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

by George Baxt

  Out on Long Island, Vera DeLee was being laid to rest in a plot reserved for her in Polly Adler’s private burial site in Montefiore Cemetery. All of Polly’s girls were on hand, carefully drilled by the madam herself as an honour guard. A six-piece orchestra played a medley of current favourites, and there was a groaning board laden with drinks and food. Polly, not too sure of Vera’s religious denomination, covered the situation with a Catholic priest, a Protestant minister and a rabbi. The gentlemen took turns eulogizing the late whore, hoping she’d make it safely to whichever afterlife they were endorsing. Polly wept, a genuine emotion on her part, while making a mental note to penalize Horace Liveright for not having the decency to show up and pay his respects. After all, Vera had always shown up and paid her respects when Liveright requested her, save for the night her number came up.

  After the services, Polly waved everybody to the food and drink, and the orchestra kept its selections to waltzes and ballads. One of Polly’s newest acquisitions, a sweet young thing from the Bible Belt, was absolutely awestruck and hoped someday she’d get this kind of a send-off. Polly assured her it was in the cards.

  Back in the city, Dorothy Parker was in the lobby of the Wilfred Arms laying siege to the desk clerk. She had phoned the apartment hotel from home several times, each time hearing that Charlotte Royce left instructions she was not to be disturbed. When Jacob Singer phoned to tell her Raft was cracking, Mrs. Parker asked his advice on how to deal with the Royce girl, and he advised her to try and corner her on her own turf. She then tried to enlist Woollcott’s company, but he thought she could handle the situation herself. He was fascinated to hear George Raft was daring to pull a double cross on the mob and decided to get the information first-hand from Jacob Singer. He caught Singer as he was about to leave the precinct for his meeting with Raft at the dancer’s hotel room, which both he and Raft agreed would be safe, and Singer assured Woollcott he’d hear the whole story later in the day.

  Mrs. Parker thought the desk clerk looked like a baby alligator, what with his jutting jaw and threatening teeth. “Miss Royce has been ill,” the desk clerk was explaining in a voice that needed oiling. “She needed attention from our house doctor this morning.” Mrs. Parker hadn’t forgotten the cat fight at Neysa’s party between Royce and Lita Young.

  “I know she’s been ill,” lied Mrs. Parker; “I’m her masseuse. I’m here to knead her back into shape. She has a show to do tonight, you know.”

  “Not the condition she’s in, sweetie.” He eyed Mrs. Parker suspiciously. “Masseuse, eh? How come I’ve never seen you around here before?”

  “I don’t usually do house calls.”

  “Well, she’d better not call down here and chew me out, let me tell you. She said positively not to disturb her, but oh, what the hell, go on up.” He gave Mrs. Parker Royce’s room number.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Parker knocked sharply on Charlotte Royce’s door. There was no response. She knocked harder. She thought she heard the girl stirring in her room. “Miss Royce? It’s Dorothy Parker! I will stay here all day if necessary. I have to talk to you! Miss Royce?” She heard the key turning in the lock, and the door opened a few inches.

  “You’ve got one hell of a nerve,” rasped Charlotte Royce.

  “I’ve got to talk to you.” Mrs. Parker pushed the door inward and entered the room. On a desk were the remains of a half-eaten breakfast. The shades were partially drawn, leaving the room in semidarkness. The bed was unmade, and Royce’s clothes from the previous night were strewn around the room. The second bed in the room, which Mrs. Parker assumed correctly had been Ilona Mercury’s, held an open suitcase. Miss Royce had apparently been caught in the middle of packing. “Leaving town?”

  “What’s it to you?” snarled Charlotte. She was at the desk pouring herself a cup of lukewarm coffee. A shaft of light from a window caught her face, and Mrs. Parker suppressed a shudder. Charlotte’s right eye was black and puffy. Her right cheek was swollen. There were lacerations on her jaw, and Mrs. Parker wondered if Lita Young’s retribution had been the result of the beating she’d given this girl

  “I’ll be as quick as possible,” said Mrs. Parker, taking a seat. “How long had you been rooming with Ilona Mercury?”

