Woodrow, eager to meet up with a fireplug, led the way out of the apartment.
Woodrow Wilson—Girl's best friend
Woodrow and Gervaise
Chapter Four
“Extra! Extra!” shouted the newsy at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 53rd Street. “Another spiritualist murdered!”
Mr. Benchley waved out the window of the taxi that was taking us back to the Algonquin. He flipped the kid a nickel and grabbed the paper just as the cop signaled the avenue traffic to move on.
“Damn,” I said, looking over the front page. “They sure made fast work of it.”
“It doesn’t say much,” said Mr. Benchley, scanning the columns. “No mention of us, or of any suspects.”
“The reporters didn’t do their job. All they had to do was ask the concierge who’d been to see Miss Ada this morning.”
“The police probably told her to keep her books closed. ‘Don’t talk to the press,’ Detective Morgan said. But everybody we know is ‘the press’!”
“I’m sure our friends will keep it under their hats,” I said with assurance.
Mr. Benchley shook his head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Parker, with the characters we run with, there’ll be lots of hats tossed into the ring.”
“But with their contacts and resources our friends can help us solve the murders.”
“What do you mean, ‘help us solve the murders’? You heard what the detective told us: We might be the next victims of the murderer!”
I had to laugh. I said: “When have we ever listened to the police?”
His expression was wide-eyed innocence. Woodrow stood on my lap and licked his face.
“There is that,” he considered, “but, it’s dangerous.”
“So is most of the swill we knock down; God knows what’s really in it!”
“And the threat of facing strangulation doesn’t concern you?”
“Not in the least! People have been threatening to strangle me for years, mostly, of course, actors and authors I’ve washed down the drain.”
“Well, I’m not so concerned for myself, you understand. I’ve plenty of life insurance for Gertrude and the children, should it come to that. Anyway, I’m bigger and stronger than anyone who’d try to squeeze my neck. It’s you I’m thinking of, my dear Dottie.”
“I’ve Woodrow Wilson to watch my back if the culprit comes after me. He is my alarm system, you know,” I said, nuzzling the bug-eyed critter.
“Are we in agreement that the person who murdered Madame O killed Miss Ada, too?”
“Certainly.”
“It makes sense, considering most of the participants of last night’s séance tramped through Miss Ada’s place this morning.”
Once out of the cab, I handed Woodrow Wilson to Jimmy the Bellboy, with the request he be walked and returned to my apartment. At the front desk were messages. My publisher had called, probably concerning my collection of poems, Enough Rope, which had just hit the bookstands: Reviews were grand and sales were pretty good. I’d telephone him later. My suit was ready to be picked up from the tailor, and Jane had called, too. I was stuffing the messages into my purse for later consideration when I came across the calling card Lord Wildly had handed me the evening before.
We walked through the pillars leading to the Rose Room, where Aleck was holding court, pressing a fork against the last few meager cake crumbs on his dessert plate. Why doesn’t he just pick up the plate and lick off the remains? I thought, with snippy distaste. Fact was, I was ravenous and my mood had turned suddenly dark. The others were finishing up, too, as we’d arrived quite late for luncheon.
I asked our waiter, Luigi, for a hamburger, and Mr. Benchley liked my idea so much that he ordered one, too.
“Ahh,” said Aleck at our appearance. “The prodigal son and the cat he dragged in.”
I was poised to strike back with a sharp retort as Mr. Benchley removed his derby, brushed off my footprint from its crown, smoothed back his hair, and brushed down his moustache. And then, looking at me oddly, he leaned in and snapped off the bent feather from my hat. “It’s been a hair-raising morning, don’t you know?”
I took out my compact and examined the damage in the mirror. Thank goodness women are not required to remove their hats at the dinner table. I tucked a stray tendril of hair under what was left of my chapeau.
“So we’ve heard,” said Aleck with a smile.
“Cousin Joe?” I asked.
“And half the reporters on twelve dailies, if you didn’t know.”
“Try to keep a secret in this town!”
