A Friendly Game of Murder

by J. J. Murphy

  Jordan held up the balled top hat. “Right in here, sisters.” Then he hobbled away through the crowd toward the lobby. “Pax vobiscum, suckers!”

  The nuns followed him.

  By this time Doyle and Fairbanks had joined Dorothy and Benchley. Woollcott had finally risen to his feet. “What’s going on?” he yelled.

  “Where’s that damned deliveryman?” Fairbanks asked.

  “He just went into the kitchen,” Dorothy said.

  “Dr. Hurst needs that stamp back,” Doyle said. “We must split up—to divide and conquer.”

  “I’m going after that bastard who murdered Bibi,” she said. “Who’s with me?”

  Both Benchley and Fairbanks stepped forward.

  “No, Fred,” she said to Benchley. “You go after Jordan. You never liked him anyway.” She moved close and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.”

  To her surprise, Benchley blushed. He turned quickly, grabbed Woollcott by the sleeve and moved through the crowd after Jordan and the nuns.

  She looked to Doyle and Fairbanks and gave Woody an affectionate squeeze. “Let’s get him, boys!”

  They once again entered the kitchen, and she braced herself for another of the chef’s tirades. But although the room was crowded with waiters and kitchen staff, all was silent and still.

  Jacques stood frozen at his preparation table. His head was bare, and his face was as white as his smock. On the cutting board in front of him, his tall white chef’s hat was skewered through the middle with his long carving knife.

  When he saw Dorothy, Jacques pointed at the opening to the basement stairs. He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “That man, he went down there.”

  With Doyle and Fairbanks right behind her, she hurried toward the stairwell.

  “Mrs. Parker,” the chef said. “I would not go down there if I were you.”

  She gathered her courage, held Woody tightly and descended the darkened stairs. Fairbanks and Doyle followed.

  Chapter 40

  Benchley and Woollcott threaded through the dining room’s buzzing crowd and emerged into the quiet and nearly deserted lobby.

  They arrived just in time to see Jordan, running full speed, suddenly stumble and fall hard to the floor.

  Harpo Marx lay half-awake on a couch and with one leg extended out.

  “Have a nice trip?” he asked Jordan. “See you next fall!”

  In a moment the two nuns were almost on top of Jordan and ready to rip him to shreds.

  But then Jordan did something unexpected—he slammed the heel of his big black orthopedic shoe against the floor. The heel and sole popped off, and a small snub-nosed pistol sprung up into the air. Jordan caught it with a practiced hand and quickly pointed the gun at the nuns. They couldn’t stop in time. They skidded across the smooth hardwood floor and looked as though they would collide with him.

  But in a flash Jordan was on his feet. He reached out and grabbed the shorter nun around the waist. He held the pistol to the nun’s head.

  “Stop right where you are!” Jordan commanded.

  The other nun froze, hands in the air. Benchley, Woollcott and Harpo halted in their tracks as well.

  “Jordan, what do you think you’re doing?” Benchley asked. “You really don’t have a clubfoot after all?”

  Jordan still held the crushed top hat in the hand that encircled the nun’s waist. “I’m returning the stamp to the rightful owner—the London Museum. I was assigned to do it, and I always finish the job.”

  “Assigned?” Benchley said. “By Dr. Hurst?”

  Jordan snickered. “That crazy old fool? Hell no. I’m a Pink agent working undercover. I was hired by Lloyd’s of London to bring the Bearded Lady safely back to England. It’s insured for millions, and they don’t want to pay up if they can avoid it.”

  “A Pink agent?” Benchley asked. Then he remembered Dr. Hurst’s telegram. LLOYDS HIRED PINKS. . . .

  “What the devil is a Pink agent?” Woollcott sneered.

  “A Pinkerton!” Jordan said indignantly. “A detective. A private investigator. You know, ‘The Eye That Never Sleeps’?”

  “Well, what do you know, Aleck?” Benchley muttered. “We had a detective right here all this time. You didn’t need to pretend to be one after all.”

  “Pretend!” Woollcott roared. “Who said anything about pretending?”

