A Friendly Game of Murder

by J. J. Murphy

  She reached down and unclasped the leash from the dog’s collar.

  Woody didn’t hesitate. Incited as much by his new freedom as by Doyle’s thundering command, Woody sped off through the lobby. He darted between the lobby’s cozy armchairs and coffee tables and zipped straight into the dining room.

  They followed him.

  When they entered the dining room, the dog was nowhere to be seen. But the swinging doors to the kitchen were just closing, indicating that the small creature had recently nosed its way in.

  “The hound is on the scent, all right,” Benchley said. “The scent of breakfast.”

  They went into the busy kitchen. The savory smells of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, accompanied by the noisy sounds and sights of the waiters and kitchen staff hurrying to and fro, overwhelmed their senses.

  Most of the mess from the scuffle in the night had now been cleaned up. Luigi the waiter stood amid the kitchen chaos with a mop in his hand, a metal bucket at his feet and a world-weary expression on his tired face. They looked down and saw a track of little dirty paw prints on the white tile floor.

  “You are looking for your dog?” Luigi asked blearily. “It came through here and went into there.” He pointed toward the service corridor.

  Apologizing to Luigi as they tiptoed across his newly mopped floor, they hurried through the kitchen.

  In the service corridor, they found the dog with his snout against the closed door of the pantry closet. His wet nose sniffed at the space where the door met the floor, and his little stub of a tail wiggled with excitement.

  “Perhaps he’s located his quarry?” Doyle said with equal excitement.

  “He certainly has,” Dorothy said, a little disappointed. “Unfortunately his quarry is a dog biscuit. Frank Case keeps a box for him in there.”

  “Oh,” Doyle said, equally disappointed. His big mustache drooped. “Now what shall we do?”

  “Elementary, my dear Doyle,” Benchley said brightly. “Let’s get the poor pooch his biscuit. Then let’s all have some breakfast before we continue on with this caper. I’m famished!”

  With that, he opened the pantry door—and yelped in surprise. Dorothy and Doyle crowded next to him and followed his gaze.

  There in the center of the little room sat the body of Bibi in the wheelchair. She was fully clothed in her slinky flapper’s dress and shoes. Her eyes were closed as though she was merely asleep, though her whitish skin confirmed that she was well beyond sleep.

  Woody charged in, sniffed at her feet and gave her motionless leg an obligatory lick. Then he barked with a proud little yap.

  “On second thought,” Benchley said in a low voice, “I’ve just lost my appetite.”

  Chapter 37

  Dorothy stepped into the small pantry and coaxed Woody away from Bibi’s body. Benchley picked up the dog and stroked his fur.

  The little room was claustrophobic. There was hardly enough floor space for the wheelchair and Dorothy together. The walls were lined with shelves, which were stocked almost to overflowing with cans, boxes, cartons and bags of food. A big burlap sack of potatoes squatted in the corner, giving the room a musty, earthy smell.

  Dorothy found the carton of dog biscuits, opened it and took a treat for Woody. The dog crunched it down quickly. She then turned and moved closer to Bibi’s body to inspect it. Bibi was not wearing the necklace, of course. Otherwise, she appeared exactly as she had when she arrived at the party. Well, almost exactly . . .

  Doyle stood next to her to examine Bibi as well. “Hmm, what do you observe?”

  Dorothy didn’t like being put to the test. Still, this was the father of Sherlock Holmes. So, what the heck—she could try the Dr. Watson role if it meant that Doyle would put on Holmes’ deerstalker hat, figuratively speaking. “She’s fully dressed. Even her makeup has been reapplied.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Someone who cared about her—or at least cared about her appearance—did this for her.”

  “And why would a person take such care of her, given that she is now deceased?”

  “I can think of two reasons. One, it was someone who loved her and wished for her to not appear quite so . . . dead.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “Perhaps whoever fixed her up wanted to get her out of the hotel. A nicely dressed woman in a wheelchair is certainly a more acceptable sight on Sixth Avenue than a naked corpse.”

  Doyle smiled. “You’re rather good at this. But why take her out of the hotel?” He spoke as though he already knew the answer.

  “No habeas corpus,” she said. “If there’s no body, there’s no crime.”

