The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits (Mammoth Books)

by Ashley, Mike;

  He gulped down his martini. “She’s become quite an expert at the fine art of matrimony but when it comes to divorce, Madam Curie couldn’t keep up!”

  “Will you look at that carpet! Really look at it!” the newcomer said loudly as he interrupted the two guests. “Hand stitched. Custom made! Exquisite. Simply exquisite.”

  Before Zelda could get rid of the obnoxious intruder, her accountant friend walked away.

  “Well?” Dorothy exhaled the word, slowly. Smoke from her second cigarette of the evening hung above her head in a halo. “Where is our birthday girl? Is she decent yet?”

  “If she were, she wouldn’t be giving herself another birthday party.”

  “Now, Bill – be nice.”

  He looked at her with disdain.

  “You have to feel sorry for poor Lily. Three birthdays in one year. And twenty-five? How on earth did she come up with that laughable number? A bit eccentric or pathetic, I haven’t quite figured it out yet,” she said.

  “Keep at it, old girl, I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

  This time it is was she who scowled.

  “Why, you’re W.C. Fields, aren’t you?” A round, balding man stood in front of the group seated on a long divan covered in velvet the color of burnished pewter. “I’ve enjoyed you on Broadway . . . oh, and of course, the films. Yes, I’ve spent many enjoyable hours laughing at you and Chaplin . . .”

  “He sir, is not an actor. I’ll thank you to never mention him in my presence.”

  The man looked puzzled.

  Fields continued, “Chaplin is a goddamn ballet dancer, nothing more.” Picking up the book that lay in his lap, he resumed his reading as if he were the only person in the room.

  “Don’t mind him,” the woman said. “He’s just a cantankerous old man.”

  The stranger shifted his weight, unsure how to proceed until his ego kicked in. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Means. Gaston Bullock Means.” He waited a moment for some sort of reaction. When she didn’t say anything he elaborated. “I’m the author of The President’s Daughter.”

  “Oh.” She withdrew her hand. “Of course I’ve heard of you. Who hasn’t?”

  Fields huffed. “You, sir, are a hack – a gossip monger who happened to luck into a scandal. Now Mrs Parker here is a writer.”

  Fields had enough of the boorish crowd and stood up. Without a nod backwards, he walked across the room to the bar.

  “Gin. And keep pouring, my good man, until I pass out,” he said to the bartender.

  “Sure thing Mr Fields.”

  The band was getting ready to wrap up “Someone to Watch Over Me”, as two couples danced slowly.

  “Have you seen Miss Armstrong-Smith?” he asked the bartender.

  “Gee, Mr Fields, can’t say as I have.”

  With a glass in each hand, the actor made his way to a large seating group in the middle of the room. The sweet young thing singing with the band caught his eye. He raised a glass and blew her a kiss.

  She tried concentrating on the words, but he was W.C. Fields – in the flesh! She stopped to return his kiss and Cal leaned over.

  His tuxedo didn’t fit as well as it could have but the call to play for the party had come at the last minute, it being a Saturday and all. His regular suit was at the cleaners so he borrowed his brother’s tux and scrambled to replace Peggy with Irma. Irma Levine, what a mixed-up dame! But so far – so good. And Mrs Armstrong-Smith paid well, had a lot of parties at the Cove and he wanted to get in solid with her. Now, baton in hand, he tapped on the music stand propped in front of him and asked Irma, “Need some help?”

  “What? Oh, sorry, no, I’m fine.”

  As she sang, she never lost eye contact with Fields. “I hope that he, turns out to be . . . someone to watch over . . .” Ramon Novarro walked into the room and she lost it again.

  In contrast to the glamorous, inviting atmosphere downstairs, the air on the second floor was charged, like a storm ripping through a Kansas town.

  “Where are Mrs Smith’s pearls?” the maid asked, panicky. “If we don’t find them, there’ll be hell to pay, I can guarantee you that! She’s out for blood tonight.”

  “Alice!” Lily’s voice boomed down the long hallway. “Hurry! Alice!”

  “So, tell me my good man,” Gaston Means said, “what is the source of your supply and will I die of alcohol poisoning later this evening?”

