[Dorothy Parker 04] - Death Rides the Midnight Owl

by Agata Stanford

  The nightmare in my head ended abruptly as I faced a familiar and spectacular vision in the hallway.

  Black veiling almost obscured the detailed edging on the brim of an elegant black chapeau that concealed the face of the woman who floated through the corridor, a porter leading the way. The pair had stopped abruptly in front of the door to allow an elderly woman with a cane to pass through from the opposite direction.

  That hat! I knew that hat! We were on intimate terms!

  Despite the black veiling, the most wonderful expanse of organza unfolded from angled pleats at the crown. Narrow at the forehead, the tautly stretched silk “wings” widened at the sides. White egret feathers swooped up from the band, and draped downward, forming an extravagant “S” as they brushed along the shoulder for a final caress of her chin. A large brooch, fashioned with white diamonds into the design of an egret in flight, secured the veiling to her suit; its refractive brilliance flashed like miniature fireworks in the dull lamplight.

  I’d seen that saucy confection that floated upon this woman’s head at Madame Charlotte’s Chapelier, on Madison Avenue. Jane, the voice of reason, had talked me out of buying it: “It is a glorious creation, Dottie . . . but, well, it makes me think of one of those fancy prize layers—”

  “Ah-ha! Then it’s perfect for me, as I, too, am a rather fancy prize layer, don’t you know?”

  She murmured audibly under her breath. “More like the barnyard variety.”

  “Are you suggesting that I look like a chicken?” I clucked, rustling the long expanse of feathers tickling my neck.

  “Well, it’s just—”

  “Don’t think I can carry it off?” I said point blankly while bobbing my head and strutting before the mirror, hands behind my back, and fingers fanned.

  “It’s disproportionate with your petite stature, is all.” I was too short, she insinuated, for a hat that large, and the feathers were just over-the-top. I picked a piece of fluff from off my tongue.

  “Oh, crap, Dottie!” said Jane, throwing off any further attempt at being tactful, “You look ridiculous!”

  “I don’t think I look at all—bruk-bruk-bruk-BRUK!—ridiculous!” I insisted with a straight face, and then sighed, abandoning all fantasies of purchasing such a confection. Oh, to be long-legged and lithely graceful!

  Well, the woman in the corridor, standing aside as the elderly woman shuffled slowly past, was both long-legged and graceful, damn her eyes! But of course, I couldn’t see her eyes—or her face—for the dark veiling. I supposed she was mourning the executed men.

  I lifted Woodrow in my arms and followed the veiled lady along the corridor past the cheerful, raucous music in the Harvard boys’ compartment and past the larger drawing-room occupied by the Mellons. The corridor curved, and ahead were the rows of single bedrooms flanking a narrow center hall. The porter unlocked the door of the room across from mine, and The Hat disappeared from view.

  “It stops there!”

  I turned to see who was addressing me, and then realized the woman’s voice had come from behind the Mellons’ drawing-room door and that the lock was not fully engaged.

  “I’m not doing that, Hermione!” A man’s voice; obviously Roger Mellon’s. “You’re on the wrong track!”

  “Margie Seldes says—”

  “Margie Seldes says a lot of things—”

  Ahhh, I thought, wedded bliss!

  Perhaps I am the original Nosey Parker, so I’ve been called, and the truth is, I am not above eavesdropping from behind drapery, behind a potted palm, or from within a closet, usually to avoid being caught where I don’t belong. Often, I am in the company of Mr. Benchley or Aleck Woollcott, who help to pass the time with a stick of gum until the coast is clear. But tonight I was innocent, just passing through, so when Woodrow scratched at the drawing-room door and Roger Mellon threw it open to glare daggers at me, all I could do was to swallow hard, pick up my pooch, and whisper a hesitant “Hi.” He slammed the door in my face.

