“That can’t be true, because the murderer saw him last and it wasn’t me.”
“Did Reggie say that he was expecting anyone to visit that evening?”
“No.”
“Did he receive any telephone calls while you were there?”
“No, not that I remember—wait! Yes, there was a call, and it was very short.”
“Did you overhear what was said?”
“That’s what I mean by short; Reggie said ‘Hello,’ there was garbling through the receiver, and then, without another word, Reggie hung up.”
“While you were with him, was anyone else in the apartment?”
“Just the Chink. He let me in when I rang; but he left for the rest of the night, I think, a little while before I did.”
“Maxwell Sing wasn’t a live-in?”
“No.”
“How long did you stay at the apartment?”
“Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. Reggie showed me the bronze Selket statue in the display, and then we had a drink in the living room, talked about one of the shows that had opened the evening before, and then there was the phone call. As I said, I left soon after.”
“Did you handle the figure?”
“No, Reginald had it behind glass.”
“How long was it after the phone call that you left?”
“Soon. I got the impression Reggie needed to head out somewhere, and I was relieved that we’d settled the problem of the collection and the money. I wanted nothing more than to go home, have a late supper, and get into bed with a good book. So I left, walked home because it was a nice warm evening and the walk relaxed me.”
“Could it be, though, that Reggie didn’t plan to go out, but rather expected to receive someone at his apartment?”
Gerry considered a moment and then said, “He untied the ascot he was wearing, and then untied the sash of his smoking jacket, as I finished my drink. I got the impression he was about to change into evening clothes, and that he intended to go out. . . .” There was another little frown of confusion. “I guess I assumed he was going out, as Marion was always calling him a stick-in-the-mud because he preferred staying in nights.”
“So, he had plans for seeing Marion that evening?”
“No, I remember now. Marion was not in town. He mentioned it, because when I arrived I was quite upset with the news about the stolen artifacts, and I asked if he was alone. I wanted no one to overhear our conversation. I specifically asked if Marion was there or expected, and he said she was away until the weekend.”
“Did he say where she went?”
“If he did, I don’t remember; only that she’d be gone for another couple of days.”
“Who told you that Reggie was buying stolen artifacts?”
“I wasn’t told by anyone. I found out.”
I wondered if he was protecting someone else. “There was someone or something that first made you suspicious that he had stolen goods.”
“An overheard conversation, and that’s all I can tell you, Dorothy.”
He looked at his folded hands as if they held answers and he wasn’t about to loosen his grip. The man looked spent, and I knew that I had learned a great deal through our talk and I thought it best to let him rest, if he could do so in such a dismal place.
“Gerry, one last thing: The people in your household—could anyone you employ at home have any reason to plant the gun in your home?”
“I have a housekeeper, Henrietta Morgan, who’s been with me for fifteen years. She lives in since her husband died of flu in nineteen-eighteen. She’d flinch at the sight of a gun, let alone handle one.”
“No one else?”
“No. It’s just me. When I have house guests, which is rarely, Henrietta might hire additional staff, usually her sister-in-law and her husband.”
“Has anyone come to visit, say, since Tuesday? Workmen, repairmen?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to ask Henrietta.”
“All right. . . . Gerry? Do you mind if I speak with her? She might be able to tell me if there was anyone out of the ordinary come to the door, or if she went to the front door while the back was open to the garden. You know what I’m getting at?”
“I see. You want to know who planted the gun.”
“Yes.”
“Then you do believe me.” It was a statement, not a question, and his expression looked hopeful for the first time.
“I do. And I’m going to try to get you the hell out of this hole as fast as I can!”
I walked out of the room to reclaim a very happy Woodrow Wilson who was sharing the roast beef sandwich of the precinct’s desk sergeant, Joe Woollcott, Aleck’s policeman cousin, who started the ball rolling when he called Aleck at lunchtime last week to tell him of RIP’s death.
