A Friendly Game of Murder
Page 28
The two gangsters charged forward. Benchley couldn’t move. He expected to be knocked aside at best or trampled and pulverized at worst.
Then from across the room a puckish voice shouted, “Hey, you dumb, ugly goons!”
It was Harpo Marx! The Berley brothers turned toward him and slowed down.
Harpo put his thumb to his nose. “When you two were babies, your mother should have kept the dirty nappies and thrown you away.”
It was only a moment’s diversion, but it was enough. Benchley tiptoed quickly behind the gangsters’ backs on his way to the front door. Benchley saw the first rays of daylight shining in through the ice-frosted plate windows ahead of him. And he detected the silhouettes of a few vehicles moving slowly on the snowy street.
“What kind of sisters are you, anyways?” Harpo jeered. “You sure got some lousy habits.” He yanked one button after another off his vest and threw them at the gangsters.
The tall one, indifferent to the flying buttons, stalked toward Harpo. He raised his gun, but Harpo dodged behind one of the lobby’s stately columns. He was safe for the moment. But now the shorter gangster, with Jordan’s snub-nosed pistol in his hand, was moving toward the other side of the column.
Harpo wouldn’t be safe much longer. So Benchley sprinted to the twin glass doors of the front entrance. He banged on them as loudly as he could and shouted so that anyone on the sidewalk would hear him. “Help! Help!”
The two gangsters stopped in their tracks.
“It’s the telephone operator!” the tall one yelled. “He’s got the stamp! Get him!”
The tough brothers charged forward with their black habits flying behind them. Benchley banged on the door all the harder. He looked over his shoulder to see how quickly they approached him. The smaller one stopped abruptly and raised Jordan’s little pistol. “Give us the stamp, or else!”
Benchley didn’t have it. Readying himself, he took a deep breath. “Let’s go with ‘or else,’ shall we?”
“You asked for it!” the short gangster said, and fired the gun.
But Benchley was ready—he dropped to the floor with his back to the door. Right behind him, the small-caliber bullet hit the door at chest height. The glass pane shattered into a million sparkling shards. Benchley tucked himself into a ball and launched himself backward through the jagged opening. He felt relieved as he landed safely on a thick layer of soft, fluffy snow.
This is heaven, he thought. Although this heaven is rather chilly on the nape of one’s neck.
Suddenly the two gangsters burst one after the other through the opening. They were surprised to find Benchley on the snowy ground at their feet and jumped over him on instinct. The tall one landed awkwardly, and the shorter one crashed into him. Together they tumbled forward, their black habits swirling around them, sending up clouds of snow. They rolled to a stop directly at the feet of Captain Church. Behind the captain stood Detective O’Rannigan, as well as a pair of uniformed policemen and a five-man crew who wore coats marked NYC Department of Health. Parked at the curb were O’Rannigan’s unmarked sedan, a police squad car, and a large panel van.
“Well, good morning, sisters!” O’Rannigan chuckled. “Or should I say ‘brothers’? Thanks for coming out to greet us.”
The tall gangster pounded his hand on the snow in frustration. He looked around for Benchley. “You don’t really have the stamp after all, do you?”
Benchley shook his head.
The tall brother turned to the shorter one. “Well, this new year is starting off pretty crappy.”
“Get used to it,” O’Rannigan said with a grim smile. “Where you’re going, you’ve got five to ten crappy years ahead of you.”
* * *
With a roar, Douglas Fairbanks leaped past Dorothy and Doyle. He lunged forward and collided into Blake, ramming his head into Blake’s abdomen. As they stumbled backward together, Blake brought the icicle down toward Fairbanks’ head. But Blake’s aim was thrown off by the struggle. The icicle glanced sideways against the back of Fairbanks’ skull.
Dorothy and Doyle stepped closer to look inside. Blake twisted his body and spun Fairbanks to the ground—to the floor of the freezer. Fairbanks’ body hit the hard, cold floor with a dull thump, and Blake landed on top of him. Then Blake was quickly on his feet again. Fairbanks was motionless on the floor.