  Having been given my comeuppance I walked the few remaining feet to my little bedroom and rummaged through Woodrow’s bag, filled his water bowl, and fed him beef stew brought from the hotel. As he filled his belly, I threw off my shoes, sat on the bed, unpacked my overnight case, set out my kimono, toothbrush and powder, night cream, and comb. By the time I had finished setting up for the night, Woodrow was ready for his evening constitutional. The train would be pulling into New Haven in a few minutes to change from steam locomotive to electric engine, and the conductor would allow us to disembark so that Woodrow might “conduct his business.” I slipped on my shoes and out we went, I having locked the bedroom door. I stood for a moment, deciding whether to walk forward or aft through the car, dropping my key into my purse and searching for change to buy a paper when we got to the station.

  The famous muckraker came out of a bedroom a few feet away, and leaned against the doorjamb to engage in conversation with the man I saw earlier boarding the train, the man in a tan gabardine suit sporting a blue beret, only now he stood hatless. The men caught sight of me, nodded, and then they continued their talk in more hushed tones. Woodrow, ever curious, followed his nose to the door across from mine. A thin line of lamplight bled out through an inch-wide line around the door; it seemed like no one was locking their doors in this car. I was tempted to knock on the door, as the light and the open door obviously meant that the room’s occupant was awake. We had a hat in common, and I really wanted to say, “Hello, you have my hat, you bitch.” Ridiculous as it seemed, the compulsion to see the face of the woman under The Hat, under the veil, was strong.

  Helplessly, I followed through with a light tap on the door.

  “Yoo-hoo!” I called out lightly, and then again, in a friendly sing-song soprano.

  I encouraged Woodrow to edge around and through the open door so that once he’d entered I could follow. “Woodrow, come back here, you naughty boy,” I gently scolded my innocent little scapegoat, who looked back at me like I was crazy. But once through the door, and despite the evidence of valises and various items of clothing flowing out from an overnight bag, I could see that my Veiled Lady was not in her room. Only the faint wisp of the very popular perfume, Shalimar, wafted through the air.

  I realized the folly of my ways and was about to exit the bedroom when I spotted The Hat in elegant repose on the overhead luggage rack. I was tempted, but I recovered my self-control and left the room, returning the door to its approximate condition before my intrusion.

  As I was about to walk around the curve where the hall widened and led to the two compartments and larger drawing-room, I turned. The young Italian man who’d made his flustered apologies earlier walked past me and then toward the next Pullman sleeping car, and walking toward me was the famous socialist.

  Woodrow cares not a fig about the social graces—introductions, and all that. He turned to meet the gent, sniffed at his trouser cuff, and then begged for a pat on the head.

  “Behave yourself, Woodrow,” I said without conviction, as I smiled upward nearly a mile and onto the rugged features, shamelessly wanting a pat, too, proving I was no better-mannered than my dog. For, although this fellow was far from handsome, he possessed a face infused with character; his features were strong and angular. The prominent nose had been chiseled to a fine hook; eyes, light green or gray—hard to tell in the dull light of the hall—set within dark hollows and winged with heavy brows. His mouth—well, it was that feature that betrayed him, for although set with determination, the fullness belied a compassionate nature, as did the ridiculously curly brown locks of hair that softened all the other sharp edges of his face. If one could judge a man’s trustworthiness by looking at his face, this man would be the keeper of great secrets. But, what I knew of him from his books and articles was that he was also a deliverer of great and controversial revelations.

  We were poised to speak but were interrupted by a shuffling noise followed by a heavy thud, like the toppling of a bookcase. Of course no boo
kcases graced the Pullman. Everything on the train was bolted down, I knew, as Mr. Benchley and his band of movers had been warned. With the abrupt ceasing of ukulele strumming, followed by high-pitched hoots and language appropriate to an adolescent gathering, I figured the lads must have been tossing their luggage about like footballs.

  “Sounds like a grand time,” I said, smiling up at the man.

  “I’m glad they can find something to laugh about tonight.”

  The drawing-room door cracked open, revealing Roger Mellon’s head peeking out, an expression of query on his face. “Dottie Parker,” said Mellon, almost accusatorily, at seeing me standing at his door once again. He probably thought I had been lurking about all this time since he’d slammed the door in my face half an hour ago!

