by J. J. Murphy
Frank Case raised his hands in an attempt to quiet the crowd. “As required, I shall inform the Department of Health, and they will insist—and Dr. Hurst here agrees—that in the interest of safety we must quarantine the hotel.” A fresh wave of moans and jeers answered this. Case glanced toward Doyle. “Now, fear not, we will make your stay—whether or not you intended to be our guests tonight—as enjoyable and comfortable as possible. But for the time being these doors will remain closed.”
As Case was saying this, the doors opened and a stunning young woman strolled in. She was wrapped in furs, with a matching fur hat. A long feather bobbed from the hat as she walked. She stopped just inside the lobby, because everyone’s eyes were on her. She seemed to revel in this attention. She flung off the furs and revealed a short, skimpy flapper’s dress barely covering her tall, shapely figure.
“Bibi’s here!” the woman announced with a dazzling smile and her arms raised over her head. “Let the party begin!”
Several men cheered.
Dorothy, like Woollcott and the others, recognized the flashy young woman. She was Bibi Bibelot, currently the most popular young starlet on Broadway.
Case tried to raise his voice over the cheers. “Miss, you cannot come in. We’re in quarantine.”
“I don’t care if you’re in quicksand,” Bibi chuckled. “I’m here for Doug Fairbanks’ New Year’s Eve bash!” And, dragging her furs behind, she pranced on high heels into the midst of the crowd. Woollcott, almost literally riding on her coattails, followed after her.
Case shrugged. Not much could disrupt his cool demeanor. “As I was saying, from henceforth no one shall be admitted in or out—”
Then Robert Benchley came through the doors. He shook the snow off his hat and dusted it from the shoulders of his coat. Then he looked up to see the entire crowd in the lobby staring at him.
“Hello there,” he said to the crowd as his mirthful eyes creased. “Did someone call for a plumber?”
Dr. Hurst grabbed Frank Case’s arm and shouted in his ear, “Lock those doors!”
Dorothy rushed up to Benchley. She was so happy to see him, she could just hug him. But she stopped herself. Maybe she’d simply give him a peck on the cheek—at midnight.
“Hello, Mrs. Parker,” he said. “What fresh hell is this?”
“That’s my line!” She smiled and gently squeezed his arm. “But I’ll lend it to you for now, because I certainly am glad to see you.”
“The feeling is mutual, my dear Mrs. Parker,” he said, and smiled in return.
The feeling is mutual? she thought. If he only knew!
“So, what’s the hullabaloo?” he asked, taking off his coat.
She nodded toward the white-haired man. “That venerable doctor recently examined a family of tourists staying here. He determined they have smallpox. So Frank Case has just declared a quarantine of the whole hotel.”
Case and Dr. Hurst rushed past them, followed by Alfred, the uniformed employee who manned the front desk. Alfred had a ring of keys. He selected one key without looking, slid it smoothly into the keyhole and locked the doors with a decisive clack.
Case turned to Dr. Hurst. “The Health Department will be here soon with an official notice and a seal for the door. Is that satisfactory?”
Dr. Hurst tested the door himself. It didn’t budge. “Yes, fine, fine,” he said dismissively. “By the way, do you have a safe in which guests may keep valuables?”
For the first time, Case looked put out. “Yes, but it’s broken. I entrust our valuables to Oscar.”
“Who the devil is Oscar?” Dr. Hurst fumed.
“Our doorman. A large and eminently trustworthy fellow.”
“Fine, fine.” Dr. Hurst dug into his jacket pocket and brought out a silver locket. “This item is extremely important. Please give it to him immediately.”
“I can’t.”
“Why ever not?”
“We’ve just locked him outside,” Case said simply.
Dr. Hurst shoved the locket back into his pocket, turned and charged off in a huff. He muttered over his shoulder to Doyle, “Come on. You can telephone your wife from my room.”
Dorothy stood on tiptoes to whisper in Benchley’s ear. “That’s Arthur Conan Doyle—Sir Arthur to peasants like you and me. Let’s go pull his whiskers.”
She and Benchley followed Dr. Hurst and Doyle to the small elevator. Bibi Bibelot was already inside, as was Maurice, the greasy old elevator operator.
