I didn’t tell him that I found the gun. “Marion was there?” I said.
“She arrived . . . unexpectedly. After I rammed the tomato in his throat.”
“She didn’t know about his allergy? That’s hard to believe.”
“Yeah, well, she knew, but she never told me, and I didn’t tell her I stuffed the tomato in his throat until the next day. I was pissed. But, that night we had to play it by ear, you see. She hid the gun in the drawer for the time being. But the police never found it. Later, when it looked like Gerry would take the fall, I planted it in his house.”
“Ah, yes, the courier. You are the man, the courier, seen at Marion’s, and then you got into Gerry’s house, easily, past the housekeeper. But why did you kill Marion? Why, if she was your partner? I don’t get it.”
“She double-crossed me. When we found out how valuable the Golden Selket was, she pretended she didn’t know where it was. She stole it before I could find it and was making off with it.”
“But it was in plain view.”
“Was it?”
“Covered in black shoe polish to give it a bronze cast.”
He laughed and bared his teeth.
“You don’t have it, do you? I’ll find it.”
“It’s already been found, Wilfred.”
“Where is it?” He tightened his grip on my arms.
“I’m supposed to tell you? That would be stupid of me. I tell you; you kill me.”
“Don’t mess around with me, Dorothy.”
“We’re back to cozy first names, I see.”
He didn’t see it coming, the pipe smashing across his back. Wilfred crumpled to his knees, his eyes rolling closed, and nearly took me along with him to the floor.
A swollen, bloody face looked down at me as I whimpered, unable to cry out. Mr. Caruthers gently lifted me up and away from the murderer, taking me into his arms to steady me.
From a distance, I could hear voices, police sirens, and whistles. And as we emerged from the building, limping along, holding each other up, I could see that the rain had cleared away the fog; the sky was visible through the trees, and running toward us were Mr. Benchley, Aleck, and FPA along with the rest of the Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Club.
Bryant Park is cheerful in the daytime.
The American Radiator Company Building—
The showdown.
The Final Chapter
The Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Poker Club took its name from the poem, Thanatopsis, by William Cullen Bryant.
The Unitarian assurance that all creatures great and small will eventually return to the embrace of vernal nature, interred in the narrow house, goes on to challenge the reader to conquer inevitable death with courage.
A lot of hooey, if you ask me, and obviously composed by someone who had never been challenged to a duel, gone “over the top” from the trenches, been pushed out of a window, or been gripped at the throat by a murderer. After all, Bryant was only seventeen years old when he picked up his pen, mildly depressed, and reading Wordsworth. When he wrote the verses he was safely “embraced” in a chair by a flaming hearth. What could he possibly know of death, except that he feared it? I suppose the bravado expressed in the poem might be beautiful in its naiveté, but conversely, might challenge one’s sense of the ridiculous.
For the boys of the Round Table it was a bit of both, I’d say, for here was an odd assemblage of exceptionally bright, terribly arrogant, and singularly unattractive young men who had, together and individually, somehow, against all odds, challenged and then conquered the greatest city in the world, with the beauty of energy and the arrogance of youth, garnering for each the admiration of their generation.
But it was Saturday night, and Saturday night meant poker.
I’d recovered, if not emotionally, then physically, from my ordeal of the previous Saturday night. The best way to get over a romantic disappointment, I mused, was to have the object of one’s affection threaten to kill you. I’d found comfort through my friends, old and new, as well as my little man, Woodrow Wilson, all of whom showed me how fortunate I was to be loved and cared for.
Jane fed us dinner before the game began, and as we lingered over dessert, I felt, more than ever, that we are all a family. And through the ordeal we forged an even stronger bond. Cynics though we appear to be to the world outside, we relish each other’s approval and affection.
Ralph Chittenham and Maxwell Sing joined us this evening for supper and cards. Jane and I will play bridge with them, as we four are not poker players, although we do excel in bluffing in real life, when necessary, to fulfill our missions.
Mr. Caruthers, whose Christian name is Zachariah, turns out to be an accountant whose wife ran off with his client. Worse, the client also took all of Zachariah’s money, leaving him penniless and living in Bryant Park. On inclement nights, he found shelter in the American Radiator Company Building’s construction site, courtesy of a kindly night watchman, with whom he could commiserate, as the watchman’s wife had recently run off with his sister.
