Stunned, and still standing, I reached over to pull Aleck by the elbow back down to his seat.
Mr. Benchley chuckled, “Not since Katherine Cornell first graced the footlights have I seen Aleck rendered speechless.”
After a few minutes of getting acquainted, we spoke of the issues at hand. “I can tell you for certain that Mr. Benny Booth did not kill Madame Olenska,” announced Rabindranath.
“The police believe he did,” said Mr. Benchley, “and as we see it, he’s probably fetched his wife, and they are on the run.”
“The police see only what is shown; they have yet to see what is so.”
“You mean the truth?”
“Some say there is no truth, there is only perception.”
“Well, just because one perceives Benny Booth killed Madame O, it doesn’t necessarily mean he did,” said Aleck. And only a little while ago, he had had the “willies” thinking he might have been strangled by the man!
“Precisely.”
“And you just stated that he did not kill her.”
“That is so.”
Mr. Benchley and Rabindranath could go on like this all night, playing philosophical word games. I cut in: “Do you know who killed her?”
“It is not for me to speculate.”
“But, if you had to guess?”
“I won’t have to. The truth will be revealed.”
“Rabindranath, did Madame ever confide in you?”
“About many things.”
“What I mean is, is it possible she told you to whom she was planning to leave her estate when she died? Did she ever say she included Caroline with a bequest?”
“Ah, I see. She was grateful that Caroline had come back into her life.” “Back? You mean, because of the friendship with the girl’s mother, Myra?”
“Caroline had not only become like a daughter to Madame,” he elaborated, “Caroline was her daughter. Caroline did not know many things, and Madame was conflicted, yet yearned to tell her all.”
“Tell her what? I don’t quite understand, Rabin-dranath.”
“Caroline’s father is the man known today as Luther Pendragon, who was once, for many years, Madame’s lover. Caroline was the issue of that union.”
“Holy crap!” I shouted, and then begged pardon for my language. “The photograph! That man in the group photograph was indeed Luther Pendragon. And Madame O was Caroline’s real mother?”
“Madame wished to do all she could to make amends to Myra, who was married to Luther during the years of their affair. Luther took the baby girl born to Annabelle, and presented her to his barren wife, Myra, telling her the child’s mother had died in childbirth. Myra never knew of the affair, or that Caroline was the result of the union. Annabelle grieved that she had hurt Myra, and that the truth would harm her friend more. Luther was too powerful a force against which to fight to get her child back. When Myra and Luther divorced, when Caroline was very young, Annabelle remained silent, and decided to look at her loss of the child as the opportunity in this life to pay the Karmic debt accrued by her indiscretions. Luther cut all ties with Myra and his daughter.
“And, then, when Caroline entered her life, not so long ago, Annabelle saw it as a second chance to know and love the child she thought lost to her.”
“Holy mackerel!” said Mr. Benchley.
I said, “I wonder—could it be that the ‘L’ of the love letters we found at Miss Ada’s referred to Luther? Had Ada been involved with Luther, too?”
“I do not know. I had never met Miss Ada, and Madame never told me any such thing.”
I wondered if Madame Olenska knew that Luther Pendragon had had an affair with her younger sister. I asked: “Do you think that Caroline found out that Madame was her real mother, and that her father was Pendragon?”
“I do not know,” replied Rabindranath. “Luther Pendragon does not go by his given name. It is only one of many he has assumed over the years. His real name is Laurence Gottlieb.”
“Seems to me,” said Mr. Benchley, “that everybody kept secrets from each other. How altruistic,” he said with sarcasm. “Everybody trying to protect everybody else. Lots of lies, some by omission, and everybody winds up miserable—except for Pendragon, that is,” said Mr. Benchley.
“Did Madame finally tell Caroline any of this?”
“I advised Madame Annabelle to make the decision to do so only if it was to the benefit of Caroline. Any burden of guilt was Madame’s alone to carry, not the child’s.”
Mr. Benchley and I were dumbfounded. I said, “What about ‘The truth will set you free’?”
Rabindranath smiled and nodded, “That that should always be true . . . .”