  “Ever since the show moved up here from Florida. I got hired as understudy out of a club down there. Flo found me, the son of a bitch.” She sipped the coffee, grimaced, slammed the cup and saucer down on the tray and lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

  “So you and Ilona became close friends.”

  “We became roommates because I couldn’t afford to live alone and she had a kind heart. Fat lot of good that did her.” She had slumped down in a lounging chair, flicking cigarette ash on the floor.

  “What was her relationship to Valentino?”

  “They knew each other in Hollywood. She used to work clubs out there. You know, she wasn’t no spring chicken, lady. I’m nineteen and let me tell you, she had to be least ten years older than me, especially without makeup.”

  “What about Dr. Horathy?”

  “What about him?”

  “Didn’t she say she’d worked for him in Hollywood?”

  “She told me how Valentino laced into him at that Party, that much she told me.”

  “Did she ever tell you about the time she spent in Mexico?”

  “I don’t know about that neither.” She was staring sullenly at the burning cigarette tip. “Though come to think of it, she used to hum ‘La Cucaracha’ a lot.”

  “Did you ever hear her mention the name Hans Javor?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, she mentioned lots of names. From the way she talked you’d think she’d met everyone from Aimee Semple McPherson to the Prince of Wales. She was a big mouth, she was, always trying to impress me with her big connections!”

  “You mean big connections like Lacey Van Weber?”

  “She sure as hell was sore he didn’t ask her to his party. I mean she got there because Georgie Raft brung her and Valentino, but she sure was sore she didn’t get no invitation of her own. She came home pissed up to her ears that night or I should say morning because it was after five and I had just gotten in myself. First of all she’s sore because Raft didn’t have no invitation either, he just crashed and brung them along. He sure has brass, that George Raft.” He sure has troubles, Mrs. Parker wanted to tell her, but she decided this wasn’t the time to drop a bombshell. The girl was talking, and she just might tell her something of importance. “What else got her sore that night?”

  “Valentino, whaddya think? He got sick, didn’t he? That killed the evening. They brung him back to his hotel and then Ilona and Raft went on to Tex Guinan’s where Ilona had to pick up the tab because Raft’s pockets are sewn together with thick thread. He don’t lay out for nobody. There she was, laying there”—she indicated the second bed—“cursing her little heart out. Threatening revenge on everybody, especially the bastard she was married to.”

  Mrs. Parker sat up. This is it, she thought, this is the piece of information I need. “Who was she married to?”

  “I don’t know who and I don’t know where but all she says is if she tells Winchell the son of a bitch is a bigamist …”

  “Bigamist …!”

  “Bigamist! Two wives! What’s more, the other wife’s got a kid. And let me tell you, that’s who I think bumped her off! I told that to Flo and he told me to keep my lip buttoned and oh, shit, here I am spilling the beans to you.”

  “I never betray a confidence,” said Mrs. Parker. “I wonder if she married this man in Mexico?”

  “I tell you I don’t know nothing about Mexico. I don’t even know where it is.” She moved to the dressing table where she stubbed out the cigarette. “Will you just look at me? Will you just look at what a mess I am! I could kill that Lita Young.”

  “Somebody did.”

  Charlotte spun around, genuinely shocked. “What?”

  “Jacob Singer, the detective, is a friend of mine. He wa
s at the party last night. You met him at Texas Guinan’s.” The girl nodded dumbly. “I spoke to him this morning. He told me she was murdered. Suffocated.”

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I gotta get out of here. I gotta leave town right now.” She began flinging clothes into the suitcase. Mrs. Parker went to her and grabbed her wrist. “Leggo! Get outta here! I’ve told you enough!”

  “You’ve been just dandy. What about Lita Young? Why did you fight last night? Why does her death frighten you?” Charlotte heaved a series of dry sobs and sat on her bed. “Listen, Mrs. Parker, I tell you the truth. I don’t know nothing about anything. Lita is one of Flo’s tricks. She crashed the party last night because Flo told her that was where he was taking me. He’s cute like that, the son of a bitch.”

  “She was a dope fiend.”

  “And mean as hell. She was always needing money. Last night she was real desperate. So she crashes the party to get money from Flo and he won’t give it to her so she takes it out on me.”