  The bartender studied the pompous little man for a moment and then decided to take his comment as a joke. “Don’t worry, sir, it will be a most pleasant death. Mrs Armstrong-Smith only serves the best.”

  “Then I’ll have a brandy.” The man patted the bar, happy with his decision. “Yes, brandy.”

  After carefully pouring, the bartender slid the crystal glass toward the man. “There you go, sir. Napoleon, the best we have. Enjoy.”

  He swirled the amber liquid around in the snifter. After a moment spent inhaling, he finally sipped. “Ahh, yes, excellent.”

  Truth be told, Mr Means couldn’t tell bad brandy from good. As he stood there, surveying the room, he watched the parade of celebrities pass by and felt confident he belonged. A gentleman came and stood beside him, recognizing the voice, he turned. “Mr Crosby.” Means held out his hand. “I’m a great fan of your trio, The Rhythm Boys. Allow me to introduce myself.”

  Bing Crosby started to shake hands until he heard the name Gaston Means, then quickly withdrew his hand. “Sorry, I don’t associate with swindlers or spies.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You and your kind make me physically ill.”

  “But . . .”

  “I’ve read all about you, Mr Means. How you sold information on Allied shipping to the German embassy, were fired from the FBI, got yourself involved with that Ohio Gang scandal. Then without missing a beat, rolled around in the dirt with that Nan Britton woman.”

  “She hired me to investigate her husband . . .”

  “The President’s Daughter! You expect the American public to believe that a President of the United States fathered an illegitimate child?”

  “He was a senator at the time . . .”

  Crosby wasn’t interested in anything Means had to say. “You, sir are a coward, benefiting from people’s delusions . . .”

  “But I assure you Miss Britton’s claims are true!”

  “Why don’t you try doing something useful with your life?” After taking a minute to stare at Means with disgust, Crosby walked off.

  It wasn’t embarrassment that swirled around in Means’ brain, no, it was disbelief. Hadn’t H.L. Mencken written favorably about The President’s Daughter? Right there in the Baltimore Sun? Who the hell was this Bing character anyway? What did some lousy crooner know about politics? Literature? Means shrugged and headed for the buffet table.

  “Gee, Cal, when are we gonna get a break?” Irma asked. “My feet are killing me in these shoes.” She pointed down to her new red satin pumps that had been custom-dyed to match the roses stitched across the black velvet of her chemise. While the band played, Irma fingered a spit curl which curlicued across her left cheek. “Come on, Cal, I need to sit down a minute,” she whispered. “Be a pal, will ya?”

  The last note of “Lady be Good”, ended when Cal brought his baton down. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your enthusiasm. We’re going to take a short break but don’t worry, we’ll be back to play more of your favorites in fifteen minutes.”

  A few people applauded but most seemed not to notice.

  “There, are ya happy?” he asked Irma.

  “Yeah, thanks.” It wasn’t her feet that were hurting – it was her heart. She had to go meet Ramon Novarro. What a dream boat! As she hopped off the bandstand, her long string of pearls bounced in time with the matching earrings that hung almost to her shoulders.

  Judy McKeon hated her employer. If she could have gotten away with slitting the throat of that obnoxious cow, she would gladly have done so. But then she�
�d not only be out a big fat pay check each week, but have to clean up the mess as well.

  “Juuudith! Come here this instant!”

  Ordinarily, Judy would have run to help Lily (Mrs Armstrong-Smith insisted she call her Lily). But this particular evening she wasn’t feeling very helpful. As she rushed past the bedroom door she kept her eyes down and her mind set on escape. The party had started, the guests were sucking up the free hooch and one of the maids could surely tend to their demanding mistress.

  “Gaston Bullock Means,” he said as he shook the man’s hand in almost a violent manner. He was sick and tired of being looked down on. “Author of The President’s Daughter. You must have heard about the book. It’s almost certain to become a bestseller.”

  The poor fellow had been in the middle of a conversation with the beautiful woman next to him when this imbecile interrupted him. His anger forced the truth to erupt from inside like a volcano. “I, sir, would never soil my hands let alone my intellect with such garbage. Besides, I thought that piece of trash was written by a woman.”