Blake, with anger and resentment in his eyes, turned on Dorothy. He still held the stump of the icicle in his hand. His voice was a hoarse snarl. “You lied to me. You’ll betray me, won’t you? Well, I won’t let you. I won’t let anyone betray me again.”
He charged forward.
“The door!” she yelled at Doyle.
Doyle grabbed the edge of the big door and tried to push it closed. It screamed on its rusty hinges. But Blake was too quick, and the door moved too slowly. Blake had his shoulder against the back of it. Then Doyle put all his weight against the front of the door. They struggled against each other, but Doyle—despite his size and strength—couldn’t last. Dorothy saw the sweat break out on his old, grizzled forehead, and the desperate, wild look in Blake’s eyes.
Then she reached for her little purse, which she had slung on her shoulder and nearly forgotten about.
“Just hold him a little longer,” she yelled to Doyle.
“I’m—trying!” Doyle said. But Blake was pushing too hard. He’d be able to shove his way out any moment.
She dug her hand into her purse and searched around.
“No time for that!” Doyle grunted. “Help me!”
She agreed. She flung the purse—and all its contents—as hard as she could through the opening. She heard it hit the inside of the freezer with a shattering sound.
Blake turned his head. “What—?”
It was enough of a distraction for her to help Doyle to slam the door closed tightly.
“But there’s no lock!” he wheezed. “He’ll shove it open again in no time. And Fairbanks—he’s trapped in there with that madman.”
She shook her head. “Nope. Blake Bibelot won’t bother us, or Fairbanks, anymore today.”
Doyle leaned his weight against the door and looked at it expectantly. But it didn’t move. After a moment he looked at her quizzically.
“The bottle of chloroform,” she said. “Still had it in my purse. He’s literally knocked out cold.”
Chapter 42
Dorothy and Doyle stood by the side of Dr. Hurst’s bed. The thin, white-haired old man opened his one good eye and slowly turned it to them. His stony expression seemed to grow alarmed when he saw them. He raised his arm. His hand, held like a claw, jabbed feebly toward them.
“Tête-bêche!” he moaned. “Tête-bêche!”
Doyle followed the motion with his eyes. He looked over his shoulder in the direction Dr. Hurst seemed to indicate with his hand.
“Does he mean the door?” Doyle asked. “Something coming in—or out—of the door?”
A tear, then another, streamed down the doctor’s wrinkled face. He held his paralyzed hand out one last time, then dropped it to his side. He turned his face away.
“Oh dear me,” Dorothy said softly. She suddenly understood.
She reached down, grasped the old man’s fist and turned it over. She uncurled the tightly coiled fingers and opened up the nearly petrified hand.
And there in the center of Dr. Hurst’s palm was a connected pair of postage stamps. But the markings were almost unidentifiable. The colored ink of the stamps had run and had stained the skin of his hand, as a child’s chalk drawing spreads across the sidewalk in a summer downpour. The “Bearded Lady”—the most valuable stamp in the world—was utterly ruined.
Dorothy looked at the old man’s eyes and watched the tears stream down the side of his face and dampen his pillow. He clamped his eyes shu
t.
“Tête-bêche,” he moaned almost silently, painfully.
* * *
Benchley stood in the lobby and looked out the plate glass windows. He watched O’Rannigan shove the handcuffed Berley brothers into the rear seat of his unmarked sedan. He saw Frank Case talk to the men from the Department of Health, and he watched them remove the seal from the door and scrape off what was left of the quarantine notice. A minute before, the two officers had dragged the unconscious Blake Bibelot into their squad car. And now an ambulance was arriving for Dr. Hurst, and a hearse had come for Bibi.
Benchley watched it all as though it were happening far away—as though he were seeing these things from a distance.
Then just behind him—so close that he almost flinched—he heard a giggle and a squeal. He turned and saw John Simpson—still red from chicken pox, still wearing his pajama bottoms—hugging two little children, one boy and one girl. A thin, lovely woman—lovely except for her chicken pox—wrapped her arms around her husband and their children.
