Suddenly, everything made sense.
I went to the telephone and asked the hotel operator to connect me with Mr. Benchley.
Will had asked me to supper for tonight, Saturday night. I remembered his interest in the Thanatopsis poker game, so I asked the boys at lunch if Will could sit in for a few hands; I thought I’d surprise him after we’d eaten with the suggestion that we stop by. I’d chat with Jane while he played, and maybe I’d even bring him luck.
The result of my discovery had been draining for me, and I, as suggested by William Cullen Bryant, in his poem, Thanatopsis, would face my impending doom with as much courage as I could muster. And that took good food and drink.
I wouldn’t talk about any of it, I decided. It was too depressing. Yesterday, arrangements had been made for the dispersal of Marion’s belongings to various charitable organizations, and the coroner had signed a release of her body, allowing Brenda to take her daughter home after the weekend. I packed up Lucille’s box of memories and sent them off to her family in Des Moines, with a little note expressing my sadness at her death.
I was spent.
My exhaustion and the accompanying sick stomach was the result of the dread I felt. I wanted to nap, but was too restless. I was hungry as I hadn’t eaten at all, but I couldn’t swallow more than a bite of the sandwich that room service had sent up. So this is how Helen Hayes feels when her debilitating stage fright strikes, and I wondered how she, and all actors who suffer it, managed to pull themselves together each night to walk out onto the stage knowing they might be trampled by critics.
The weather had turned. The warm days and brisk evenings of early October had given way to the damp, shorter ones of impending winter. Saturday morning had dawned foggy, as the mists from both rivers bracing Manhattan converged to spread a low, gloomy blanket over the city. By evening the atmosphere felt denser, as the usual westerly winds that sweep across the island had stalled; the fog hovered, pierced through by the towers of new skyscrapers risen from the grid.
Tonight, I thought—when there was a knock at my door—Wilfred would hold my hand across the table, he’d put his arms around me in the cab, kiss me, and perhaps, if the mood was right, he’d want to come back with me to my rooms. I was nervous about it. I’d been so hurt in the past, and now, here again had entered an attractive, seemingly lovable man into my life, and I was just not ready, nor, I feared, strong enough, for what was to come.
He stood there with a luscious bouquet of orchids for me, and a tasty portion of boned roasted chicken for Woodrow Wilson. I offered him a drink before putting the flowers in an old milk bottle, and then fetched my coat and purse from the bedroom.
The telephone rang, and it was Mr. Benchley, calling to say that he had not gone home to Cancun, to Gertrude and the children this weekend, but had remained in town.
As we went down the lift, Will slipped his arm around my waist, and I tried to relax my posture in spite of an instinctive stiffening of my spine.
I stopped by the desk to ask if Jimmy the bellboy could take Woodrow Wilson out for a spin before midnight. Frank Case nodded at me as I bade him goodnight while walking through the lobby and out onto the street. The doorman hailed us a cab. Frank Case lit his cigarette, and as our cab pulled away from the curb, I watched as his figure faded in the mist; only the light of his cigarette remained until we were close to the avenue.
The restaurant was busy with diners when we arrived, but although most of the tables were filled it retained its quiet, romantic atmosphere. The restaurant was composed of several dining rooms, with curtained alcoves off the central room, designated for customers like ourselves: couples seeking more private settings. The lights were low; candles flickered, washing the red-damasked walls with shadows and dancing upon the silverware and crystal; roses adorned the tables and the waiters moved and served with silent deliberation.
We didn’t speak much during supper. I found it difficult to find things to say. I wasn’t feeling very well, and whenever I looked over at Will, he’d be studying me with those gorgeous, sultry dark eyes. Rather than melting, and because I felt a bit shaky, I was feeling self-conscious.
It was sometime between the Coquille St. Jacques and the Beouf Bourguignon that I began feeling oddly ill. Voices echoed, and then deafened, my equilibrium unsteadied by a carousel of moving objects. I felt myself losing consciousness, and then a few seconds later I’d become alert for a moment, before falling back into a dreamlike state.
