by George Baxt
“Surely you are making a joke.” He couldn’t see the look on Cora Gallagher’s face. Lily Robson was obstructing his view.
“Surely I ain’t. Tex Guinan don’t want nobody on the premises what’s hooked. You’re sure this stuffs safe?”
“You’ll love it. As soon as it’s finished, you’ll be back for more.” He took one of her hands and kissed it.
Lily smiled. “Ain’t you somethin’?” Horathy saw her to the door. After she left, Cora Gallagher showed him the newspaper.
“God,” he muttered, taking the newspaper back into the office with him.
As Lily Robson got on an elevator, the second elevator reached the floor, from which marched Mrs. Parker, Woollcott, Singer and Cassidy. In the vanguard, Singer led the way to Horathy’s office. Cora Gallagher stood up when the foursome entered, and Singer and Cassidy flashed their badges. “We’d like to talk to the doctor,” said Singer.
“You don’t have an appointment,” said Nurse Gallagher.
“Girlie, we don’t need one,” said Cassidy.
“I’ll see if he’s in.” She went swiftly into Horathy’s office.
“No diplomas,” commented Mrs. Parker.
“What do you mean?” asked Woollcott.
“There are no framed diplomas hanging on the walls. All doctors show off their diplomas. Where they graduated from. What degrees in medicine they’ve received. My doctor’s walls are absolutely dripping with diplomas.”
Nurse Gallagher returned. “The doctor will see you.” She stood to one side as they entered Horathy’s office. It was beautifully furnished in soft brown and white. A door led to an examining room and another door led to a laboratory. The doctor’s windows overlooked Park Avenue. Here, Mrs. Parker noticed with satisfaction, there were framed diplomas on the walls. They were in a foreign language which she presumed was Hungarian. The doctor stood behind the desk as they trooped in and Singer identified himself and the others. Horathy made charming noises about how pleased he was to meet Mrs. Parker and Woollcott as he offered them seats. Singer wasted no time in getting down to his inquiry. The doctor admitted Vera DeLee had been a patient and yes, he had just read about her tragic death; he indicated the folded newspaper on his desk. Yes, he had seen her last night around five o’clock when she came for a booster shot. She hadn’t felt well and fainted. He and the nurse assisted her to the couch in the waiting room and soon revived her. She left shortly after that.
“Was she your last patient of the day?” asked Singer.
“Yes, she was,” replied Horathy.
“What’s in this booster shot you gave her?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s privileged information.”
“I could subpoena your records.” He was bluffing, and the doctor knew he was bluffing. By the time he got the court order, Horathy could have destroyed every record i» his office.
“Our autopsy shows she was on morphine. A lot of morphine and for a long long time, according to the coroner. There are enough tracks on her backside to make the Baltimore and Ohio envious.”
Horathy blithely asked Mrs. Parker if she and Woollcott were friends of the deceased. She explained her collaboration with Woollcott. She briefly entertained the thought of having cards printed with the explanation in case the investigation proved to be prolonged.
“What about them tracks?” persisted Singer.
“I administer booster shots in the buttocks because Miss DeLee’s body was essential to her profession. It would not look good if her arms looked as though they had been repositories for needles.”
“What about the morphine?”
“I know nothing about morphine.”
“That’s not the way we hear it.”
"What you hear is slander.”
Mrs. Parker interjected blithely, “But, Dr. Horathy, Rudolph Valentino accused you of being a dope pusher at Lacey Van Weber’s party, and to my knowledge, you haven’t instigated a suit for slander against him.”
“It is pointless to sue the dead,” said Horathy, as though he were faced with a congenital idiot.
“You could sue his estate.” She wasn’t sure if she knew what she was talking about. She pleaded with Singer, “Can’t he?”
Singer went off on another tack. “Ilona Mercury was your patient, too, wasn’t she?”
“Not really. We were merely acquainted.”
“Acquainted enough for her to introduce Vera DeLee to you.”
“I do not recall how Miss DeLee came to me.”
‘Polly Adler says it was Mercury that introduced DeLee to you. We trust Mrs. Adler.” The inference that Horathy wasn’t trusted didn’t escape the doctor.
