“The fire alone was probably not the reason for killing Father John, but I suspect the players in both the arson and the attempted kidnapping are the same,” said Mr. Benchley.
“Now, what is it that you need me to do?” asked Frank, chewing on the end of his cigar.
“How fast can you get wire photos from the Scopes Trial, Frank? Courtroom photos. We’ve got to try to identify people who are involved in this conspiracy.”
“Oh, I see; you suspect the killers are homegrown Tennesseans, is that it? Maybe went to the trial?”
“You said you and Aleck had a friend down there who wrote for the Dayton paper? Maybe he can help identify these Klan assassins. Maybe they were hanging around the courthouse during the trial.”
“I’ll put a call in, pronto. Anything else?”
“Yeah, what about any missing persons from the area? They might be involved, or perhaps the missing are additional victims; you never know.”
“Well, there were those brothers—the darktown fires?”
“Yes, well, one of them is dead; I was there, Frank. But, yes, ask your reporter friend if there are photos of the other brother, Harlow. I gather he was an important figure in the town of Dayton?”
“I recall it was a town outside of Dayton. Fremont.”
“Well, they both might have come to New York as part of the plan,” I said.
There was a knock at the door.
Mr. Benchley opened it to receive a long florist’s box from our bellboy. He tipped the youngster a dime.
“Well, Mrs. Parker, it’s not your birthday, is it? What did you do to deserve this?”
“Oh, shut up your nasty little mind and give me that box.”
I placed it on the coffee table and removed the ribbon and lifted the lid to reveal a dozen branches of creamy-white camellias. The heady fragrance and fresh beauty of the flowers took my breath away.
Mr. Benchley moved for the card, but I slapped his hand before he could steal it away.
“It’s obvious that a gentleman sent them, a man of some class and distinction,” he said, all-knowing. “Or some swell asked his mama what would impress . . .”
The card was the sender’s personal stationery. I removed the note from the envelope and turned away from my nosey friend.
This offering is hardly thanks enough for the great service you have performed for me and my friend, Mr. Darrow.
We would be most pleased to have you and your guests join our party at the Cotton Club tonight for the midnight festivities and show.
Forever in your debt,
Arthur Garfield Hays
“Who’re they from, my little darlin’?” asked Frank.
“Let me take a guess,” said Mr. Benchley. “The flowers were sent from Lily Walters Florist on Park Avenue, the notepaper, quality stock from—”
“Art Hays,” I said to end the teasing speculation. “Gee, he’s grand! The flowers are to thank me for helping to snag the assassin, and to invite me to the Cotton Club tonight.”
“I suppose I’ll find a corsage when I return home,” said Mr. Benchley.
“Be a good boy and put these in some water.”
“You already have a prior commitment for tonight, my dear Mrs. Parker.”
“We have the New Year’s Eve party at the Friars Club, yes, but I can pop off after an hour to join Messrs. Hays and Darrow uptown.”
“You little witch!” said Mr. Benchley with a chuckle. “It says here, ‘guests,’ you and ‘your guests’!”
“All right, of course you can come, if you promise to behave yourself.”
“As long as you promise, Mrs. Parker, to behave yourself.”
“I am the model of grace and discretion.”
Frank let out a sharp, startling cackle, and then, repentant, “Sorry, but the way you said it . . .”
“And, yes, Frank, you will join the party, too.”
“I expect Aleck is attending the festivities?”
“No doubt. And we should invite Edna, as Aleck is escorting her to the Friars Club.”
“We’d better hire a wagon to take us up.”
“Jane and Ross?”
“Other plans.”
“You and Gertrude will come up for a drink before we leave, Mr. Benchley?”
“She’s not coming to the party after all, I’m afraid. The children have the chicken pox.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” I said. “Perhaps you need to get back—”
“I’ve never had the pox, so I mustn’t return while the boys are contagious.”
I wanted to send my friends off on their way so that I could prepare for the evening’s festivities. I hadn’t a thing to wear!
