[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders

by Agata Stanford

  “Tell me, Aleck. Have the police released to the press the real cause of death as yet?”

  “No. I’ve sworn to Joe that I’d keep it quiet, in order not to alert the murderer.”

  “All right. Then we won’t talk about what we know during dinner. There’s a room full of reporters in there!” I turned to Mr. Benchley. “What’s your afternoon look like?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  One of the most difficult things for a newspaperman to do is to sit on one of the biggest stories of the year, while pretending his bottom rests on nothing lumpier than the cushion of a chair. Knowing all the while that the room would clear in seconds should the truth be revealed to the greatest gathering of newspapermen in the city, I watched nervously as Aleck’s eyes literally burned with frustration from the urge to impart the explosive news. His cheeks were flushed, and he actually left food on his dinner plate. Watching him tap his fork on his bread plate to the rhythm of “Ain’t We Got Fun?” (that trite and altogether detestable ditty that has swept across the country like an unstoppable wave of influenza) led Harold Ross to ask if Aleck was feeling ill; there was that “thing” going around and people were getting sick. Ross is a paranoid hypochondriac; he sees germs in everything, and if people weren’t out to get him, germs certainly were. Aleck called Ross a “fawn’s behind” and told him to pass the salt.

  Mr. Benchley easily managed to set the hot newsflash aside while he lunched and talked about his friend Grace Moore and the opening of the new Music Box Revue in which she stars.

  As for me, I supplied FPA with no clever remarks for his column, and I became so antsy that Ross turned toward me to ask if I was not feeling well.

  “Oh, for cryin’outloud, Ross, nobody’s sick except you!” Aleck screeched. As Ross was often the brunt of Aleck’s jokes, there seemed to be nothing unusual about Aleck’s outburst. It may have been the first time in our history that I was glad to leave my friends behind in the dining room.

  I took Woodrow Wilson out for a stroll, and Mr. Benchley met me by the elevator upon our return. Up in my rooms, we went over my notes, checking off or scratching out items. We started a new page to guide us toward a solution of the case.

  “We have a shit-load of things to do, Fred,” I said, handing him the notebook and pencil. “I suppose we have to return the items we took from Lucille’s apartment?”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “I guess we have to return them.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m not, really,” I said, removing the lid of the wardrobe box and taking out the scrapbook. “I feel like there’s something here, some clue we’re just not seeing yet.”

  “Well, a day or two won’t make any difference now. We’ve already obstructed justice and sullied evidence.”

  “We agree, then; a few more days.”

  “I didn’t say that, but what’s done is done.”

  “Yes, what’s done is done,” I said, taking the box back to my bedroom. “We have to go back to Reggie’s flat to get the gun.”

  “Let’s not steal anything else, especially not what may very well be the murder weapon that was used to kill Lucille.”

  “Wiping off my fingerprints might be a good idea, though.”

  “I see your point, my dear.”

  “I was thinking that we can get into the flat with the excuse of wanting to speak with Reggie’s maid. Her name is Mrs. Kramer. While you talk to her in the kitchen, and ask her about the morning she found Reggie, I’ll sneak into the library and get the gun.”

  “Let’s be clear, Mrs. Parker—”

  “Yes, yes, all right. I’ll just wipe off my fingerprints, you old fuddy-duddy.”

  I sat down beside Mr. Benchley on the sofa. “There were lots of unanswered questions in the police report.”

  We made a list of questions to ask Mrs. Kramer, and then turned our attention to the next part of our investigation: the Chinese houseboy.

  “A visit to Ralph Chittenham is in order,” stated Mr. Benchley. “He’s got some explaining to do. I think we should stop in and see the old sport, first.”

  “And what about Wilfred Harrison?”

  “What about him?” asked Mr. Benchley, a slightly perplexed look raising his brow.

  “He figures in this somewhere.”

  “How so?”

  “His tête-à-tête with RIP’s Mistress Marion last night.”

  “You’re just miffed that he hasn’t fallen for your charms, Mrs. Parker.”

  “Awww, phooey!”

  A few minutes later, after refreshing Woodrow Wilson’s water bowl, we were off on our afternoon of investigation.

