by George Baxt
“A sad coincidence.”
“Murder isn’t a coincidence, Judge Crater,” said Mrs. Parker. “Murder, especially premeditated murder, is brutal and obscene. You’ve been a solon in these parts for many a year; surely you’ve had some previous experience with murder.”
“You seem to believe the gossip that Valentino was poisoned,” said Crater, now beginning to wonder why detective Singer had surrendered the spotlight to Mrs. Parker.
Singer might have been reading Crater’s mind, because now he spoke. “No poison turned up in his autopsy.”
“And an autopsy report can’t be doctored,” said Crater. “We hope not, but we can’t always be sure, can we?” The judge was glad Cassidy had a voice.
Now Woollcott piped up. “How well do you know Lacey Van Weber?”
“Such a good sport, Lacey is.”
“How well do you know him?” repeated Woollcott.
“We’ve run into each other quite a bit over the past year,” said Crater.
“Have you been to his mansion in East Cove?” continued Woollcott.
“Stella and I have driven there on a few occasions for lunch.”
“Do you have any business dealings with him?” Woollcott was nagging away like a dentist’s drill.
“I find that question irrelevant. It hasn’t anything to do with Vera DeLee. I thought that was what brought you here, Vera DeLee. Now you’re being impertinent, sir.”
“I meant no disrespect, your honour,” said Woollcott, wondering if Crater was under the idiotic misapprehension that his office was a courtroom and a trial was in session Singer decided it was time to step in. “I think what Mr. Woollcott’s getting at is that there is some reason to harbour suspicions about the connection of the party to the murder victims.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I had a very good time at that party, and as far as I recall, so did Vera. It was a very crowded party and at times we lost sight of each other. But I brought her there, I spent time with her and then I took her home to her apartment, where, if it will nourish your prurient hunger, I spent the night with her.”
Mrs. Parker couldn’t resist. “Was she any good?”
“Really, Mrs. Parker!”
“Sorry. Every so often I get a bit anthropological. One more question, Judge. You know Horace Liveright, don’t you?”
The judge huffed and then puffed. “We belong to the same club.”
“Did you ever run into either of the victims at one of his orgies?”
Crater’s chin dropped. Woollcott’s knuckles whitened. Singer was madly in love with Mrs. Parker.
“Well, did you?”
“Mrs. Parker, you are out of order.”
“I’m also out of questions. Mr. Singer.”
“I guess we’ve learned about as much as we’ll ever learn.” Singer arose, and it was the signal for the others to join him. “Thank you very much, Judge. I appreciate your cooperation.” There was enough irony in his voice to sink a battleship.
When they were back in the squad car heading uptown. Mrs. Parker said to Singer, “After your Yudel Sherman questions the elevator operators in Horathy’s building, I’m sure it’s occurred to you he ought to pay the same courtesy to the gentlemen who man the elevators in Vera De Lee's place. I’m sure someone is about to remember if she came home accompanied last night. There seems to be such heavy traffic in the direction of her apartment.” She then clucked her tongue with the rapidity of castanets. “How do those girls do it? I mean, night after night after night.”
“And frequently at matinees,” added Woollcott.
“Just like theatre critics,” concluded Mrs. Parker.
“Where to,” asked Cassidy, with a side glance at Singer.
“Home, James,” said Mrs. Parker with feigned haughtiness, “and don’t spare the horses.” She smiled at Singer. “We’ve accomplished about as much as we can, haven’t we, Mr. Singer?”
“We’ve done damn well, all things considered. I’m proud of both of you.” Woollcott beamed as though he’d been kissed by an angel. “Of course if Crater gives it some thought, he can make a complaint over my head at letting you two accompany me on official business. And on the other hand he may decide to play it smart until he begins to feel some uncomfortable pressure.”
Mrs. Parker was startled. “I thought we’d given him a great deal of uncomfortable pressure.”
“Mrs. Parker, that was nothing. He sidestepped skilfully. You didn’t get too much out of him.”
