[Dorothy Parker 02] - Chasing the Devil

by Agata Stanford

  “And the guy with the Duesenberg?” added Frank. “The true identity of the man posing as Pinchus Seymour Pinkleton?”

  “Yeah, and the creep who had me kidnapped!”

  “That’s right; he’s a Detroit businessman, Lionel Struthers, who went to the University of Michigan with the real Pinny, and he’s a member of the Detroit chapter of the KKK. Outraged that Negros are moving into his neighborhood. Wanted justice.”

  “He’ll certainly get justice.”

  “He was running things from the University Club where the real Pinny has a membership.”

  “Did he kill the real Pinny?”

  “Nahh, the real Pinny is shacked up with his mistress in Canada. Told his wife he was off for a few weeks alone fishing at his lodge on the lake. He’s got some explaining to do . . . .”

  “And the goons who kidnapped me?”

  “Amateurs. White-trash country boys, do anything they’re told. Rowdy brought them in. Seems Rowdy liked to run around his hometown with his lackeys at his heels, but made the mistake of giving them something to do, ’sides minding the still. The flunkies were picked up by the sheriff when they got off the train in Dayton.”

  I had no more questions, only regrets. The man I believed was trying to kill me had been trying to protect me, and he ran to his death on the streets of New York. I saw Mr. Benchley’s somber expression, and I knew he felt in some way responsible for the fellow’s death.

  It was all over now; time to get back to our normal lives of sleeping ’til noon, lunching from one ’til three, cocktails at five at my place or at Neysa’s, dropping by my favorite speak, Tony Soma’s, shopping and gossiping with Tallulah and Jane, five nights a week at the Theatre, and when there was time, writing an article or story or two. Most of all, I missed my little man, Woodrow Wilson, and I promised myself that tomorrow we’d take a nice long walk together up Fifth Avenue and into Central Park.

  Aleck, who’d been unusually quiet, said: “You haven’t noticed!”

  “What’s that?” I asked, still deep within my own thoughts.

  “My opera cape and top hat!”

  “Oh, I see they’ve been returned.”

  “Scavenger hunt! Those naughty boys on break from Columbia, same ones stole the turkeys last month and freed them on Sheep Meadow? They done the dastardly deed. Came by messenger this afternoon with a note from Mrs. Sidney Snodgrass, apologizing for her son, who took the evening clothes. She saw my advertisement in the paper and instantly knew they belonged to me. Had them cleaned and sent off immediately with her note, begging me not to press charges, and saying that she would not accept the reward.” Aleck sat back with a smile on his face. “It’s been a very good day.”

  André Peer came over to our table to say “hello” and to meet George, Ira, and Irving. “Could we have the pleasure of your sitting in with us, Mr. Gershwin?” he asked George, who perked up and beamed out a huge grin.

  “If the fellows will have me, it’d be an honor to play a little of your kind of jazz.”

  A young, light-skinned Negro man came up to our table and placed a little red-covered book in George’s hand: “I just read this fine little novel that came out a couple months ago, and the more I think about it, I feel you’ve got to read it too, to see what I mean. Du Bose Heyward is the author.”

  “What about Du Bose Heyward?” asked Edna, looking up from her cup. “Anybody read his book, Porgy?”

  Everybody laughed.

  “It was one of the most compelling books I’ve ever read,” I said. “My heart breaks for Porgy and his Bess.”

  George clutched at the book, and it looked like he was anxious to start reading. “Thanks, I’ll read it tonight. I always like a good book.”

  He looked questioningly at the young man. “Have we met?”

  A shy smile, and then, “My name’s Langston Hughes, Mr. Gershwin. I’m up for the holiday from Lincoln College. I write poetry, too.”

  “Oh, yes, I know who you are, and I’ve a feeling this story is the ticket, all right! Sit down and join us, Langston, meet my friends while I’m gone.”

  “Now, what do you want to play,” asked the orchestra leader as he walked George over to the piano. The audience saw who was walking to the bandstand and broke out in applause.

  Mr. Benchley smiled at me, refilled my champagne, and then lit my cigarette.

  The New Year had gotten off to a shaky start, but here we all were, with laughter, great music, rivers of booze, and friendship.

  The End

  Mr. Benchley and I missed the New Year’s party, but, ain't we got fun?