  My Edith Sitwell pose when I aspired, a few years back.

  Robert Benchley —

  Boulevardier, bon vivant, best friend.

  Alexander Woollcott —

  Better known than Calvin Coolidge.

  Chapter Five

  I never really gave much thought to why I didn’t like Ralph Chittenham. Like me and my friends, he is a drama critic for a major New York newspaper. It’s not just a matter of taste that separates us; we often agree on the worthiness of productions. But, when I feel that crap has been foisted on an unsuspecting public, or that there is dishonesty in the writing or the acting of a play, or that the production qualities fall short, I do not resort to euphemisms or pleasantries. I resort to my mightier-than-the-sword pen and my rapier-sharp wit to cut away at the offending malignancy. The truth is I love the Theatre. I can’t wait to go to the Theatre. Every time an orchestra tunes up and the houselights lower, and the lush velvet curtain lifts to reveal a world created from the imagination, I feel a great rush of excitement. More often than not, I am disappointed, but I always return, forgetting the past disappointments, looking forward to the next play, and the possibility of a transcending experience that is to be had only in the Theatre.

  I suppose I think Ralph Chittenham is smarmy. In trying not to offend, he becomes suspect, for one wonders why so powerful a critic feels he must pussyfoot along the catwalk between truth and mendacity. Where I choose to toss the stick of dynamite to the stage below, he chooses to dribble confetti over the mess.

  Now that I think about it, his milquetoast approach to an art form that I am passionate about makes me angry, and for that reason alone, I do not respect him.

  Is he a bad man? No. I have no reason to believe him bad. He is liked by most people, I suppose, as he’s never offended anyone by his critiques. I should think him a sympathetic soul. His wife died several years ago. I’ve never heard him actually indulge in mean gossip, and, well, I hate to say it, he spends his money on charitable good works and I spend mine at Bonwit’s.

  I should be ashamed of myself.

  “You know, Fred,” I said, after we paid the taxi driver and walked toward the courtyard entrance of the Dakota, the luxurious sprawling apartment building on the corner of Central Park West and 72nd Street, “I may have been unfair.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “About Chitty; I haven’t always spoken kindly of him.”

  “You haven’t always spoken kindly of anyone.”

  “Low blow, Mr. Benchley. I’ve always spoken kindly of you.”

  “My dear, why wouldn’t you always speak well of me? I am the ideal gentleman, a good and faithful friend, morally beyond reproach—”

  “I have been known to turn, Mr. Benchley.”

  “I stand warned, then. But, my dear, talk about being unfair to Ralph Chittenham? Why, it’d be unfair to single him out for compassionate treatment.”

  “You do think me pathologically bitchy?”

  “To change the subject before I get hurt, how many people do we know who live in this building?”

  I rattled off a list of friends, acquaintances, and people of note, ending with Myrtle Price Pierce and Ralph Chittenham.

  “Interesting coincidence, Mrs. Parker.”

  We were announced to the concierge by the uniformed gat
ekeeper at the front gate kiosk, and then taken up on the lift to the fourth-floor apartment of Ralph Chittenham. I was quiet as the operator, an elderly woman draped in old-fashioned black bombazine fabric, in disuse since the last century, took us up to his floor. I was lost in thought, reflecting on my occasional cutting remarks. All right, more than occasional.

  Was I a spitting fire-dragon lady? Wasn’t I just being honest in expressing what I’d observed in other people? I was paid for my opinions. People, my readership, eagerly looked forward to my reviews. They liked my stories, too, because I exposed the interior living truth of my characters. I cut to the bone and showed the less salubrious motivations that spring from the human heart and the underlying ambivalence behind the smiles we wear like cloaks to cover our nakedness.

  It occurred to me that the people who were eager to know what I had to say about this, that, or the other were voyeurs, reveling in watching the bloodletting. Romans enjoying an afternoon of blood sport at the Coliseum. I resolved to be nicer. Scratch that: “nice” is too insipid. “Embracing,” that’s what I’d be. I’d be embracing. I’d start with Ralph.

