by George Baxt
“I’m planning to ask a few others,” said Van Weber and then favoured Mrs. Parker, “Any preferences?”
“Buffalo Bill and General Pershing.” Van Weber laughed. Woollcott squinted. Singer resisted an urge to pinch her as a warning. “I need a drink,” said Mrs. Parker, “a very large drink.” Van Weber offered to escort her to the kitchen. As they walked away from the others, Mrs. Parker asked, “Isn’t this a bit strange, Lacey?”
“I always do things on the spur of the moment. I'm hoping on Saturday night your answer will be ‘yes.’ This gives you plenty of time to think it over.”
“Oh, yes. I’ll just be wallowing in time.”
On the steps, a young couple were necking outrageously. “Who’s them?” Charlotte Royce asked George S Kaufman.
“Oh, that’s the Wilmots, married a week and still acting like newlyweds. Do you come here often?”
“I’m with Flo Ziegfeld.”
“Oh. Well, he doesn’t come very often.”
Woollcott had Singer pinned to a wall. “Now what’s this plot all about?”
“It’s an invitation. Why make a big deal out of it?”
“There are invitations and there are invitations and this is one of the suspect kind. What’s that sinister young man up to?”
“Search me. Sounds like fun. I don’t often get asked to the playgrounds of the rich.”
“It’ll probably spoil you rotten. The Wussexes indeed! She was an acrobatic dancer at the Palladium and he’s a failed playboy!” Behind him he could hear a group hotly debating Sacco and Vanzetti and whether they deserved to be executed. Singer had his eye on George Raft. While Woollcott considered joining the debate, Singer left him and shoved his way to Raft.
“Hiya, George.”
Raft paled upon recognizing the detective. “Oh, hiya yourself, Jake. I didn’t know you was here.”
“You know now. I been meaning to get in touch with you.”
“Oh, yeah? What about?” Raft was perspiring and loosened his collar.
“Oh, this and that, mostly this. You and Valentino went back a long way, right?”
“Like I said, we used to hustle the old broads together.”
“That why you took him and Ilona Mercury to Van Weber’s party?”
“Well, there was nothing better on so … He caught himself too late. “Actually, it was Ilona who had the invite.”
“No, she didn’t. I happen to know when she got there she chewed Van Weber out for not inviting her.”
“She didn’t exactly chew him out, she was kinda funny about it.” He didn’t see Texas Guinan, but intuitively he felt her hot eyes on him. Jesus, not another session with the man, not that. God have mercy; nobody else would.
“Van Weber didn’t like Valentino.”
“Ah, come on, Jake. What’s with the hot seat all of a sudden? This is a party, remember?”
“I remember it’s a party. There are things I wish you would remember.”
“Am I interrupting anything important?” cooed Texas Guinan as she put an arm through one of Raft’s. “Baby needs a drink, sweetie pie, why don’t you go get me one?” Raft made his escape with alacrity.
“How goes it, Tex?”
“It’ll go better when I get my joint reopened. Any new leads on the murders?”
“I might get some if people like you stopped interrupting.”
“You mean Georgie? Georgie don’t know nothing. He’s just a dumb hoofer from Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Georgie knows. I suspect he’s been warned to forget.” He looked around the room. “I don’t see Dr. Horathy. Now how could he have missed out on a party like this?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you phone him and ask him.” She walked away to intercept Raft who was returning with her drink. Singer couldn’t hear her, but the way her mouth was working, he could tell Raft was going to wake up in the morning with a bad case of charred ears.
“Have you seen Mrs. Parker?” Van Weber was craning his neck.
“Not since you walked off with her,” said Singer.
“Mr. Benchley claimed her and that’s the last I’ve seen of her. By the way, I’ve asked Neysa and her husband for Saturday. She said they’d be delighted if she remembers.”
“Oh, that’s just great. She’s a great gal.”
Under the steps leading to the balcony, Mrs. Parker and Robert Benchley found a temporary haven. They shared a tattered loveseat and held hands.
“Will you miss me when I’m gone, Mrs. Parker?”
“I shall miss you very much, Mr. Benchley.” They sounded like the end men of a minstrel show, lacking only an interlocutor.
“I should have married you, Mrs. Parker.” He squeezed her hand.