Aleck did a little research on my rescuer. It seems that he has a doctorate in economics from Princeton, accompanied the American delegation from the United States to Paris for the negotiations of the Treaty of Versailles in ’19, serving as one of Woodrow Wilson’s (the President, that is) secretaries, and upon his return took a professorship at Columbia. His extravagant wife had put him into debt, so for extra income he moonlighted the books of several business accounts. When his wife ran off with his client and money, he had a nervous breakdown. But the events of the last week have proven that he is a man to be reckoned with. Before me sits quite a different man from the fellow I first encountered on a park bench when the Marx Brothers took the shoes off his feet, as well as the bench from under his seat—the bench facing the American Radiator Company Building.
Mr. Caruthers has cleaned up rather well, in fact, as Jane’s good cooking, a daily shave, and new clothes from Aleck’s tailor (he is a generous soul!) have done wonders.
Zachariah plays banker this evening, even though Aleck has offered to bankroll his game. Thanks to his heroism, FPA’s column, and numerous feature stories about his plight and his bravery in nabbing the Broadway Murderer, he’s the new toast of the town, having received a key to the city from the mayor (a key to an apartment would’ve been better, but is forthcoming as Jane and Ross and Aleck had offered him a permanent room at 412 & 414 where he’s been recuperating from his injuries), and a reward from Swope’s paper of one thousand dollars.
I don’t know what frightened the man more, Chico Marx trying to take his shoes or all the attention he’s been getting from the press.
We were all helping to clear away the dishes, doing obeisance to the new edict from Jane, a requirement of all attending Saturday night dinner and poker, when the doorbell rang. Woodrow Wilson raced to the door.
Ross invited Myrtle Price Pierce in through the foyer where everyone joined them in the parlor. She looked at the expectant faces with trepidation, and then smiled, shyly, as Jane greeted her and took her coat and gloves before offering her the chair beside the fire.
The silence did nothing to put her at ease, nor did the brooding lot of hovering masculinity, as she settled into the wing chair. I cut through the wall of hulking men to sit across from Myrtle.
I said, “Guard” to Woodrow Wilson, and he nodded.
Woodrow Wilson leaped onto Myrtle’s lap. The surprise of the Boston terrier sitting squarely, looking directly into her eyes, as he moved his head from side to side, lightened the mood, and Myrtle burst out laughing. She rustled his wiry fur, and then at my command, my little man jumped down to sit at my feet.
Jane offered pie and coffee, and Ross something more spirited, but she declined. “I’d just come back to town, when I heard that everyone, the police mostly, had been looking for me. I drove halfway across the country, just to get away from all the horrible things that have been happening. When I saw a headlin
e in an out-of-town paper that said Marion Fields had been murdered—the very day I had lunch with her—and that Gerry had been arrested for the three murders, I knew I had to return home. The police told me all that’s happened.
“Dorothy, they told me at your hotel that you were here, but I didn’t expect to see you here, Ralph.”
“I don’t care for poker, but I play a mean hand of bridge.”
Myrtle lifted her large purse from beside her chair, and removed a cylindrical package wrapped in white fabric. She rose and walked over to Chitty.
“You’ve been looking for this,” she said, handing it to him.
Ralph’s eyes grew large and his face lifted with a smile. “Is it . . . ?”
“The Golden Selket, yes.”
“You’ve had it?”
“Marion gave it to me.” The look of confusion on all of our faces prompted her to continue.
“You see, she called me the morning she died—was killed. We met at a little restaurant in a neighborhood where no one would know us if they saw us together.”
I didn’t say a word.
“She told me only that she was sorry about Reginald, that she knew who the murderer was, and that he had killed Lucille, too. She feared he would come after her for the small statue she had in her purse, a statue that was part of Reginald’s collection, was valuable, and the reason behind all the trouble.
“She wanted to go to the police to tell what she knew, but was afraid they would arrest her, too. She wanted to go away, into hiding, so the murderer wouldn’t find her. I got the impression that it was a man she was afraid of. Someone she loved. She wouldn’t tell me who he was, only that he was dangerous, and that he would never guess that she had given the statue to me, Reginald’s wife, of all people.