  And when he came into the drawing room to greet us, after we had been admitted by the very Chinaman we had come to inquire about, I decided that I would try to embrace Ralph spiritually, as I could not bring myself to do so physically. It must have been the bad mustache.

  His wide-eyed surprise at our unannounced visit melted into an expression of delight. “Bob, Dorothy, this is great that you’ve stopped by! Maxwell, take Mrs. Parker’s coat.”

  The perfect host, he motioned us to chairs, and then made for the bar. “What can I pour you? My bootlegger, Joe Morley, just brought me an eighteen-year-old single malt this morning—or would you prefer coffee or tea?”

  “We’ve had lunch, Chitty, dear. Straight up would be lovely.”

  “Ditto, like Dottie,” nodded Mr. Benchley.

  “Nice digs you’ve got here, Chitty. How many rooms?”

  “Ten, plus servants’ quarters.”

  “Nice view of the park, too,” I said, ambling over to the beautifully draped windows to take in the lush landscape of yellow and orange treetops laced with the crisscrossing geometry of roads, paths, and bridges.

  “That’s why I wanted this place, Dorothy,” he replied, crossing to me and handing me the drink. “I grew up in the country, you know, and I sometimes miss the trees and the birds. I have a little of it here, right out my window.”

  “I grew up in this neighborhood. I know every inch of Central Park.”

  Mr. Benchley piped in, “I grew up in Worcester, Mass; we had parks there, if I recall. I bought a house for Gertrude and the children in Scarsdale, which is one big park.”

  My withering look conveyed my annoyance: Mr. Benchley twitched his impeccably groomed moustache and sat back in his chair. Ralph handed him his scotch, and my friend was restored to sanity.

  “I had a friend in school who lived on the floor below,” I said, “and isn’t the Pierce’s apartment . . . ?”

  “Next to mine,” said Ralph.

  “Is it really?” asked Mr. Benchley.

  “It’s accessed by the west elevator,” said Ralph. “Another?”

  “Yes, please; fine, very fine scotch,” said Mr. Benchley.

  Had he forgotten why we’d come to see Ralph? What was he doing? We had places to go, people to see, and drinking away the afternoon was not part of the plan.

  “Do you mean that even though you’re on the same floor you can’t shuttle through to each others’ apartment by a common hallway? You have to go down the elevator and up again?”

  It was as if he didn’t hear my question, for he shouted for his servant to bring out a tray of cheese.

  “The young fellow who answered your door—he was Reginald’s houseboy, I believe,” commented my dear Fred, who, I am so relieved, and a little bit ashamed, to admit, was not half the idiot I had been imagining him to be.

  “Maxwell. Yes, he once worked for the Pierces.”

  “The police have been looking for him. They want to talk to him about Reggie.”

  “Why?”

  “Mrs. Parker, have you any idea why?”

  “I believe, Mr. Benchley, that . . . Maxwell, is it? Maxwell may have been the last person to have seen Reggie alive.”

  “Why should that concern the police?”

  “Tie up loose ends?” I said.

  “Maxwell!” called out Ralph, and in a moment the servant appeared, cheese board held in white gloved hands, his head bowed in subservience as he awaited instructions. “The police want to talk to you.”

  He looked up and smiled. “Do they, really, Sir? Why ever would they wish to speak with me?” He turned to face Mr. Benchley and said, “I’ll try to answer your questions as best I can.”

  Ralph laughed. “No, Maxwell, this is Bob Benchley. Mr. Benchley is not a policeman.” He chuckled, and then, after considering, said, “In a way he is a policeman, though; he is a theatre critic, a policeman of the artistic sort, isn’t that what we all do, now?” He chuckled, and Mr. Benchley smiled and nodded agreement. “No, Maxwell, you’ll have to go to the police station.”

  “Very well, Sir.”

  The cultured voice coming from the slight figure was unexpected, and completely belied his demeanor: upper class, British public school, Oxford or Cambridge?

  “Tie up loose ends, I’m told,” said Ralph. “Whatever that means. But, you see, you may have been the last person to see Mr. Pierce before he died.”

  “Very well, Sir, I shall go to the station and speak with someone in charge,” the servant replied. “Is there anything else, Sir?”

