by J. J. Murphy
The freezer room was about the size of a walk-in closet, and was nearly full with boxes and crates of food. Icicles the size of daggers hung from the ceiling.
He sighed. “We’ll have to move and stack up some boxes to fit Bibi and the wheelchair inside.”
Leaving the body in the corridor, Dorothy and Benchley silently entered the freezer. Even in a long-sleeved velvet dress, Dorothy felt uncomfortably chilly. She picked up a big cylindrical carton marked Pistachio Ice Cream and lifted it against the wall on top of another box, but her hands nearly stuck to it when she tried to let go.
“Ouch,” she said, and breathed on her palms to warm them. Her breath came out in puffs of vapor, as though she was blowing smoke.
“Here.” Benchley took off his suit jacket. “This will keep you from freezing to death. Put your hands inside the sleeves so you can use them like mittens.”
Gratefully, she took his jacket. She could still feel the warmth of his body as she put it on. But, regrettably, the warm feeling quickly went away. She nodded her thanks and picked up another box.
How poetic, she thought. And how prosaic. The feelings between us keep changing from chilly to warm, then hot to icy. It’s a wonder I don’t catch a cold from all the ups and downs.
Working together, they managed to move a number of boxes out of the way. Soon they had cleared an area large enough to fit Bibi and the wheelchair.
“That’s enough,” Dorothy said. “Let’s roll her in and be done with it.”
Just as they turned to leave the freezer, the sound of screeching metal startled them and stopped them where they stood. Just as surprising, the door quickly swung closed. They jumped forward, racing toward the shrinking gap of light. But the door slammed tight, leaving them in icy, absolute darkness. Dorothy pounded on the cold metal door with her fists.
There was a handle somewhere on the inside; Dorothy had seen it. She searched for it with her hands in the sleeves of Benchley’s jacket and found it. As she did, a loud, violent clang came from the other side of the door, and the handle vibrated painfully in her grip. Reflexively, she pulled her hand away—but the handle came with it. A small circle of light shone through where the handle had just been. Had someone just broken apart the door handle from the outside? She threw the useless piece of metal to the hard floor. She bent down and peeked through the hole.
There was movement. Rough, dark fabric. A pair of trousers! Then nothing. She could see the stone wall opposite, and just a sliver of the bedsheet that covered Bibi. Then the bedsheet disappeared, and Dorothy heard the creak of the wheelchair as it moved away.
“Oh brother,” she said, her heart in her throat. “Some guy locked us in here. And now he’s taking Bibi with him!”
“That’s funny,” Benchley said. “Bibi’s supposed to be the one in cold storage, but now she’s making a hot getaway.”
Well, Dorothy thought, at least Benchley has recovered his sense of humor.
Chapter 13
“We have to get out of here,” Dorothy heard herself saying. “We’ll freeze to death!”
She was stating the obvious. It was extremely cold and dark, and she felt a shudder of panic begin to creep up her spine.
“Do you have any matches?” Benchley asked. “Maybe we could light a fire on one of these cartons.”
“No, I don’t have any matches. I expect a man to light my cigarettes. Do you?”
“No, I usually just light my own cigarettes—or my pipe, as the case may be.”
“I meant,” she said patiently, “do you have any matches?”
“Why, yes! Look in my jacket pocket.”
She searched through the pockets of his jacket, pulled out a matchbox and handed it to him. “You do it.”
He struck a match, and his amiable face was visible in the seemingly warm glow of the flame. He brought the match to the edge of a cardboard carton. It soon went out before it could catch fire.
“Well, so much for that,” he said. “Must be too icy in here.”
“Reach up and break off one of those icicles, would you please?”
She heard him make a small grunt, and then she heard the crack of breaking ice.
“Here you are, one icicle. That’ll be twenty-five cents, please, miss.”
“Put it on my tab,” she said.
“Mrs. Parker, what do you intend to do with that sharp, slender icicle, if I may inquire?”
