[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders

by Agata Stanford

  “There’ll be food,” said Chico, like a spider luring a fly into a web.

  “No, please,” he pleaded, frantically looking for a means of escape. “I don’t want to.”

  “Why the hell not?” said Chico, offended.

  “You scare me,” said the man, his voice quivering.

  The towering, twenty-three-story American Radiator Company Building frowned darkly down at us.

  “Offer him five dollars,” I whispered to Zeppo.

  Seventeen dollars and fifty cents later we were finally on our way: the Brothers walking down Sixth Avenue carrying a bench, cement footings and all, and our guest, the rather musty-smelling vagrant, whose name was “Mr. Caruthers,” with me, Neysa, her friend Martin, Woodrow Wilson, and the cat in the basket in our cab. A few minutes later, the four taxis drove up to the house on 35th Street. The horse blinders were yanked off the work horse, the iceman invited up for a “cup of tea.”

  I left the party at 7:00 P.M., having munched on leftover tea sandwiches and cake, to go home to do some serious writing. As Bryant Park was on the way, I offered Mr. Caruthers a lift, which he gratefully accepted. Although his bench had been taken, he was quite content, having eaten dozens of tea cakes and sandwiches, as well as having lined his pockets with more of the same. He was seventeen dollars and fifty cents richer, wore a “new” pair of brown alligator boots, a clean, starched dress shirt, suit, tie, and overcoat from the hostess’s husband’s closet—“He won’t mind, he’s got dozens to spare,” said the hostess—and had my promise to ask Frank Case if there was a job for him in the restaurant’s kitchen. He was to stop by in the morning and call me from the lobby.

  I stopped at the newsstand on the corner and bought all five evening papers. I wanted to see the first wave of articles about the murders. Before the journalists met at noon tomorrow, the second wave in the morning editions would break. Things should be resolved quickly with this sort of news blitz.

  Upon returning to my rooms, I was greeted by a blue florist’s box wrapped with gold ribbon. I put the stack of papers on the sofa table and then untied the box. Within lay one perfect long-stemmed red rose. The card read, One perfect rose deserves another, and was signed, “Will.”

  Thoughts raced through my head; why just one perfect rose? Why not a dozen? The florist from whence this came had scads of perfect roses; it was a red rose, and that in itself was presumptuous of the sender. He should have sent pink, white even, but red was bad form coming from a fellow I had yet to see socially. The choice of a rose in itself was unfortunate; lilacs or violets would have been more appropriate to the occasion. I would rather have received a box of Belgium chocolates, or a bottle of Courvoisier, or both! I stuck the offering in a half-empty soda bottle, and went into my bedroom to change out of my street clothes and into a robe.

  As the tub filled, I poured myself a scotch, lit a cigarette, and sat on the bed to plan my evening at home. My mind wandered over the events of the past week. I had the feeling that there was something I was overlooking that was central toward identifying the murderer. I knew it was best to just wait it out while the boys investigated. But, patience was never one of my virtues. My eyes fell on the box of papers and photos from Lucille’s apartment. I carried it to the living room. After my bath I would look through all the papers again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, and then I would read all the newspaper articles in the evening editions.

  I had just gotten out of the tub when there was an insistent knock at the door. Throwing on the robe and wrapping my hair in a towel, I was surprised to find Aleck at my door, Edna at his side, both dressed to the teeth for their evening of Theatre. They had only a few minutes to make the curtain, I knew, for it was after eight o’clock. I thought, if they wanted me to join them, I’d decline as I would never get ready in time, anyway, and I wanted to stay in for the rest of the evening.

  I’d barely finished my greeting and was about to plant a kiss on Edna’s powdered cheek, when Aleck spat out, “They’ve arrested Gerald Saches for the murders of Reginald Pierce, Lucille Montaine, and Marion Fields!”

  Gerald Saches was front-page news the next day, and I wondered if the boys were still going to show up at my apartment at noon, since the case had been solved. They did show up, though, and each brought with them information they had gathered, including background information on each of the major players of this drama. All took it to heart that the murderer had been found, but thought they might aid in the conviction with the facts they had gathered over the past day.