Benchley checked his watch. Then he went to the coat room for his hat and topcoat.
* * *
Dorothy and Doyle got off the elevator and entered the bustling lobby.
“So Bibi’s murder really had nothing to do with the missing stamp,” she said, as much to herself as to Doyle.
“Evidently not,” he said. “Except for Quentin using the locket as a hiding place. Poor choice, that. Still, he couldn’t have foreseen that the stamp would wind up around the neck of a naked actress in a bath full of champagne.”
“But why?” she asked plaintively. “Why would a wealthy, prominent physician take the risk to steal such a priceless item?”
Captain Church approached them. He looked very tired. He probably hadn’t slept in the past two days, Dorothy thought. She wondered whether she herself looked as worn out.
“I may be able to answer some of that,” Church said. “I have been in communication by telephone and telegraph with Scotland Yard. Apparently, the hospital to which Dr. Hurst devoted so much of his time was nearly bankrupt.”
“St. Angus, bankrupt?” Doyle asked, bewildered.
Church nodded. “My counterpart at Scotland Yard believes that Dr. Hurst stole the stamp with the intention to sell it here in America in order to cover the hospital’s financial losses back in England.”
“So he did it to save his hospital?” she asked. The mean image that she had of Dr. Hurst didn’t really match with such a noble—and reckless—deed. Still, she thought, devils sometimes look like saints, and vice versa. She turned to Doyle. “Isn’t there a better way to finance a hospital?”
“Most certainly,” he said. “Indeed, if it had been a matter of dire urgency, I certainly could have arranged to transfer a healthy injection of funds from my own personal assets. Then again, Quentin always was a stubborn one, as I’ve told you. Always had to do things his own way. But I’ll wager he’d sooner die than let that hospital go under. Of course, now that I know—and given Quentin’s feeble physical state—I shall see to it personally that St. Angus suffers no further insolvency.”
“Very good of you,” Church said. “Now if only we could find that priceless artifact . . .”
“Show him,” Dorothy said to Doyle.
Church’s stony face registered surprise.
Doyle withdrew a neatly folded square handkerchief. Then he unfolded it and offered the police captain the withered remains of the postage stamps. “Take it. Send it back to Scotland Yard.”
Church stared for a long moment at the faded, wrinkled bits of paper. Then he took the handkerchief, carefully folded it up and put it gently in his pocket. “I will be sure not to sneeze on this.”
Dorothy watched him turn and walk away. And then she laughed. “I’ve never heard that guy make a joke before. Will wonders never cease!”
Doyle smiled warmly, expansively. “No, fortunately for all of us, they never will.” He was looking in the direction Church had taken toward the front doors. There stood a very respectable-looking older woman—undoubtedly it was Lady Doyle. He took a step toward the woman, then quickly turned back to Dorothy. “Lovely to have made your acquaintance, my dear Dorothy. Keep writing.” His hand, as big as a bear paw, gently shook her little hand. “Oh, and one more thing. Kingsley says ‘snowdrop.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Snowdrop? She shook her head.
But Doyle had already turned away and hurried toward his wife. He greeted her with open arms and embraced her tightly for a long moment, and they eventually left the hotel arm in arm.
Seeing this embrace—so soon after the confrontation with Blake Bibelot—left Dorothy with mixed, bittersweet feelings. Relationships are so complicated that sometimes it’s easier to simply stay aloof, she thought. Just look at the snarl and tangle of emotions between Bibi and Blake—devotion, jealousy, resentment, indebtedness, ingratitude—and they were simply brother and sister! How much more complicated it is when you’re in love. . . .
But then again, Doyle and his wife didn’t make it look so complicated. A kiss, a hug and then walking arm in arm . . . how difficult is that? Perfectly natural. And now she noticed the others around her—greeting each other, hugging each other, so happy just to be together. A few steps away Jane Grant held the hands of her husband, Harold Ross. On one of the couches sat Ruth Hale side by side with her husband, Heywood Broun. She could see Mary Pickford away in the dining room, holding a very groggy Doug Fairbanks closely but tenderly.