“You have no right to harass me!” raged Horathy. “I will not put up with this!”
Singer asked Mrs. Parker and Woollcott, “Do you see any signs of harassment around here?”
“I think you’re being perfectly charming,” said Woolf cott, who really meant it. He was thoroughly fascinated with Jacob Singer and decided he would later compliment Mrs. Parker for her rare good judgment in introducing the detective to their circle.
“I must ask you people to leave.” Horathy stood firm and dignified. Mrs. Parker wondered if he’d ever been a hussar in the Hungarian army. She thought he would fit the part well.
“If you insist, then you insist,” said Singer. “But it would help if you’d decide in the future to be a bit more cooperative.”
“I can assure you, sir, there will be no ‘in the future.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.” He said to the others, “Let’s go.” After they left the office, Cassidy slamming the door shut behind them, Horathy barked a number into the telephone.
At the elevator, Woollcott said grimly, “I really didn’t like that man. There’s something terribly sinister about people with white streaks in their hair.”
“The guy was lying,” said Cassidy. “We should look into him.”
“The minute we get back to the precinct.” The elevator arrived. As they got in and the operator closed the doors Singer asked Mrs. Parker what she thought of Bela Horathy.
“Well, quite frankly,” she said in a voice heavy with whimsy, “he rather struck me as a typographical error. If I were you, Mr. Singer, I’d look into him with the American Medical Association. I mean, perhaps he doesn’t really have a license to practice in this country.” She could see the elevator operator was all ears. “Young man, what you’ve heard here is strictly between us,” she admonished him while suddenly mesmerized by his cowlick which seemed to rise from his head like the periscope of a submarine, “or my law officer friends here will haul you into the precinct for a grilling, or something equivalent.”
In his office, Horathy raged into the telephone. There were attempts to pacify him from the other end. Horathy continued to rage. Then the voice at the other end became ominous and dangerous. Horathy’s rage abated. After replacing the receiver on the hook, he shouted for nurse Gallagher. She heard him through the door and hurried to him.
“Vera DeLee was the last patient I saw yesterday.”
“But what about . .
He interrupted her abruptly, his voice harsh and threatening. “Vera DeLee was the last patient I saw yesterday.”
“Certainly, doctor.”
When she returned to her desk, she sat staring into space, wondering if she dared quit and look for another job.
In the squad car, Mrs. Parker was serenely silent. The others traded small talk until Woollcott finally said to Mrs. Parker, “Your silence is maddening. What are you hatching in that perplexing mind of yours?”
“Just contemplating the perplexities of others. You know what I’d try to find out, Mr. Singer? I’d try to find out if Dr. Horathy saw another patient while Miss DeLee was stretched out recovering from her fainting spell. Sometimes I’m like other women, I have spells of intuition. Somehow, I felt the doctor was protecting someone. Am I making any sense?”
“You’re making a lot of sense, Mrs. Parker. I’m begin
ning to understand you when you go quiet all of a sudden. I used to have an aunt who would do that at times. It used to drive my uncle nuts. Then she’d come up with one hell of a recipe.”
Woollcott smiled at Singer, feeling cozy and Christmassy, even in the stifling heat of August. He understood aunts and uncles and recipes and didn’t care how sentimental a fool his contemporaries considered him; he still treasured the old values of family and hearth and homestead. He looked as though he was about to wipe a tear from his eye, but didn’t. Instead, he speared Mrs. Parker with his tongue.
“You there, Tess of the Storm Country.” The abrasiveness of his voice didn’t escape her. “What was that look you flashed me when Mrs. Adler mentioned DeLee being excused from a midnight party?”
“It was so arcane a reference, I was wondering if you knew what she was talking about. I only found out last night from Mr. Singer.”
Woollcott folded his hands over his stomach, a very superior expression on his face. “She was alluding to Horace Liveright’s orgies. The only person who thinks they’re a secret is Horace Liveright on the rare occasions when he thinks.”
