A Friendly Game of Murder

by J. J. Murphy

  “Knocking a man from behind!” Doyle huffed, shaking his big old head. “It’s perfectly reprehensible. Who would do such a thuggish, ungentlemanly thing?”

  “An ungentlemanly thug, perhaps?” she said, perhaps a bit too flippantly. She was merely trying to put Doyle at ease. In any case, the only serious injury Jordan seemed to have suffered was to his pride.

  “I should go down and examine him myself,” Doyle said.

  “Of course you should. Make sure he and Dr. Hurst are all right. But a word to the wise . . . don’t ask Jordan about the locket.”

  She explained about how Jordan had admitted to hiding the stolen locket in his shoe. But it had gone missing in the attack.

  Doyle was angry with Jordan now. Moving in long strides, he began pacing in the snow. Woody scuttled out of the way. “That brigand! Stealing a locket from a lady’s bureau. But not only that, it was Quentin’s possession in the first place. In essence, he pickpocketed his own employer! I would not have suspected this from Mr. Jordan. He seemed a perfect gentleman and a worthy employee.”

  Dorothy thought of something that she hadn’t fully considered before. “What if Jordan hadn’t stolen it from Dr. Hurst but stolen it for Dr. Hurst?”

  Doyle stopped short. “What’s that you say? What sort of rubbish is that?”

  “What if Jordan somehow knew it was in Mary’s dresser? What if, as a loyal employee, he snatched it back on behalf of his disabled boss, who could no longer do so on his own?”

  Doyle grunted. She had clearly planted a doubt in his mind. “Perhaps I should go talk to Mr. Jordan myself.” He strode toward the door to go back inside.

  “You do that,” she said. “By the way, do you happen to recall the room number for the family with chicken pox?”

  Doyle turned. “Chicken pox? Smallpox, you mean.”

  “Oh, right . . . smallpox.”

  “No, I don’t recall the room number. I didn’t visit the family myself. It was Quentin who diagnosed them.”

  “So it was. Never mind. I’ll ask Frank Case. He’ll know which room they’re in.”

  Doyle paused in the doorway. “I hear the skepticism in your voice, Dorothy. It’s rather distinct from your usual sarcastic tone. You think Quentin misdiagnosed that family.”

  “I do,” she said flatly. “And I think he did it on purpose.”

  Doyle considered this. “Perhaps. But to what end?”

  “To try to escape somebody who’s after him. He thought he could use the quarantine to shut his pursuer out of the hotel. But he was too late. Whoever’s after him is already inside.”

  * * *

  Benchley stared at the motionless body of the switchboard operator.

  “Not another one,” he groaned miserably to himself. A cold, sinister feeling crept up his legs and crawled along his spine.

  He glanced around the little office. Was he alone? Could there be anyone else in the room? He hadn’t forgotten that someone had recently tried to lock him and Mrs. Parker in the subbasement freezer. And that someone was still somewhere in this hotel.

  The single table lamp on top of the switchboard left narrow shadows in the corners. Even so, Benchley could see that no one else was here. He was alone with the body. All alone.

  He forced himself to do more than stand there. Slowly he moved closer to get a better look at her.

  Mavis was facedown on the switchboard. Her headset circled the top of her head like a tiara. Her dark hair covered her face like a veil.

  Poor woman. Who did this to you?

  One arm was curved awkwardly next to her head. The other arm stretched out along the edge of the switchboard desk. This arm looked as if it was in danger of slipping off the desk. Benchley could imagine what might happen if it did. If her arm dropped to her side, her whole body might tumble over with the weight of it and crumple into a heap onto the hardwood floor.

  He couldn’t bear to witness that. So he reached out and gently grasped the arm with both hands. He gingerly moved it forward on the switchboard and away from the edge.

  But as he did so, her body slumped down and backward. Her head lifted off the switchboard and tilted back against her chair. Benchley looked at her pale face: A few stray hairs crossed it like slash marks.

  Then her eyes popped open.