  According to Swope, Maxwell the houseboy had indeed spoken with the police. In his statement, he said that he left RIP’s apartment at midnight, right after the arrival of Gerald Saches, who was in a snit about something, Maxwell knew not what.

  The police, on a search of Gerry’s house, found a gun they believed to be the murder weapon used to kill Lucille. They also found a letter from Reggie that they believed was the motive for his murder.

  I asked Swope, “Why would Gerry kill Lucille? If he pushed Marion into traffic, it must be because she suspected he’d killed Reggie. Maybe could even prove it. Gerry left the Pierce Theatre at five o’clock, around the time Marion was killed. . . . But, kill Lucille?”

  “Just the fact that he was in possession of the gun is enough to link him to Lucille’s murder.”

  I wasn’t convinced.

  “Let’s say, Gerry didn’t kill anybody. Did anyone come up with any information that links the victims to other suspects?” I asked.

  The offerings were meager, a risqué photo of Lucille that Marc had discovered, for which she'd posed back around ’19, that the men ogled over but was certainly not so compromising as to hurt her career, should she have been blackmailed. “Maybe there are other, more revealing shots,” mused Marc. “Then you have blackmail material.”

  “Yeah, but who blackmailed whom? I don’t think there’s any connection to the other victims,” I said. “So, no two people went to school together, or grew up in the same town or worked for the same business?”

  The faces that looked back at me were questioning. Finally, Marc Connelly said, “I don’t get it, Dottie. Gerry’s the guy. Why don’t you buy it?”

  “The jury is out on that one, fellas; things don’t fit, and we all know Gerry. Here’s a man who everyone knows wanted to marry Myrtle, and even though his best friend swept her away, he remained a friend to the man, backing off with dignity. Gerry protected Myrtle from knowing about Reggie’s infidelities, and yet considered Reggie his best friend—backed him in every venture as a partner from the time both their fathers were killed. They stuck together, built their businesses together. It doesn’t make sense that Gerry would’ve killed anybody. Certainly not over love, and I very much doubt over money; Gerry is rich. People kill over love or money, when you think about it.”

  FPA paced the floor, scratching his head, and said, “So you think it don’t wash, hum? Anybody else feel that way?”

  Only Mr. Benchley raised his hand. “It might be a good idea to talk with Gerry,” he said, “find out his side of the story.”

  “He’s in jail, and the judge wouldn’t set bail because the charge is triple homicide and Gerry might run,” said Ross.

  “Has anyone spoken with Myrtle?” asked Mr. Benchley. “She might shed light on what Reggie’s disagreement was with Gerry.”

  “She left for Florida the day after the funeral,” said Heywood. “Ruth called at the apartment and was told by the housekeeper she’d left for an extended time.”

  “She might be part of the whole thing, you know,” said Ross. “Myrtle knew about the mistress; the wife always knows. And knowing how Gerry was nuts about her, she might have put him up to the murders.”

  “I’ll bet the police have their sights on that angle. I’ll bet they plan on arresting Myrtle next,” said Marc.

  “So, say they were in it together, in cahoots, as they say. It explains killing Reggie and even Marion, but it doesn’t explain Lucille’s murder
,” said Mr. Benchley.

  “They are not stupid people, you know. Gerry and Myrtle are too smart to commit crimes that so easily point to them,” said Aleck. “Wouldn’t they have at least tried to make it appear as if someone else had a motive to kill?”

  “Right. For instance, if Gerry killed Reggie with malice aforethought, why would he let himself be seen by Reggie’s houseboy, who’d say, as he just has said to the police, that Gerry was the last one in the apartment the night of Reggie’s murder,” said Mr. Benchley.

  “I’m telling you all, there was something going on that we don’t know about. There’s a back story somewhere, in the victims’ past. Someone’s got to talk with Gerry,” I said. “What he tells us, together with what we come up with, might clear him and give us the true killer.”