  “No, Maxwell, take the rest of the afternoon off, so that you can do that.”

  Was I surprised! For the third time today, I felt ashamed of myself, and as it was only a little after three o’clock, it did not bode well for the remainder of the day. I was guilty of believing that because this young Asian possessed the deportment and refinement of a gentleman, he was superior to the poor, lowly Chinese coolie I had first thought him to be!

  I have to admit, I am as race conscious as most people. Being Jewish—actually, I am half-Jewish (and to some people, half-Jew is better than all-Jew)—I am no less reactive, or more race tolerant, than the next white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. So I was instantly slapped aware of my unfortunate assumption that a Chinaman in servant’s attire did not necessarily have to be named ‘Sing Lee,’ work in a Chinese laundry, drop articles when speaking English, or substitute the letter L for the letter R.

  I should know better, is what I mean. I was born a Rothschild—but I must let it be known that I was not born into the famous blue-blooded Rothschilds; there was no great inherited fortune, only one, long gone, made by my hardworking father manufacturing coats in his sweatshop. I was educated by the Catholic nuns of the Blessed Sacrament Academy, where they never ceased talking about Jesus. As a descendant of what I euphemistically like to call “the folk of mud and flame,” I burned when my stepmother would ask me, “Did you love Jesus, today?” I felt her Christian displeasure and her smug sense of superiority. I vowed never to view any human being as less than worthy of respect because of race or religion.

  Always made to feel outside the circle of God’s light (more like a lost soul destined to travel Dante’s circles of hell), I am loath to admit that I was happy to lose my Jewish moniker when I married Eddie Parker. My Jewishness was viewed by his parents as a pox set upon his family, and no matter how I tried, there was little I could do to diminish their prejudice. But, my own inherent fear has led me to the decision that if Eddie and I divorce, I will retain the Parker name. Unless you are a member of a lowly minority living among a righteous majority, you cannot understand the trepidation one feels while walking through one’s day, through one’s life, being judged by a name.

  The world that came to know and accept Dorothy Parker might not have been so willing to swallow my acerbic wit, or see me as the paradigm of style and d
eportment for my generation, had I retained the name of Rothschild. I would have been seen as inconsequential, and dismissed as “that cheeky little Jewess, Dorothy Rothschild.” Had I kept my maiden name, I doubt I’d’ve been so eagerly accepted. My fear is that my true name, my maiden name, would mean my end. A rose by any other name no longer smells so sweet: It stinks!

  It is my fear. I try not to show it. (No one will ever read these thoughts I put down here. They might not like me if they did.)

  As the servant started for the door, I asked, “Maxwell, may I ask, how long had you worked for Mr. Pierce?”

  He turned and glanced at Ralph while nervously shifting his feet. “Not so very long, Mrs. Parker.” I noticed that his white gloves were soiled black at the fingertips.

  “Since Mr. Pierce moved to his flat above his theatre, wasn’t it?” offered Ralph.

  Again, looks exchanged between the men. “Four months, I believe; since the spring, yes.”

  “The timing couldn’t have been better,” said Ralph.

  “How so?” asked Mr. Benchley.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Bob. What I meant was that last month my housekeeper gave notice because she was moving in with her daughter in New Jersey, and, well, after Reggie passed away, well, you understand, don’t you?”

  “How so?”

  Dear God! Mr. Benchley had no right to make fun of Maxwell! Or was it only an innocent Freudian slip that he kept using the same phrase that was decidedly used for mocking the Chinese? Maybe it was like saying, “I’m dying for a cigarette,” at the funeral of a consumptive. I wanted to shut him up before he made a bigger fool of himself.

  “Mr. Benchley,” I said quite firmly, startling him to attention. “It wasn’t grave-robbing, that’s what Shitty was trying to say.”

  “Language, Mrs. Parker!” said Mr. Benchley.

  “Shitty?” asked Ralph, his jaw fallen.

  “Chitty!”

  “Just sharpen that ‘C,’ Dottie, dear,” said Ralph with a good-natured chuckle.

  “Of course.” I was befuddled, and making a bigger ass of myself than Mr. Benchley.