“You may. I intend to stick it into the latch hole. Perhaps I can use it to somehow pry open the latch or even the door itself.”
Aiming at the small circle of light, she thrust the point of the icicle into it. Taking care not to break the icicle, she tried to turn it as though turning a doorknob. But it was too slippery. She tried to push it forward, perhaps to pressure open the latch mechanism. But the icicle didn’t seem to affect the mechanism at all. Finally she tried to put sideways pressure on it, as if to free the door from whatever hasp that locked it. But the icicle only snapped apart in her hands.
“Well, you tried,” Benchley said. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“I think I’m f-freezing.” She clutched her arms around herself. “Oh, and now I’m st-stuttering!”
Then she felt him reach out to her, wrap his arms around her and hold her close to his body. She knew he was doing it to keep them both warm, and, not caring why, she burrowed herself against him.
They held each other tightly for what seemed like a long time. She knew they couldn’t last inside the freezer much longer. They’d either have to get out soon—or die frozen in each other’s arms.
“Want to know something funny?” she finally asked him.
“Yes, I’d love to hear s-s-something funny.”
“I feel like you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder all night. And now you actually are.”
“Oh yes?” he asked. “Here I was under the impression I had done something to make you hot under the collar.”
“Just that you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Avoiding you? Well, I suppose I have been. But only because you’ve been peeved with me. So I thought I’d just, you know, s-s-stay out of your way.”
“Peeved with you?” She held him more tightly. “I’ve been nothing of the sort, you silly old fool. And even if I were, why would that cause you to avoid me?”
“I thought perhaps you were fed up with me,” he said. “You know, stuffy old Benchley, always making the same jokes, never playing Woollcott’s games. An old s-s-stick in the mud, that’s me. I thought you’d had quite enough of me. And, well, frankly that made me ill-tempered with you.”
“Had enough of you? Whatever would give you that idea?”
Could he be serious? Before he had arrived at the Algonquin, she had been waiting like a puppy for its master. She would have jumped into his arms when he arrived, if she could have.
“Well,” he explained, “I thought we were having a grand old time at the party up in Chez Fairbanks, just joking and drinking, as usual. But the first opportunity you had to get away, you took it. Something about talking with Mary Pickford, and then you were after Woollcott. And then I didn’t see you for a while. ‘That’s it, old boy,’ I thought to myself. ‘You’re yesterday’s news. Stale as a week-old loaf of bread.’ No wonder you’re sick and tired of me. I’m as exciting as a warm bowl of tapioca.”
She nestled her head against him and squeezed her arms around him. If she hadn’t been freezing cold, she could just about die happy right now—and there seemed to be every chance that she might.
Still, he wasn’t jealous after all. How could she even think he’d be so petty? That wasn’t like Benchley in the least. And he wasn’t avoiding her because he was missing his wife and children. . . . Well, maybe he is or maybe he isn’t, but in any case he’s not taking the loss out on me. How could
I have been so silly?
“Mr. Benchley . . . ?”
“Call me Fred.”
“Fred . . .”
She turned her face up to his. Kiss me, you fool, she wanted to say, and chuckled to herself at the sappy thought of it.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I d-don’t know. Just that it required a c-cold room for you to warm up to me.”
“N-n-nonsense, Mrs. Parker. I’ve always—”
There was a sharp bang on the door.
Wait, she thought. Always? Always—what? What was he about to say?
There was another bang on the door. “Is someone in there?”
“Go away!” Dorothy shouted.
“Who’s in there? Mrs. Parker?” It was Woollcott’s voice.
“Aleck, is that you?” Benchley called out.
“Benchley, damn you!” Woollcott responded angrily. “My word, the lengths to which some people will go to avoid playing one of my famous games. What the devil are you two doing in there? Come out of there this moment.” They heard him mutter to himself, “Where is the damn doorknob?”
“Some villain broke it off,” Benchley answered. “Get Frank Case. We’re going to die of hypothermia.”
