“You and me, both, Bub,” agreed Frank.
“Maybe the murderer put the bird in the vase for safekeeping, and then Marion found it,” said Aleck.
“I don’t think it matters at all how the bird got into the vase, except to know that it was hidden, and hidden quickly, just to get it out of sight. It wasn’t the most secure of hiding places,” I said.
“There’s the problem of the gun. Where is it, and who took it, and was it the murder weapon?” asked Mr. Benchley.
“You asking me?” said Frank
“It’s rhetoric.”
“Oh, sure.”
“What if the statue didn’t have anything to do with Reggie’s murder? Maybe he was killed for some other reason, and the killer learned, after committing the dastardly deed, about the priceless artifact. Somehow the women foiled his plans.”
“Could be,” considered Aleck.
“We’re spinning our wheels,” I said, getting up from the table. The three men leapt to their feet. “Oh, sit down boys. It’s just that I think better on my feet.”
I paced back and forth before our table, the men waiting quietly, expectantly, as if I would present some great solution for their patience. I stopped short, looked at them and said, “Lucille.”
“What about her?”
“Marion lobbied Reggie to cast Lucille as the lead in his play, even though she was wrong for the part. It all has to do with Lucille.”
I amazed myself! I had no idea how I’d arrived at this breakthrough, but I knew I was onto something. “We have to find out how Lucille got Marion to influence Reggie into giving her the part.”
“Find the connection between the two women,” said Mr. Benchley.
“Frank?” I said, “Can you find out more about Lucille Montaine and Marion Fields through your paper?”
“Whattcha want to know?”
“Anything in their pasts that might connect them, back before they had a friendship in New York. They may have met long before hitting town.”
“Sure. I’ll get on it right away.”
“And I’ll get our Times research people to check all of the papers for any mention of either woman,” offered Aleck.
“How soon can we start?”
“Get me a telephone,” said Frank.
“It’s going to take a while,” said Aleck.
“Shall we place a little wager on who comes up first with the link connecting the women?”
Aleck and FPA beamed at Mr. Benchley’s proposal. As members of the Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Club, they leaped at a bet challenge.
Mr. Benchley sweetened the pot with the suggestion that they broaden the field of players. “We’ve got the resources of the biggest newspapers and best reporters in the country. Shall we call the boys in?”
He meant, of course, the World editor, Herbert Bayard Swope, Marc Connolly, George S. Kaufman, Harold Ross, Heywood Broun— Round Tablers all, and Thanatopsis members.
“Can they be discreet?”
“Are you kidding me?” said Frank.
“Do they have to be?” asked Mr. Benchley.
“Actually, Dottie, dear, I think we’ll all be safer if it gets out that every reporter in the city is looking for the murderer, not just you and the police,” said Aleck, as Frank raced off to the telephones to start the ball rolling at his New York Tribune.
Forgoing the Savoy, we four shared a cab to our respective residences.
Woodrow Wilson greeted me with his usual frenzied excitement. I could tell by his lightfooted romp through the apartment that he was ecstatic that I had decided to call it an early evening. I sat on the floor with him, in my blue-velvet splendor. He rolled on his back for a belly rub and then flipped over for a proper petting. I hugged him to me, and he passionately licked off my face powder until I laughed so hard that tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t help but admire and envy how little it took for my friend to find instant happiness through my small offerings of affection. Being with Woodrow was a lesson in living the moment with joy. How easy it was for him to find it in a belly rub and a lick!
It would just be the two of us, Woodrow and I, for the rest of the night, and as I fell off into a deep and restful sleep with him under the crook of my arm, I felt comfort from the simple, loving devotion of the best of God’s creations. And for now, that love was enough for me.
Woodrow Wilson—Sketch of Woodrow by my friend, illustrator Neysa Mc Mein.
Chapter Seven
Franklin Pierce Adams is not only one of the most widely read columnists, and the highest paid one in the country, but also one of the most influential. Together with Herbert Bayard Swope, they presented a formidable front for information gathering.