“I’ve considered that occasionally. We weren’t destined for marriage, Mr. Benchley. I’m afraid we’re doomed forever to be just good friends.”
“I do love my wife, but oh you kid.” She smiled. “Is this getting serious, this thing between you and Mr. Van Weber?”
“I think he’d like it to be.”
“What about you?”
“You know me, Mr. Benchley. I must always have someone.”
“I find him totally without distinction.”
“Oh, you’re wrong there. He’s terribly distinct. He’s much more interesting than most of my previous conquests.”
“Do yourself a favour this time, Mrs. Parker. Think long, hard and seriously before letting yourself be painted into his landscape.”
“Why, Mr. Benchley, that’s almost poetic.”
“There’s always been poetry in me, Mrs. Parker; you’ve just never permitted yourself to recognize it.”
She kissed him gently on the cheek. “Don’t let them corrupt you out there.”
“I’ll try hard not to. But when money talks, I listen.”
“Who doesn’t? It just doesn’t often talk in my direction.”
They were interrupted by Neysa McMein. “Is the detective here? I can see he’s not, unless he’s hiding under you.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Parker.
“There’s a phone call for him. Some woman who’s absolutely hysterical. His precinct told her he was here.” They followed her back to the centre of bedlam. Mrs. Parker spotted Singer talking to Lily Robson. She waved, trying to draw Singer’s attention. Lily Robson saw her and waved back. Mrs. Parker pointed toward Singer. Lily Robson said something to Singer, who turned around and saw Mrs. Parker beckoning him. He elbowed his way through the mob, and Neysa McMein told him there was a phone call for him. The phone was in the kitchen. Singer headed for the kitchen with Mrs. Parker on his tail.
He picked up the phone and said, “Jacob Singer.” He listened. “Now calm down, calm down. Where are you? That’s not too far from here.” He gave her Mrs. Parker’s address. “I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby. Okay. Five minutes.” He hung up and said to Mrs. Parker. “That was Horathy’s nurse, Cora Gallagher. Somebody tried to murder her.”
“Oh, my!”
“She almost got pushed off the top balcony in the Paramount Theatre.”
“Of all places,” said Mrs. Parker, and she could feel a bead of cold perspiration trickling slowly down her spine.
During the five anxious minutes in which Jacob Singer and Mrs. Parker awaited Cora Gallagher’s arrival, they relayed the information of the failed attack on her life to Woollcott. At the same time, a fresh wave of guests came pouring into Neysa’s huge apartment. A plaintive wail of “Dottie! Dottie! Dottie!” sent Mrs. Parker to the outstretched arms of Edna St. Vincent Millay. After hugging Mrs. Parker, her eyes swept up to the skylight, and she declaimed melodically, “Oh, look look look at the splendid skyscrapers sodomizing the sky!”
Playwright Robert E. Sherwood was prevailed upon to do his party specialty, and while Marc Connelly glowered from his corner of the room, the Victrola was shut off, Vincent Youmans sat at the tinny upright, and Sherwood robustly tore into “When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob Bob, Bobbin’ Along.”
Lily Robson whispered in Neysa’s ear that Charlotte Royce was about to take a bath in the gin. With a Pekingese yelp, Neysa plowed her way to the bathroom in time to tackle the nude Miss Royce as she was about to pollute the gin. Lily found Ziegfeld, and they went to Neysa’s assistance.
Harold Ross and Jane Grant arrived as Jacob Singer hurried past them to wait for Cora Gallagher in the lobby. He had the key to Mrs. Parker’s apartment in his pocket, and he was excited. He hadn’t deliberately set up Cora Gallagher as a target by intercepting her on the street where there could have been some likelihood they might have been spotted; he’d needed to talk to her and had caught her on the run because the element of surprise usually worked in his favor. Make an appointment with a witness or a suspect and you give them time to concoct a story phonier than a bastard’s claim of parentage. Cora’s escape from her assailant was a lucky break for her and for him, and he could feel his fingertips tingling; the bricks needed to construct the solution to a case were falling into place and taking shape. This was the most complex assignment he had ever tackled with a cast of characters out of Rube Goldberg, but he was loving every minute of it. He expected that someday it would pepper up the memoirs he intended to write.