  “The eye that never sleeps, huh?” said the tall nun, who had produced a large pistol and now aimed it directly at Jordan. “You certainly slept when we knocked you on the head and took the locket from your shoe. You slept like a baby. And now I’m going to put you to sleep for good.”

  * * *

  “It’s Bibi’s brother?” Doyle asked Dorothy as they moved cautiously and quietly along yet another twisty, darkened subbasement corridor. “How did you know?”

  “Yes, how did you know that?” Fairbanks asked.

  “I should have known it sooner,” she said. “They have exactly the same pixie nose.”

  “No one else recognized the similarity,” Doyle said. “A beautiful Broadway starlet and a lowly ice deliveryman—who would guess they are siblings?”

  “Well, I didn’t,” she said. “Not at first. Not until I saw that invoice with the name ‘B. Bibelot’ on the bottom. But the initial B is not for Bibi. It’s for—I don’t know—Bill or Bob or Barry. . . .”

  “How did you even know Bibi had a brother?” Doyle asked.

  “Jane Grant mentioned it in passing last night. She wrote a puff piece on Bibi a few months ago.”

  “Can you be sure that he was the one who murdered her—his very own sister?” Doyle asked with distaste.

  “Once it was apparent that Bibi was killed by dry ice, then it just became a question of who had access to a bucketful of it. Frank Case told me they usually just throw it out into the alley to dispose of it. But because the whole hotel was locked up last night, it seemed likely that the dry ice was still somewhere inside. And the person who had access to it was the one who brought it to the hotel in the first place—”

  She stopped. Up ahead in the darkness there was a sudden wail. Woody trembled in her arms.

  Doyle cocked his head to hear. “That’s someone in pain. Quick, we must go!”

  “Hold on,” she said. “That wasn’t someone. That was something.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fairbanks asked. “That was an inhuman scream.”

  “It was inhuman, all right,” she said. “That was the sound of the freezer door.”

  Very slowly and reluctantly, she continued forward. Doyle and Fairbanks followed right behind her.

  “Let’s be very cautious, my friends,” Doyle said—quite unnecessarily, Dorothy thought.

  They reached a corner, and she took a cautious peek around the bend. The tunnel was empty. She saw only the closed door of the walk-in freezer. Just the sight of it gave her chills.

  “He must be inside,” she whispered.

  “I say we leave him in there, then,” Fairbanks suggested. “Let him freeze to death for what he did.”

  “Certainly not,” Doyle said in a low voice. “Freezing’s too good for him. He should be brought to justice and his crimes paraded in the light of day. Dorothy, what do you think?”

  She looked back and forth between their stern faces. She decided she wasn’t too thrilled about either option.

  “How about we split the difference?” she said after a moment’s thought. “We’ll let him cool his heels in there awhile, and when he’s had enough—when he’s nearly frozen stiff and harmless—then we’ll drag him out. That’s a kinder gesture than he gave to me and Mr. Benchley when he locked us in there.”

  Suddenly the door swung open with that deafening, rusty wail. Woody leaped out of Dorothy’s
arms and sped away around the corner, back from where they had come. Bibi’s brother stepped halfway out of the freezer. Something glinted in his raised hand. He flung it hard at them.

  Dorothy—already half-turned away to see where Woody had gone—managed to step aside. The object whirred past her head. It hit Fairbanks right between the eyes with a sickening thump and knocked him backward. His head smacked against the stone wall, and his body, limp as a rag doll, slid to the floor. Across the ground skittered the shattered chunks of the thrown object—a thick icicle.

  The man disappeared back into the freezer but left the door wide open.

  “Stay away!” His voice echoed from inside. “Just leave me alone!”

  “You detestable coward,” Doyle thundered, his big hands balled into fists. “Come out of there or—”

  She put a hand on Doyle’s arm to quiet him. Then she called out, “Tell us, what’s your name? Is it Bill? Bob?”

  “Blake.”

  “Blake”? Jeez, one kid named Bibi and the other one named Blake? What kind of oddball parents did these two have? No wonder both children turned out so wrong.

