[Celebrity Murder Case 01] - The Dorothy Parker Murder Case

by George Baxt

  Polly’s eyes widened with disbelief. “Six? I only maintain four for the regulars and tonight’s gonna be a busy night. I mean I already got over fifteen bookings. I’ll need to job the rest and you ain’t giving me much time to round them up. I mean, some of my girls are respectable wives and mothers. They need time to feed the kids, get them to bed, and wait for the man of the house to pass out from the exhaustion of everyday living. What do you think I am?”

  “A very clever businesswoman,” said Liveright. “Maybe you can borrow a few girls from Belle Livingston.”

  “Ain’tcha heard? Belle’s on Rikers. They raided her last night and she got a new judge what’s a dummy. He don’t take bribes. Can y’imagine, a Jimmy Walker appointee what don’t take bribes?” Mayor James J. Walker was one of Polly’s most respected clients. “Let me see what I can do in the next couple of hours. Where can I reach you?” She jotted down the telephone number he gave her in the booking ledger on the desk.

  Liveright swung his feet off the desk. “Is there any chance Miss DeLee might be available?”

  Polly studied her face in the mirror presented to the establishment by film star Wallace Beery. What she saw still looked good to her. Prostitution had treated her kindly. She was still on the better side of middle age, and when the time came she knew she’d be smart enough to retire. Polly harboured a secret desire to get a higher education. She wanted to go to college. New York University gave night courses that interested her. She wanted to learn languages and study economics so she could look after her investments without worrying about being cheated by some snake of a stockbroker. The market was soaring, and Polly was soaring with it.

  “Polly?

  “I’m here, Mr. Liveright, I’m here. I was just thinking. Vera ain’t been feeling so hot lately. I mean last night she fainted in the arms of a very important client. It frightened the shit outta him, and let me tell you, this one’s got plenty to spare. As a matter of fact, she’s got an appointment with her doctor right now I think. If he gives her the nod, I’ll see she’s part of your package. And Mr. Liveright”—he recognized the advent of an admonition—“none of that rough stuff, you hear me? I mean where I come from, chains is for slaves. Is that kinky Frank Tinney on your guest list?” Frank Tinney was a celebrated comedian who was known for his sadistic treatment of women.

  “He is. Don’t worry. I’ll keep him in line.”

  “You damn well better. Cigar burns on their tits put my girls out of action for too long. It also puts them off cigars. What about Crater?”

  “I hadn’t thought of asking the judge.”

  “Well, it’s just that Vera is one of his favourites. Okay, Mr. Liveright. Or should I pronounce that Live Right. You sure know how.”

  “Don’t hang up yet. Polly, how well do you know Lacey Van Weber?”

  Polly replied cautiously. “We’ve never socialized.”

  “Your girls have been at some of his parties. Vera DeLee was at the one where Valentino took sick.”

  “So what about it?”

  “Well, it’s like this, dear. I suspect that someone who means a great deal to me is on the verge of getting very ] dangerously involved with him.”

  “Mr. Liveright, you publish too many romances. There’s no such thing as dangerously involved unless you’re stepping j into a lion’s cage without a whip and a pistol.”

  “Obviously, you’re very fond of Van Weber.”

  “It’s like I said, Mr. Liveright, I’ve never socialized with him. Now let me get on with the roundup.” She hung up while glaring at the phone.

  “Can I get you something?” asked Gloria.

  “Yeah. You can get me a new head, a new stomach and a new past.”

  Mrs. Parker was early. If members of her luncheon circle heard of this, somebody would have raised a flag. Jack Kreindler led her to a quiet table in the back room when she introduced herself and told him she was waiting for Van Weber. “This is Mr. Van Weber’s favourite table,” explained Kreindler. “Can I get you something while you’re waiting?”

