could not possibly have had anything to do with Reggie’s death. But, why were she and Wilfred pretending they hadn’t met until a few minutes ago? If she had been RIP’s assistant, even if her duties were to turn down his bed covers and warm his sheets, she surely would have known Reggie’s attorney. These two were guilty of something, that was for sure. But, they were not going to share their secret with me no matter how much further I pushed on with boorish taunts.
“Well, then, as this gentleman hasn’t had the chance to tell you yet—as you two have just become acquainted—Mr. Harrison, here, is the executor for Reginald’s estate. Small world, ain’t it? Well, must be off—so nice to have made your acquaintance, Marion.” And with that, I continued on to the ladies’ lounge.
I caught up with a very jocular Aleck, sitting at another “round table” with a group of his fans including Fanny, Grace, Irving, and FPA. I stood beside his chair, after having waved the gentlemen to remain seated.
Aleck had before him the three key ingredients of his newest heavenly confection. He poured a pint of cream into a shaker of ice, added to it eight ounces of an excellent Napoleon cognac, and then an equal portion of crème de cacao to the mix. Gently, he stirred, fixed the strainer, and poured the elixir through and into glasses for everyone at the table to taste. There was quite a bit of moaning and humming, a lip smack and a comment from FPA that he really wasn’t into mixed drinks; liked his rye straight up. But, Aleck’s drink, “let’s call it the ‘Brandy Alexander,’ ” was certainly a cut above his nightly hot cocoa.
“Well, all you crazy kids,” said Aleck, after finishing off his drink and pushing back his chair, “I came to this dance with Mrs. Parker, so I must see her home.”
We found Mr. Benchley, who was more than eager to leave, and we wove our way to the hatcheck, through the lobby, and out into the night. A light drizzle had dampened the streets to a glossy sheen; city lights rippled over the mirror-slick surfaces. We waited under the canopy as the doorman hailed us a cab.
Once settled in, and as Aleck was instructing the driver of our destination, I saw Ralph Chittenham walk out of the hotel and into his limousine. The chauffeur, in full livery, closed the door after him and was walking around to his driver’s side door when the streetlight washed over his face.
“That’s him!”
“What are you babbling about, idiot child?” said Aleck with feigned impatience.
“The Chinaman!” I spat out. Both men looked in the direction of my pointed finger. All they saw was a car door closing.
“The little Oriental I saw at RIP’s apartment that night fishing around in the desk, Reggie’s houseboy. He’s chauffeuring Ralph Chittenham.”
“He made fast work of getting a new job, didn’t he?” said Mr. Benchley.
“But, people are looking for him.”
“What people?” asked Aleck.
“The police wanted to question him. He may have been the last person to see Reggie alive.”
“Then someone should let the police know where to find him,’ said Aleck.
“Not someone. Not yet, at least. I want to talk to him first.”
“Hold onto your deerstalker, Sherlock,” yelled Aleck, taking my hand. He turned to Mr. Benchley. “Bob, this is getting serious and potentially dangerous.”
“Yes, Aleck, but I don’t think that we’re in any real danger. First of all, we’ve never been taken seriously by anyone before; we’re known as frivolous wits; our banter is louder than our bite, and secondly,” he turned his attention to the street, as if searching the pavement for words as the cab whizzed along the avenue, “. . . well, there is no secondly that I can think of at the moment.”
“Well said,” said I.
Broadway & 42nd Street—
Looking west toward the Hudson River. The street is lined with theatres.
Coat Advertisement—
Gorgeous but pricey furs at Stewart & Company.
John Barrymore—
That’s our friend, Johnny, frightening his audience and delighting the critics as Richard III.
Chapter Four
Ten minutes later, we three sat down to a late meal at a little Hungarian restaurant on 50th Street, whose owner was not averse to serving supper at two in the morning. It was our first chance to discuss the events of the evening.