  Benchley yelled and jumped back.

  The woman sat bolt upright and faced him. The headset went flying and landed with a clatter at Benchley’s feet. He leaped away from it as though it were a giant spider.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” she screamed at him. “You trying to scare me to death?”

  “Scare you to death?” he gasped. “I thought you were already dead. You nearly scared me to death.”

  “I was getting some much-deserved shut-eye,” she snapped, and picked up her headset. “What’s the idea, waking up a girl from her beauty sleep?”

  “What’s the idea of pretending to be a corpse?” he asked. “Isn’t there enough of that going around?”

  She ignored him. She was busy rummaging through a large purse. She pulled out a compact and flipped it open. Looking in the mirror, she smoothed down her hair.

  After a long moment Benchley got his breathing and his racing heart almost under control. “Listen,” he told her, “Mr. Case is arranging sleeping . . . arrangements for the staff. In the Pergola Room. You’d be more comfortable there instead of by yourself in here.”

  “Well, since I’m not getting any beauty sleep in here . . .” She stood up to go.

  Then he remembered what he had come for. “Wait a moment. I need to make a call to the police.”

  She stopped and frowned. “Isn’t there enough of that going around?”

  He thought she might connect the call for him. Instead she mumbled some instructions and then staggered out the door.

  Benchley faced the switchboard with trepidation—the thing was nearly as big as an upright piano. He was not on friendly terms with mechanical equipment and instruments. As a matter of fact, he secretly feared that technology was out to get him. Electric alarm clocks, typewriters, subway turnstiles, automobiles—they all held an element of danger. He sometimes told the story of a can opener that had once nearly decapitated him—or at least that’s the way he told it.

  But except for the intimidating array of lights, plugs, cords and switches, perhaps this contraption didn’t look so dangerous after all. He finally sat down in Mavis’ chair and managed to put on the headset and microphone without too much difficulty. Just for fun, he flipped one of the switches at random—and it pinched his finger. He stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked on it.

  “Very well, switchboard,” he said with narrowed eyes. He pushed up his sleeves. “Let the battle begin.”

  Chapter 24

  Dorothy stood outside Mrs. Volney’s door. Alexander Woollcott was by her side. She didn’t want him there. She didn’t want to be here at Mrs. Volney’s apartment, either. But she had run into Woollcott outside the Fairbanks’ penthouse as she was bringing Woody in from the roof. And Woollcott had attached himself to her like a leech. Dorothy had dropped off her coat and let the dog back into her apartment. Then she allowed Woollcott to drag her along to Mrs. Volney’s.

  “So,” he said, “you’re sure you saw her in there?”

  “For the umpteenth time, yes, I saw Lydia in there. Yes, I’ll go in and get her out. Yes, you can grill her all you want. Grill her like a hamburger, for all I care.”

  “Splendid,” Woollcott said, grinning from ear to ear. He was still as excited, perhaps more so, as when their silly game of Murder had started hours before. He was still playing detective.

  She had seen him get worked up like this many times before. Every few months he’d pick up a new passion. Cribbage, croquet, crosswords—it didn’t matter. Wooll
cott had spent one entire winter planning Jane Grant’s wedding to Harold Ross. No detail was too small to consider. In the end it had become more Woollcott’s soiree than Jane and Ross’. Now he wouldn’t let go playing detective until he solved this murder—or until someone beat him to it.

  She sighed. “You don’t need me for this. Go in there yourself and get Lydia.”

  “A roomful of women? Not on your life. They’ll eat me alive.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re twice the barracuda that any of those women are.”

  He glowed at this, because he considered it a high compliment. “You may be right. But I had a disagreement recently with Madam Volney, the cranky old eavesdropper, and I swore I’d never speak with her again. I stoutly refuse to set foot into her lair.”

  She looked at his paunch. “You do everything stoutly. No need to advertise it.”