At Neysa’s party, Harold Ross had Mrs. Parker cornered. “I’ve thought about that profile on Lacey Van Weber. I’ve decided it’s not such a bad idea. Do you think he’ll cooperate?”
“Well, Harold,” said Mrs. Parker. “I’m beginning to wonder if I might not do better tackling Baron Münchhausen.”
At the piano, Vincent Youmans was bravely serenading the room with a medley of his own compositions. Horace Liveright was telling George S. Kaufman, “I now carry two million dollars in life insurance. What do you say to that?
“I say you should hire a food taster,” said Kaufman.
Lacey Van Weber could see Ziegfeld and Lily Robson trying to dress Charlotte Royce, who was struggling like a vixen caught in a trap. The look on Van Weber’s face suggested he was smelling bad fish. Mrs. Parker was watching him, and when he suddenly caught her eye, he pantomimed blowing her a kiss. She smiled and went in search of Woollcott. She wanted to be with Jacob Singer when he brought Cora Gallagher to her apartment. Then she wanted to be alone to sort out her thoughts, because she had an idea who Lacey Van Weber really was. It had been nagging at her mind for most of the day, a solution she kept piecing together from little droplets of information that escaped from him indirectly, and the reports from the Los Angeles police. She didn’t want to discuss it with either Singer or Woollcott until it made complete sense in her own mind, the way she wouldn’t submit a poem or a short story until she was certain that every word was where it belonged, precise and crisp. She saw Woollcott and beckoned him.
In the lobby, Jacob Singer was clenching and unclenching his fists. It was almost ten minutes since he had spoken to Cora Gallagher. Taxi after taxi pulled up disgorging either tenants of the building or fresh troops for Neysa’s party. The doorman was trying tactfully to handle the complaints coming down to him from Neysa’s neighbors. Singer went out into the street as though hoping his presence there would hasten the arrival of Cora Gallagher. He was considering returning upstairs and phoning his precinct to order an all-points bulletin on Cora Gallagher when he spotted her hurrying toward him from Broadway.
“I couldn’t get a cab,” she gasped as she reached him and he took her arm, hurrying her into the building.
“I was about to send the bloodhounds after you.”
At the party, Marc Connelly was telling George S. Kaufman he’d just been propositioned by a peroxided blonde. Kaufman said with professorial assurance, “Never look a gift whore in the mouth. Where are you two going?” Mrs. Parker and Woollcott had been trying to push past him and Connelly.
“It’s finally happened,” gasped Mrs. Parker. “I’m taking Alec to my apartment where he plans to rape me.”
“Oh, wonderful,” said Kaufman. “I hope you have a set of blueprints.”
Mrs. Parker and Woollcott came into the hallway as Singer and Cora Gallagher got off the elevator. Singer was ready with the key to Mrs. Parker’s apartment, and once inside, Mrs. Parker hurried to the windows to draw the curtains.
“What are you doing that for?” asked Woollcott testily, “We’ll suffocate!”
“They always draw curtains in gangster movies, isn't that so, Mr. Singer?” Mrs. Parker was now pouring a stiff Scotch for Cora, who was not too unnerved to wonder how anyone could live in such Spartan surroundings. Singer stood looking down at Gallagher, waiting until they all had drinks and said, “You can relax, Cora.” He waited while she imbibed a healthy swig of Scotch. Mrs. Parker and Woollcott sat together on the couch.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” said Cora. “He really almost got me. If it hadn’t been for that usher …” She shook her head and began trembling.
“Would you like a sedative, dear?” asked Mrs. Parker. Cora declined. “I’ll be okay soon.” She took another wallop of Scotch. Mrs. Parker hoped she had enough on hand to keep Cora supplied.
Singer decided to lead her. “Why were you up in the second balcony?”
“Couldn’t get a seat anywhere else in the place. It was jammed. You know how it is with a Gloria Swanson movie. If it hadn’t been for you collaring me, I’da got to the Paramount when the early show broke, the way I planned. So now I had to wait on line for almost an hour before I could get in. So I’m in the second balcony, the first row, and I’m watching the movie and it’s pitch-black. I could see some guy going up and down the aisles, after a while, like he’s looking for a seat. There were some singles, I’d seen them when I found my seat, but he didn’t seem interested. So I figured he was looking for an unaccompanied woman to sit next to, you know, a masher. I’m sure you’ve had trouble with mashers, Mrs. Parker.”