“Oh, yes, she did,” snapped Woollcott. “She found out Van Weber helped Valentino out of the party with the Mercury creature. There could have been some colloquy between them vital to this case.”
“If there was, we’ll never know it from Valentino or Mercury,” said Singer.
“We could try and find out from Mr. Van Weber,” suggested Mrs. Parker.
“That’s your department,” said Singer. She said nothing. She stared out the window, lost in thought, lost in a whirlpool labelled “Lacey Van Weber.”
Then she felt the squad car pulling up at the curb and turned to Woollcott as he told her, “I’ll pick you up in a taxi. Promptly at eight o’clock.”
“Are you sure you’d rather not meet in front of the Globe? I don’t mind getting there on my own steam.”
“Well, I do. I have no intention of cooling my heels under a theatre marquee while you’re still deciding on which frock to wear. In time you will find, Mr. Singer, should you survive this relationship with Mrs. Parker, that promptness is a word of little meaning and little importance in her vocabulary. Eight o’clock sharp,” he boomed.
Detective Yudel Sherman’s boyhood ambition had been to become a prizefighter. A star athlete in high school, Thomas Jefferson in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn where he was born and raised, Sherman had been taken under the wing of a small-time promoter who saw a potential in the young man at some amateur exhibitions. A year later, after three victories and fourteen defeats, Yudel was convinced by his older brother, a lawyer, that he ought to find another profession, one that assured him of a greater longevity than seemed apparent in fisticuffs. Yudel took a civil service examination and became a policeman. He was a very good policeman. He enjoyed collaring hoods, bashing skulls, chasing burglars, and beating up small-time chiselers. He was swiftly upgraded to detective and now enjoyed the company of Jacob Singer and Al Cassidy.
He was not enjoying the company of one of the elevator operators in Horathy’s building. He had shown him a photograph of Vera DeLee, one from the department file when she had been booked after one of their infrequent raids on Mrs. Adler’s establishment. He recognized Vera. Yes, he did transport her from Horathy’s floor to the lobby last night. It was sometime around seven o’clock. He recalled that, too. She didn’t seem to steady on her feet. He called them “pins.”
“Her pins wasn’t too steady, y’know?”
“Who was she with?” asked Sherman.
“Now let me t’ink.”
“Think hard. Take your time.”
“I’m not so sure, now.”
“I want you to be sure.”
“I’m t’inkin’.”
“Would it be easier to do your thinking at the precinct?”
“Oh, no. I can t’ink real good here. Now let me see.”
“Don’t see. Think.” It was obvious to Sherman, Vera DeLee had not descended in the elevator alone. “Was it Dr. Horathy?”
“Oh, no. He and his nurse they come down later.”
“Let’s go to the precinct.”
“It was a guy.”
“What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t tell real good. He was wearing cheaters with dark glasses that hid most of his face. An’ he had a hat pulled down over his head. He also kept wiping his nose with his handkerchief like maybe he had a summer cold.”
“Did they do any talking?”
“She did all the talking.”
“Did you remember what she said?”
“Not much. It’s a short haul from the doctor’s to the lobby. Oh, yeah. She asked him if he was going to the midnight party. I didn’t hear him answer her.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I can give you. Kin I git back to work now?”
In his book-cluttered study, Woollcott held the telephone receiver to his ear, listening to a blistering peroration from George S. Kaufman. Woollcott tried to interrupt from time to time, but then sighed and let the stream of vituperation flow undammed. Finally he managed to say, “But really, George, it was just my little joke.”
“Little joke! ‘And in whose apartment was her body found!’ What the hell are you trying to do? Assassinate me? f thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend. I am up to my hips in your friendship. Your friendship has completely rearranged my life which is no longer my own. It is now a murder investigation. It is eating into my precious life and my precious time, in the guise of friendship. We are doing this to protect you and if every so often I care to indulge in a bit of whimsy for my own amusement, I shall do exactly that without seeking the permission of a fatheaded satyr!” He slammed the phone down.
In Kaufman’s living room, his wife asked, “Who was that you were yelling at?”
“Huckleberry Fink.”