  He automatically sucked in his gut but then quickly exhaled with the effort and let it out. “Be that as it may, this is an important mission that you—and you alone—can carry out, my dear Dorothy. Now go into the lioness’ den and get Lydia out of there!”

  “Just a minute,” she said sharply, remembering what Woollcott was supposed to be doing. “What about Bibi? Did you even look for her in the subbasement? What did you find?”

  He glanced down at his shoes; perhaps he was staring through them and visualizing the basement far below. He spoke softly. “I found that it’s quite dark and dank down there.”

  “You colossal coward! What was it you said? ‘Spiders, spooks and bogeymen be damned. And if I don’t turn up Bibi’s body, my name’s not Alexander Woollcott’? So if your name is not Alexander Woollcott, what is it?”

  “I have not given up the search!” he said defensively. “I’m merely taking a break for a small stretch.”

  “You’re stretching credibility, I think.”

  “And you’re stalling for time!” he snapped. “Now, are you going to knock on this door, or shall I do it for you?”

  * * *

  After several wrong numbers and even more numerous pinched fingertips, Benchley finally connected to the Sixteenth Precinct and eventually got Captain Church on the line.

  “Mr. Benchley, how are affairs at the Algonquin?”

  “Affairs?” He gulped, unavoidably thinking of Dorothy. “Affairs are . . . very perplexing.”

  “Events will likely become clear soon,” Church said reassuringly. “I have good news. I was able to get through to the commissioner of the Health Department. Woke him up from his sleep. I have hopes that we will obtain permission to breach the quarantine—at least temporarily—in the morning.”

  Benchley said, “I hope you practice what you breach, Captain.”

  Church didn’t respond to this. “Have you chilled the body?”

  “Chilled the body?”

  “Miss Bibelot. Is her body on ice, as Dr. Norris instructed?”

  “Oh yes, of course. Mrs. Parker and I took her down to the freezer room,” Benchley said, not telling the entire truth—not telling Church that it was really anyone’s guess where her body was now.

  “And Dr. Hurst? The elderly man with apoplexy. Is he resting comfortably?”

  Benchley thought of Dr. Hurst lying calmly amid the chaos and destruction of his hotel room. “Quite comfortably. Like a pig in a sty. Like an eye in a storm. Speaking of Dr. Hurst, that’s why I called. He woke up for a short while and uttered a name. Can you look it up in your files or records?”

  “A name? By all means. What is it?”

  “Ted Besh.”

  Church repeated it. Through the earphones Benchley could hear the scratching of his pencil. “If he lives in New York, or committed any crime in the city, or worked and paid taxes in the city, we will find a record of him right away,” Church said. “Interestingly enough, I have some surprising information to tell you about Dr. Hurst.”

  Benchley sat up. This did sound interesting. “Go on.”

  “We received a wire from England. Dr. Hurst is a wanted man.”

  “Wanted? That’s hard to believe.”

  “Because he is elderly and respectable?”

  “No, because no one wanted him here in the first place,” Benchley said. “What’s he wanted for?”

  “Theft and exportation of stolen goods.” There was a rustle of paper on the other end. “He is the prime suspect in the theft of a rare item from the London Museum. He is believed to have taken the item and replaced it with a fake.”

  “A rare item? What was it?”

  “Unfortunately the wire message does not provide that crucial detail.”

  “A silver locket, perhaps?”

  “Does Dr. Hurst have a silver locket in his possession?”

  “Well, no. Not anymore. But he did when he arrived.”

  There was silence on the other end. An angry, irritated silence. When Church finally spoke, his voice was a deep growl. “Mr. Benchley, if you or Mrs. Parker somehow damaged or lost an item of great value stolen from a friendly nation, you are in extremely serious trouble.”

  Benchley was so relieved that he laughed. “Not to worry, Captain. Mrs. Parker and I didn’t damage it or lose it.”

  “I am very pleased to hear that.”

  “Benedict Jordan lost it.”

  “Lost it?” Church’s voice exploded. “Who the devil is Benedict Jordan?”

  Whoops . . .