  She spoke as patiently as she could. “Listen, Blake, you didn’t mean to kill your sister, did you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did mean to do it.” His quavering voice echoed. “But . . . I-I didn’t want to. I had to. I couldn’t take any more!”

  * * *

  The taller nun still had the big gun pointed at Jordan. “Now give me the stamp and let my partner go. Or else.” Then the nun pulled off her—or rather his—veil, revealing a square, closely shaved head.

  “Look!” sputtered Woollcott to Benchley. “That nun is a man. A man!”

  “Why, certainly,” said Benchley with a bored yawn. “Both nuns are men. Didn’t you know? I’ve known that for ages.”

  “You have?” Woollcott asked. “What other secrets are you keeping from me?”

  “Well, both nuns are gangsters, of course,” Benchley said matter-of-factly. “Anyone around here who knows anything knows that. They’re here to steal the stamp from Dr. Hurst. Then they’re supposed to take it to their boss in Brooklyn, who’s going to sell it to an even worse gangster in Chicago. . . . Aleck, why are you looking at me with such a surprised expression? You mean to tell me you don’t know any of this? And you call yourself a detective? Tsk-tsk.”

  Benchley was rather enjoying himself by teasing Woollcott this way. Then he noticed that the gangsters were staring at him, too. But unlike Woollcott’s surprised expression, theirs were extremely angry.

  “You!” said the tall one to Benchley. “You’re the telephone operator! We been looking for you for hours. Don’t go nowhere, mister. Soon as we take care of this little cream puff”—he waved his gun at Jordan—“then we’re going to take care of you, and how.”

  But while the tall one was talking to Benchley, Jordan swung his snub-nosed pistol, aimed and fired. The bullet caught the tall gangster in the upper arm.

  “Ow! That hurt,” the gangster yelled, and clapped his hand to his injured arm. Then he reached out to take Jordan’s pistol. “What is that, a .22? Give me that little peashooter before—”

  Jordan fired again. But as he did so, the smaller gangster wriggled free from his grasp and knocked away his gun hand. The shot went into the grandfather clock with a metallic clang.

  The smaller gangster swung his fist into Jordan’s face. Jordan came back with a hard left hook—but this fist held the crumpled top hat. The taller one stepped in and stopped the punch with both hands. Then he grabbed the top hat.

  “I guess that hat’s ruined,” Woollcott muttered sourly. “Well, it was last year’s style anyhow.”

  Benchley whispered, “What about the stamp?”

  Woollcott chuckled to him, “There’s no stamp in there. Heaven knows where that damned stamp is!”

  The shorter gangster socked Jordan in the jaw and snatched away his little pistol. Then he punched Jordan again, just for good measure. Jordan fell down in a heap.

  The taller gangster unfurled the crumpled hat and reached inside.

  “Perhaps,” Benchley whispered, “now would be the time to make a hasty retreat. . . .”

  The gangster pulled a small slip of white paper out of the hat. “This ain’t no stamp!” He held it out at arm’s length to read it. His voice thundered. “Detective—Woollcott! Who the hell is Detective Woollcott?”

  “Yes,” Woollcott whispered to Benchley, “that is a swell idea.” He took a small step backward.

  “The fat one! He’s trying to get away,” the taller gangster yelled. “He’s got the stamp! Get him!”

  Chapter 41

  Dorothy glanced over her shoulder. Fairbanks lay on the hard concrete floor with his head against the stone wall. He moved slightly, groggily. His eyes were half-lidded. He wouldn’t be doing backflips anytime soon, she thought.

  At her side Doyle, anxious to rush forward, puffed in frustration.

  Should she peek inside the walk-in freezer? Would it be better to talk face-to-face with Blake Bibelot?

  This man was truly deadly, she reminded herself. She glanced again at Fairbanks, who had been knocked down with one blow. And she knew that Blake had fought like a devil against Benchley, Case and Luigi in the darkened kitchen. Also, Blake was the one who had locked her and Benchley in this very same freezer.