The two men were mirror images of each other, but worlds apart both in personality and in cultural interests. Where Aleck loved the Theatre, Joe loved the Horses. Where Aleck’s acerbic wit might smite, Joe’s approach to all creatures, especially Woodrow Wilson, was pure gentleness. The only shared interest, other than family ties, was their mutual love of food.
I thanked Joe for doggie-sitting Woodrow, who pulled on his leash, reluctant to leave when there was beef to be had. We went out into the late afternoon sunshine.
Before meeting Aleck and Mr. Benchley at Tony Soma’s, as we’d arranged earlier, I walked the few blocks to Gerry’s townhouse to speak with Henrietta Morgan.
Mrs. Morgan was not quite the woman I’d imagined. I’d expected an elderly, gray-haired, Irish washer-woman type with red, water-cracked hands, who would answer the door in a blindingly white apron, a wooden spoon in one hand, a dishrag in the other. But the woman who came to the door could not have been older than thirty-five, had a head of luxurious black hair, eyes lined with long fringes of thick lashes that set off compelling blue eyes. Her figure was tall, slim, and rivaled any model’s. She wore a simple and impeccably tailored cashmere dress that gave her an aristocratic air. I wondered why such a beauty as Mrs. Morgan had come to take a position as housekeeper when the world outside the door would lay its riches before her, should she so venture off the threshold.
She knew who I was, and after leading me into the parlor, said that my timing was perfect: She’d be right back with tea and scones right out of the oven. Woodrow, belly full of Joe’s roast beef sandwich, laid down at the foot of my chair.
When we had settled, the tea poured, I told Mrs. Morgan that I had just come from seeing Gerry, and of my mission to ask her about the traffic in and out of the house between Tuesday and the arrest. From my purse I took out my little notebook and pencil to jot down the names of a dozen people—the cleaning lady, delivery boys, repairmen, couriers, production company personnel, secretaries, accountants, lawyers, a petitioner, and Gerry’s bootlegger. The milk, post, ice, vegetable, and soda men were the usual fellows. Mrs. Morgan was adamant in her insistence that the front and back doors were always kept locked, as were the windows, and only she and Gerry had keys.
I asked if she had left any of the visitors alone, for any reason, in the reception hall; had she gone to fetch a pen to sign for a delivery, that sort of thing. Even a few moments away may have given someone the opportunity to plant the weapon. She recalled taking the accountant’s hat, coat, and stick, but leading him into the study; the courier had arrived to pick up a package; she left him alone for less than a minute to retrieve it from Gerry’s study. Marion had stopped by to see him as well, but Gerry had just left the house for a dinner meeting with a new playwright.“Let’s see . . . she was writing Gerry a note over at the console table—”
“That table by the stairway?”
“Yes, but I never left her alone—wait, the soda man arrived and rang the front bell because I didn’t hear the kitchen bell. But I only turned my back to open the door. Could she have planted the gun?”
I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, for I didn’t know. I suspected it was Marion, but it might have been the courier
, or the accountant. She said she would think hard for any other times someone might have had the opportunity to slip the gun in the cubby under the stairs.
I sipped my tea, and scarfed down the fabulous warm scones, which I loaded up with huge dabs of clotted cream and strawberry jam, as we continued to talk. She began to reveal more and more of her personal distress that Gerry was accused of the murders. I told her point-blank that I believed him innocent. That seemed to comfort her a little, as I could see the lines of tension around her mouth and forehead smooth a bit.
Her pride in the home she had made for Gerry was obvious; for looking around the beautifully appointed room there was evidence of her care. I asked, brazenly, if the décor had been the work of her hand. She was at first reluctant to take credit, but said, “Yes.”
She was very forthcoming in telling me that she had once been a decorator, but had given it up years ago to marry. Her husband went to fight in Europe in ’18, and came back wounded in body and in spirit. I understood how difficult it must have been for her, as it was for her husband, as my own Eddie has not fully recovered from the war wounds to his soul.
It had been necessary for her to return to work, but decorating did not offer enough to support them, so she took a housekeeping job with Mr. Saches. When her husband died of flu during the epidemic, Gerry offered her a live-in position.
