Suddenly, Aleck noticed me leaning in the doorframe between the dining room and kitchen. A look of horror flashed over his face, the cigar stub fell from his lips and rolled onto the table. For a moment I thought he was having a heart attack, but then he addressed me with thundering accusation:
“Is the mutt here?”
“Mr. Benchley is at home and hearth.”
A vein popped out despite the roll of fat on his neck. “The critter, the four-legged beastie, the Devil’s advocate, the bug-eyed bastard, the—”
“Mr. Benchley would not appreciate being referred to in such terms, Aleck.”
“The DOG!”
“Women have called him that, true, but you, Aleck?”
“Woodrow Wilson! Is he here with you?”
“Alas, the President of the United States is dead; ‘My captain, my captain . . . .’”
“Jane, is Woodrow here?”
“Only in spirit.”
“Then somebody exorcise the bugger.”
“If we don’t pay the exorcist do we get repossessed?” said FPA.
“Shut up, Frank!”
It was getting out of hand. Aleck was throwing a fit over the possibility that I’d snuck in Woodrow Wilson. He could bash Ross and Marc about their superstitious foibles, but he had a few of his own: bad luck to have a dog in the room during a poker game.
“The pup is at home this evening. I’d not subject my Woodrow Wilson to your venom, you ol’ snake!”
Woodrow’d been banned from the room before, and I didn’t like to have his feelings hurt after I’d worked so hard to build up his self-esteem. “Now, if you don’t behave I’ll come over and tap your shoulder.”
Aleck became contrite. “Sorry, my love.” He turned back to the cards.
George S. won the hand. He has tremendous luck at cards without leaping from his chair or tapping things or rubbing his nuts on things.
Marc dealt the next hand, and I walked around the table to stand behind Aleck. He removed two cards from his hand, which left him with an ace of spades, a ten of clubs, and an eight of spades. Marc dealt him the new cards face down.
Aleck gingerly lifted one card, and quickly set it down. Hesitatingly, he peeked under the other, and then brought his hand down with a loud slap. He dropped the three in his hand over the two on the table, and jumped up from his chair, nearly knocking me back into the sideboard.
“I’m out,” he said in a choking whisper. He downed the dregs from his tumbler, and stumbling, turned toward me with an outstretched hand, indicating for me to refill his glass from the bottle on the sideboard. A troubling pallor had washed over his face; the trembling hand I steadied with my own as I refilled the glass gave me pause. Something was really wrong.
“Are you feeling all right, darling?” I asked, watching him throw back the drink. The others were busy with their game at first, until Aleck slammed down the glass and made for the door to the hall.
Jane, across the table and leaning over her husband, had watched Aleck, and rather than follow him out, as he was undoubtedly heading for the stairway and his apartment, came round to his chair and picked up his cards.
“I don’t understand it,” she said, as George swept up the pot. “Aleck had a great hand—two pairs. Two aces and two eights.”
Swope, who had the chair next to Aleck’s, pulled a face. “Dead Man’s Hand,” he observed, and then quickly leaned away from the cards Jane placed before him as if they emitted a foul odor.
A funereal silence fell over the table, before Heywood said, “And they’re all black cards to boot!”
“Shit,” I said, misunderstanding. “He could have won?”
“When Bill Hickok drew that hand he was shot in the head!” said Ross.
“Holy moly!” said Frank.
“That’s just dandy,” I said.
A shout sounded from the hallway, and from the urgency of the call, the men pushed away from their places and made for the stairs. Jane and I followed up to the second floor where we pushed through the hulks at the apartment’s doorway and entered the apartment.
Looking through the living room and into the bedroom I watched Aleck, his arms supporting his weight as he gripped the doorframe of his closet. He turned at the sound of my appeal:
“Someone’s stolen my opera cape!”
George S. Kaufman—Wins at poker without leaping, tapping, or rubbing nuts
Wild Bill Hickok—Was shot to death after drawing the “Dead Man's Hand”
Chapter Seven
Somebody’s idea of a joke couldn’t have happened at a worse time.