From out of left field, Aleck, who knew none of the people about whom we spoke, drew us back to the subject of Benny’s disappearance. “I don’t understand it. Benny was safe with me. The police would never have thought to look for him in my apartment, for as far as they knew there was no connection between us. Why run?”
“You said he appeared relieved to have a place to rest his head,” I said.
“Yes, he was very grateful about the accommodations. We talked for only a few minutes before he settled down on the couch with a pillow, blanket, and book as I retired to my bedroom.”
“Something must have sent him running. What were the last words between you two?” asked Mr. Benchley.
Aleck squinted behind thick spectacles, and when he spoke, the eyes widened and were magnified to twice their real size. ”Well, I tossed him that book by this fellow named ‘Shelby’; some people want to turn it into a play, you know.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I said it was good for a chuckle, told him the basic plot premise, that it would raise his spirits, and then I said ‘Goodnight’ and went to bed.”
“Oh?” asked Lord Wildly, “Which book is that?”
“A black comedy,” said Aleck. “Very well done for the subject matter.”
“Tell me, Old Man, I’m always looking for a good read.”
“On the order of that black comedy, Chicago, we saw the other night; a satire. It’s about a black widow—you know—a murderous woman.”
Remembering the novel of which Aleck now spoke, for I had reviewed it for the Saturday Evening Post, I rolled my eyes and said, “Yes, well, this woman marries a wealthy man, kills him for his money, and then moves on to the next. A female Bluebeard of sorts, but as you read on you begin to root for the terrible girl, who, by the end, is not really so terrible, after all! The men she weds and whacks are horrible fellows who deserve to die.”
“The title?”
“The Black Widow Murders. Came out this past summer.”
“Fear is a very powerful emotion,” said Rabindranath.
“Benny was scared he would be caught by the police,” I said, “and that someone we trusted would give him away!”
“Oh, I think not,” said Rabindranath. “He is a brave man at heart. I believe he no longer feared the charges.”
“I don’t understand, Rabindranath. What did he fear?”
“The question is, of whom was he fearful?”
(“Of whom,” not “for whom,” he’d just said.) For whom was he fearful? Had Benny run off on a mission of rescue? Did it have to do with Bette? I started putting the puzzle together in my mind. But the pieces weren’t quite fitting properly. A while ago, I believed we had found our killer, after suspecting several culprits. First there was Benny, who had a pressing motive: blackmail. Then, I considered Caroline. Whether or not she knew Madame was her real mother, would she have killed her? For a while, I thought the Katzenelenbogens were the likely killers, even though there was no apparent motive, just my silly prejudice and ignorance of their plight. They just looked guilty. It was not until I learned of their struggles that I understood that fear made people behave guardedly. Then there was Luther Pendragon. Although I knew almost nothing about him, Mr. Benchley and I had watched him wrench the jeweled key from the dead Miss Ada’s neck. H
e might have murdered her, left the scene when he heard Chaim’s approach, and then returned to fetch the very thing he had been after. But, could he have killed the Madame the night before? How had he gotten into the Washington Square house and past Caroline? What had he hoped to gain from killing Madame O? The chest! The beautiful chest that Chaim said belonged to Madame Olenska.
Now, Bette Booth had flown the coop. Was she with her husband, on the run, or out trying to find him? Where did the disappearance of Dvoyra Katzenelenbogen figure in all of this? Was Dvoyra just a pawn? Had she been an unwitting witness to one or both of the murders, or discovered someone’s secret, that, once revealed, might put the murderer in jeopardy of discovery? Had Dvoyra been murdered, too, her body discarded in any one of a million places in the city? And to add more confusion to the mix, who in heaven’s name was Lee Pigeon, for cry’noutloud? Pigeon probably didn’t figure in the scheme of things at all. And was there any connection between the murders of the spiritualists and the murder of detective Harry Finders, who had investigated Pigeon? Was his murder just coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidences. And yet, I could not find a common thread that wove everything together. Nothing fit! Once again, everyone was suspect.