“Aleck exaggerates. Only we of the Circle know you were at the murder scene, and mum’s the word, ain’t that right, Sonny Boy?” said George S, looking over at Marc Connelly, a.k.a. “Mama’s boy.”
“Cheer up, Connelly,” said Harold Ross, looking at his watch and rising from the table. “When they tire of the bald jokes and the mama jokes, they’ll start in on your penis.”
“What about my penis?”
“They’ll be at you about how small it is,” said Ross.
“How would anybody know? No one’s ever seen my pe—!” said Marc, instantly regretting his reply as a roar of laughter shook the room.
“And that’s the damned shame of it,” giggled Edna.
Edna had put herself into dangerous territory, now, and it’s a wonder she didn’t realize it. As the short, plain, and sadly shapeless forty-year-old spinster, expected to grow chin whiskers in her later years to complement the fine dark hair shadowing her upper lip, sat there smiling, everyone held their breath, waiting for Marc to spurt out something vile about Edna. Marc looked her over, and, gentleman that he is, decided not to shoot her down.
Noel Coward came to mind, a time not too long ago, when Edna remarked that, dressed to the nines, Noel “looks almost like a man.” His retort, after running his eyes up and down the double-breasted suit that Edna sported: “So do you, Edna.”
I restrained myself—a bitchy remark on the tip of my tongue burned for release!
The devils screamed and hooted and stomped, so much so that Frank Case looked up from the front desk to peer into the dining room.
“’S’all right, Frank,” bellowed Aleck, “no one injured—well, just Marc’s manhood, perhaps! All in good fellowship! Just a little game of I’ll show you my thing if you show me yours.”
“Why, you howling hermaphrodite!” hissed Marc. “You haven’t a thing to show!” Egged on by a back-slapping Ross, who usually took the brunt of Aleck’s vitriol, Marc dueled on with Aleck. George S cowered, imperceptibly, his lips pressed tightly together: It had been he who had started in on Marc with the comment of his being a mama’s boy, and now it had escalated into crass sexual sparring. George hated crass sexual sparring.
Lots of puffed-out chests, ruffled feathers; had they been standing, there’d have been strutting, too. George smoothed down his tie, pulled at his cuffs, and waited for it all to pass; Mr. Benchley lent full attention to the cutting of his hamburger into four pie sections, snapping his napkin to his lap, ignoring the antics; Edna and FPA beamed, their heads snapping from Marc to Aleck as if watching a tennis match; Heywood looked up from the sport section of the World every so often to encourage Marc with, “Don’t let him belittle you, Sonny,” and “When you grow up, so will the rest of you.” The feigned effrontery broke into chuckles, and with little transition the topic of discussion returned to the morning’s adventure.
We told about the comings and goings of various suspects of the crime, the prediction of Mr. Benchley’s motion-picture career, our sojourn into the closet of Ada Leopold, ventures behind Chinese screens, the key-stealing monster, and the shuffle out the back door of the Dakota, cheerfully referred to as the “Mortuary Door,” as this was the final exit-way for residents who had died on the premises.
When I said I was concerned that the murderer might come after me and Mr. Benchley, FPA struck a match and said, “Not to worry, Dottie, honey,” before lighting his ciga
r and then leaning so far back in his chair that I thought it would slip out from under him.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Frank?” I was so annoyed at his cocky outlook at the possible danger we were in that I wanted to kick the chair legs out from under him myself.
“I don’t know. You look worried, is all, and I don’t want you to worry.”
“Nice sentiment,” I shot back. “But ‘not to worry’ isn’t going to keep the murderer away from my door, or Mr. Benchley’s, either, for that matter! If the killer of Miss Ada finds out we were in the apartment at the time he murdered her, he’ll think we saw him do the dastardly deed and then he’ll try to get rid of us!”
Mr. Benchley wiped ketchup from his handsome chin: “You’ve changed your tune since our cab ride, Mrs. Parker. And what makes you so sure it was a man done her in?”
“Women don’t go around killing people.”
A dozen eyebrows raised in pairs. I felt as foolish as Marc must have felt after his unguarded comment earlier.