  Poetic License

  I have taken poetic license in the Mrs. Parker Mysteries quite often, but with great care. I have tried to be historically accurate with dates and times when my characters were really roaming the streets, theatres, and speakeasies of Manhattan during the 1920s. I’ve taken a few liberties, which will, no doubt, raise the proverbial red flags before the eyes of the purists and Round Table devotees. For instance, Dorothy Parker’s rooms at the Algonquin did not face the 44th Street front entrance of the hotel as I have placed them, but toward the back of the building on the eleventh floor, overlooking the rear façades of buildings along the south side of 45th Street. At one time, she had a room on the second floor. So it is, too, with Robert Benchley’s rooms at the Royalton, the bachelor residence directly across the street from the Algonquin. His rooms were at the rear, not facing 44th Street. He kept those rooms for sixteen years, but for some time lived on Madison Avenue with Charles MacArthur, as well as at the Algonquin. He did not take the Royalton rooms until 1929. Aleck Woollcott did share a residence on West 47th street with Jane Grant and Harold Ross, but that situation lasted only a few years. He bought an apartment on 52nd Street facing the East River, dubbed “Wit’s End” by Dottie Parker.

  And for the sake of action, I have occasionally placed an alleyway where there never was one, or invented a church or a theatre that never existed, that sort of thing.

  Officer Joe Woollcott of the NYPD is a figment of my imagination. But it is not unlikely that Aleck would have had such a down-to-earth cousin. Aleck was his family’s anomaly.

  At different times throughout the 1920s, Alexander Woollcott, Robert Benchley, Heywood Broun, Marc Connolly, and Robert Sherwood wrote for, or were editors of, many different publications. To avoid confusion, and finding the changes in employment of no consequence to the storylines of my books, I have kept them on the staffs of only one or two papers or magazines.

  Woodrow Wilson, our lovable Boston terrier, was one of a long line of dogs embraced by Dorothy Parker, including Robinson, a dachshund, and two poodles, each named Cliché. But, I chose Woodrow, and have kept him alive years longer than was actually the case.

  I do not refer to Dorothy Parker’s real-life romantic attachments, nor include those gentlemen in any of my stories, except for her husband, Eddie, and he is mentioned only to give the reader an understanding of her circumstances and the effects of World War I on her life and times.

  While researching, I have encountered many conflicting accounts of events involving my leading characters. It usually has to do with who said/did what to whom, and as these biographers/sources are sincere and unquestionably creditable, and as most of the stories in question are hearsay, or second- or third-generation accounts that these sources are retelling, situations that might not even have happened, these differences are of little importance, really, so forgive me my trespasses, please. First-hand accounts might have been embellished to enhance entertainment effect. (For example, Hemingway credited himself with several clever lines that were quipped by others, but were good enough for him to claim as his own.) I still cannot definitely attribute the line, “Let’s get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini,” to Robert Benchley. Some suggest it was a press agent or Aleck Woollcott who actually said the words. Lots of people claim credit. As nearly a century has passed, these retold events might be assigned to folklore. ( I wasn’t there;
you weren’t there; so we’ll never know for sure what really occurred.) Also, famous quotes once spoken by these famous people were not always spoken at the time and place at which I have put them in my novels.

  Praise for The Broadway Murders

  Those of us who since childhood had wished there was a time machine that could let us experience and enjoy life in other periods, should read Agata Stanford’s “Dorothy Parker Mysteries” series. They wonderfully recreate the atmosphere and spirit of the literary and artistic crowd at the Algonquin Round Table in the 1920s, and bring back to life the wit, habits, foibles, and escapades of Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, and Alexander Woollcott, as well as of the multitude of their friends and even their pets, both human and animal.

  —Anatole Konstantin

  Author of A Red Boyhood: Growing up under Stalin

  Oh, boy! I just read The Broadway Murders! Agata Stanford’s Dorothy Parker Mysteries is destined to become a classic series. It’s an addictive cocktail for the avid mystery reader. It has it all: murder, mystery, and Marx Brothers’ mayhem. You’ll see, once you’ve taken Manhattan with the Parker/Benchley crowd. Dorothy Parker wins! Move over, Nick and Nora.

  —Elizabeth Fuller

  Author of Me and Jezebel

  About the Author

  Agata Stanford is an actress, director, and playwright who grew up in New York City. While attending the School of Performing Arts, she’d often walk past the Algonquin Hotel, which sparked her early interest in the legendary Algonquin Round Table.