  For a second, Mrs. Parker thought of asking for a copy of War and Peace, but decided this was no time for frivolity. She asked for a Jack Rose, and Kreindler relayed the order to a waiter who had placed a small bowl of salted nuts on the table. When Kreindler and the waiter left, Mrs. Parker opened her handbag, found a pocket mirror and checked herself out. It’s about as good as it’ll ever get, she decided. Mirror back in place, clasp snapped shut, Mrs. Parker put her elbows on the table, interlaced her fingers and rested her chin on the framework. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles, and so her range of vision was limited. The room was crowded with celebrities and just plain rich people, the congestion at the long bar being certainly fifty deep. She would later compare it to a colony of worker ants. The waiter brought her drink and then departed after being told she didn’t require anything else. She knew the liquor would be excellent because Jack Kreindler and his brother Charlie were celebrated for running a top-grade saloon. This wasn’t your ordinary peephole-in-the-door, sawdust-on-the-floor, plug-ugly-ex-prizefighter-bouncer checking the would-be clientele place. Jack and Charlie’s was a class operation, paying classy sums to the corrupt police department to keep it that way. It was also one of the mayor’s favourite midtown spas, and nobody high in officialdom cared to displease the mayor.

  “Mrs. Parker?”

  The voice was like an exquisite balm applied to a superficial wound. She looked up and suppressed a gasp of sexual excitement. He was almost six feet tall with the physique of an athlete. His eyes were a cobalt blue, and she knew they hid the secrets of the pharaohs. She would later describe his nose to Woollcott as “excruciatingly perfect.” She could tell he had been poured into his Palm Beach suit. There wasn’t a crease or wrinkle in evidence. He held his Panama hat lightly in his right hand. His smile filled her with fairy-tale enchantment. His teeth were of a Steinway grand quality, and the texture of his skin was enough to make a six- month-old infant scream with envy. He was too perfect and destroying her metabolism.

  “I do so hope I’m Mrs. Parker,” she said softly and girlishly, one hand at her chest because she was finding breathing difficult. He sat down next to her, his smile widening and more dazzling, and she wondered if this was how you felt when you’re about to suffer a stroke.

  “That looks like bourbon. Is it good?”1

  “I haven’t tasted it yet.” She knew her mouth had moved. She hoped she had said something. She could only hear the ringing in her ears.

  “May I?” Without waiting for her consent, he tasted the drink. “It’s lovely.” The waiter arrived, and Van Weber ordered the same for himself.

  “I’m a great admirer of your writing, Mrs. Parker.” .

  “So am I.” She felt her cheeks redden. “That was not meant to sound egotistical.”

  “You have every right to be.”

  “I really don’t. What I meant to say is that I admire finishing a piece of work. I find writing terribly difficult. I mean, if I was hired to write some of those Nancy Drew mysteries, we’d all be in terrible trouble. I know the women who write them just tear them off about one a month. A simple quatrain can take me a week.” She caught her breath. “We’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you.”

  He leaned forward seductively. “Are we in any rush?”

  “Why, no,” she replied graciously, “not unless there are tumbrels waiting for us at the door.”

  “I understand Liveright is publishing your collection of verse.” The waiter served his drink and left.

  “Yes, he’s terribly brave. Poetry has never been known to make anyone rich.”

  “I was under the impression you made a great deal of money.”

  “Good heavens, no. I’m a free-lance writer. A freelance is someone who starves at his own discretion.”

  “But you contribute regularly to F.P.A.’s column in the World.”

  “That’s for free and for ego. Frank doesn’t pay. But he has a la
rge readership and it’s good to be published by him.”

  “What about The New Yorker?”

  “City postal clerks do better. May I ask? You have such a strange accent. Are you British or affected?”

  He laughed and it made her spine tingle. There was nothing wrong with this man. He was absolutely perfect. Nonpareil. One of a kind. She kept her hands under the table because they were trembling. “There are all sorts of rumours about my origins. Which would you prefer me to repeat?”

  “The one I like is that you’re a descendant of British aristocracy. Except how could that be with a name like Van Weber?”

  “There’s lots of German blood in the royal house of Britain. Did that piece in the Graphic really interest you that much?”

  “Yes. I love a mystery.” Now her hands were clasped atop the table. He covered them and she winced.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Oh, it’s just my wrists. I cut them while peeling an onion.”

  “So, domestic, too.”

  “No, domestic three. One, I’m a hedonist, two, I’m a creative artist, and three, when I’m desperately hungry, I feed myself.” She sipped her drink and then fixed him with her captivating eyes. “Who are you, Lacey Van Weber?”

  His face betrayed nothing. “What do you mean?”