“She was in tears at first, and then turned very brave, but I couldn’t get the name of the murderer from her. She believed that knowing who it was would put me in danger, too! She said she’d alert the police as soon as she was somewhere safe.
“I gave her a check for a thousand dollars, to help her get away. When she believed the police had their man, she would place an ad in the Times with an address so that I might contact her through the mail. She would testify against him. I trusted her. I don’t know why. She tried to take my husband and his fortune, and yet I believed what she told me, that she had no part in murder and would try to make amends somehow.
“And then when I came back and heard that it was you, Dorothy, that the fiend was after, that you with the help of a street person—”
“It was Mr. Caruthers, Myrtle.” I said, indicating the neatly put-together gentleman resting on the arm of the sofa.
“Beg your pardon, Sir,” said Myrtle, “I was misinformed.”
Mr. Caruthers and I shared a glance and a smile.
“And don’t forget the rest of us who came to the rescue!” said Aleck, rolling his r’s.
“You’ll make sure she won’t, Aleck,” said Mr. Benchley.
“And there was Frank Case, the Algonquin’s manager, keeping an eye out for trouble,” I added. “He followed us to the restaurant and called out the troops when he lost us in the fog.”
“We should be nicer to Frank,” said a repentant Aleck, of the man who tolerated so much abuse from our club.
“All right, I thank all who helped catch the man who killed my husband, but especially Dorothy. She remembered the story I told about Reginald’s allergy to tomatoes. And when she finally knew who the murderer was, she put herself out there, alone in the night with the devil!”
With tears welling in her eyes she took my hand in hers. “It was swell of you, Dorothy. If there is anything I can ever do for you. . . .”
There was, and there would be, starting with Zachariah Caruthers. Believe it or not, I saw a flash of—something—when they made eye contact upon meeting.
And then there was Gerry Saches. I knew he loved Myrtle, but when I spoke with him soon after his release from jail, he told me there was nothing romantic about his commitment to her. That was over, twenty years ago. For the past five years he’d been in love with his housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan, but as she was so much younger than he, he was afraid she would reject him, and might even leave his employ and her rooms at his house should she object to his advances. I informed him that he was wrong; she was crazy about him. Yesterday, when they were seen dancing at the Savoy, they informed the press, most notably, FPA, of their engagement.
I thought that perhaps Myrtle might help promote Henrietta’s decorating career with a few introductions into the homes of her wealthy friends.
And then there was that sweet young girl, Joan Crawford, the waitress-cum-actress who served lunch to Myrtle and Marion. FPA said she was quite a beauty, who claimed to sing and dance. Perhaps Myrtle might find a spot in the chorus for her in one of Reginald’s musicals.
And not to forget Brenda McEnerny, home in Ann Arbor, who had buried her daughter last week. It was as if Myrtle had read my mind, for she said, “Marion’s mother, Dorothy. She came to claim her daughter’s body. I know you helped her. What can I do to put her mind to rest that her daughter tried to do the right thing at the end?”
I told Myrtle we’d talk tomorrow, as I had a few ideas.
“Dorothy,” she said, “how was it you knew it was Reginald’s lawyer who killed him?”
“Well, Wilfred took over the reading of Reginald’s will from Reggie’s attorney, Richard Whipple, one of the law firm’s partners. Mr. Whipple became deathly ill the night before the reading, thanks to the poison administered in his coffee by Wilfred Harrison. That’s how Wilfred got direct and open access to Reginald’s effects. I put the pieces together when Brenda McEnerney came back to the hotel to tell me Wilfred was not in the office, and that there was never a private bequest for Marion, as Wilfred had told me, so I made a few calls.
“But then I found a photo on the glued backside of one of Lucille’s press clippings, and in Marion’s apartment I found a partially burned newspaper clipping as well. The attempt to destroy it failed, you see. It was an announcement of her marriage to Wilfred, complete with a photograph of the happy couple. The names were changed, but I was almost certain the man with Marion was Wilfred. On the reverse side was the review of the tour that Lucille had appeared in in Ann Arbor. I wanted to be wrong about Wilfred, but . . .