  So, on second thought, perhaps it was best to keep her distance.

  “Listen, Blake,” she called out. “I think I understand what you’re going through.”

  “You don’t know a damned thing—!”

  “Hear me out,” she interrupted. “Bibi was ashamed of you—of her background—and you accepted that. You wanted to help her to achieve superstardom, so you sacrificed everything. She even called you her ‘guardian angel,’ didn’t she? She also referred to you as her ‘mysterious benefactor’—as if you were some Wall Street tycoon or Arab sheik or British nobleman. And yet you were no less generous than a millionaire, even though you’re only a regular working Joe. Am I right?”

  He didn’t answer. Doyle folded his arms over his big bear chest—he didn’t want talk; he wanted action.

  Dorothy continued, “You worked hard. You were the one who paid for her dance lessons, her voice lessons, her fancy clothes and anything—everything—that would make her a star, didn’t you?”

  Blake still didn’t answer. She felt that his silence meant that she had guessed correctly so far.

  “But,” she said, “when Bibi did achieve stardom—when she became the toast of Broadway—what did she do? She forgot all about you and all your sacrifices. She was supposed to pay you back, wasn’t she? What did you want for yourself? A college education? To open a restaurant? Start a family of your own in comfort? What?”

  “A farm.” Blake’s voice came softly. “A quiet little farm. Away from the city. Away from the noise, the people, the smells. I had the land all picked out—”

  “But Bibi reneged on the deal. You devoted years of your life to someone, only to be unrepaid. I think I know what that’s like,” she said, unable to keep the emotion out of her voice. “And then what happened? You came to deliver ice—”

  “Fish!” he said. “I deliver fish. We deliver ice as a courtesy.”

  “All right. So you were delivering some ice to this posh penthouse party, and what do you find? Your very own sister prancing through the place naked for all to see. Was that what you had scrimped and saved and sacrificed everything for? So she could treat her life like a joke?”

  “So you do understand?” His voice had lost its edge. The edge was replaced by something like hope. “So you know I had to do it. I had enough. I couldn’t take any more. She saw me—that’s when I spilled the ice all over the carpet—but she didn’t care. She even winked at me! In her head she was laughing at me
, I know. Seeing her act like that—it was the last straw.”

  “Certainly,” she said sympathetically. “So you waited until Bibi was alone. Lucky for you, someone else doped her with chloroform. The rest was easy. All you had to do was dump the dry ice in the tub, lock the door so no one could come in and find her, and put a towel against the floor to keep the gas from escaping. Then you climbed out the window, closed it, went across the roof and climbed back inside. A piece of cake for a quick young man like yourself.”

  “You make it sound like a crime, like I’m some lousy thief or something. She had it coming. She was the criminal. She was the thief! She stole my life from me!”

  Doyle couldn’t be contained much longer. He was nearly shaking with anger. He muttered to Dorothy in a low whisper through gritted teeth, “The unmanly coward. Let me at him.”

  “What was that?” Blake called out.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just come on out. Come with us. Bibi already took this much of your life. Don’t sacrifice the rest of it. Come on out.”

  “And what?” he said desperately. “It’s too late to try to bargain. They’ll be after me. But as soon as I get out of this hotel, I’m going straight up to Canada. Open, empty spaces. A man can live free up there—”

  “All right,” she lied. “I’ll get you out. I’ll send you on your way. Just don’t hurt anyone else. Come on out.”

  Doyle gaped at her with rage on his face. She put a calming hand on his arm.

  Blake peeked halfway out of the freezer. His eyes looked haunted. “You’ll let me go?”

  “If you leave quietly, I’ll—”

  Suddenly Fairbanks was on his feet with a roar and lunged forward. “I’ll throttle the cad!”

  Blake didn’t blink. His face was as hard as stone. He stepped forward menacingly and raised his hand to strike. He gripped a long, thick icicle, as hard and sharp as a steel spike.

  * * *

  “I don’t have the stamp!” Woollcott screamed in a high-pitched voice. He turned to run, his hands up in the air.