The two men met with Aleck, Mr. Benchley, Marc Connelly, George S. Kaufman, Harold Ross, and Heywood Broun in my rooms a little before noon the following day. As New York has a dozen daily newspapers, the purpose of the meeting was to hash out a plan for the dailies to flush out the murderer. And the best way to do that was to dig deep into the backgrounds of not only the victims, but the past lives of all the possible suspects. Hopefully, there would be a link between the victims and suspects, some connection unknown to us now, but a compelling reason for murder. We needed to piece together what we already knew with what the men might uncover in order to nab the culprit. Swope called it “investigative reporting.”
With the cooperative use of the newspapers’ archives and researchers, and through Swope’s editorial, a public discussion about the triple murders might put pressure on the police, but could also produce witnesses who had been afraid to come forward earlier. The autopsy findings on Reginald Pierce’s cause of death need not even be revealed, as Aleck had promised Joe. But the cause of death was no longer an issue. By now, everybody knew he was murdered, because the people around him were dropping dead. Someone out there saw something, heard something, something that appeared innocent at the time, yet might shed new light on the crimes. Frank and Aleck would devote columns to the murders, each expressing the belief that a crazed killer was randomly choosing his victims from the Broadway theatre community. In that way, the murderer would think that the police didn’t believe the crimes were personally motive driven, after all. He might lower his guard.
“Problem is,” said Swope, “Every nut case will be calling in to say that they saw the whole thing, and swearing it was George M. Cohan done them in out of professional jealousy.”
“Maybe we should offer a reward for information leading to the killer’s capture,” said Marc Connelly.
“Not a bad idea,” agreed Aleck.
“You don’t think that’ll bring out more loonies?” asked Frank.
“We live in New York City, they’re already out,” said George.
We all turned to look at Swope, the multi-millionaire whose fabulous estate on Long Island was the setting for extravagant weekend parties that hosted the stars of Broadway and the literati. Scott Fitzgerald intimated to me that he is writing a novel in which the venue is a Swope-like North Shore estate.
“All right, all right! I’ll put up five hundred dollars,” said Swope, and then, considering the silent stares, added: “Make it a grand, all right already?”
“A good start,” said Aleck, knowing that the other papers would up the ante in the attempt to cash in on the publicity.
Before going down to lunch we agreed to meet daily in my rooms to share information. If one reporter had a scoop, the paper for which he worked would publish the initial story, giving that reporter credit. In the end, when the killer was found by means of our common cooperation, all papers would acknowledge the group effort, none touting it was done alone. Such a challenge had never been broached before now. All the men involved are great friends, but they share a competitive streak. Just sit in and watch them on Saturday nights during the Thanatopsis card games. I doubted the competition would hurt any of the friendships of the Round Table.
It looked like a slow news day: no floods, storms, natural
disasters; no big political news, as the national election was still over a month away, and candidates hadn’t said much worth reporting; there were no scandalous trials or upcoming executions. We could get started immediately, so that the evening papers and the morning editions could all carry the lead, The Broadway Murders.
I spent the afternoon writing up the reviews of three plays for the Saturday Evening Post. When I was done being clever and bright, I moved onto a short story I’d been working on for several months, about a man who treats his wife and children with cruelty, and abuses his mistress. Henry Mencken will publish it for his magazine, the American Mercury. It’s a subject that is close to home. I’ve entitled it, “Mr. Durant.”
I took a break for a late afternoon walk to clear my head of the very personal story I was writing, and to exercise Woodrow Wilson. I’d no plans for the evening, except for the five o’clock rush of traffic through my apartment of friends dropping in for a drink or three. Mr. Benchley had taken an early train home to Outer Mongolia to spend time with Gertrude and the boys; Aleck was off to the theatre with Edna. I thought about telephoning Neysa, to see if she wanted to have supper together, but I decided to let the evening surprise me. She might show up for cocktails; I’d ask her then.