They heard Woollcott puttering around. “Just a moment. Here’s something.”
There was a clink of metal on metal, and then the clack of the latch. All of a sudden the door opened with a screech. They had to blink because the light was so bright, even though it was merely the few lights of the dim basement. Woollcott’s chubby hands reached in and pulled them out into the cellar corridor. He slammed the door closed behind them.
The subbasement’s heat was delightful. Dorothy sucked in gasps of the stuffy air just to warm up her lungs. She leaned against the stone wall to absorb its heat. Benchley did the same.
“You see?” Woollcott said. “Sometimes I’m fairly handy to have around. Wouldn’t you say?”
“C-c-can’t say a thing. Really shivering now,” she said.
“Now, tell me, whatever were you two doing in there?”
They slyly glanced at each other a little guiltily, as though they had been schoolchildren caught necking in the classroom coat closet.
“Nothing!” they both said at the same time.
Chapter 14
“I shall make some of my famous Café Alexander for you,” Woollcott said as he led them up the stairs. “That’ll heat you up lickety-split.”
They shook and shivered as they climbed up one concrete stairway and then another, which eventually brought them into the hotel’s kitchen. Soon Woollcott was banging around with pots and pans while Dorothy and Benchley, still frozen stiff, stood motionless with their backs against the hot radiator.
Woollcott couldn’t find a kettle or a percolator. So he filled a small pan half-full with water, lit one of the burners on the stove and set the pan down over the bright blue flame.
He waved a hand at Dorothy. “Mrs. Parker, hand me that large can of coffee, if you please.”
She turned around and pulled down from a shelf a five-pound can of Horn & Hardart coffee beans, and handed it to him. With the can in his hand, Woollcott searched for a coffee mill. His face lit up when he noticed a small sausage grinder mounted to the countertop.
“Mr. Benchley, your assistance please,” Woollcott said as he spilled a handful of the beans into the upturned mouth of the sausage grinder. “Turn that crank, if you would. The exertion will warm you up.”
Benchley turned the handle. The grinder made loud, angry crunching sounds as it crushed the beans. Woollcott grabbed the pan of boiling water from the burner to catch the coffee grounds.
“There we are.” He set the pan of coffee and water back on the burner. “Now, while we wait for it to steep, tell me what you were doing in that walk-in freezer.”
Dorothy told him everything exactly as it happened. Woollcott stopped her only once. “So you saw a man’s pants through the latch hole, and that man apparently wheeled Bibi away?”
She agreed that was what she had seen. She didn’t, however, go into detail about what she and Benchley were talking about when Woollcott banged on the door. Or how tightly they had held each other.
“So,” she asked, “what brought you to our rescue? How did you know we were trapped in there?”
“I didn’t.” He glanced at his pocket watch and checked the pan of boiling coffee. He snatched up a large spaghetti strainer, dropped in a piece of cheesecloth and placed it over a pie plate. Then he picked up the coffee pan and poured the steaming liquid into the strainer. He set aside the strainer, now lined with coffee grounds, and carefully poured the coffee from the pie plate into two coffee cups, which he had ready.
Fascinated, she watched his every move. “If you didn’t know that we were trapped in there, how did you come to find us?”
“After I left you in the switchboard room, I went back up to see Lydia to interrogate her thoroughly, as you did not allow me to do so in the first place,” Woollcott said. “But Lydia was a bundle of nerves, and I couldn’t get a straight word out of her. I’m not too proud to say that this hardened investigator realized he needed a woman’s conniving, feminine wiles to elicit answers from her. So I went looking for you.”
“Aleck, you’re not a hardened investigator, you’re a drama critic,” she said. “And if anyone I know has a woman’s conniving, feminine wiles, it’s you.”
“Well, that’s a fine thing to say to the person who saved your life,” he said without a trace of real anger. He was preoccupied with looking into drawers. “Mrs. Parker, you ungrateful wretch, would you please check the sink for two coffee spoons?”