  “Not me!” I protested, believing the industrialist thought I was creating the disturbance. “The college boys next door,” I said, “tearing-up the compartment, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Uh, yes, of course,” he said, easing his head back in to shut the door, gently this time. Before I could walk away he reappeared and said, “You’re traveling with Bobby and the Brouns, I believe. Come in for a nightcap in a little while, won’t you? I’ll tell the porter to fetch you.”

  I hesitated. “Sounds . . . swell.”

  “Right,” he said and, after a glance at the fellow by my side, added, “Bring your friend,” and the door slammed shut.

  In reaction to the curt invitation, my companion frowned; a look of skepticism raised one eyebrow. “Capitalist,” he murmured under his breath, thinking I didn’t hear.

  I had met Roger Mellon several years ago, at a Swope weekend, before his marriage. I’d heard that he’d wed a spinster type whose parents had died in an avalanche while skiing in the Swiss Alps. I thought Roger a nervous, rather sullen character, and was surprised to hear that he and Mr. Benchley were bosom buddies at Harvard, because my friend is such a warm and loveable sort. The man and I walked past the Harvard boys as they began a cacophonous rendition of “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover,” past the Brouns’ compartment, and finally, the women’s lavatory at the car’s end. We stood on the open platform between cars silently smoking cigarettes. We really didn’t know what to say to each other, although our private thoughts and sentiments about the evening seemed to hang heavily in the air. Smalltalk seemed like vacant chatter, so through some sort of mutual understanding, we didn’t bother with it. We said “good night” when the conductor appeared to announce our arrival in New Haven, the socialist back-tracking to his bedroom, and I to depart the train. I was warned not to dally; the engine exchange would take only seven minutes. Woodrow Wilson was anxious to see the sights and leave his mark on Connecticut.

  South Station, Boston

  All Aboard!

  Yours truly, Dorothy Parker.

  Mr. Benchley, Frat brother

  Heywood Broun, crusader!

  Chapter Two

  Having completed his appointed task, Woodrow led the way along the platform toward the entrance to our car. A newsboy appeared with his sack of papers—special editions of the New Haven Register—shouting, “Read all about it! Anarchists executed!”

  No passengers were boarded at this station, so the teenage newsy was selling papers to people on the train, handing papers in through the opened windows of compartments. Mr. Benchley flipped the kid a coin. Spotting me, he said: “Dottie Parker, it’s time you came in from play.”

  “Coming, Mother,” I said with a smile, before my attention was diverted to the window next door—the Harvard boys hadn’t bothered to pull down their shade. They were engaged in the less-rambunctious pastime of touch football.

  Woodrow was leaping up and down on hind legs with the rhythm of a pogo stick as Mr. Benchley tossed peanuts from his perch at the window. Woodrow never failed to catch his treats. I glanced at the shade-drawn window that was the Mellons’ drawing-room. The narrow line of light that had been peeking out from the bottom of the shade was gone, and I thought, Well, that’s that for Roger’s promised nightcap. They’ve gone to sleep.

  It was one-forty-three A.M. when we left New Haven, and at about two o’clock I no longer fancied sitting around the Brouns’ compartment watching them grimly playing card games. All was quiet next door; the college boys were, no doubt, exhausted from their boisterous antics and had fallen into drunken stupors. The steady, rhythmic chugging of the Midnight Owl racing along the tracks was uninterrupted.

  Although I needed the companionship of my friends, I needed sleep even more, and was about to tote my pup back to my bedroom when the porter knocked on the door, bidding us come to the Mellons’ drawing-room.

  “Now we shall meet the Mrs. Mellon, Mrs. Parker,” Mr. Benchley said.

  “What’s she like?” I asked.

  “I’ve no idea; never met the woman. But I hear that she has suffered from melancholia, and has been in a sanatorium in Switzerland for the past year.”

  “I suppose you are telling me to behave myself?”

  “Not at all.”

  Ruth and Heywood begged out; time for bed.

  Mr. Benchley tapped on the door.

  “We’ve come for the davenport!” said Mr. Benchley when the door was opened by Roger Mellon.

  “You’re welcome to it, only it’s bolted down!”