The Dead Man’s Hand, comprised of black cards also signifying death, was a bad omen in itself. There were some coincidences that were just too sharp for card players to ignore. It was idiotic, for sure, but only a few hours ago I was shaking in my patent leathers from fear of some intangible malevolence in the air.
But there was little that Jane and I could do to rationalize Aleck’s fear, once the men were ushered out of the room and we’d led Aleck into his big reading chair by the fireplace. The murderer was dead, we stressed; the theft of the cape was probably a silly prank by friends or, at worst, a mean-spirited payback from one of the many show-business people he may have insulted in his reviews. We played up the silly prank theory, but Aleck was having none of it.
After a frantic inspection of the apartment, in which Aleck flitted about searching his desk, bureau drawers, filed papers, a strongbox that was unmoved from its hiding place, much to his relief—“My life is in there, turn your backs, ladies!”—nothing other than the cape, and, as he had also discovered, his top hat, were missing. The only indication that anyone had trespassed was a lone boot accidentally tossed aside by the burglar, thus preventing the closet door from closing tightly. We figured the robber entered through the unlocked front foyer door from the street, bypassing the card players safely in and out through the darkened hallway leading to the stairs.
“Thank God they didn’t steal the gown I wore as Katherine in Taming of the Shrew.”
Aleck, having founded the drama society at Hamilton College, had insisted on playing all the female leads!
Another half-hour of detailed inspection, where he discovered nothing else missing, but recovered several misplaced items—tennis racket, croquet wicket, and black feather boa—and Aleck took to his bed.
$100 REWARD! FOR THE RETURN OF RED SATIN-LINED OPERA CAPE AND TOP HAT TAKEN FROM THE RESIDENCE AT 412-414 WEST 46TH STREET. NO QUESTIONS ASKED. REPLY AT THIS PAPER BOX 409.
There was little else that occupied Aleck’s mind over the next week. His mood reflected as much when at lunch. “I feel so violated.”
I was relieved about this, however, in spite of his indignation, because he no longer held the misguided idea that there was some conspiracy to do him in; that a killer lurked in the shadows. It appeared we had finally convinced him the theft was nothing more than a prank.
One week before Christmas as we were gathering for our one o’clock luncheon, FPA arrived in a state of nervous agitation and carrying a sheaf of newspapers. As he sported a smile on his rubbery face, I awaited his remarks.
“’Bout time you got here,” said Aleck, grabbing a newspaper from FPA.
“In the paper . . .”
“What’s he talking about?” I asked.
“Copies of the Chronicle, from Dayton, Tennessee,” said Frank. “I told you I’d use my contacts to find out about the murder.”
“There’s a crime wave going on down there,” said Heywood.
“There’s an article about Father John’s murder,” said Mr. Benchley, “which doesn’t tell us more than we already know.”
“And in a featured column entitled ‘Around Town,’ a week before the priest’s murder, there’s mention that Harlow Wayne Healy closed the doors of Healy’s Hardware and Grain on Main Street, leaving a sign on the door stating, ‘Gone Fishing,’” said Ross.
“All right, all right, but what does that get us?” I said
.
“‘Gone Fishing’ in November?”
“Does your friend see some connection between this merchant going off and the death of Father John?”
“But there’s this article, Dottie,” said Frank. “Says here that back in November a Negro shantytown was burned to the ground one night, killing five people, three of whom were children. Because the incident made the national wire services, the sheriff of Fremont, where the crime occurred, was pressured to investigate and find the culprits responsible. He’d ignored many lynchings in the past, but now the governor and a congressman from the district called for a thorough investigation to appease the NAACP. An election was coming up; they weren’t going to let this crime pass unpunished, as it spurred a cry of outrage from many progressive-minded supporters. This led to the Bureau of Investigation being called in, too.”
“The Klan, then?”