She went to the sink, but it was empty. Next to the sink was an enormous barrel-like enamel contraption. It was filled with dirty silverware and ball bearings immersed in a blue liquid. “What is this?”
Woollcott didn’t even look up. “Is it a hopper of ball bearings and silverware immersed in a blue liquid?”
She looked inside the enamel barrel. “Yes, that’s exactly what it is.”
“It’s for cleaning and burnishing the silverware. The kitchen staff soaks the silverware overnight in that toxic concoction, and they swirl it around in the ball bearings, which loosens the bits of food from the cutlery. Then, in the morning, they rinse it off easily.”
She turned to him. “How do you know so much about the hotel’s kitchen?”
But he was busy reaching up into a high cabinet. He pulled down an amber bottle of cognac.
“Ah, here we are. Chef Jacques’ secret stash.” He turned to Parker and Benchley. “I make it my business to know.” He held up the bottle as though it were evidence of this fact. “You live here. You should do the same. The spoons, please? Careful, that liquid will burn your skin. Rinse it off immediately.”
She plucked two spoons out of the mouth of the big enamel barrel. Woollcott was right. The blue liquid began to sting right away. She turned on the cold-water faucet and washed it off her hands and the spoons. She dried the spoons on a dish towel and handed them to Woollcott.
He splashed a healthy amount of the brandy into each cup. Then he found a canister of sugar and measured out two heaping spoonfuls for each. He opened the icebox (a “warm box” now, as the block of ice had been removed—probably for cocktails) and took out a bottle of cream. He poured a large dose of the cream into each cup and stirred. He had already found a couple of nutmeg seeds, which he now dropped into the sausage grinder. He held each cup under the grinder for a quick sprinkle of the nutmeg.
“Café Alexander!” he announced, proudly handing the cups to Dorothy and Benchley. “Good for what ails you. Drink up.”
The warm kitchen had already removed most of the chill from her body, but she nevertheless accepted the cup gratefully.
Benchley raised his mug with that familiar merry twinkle in his eye. “Cheers to you, Mrs. Parker,” he said warmly. “Happy New Year.”
“Cheers to you, Fred,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Happy New Year.”
They clinked cups. And just like that, things were right again between them. Benchley was with her, and he would be by her side through this night, she knew, no matter what it brought. Certainly he would—wouldn’t he?
She smiled to herself and took a sip of the coffee. The hot, sweet liquid warmed her to her toes.
“Magnificent,” she said—and immediately regretted it. She hated to give Woollcott more stuffing for his overstuffed ego. Woollcott grinned with satisfaction.
“Oh, don’t look so smug,” she said to him. “A hot cup of that silverware liquid would taste good to me now.”
“If you say so,” he said, smirking. “But where were we? Ah yes, first the naked girl’s necklace goes missing. And then she is found in a room that is locked from the inside! Then, to top it off, the naked girl herself goes missing. Who would have taken her, and where did he take her? For we now can conclude, by the sight of the trousers, that the person you saw was indeed a man.”
“And why did he take her?” Benchley asked. “And why shove us into the freezer in the bargain?”
“No doubt he trapped you in there to make a clean getaway with Bibi’s body.”
“How inconsiderate,” Benchley said. “He could have simply asked us for the body. We would have gladly handed her over. No need to freeze us to death for it.”
Woollcott folded his arms over his big belly. “Then we can assume it was someone who didn’t want you to see him. He has a secret agenda. First he murders Bibi. Then he steals her body.”
Dorothy didn’t bother to argue now about whether Bibi was indeed murdered. She had come to that certain conclusion while she was inside the freezer. Someone wanted her and Benchley dead—or at least didn’t care if they remained alive or not—so it was only logical to believe that this same person had killed Bibi.
“As preposterous as that sounds, I’m afraid I agree with you, Aleck,” she said. “But who? And why?”