  The men reverted to their youthful schoolboy camaraderie, slapping each other about in club greetings long ago rehearsed and affectionately sophomoric, if asinine. I expected them to break out in the school song or some such nonsense, but I was spared that, I’m glad to say. In his blue silk smoking jacket and red ascot, Roger Mellon appeared relaxed and friendly, a sharp contrast from the man who’d popped his head out the door earlier to chastise me.

  On the sofa was his elegant wife, a good-looking full-figured blonde draped in a sky-blue silk wrap. She had a substantial, cushy appearance, like that of a plumped pillow. In spite of living in a world where women no longer cinched their waists, her voluptuousness was very attractive. Standing near her I felt plain and as brittle as a stick. She offered her hand to Mr. Benchley and he made a gracious gesture of taking it in both of his own.

  “Delighted,” he said.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” was Hermione Mellon’s reply.

  She turned to me with a smile, and I could swear she quivered, like a swan rustling her eiderdown. She rose up on little feet encased in powder-blue satin slippers and embellished with puffs of marabou feathers dyed to match. Why, she’s a creature right out of the moving pictures! I thought. Dripping glamour, mascara, and jewels! I searched her face for a ghost of her past maladies, but found only great enthusiasm.

  “Oh, Mrs. Parker—may I call you Dorothy?”

  “Yes, of—”

  “Good, Call me Hermione, why don’t you?”

  “Yes, of—”

  “It’s so exciting meeting Roger’s American friends. I can’t wait to see the United States. We are going to be great friends,” she gushed, taking my arm, patting my hand, and leading me to sit beside her on the sofa. She had a way of speaking, an affectation of a clenched-jaw monotone voice. Oh, my, I suddenly thought, perhaps the clenched jaw was a result of her illness?

  Woodrow became fascinated with the feathery puffs on her slippers. “Oh! Isn’t it adorable!” she drooled as she picked up Woodrow and held him in her arms. She checked out his hardware: “Why, it’s a boy doggie! He is a big little fella!” Nuzzling her face into Woodrow’s wiry fur she lapsed into babytalk: “Ain’cha a bi-i-i-ig wittle feh-wah?”

  Mellon, with an air of detachment, began filling glasses with warm, caramel-colored liquor—cognac.

  “Ain’cha? Ain’cha? Why, wes yew ahwr, wes yew ahwr. . . .”

  Hermione threw a glance in my direction and continued, “We are going to be the very best of friends, ahw-ent we?”

  I thought she was awaiting a reply from Woodrow, but, caught under his front shoulders in the woman’s firm grip, and dangling both hind legs and other parts, al
l he could do was whine pathetically at the face staring into his, millimeters from his own.

  “Aren’t we, Dottie—Oh! You don’t mind if I call you Dottie, do you?”

  “If you—”

  Mr. Benchley looked on with amusement.

  “That’s just great, then, Dottie! Now, I want to know all about you, all about you!”

  This woman is not depressed so much as she is manic, I thought.

  A slightly dour Roger Mellon handed around the drinks.

  “Because, I want to hear all about it!”

  “All about wha—?”

  “Not to say that I don’t already know lots of things about you, Dottie, pet, but what I do know is only what I’ve read in the newspapers.”

  “That should suffice—”

  “Y’see, I know you like to scribble and say funny things—”

  “A regular idiot savant is our Mrs. Parker,” cut in Mr. Benchley. “Did you know she can walk on her hands?”

  “How thrilling!—and oh! I heard you got arrested! Along with those Greenwich Village Reds? Imagine! How romantic! What an adventure!” And then with a frown of dismay—her eyebrows forming conjoined squiggles, her voice modulated down an octave—she asked, “But, you’re not a Red, are you?”

  “Well—”

  “Anarchist? Same thing, isn’t it? Reds, anarchists, Italians!”

  “Not the—”

  “You know that they electrocuted those Bolshies.”

  Roger Mellon, suddenly engaged, found an opening in the monologue: “We narrowly missed getting blown up in London, you know.”

  “How unfortunate,” I said.

  Hermione jumped in: “And then, when we were in Italy, there was a bomb went off in the next street from our hotel. When I think it might have been us!”

  “Tsk-tsk! What do you think about that?” clucked Mr. Benchley.

  “I think they need glasses,” I whispered.