Rabindranath indulged in another cocktail, and then Tony came over to the table to say “Hello.” Bidden by Aleck and Mr. Benchley, for the benefit of Chaim, Rabindranath, and Lord Wildly, Tony entertained us with his amazing stunt: The agile and wiry Mr. Soma positioned himself squarely between tables, tugged at his trousers at the knees, and then leaped head-over-heels to a handstand. And as if that wasn’t a funny enough feat from the proprietor of the establishment, he bellowed out the Largo al Factotum aria from Barber of Seville—“Figaro! Figaro! Fee-garrrr-ohh!”
The silliness brought an instant and transforming grin to Chaim’s face, a hearty chuckle from Lord Wildly, and a joyful smile from Rabindranath. The barflies burst out in applause.
Tony’s little routine had charmed many a visitor to his establishment, and as we were among his favorites, he showed his favor by entertaining our guests. Tony flipped back upright and ordered a round of drinks for our table on the house.
Soon it was time to be on our way. We had business to attend to: a telephone call to FPA to be assured that he, Heywood, and Ross were ready to set the plan in motion. Mr. Benchley took out his little notebook and read the schedule aloud. “Let’s see, now: At ten o’clock, hail taxi to the Royalton to pick up my mandolin.”
“Stop right there, Mister,” I said. “Why do we have to stop to get your mandolin?”
“Because my violin is at home in Scarsdale.”
“I suppose that makes sense . . . .”
“Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?” he said, officiously. “Oh, yes. Then, at ten-forty P.M., we taxi on to the theatre to pick up the Brothers after their final curtain call. We wait while they costume up. That’ll take a good twenty minutes, give or take five . . . .
“Eleven-ten P.M.: Taxi on to Grand Central Terminal in time for Groucho and Zeppo to sneak onto the train from Boston when it arrives at eleven-twenty-six.”
“That makes little sense,” I interrupted, again.
“It will make perfect sense later. So kindly refrain—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . .”
“Eleven-twenty P.M.: Taxi on with Chico, Harpo, Mrs. P, and Lordly Whimsy—”
“Wildly.”
“Of course, Lord Wildly—please forgive—to the Dakota.”
“What about me and Tiny Tim over here?” said Aleck.
“You and Chaim can’t come.”
“Whaddaya mean, I can’t come!” bellowed Aleck.
“Chaim can’t come to the Dakota. Bring him back to the Algonquin, to the room we got for him. Rabindranath can join you, too, if he likes. Then, if you haven’t heard from us by one A.M. with the news that we’ve got Dvoyra, get up to the Dakota with the police.”
“Harrumph!”
A young man and his pretty companion approached our table as Mr. Benchley, Lord Wildly, and I rose to put on our coats and hats. Their nervous smiles revealed their trepidation as they begged pardon for the interruption. Aleck thought for sure they were autograph seekers, and was surprised when they addressed Rabindranath instead. We left our friends to their own devices, and when I turned to look back at the table, I saw that several other patrons had gathered around to speak with the swami.
We caught a cab to take us by Mr. Benchley’s apartment so that he could fetch his mandolin before meeting the Brothers at their theatre. We had no time to lose.
There was a real sense of adventure, as well as an impending charge of kidnapping looming in our near futures. When you thought about it, it was not so great a threat; the “abductee” was, after all, a loathsome Hun, a black magician—a Satanist. The men were merely planning to divert him (and truth be told, they all had a bit of the Devil in them). Ross, Broun, and FPA met the real Percival Peckinpah as he climbed off the eleven-twenty-six from Boston and hurried him off the platform before Pendragon’s chauffeur could intervene.
Now, not to be upstaged by the arrival of the numerous dignitaries of the Horticultural Society, coming in for their annual convention on the study and discouragement of the common aphid, to be held at the Biltmore (the party also arriving on the train from Beantown), Groucho Marx stepped up and then out from the train to unusual fanfare—thanks to the assistance of his brother, Zeppo, who, with cornet, blasted a cacophonous series of unfortunate notes to call everyone’s attention to Herr Peckinpah’s arrival. Well, Peckinpah’s replacement, that is. The switch was successfully made!