  “She left with George Raft.”

  “Sure. He knows where to get her a fix! Oh, God. I gotta make tracks.” She was packing again.

  “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know.” She was mewling like an infant. “I don’t know. I don’t know where to go.”

  “What about your family?”

  “They threw me out three years ago.”

  “Don’t you have any friends?”

  “I don’t have anybody. And looking like this, who’d want me?”

  “You poor kid,” said Mrs. Parker. She jotted down a name and address on a slip of paper and gave it to the girl. “Go to this place, the Barbizon Hotel for Women.”

  “Only women?”

  “In your condition I wouldn’t be too choosy. Check yourself in and stay undercover until Sunday.”

  “What’s on Sunday?”

  “With any luck, the second coming. Come on, I’ll help you finish packing.” A thought struck her while Charlotte began carrying clothes from a closet. “By the way, dear, did Ilona ever mention someone named Den? Maybe Denny? Or Dennis?”

  The girl replied wearily, “Mrs. Parker. Give me your phone number. If I think of anything else, I’ll call you. Now can we please help get me the hell out of here?”

  George Raft was a very frightened man. Jacob Singer took his own sweet time in getting to Raft’s hotel room; he wanted Raft to sweat and chew his nails and pace the floor and stare at Lita Young’s corpse and jump with fear at every sound he heard from the hallway. Singer could envision Raft barricading the door with every available piece of furniture until Singer’s arrival. Singer spoke to Mrs. Parker and to Woollcott and to the Nassau County Chief of Police and to a captain of the Coast Guard, and by the time he was ready to make his rendezvous with Raft, he was feeling very satisfied and very eager and tried hard not to act smug and complacent.

  By the time Al Cassidy reported to the precinct, Singer and Yudel Sherman had accomplished a day’s work. “What’s going on around here?” asked Cassidy.

  “You sure took your time getting here,” snapped Singer. “Where the hell have you been all morning?”

  Cassidy looked mournful. “I went to pay my respects to Vera DeLee. They buried her this morning. I got there too late for the services, but the grub and the drink were great. Polly Adler sure sets a swell table.”

  “I’m sure,” said Singer. “Polly’s always had this reputation for satisfying any appetite.”

  “Where you off to?” Cassidy asked Singer, who was strapping on his shoulder holster.

  “I have to see a man about a dog.”

  “What’s on tap for me today?” asked Cassidy.

  “Just hold the fort till I get back.”

  Dr. Bela Horathy was having a very busy morning. He was clearing out his files. He had already visited a variety of bank branches, closing accounts and having money transferred to a variety of banking institutions in Europe and South America. This completed the work he had started earlier in the week. It didn’t surprise him that Cora Gallagher had not shown up for work this morning. What did surprise him was a telephone call warning him that she was still alive. The doorman phoned to let him know his car and chauffeur had arrived. Horathy told him to send the chauffeur up.

  When the chauffeur presented himself at the office, Horathy greeted him brusquely and ordered him to carry down several manageable packing cases that were filled with his private records. The chauffeur seemed surly and was having trouble with his ill-fitting dentures. A part of his right ear was missing. He handled the packing cases as though they were weightless. Horathy was glad the man was on his side.

  The detective tailing Mrs. Parker wondered what she was up to now. She had emerged from the hotel with Charlotte Royce, carrying her suitcase, flagged a cab, and sent Charlotte on her way. Then the detective tailed her to a drugstore where she made a phone call. Mrs. Parker was sharing her information with Woollcott. Next she phoned Singer, but he had gone. No, she didn’t care to speak to either Cassidy or Sherman and next phoned her beauty parlour. They promised they could squeeze her in around noon. Mrs. Parker came out of the drugstore, walked briskly to the man hovering in the doorway of a flower shop, and said to the detective, “I’ve got an hour to kill. How’s about a cup of coffee?”

  Bigamist.