“Appears so, but those bigots are so secretive, hiding under their nappies, that no one knows who’s a member, and it’s hard to point a finger at any one person. We’re talking big businessmen, lawyers, doctors, politicians wearing the hoods.”
“But that doesn’t tell us anything about Father John.”
Frank continued: “It seems that Father John might’ve seen one of the men take off his hood, because at the time of the fire, a little after midnight, the priest had been performing last rights on an old, dying Negro woman at her home, a shack in that shantytown, and he was the first to raise the alarm. He tried to rescue people, but to no avail.”
“Frank, I don’t get it.”
“Harlow Healy suddenly closing up shop, the day after the fire,” said Sherry.
“I asked my friend to check into the background of Healy and he found that his younger brother, Roger, best known as Rowdy for the obvious reason that his nickname implies, owned the store with Harlow. He also discovered big differences between the brothers.
“Harlow and Rowdy may have shared the same parents, but that’s all they shared. They couldn’t have been more different. You see, Harlow bought out Rowdy’s interest in the business. The brothers didn’t get along. And the connection to the darktown fire lies in Rowdy.
“After Rowdy left the business, Harlow put a hired man in his place as assistant manager. This did not sit well with Rowdy and many others in the community; people began bringing their business elsewhere. You see, Harlow gave the job to a Negro, a man who had worked at the store for many years, doing menial jobs, but was ambitious, hardworking, and smart. Burning down the Negro’s house and several others along with it was a good way for Rowdy to screw with his older brother.”
“And then both brothers disappear?” asked Mr. Benchley.
“So you’re saying that Father John was running away across the country, no less, from an arsonist who was trying to kill him because he could turn him in?” I asked.
“Makes sense.”
“It makes no sense to me. If this Rowdy person started the fire and had already escaped capture in Tennessee, why’d he want to kill the priest?”
“It seems to me that the priest was chasing Rowdy,” offered Heywood.
“Why the hell would the priest be after him?” I asked.
“A reward for his capture?” said Aleck.
“Well,” jumped in Mr. Benchley, “whoever was chasing whom matters not, anymore, unless it’s strictly an intellectual pursuit in which you wish to indulge.”
“What about the older brother?” I asked.
“Harlow? What about him?” asked Frank.
“Where’s this Harlow, if he ain’t gone fishin’?”
“Nobody knows.”
“ So perhaps Father John O’Hara was seeking righteous retribution for the heinous crime because he felt a responsibility; his part in the crime having been as witness, unable to stop the criminal in the first place, unable to save the children,” said Sherry.
“You wax eloquent, Sherry,” I commented, “But it doesn’t wax true.”
“It’s all over, thank goodness,” said Aleck with enough finality in his tone to indicate the subject was closed once and for all. “Rowdy Healy killed the man who could identify him, and then he went after you, Dottie, because you’d seen his face, but his mission ended unsuccessfully, I might add, getting him killed in the process. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
“You’re darn tootin’,” said FPA, adding his stamp of approval.
Case closed, time to get back to the party, was what they meant.
And although I had my doubts about Father John’s heroism in seeking out the arsonist-murderer, my spirit was lifted, too, now that everything had been settled. All tied up with a pretty little ribbon and a bow.
Having been paid for several articles, a load of theatre reviews, and a short story, and with a collection of my poems close to publication, I was flush for a change. The holidays would be a bit brighter this year than last: Money can buy happiness—of a sort.
I spent my afternoons continuing my Christmas shopping, took my sister Helen and niece and nephew to lunch at the Plaza, and, because I was very unsure about how I would look in it, consulted with Tallulah at Bendel’s on whether to buy a cashmere coat with monkey trim at collar, cuffs, and hem. I saved a ton of cash when Lula pointed out that because of my diminutive stature the profusion of long black fur gave me the look of the Capuccine variety, begging the question, “Where’s Giuseppe, the organ grinder?”
“Well, that’s decided,” I said, throwing off the coat. “The last thing I need is a monkey on my back.”