I can remember trying to rise from my chair in an effort to go to the ladies’ lounge, but the struggle was too much, and after a time, I gave up the idea. People hovered around me. I heard the words, Will’s voice, smooth and mellow at my ear: “taking her home” and then, “hospital,” and then, “allergy.” Wilfred wrapped me in my coat. I was in his arms, floating through the room.
Somehow, I’d been put into a cab, and I heard a loud horn blast, which broke through my dreams, and within a few minutes the “spell” subsided and things came into sharp focus again. I looked up into the eyes of the man who held me close to his chest, as the cab seemed to fly along the streets; the constant bumping in my head, as its tires smacked over potholes, provoked nausea.
Oh, no! I thought. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
We were to have supper, and then I would surprise Wilfred with the invitation to sit in at the poker game. But, now everything had gone wrong. All the careful planning was undone. And those thoughts of ruined plans were more daunting than the possibility that I was sick enough to be dying.
The two men were talking, the cabbie and Wilfred, and there was something familiar about the cabbie’s voice. The shock of discovery shot adrenalin through my veins, and I was brought back to my wits again, if only for a few moments. I said that I was going to be sick, and when the cabbie turned and looked at me, I knew for sure who he was. He must have believed me because when I started to gag Wilfred told him to pull over. Wilfred opened the door and I started to wretch. Wilfred loosened his grip so that I might lean out farther, and that’s when I made my break. He pulled on my arm, and I slipped out of the coat sleeve.
The fog was still thick, and the droplets of condensation soaked through my dress. All I knew was that I had to run away.
I had no sense of direction because I could barely see more than a couple of yards ahead, and in my confusion I made a bad turn.
The screech of tires and the blast of a car horn sent me flying onward into the street.
Horns squawked, shattering the shell that muffled my brain. The squeal of breaks, and then metal crushing metal in repetition, were like a chorus of quarreling crows circling my head. I ripped through, somehow, unscathed.
My feet were no longer on cement. I was running over soft, soggy earth. Suddenly, I felt the world flip out from under me. Landing on my rump, my hands grasped wet grass. The impact of the fall shook me to my senses.
I sat there for a moment, the wet earth a stronghold, knowing that I could not be seen, aware that I was in a park, or the grounds of a big house, and that I was still in the city, because of the sounds of traffic and honking car horns. I could see the faint glow of lamplight when I looked above me. I wanted to lie down, to feel the cool grass along my face, to close my eyes and sleep.
I rose to my feet.
It was too dangerous for me to make a sound, for I couldn’t know for sure if Wilfred and the cabbie—the fake Dr. Fayed, the man named Shahram Ali—were closing in on me.
Was I in Central Park, I wondered, listening for the sounds of the city around me, trying to gage distance from the street? Did the sound of passing cars indicate a brisker pace, as might be heard from the winding thoroughfares through Central Park or along Riverside Park? I knew those parks like the back of my hand, having grown up on their lawns and meadows and woods and knolls and bridges and paths.
Not Central Park; at least, not deep into the park. Not Riverside, for I could not smell the briny Hudson.
I didn’t believe we’d
traveled very far from the restaurant when I’d made my escape. Which parks were near the restaurant?
The plunk and patter of hard rain plummeting down gave way to the steady drumroll of a heavy downpour, and soon I was dripping wet. But the violent rain brought a clearing through the fog, and along with it, a clear vision of my surroundings: Bryant Park.
On such a night, there was little chance of help, of anyone to be wandering about. Forty-Second Street bordered the park’s north side, and it must have been there that I’d escaped the taxi. To my east, a couple hundred yards away, was the New York City Public Library. At best, I might hide along its shadowed walls, protected from immediate view by the trunks of trees surrounding it. But, there, too, I might be trapped.