I have never known anyone who enjoys food more than Alexander Woollcott. Each meal is like a ritual, and to watch Aleck dine is not unlike watching a priest performing transubstantiation during Holy Mass: Cloths are unfolded and used to wipe the silverware and then the wine and water glasses, before being refolded and placed to the left of the plate. When the waiter arrives with the rolls, a new napkin is brought before the gourmand, and with a flick of the wrist, like the snapping of a courtesan’s fan, it is placed on his lap. Water is poured, the appetizer and drinks (the first of many beverages) are ordered. The captain and waiter move about like altar boys, and know precisely when to genuflect and retreat.
Aleck reaches for his first roll. If it is cold to the touch, he bids the waiter to warm them. If they are warm, he nods to the man, as a priest to his deacon, and then he gently tears it into several pieces, as he might break the wafer host. He blesses a morsel with butter, always sweet, never salted. With solemnity, his eyelids fluttering shut behind the thick glasses, the first morsel is placed upon his tongue, in silent thanksgiving. All in all, breaking bread with Aleck is a religious experience.
It is not unusual to see set before him several main courses, and at meal’s end nary a crumb left on four or five dessert plates. Throughout, there is the constant flow of mixed drinks, bottles of wine, and cup after cup of coffee. Aleck did not achieve his great weight of nearly three hundred pounds by skimping on the Hollandaise or refusing the third piece of cheesecake.
When he isn’t enjoying the excellent fare of the dining room at the Algonquin, he prefers the dining room at the Kaufman apartment. Bea Kaufman, George’s wife, is the most proficient of cooks, and for Aleck, an invitation to dinner is always a standing one. Bea never cuts corners on flavor and texture, so the cream and butter and sauces flow heavily, and so do the beverages, for the household is supplied by a most reputable bootlegger. As she and Aleck have padded up, George, miraculously, remains reed thin.
This night, or should I say, this morning, Aleck’s final meal of the day was a light one—just goulash, spätzle, beets, half a loaf of black bread, and a Linzer torte for dessert.
“We haven’t gotten the coroner’s report, Dottie, so we can’t be certain,” he said as he dunked a well-buttered piece of bread into the Hungarian stew.
“Oh, he was murdered, all right.”
“It does seem likely, Aleck,” said Mr. Benchley. “There are so many people with motive; it would be unlikely if Reginald’s death was not a murder, statistically speaking, that is.”
“What the hell does that mean?” said Aleck. He stopped chewing, swallowed, and squinted through h
is frames at Mr. Benchley. His moustache twitched. “Do you think that what you just said makes sense?”
“Statistically, yes,” twitched back Mr. Benchley’s neat fringe.
“You’re bonko, boyo Bob!” said Aleck, his eyes growing huge behind the eyeglasses.
“Well, it is two in the morning, Aleck, and—oh hell! I stand by my numbers!”
“Don’t listen to him, Fred,” I said. “You’ve got a very good point there, whatever it is, and no matter the hour!”
Aleck pointed his fork and wagged it like a finger at me and then at Fred. “You realize, don’t you, you two congenital idiots, that you’ve taken evidence from what may have been the scene of a crime?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Lucille’s apartment! Pearls, papers, all the stuff—”
“We’ll put everything back,” I said, knowing Aleck was right, but still feeling on the defensive.
“That’s not the point, you naughty girl. So which one of you two dolts is the troublemaker, and which of you is along for the ride?”
Mr. Benchley and I simultaneously pointed at each other.
“Tsk, tsk! What am I to do with you children!” said Aleck, shaking his head, his jowls following the lead.
“You know, Aleck,” said Mr. Benchley, the model of sudden sobriety, “You’d make someone a very good wife.”
Aleck guffawed, nearly sending a mouthful of potato to his lap. He did have a sense of humor, even if at times, though rarely, he was the brunt of the joke. He hated being around dull people, and respected a fast and clever barb. Many friends have affectionately tried to describe Alexander Woollcott, the man most responsible for setting the witty tone of astringent and outrageous humor for our generation. In some respects he is an aberration. He possesses equal parts of the feminine and the masculine aspects of human nature, and often, depending on his mood, vacillates between the two. It is because of his blatant effeminacy, his flowery, exuberant praise for the theatrical achievements of an actor or playwright, or his deliberate and bloodthirsty disembowelment of one he wishes banned from the stage, that he has been dubbed “vitriol and old lace.”
[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders Page 7