“Oh, yes. They’re so hard on the knees.”
“Well, then I notice he’s standing in the aisle and looking for a seat on my row. Well, there was none and I heard somebody behind him telling him to sit down or get out. So he goes away. Later I realize he was looking for me.” She swallowed another mouthful of Scotch.
Singer took a straight-back chair and straddled it. “Who else besides me knew you were going to the Swanson movie?”
Cora’s face turned grim. “Horathy. He knew. He saw me checking the time in the newspaper, and when I told him what I was planning to see, he made some kind of crack about Swanson and some rich guy from Boston she’s supposed to be having this thing with.”
“Go on. How did your assailant attack you?” Singer was leading her gently.
“Well, it got to the part that I had come in on, and it was late and I was hungry and I didn’t see any reason to see the rest of the picture again, so I got up to go. When I got into the aisle, I stood with my back to the aisle leading out of the balcony to check in my handbag for my lipstick, when suddenly I’m grabbed from behind and he’s pushing me toward the rail. Then I hear the usher yell, ‘Hey, what the hell are you doing?’ and then I’m laying on the floor screaming and some people are helping me up. At first I thought the guy was trying to grab my bag, but he was trying to push me over. That’s what the usher said it looked like to him. And so help me, Mr. Singer, I asked the usher if he could see what the man looked like, but he didn’t. He just said he was broad and wore a big hat and was positively trying to shove me over the railing, and oh, My God …” She burst into tears. Mrs. Parker crossed to her and put a protective and comforting arm around her shoulder. Cora rummaged in her handbag, found a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, blew her nose and asked for more Scotch. Woollcott saw to the refill and hoped Mrs. Parker had a reserve supply.
“Horathy must have seen us near the subway entrance,” said Singer.
“Sure he must have,” said Cora, sniffling. “He was ready to leave when I was except he stayed behind to make a fast phone call to one of his patients cancelling a Saturday appointment.”
“He takes patients on Saturdays?” asked Singer.
“Sure. But this Saturday he’s going away for the weekend. He’s been making some heavy withdrawals from his bank accounts.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” asked Singer.
“You didn’t ask me.” She thought for a moment. “Sayyyyy! Do you suppose he’s planning to lam out?”
“Sounds like it to me. You have any idea where he was planning to go this weekend?”
She bit her lip and then spoke. “Out to East Cove. Out to Van Weber’s place. He goes there a lot.”
Singer said to Mrs. Parker and Woollcott, “There’s smart and there’s smart and sometimes there’s not smart enough. I questioned this lady before for the better part of half an hour and I think I’ve learned all there is to learn, including names, and now I find I ain’t half as smart a cop as I think I am.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jacob,” chided Woollcott. “The terrain of East Cove only entered the picture for you a few hours ago. Mr. Van Weber’s quixotic invitation, which now by the way I’m told includes Kaufman and a host of others, was only tendered us at the party on the spur of the moment.”
“Do you want to bet?” countered Singer.
“On what?” asked Woollcott, his eyes blinking rapidly.
“That there was no spur of the moment.” He was at the phone calling his precinct. Into the phone he said, “Singer — What matron’s on duty tonight? She’ll do fine.” He gave the desk sergeant Mrs. Parker’s address and apartment number. “Send her here on the double and keep it under your hat. I don’t want anybody to know where she’s been assigned. If this gets out, I’ll have your ass, get it?” He hung up and asked Central to connect him with the Royalton Hotel, situated across the street from the Algonquin. When he got his connection, he asked to speak to the night manager. They seemed to know each other quite well. Singer was saying, “I want a double with bath in the name of Gladys Shea, and I want it in a room that’s not near a fire exit or the staircase or the elevator or overlooking Forty-fourth Street. I’d prefer it on the second or third floor. I want the room through Sunday. And as usual, I don’t want nobody to know about it. Bill me personally. I’ll remember you in my prayers. So long, kid.” He hung up and crossed back to Cora. “I’m placing you under protective custody.”