The rapid, repeated splatter of footfalls along the path grew sharper, and I sensed that they were closing in on me. At one point, the fog thinned, and I glimpsed the indistinguishable suggestion of a figure, like an apparition, floating in the soft glow of lamplight. The rain beat down the fog.
I held my breath as the footsteps resumed their ominous tapping, growing louder and louder until I thought he’d made me out, while I stood rigid alongside a tree trunk. I strained to see, waited for a hand to reach out from the mist to grab hold of me. My heart tore at my chest, my pulse so loud in my ears that I could barely hear the subtle shift of pitch as the footsteps receded. I was certain that if it had not been for the noise of the downpour, he would have heard the rushing of the blood through my veins.
I knew enough to avoid the paths, as the click of my heels would give me away, but I was afraid to move in any direction because Shahram Ali could be close by, too.
But, if I couldn’t see them, I realized, they could not see me, at least not until the rain had totally obliterated the fog. I had no time to just hold my ground; I had to move on toward safety, toward people, toward help. And that’s when my attention was guided to the closest retreat, and I groped my way in the direction of its tower beacon, a pulsing red orb in the fog.
The American Radiator Company Building facing the park’s south side was nearing completion, and no doubt there would be a night watchman guarding the site who might help me.
The fog parted like a stage curtain as I neared the building. I looked up along its incredible height. I felt so insignificant and helpless before its dark, foreboding façade, the mist swirling around, lending an almost menacing, supernatural aspect to the structure. But I knew it was my haven and I had to enter, and fast, because if the fog that hovered low to the ground finally lifted I would be revealed.
I crossed the street, empty at this time of night, and then the expanse of concrete sidewalk, until finally, slick black marble was underfoot. I moved as gingerly as I could, trying not to make too much noise, staying in the shadows; I feared slipping on the wet marble, and cursed my foolish satin shoes.
I arrived unscathed, but the big brass-and-glass doors would not open. I pounded, more afraid of being seen than heard, praying for a guard to appear in the meager light that glowed within.
I soon gave up and looked around me. The street was now visible, as the fog had given way. Traffic on the avenue was now my best recourse. I might find a brownstone’s front doors open, inhabitants willing to let me in to call the police.
I bolted like a scared rabbit when I heard him, and then saw him coming at me through hedges that lined the park. Shahram Ali was faster than I, and he grabbed the skirt of my dress, bringing me down to my knees. We were in a deep shadow cast by a streetlamp. The man rolled atop me and pinned my arms.
I screamed and he released one wrist to cover my mouth.
I bit his finger and he pulled away, so I screamed again; one arm free, I poked my fingers in his eyes and tried to push him off me.
All at once his weight went dead atop me, and then he rolled off to lie, as if asleep, beside me.
I was brought to my feet, expecting another struggle, but it was not Wilfred Harrison’s face I saw, but another, familiar one that I looked into.
Mr. Caruthers stood before me, surprise registering on his face, for he recognized me, too. In his hand he held a metal pipe.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered, “but there’s another man after me.”
“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the rear of the building. I could see a deep shadow along the black brick wall. It was the well of a door.
But before we reached the safety of the building, Wilfred Harrison leaped violently down upon my rescuer. I screamed as he punched Mr. Caruthers across the jaw, and watched the poor man fall lifeless to the ground. I screamed again, and then made a run for the door.
But, Wilfred was determined to get me. I knew it was my end when I felt his arms wrap me from behind, lifting me off the ground, so that no matter how I struggled I’d remain flailing and locked in his grasp.
“Shut up, Dorothy, or I’ll kill you now!”
I shut up.
He carried me into the shadowy door well, and pushed me up against the wall as he opened the door. Pulling me into the semi-darkness beyond, he pushed me to the cement floor. My eyes slowly became accustomed to the dimly lit room; from a distance I could discern a bare light bulb.