The elevator operator in Vera DeLee’s apartment hotel was young, eager and stupid. He sure did know Vera DeLee. Some hot number, right? With a lascivious wink and a lewd leer for emphasis.
“You carted her up to her place last night?”
“Yessiree indeedy, it was yours truly!” He did a quick time-step for emphasis.
“This was around half-past seven or so last night.”
“Or so and so and so, if you read me.”
Sherman wanted to hit him. “Who was she with?”
“She was always with somebody. She was one real hot busy chick. There wasn’t no grass growin’ under her.”
No, thought Sherman, it’ll soon be growing over her. “Who was she with last night? It was some guy, right.”
“It was some bozo, okay.”
“What did he look like?”
The boy screwed up his face. “Can’t much remember. Real hard to tell.” He snapped the fingers of both hands. “Hat pulled down to his ear. Dark glasses. Kept a handkerchief to his face. That’s it. Okay?”
“Okay,” responded Sherman wearily. But at least he knew there was someone with Vera DeLee that night, someone whom she had met in either Bela Horathy’s office or in the hallway while waiting for the elevator. He phoned the information in to Singer, who was waiting at the precinct. Singer relayed the information to Mrs. Parker, who was dressing for the theatre. The information, said Singer, required another confrontation with Horathy.
“He’ll lie,” said Mrs. Parker. “He’ll continue to protect whoever he’s protecting.”
“Then I’ll go after his nurse.”
“That’s more like it,” agreed Mrs. Parker. “Let’s hope she’s not in love with him. In the cheap fiction I occasionally read to bolster my morale, nurses are always in love with their doctors. If she’s in love with him, she won’t betray his confidence.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Have a good time tonight.”
“I’ll try.”
Woollcott arrived promptly at eight. She managed to get down to the lobby by eight-fifteen. He was fuming with impatience. The taxi meter was ticking away, and Woollcott was notoriously frugal. Traffic was heavy in the theatre district, even for a midweek evening in August. Woollcott recounted his unpleasant argument with Kaufman. “Oh, God,” he began wailing, “will I never attain a state of perfect bliss! Bring me to Nirvana!”
“Is that in Cuba?” asked Mrs. Parker. The cabdriver winced. “Who’s in the show?”
Woollcott was mopping his perspiring brow. “It’s a very good company Ziegfeld’s rounded up, as a matter of fact. He tried the show out earlier this year in Florida when it was called The Palm Beach Girl. It was a great success there, which is why he transferred it to New York. Of course Florida is one thing and Broadway is another.”
“Who’s in the show?” repeated Mrs. Parker.
“There’s James Barton, who’s quite a good comic. And there’s Moran and Mack. They work in blackface. Not too offensive. Audiences love them. There’s Ray Dooley.”
“I adore Ray Dooley. She doing her kid bit?”
“That’s about all she can do. Charles King is the tenor and Claire Luce is absolutely dazzling.”
“Then why is it so mediocre?”
“The sketches are rotten. The songs are so-so. But the decor is absolutely gorgeous. No expense spared. You know Flo.”
“I don’t really. We don’t move in the same circles.”
“Jacob Singer is a delightful chap, isn’t he?”
She was wondering when he’d get around to Jacob Singer. Proteges and the unattainable had a fatal fascination for Woollcott. It was Heywood Broun who said Woollcott warmed himself at the fires he helped to light for other people. First there was his limitless passion for the young actress Ruth Gordon. Then they suffered through his passion for Helen Hayes. Mrs. Parker had lost Charles MacArthur to her, and good riddance. Thank God Woollcott had passed swiftly through his F. Scott Fitzgerald phase. Now he spoke of Scott and Zelda only with loathing. Poor Scott, thought Mrs. Parker; The Great Gatsby was such a disappointment to so many of his peers. Old sport. Lacey Van Weber. Jacob Singer.
“Yes, Mr. Singer is an original. Are you thinking of adopting him?”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“I’m not being vulgar, I’m being pragmatic. In Mr. Singer you see a potential protege. You thrive on proteges. To quote Mr. Bernard Shaw, proteges are like mother’s milk to you. Perhaps if treated gently and with kindness and understanding, Mr. Singer could become a friend, possibly an intimate friend. I happen not to think so.”