  “Well yes, Nan Britton and I did collaborate.”

  “Maybe you should mention that next time you introduce yourself. By saying you’re the author gives the impression you had an original idea – did all the difficult work of writing yourself. Maybe next time . . .”

  Means walked away.

  A large man sat in the corner, alone. Means headed toward the loner to introduce himself. This time he would leave out the part about writing a book. All he wanted to do now was get drunk. The booze was free, the food exceptional. If he just kept his mouth shut he could have a good time.

  After twenty minutes, Cal went looking for Irma. Aside from the ballroom and library, the first floor of the mansion was quiet. Walking through the French doors, he scanned the pergola which had been strung with red and gold lacquered Chinese lanterns. A few couples stood admiring the view of Narragansett Bay. The air was cool and clean, the grass slightly damp. Even though an additional bar had been set up outside, the evening was too chilly to have many takers.

  The bartender waved across the expansive lawn to the Bandleader.

  “You seen Irma anywheres?” Cal shouted.

  The man pointed toward the water.

  Cal walked across the lawn, wondering why on earth Irma would be out in the cold. He could hear water slapping against the rocks and as he wandered away from the artificial light of the lanterns, his pace slowed a bit while his eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond.

  Finally, he was able to make out two figures. One, short – female, and one considerably larger – male. He stood there, conflicted. Not wanting to intrude, not wanting to walk any further in the dampness and dark. But even more anxious than ever to find his girl singer.

  He started to shout out to the pair but was interrupted by the low bellowing from a nearby lighthouse. He waited, then shouted, “Irma!”

  The female turned toward him. “Just a sec, Cal. I’m kinda busy here.”

  “No, Irma. You’re on my time now, break’s over!”

  “Okay, okay!”

  He turned and headed back to the house.

  The crowd seemed to have grown considerably in the short time he had been outside. His men sat waiting impatiently for their instructions.

  “Come on, Cal,” the trumpet player complained. “Are we playin’ or ain’t we?”

  “Quit your gripin’. You’re gettin’ paid, aren’t ya? Whether you play or just sit back on your rented tails, you’re gettin’ paid.”

  Looking away, in the direction of the drums, Cal stood waiting for Irma, silently daring the musician to say another word.

  The drummer, oblivious to the situation, stared out across the crowd.

  “Fascinating Rhythm,” Cal finally said. “And ah-one, ah-two.” Bringing his baton down, he continued, “ah-three.”

  The band had only gotten a minute or so into the number when Irma appeared. Frantically, she scrambled across the small stage. Cal was too angry to notice the long tear in her dress.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Cal ignored her.

  “Gee, give me a break, will ya?” she asked. “It was only a few minutes. So I got a little carried away. Come on, Cal, I said I was sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  Before he could respond, a woman pushed her way through the crowd. The bandleader couldn’t make out what she was shouting until she got closer.

  “Mrs Armstrong-Smith is missing!”

  The musicians froze, conversations hung unfinished in the air.

  “What do you mean by ‘missing?’” W.C. Fields asked.

  “I’m sure she’s around here someplace,” an older woman said. “You know how fond Lily is of surprises.”

  “She was upstairs in her bedroom just a moment ago.”

  “And who might you be?” Gaston Means asked.

  The hysterical woman looked around, unsure who had asked the question and even more unsure if that person was speaking to her.

  “Young woman,” he started again, “calm down. And please, tell us just who in Sam Hill you think you are, coming in here shrieking like a banshee, ruining our—”

  “Judith McKeon. I’m Mrs Armstrong-Smith’s personal secretary, sir, that’s who the hell I am! And would you be so kind as to tell me why you’re standing here wasting my time instead of helping me look for Mrs Armstrong-Smith? She’s vanished – maybe been kidnapped – or worse. We have to find her!”

  Means approached the woman. “Surely your employer couldn’t have just disappeared.”