“You see, each woman had copies of the same clipping for different reasons. It was the same clipping that connected the two women, and Lucille used the knowledge of the marriage as blackmail to make Marion get her the lead in Reggie’s play.”
“Coincidence,” mused Myrtle.
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
The disappointment I felt upon the discovery of Will’s treachery swept over me again, but when I looked around the room at all my friends, I rallied.
“But the thing that made me certain that the faces on the back of the clipping were not simply look-a-likes of Wilfred and Marion, was a clue on a notepad that Mr. Benchley and I found in Lucille’s apartment. It was the one thing that connected Wilfred to Lucille, whom he had supposedly never met. The message Wilfred had left for me at the Algonquin asked that I call him at his hotel: “Ring room 1130.” You see, he had rooms at the Biltmore, room 1130.
“Biltmore 1130,” said Mr. Benchley, “had been scribbled on a notepad in Lucille’s apartment. We thought, perhaps, it was a meeting place and time, but it was Wilfred’s room number, after all.
“But, Mrs. Parker,” continued Mr. Benchley, “you have yet to explain your miscalculation of Maxwell’s white gloves.”
“Shoe polish, of course. Black shoe polish staining his fingers. I could smell the woody scent of it when he answered the door. I always associate the smell with my father. He liked to shine up his shoes, himself, every morning.”
“I had been polishing my father’s boots, earlier, but the gloves were really for polishing the silver service.”
“That’s where I was mistaken, Max, forgive me; I never saw yo
ur stained fingers, only caught a whiff of the shoe polish. But I realized that a bronze finish could be achieved if black shoe polish was smeared over gold—hence, a less valuable bronze Selket, like the one that Reggie showed to Gerald Saches to deliberately mislead his business partner. A perfect way to disguise the valuable golden one. I smelled shoe polish, but I mistook the silver tarnish on your white gloves as being the shoe polish that my imagination made me suspect you were removing from the statue. I didn’t know that Marion had the statue. We thought Ralph was the thief, and you were in—”
“Cahoots!” said Aleck.
“Yes, I thought, well, we all thought you were in ‘cahoots’ with a murderer.”
It was over. Three people were dead, the murderer and the art dealer in jail, a stolen artifact recovered, lives shook up, and new beginnings ahead for the survivors. It had been one hell of a week.
The boys were getting antsy for the games to begin, and although Myrtle was invited to stay for the games, she thanked us all again and said she had to be on her way.
Mr. Caruthers helped her on with her coat, and walked her down to the street where he hailed a cab for her. Jane and I looked out the window and watched as the two stood in conversation alongside the waiting taxi. Finally, Mr. Caruthers sent the cabbie on his way. Offering his arm to Myrtle, the two walked briskly down the sidewalk and out of view.
Jane and I looked at each other and laughed.
The End
Wonder City— I love this postcard of Times Square looking from the Times tower up towards 46th Street. This is my city, my playground....
Yours Truly
Poetic License
I have taken poetic license in the Mrs. Parker Mysteries quite often, but with great care. I have tried to be historically accurate with dates and times when my characters were really roaming the streets, theatres, and speakeasies of Manhattan during the 1920s. I’ve taken a few liberties, which will, no doubt, raise the proverbial red flags before the eyes of the purists and Round Table devotees. For instance, Dorothy Parker’s rooms at the Algonquin did not face the 44th Street front entrance of the hotel as I have placed them, but toward the back of the building on the eleventh floor, overlooking the rear façades of buildings along the south side of 45th Street. At one time, she had a room on the second floor. So it is, too, with Robert Benchley’s rooms at the Royalton, the bachelor residence directly across the street from the Algonquin. His rooms were at the rear, not facing 44th Street. He kept those rooms for sixteen years, but for some time lived on Madison Avenue with Charles MacArthur, as well as at the Algonquin. He did not take the Royalton rooms until 1929. Aleck Woollcott did share a residence on West 47th street with Jane Grant and Harold Ross, but that situation lasted only a few years. He bought an apartment on 52nd Street facing the East River, dubbed “Wit’s End” by Dottie Parker.
[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders Page 21