“So, Frank, would you get on that right away?”
“Oh, you mean the photos and stuff? All right, Bob, I’m off to do your bidding. See you later.”
“I’m leaving, too,” echoed Mr. Benchley. “I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock, then?”
“Fred,” I said, stopping him at the door, “do you think Hays and Darrow are well-enough protected?”
“I doubt they would have invited you to join them tonight if they weren’t. Aleck said Hays hired Pinkerton guards. I’d not worry about it. As of yesterday, the assassins’ plans to attempt anything in New York had to have been aborted.”
“I suppose you are right,” I agreed. “With the real Father Timothy killed, the imposter somewhere out there, and we don’t as yet know the true identity of the man we captured yesterday, these hateful people are bound to need time to regroup. They’ll try it again, somewhere else, in some other city, I fear, and I’d just like to see them all caught and put away before that can happen.”
“See you tonight, my dear,” said Mr. Benchley, patting my head and turning to leave.
“Oh, and Fred,” I said, breaking off a camellia blossom from a stem, and slipping it into his lapel buttonhole, “thanks for the frying pan back-swing, yesterday.”
“A pleasure, my dear, don’t mention it.”
I turned toward my bedroom closet. What on earth should I wear tonight?
Arthur Garfield Hays, married
Chapter Eleven
The camel-colored crushed velvet? No, I decided, I’d wear the plum satin dress with the handkerchief hemline. But then I thought that the black crepe Chanel with my floral embroidered tunic looked chic. Suffering the agony of women everywhere while wrestling with which attire seemed most appropriate for an occasion, or the most provocative, I finally settled on the beaded bodice, beige silk Molyneux with satin trim and draped, plunging neckline. There were comfortable shoes to match, nude-colored satin two-inch heels with T straps—I wanted to dance tonight, in spite of my aching muscles.
I’d finished arranging my hair, placing the toque Jane had given me for Christmas on my head. The finely constructed headwear with its detailed jeweled touches was stunning. I was sorry Jane was not joining us tonight to see me wear her marvelous gift.
I removed two of the five strings of clear crystal beads from around my neck, as I believe in the fashion philosophy that less is more, and added only one bracelet to my left wrist. Done, I thought. But the truth is, I’m never done; I keep on second-guessing myself, and I continued to fuss about while waiting for Mr. Benchley and FPA to arrive for a cocktail before we walked the few blocks up to the Friars Club on 48th Street.
I fussed over which wrap to wear, the chocolate-brown velvet cloak with turquoise lining or the silver foxtail-trimmed cape? I threw on my cream-colored satin evening wrap coat and was surprised that it was a perfect complement to my dress. It wasn’t the warmest of choices, but we were only a few blocks away from the club, and later I’d not be outside longer than it took to nab a cab for the Cotton Club.
Mr. Benchley arrived a few minutes past nine o’clock, saying FPA would meet us at the party. He was happily tipsy, I’d say. Oh, he was never one to get really soused. He’d just become more jubilant when he’d had a few under his belt, more droll, the timbre of his b
aritone more lilting, giggles escaping more freely, as his conversation would spill out with a smile and a chuckle, effervescent, like champagne pouring out from the bottle. Tonight was for merriment, as the whole city would be out and about celebrating.
There would be parties everywhere, at every hotel, in private homes, even on the street. In less than three hours, thousands of people would welcome in the New Year, gathering at Times Square to watch as the big ball was lowered from the old New York Times Building at One Times Square, the very center of the X that marked the crossing of Broadway and Seventh Avenue. Streamers and confetti would fly out windows, as would any thought of the Volstead Act as champagne corks popped all around town.
Of course, such merriment could prove depressing; seeing the old year out might cause introspection—What the hell did I do? What have I accomplished? The clock is ticking, one more year gone down the drain.
But there is always the hope of a new year ahead: another chance, another shot of gin, another party, another man might come along and chase your blues away. Put down that razorblade.