“Don’t be harsh on Horace,” said Mrs. Parker. “There’s obviously some psychological flaw in him that compels him to indulge in an occasional moral lapse, and God knows I dread ever knowing what it is. I just deplore the damage he’s doing to a lot of innocent kids.”
“Innocent kids don’t participate in orgies,” said Singer.
Mrs. Parker favoured him with a tiny smile. “I always knew I wasn’t cut out to be a philosopher. What are you going to do about Dr. Horathy?”
Singer shifted around on the front seat and now faced Mrs. Parker and Woollcott. “Tonight, I assign Yudel Sherman, who is a very good detective, when his mind isn’t on baseball, to interview the night elevator operators in Horathy’s building. They’ll know if there was someone in Horathy’s office at the same time as DeLee. I also send a long telegram to my buddy out in Los Angeles, the chief of police, and ask him for everything he can give me on Dr. Bela Horathy.
“Don’t forget Ilona Mercury,” cautioned Mrs. Parker, fidgeting with her fingers, wishing she had thought to bring along her knitting.
“L.A. got the word on Mercury yesterday.”
“Oh. Aren’t you clever?”
“Of course he’s clever!” boomed Woollcott, who had now decided to officially adopt Jacob Singer as his own. “He’s an amazingly intelligent young man.”
“Mr. Singer,” said Mrs. Parker softly, “you have just been knighted.”
Singer’s expression was neutral. He was educated in the excesses and eccentricities of the Algonquin set. He knew that each of them lived in a world of his own, ruled and governed by the self, yet still feeding off each other’s egos and intellect, occasionally allowing access to wife, husband or lover, who felt in turn like illegal trespassers. He didn’t know of a single happy marriage or romantic relationship among them. They were doomed and they were blessed and he had learned to accept, just as they had probably learned to accept that it couldn’t be any other way for them. Singer, a dedicated cop without any entanglements, had even less than they did.
“Where are we going?” asked Woollcott testily.
“Just cruising around waiting for a decision,” explained Cassidy.
“I’d like to have a chat with Judge Crater.” Singer pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s not yet four o’clock. He might still be in his office. Cassidy, find a phone.”
Cassidy found a phone in a cigar store at the corner of Twenty-third Street and Fifth Avenue. Mrs. Parker studied the wooden Indian with his hand upraised wielding a tomahawk which stood next to the entrance. “It looks like R'ng Lardner.”
“What does?” asked Woollcott.
“The wooden Indian.”
“Yes, it does, when he’s sober.”
Jacob Singer got Crater’s number from Central and asked to be connected. They could see him chatting through e window. “It’s really dangerous placing phone booths against storefront windows, isn’t it?”
“Why’s that?” asked Cassidy.
“It makes a person so vulnerable. One is so exposed. I suppose that’s why so many gangsters get bumped off in telephone booths.”
Singer returned and told Cassidy to head downtown to City Hall. “Crater’s expecting us.”
“I’m feeling shanghaied,” grumbled Woollcott.
Mrs. Parker riposted with irritation, “I’m sure Mr. Cassidy could drop you at the corner if you’d prefer to go home. I’ll meet you at the theatre just before curtain time.”
“Oh, the hell with it! In for a penny, in for a pound.” He settled back, tried to cross one leg over the other, gave up the effort as Cassidy rounded a corner on two wheels, almost dumping Woollcott in Mrs. Parker’s lap.
“Alec, please stop fidgeting,” admonished Mrs. Parker, annoyed at being interrupted while contemplating Lacey Van Weber. It was obvious he had arranged his luncheon at the Algonquin just to run into her. Run into her, hell; he’d come looking for her. He didn’t nail a lid on her suggestion she do a profile on him for The New Yorker. He said he'd be in touch. Maybe we’ll run into him tonight. He knows what show we’re seeing. He knows where we’re taking supper after the show. She felt Woollcott’s elbow nudging her ribs.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty, we’re here.”