“Alllll riiight! Some doooo,” I whined, throwing down my fork.
“You bet your life, they do,” said Aleck, pinky extended, as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips.
“Well, I don’t want to bet my life. And how the hell would you know?”
“I read the papers.”
“Women are knocking-off their husbands and shooting boyfriends left and right all over the country, don’t you know?” said FPA, his stinky cigar bobbing like a wagging finger as he spoke.
“It’s become the popular thing to do,” said Edna. “Beats divorce.”
“Yes,” agreed Ross, “quite the fashion.”
“But such fads will pass,” said Mr. Benchley in dour reflection. “Women will return to the good old-fashioned ways of killing their men: slowly, deliberately, with pain inflicted over many years. A shotgun blast to the heart may make short work of it, but is far less gratifying to the female psyche.”
“I’m telling Gertrude!” I said.
“Call Mother while you’re at it!”
“You big ape!” I said, with an affectionate stab.
“Now, now, Mrs. Parker, let’s not get into personalities.”
Ross popped in: “Jane vowed to be there for me till the end. She’s said she wants to be there to watch me die.”
“Gives her something to look forward to,” I said.
“Which reminds me,” said Aleck, “speaking of female homicidal maniacs! Tonight is the opening of that new play, Chicago.”
He continued like an old schoolmarm, peering sternly over his glasses at the critics at the table. “Well, now, children, who’s going?”
There were certainly days when Aleck was best suited to the mocking moniker, Louisa Mae Woollcott.
Heywood, straight-faced, lowered the sports page: “Are you taking attendance?”
“Thought we might sup and taxi over together. I’ve invited Edna to be my guest, and FPA has muscled his way into the critic’s circle as well. Oh, and Bunny Wilson will join us, too.”
Hands raised, the count was six: Broun, me and Mr. B, FPA, Edna and Aleck, and Edmund Wilson made seven. George, Marc, and Ross might catch the show later in the week, should the play survive our opening-night notices. It was decided: a light supper at the Waldorf at seven.
“The Waldorf? That’s the hotel where Lord Tristan Wildly is staying. Which reminds me: Broun, can you use your newspaper resources to dig up some information for me?”
“What do you need, my dear?”
Mr. Benchley knocked on the door of the Waldorf suite. We’d not bothered to ring up to the room from the lobby. It was better to arrive unexpectedly, we’d agreed. Although there was no reason to suspect Lord Wildly of foul play, there was also no reason to assume his innocence, either.
We ran into Aleck down in the lobby on his way into the dining room, and he insisted on coming up to meet the titled gentleman. If anything, our Ugly American would serve as ruse for the visit.
The door was opened by Wildly’s butler or valet, or general “man,” whatever the British called male servants these days. After taking our coats and Mr. Benchley’s and Aleck’s silk top hats and walking sticks, we were announced before entering the living room. There, standing uncharacteristically still beside the windows, was Bette Booth, dressed elegantly in a sleek pink sheath gown, woven with thousands of tiny metallic disks, that shimmered in the lamplight and draped dramatically low to hover over alabaster breasts. Her magnificent black hair was adorned with an elaborately designed headband, its dyed-pink bird-tail feathers rising from the central crown like the water spay of a splendid fountain. In spite of the expensive store-bought stylishness, there was something overblown about the whole look, and I realized that had she simply discarded the diamond necklace, and just one bracelet, the effect would have been lovely.
Was I envious? You bet. Overly bejeweled or not, Bette was a rare beauty, and I envied her ability to carry off such a gown. Alongside such beautiful women as she, I always feel like a comical pixie, and yearn to have the svelte elegance of long-and-graceful-limbed creatures. We did not have a chance to speak before Lord Wildly entered to greet us, dressed in formal evening attire.
“Oh, my giddy aunt, this is a pleasure, Dorothy!” he said, taking my hand to kiss. “Mr. Benchley!”
“Call me ‘Bob,’” said Mr. Benchley, before introducing Aleck, who was glowing with heady gratitude when Lord Wildly said he had heard much about him, that he was admired as a famous wit on the other side of the pond.