  “Everything about you is too perfect. You’re like the place setting at a state dinner. Too carefully arranged. The mansion in East Cove. The penthouse in the city. An office on Fifth Avenue. You seem to have captured the imagination and trust of the who’s who of the city. You’re an absolute smasher in the looks department.” He smiled, and she wondered if pinning that verbal medal on him made him expect to be kissed on both cheeks. “But what exactly is it that you do? Are you a stockbroker? An international financier? Or are you a clever hoaxer?”

  “I’m everything and I’m nothing. I’m what people want me to be. I’m malleable. I can be shaped and reshaped to satisfy anybody’s fantasy of what I am or should be.”

  “You’re also a superb double talker. I’m amazed Marc Connelly had so little to tell us about you.”

  “Marc Connelly?”

  Mrs. Parker was somewhat astonished. “You don’t know Marc Connelly, the playwright? He was at your party the night Valentino took ill.”

  “Mrs. Parker, there were so many people at that party. There are so many people at all my parties. I sometimes think there’s a secret organization located somewhere in the bowels of this city created solely to breed pests who crash my parties.”

  “Marc didn’t crash. His date brought him. Lily Robson.” She didn’t miss the subtle change that came over his face. “I believe she’s a Guinan girl. Don’t you know her?”

  “Oh, I certainly know Lily. Once you meet Lily, you never forget her. She has flaming red hair.”

  “So I’ve heard. It’s been described to me as resembling a house ablaze.” She added with demure archness, “Unlike mousy little me.”

  “If there were more mice like you, I’d pay less attention to flaming redheads. You’re a good friend of Mr. Connelly’s?”

  “Oh, yes. Alec Woollcott and I had lunch at his place today. That’s when he told us about your party. Isn’t it sad about Valentino? Only thirty-one. Did you know him well?”

  “Urn … not really all that well.”

  “Surely you’ve been to Hollywood.”

  “I’ve been all over the world.”

  And she was beginning to wonder if the world had been all over him. He was a queer duck, all right. Beautiful but strange. Affable but guarded. “I get the feeling, Mr. Van Weber, that you live under a terrible strain.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It must be exhausting to choose every word as though it needs first to be examined and appraised under a jeweller’s loupe.”

  “That’s my upbringing.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Very strict.”

  That sounded very Prussian to her. “Are you married?”

  “Do I look like the marrying type?”

  “You’d love Marc Connelly.”

  “Why?”

  “He always answers a question with a question.”

  “Mrs. Parker —” he leaned forward, his eyes blinding hers “—when you get to know me better, you’ll get to know me.”

  She knew the blood was bubbling in her veins. “And do you plan for me to get to know you better?”

  “We could start by having dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow night? Oh.” She was crestfallen. “Tomorrow night’s no good?”

  “Not for dinner, no. Mr. Woollcott has invited me to see Flo Ziegfeld’s show, No Foolin’.”

  “Oh, yes. I saw it opening night.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I’ve seen better, I’ve seen worse.”

  “I hear the girls in it are Flo’s most gorgeous. I’m sure they didn’t escape you.”

  “They’re quite lovely.”

  “Do you know any of them?”

  “Why?”

  “I thought they’d be good to know to help decorate your parties. I mean their good looks would help decorate your party.”

  He was playing with her, and he knew she knew it. Smart lady. Very smart lady. The façade all little girl and helpless. The interior all clever and calculating. She intrigued him. She didn’t frighten him. “I’ve met Paulette Goddard and Claire Luce.”

  “Oh, are they in the show?”

  “Yes, indeed. They’re two beautiful kids. In fact, they’re all beautiful kids. Polly Walker, Peggy Fears, Greta Nissen …”

  “Ilona Mercury …”

  “Oh, of course. The lady from Hungary. The other names were all unfamiliar to you, yet you knew Miss Mercury’s. How’s that?”

  Mrs. Parker was warming up. She was treading where angels fear. Liveright’s warning was flashing before her eyes. Detective Jacob Singer’s warning not to pursue an investigation until the murdered woman’s body had been found and recognized was forgotten. “Why, she’s a friend of a friend. George S. Kaufman? You must have heard of George S. Kaufman.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know about most of the people who meet regularly at the Algonquin. I read Mr. Adams’s column religiously. And he chronicles you religiously. I was pulling your leg when you asked about Marc Connelly. We had a long talk at my party.” Yet Connelly had told her and Alec he barely knew Van Weber. “I should lunch more often at the Algonquin. With any luck, I might sit at an adjoining table and be dazzled by all the smart conversation.”