Mr. Benchley uncorked the bottle of imported bubbly he had procured from his trusty bootlegger, a reliable source for “the sauce.” While he poured, he said, “Did you know the police found Hays’s Limo abandoned by the docks? And right next to it was a Duesenberg matching the description you gave to the police? A freighter sailed this morning for Panama, from that very pier. They’re checking the passenger roster and searching the ship for stowaways.”
“If they left on that ship they must be idiots to think they could get very far; and I don’t think they’re stupid. But you think we’re all safe, now? That the threat to Hays and Darrow is over?”
“Well, it seems that three of the gang are out of the picture. And with the Pinkerton guards and the extra police on the lawyers, it’d be suicide to attempt an attack. Anyway, Darrow is leaving in the morning, heading back home to Chicago, with guards at his side.”
We drank to each others’ health and to a prosperous and wet New Year. Woodrow finished off the ounce of champagne I had poured into his dish, after sneezing from the bubbles, and Mr. Benchley presented him with a delectable portion of rare roast beef, sent up from the kitchen as a special treat.
The Friars Club’s membership is composed of the theatrical and literary figures of our city, a fraternity of sorts not unlike our Round Table but grander in number. It, too, began its history with the casual gathering of press agents who met regularly to dine. And not unlike my vicious circle, their numbers were increased by actors and vaudevillians. Women may not apply for membership, but are wined and dined by the “brotherhood.” That will have to change someday.
Aleck and Edna, and the Gershwin brothers, George and Ira, Irving Berlin, and FPA arrived soon after we walked through the clubhouse doors. We took the table that Aleck had arranged for us, and soon the champagne was flowing.
The entertainment promised to be lots of fun, with Fred and Adele Astaire, Jimmy Durante, Will Rogers, and newcomer Bob Hope hamming it up. My trying month of murder and mayhem faded away in the warm, festive atmosphere.
Frank, pulling out a small manila envelope from his jacket, handed it to me across the table. “Wire photos from the Scopes Trial.”
“Thanks, Frank.” I was about to slip the package behind me, where the chair back met my own, for safekeeping. I really didn’t want to look at them tonight. But, I thought, we had asked Frank to get them, and there had been some urgency to the request. Of course, that was before the limo and the Duesenberg were located, and the knowledge that the steamer probably carried the assassins away.
“Aren’t we going to look at those now?” asked Mr. Benchley. He proceeded to unwind the string from its closure. There were three photos, one taken in the courtroom and two of the crowds outside it.
“Here is a wire photo of the Healy brothers, posing in front of their store,” said Frank. “Harley is on the left; Rowdy, the younger and the ‘real piece of work’ I told you about? He’s on the right.”
“This can’t be so,” I said, staring at the smiling face of the Wild-Hair Man, who Frank insisted was Harley. And standing reluctantly next to him with a frown was the man I recognized as Father Timothy, a.k.a. Rowdy Healy! “I don’t understand . . . but I think we’ve been after the wrong fellow all along!”
In the courtroom photo stood Darrow and Bryan, the courthouse packed with press and observers, mostly men, as the jury took their oath. One street photo was of Darrow, looking directly into the camera, and his team of lawyers in the forefront with townspeople crowding around. The other photo showed the lawyers with the defendant climbing the steps to the courthouse, townspeople, again, in the background.
I was looking for the faces of the men involved in the murders, trying to determine if others were involved by analyzing their poses in relationship to other figures in the crowd. I saw nothing, and pushed the photos toward Mr. Benchley, just as Lionel Barrymore and his brother Johnny stopped by our table to say “hello.” There was a lot of chatting and joking around, chairs pulled up to join the already-crowded table. The orchestra was tootling out a heavy-handed brassy beat for the dancing couples. Then Humphrey Bogart, a talented young actor who debuted on Broadway this year, asked me to dance. It was quite brave of him to ask me, really. I am looked upon as a bit formidable—if one can be just a bit formidable.
I had on my dancing shoes, so we hit the floor doing the Charleston, a new dance craze, to the popular song, Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby. After Humpy—he didn’t mind the nickname or the implication—returned me to the table, Mr. Benchley touched my arm.