  “Not exactly, from a legal point of view,” he said. “But, still, that’s probably the killer’s general idea. So that would lead us to believe it was indeed our killer who spruced her up and put her in here. Correct?”

  “Yes, indeedy. He was the one who hid her here, just waiting for an opportunity to wheel her out the front door when no one is looking.”

  “He?” Doyle asked archly. “Weren’t you the one who suggested the killer might just as well be a woman?”

  “I know it’s a man.”

  Doyle was taken aback. Up to this point he seemed to be leading Dorothy to all the answers. “I agree with you that our culprit likely is a man. But, if one considers all the possibilities, certainly a woman with enough strength and determination could very well have dressed Miss Bibelot and positioned her so, don’t you agree?”

  “No,” Dorothy said firmly. “At least, I don’t agree that a woman did this.”

  He frowned skeptically. “And what makes you so sure?”

  “Her makeup, my dear Doyle. It was applied by a man.”

  Doyle raised his eyebrows. Then he adjusted his glasses and looked closely at Bibi’s face. “Good heavens, you’re right!” he exclaimed. “I see it now. The powder is rather heavily caked on her cheeks, but there is hardly any on her nose.”

  “A woman abhors a shiny nose,” she said.

  “And the lipstick,” he continued. “It is thickly and unevenly applied. There is a certain . . . squareness to the shape of the lip coloring. Not very ladylike, I should say.”

  “You said it, all right. A woman always blots her lips after applying lipstick. If a woman had applied this makeup—even if she was in a hurry—she would have given Bibi’s mouth at least some lip service, so to speak.”

  Doyle straightened up and looked down admiringly at Dorothy. “So we know that it was a man who dressed her and positioned her here—a man who apparently cared about her, perhaps even admired her. But where does that lead us?”

  Benchley sighed. “Almost right back where we started. You can take your pick of men who admired her. There must be two dozen of them in this hotel alone.”

  Suddenly Woollcott appeared at the pantry door. “Aha! Here you all are! I’ve been waiting at the Round Table for—” He caught his breath when he spotted Bibi. He turned to Doyle. “You found her! My hat’s off to you, sir. You truly are as great as your famous detect—”

  Doyle interrupted as Woollcott was literally tipping his hat. “I cannot take the credit. It was Mrs. Parker’s little ‘bloodhound’ that led us to the body. He’s the one who deserves your praise.”

  “Oh.” Woollcott turned to the dog in Benchley’s arms. He gave the dog a perfunctory pat on the head. “Well done,” he muttered. Then he turned back to Dorothy. “Now that we have the body, what do we do about it?”

  “I guess we leave her here for now. It won’t be long before the authorities arrive. In the meantime I suggest we continue with our little game as planned,” she said with a scheming glint in her eye. Finding Bibi’s body had boosted her confidence. “I see you’ve brought your top hat, which we’ll soon require. Have the guests arrived i
n the dining room?”

  “Most of them are there—Doug Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Ruth Hale, Jane Grant, Ben Jordan, Lydia Trumbull, Mrs. Volney, and a few dozen others—with more and more arriving every minute. Come to think of it, I should wake Harpo. . . .”

  “Get back in there, then. We’re right behind you.”

  Woollcott hurried off. Woody squirmed in Benchley’s arms.

  “You can set him down now,” she said. “I’ll put his leash back on.”

  Benchley lowered the dog to the floor, and Woody scampered to Dorothy. But then he wiggled between her legs and back into the pantry. He sniffed a moment at Bibi’s bare leg, then turned and smelled the cylindrical cartons of Quaker Oats. Before Dorothy could grab him, he had moved on to a large, empty cardboard box. He scratched at it with his paw, then leaped inside and sniffed it thoroughly while turning in circles.

  “That’ll do, my little man,” she said, latching the leash onto his collar. But before she pulled him away, something in the box caught her eye. It was a stained gray piece of paper—a form of some sort. But it was the signature on the paper that had captured her attention. She snatched it up and looked at it more closely.

  The paper was a packing slip. Or was it an invoice? She wasn’t quite sure. It was a typewritten list that itemized a shipment of two dozen live lobsters and an assortment of seafood. The signature that had caught her eye was written neatly in bold blue ink. . . .