There were no unnecessary preliminaries. Crater was expecting them, and his secretary ushered them into his office immediately. Chairs had already been placed facing Crater’s desk. Somebody around here is very efficient, thought Mrs. Parker as introductions were exchanged. Crater was at least six feet tall, heavyset, with gray hair and beautiful blue, piercing eyes. She recognized false teeth and also noticed later his right index finger was mangled. He wore a choker collar and white spats, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand how any woman could find him attractive. For example, he had a broad nose, and Mrs. Parker found broad noses suspect in a man. Her husband had one and so did the object of her most recent unpleasantness.
“May I offer you anything?” asked Crater in his judicial voice as he settled behind his desk.
“Some information,” replied Singer. Good lad, thought Woollcott, gets right to the point. No pointless pleasantries. A good warrior. Mrs. Parker wished Woollcott would erase that stupid look from his face.
“How can I help you?” asked Crater, leaning forward while forming a pyramid with his hands.
“When was the last time you saw Vera DeLee?”
Crater pursed his lips, sat back, crossed his legs, folded his arms, and looked past Singer’s head to the wall behind. Superb performance, thought Mrs. Parker. I’d love to be there on one of those occasions when he tells Mrs. Crater he’s been out all night with the boys exchanging legal briefs. “Now that’s a good question,” said Crater.
“I’ve got even better ones,” said Singer.
Crater smiled. His false teeth were ugly with stains. Mrs. Parker wanted to cringe, but managed not to. She hadn’t noticed his ugliness the previous evening when Van Weber had introduced them at Jack and Charlie’s. “If I recall correctly, the last time I saw Vera was at a party given by a mutual acquaintance … He riffled the pages of his desk calendar. “Ah, yes, here it is, the night of August fourteenth. At Lacey Van Weber’s.” He directed his stained smile at Mrs. Parker. “Your escort yesterday at Jack and Charlie’s. You’re not involved in Vera’s death, are you, Mrs. Parker?”
Mrs. Parker explained the collaboration with Woollcott, and Crater didn’t question the impropriety of their accompanying a police officer in an official investigation.
“Not since then?” asked Singer.
“No, not since then.”
“Got any ideas why anybody would want to murder her?”
“A crime of passion, perhaps?”
“You weren’t very passionate about her?”
Crater wasn’t fazed either by the question or by the presence of Mrs. Parker and Woollcott. “I’ve been t
o bed with her. That’s quite obvious. I’m sure you’re aware she’s one of Polly’s girls. I only sleep with them. I don’t kill them.”
Mrs. Parker intervened smoothly. “That was quite a dust-up at the party between Valentino and Horathy, wasn’t it?”
“Horathy?”
“Dr. Bela Horathy. The one they call Dr. Bliss. Valentino accused him of pushing dope in Hollywood, ruining the lives of some of his dearest friends. Wallace Reid, Barbara LaMarr, Mabel Normand …”
“Of course. That altercation.”
“And then suddenly Valentino took ill,” continued Mrs. Parker. Singer let Mrs. Parker have her head. He knew she was after something, and with any luck she’d trip Crater and get it.
“Yes, the poor lad. was standing on the terrace just near him when suddenly I heard his outcry, and he clutched his stomach crying something in Italian, I think it was. Shortly afterward, he was helped from the party by the young woman he was with …”
“Ilona Mercury,” interjected Mrs. Parker.
“Yes, that’s right, a delightful creature.”
“Also murdered.”
“Good God, yes, how tragic.”
“He was helped from the party, you were saying …?”
“By Miss Mercury and Lacey Van Weber.”
Mrs. Parker felt her stomach doing a somersault. “You’re sure it was Mr. Van Weber?”
“Yes. I heard Miss Mercury shouting for him.”
“She didn’t shout for the doctor?”
“As I recall, Valentino was having no part of that doctor or any doctor. It was definitely Van Weber who helped Valentino to the elevator and out of the building.”
“Did Vera DeLee have anything to say about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t she comment on Valentino’s sudden illness?”
“She might have said something like ‘Oh, gee whiz’ or possibly ‘Aw, shit’ which is one of … was one of her favorite expressions.”
“Don’t you find it odd that since that party three of the guests are dead under mysterious circumstances? Valentino, Ilona Mercury, Vera DeLee.”