And then I saw it: A marvelous Persian lamb, light-gray wrap-over coat, buttons at the hip, rolled shawl mink collar, called out to me. A snazzy slouching hat of the same fur with charcoal-gray velvet banding completed the look.
I was sporting my new ensemble when I arrived late at lunch a few days before Christmas, and had just settled into my chair between Aleck and Mr. Benchley when our waiter, Luigi, came to inform me that I had an urgent telephone call. Woodrow and I walked to the desk and I picked up the receiver.
“Mrs. Parker?” whispered an agitated voice. “This is Michael Murphy.”
It took me a few seconds to put name to face.
“Father Murphy of St. Agatha’s—”
“Yes, of course, Father Murphy. What can I do for you?” I said.
“I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Benchley all morning. He gave me his card.”
“Would you like to speak with him? He’s here, in the dining room—”
“Mrs. Parker, is it possible—I can’t talk about it over the phone, but it’s—”
“Yes?”
“It’s urgent that I speak to someone about John’s murder.”
“Have you telephoned the police?”
There was a hesitation, and a loud intake of breath on the other end of the line.
“Father?”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know what I should do.”
His distress was palpable. The only thing to do was to wait, silently, in hope that he’d continue. He did. “Please . . . I wonder if you or Mr. Benchley might come. There is something I’d like you to see. I’d like an opinion about it, and there are things about him—”
He stopped in midsentence.
“What things about him, Father?”
There was no response, although I repeatedly called his name.
And then: “Can you come to the rectory?”
“Yes,” I replied, mentally checking my appointment calendar. “I believe so.” I couldn’t answer for Mr. Benchley’s afternoon commitments, but I’d walk over with Woodrow Wilson immediately after luncheon. The relief in his voice was evident before I rang off. Could it be really that urgent, that it couldn’t wait an hour or so?
But on rethinking, it might be very important in solving the mystery of why Father John was killed, even if catching the murderer was no longer an issue. And there was something about his voice that prompted me to reconsider waiting u
ntil after luncheon to go to the rectory. Perhaps I sensed fear rather than distress.
I returned to the table, stood behind Mr. Benchley’s chair, and told him about the telephone call. He immediately put down his knife and fork, swallowed down his drink, and stood from the table.
“Are you going to eat that?” I asked, pointing to the remainder of the T-Bone on his plate.
“Help yourself,” he said, after I quickly wrapped the meat in a linen napkin and stole a steaming popover from the basket Luigi was placing on the table.
No one came to the door when we rang the bell at the rectory, and after a couple of minutes, and repeated knocks, Mr. Benchley tried the doorknob.
There was a gloomy air to the hallway, as we called out, announcing our presence.
“Nobody home.”
“I don’t understand it. Maybe he didn’t figure we’d get here so soon.”
“Then he’s taken a walk, or he’s in the church. Yes, that’s it, he’s in church.”
Turning to leave for St. Agatha’s, a thought came to me.
“Let’s wait in the library for his return.”
“I suspect you’re remembering a half-full bottle of fine Irish whiskey,” said Mr. Benchley, a silly grin on his face.
“Actually not,” I said in defense of ulterior motives. “Woodrow Wilson is hungry, and I want to give him the steak bone. But since you mentioned it, I could do with a beverage to wash down the popover.”
“Ohhh, Mrs. Parker,” he gurgled a chuckle.
“Ohhh, yourself, Mr. Benchley!” And I opened the pocket doors in search of refreshment.
I went directly to the window seat, took off my coat, and then removed the napkin from my purse and presented the bone to Woodrow. Mr. Benchley went to the cabinet where stood the bottle of hooch.
“Ohhh, Mrs. Parker,” he said, smacking his lips.
“Ohhh, Mr. Benchley,” I replied, as I moved aside the sweeping bullion-fringed drapery to view the front stoop and the street beyond.
[Dorothy Parker 02] - Chasing the Devil Page 12