Bibi twisted in the tight space and turned her beautiful body and her big bright eyes on Dr. Hurst. “How long will the quarantine last?” she asked him breathlessly. Dorothy wondered how Bibi could make a question about smallpox sound sexy, but somehow she did.
Dr. Hurst appeared immune to Bibi’s allure. He stared straight ahead at nothing. “Could be forty-eight hours. Could be two weeks.”
“Well, that’s okay, then,” Bibi cooed. “Fairbanks’ New Year’s Eve party could very well last that long!”
Dr. Hurst didn’t answer. Bibi eyed him up and down. Dorothy knew that expression—it was the look of an unabashed gold digger.
Maurice closed the elevator door, threw a switch and pulled a control lever. The elevator lurched slowly upward.
Dorothy stood behind Benchley’s elbow and in front of Doyle’s barrel chest. Doyle cleared his throat and broke the awkward silence to address Dorothy.
“Forgive my curiosity, miss, but did I hear you and a colleague discussing a murder?”
Miss! She liked Doyle right away. She would have stepped on his foot if he had said madam.
“Not a real murder,” Dorothy said to Doyle. “It’s a silly party game. We put slips of paper into a hat. One slip is for the detective, one is for the murderer. Everyone else is a potential victim. The person who pulls out the murderer slip pretends to kill someone. The detective, and everyone else, has to solve the murder. If anyone would enjoy such a game, you would.”
“Me?” Doyle asked. “Why me?”
Dorothy was momentarily taken aback. “Because you wrote all those Sherlock Holmes stories, of course.”
“Hell’s bells!” Bibi cried. “You wrote Sherlock Holmes?”
“Not in years,” Doyle said sullenly. “I’ve grown weary of that name.”
Bibi took no notice of Doyle’s sour change in mood. “When we were kids, my brother could not stop reading your silly little detective stories. You must be rich and famous.”
“I too am quite an admirer of Holmes,” Benchley said sincerely.
But at the mention of the name Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle’s eyes had clouded over. He didn’t answer.
Dr. Hurst snorted. He turned and spoke to Doyle as though they were alone. “I’ve a new attendant. He can pour us some sherries while you make your phone call.”
Cripes, thought Dorothy, one little mention of Sherlock Holmes and they get their noses out of joint?
She and Benchley exchanged a look. Now Benchley cleared his throat. “So, how do you two gents know each other?”
Dr. Hurst responded curtly, never looking at Benchley. “Medical school. University of Edinburgh.”
“Ah, medical school,” Benchley said thoughtfully, and turned to Dorothy. “And what school did you attend, Mrs. Parker?”
Benchley knew full well she hadn’t even graduated from high school.
“Elementary, my dear Benchley,” she said with a wry grin. “Elementary.”
Chapter 2
Doyle looked at Dorothy and raised a bushy eyebrow.
The elevator stopped. “Ninth floor,” croaked Maurice the elevator operator, and he pulled back the accordion gate and opened the door.
Dr. Hurst hurried out. Doyle followed with another curious glance over his shoulder at Dorothy. Maurice shut the door after the two men.
The elevator moved upward.
Bibi turned to Dorothy with a salacious wink of her eye. “Did you hear that? A doctor! He must be loaded.”
“Which one?” Dorothy replied. “They’re both doctors.”
“Either one,” Bibi said with a devilish smile. “But I like the look of the old white-haired one. He probably has one foot in the grave already. And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The Sherlock Holmes fella was.”
“You have amazing powers of observation,” Dorothy said dryly.
Bibi nodded in agreement and with a hint of superiority. “I didn’t make it to Broadway without brains.”
Or a nice pair of knockers, Dorothy thought.
The elevator stopped again, at the top floor this time. “Twelfth floor. Penthouse suites,” Maurice said, pulling open the gate. They heard laughter and chatter from the other end of the hall.
“Which way to the Fairbanks’ suite?” Bibi asked Maurice condescendingly. “I’m attending their exclusive party.”
Maurice looked down the short hallway. At the opposite end were wide-open double doors, and inside was a crowd of people having a party.