Through Gerry’s generosity, she began to build a modest career in interior decorating once again, but continued to keep her rooms in the townhouse, as well as overseeing the daily running of the house. The gratitude she displayed was touching, really, and I became determined to do what I could in the future to move her career along. I knew lots of very rich people with very bad taste who would benefit from Mrs. Morgan’s sense of style. I liked Henrietta Morgan; she had style and grace, but most of all I admired her loyalty to Gerry. She loved him in the same way I loved my friends. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were in love with him but had too much class to throw herself at his head.
I left the house with new information and details on who had entered the house over the past few days and may have planted the gun since I’d held it last.
I didn’t want to be late meeting the boys, and as it was the evening rush hour, I employed Woodrow Wilson to distract a dandy hailing the cab that had just turned off the avenue.
“Hail a cab, Woodrow!” I ordered as the taxi slowed to a stop, and he sprang into his routine of a nip on the trouser cuff and a fast reversal to draw the fellow’s attention to his feet, left and then right. I opened the door, slid in, tugged the leash, and in hopped my best boy.
Woodrow and I taxied down to Tony’s; the sun was setting over the Hudson River after falling behind the tall buildings of midtown. The traffic grew heavier, and at times, to a standstill. I took out my notebook and looked over my list of suspects. I crossed out Marion Fields’s name, and then, after a hesitation, I crossed out Gerry Saches’s, too.
So now there remained Myrtle, who had the most to gain; Reginald’s sons, because either one of them may have had more to gain in his father’s death than when he was alive; and an Egyptian antiquities dealer—whoever he was I had to find out, because Reggie’s murder may have been committed to protect that dealer from prosecution for theft.
And where and how did Maxwell Sing fit into events? I had watched as he snuck into Reggie’s desk, into the hidden drawer. What had he taken from that hiding place? What was it about the gloves he wore that day at Ralph Chittenham’s that bothered me so? The pretentiousness of a servant wearing gloves when not serving dinner, was that it? No. He was hiding something, but what? And did Maxwell Sing have a more sinister association with Ralph Chittenham, other than finding immediate employment with the critic after Reggie died?
Chitty’s apartment abutted Myrtle’s.
According to Gerry, the gun had been stolen from Myrtle’s bedside table about the same time that a servant had been fired. Who was the servant? Maxwell Sing had not been fired; he had simply left work at the Dakota apartment to work for Reginald when the couple separated. Had Max stolen the gun, and not the dismissed servant? The time of the theft was unclear. Who better to blame than a disgruntled employee? Had the Pierces, after all, notified the police of the theft? If not, why not? Had anything else been taken?
Then there was Chitty. What was Ralph Chittenham’s connection to the three murdered people?
My mind was racing to fit the pieces together.
I thought back to the seemingly clandestine meeting of Marion Fields and Wilfred Harrison at the Waldorf the other night. How had Marion been “taken care of” by Reggie, as she was not named in the will? I would ask Wilfred. As Marion was dead, murdered, her financial situation was no longer private and would be open to scrutiny, I presumed. He shouldn’t hesitate to tell me.
Marion had taken a bird figure from a vase . . .
Perhaps what I thought I saw was not what I really saw.
It wasn’t a bird. It was the Golden Selket!
The Golden Selket—
The Goddess Selket protects one from the deadly bites of scorpions. She wears one atop her head.
Chapter Eight
As soon as I got to Tony Soma’s, I made for the telephone and dialed up the offices of Whipple, Conrad and Townsend and asked to speak with Wilfred Harrison. His secretary said that he had left the office at five o’clock for the evening, but that she would call around and let him know that I had telephoned.
I ambled over to a corner table to wait for the arrival of my friends. The waiter brought our beverages to the table, an orange blossom for me, a bowl of water for Woodrow Wilson; a chunk of cheddar and crackers for me, steak scraps and fried potatoes for Woodrow. My boy was eating well today!