  Woollcott pencilled the word in carefully in his notes. Ilona Mercury had defected from Hollywood at the time William Desmond Taylor was murdered, according to the report from the Los Angeles police. Why she had to flee was unexplained. Perhaps she went there to get married and the timing with Desmond Taylor’s murder was just a coincidence. Had she married Hans Javor, or was Hans Javor really Bela Horathy as Mrs. Parker, dear Jacob and he believed? If she married him, why resurface in Los Angeles as Magda Moreno? Why come back there at all … unless … unless …

  He clapped his hands with delight. Of course. It had to be. She had been married before escaping to Mexico. And in Mexico, she was probably abandoned by that skunk of a husband who must have admitted he had a first wife (and child) stashed away elsewhere. That’s why she took up with Hans Javor and returned with him to Los Angeles where he became Dr. Bela Horathy and she became Magda Moreno because it was still not safe to be Ilona Mercury. He got out of his chair, yawned, stretched and, feeling very pleased with himself, poured himself a healthy beaker of port. He went to the window and looked out into the street. His watchdog, the detective assigned to protect him, was sitting on a stoop reading a newspaper. He looked up and saw Woollcott in the window. Woollcott lifted the port in a silent toast and the detective winked. Woollcott danced back to the desk to wait to hear from Jacob Singer.

  “It’s me. Singer.”

  Raft recognized his voice and unbarricaded the door. Singer entered. Raft shutting and locking the door behind him. The windows were wide open, and the electric fan was whirring away the telltale odor of death. Raft asked nervously, “Did you come alone? Is there anybody waiting out there?”

  “I’m alone. When you tell me it’s not safe at my precinct, you’re telling me there’s somebody there who’d slit your throat if he saw you coming in." He stared down at the corpse. He saw the track marks on her arms. “This one was really hooked, wasn’t she?”

  “A madwoman. Maybe you heard how she tore into Charlotte Royce last night.”

  “Let me warn you in advance, George. I’m still going to have to book you on suspicion of murder.”

  “Why? Why, for Crissakes? I told you I didn’t kill her!” Singer sat down and shoved his hat back on his head. “George, your word is good to me. But to my senior officer, your word is as good as a Confederate bond. So, George, I’m playing ball with you, and you play ball with me. You don’t play ball, I book you right now and you can get yourself a smart mouthpiece. Except I can’t think of any real smart mouthpiece who isn’t answering to the boys higher up unless it’s Clarence Darrow and I hear he’s busy elsewhere. So, you see, I’m here, which means I’m interested in a deal, and yo
u know my word is good.”

  “I know, Jake, I know. I swear to God I know.”

  “Okay. Stop dancing around, you’re making me nervous. And let’s do this fast because the stiff is beginning to get a little high and I ain’t had my lunch yet. Who is Lacey Van Weber?”

  “You gotta believe me, Jake, when I tell you I don’t know all that much about him.”

  “Tell me what you know. Tell me anything you might think I want to hear. Make it worthwhile, George. Sit down, George, over there where we can eyeball each other.”

  “I met him ten years ago when Rudy and I were taxi dancing. He said he’d just come over from England.”

  “The war was on there. Was he draft dodging?”

  “Maybe he was. I don’t know about that. Anyway, he shows up at the place and he says he’s Dennis Byron only he don’t talked refined like he talks today. I mean he had a street sound.”

  “Probably Cockney.”

  “Yeah! That’s right! Cockney! I remember now, Cockneys are born within the sound of the Bow Bells.”

  “Gee, George, I didn’t know you had any education.”

  “Aw, come on, I had some!”

  “Tell me more about Dennis Byron.”

  “Ain’t you gonna take notes?”

  “I got a sharp memory. Dennis Byron.”

  “He was flat broke. He needed to make a stake to get him to the Coast where he said he had a connection.”

  “Did he mention the connection’s name?”

  “It was some relative. No name attached.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, he wasn’t too bad on his feet, but some days he did better than Rudy or me, so we think he was whoring on the side. You know, seeing the ladies after the tea dancing was over and picking up an extra twenty.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Raft grinned. “We all did. But Denny was quicker on the draw. We used to call him ‘In and Out Byron.’ Anyway, after a couple of months of this, he disappears. Next thing you know, it’s last summer. I just latched on to Texas and I’m doing my act at her place, the one that was over near Macy’s, remember?”