“Right there, lady,” Maurice said, pointing a crooked finger.
Bibi gave a half glance over her shoulder at Benchley. “Tip him a nickel, would you? That’s a good boy.” And she sauntered toward the open doors.
Benchley shrugged, fished a coin out of his pocket and handed it to Maurice. Then he and Dorothy followed Bibi toward the Fairbanks’ apartment.
Dorothy linked her arm through Benchley’s. She was just happy to have him here. She didn’t give a tinker’s damn about snotty dopes like Bibi Bibelot. As frequent theatergoers, Dorothy and Benchley had seen Bibi on stage not long ago. Bibi had indeed made quite a sensation as the star of a hit comedy written by their friends and fellow Round Table–mates Marc Connelly and George Kaufman.
But despite the promising start to Bibi’s career, a new starlet like her appeared on Broadway every fall. They’re like annual flowers, these girls, Dorothy thought. By the end of spring, her glamour and luster would fade like petals, and she’d be swept aside when a newer, prettier one came along the next year.
Bibi paused at the suite’s threshold and raised her arms in the air. “Bibi’s here!” she announced as she had in the lobby. “Let the party begin!”
But unlike the cheering welcome she’d received in the lobby, the small gathering of people inside the suite generally ignored her. After a moment she dropped her arms in disappointment. “Where’s the booze?” she asked no one in particular, and wandered in.
Dorothy and Benchley strolled in after her and immediately picked out the hosts, Douglas Fairbanks and his wife, Mary Pickford. They stood in the center of the suite’s large parlor.
Now these are real stars, Dorothy thought.
Fairbanks was the most famous actor on Broadway as well as a box office smash in Hollywood. He was more fit than an Olympic athlete and more handsome than an Olympic god. But his success was also due to his magnetic charm, his boundless energy—and his relentless ambition to succeed.
Mary Pickford, known in the press as “America’s Sweetheart,” looked like a teenager, with a cherubic face and long blond curls streaming over her shoulders. Yet, Dorothy knew, she and Mary were about the same age. Indeed, Mary had been Hollywood’s most popular and highest-paid actress for a full decade—back when Dorothy was still playing the piano at a dance school to eke out a living.
“Mrs. Parker! Mr. Benchley!” Fairbanks cried, grabbing Benchley’s hand and shaking it like a maraca, then giving Dorothy a chaste smooch on the cheek. His neatly trimmed mustache tickled her skin. “How’s tricks, kids?”
Despite their riches and fame, Fairbanks and Pickford were as down-to-earth as anyone she knew. Fairbanks was always ready to do a handstand or some acrobatic trick just for a laugh, and Mary was similarly quick to lend a sympathetic ear or a helping hand.
“We have good news and bad news,” Benchley said.
Fairbanks and Pickford looked puzzled.
Dorothy said, “The good news is that your party may indeed last for days. The bad news is that it’s because the hotel has been quarantined. So the people who are here now are all who are coming.”
It took only another minute to explain the situation about the quarantine and the family with smallpox.
Fairbanks looked around at the sparse crowd in his living room. He was downcast, but only for a moment.
“Well,” he said, his dazzling smile and optimism quickly reappearing, “that just means there’s all the more fun for us!”
As he spoke, Case arrived and joined them. Case apologized to Fairbanks and Pickford for stifling their party. Dorothy was well aware that Case and Fairbanks had known each other a long time—years ago, Fairbanks might as well have been sleeping in Central Park if it hadn’t been for the generosity of Frank Case. Nowadays Fairbanks could practically afford to buy Central Park.
“No problem, Frank,” Fairbanks said. “Put the word out. Anyone and everyone in the hotel is welcome up to our party.”
Mary nodded her agreement.
“That’s extremely generous of you,” Case said. “I’m sure many of our guests will be thrilled to hear it. I’ll have the bellhops knock on every door.”
“Mi casa es su casa,” Fairbanks said cheerfully.
Case smiled politely. “Actually, the whole hotel is mi casa, but your point is understood. Now, I don’t mean to hinder your party yet again, but you do know there is a Prohibition on,” he said pointedly, looking at the half-full martini glass in Fairbanks’ hand. “You have no liquor up here, right?”