  * * *

  Dorothy remembered that she had the bottle of chloroform in her purse. She had forgotten to mention it to Doyle when they were up on the roof. It occurred to her now that she could pull the stopper out and lob the bottle like a grenade into Mrs. Volney’s apartment. It would put all those women to sleep for a week. Wouldn’t that be fun?

  “Go on,” Woollcott urged once again. “Go in and get Lydia out of there. I’ll wait right here in the hallway.”

  He nudged her forward. Dorothy felt spiteful, as she always did when ordered to do something. She rapped hard on the door. Woollcott began to move away, but she linked her arm through his and pulled him to her.

  “What? No—!” he sputtered.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Volney’s wrinkled face stared blankly at them. She held a plate of cookies in her hand.

  Dorothy smiled broadly. “We heard you’re having a party in here. May we join you?”

  Mrs. Volney opened her mouth to speak. “Well, cer—”

  “Cookies!” Woollcott stepped forward and grabbed the plate from her hand. “Here, let me distribute those for you, my dear.”

  “—tainly,” Mrs. Volney said uncertainly.

  Woollcott gobbled down three macaroons before Dorothy had even entered the apartment and closed the door behind her.

  * * *

  “Mr. Benchley, I shall ask you again,” Captain Church snarled through the headphones. “Who is Benedict Jordan?”

  “A very good man,” Benchley said, then thought of Dorothy. “Some people even think he’s a rather dashing and handsome man—”

  “Mr. Benchley, I will have none of your nonsense—”

  Benchley spoke quickly. “Mr. Jordan is Dr. Hurst’s manservant. His aide-de-camp. His captaindomo, Major—I mean, his majordomo, Captain.”

  “His manservant?” The captain digested this. “And you say that this Benedict Jordan took the locket from Dr. Hurst?”

  “No, I didn’t say that.”

  “Did Dr. Hurst entrust it to him?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  Church was impatient again. “Mr. Benchley, I will not play twenty questions with you.”

  “Fine with me. I don’t like parlor games.” Then he tried to explain. “Jordan had the locket in his shoe, you see. Then it went missing.”

  “His shoe went missing?”r />
  “No, the locket. He was armed with his shoe, which I thought was quite amusing.”

  “Why was he armed—?” Church began; then he gave up and switched gears. “Never mind. Why was the locket in Jordan’s shoe?”

  “For safekeeping.”

  “So Dr. Hurst did entrust the locket to him?”

  “No, no! Jordan took it.”

  “Jordan took it,” Church said slowly. “He took the locket from Dr. Hurst?”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. Jordan’s as loyal as a Labrador.”

  “Then how did Jordan get the locket?”

  “He stole it.”

  “He stole it? From the London Museum? So you mean to say that Dr. Hurst is not the thief?”

  “I don’t mean to say that at all. As you know, Dr. Hurst is British. Meanwhile Jordan is as American as a sawed-off shotgun. And Dr. Hurst hired him here in America. So if Jordan wasn’t even in England, how could he take the locket from the London Museum? No, it must have been Dr. Hurst.”

  Church thought about this. “Very well. Then how did Jordan obtain it?”

  “From Mary Pickford. Well, from her dresser, that is.”

  “Mary Pickford?” Church asked skeptically. “The Hollywood movie star?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “How did Mary Pickford come into possession of it?”

  “She stole it,” Benchley said. “From Bibi Bibelot.”

  “Bibi Bibelot? The dead girl?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Benchley heard what sounded like the grinding of teeth on the other end. “Mr. Benchley—!”

  “Shall I walk you through it again?” he said helpfully. “It’s very simple. Before Mr. Jordan used his shoe as a weapon, he used it as a safe—which, come to think of it, is just as ironic as being armed with a shoe. A safe weapon, if you see—”

  “Mr. Benchley!”

  But Benchley had gone quiet. He had realized something. Then he spoke more to himself than to Church. “Jordan ran into his room to look into his shoe. . . .”