  “But I saw her less than ten minutes ago. Well . . . I didn’t see her . . . with my eyes. She was in her room, dressing and wanted her . . .” That’s when Judith’s eyes settled on the sapphire clasp of Irma’s pearls. Wide-eyed she pointed and screamed. “Those pearls! You stole them! They belong to Mrs Armstrong-Smith!”

  Irma was mortified. Clutching her throat she shook her head violently. “I didn’t steal nothin’. These are mine!”

  “What did she say?” someone asked.

  “What’s happening?” a lanky man sporting a pin striped suit wanted to know.

  “Should we call the police?” one of the maids who had been serving hors d’oeuvres asked, after swallowing the small toast point and last bit of caviar she had swiped.

  “No!” The large man standing near the French doors shouted. “No police!”

  Everyone’s attention turned. As he walked into the room, a unified gasp rose from the crowd.

  “I can certainly understand your concern, Mr Arbuckle,” Judith began, “but I don’t think . . .”

  “Fatty Arbuckle?” Gaston Means asked. “The Fatty Arbuckle? The man who killed that Rappé woman?”

  “He was acquitted,” Judith snapped.

  “And if your memory is good enough to dredge up that poor woman’s name after six years, then I’m sure you remember I was exonerated twice.”

  “Hey! He told me his name was William Goodrich,” Irma explained to Cal. “He said he was a director.”

  Cal whistled through his teeth. “Yeah, honey, and I bet he told ya he could get ya in the moving pictures.” As he spoke, Cal noticed the rip in Irma’s dress. “Was he the one who did that?”

  “Well . . . yes . . . but not like you . . .”

  Cal walked to the microphone. “Miss McKeon, I suggest ya detain Mr Arbuckle. He attacked my singer, here.”

  “What?”

  “I did no such thing,” the large man said. Sweat broke out across his forehead; his round face was slowly turning a deep crimson. “I would never do that!”

  “He’s right.” Irma was now talking into the microphone. “Mr Arbuckle and I was just talking. He was a perfect gentleman. And then we spotted the . . .” Irma stopped abruptly. Her eyes slammed shut and she stood there, head down, staring at the floor.

  “Spotted what? What did you see?” Cal asked.

  “Sorry, Mr Arbuckle. Sometimes I can be a real dope.”


  Fatty had hoped for enough time to take care of his “situation”. But when she had started to run for the house he had to stop her, grabbing for her arm. She was younger and quicker and all he had managed to do was rip her sleeve. The thing that had upset her the most about this incident was the damage to her dress. When he promised to not only replace it but throw in another with matching shoes and evening bag, she agreed to give him half an hour to take care of things.

  “I think I know where Lily is,” he slowly told the crowd.

  “Well, for God’s sake tell me,” Judith demanded. “I’ve spent days putting this party together and now, maybe, some of the evening can be salvaged.”

  “If one of the men will go with me,” Fatty suggested, “we can escort Lily . . .”

  “Anything. Do whatever you want. As long as she’s not been kidnapped.”

  “No, I can assure you she hasn’t,” Fatty told her.

  “Fine, then.” Judith McKeon pivoted around on the heels of her practical shoes, annoyed, and marched out of the room. “Just like that old cow,” she muttered to herself. “Selfish, ungrateful . . .”

  “Mr Means?” Fatty said. “If you would be so kind as to come with me.”

  “And just what are the rest of us supposed to do?” Bing asked.

  “Eat, drink and be merry. Isn’t that why we’re here?” Fatty asked.

  “I suppose it is,” the crooner answered. Then, turning to Cal, he said, “Play something light. How about a Charleston?”

  “Sure thing, Mr Crosby.”

  As the music started up again, Means and Arbuckle headed through the ornate doors. When they had crossed the patio and stepped into the plush grass, Means asked his companion, “Why me?”

  “Because we are two of a kind, I suppose.”

  “How can you say that? Before tonight, we’ve never met.”

  “Not face to face, you’re right about that. However, I am very well acquainted with your reputation, Mr Means. We both have scandalous backgrounds. And it’s that fear of being disgraced again that puts us on our best behavior.”

  Means stopped dead. “So, if each of us in on his best behavior, then it stands to reason we are the most honorable of all the men – or women – here.”