Aleck and Mr. Benchley stormed into the speakeasy trailed by FPA, and we all had news to share.
The men put in their drink orders, and then Aleck looked at me and said, “Ladies first.”
“You can wait, Aleck,” ribbed FPA, who immediately received a series of verbal expletives from my big friend that cannot be printed here.
So I told them the details of my visits with Gerry and Mrs. Morgan, and that I’d put in a telephone call to Wilfred Harrison to find out more about RIP’s separate bequest to Marion.
“Well, Mrs. Parker,” began Frank, “I got a couple of interesting telephone calls. First one came in from an elevator operator at the residential hotel where Marion Fields had been shacking-up since last March at the expense of Reginald Ignatius Pierce. It seems Mistress Marion had a couple of regular visitors.”
“Pray tell, who?” said Aleck, pouring cream and a jigger of brandy into a shaker.
“A gent and a dame.”
“Proceed.” He added the crème de cacao into the mixture and threw in some ice.
“His description of the dame sounded a lot like Lucille Montaine, so I showed him a press photo of the dead star, and hot dog, that was her, he said, came by once a week. The last time was last Wednesday morning.”
“The last day anyone saw Lucille alive,” I said. “I wonder how long Lucille and Marion knew one another before Marion got involved with Reggie?”
“Could Marion have played any part in Lucille’s murder?”
“We’ll never know,” said Mr. Benchley. “We’ve been told that it was Marion who wanted Reggie to give Lucille the star part in the show, so we know they were friendly for some time, if Marion was willing to go out on a limb for her.”
“Hold your horses!” said Frank. “The elevator boy said they didn’t act so friendly.”
“Whatchasayin’?” asked Aleck, stirring up a froth in the shaker.
“I asked the same thing, and he said it was the way they looked at each other wasn’t too nice. You see, the elevator opens on Marion’s floor across from her door. The boy would see Marion open the door to Lucille, and it wasn’t the ‘howya doin’ hugs-and-kisses kind of greetings dames do.” He took a Cuban from his inside coat pocket and proceeded with the ritual of removing its
wrapper, running it under his nose, rolling it at his ear, clipping the end.
I thought about what Frank had told us. When does one answer the door to a person one knows and expects, but is not necessarily happy to greet? “They had business, then,” I said.
“Maybe,” said Frank.
“Did he notice anything else unusual about Lucille when she’d go to visit?”
“Good question,” said Frank. “You’d make almost as good a reporter as I, for, dear Dottie, I asked that very question.”
“Cut the crap, Frank!” piped in Aleck, while handing Mr. Benchley a cup of his concoction to sample, “Was she peculiar or not?”
Frank struck a match, and, cheeks puffed out like a blowfish, fired up the smelly thing. He leaned back in his chair and blew the smoke to the ceiling, where it swirled around before dispersing. He would not be rushed. “No.”
Mr. Benchley took a moment to comment that the color of the drink Aleck had concocted was reminiscent of “Calvin Coolidge’s winter complexion,” and suggested a healthier countenance might be achieved with an additional jigger of crème de cacao. Aleck told him where to put it.
“Children!” I admonished in a tone not unlike that of Sister Mary Immaculate at the Academy. “Mind you, pay attention! Now, Frank, what about the man the elevator boy saw?”
“Wore a blue messenger’s uniform from Achilles Messenger Service, ’cept for the shoes, he said. He noticed the shoes first time the guy showed. They were the good kind, a buffed shine, expensive, too expensive looking for a fellow who ran around the city all day. He stopped by Marion’s place couple times a week.”
“Did the boy talk with him?”
“The guy wasn’t the chatty type, but it was kind of strange, you see; he’d stay in the apartment an awful long time for a courier. I showed him photos from Lucille’s show; I showed him pictures of Reggie and his sons: nothing. Not Gerald Saches, either. The guy always wore a cap, hid his face. Maybe Marion had a guy on the side, from the way the boy talked.
[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders Page 14