When I’d returned to my rooms, I noticed the package containing the Renoir pastel portrait Wilfred had delivered the previous evening. I untied the string and removed the brown paper wrapping. Crushing the paper into a ball, I threw it at Woodrow. He had a fling jumping on the crunchy paper, flipping it about the apartment as if attacking an adversary, with the occasional bark and growl necessary to intimidate his foe.
I studied the portrait of the young girl. There is a common wide-eyed look about us. She, too, is not as innocent as she wishes to appear. But, there is a certain vulnerability about her, around the mouth. She doesn’t smile, and her hair is mussed just enough under a rather punched-down bonnet to give her a gamine appeal. I may have been like her once—five years ago—but I have aged some, mostly through experience.
I lifted the picture to the desk and leaned it against the wall, unsure where best to hang it. I was grateful to Reginald for leaving it to me. I was grateful to have this little token in remembrance of my aunt and uncle.
I sifted through the afternoon mail, throwing the half-dozen bills into the desk drawer, but opening the personal letters. One in particular caught my attention, as it was written on heavy, quality stationery. I tore it open, expecting an invitation to some event, and found instead a note from Wilfred Harrison, expressing his apology for crashing my cocktail party of the night before, and hoping that I would do him the honor of having supper with him on Saturday evening. There was a knock at the door, and as Woodrow barked, “Who goes there?” I slipped the note, along with the letters from friends, into the drawer.
Neysa entered with a gentleman friend, whom she introduced as Martin. He owned an art gallery on the East Side where Neysa was to exhibit her paintings. Within a couple of minutes the apartment was wall-to-wall people looking for a drink.
After calling down to room service for the ice and White Rock, the Marx Brothers, all four of them—oh-my-God-what-did-I-do-wrong-to-deserve-this?—barreled in through the door. They were lugging all sorts of junk, which they dropped at my feet. There was no room to stand, even, and people were stepping over all sorts of things. Harpo goosed a guest with a huge pair of deer antlers he carried under his arm before dropping it on the floor in the middle of the room. They wanted me to go off with them to an afternoon tea party they’d been attending. It seems the tea they’d been drinking wasn’t as unadulterated as one might think.
Some Mad Hatter at the tea party had the idea of extending the fun into the evening with a scavenger hunt through the city. The “items” the Brothers had to return with were: horse blinders—the horse-drawn ice dray was parked outside; a street-corner sign—people would wonder where 47th Street had gone; an alley cat in a basket—which they’d left down at the front desk so as not to alarm Woodrow Wilson; a NYPD policeman’s cap—snatched off the hat rack at Joe Woollcott’s precinct house; deer antlers—procured (stolen) from a fish-and-game club on Madison Avenue; and a stuffed fish—Groucho dropped the stuffed marlin while being chased out of the club, so they ordered a stuffed filet of sole to-go from the Gonk’s kitchen. From me they demanded ladies’ pink underpants, which they insisted I would find in the top left drawer of my bureau. When I demanded to know how they knew in which drawer I kept my panties, Harpo just rolled his eyes to heaven and pursed his lips in cherubic innocence. And last, they had to bring back Dorothy Parker!
Making a bee-line to my bedroom they laid out all the paraphernalia they had gathered on the bed—except the horse, the cat, and the stuffed sole. Groucho was already at my chiffonier about to search for the panties, when I moved him aside to fetch them myself.
“But, you have to be in them,” said Zeppo.
“That’d be nice, but I don’t know if Mrs. Parker wants to wear pink tonight,” said Groucho. “She may be in her blue mood, or maybe she’d prefer red.”
“The instructions were,” said Harpo, “Dorothy Parker in pink bloomers.”
“Chico, give me the list,” said Groucho, taking the crumpled paper, adjusting his eyeglasses and reading aloud, “Dorothy Parker and pink undies. Not ‘in’ but ‘and’!”
“Oh, well, that’s different . . .”