  “It isn’t always all that smart. Lots of times we have hangovers. Too often we snarl and backbite, then they’re less luncheons than they are holy wars. Sometimes, when we’re all in a good mood, and that isn’t too often, we’re even warm and affectionate and say a kind word for Frank Case who’s the boniface of the establishment. Yes, you must drop by. Everyone’s heard about you and wonders about you. It would be a great feather in my cap.”

  “Well, hello there, Lacey Van Weber!” Judge Crater loomed above them with his hand outstretched.

  “Hello, Joe. What a nice surprise.” Van Weber shook his hand. “Do you know Dorothy Parker?”

  “I’ve certainly heard of her.”

  “Mrs. Parker, this is Judge Crater.”

  “How do you do. Judge. It’s so nice to meet a judge sociably for a change.”

  Crater favoured Van Weber. “Will I be seeing you later tonight at the … um … meeting?”

  “I didn’t know there was one scheduled.”

  “Oh, sure. At midnight as usual.”

  Mrs. Parker was fascinated by the cryptic interchange. She wondered if she had missed the key word that would decipher it.

  “Perhaps there’s a message waiting at my apartment. But if I’m not there, have fun.”

  Judge Crater smiled a crooked smile. “Try to be there. It’s always such a pleasure to see you at the meetings.” His head swivelled and focused on Mrs. Parker. “Stella, th
at’s my wife, is a great admirer of yours.”

  “Oh, how nice. Say hello to Stella for me. We must take tea together sometime.”

  “I’m sure she’ll like that. Nice to see you both.”

  When he was well out of earshot, Mrs. Parker said, “So that’s Judge Crater. There are all sorts of rumours about him, too. Taking bribes. Working with the mobs. About as crooked as a bobby pin.”

  “This city’s a hotbed of rumours. There are those about you, you know.”

  “I do know, and some of it’s true. I’m sorry about tomorrow night.”

  “Where will you be after the theatre?”

  “I’m not sure. We haven’t decided where to dine. Have you a suggestion?”

  “Tony’s on West Forty-sixth Street is quite good. It’s just around the corner from the Globe Theatre. That’s where No Foolin’ is playing. I can have my secretary phone for a reservation. They know me at Tony’s.”

  Lucky Tony’s, thought Mrs. Parker. I wish I could say I knew you. Is there anyone that does? “I’m sure Tony’s will be just fine by Alec. He’s always looking forward to new experiences. And a short walk from the theatre is even more appealing. Mr. Woollcott doesn’t do too much walking. He discourages most forms of physical exertion. Getting out of bed in the morning requires a half-hour’s rest.” Jack Kreindler had returned. “Everything satisfactory, Mr. Van Weber?”

  “Just perfect, old sport. Couldn’t be better.”

  “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Parker?”

  “Out of here. I’m a bit tired and I’m sure Mr. Van Weber is about to be late for another engagement.”

  “You’re reading my mind,” said Van Weber.

  “If I am, it’s the first time this evening.”

  Van Weber walked her to Sixth Avenue where he hailed a cab for her. “How can I reach you, Mrs. Parker?”

  “I’m in the phone book, Mr. Van Weber. How long do we continue the formalities, Lacey?”

  “Do you prefer Dottie or Dorothy?”

  “I prefer a good relationship.” He held open the cab door for her. “Dottie is usual.” She got into the back seat. He closed the door and she poked her head out the open window. “Oops. Almost forgot my manners. Thanks for the drink. It was just lovely.” The cab pulled away from the curb as Mrs. Parker gave the driver her address. She looked out the rear window. Van Weber hadn’t moved. Without seeing him clearly, she knew his face would be a study. She sat back and crossed her legs. She was reviewing the conversation with Van Weber. The evasions. The contradictions. The charm. The subtle sexuality. The party at the penthouse. Valentino. Lily Robson and Vera DeLee. Ilona Mercury. Her intuition told her Lacey Van Weber would be looming large in her future. She might have overplayed her hand, but he seemed to have bought it. What was that he had said to Jack Kreindler? “Just perfect, old sport.”