Woollcott bristled. “Why not?”
“He’s a very self-contained young man. He lives for his work. What little impression I get from him is that there’s nothing else in his life but his work.”
“He took you to dinner last night, didn’t he?”
“That’s because I suspect he would like to lay me.”
“You do give yourself the best of it, don’t you?”
“I’m not giving myself the best of anything. You know as well as anybody else does that in affairs of the heart I’m always ending up with the short end of the stick … and why does that sound dirty? Anyway, last night I could tell from his phone call he would have been absolutely devastated if I had turned down his invitation. I like Mr. Singer. In fact, there are times when I absolutely adore Mr. Singer.”
“And you’d like to go to bed with him.”
“If my sexual drought continues, I’ll even bed down with Judge Crater, God have mercy on my soul.”
“Well, I do like Mr. Singer. I think I shall invite him to lunch.”
“Make sure it’s someplace like Dinty Moore’s. He’s a steak and potato man. He’s two-fisted, a he-man.”
“Not to worry, I’m reading you correctly. By the way, having infiltrated ourselves into this somewhat mordant investigation, do you suppose we might be placing ourselves in danger?”
“Why, Alec darling, what took you so long to catch up? From the very first questions we asked a suspect, I assumed we were on the spot. Oh, thank God, there’s the Globe Theatre. I was beginning to think we’d be spending the rest of our lives together in this conveyance.”
“What a grisly thought,” snapped Woollcott as he paid the fare. The taxi driver silently agreed with Woollcott.
The overture was half over as they were led down the aisle to their seats. Once seated, Mrs. Parker looked around and commented, “There’s hardly any audience.”
“There’s hardly any show,” said Woollcott.
An hour later, Mrs. Parker agreed. The theatre was like an oven. The show was indeed lavish and Claire Luce made a spectacular entran
ce from a shimmering egg that parted to reveal her, provocatively posed and eager to go into her dance. This was her first show since she had captivated Paris a year earlier. The comics were amusing, and the singers were on key, but like this August night, they were over heated and listless. The showgirls were stunning. Woollcott in a series of asides identified Greta Nissen (“Scandinavian. She has a Hollywood contract. Going to Fox”) and Louise Brooks (“She’s filming for Paramount at Astoria. Look at those legs”).
Those legs, thought Mrs. Parker, and her beautiful Dutch bob, and her flashing teeth. I feel like a frump. Woollcott continued, “Now that beauty on the right is Paulette Goddard. She’s just a child.”
“She’ll mature soon enough.”
“Next to her is Susan Fleming, and next to Fleming is Kay English.”
“Who’s the sullen-looking blonde at the head of the staircase?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea. That used to be Ilona Mercury’s spot. This girl must be her replacement.” He opened his program and then lit a match to read by. “They’ve still got Mercury listed. I guess there’s been no time to alter the program.”
The second act was blissfully short. There was an embarrassing paucity of curtain calls. Woollcott nudged Mrs. Parker. “The far aisle, going through the safety door to backstage, that’s Flo Ziegfeld. Let’s follow him.”
Woollcott was amazingly agile as he led the way through a row of seats to the safety door. Once they were through the door, there was no minion to challenge them. Woollcott marched to the dressing room area like a fire marshal doing a safety check. Mrs. Parker followed obediently like a Chinese wife.
“Woollcott!” Mr. Woollcott recognized Ziegfeld’s voice. He was standing in the doorway to the showgirls’ dressing room. Obviously someone in there was one of the lucky chosen. “What the hell are you doing here? You hated it when you saw it opening night.”
“My opinion hasn’t changed. It’s perfectly awful. But the girls are simply beautiful.”
From inside he heard a mouse squeak, “Get him.”
Woollcott introduced Mrs. Parker, and Ziegfeld’s smile broadened. “Now you are a writer,” said Ziegfeld magnanimously.