Flourishing a black cape, tossed rakishly over an old-fashioned turn-of-the-century frock coat, wearing striped trousers, winged collar, and bowed cravat, and with the addition of bottle-thick glasses and facial hair that covered much of his lower face and transformed his eyebrows into great wings (all stuck on with spirit gum), Groucho bowed deeply to the crowd who’d gathered, attracting the attention of several photographers from the World and the Herald-Tribune. (They evidently smelled a bigger story there than the control of aphids.) Two steamer trunks were lowered and the porters instructed to follow the entourage to the car that was waiting to take the illustrious foreigner uptown.
Meanwhile, as a rather confused Percival Peckinpah, in the company of Ross, Broun, and FPA, taxied to oblivion—that is, to the far reaches of Rockaway—Groucho and Zeppo made their way uptown to the Dakota and the lair of Luther Pendragon.
The maid answered the bell.
Steamer trunks were wheeled in as Groucho handed the maid his cape, hat, gloves, and stick, and looked around the candlelit reception room.
“Ach, ya, un spectin’ ze davenport,” said Groucho, as he made a beeline to the sofa he’d only recently carried in with the help of his brothers. He stretched out. “Achtung ze gledenbocher,” he babbled, closing his eyes and folding his arms like a corpse at a wake.
A strapping young man gowned in black satin entered from the depths of the apartment to greet the esteemed guest, and introduced himself as “Ralph the Ravisher of the Third Circle, and assistant to Master Pendragon.”
Upon seeing the bearded figure lying across the unfamiliar sofa, Ralph frowned. Zeppo jumped in with a thick German accent: “Goot ev-en-ink. I am Ludwig Himmelbaum, interpre-tor for Herr Peckinpah. He ist in meditation.”
Groucho leaped to his feet at the sound of his name.
“Ja-wohl!” he said, looking wildly around the room.
“Grand Master, das ist Herr Rolph der Ravisher. Rolph, dis ist ze Grand Master Percival Peckinpah.”
“This is a great honor, Grand Master Peckinpah,” said the Ravisher, bowing deeply, his voice reverent.
Groucho patted the man’s head. ”Zieg glooden ze yaken a pae-pae.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, you can call him ‘P.P.’—all his friends do.”
From the far reaches of the apartment came the mournful sounds of chanting
. “Pardon me, Grand Master,” said Ralph. “The acolytes of the Fourth Dimension are nearing completion of their preparation. I will return momentarily.”
Filing in silently through the front door were dozens of black-caped followers. Mr. Benchley, Lord Wildly, and I blended into the crowd, wearing the black pilgrim-style robes of a Greek chorus, our heads bowed so as to shadow our features. Each arrival was handed a black hood with eye, mouth, and nose holes cut out, which was to be donned before entering the salon.
Three acolytes dressed in red tunics came out through the entrance to the salon carrying a red-and-gold cape, which they ceremoniously unfolded and draped over the shoulders of the esteemed Grand Master P.P. In his ridiculous googly-glasses, pointed beard, and winged brows, all Groucho needed to complete the look was a pair of horns and a pitchfork.
Zeppo went over to the two steamer trunks that had been wheeled in and unhooked the clasps. The sections were parted on their hinges to reveal Harpo and Chico, who each emerged from his trunk wearing Greek chorus robes.
“Herr P.P. haz brought alonk hiz own musicians for ze occasion,” announced Zeppo, when Ralph the Ravisher reentered the room, “and ze new American Foreign Ambassador of ze Black Hood Society haz agreed to give his report of our missionary work.”
“Ja-wohl,” nodded the fancifully berobed Groucho.
Ralph appeared to consider the request, and when Chico inquired, “Where’s the pipe organ?” he pointed to the salon.
Harpo, Chico, and Mr. Benchley walked through to the big room, and behold, there was indeed an organ. Serendipitously, too, a full-sized gilded harp stood in the corner beside the organ. As Lord Wildly and I drifted into the crowded salon, Mr. Benchley reached under his robes and took out his mandolin.
Chico hit a fierce chord on the organ, startling the gathering of about thirty berobed people, and progressed up the manuals, chord by chord, as Mr. Benchley tuned his instrument.
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom! burst forth the notes of the organ.
[Dorothy Parker 03] - Mystic Mah Jong Page 22