“I’ll say it is,” said Groucho. “Of course it’d be more fun if she’s in them than out of them.” He reconsidered. “Wait a minute! It’s more fun if she's out of them than in them!”
I ushered them out of my bedroom and closed the door, agreeing to go with them to the party on 35th Street, when my guests were gone. I poured them each a drink, and ten minutes later we left, the prizes in tow, except for the cat, which we had to retrieve, the fish from the kitchen, and eleven guests from my party who wanted to see who won the game and meet the other contestants. We piled into four taxis, the cat in its basket on Neysa’s lap, Woodrow Wilson on mine. The ice dray followed. I made Groucho promise to return the cat to its original location, before he and his brothers went on to their 8:30 P.M. performance that evening. He said the cat was not a stray, but belonged to his landlady, but I was not to tell the others.
We had three more items to fetch on the return to the tea party: a book stolen from the public library, a park bench, and a vagrant’s shoes.
Needless to say, the cab drivers were not at all pleased by all the stopping, and all the junk the boys had gathered; the fish was stinking up the cab; the cat was clawing at the window. Eventually the cabbies complied when Chico invited them up to “tea” when the mission was complete.
“We’ve already worked it out, see?” said Groucho. “The New York City Public Library is right next to Bryant Park. I can snatch a book from under the clutches of the librarian, with a little diversion, while you all take a tire iron and pry up a park bench. The party is just a couple blocks away on 35th Street. Harpo and Zeppo, you carry the bench over. There’s no more room in the cab.”
All the cabs pulled up to a screeching halt in front of the largest marble structure in America, at 5th Avenue and 42nd Street. Zeppo pulled on his brother’s sleeve when Groucho tried to exit the cab.
“Wait! What are we going to do about getting a vagrant’s shoes?”
“Since Heywood Broun is out of town, you’ll have to pull the shoes off of one of those fellas hanging ’round the park.”
“Steal the shoes off a homeless man?” I screeched, appalled.
“She’s right. All right, Chico, give the bum your shoes,” said Groucho, bounding out of the cab. And with that he was off, running up the long expanse of steps to the library.
“I’m not giving anybody my shoes!” said Chico.
“Give the bum Zeppo’s shoes!” said Harpo.
I was appalled. I'd laughed at the reference to Heywood Broun, because the truth be told, the journalist looked like a Skid Row tramp-come-uptown; in fact, r
ecently, while standing outside the Algonquin, a woman passerby handed Broun a dime and told him to buy himself a meal.
But, that they would take shoes from a poor, downtrodden fellow?
People tumbled out of the lined-up cabs to watch the Brothers’ handiwork. A few joined Groucho to watch him “borrow” a book; the rest marched after Harpo, Chico, and Zeppo into the park; a cabbie provided a tire iron from his trunk to help pry up a bench.
And on the bench, to their surprise, was the much-sought-after “vagrant.”
“You can’t take away a poor man’s shoes!” I cried.
“Oh, yeah? Watch me,” said Chico.
“Dorothy is right, Chico. It would not be nice to take his shoes,” agreed Harpo.
“All right, all right!” said Chico. “Zeppo, give the man your shoes.”
“Not on your life!” said Zeppo.
“My life has nothing to do with it.”
“Chico!” I said.
“All right, all right!” he said. “We’ll have to take the shoes with the man in them!”
“Two birds with one stone! You’re a genius, Chico,” said Harpo, slapping his brother on the back.
The rather “frayed around the edges” fellow, cowering on his bench, looked up pleadingly at me. A dozen crazy people had descended upon him from out of nowhere.
“Well,” I said to the Brothers, “We should ask this gentleman, politely, if he’d like to come along.”
“Would you like to go to a party?” asked Chico, switching from an all-business frown to a slap-happy grin, which was a little scary, if you ask me; it sounded like he was asking a girl out on a date.
“No,” said the man, fear in his eyes, as if these crazy people planned to kidnap him and roast him on a spit for supper.
[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders Page 12