Dorothy hugged her own arms to herself for warmth—the opening in the door had made the lobby chilly.
Then it occurred to her—where the hell was Benchley?
She figured that he would . . . That is, he owed her . . . She had at least expected . . .
Well, damn it! He was supposed to kiss her! Where had he run off to now?
“Looking for someone?” Woollcott had suddenly and silently sidled up to her. “Robert left, if that’s who you’re looking for. Had to catch the train home. Had to gallop—buckety-buck—back to the bosom of his family.”
Benchley left? But he . . . He didn’t even . . . He left and he didn’t even say good-bye? What . . . ?
She looked at Woollcott. He could be so cruel sometimes. And she hated that term, “the bosom” of his family—and she hated it all the more for the context that Woollcott now put it in.
“Ah,” Woollcott sighed contentedly, gazing around at the loving couples and families. “I love a happy ending.”
But she thought of the many sad endings she’d recently witnessed: Blake, Bibi, Dr. Hurst, Jordan.
She said, “I know this will come as a shock to you, Aleck. But in all history, which has held billions and billions of human beings, not a single one ever had a happy ending.”
He turned to her with a superior look. “Happiness is where you find it. Apparently you have not found it.”
She recalled, like a whisper in her ear, the word snowdrop.
She sauntered toward the front door, pushed it open slightly and reached down to scoop up a handful of snow. It was cold, yet delicate. She observed a few individual tiny flakes that lay on the skin of her fingers and outside of the lump of snow in her hand. As she moved back into the warm lobby, some of the flakes melted and yet some did not. Nature is truly a wonder to behold sometimes.
Then, while Woollcott had his back turned, she dropped the snow down his collar.
“AHH-haaa!” he shrieked. For a moment his body went perfectly straight, as though hit by a bolt of lightning. Then he hopped and danced and tried to reach around with both hands toward his back. “AHH-haaa!” He jerked and bounced his way out of the lobby.
“Ah,” she sighed to herself, watching him go. “Sometimes you just have to make your own happy ending.” Then she yelled after him, “And stop saying ‘Aha!’”
Historical Note
It may seem unlikely that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of the world’s foremost deductive detective, would become a convert to the illogical and downright odd Spiritualist movement. But that’s history for you—it’s sometimes more difficult to swallow than fiction.
Here I’ll try to distinguish between history and fiction, at least in regard to this story.
The Game of Murder
The members of the Algonquin Round Table loved their games. (Robert Benchley was the exception—he didn’t enjoy the ferocious competition involved.) In addition to the sparkling wordplay at their daily lunches, they played cribbage, croquet, poker and many other games—all with almost maniacal fervor.
One of their games was Murder, and it was played as described in this story (although they referred to the detective role as the “District Attorney”). Harpo Marx, in his book Harpo Speaks!, describes one particularly memorable game of Murder. In this game Harpo played the murderer, and Alexander Woollcott was the District Attorney. Harpo used an ingenious method to commit his crime—he sneaked into the bathroom, wrote the fatal message in lipstick on the roll of toilet paper and then rolled it back up.
Alice Duer Miller, an occasional member of the Vicious Circle, was the unfortunate recipient of the message. As required by the rules of the game, she remained at the scene of the crime—for five hours!—while the other players searched and sleuthed.
Harpo writes:
Aleck put the finger on me without having to ask a single question. I had outsmarted myself. I had tipped my hand without knowing it. What I had written in lipstick on the roll of toilet paper was: YOU ARE DED. Little Acky had a terrible tantrum and went to bed without his supper. He refused to play with anybody who didn’t obey the rules. The Murderer had to confront the Victim face-to-face or else there was no crime committed. . . . Alice herself, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more delighted. A stroke of genius, she called my plot. Too bad it had to be an illiterate stroke of genius, she added.