  “His lawyer’s not going to let any reporter near him, on the chance he further incriminates himself,” said Swope.

  “I’m not a reporter; I’ll go!” I said. “And the more I think about it, I’m sure he’s innocent, so maybe he’ll talk to me.”

  “Why would I kill my best friend?” Gerry asked me, as we sat across from each other, a screen between us. He looked slightly crazed, as his eyes, red with fatigue, flitted nervously around the room. He had the appearance of a man who’d been yanked out of bed and told to dress quickly to escape a fire: thinning hair, uncombed, disheveled clothing, a day’s growth of beard, and that look of panic, as if his foot were caught in the track of an oncoming train.

  When I finally got through to Gerry’s attorney and explained that Gerry and I were friends, and that although I was a writer, I was not a reporter in the strict sense of the word, and that anything Gerry told me would not be seen in print the following day unless it would exonerate him of the crimes, and that I hoped to prove the man’s innocence, he agreed to let me speak with his client. So when Gerry posed the question, why would he kill his best friend, I told him that that was the very question I had asked myself.

  “Gerry, the police found a letter to you from Reggie in your office.”

  “Yeah, but I still don’t see how the letter proves I killed him.”

  “What was in the letter? What was it about?”

  “It had to do with the Egyptian stuff. I found out that the people he had dealings with had shady reputations. He may have bought looted treasure, a solid-gold figure, about eight inches tall, of the goddess Selket. It was suspected of having been smuggled out of Egypt last year after tomb robbers plundered the excavation at Deir el-Bahri. Now, I think most of Reggie’s collection had been acquired legally, but even if Reggie wasn’t guilty of any deliberate wrongdoing, it didn’t mean that the dealers he bought from weren’t thieves. He could be in possession of stolen artifacts. I told him of my concern, that since he had borrowed from our production company to purchase several items for investment, and if they were sold to him illegally, he could lose more than just our money. That happened some time back, over a month ago.

  “After the first time I spoke to him about it, I made a few more inquiries. I had to be careful, of course; I didn’t want to draw attention to Reggie. I put Whipple, our lawyer, on it, and his investigators found out that a small statue had indeed been smuggled out of Egypt last year. The dealer, under investigation by Interpol, was the same dealer from whom Reggie had made purchases. I knew for sure that Reggie had the Golden Selket.

  “The day I found out, I went to talk to him, but he had already left town on a business trip. It was urgent that we speak, and although I didn’t want to do it over the telephone or send a cable, I called to the hotel where he was staying, and left a message asking him to get in touch with me. But then, I couldn’t wait for his call, because I had to get to Philly to see about problems with the new show that was opening there in out-of-town trials. Same show Lucille was in.

  “Before I left town, I scribbled out a letter to him and had it posted. I kept the topic vague, in case it fell into unfriendly hands. I referred to the statue as, ‘the purchase we discussed recently.’ All I said was that things had to be dealt with immediately, or the consequences would be great. If he didn’t address the problem, I’d take things into my own hands. I was back in town in a couple of days when I got his reply. It said not to threaten him; he’d do what he wanted to do. That was it, you know, a few lines scrawled out in anger that I tossed in my desk drawer. I tried explaining that to the police, but they think the word ‘threaten’ had to mean I wanted to hurt him, but the threat I made was that if he didn’t return the illegal purchases, I would, as I controlled much of the business’s assets. If only they could find the note I sent him, it might help explain everything.”

  “But, you were at his apartment the night he died. What did you talk about?”

  “We were finally both back in town for the show’s opening, so I took the opportunity for a private talk with him about the situation, away from the office or public places where we might be overheard. I wanted to protect him from the ramifications of buying stolen goods, and protect myself, financially, as well. Yes, I was upset with him when I first entered the apartment; I’d been worried for weeks about the situation he had gotten us both into, and from all I’d recently learned about the dangerous people he’d been dealing with, but he told me he had returned the money he borrowed from the company for the purchases, and flat out denied that he had the stolen Golden Selket. He wanted to reassure me that he was on the level, and he showed me a figure that was indeed a Selket statuette; it was not made of solid gold, but bronze. And he assured me that had he known about the dealer’s reputation, he would never have dealt with the man.”