“It wasn’t supposed to end this way, Mrs. Parker,” said Wilfred, leaning over me, the available light giving his face a ghoulish cast, and so close I could feel his hot breath on mine.
“That’s what they all say.” I found that he was no longer very attractive at all.
He ignored my little quip. “You’ve really screwed things up for me!”
“I suppose you think this is a song and dance for me.”
“Shut up with your wisecracks. I want to know how much you know and who else knows it,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulders.
“Why should I tell you anything, if you’re going to kill me after I tell you?”
He shook me hard. My teeth rattled.
“What makes you think that I suspect anything about you?”
“All those questions about Marion. You never even knew her.”
“Curiosity,” I said. “Why did you drug me?”
“It was easier that way. You’d become ill in a public place; I’d make it look like you were despondent that I’d just dumped you during supper; I’d take you home, and tomorrow morning you’d be found dead of an overdose of pills.”
“They’d never believe it was suicide.”
“Do I have to remind you? You’ve got a track record, Mrs. Parker.”
“What’s with the formality, Will? I thought we were on a first-name basis.”
“And then you sent that woman to see me, Marion’s mother.”
“She went to see you at your office because you told me Marion had a trust from Reginald Pierce. How was I to know it was all a pack of lies?” I foolishly couldn’t help adding, “Did you duck out the back way when you saw her coming? Brenda McEnerny, your mother-in-law.”
“How did you find out?”
“Lucille Montaine.”
“She told you?”
“Posthumously. A marriage notice. There was a photograph of you and Marion at a nightclub on the back of a press clipping of a play she was touring with that she’d cut from the Detroit Register. She was blackmailing you and Marion, wasn’t she? That’s how she got the part in Reginald’s show. She knew you and Marion were married, and she threatened to tell Reginald, didn’t she? I’ll bet you had some plan to steal a lot more than the Golden Selket.”
“We never intended to steal any of that Egyptian stuff.”
“What was the plan, then?”
“Once he married Marion, Reginald would have rewritten his will, leaving her his fortune. But, he was just stringing her along.”
“He told Marion he was divorcing his wife, and then Lucille wanted more than a part in a play, she wanted a cut, too. So Reginald found out about what you and Marion were planning, and that’s why you killed him.”
“That’s
not why. He knew nothing, that stupid old man. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I don’t get it.”
“He saw me with Lucille. Carrying her body after I’d killed her.”
“What was Lucille doing in the apartment anyway?”
“I killed her in the hidden passageway. After the show. After everyone had left the theatre.”
“Lucille went to see Marion at her hotel earlier that day.”
“As she did every week to get the money. But Marion told her she didn’t have it, that she was going out of town, and that she would leave the money in the passageway, so she could get it later after the show.”
“The money wasn’t waiting for her, but you were.”
“Reginald wasn’t supposed to be in the apartment at that hour. He was supposed to be away; he was supposed to meet Marion. He heard the gunshot.”
It made sense, now. The phone call Gerry Saches said Reg had received during his visit was from Marion, calling on some pretext to get him to leave the apartment. Gerry’s unanticipated visit had delayed Reginald’s departure, keeping him in the apartment long after he should have been on his way. He heard the gunshot.
“I had to take care of him, too.”
“You didn’t shoot him. Why didn’t you shoot him? Why the cherry tomato lodged in his throat?”
“Why do you think? I smothered him. I wanted it to look like he choked. I went as far as setting out a tray with the leftover food from the play, the food they put out for the banquet scene, to make it look like he was eating a late supper. Marion said he often ate the roast and salad. I set the scene, even tied his tie.”
“But, he knew never to eat a tomato!”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that.”
“Why hide the gun?”
“Hiding the gun was Marion’s idea: Place the gun in Reginald’s hand for fingerprints, then hide the gun to be found later, when Lucille’s body was found. Make it look like Reginald had shot her before he choked. We figured someone would find the gun, but nobody did.”
[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders Page 20