“Dottie,” he said. (I knew that what he was about to say held some importance, because he addressed me by my first name.) “Notice anything unusual about the courtroom photo?”
“I see lots of suspenders.”
“Exactly!”
“What’s new?”
“There are only a couple of women in the courtroom. See, the two hats here, one over there?”
“All right,” I said, wanting to know what he was getting at but wanting more to leave my worries behind me and trip the light fantastic for the rest of the evening with handsome young men.
“No, don’t look at the dance floor, look at the picture, specifically at the woman on the left, second row.”
“What about her? Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“Pay attention—stop tapping your toe and look at the picture again.”
“Spoilsport!” But I did as told. The photo was pretty good, as far as wire photos go; not too many dark lines obscuring the paper. “Oh, crap! It’s she.”
“I’d bet my wife on it!”
“Keep your little hausfrau out of this, Benchley!”
“The man to her right, isn’t that . . . ?” I said, stopping short, waiting for Mr. Benchley’s opinion.
“You’re darn tootin’ it is! Hello, Timothy Morgan, Father Timothy Morgan—a.k.a. Rowdy Healy!”
“We’ve got to call the police, Fred! That’s the woman across the street from St. Agatha’s rectory, Hermione Reynolds was her name, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and if she hasn’t left town she could be the one person the police could break for the identities of the whole murdering gang!” said my friend, and off he went in search of a telephone.
Mr. Benchley’s departure attracted Aleck’s attention from a jovial conversation with Edna. “What’s with the boy genius?” he asked.
“Aleck, we have to leave the party. What time are we to meet the lawyers at the Cotton Club?”
“After eleven-thirty, I suppose; the lecture should be over by eleven.”
“What are you—”
Sobriety struck me between the eyes.
“What lecture?”
“Darrow’s giving a lecture in the Great Hall at Cooper Union tonight. Should be over by eleven, and then they’ll drive up to Harlem.”
“Cooper Union!” It all made sense. “Oh, shit, of course he is!”
&
nbsp; As soon as Aleck said the word lecture, I realized I had stupidly ignored a giant clue.
“In the steps of Abraham Lincoln,” boasted Aleck.
“Oh, shit, I hope not!” I said; then off to the cloakroom to fetch our coats.
Mr. Benchley was on the phone, giving the address of Hermione Reynolds to the police. I stood beside him, waiting, looking at one of the street photos.
And that’s when I saw it, clear as day.
The eyes, grayish-white in the black-and-white press photo, a straw hat obscuring the hair, but it was definitely him—the Wild-Haired Man—the murderer of Father John O’Hara, the man who’d tried to plug me, the man struck down dead on the streets of the city!
I grabbed Mr. Benchley’s arm, and he covered the transmitter with a hand as I shared with him my discovery.
“Get men down to Cooper Union, right away,” he said to the night-desk sergeant at Joe Woollcott’s precinct house. “Darrow’s there and there may be an attempt on his life tonight!”
I asked the hat-check girl to give the photos to Frank with instructions to get them over to Joe Woollcott at the police station, and we flew out onto the street. Without a word to each other, we headed downtown for the college.
It was ten o’clock, and it would take divine intervention to snag a taxi on a night like this. We were a couple of blocks off Times Square, where already there had gathered fifty thousand people waiting for the stroke of midnight to ring in the New Year. Just out the door, we were engulfed in the party atmosphere of loud, rambunctious revelers, moving in large gangs toward Seventh Avenue and the Square.
It appeared that the younger set were out tonight taking to the streets in their finery. Everyone was laughing, playful, intoxicatingly wild, encouraged by imbibing forbidden nectar and wearing devil-may-care cloaks of youthful prosperity; victory cries risen from the horrors of death and ashes in the trenches: Carpe diem! Seize the moment! Tomorrow we will all be dead!
[Dorothy Parker 02] - Chasing the Devil Page 20