Fairbanks quickly raised the glass to his lips and drained it dry.
“Nope, no liquor,” he said. “Not a drop.”
* * *
Within an hour, the suite had filled up with hotel guests from every floor. They were summoned to the party by Douglas Fairbanks’ generous—and indiscriminate—invitation. Every guest in the hotel must have come to this party, Dorothy thought. She recognized hardly anyone. A few were longtime residents like her who made the hotel their home. But most of the partygoers were strangers—out-of-towners who were staying at the Algonquin for the holidays. There were loud, middle-aged men with louder ties and cheap suits. Frivolous, overly excited women flocked together in tight clumps. In one corner, two nuns eyed the room warily and whispered only to each other. What are they doing here? Dorothy wondered. Is this the clientele the hotel always attracts for the holidays?
Few of the partygoers were the urbane characters—famous composers and musicians, clever newspapermen and magazine editors, amusing artists and illustrators—that Dorothy was used to seeing at these types of gatherings.
“It’s like a convention of insurance adjusters and tax accountants,” Alexander Woollcott complained.
But Dorothy didn’t really care. She and Benchley and a few other members of the Algonquin Round Table were gathered in a close group. They had circled their wagons as though defending against a horde of attacking savages. The group included Woollcott and his close friend Harpo Marx. Also with them was Jane Grant, wife of Harold Ross. (Grant and Ross were desperately trying to get a new magazine, The New Yorker, off the ground.) The other member of their group was Ruth Hale, a “radical” feminist and wife to sportswriter Heywood Broun. Ross and Broun had both intended to join their wives for the party, but they had failed to arrive before Frank Case closed the hotel for the quarantine.
It was getting warm in the extremely crowded room. Jane Grant fanned herself with a magazine and sipped a gin and tonic. “How long do you suppose this lousy quarantine will last?” she asked.
Dorothy cast an eye sideways toward Dr. Hurst, who stood with Douglas Fairbanks just inside the door of his darkened bedroom. “Consult the venerable doctor himself. He’s right ov
er there, talking to Doug.”
Jane glanced at the pair and then looked away. “Oh, never mind. I’m a free woman tonight. I should enjoy it, right?”
Dorothy didn’t answer. Something about Dr. Hurst and Fairbanks held her attention. They were conversing so secretively, and they stood so close that their heads were almost touching. Then Dr. Hurst pulled something out of his pocket. It glittered. Dorothy recognized it as the silver locket that Dr. Hurst had asked Frank Case to put into the hotel safe. Dr. Hurst carefully handed the locket to Fairbanks, who clasped it tightly and nodded his assurance.
Dorothy looked around the packed room. Had she been the only one to see this exchange? But, in surveying the crowd, Dorothy locked eyes with Bibi Bibelot, who winked at Dorothy. Bibi had seen the same thing. Bibi tilted her head toward Dr. Hurst and mouthed the word, “Loaded!” And then she winked again. Dorothy quickly turned her attention back to her friends.
Woollcott was saying, “Come on, my inveterate and not-yet-inebriated compatriots. Midnight is a full three hours away. Let us begin the game of Murder!”
Dorothy rolled her eyes, and in doing so, she noticed that Arthur Conan Doyle—Sir Arthur—was standing nearby. He looked as though he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Dr. Doyle!” she called to him. “Don’t stand there all by yourself, alone and bored stiff. Come on over here and be bored stiff with us.”
Woollcott puffed out his chest. “Bored stiff, are you, Mrs. Parker? Once we begin the game of Murder, you shan’t be bored. Perhaps you’ll be—murdered!”
“One can only hope,” she said. By this point Doyle had joined their group. “Everybody, this is my pal Arthur. Arthur, this is everybody.”
She didn’t mention he was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And, curiously, Doyle didn’t correct her.
“Woollcott insists we play a game of Murder,” she said. “I mentioned it to you in the elevator.”
“Quite so,” Doyle said. “I confess I’ve not heard of this game.”
“Save your confessions for St. Peter,” Woollcott sneered, bringing forth an upturned top hat. “You may be meeting him before long,” he added portentously.