  “And his angry note to you?”

  “He apologized for it, saying he had been under lots of pressure when he wrote it.”

  “What kind of pressure?”

  “Three shows, all with problems, Marion pressuring him to divorce Myrtle, his sons drifting around doing little or nothing with their lives except getting girls pregnant and gambling away their trust funds. They were always at him to fix their messes.”

  “The boys?”

  “Yes. And he was always bailing them out.”

  “Had he ever, recently, refused to help them?”

  “Not that I know. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but those kids wouldn’t have killed their father. They’re stupid, not homicidal, believe me.”

  I decided to let that go. I’m pretty sure there are lots of stupid people who have murder in their hearts and would not hesitate to kill. I changed the subject.

  “But why do the police think you killed Marion?”

  “I left Reggie’s flat around the same time that Marion was killed. I was there to assist in the transfer of the Egyptian collection to the Met. But, I had no reason to kill Marion. I had no reason to shoot Lucille, for that matter.”

  “Perhaps Lucille saw Reginald’s murderer. The police probably think Lucille saw you kill Reginald, or that she knew something that would incriminate you. The police matched the bullet that killed Lucille to a gun found at your home. Tell me about the gun, Gerry.”

  He smiled, threw up his handcuffed hands, and shook his balding head. “It was a gun I bought for Myrtle. There were a string of robberies last year at the Dakota, and she was alone most nights, so I bought her the pistol for protection. She was more frightened of the gun than of burglars. She agreed to keep it in her bedside table, however. Then, one day, a few months later, she discovered it missing. She told me about it, but when she asked Reggie if he had taken it, he said it was probably stolen by a servant they had recently dismissed. It was around the time he moved into the apartment above the theatre.

  “Was the gun reported stolen?”

  “I don’t know. Myrtle couldn’t be sure for how long it had been missing.”

  “When the police found the gun this morning, and you recognized it as the one you gave to Myrtle, did you tell the police what you just told me?”

  “No, and Dottie, I’ll deny telling you what I just said, if it comes to
protecting Myrtle. Do you understand that? I have no choice.”

  I nodded and said, “You do have a choice, Gerry, but I understand the choice you have made and why.”

  “Listen, Dottie, even if they buy my explanation about getting the gun for her protection, it’s not going to get me out of trouble. If they think the gun was ever in Myrtle’s possession, well, they’re sure to think she may have been in it with me.”

  “So you want to take the fall alone, is that it?”

  “They’d think Myrtle killed Reggie and Marion out of jealousy. Or she got me to do it. Better they think it’s just me, rather than she.”

  This was love, all right, and I’d never witnessed such self-sacrifice. I was both touched and appalled. Touched by the devotion of the man, and appalled, if in fact Myrtle had pulled the trigger, that she would let Gerry fry for it!

  I knew a place where the gun had turned up, in the desk drawer at Reggie’s apartment, and I had left my fingerprints on it as well, before it was moved again. If it had been stolen by a servant who worked at Myrtle’s Dakota apartment, how’d it get in the secret drawer at Reginald’s? How many people knew of the secret drawer in the first place? But, as it would complicate things further, I was not ready to tell Gerry or anyone else about what I suspected at the moment.

  “Might she have done it?”

  “Killed them? Not Myrtle. She loved Reggie, and she knew what he was like since their first year of marriage. If she cared about his affairs, she didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. And Reggie? He was a complicated guy. He loved Myrtle and was good to her. He just needed lots of women. Never serious about any of them, until Marion. Still, whatever he may have promised the girl, he’d never have divorced Myrtle.”

  “Have you any idea at all how the gun found its way into your house?”

  “How it turned up at my house, under the stairwell, I don’t know.”

  I thought, not such a great hiding place; it was meant to be discovered. “Tell me what else you remember of the night of Reggie’s murder. You were the last person to see him alive.”