“Would that anybody should know you east of Manhattan,” I purred naughtily in Aleck’s ear.
“I say, had I known you were coming—Godfrey! Open that bottle of Mum, will you? Strike a light! This is grand! Settle down and we’ll have a nice chinwag.”
I was starving, and whatever a “chin wag” was, I’m always for trying new things.
Wildly offered us chairs across from where Bette now sat on the davenport. He settled himself on its arm, removing from his jacket a gold cigarette case, which he offered around, before lighting my cigarette. “You remember Mrs. Booth, of course; you met her last evening.”
“A terrible shame about Madame Olenska,” said Aleck.
“Yes, a terrible shame,” echoed Mr. Benchley.
“It’s in all of your newspapers,” said Wildly. “A rum do; lost the rag when I heard!”
“Don’t believe all you read,” interjected Aleck.
I wanted to brain him. Mr. Benchley and I had impressed upon him that we were after information about the murders, and the less said, the better.
“Noel’s a great friend of ours, did you know?” said my bigmouth friend.
“Noel?”
“He’s talking about Noel Coward,” I explained, trying to hide my annoyance with a smile.
“And Gertie Lawrence is in town, you know.”
“Top hole!” said Lord Wildly, a bit absently.
“She’s starring in our friends’ musical, Oh, Kay!” He blabbered on, name-dropping, ad nauseum. “Yes, it’s by the two Georges, Kaufman and Gershwin.”
“Gordon Bennett!” said Lord Wildly, smiling blankly, a bit distracted, too.
“Who?”
“Sorry, old man; don’t mind me. Let’s see, I suppose in America you’d say, ‘Christopher Columbus!’ Were you talking about Music Hall theatricals? No, Alexander—”
“Call me ‘Aleck.’”
Call him “idiot”!
“—I’ve never met your Noel or Gertie.”
“Your own compatriots! Well, we’ll have to fix that!”
After I fix you!
Mr. Benchley jumped back in with: “It is a terrible shame about Madame Olenska, all right.”
Eyes steady on Lord Wildly, Bette Booth fiddled with her handkerchief.
“And sadly, another spiritualist was found murdered this afternoon.”
“Why, pull my plonker!” said Wildly.
I had no idea what a “plonker” was, but if he
wanted it pulled, he’d have to ask somebody else.
“Miss Ada Leopold was her name,” said Mr. Benchley, matter-of-factly. “It’s in all the papers.”
The reaction was real, all right:
Bette Booth blanched.
His lordship’s lip lowered; the cigarette nearly tumbled from his fingers.
Tears welled in the woman’s eyes, and blood rushed back into her cheeks, restoring her usual high color. She turned toward the window to gaze searchingly out at the city lights. It was dark outside and I could see her reflection in the glass. Bette Booth was coming unstrung.
There followed a long pause as Wildly tried to regain his calm demeanor. He snuffed out his smoke and took a glass of champagne offered on a tray by his man, Godfrey.
Bette shook her head when approached with the tray. “Bette, have a sip. It will make you feel better, my dear,” Wildly said, as he went to her side and rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, it is all too much!” cried Bette, and then, as if searching for a place of escape, she bolted through the bedroom door.
Aleck turned to me, “Too much celebrity?”
“Oh, do shut up Aleck.”
“Please excuse Bette,” said Lord Wildly. He appeared conflicted, looking toward the bedroom door and then back at us, as if trying to decide what best to do, what best to say. He opened his cigarette case, took a cigarette, tapped it, and then lit it, exhaling a long cloud of smoke.
“She’s got the collywobbles; I thought she might be up the duff.”
“Excuse me?”
“In the pudding.”
“Oh, dear me, whatever that is, it sounds serious,” I said. “Shall we call for the doctor?”
He chuckled, “No, old prune, it means pregnant. But no; it’s just nerves. The Booths met Madame Olenska on their return to New York from South Hampton,” he stated. “We, well, all of us at the séance last night met on the ship. Bette had grown quite attached to the old girl.”
[Dorothy Parker 03] - Mystic Mah Jong Page 8