  B. Bibelot.

  * * *

  In the kitchen, Dorothy grabbed Frank Case by the sleeve of his natty jacket and held the paper in front of his face. “Did Bibi buy these lobsters?”

  Case was momentarily taken by surprise. But he quickly recovered and took the paper from her hands. “Certainly not,” he said calmly.

  “Then why is Bibi’s signature on this invoice?”

  Case scrutinized the sheet. “Ah, now I see. Here are Luigi’s initials at the bottom. That means we took delivery, and the hotel paid for them out of its account with this particular fishmonger. See? It says it’s paid in advance. We paid for this, not Bibi.”

  Dorothy looked at the paper, but all she saw was a list of lobsters and fish, and countless inscrutable numbers—and the signature B. Bibelot.

  “But why does it have Bibi’s name on it?”

  “Well,” he said, somewhat confused, “it says she delivered the order.”

  Dorothy put her hands on her hips. “How could a skinny little girl like Bibi have delivered two dozen lobsters and an assortment of seafood? Why would she deliver such a thing? Not to mention when.”

  Case pursed his lips. He handed the invoice back to Dorothy. “I can’t explain it. It would indeed take a strong person to carry all that seafood—and some of it packed in dry ice to add to the weight. Or it could have easily been transported on a cart, of course. But, if it’s all the same to you, we have to get breakfast ready for more than a hundred guests all at once, thanks to your suggestion. So if you’ll excuse me, perhaps we can consider this later in the morning?”

  He turned away with an apologetic smile and went back to work, directing the waiters and line cooks and handling their questions and problems.

  Doyle and Benchley stood by the kitchen doors, ready to enter the Algonquin dining room. She moved to join them. Then she stopped. Something occurred to her. She turned back and hurried again to Case.

  “Frank.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Parker. Something else?” His calm demeanor was showing signs of strain.

  “There’s always something else,” she said. “Did you say that seafood was packed in dry ice?”

  He touched a finger to his lips. “Not the lobsters. They were alive upon arrival. But when we get seafood, especially certain fish imported from a great distance, it’s packed in dry ice to keep it fresh.”

  “What happened to the dry ice?”

  “The dry ice? What happened to it?”

  “Have you suddenly become a parrot? Yes, the hotel was without ice of any kind last night, and yet the dry ice from this seafood was not to be found. What happened to it?”

  Case finally let his frustration show. “We certainly didn’t serve it, if that’s what you mean. We usually unpack the fish, then throw the ice into the alley. It disappears in no time. On the other hand, perhaps someone left it around and it evaporated. We were rather busy last night. And we’re quite busy right now, Mrs. Parker! So if you don’t mind—” He gestured toward the twin doors to the dining room.

  “Evaporated?”

  “Yes, evaporated. Don’t you know about dry ice?”

  “Of course I know about dry ice,” she answered quickly. Then after a moment’s thought—and realizing she actually didn’t know much about dry ice—she asked, “What about it?”

  “It’s incredibly cold. Much colder than regular ice. It’s frozen gas. So when it warms up, it turns from a frozen solid directly to a gas, never a liquid, you know.”

  Incredibly cold. So cold that it burns? she wondered. She remembered that when she had fallen down in the service elevator, her hand had touched a shard of ice—an extremely nasty shard of ice.

  “Well, of course it turns into a gas. Everyone knows that,” she said, although she admitted to herself that she may have forgotten it.

  “There you have it,” Case continued. “Whether someone threw it out into the alley or whether it was left around last night, it’s probably long gone now.”

  “Probably?” she asked.

  “Yes, probably. That’s the extent of my knowledge on the subject, Mrs. Parker,” he said with finality. “If you have more questions about dry ice, try asking Douglas Fairbanks. But this is a kitchen, not a science laboratory, and we do have breakfast to serve. So, if you’ll please excuse me—”

  “Fairbanks? What would he know about it?”

  Case started backing away. “Dry ice is used for effects in the theater. They drop a large chunk of it into a tub of water, and it makes fog—a swirling mist that rolls across the stage. Surely you’ve seen that?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose—”

  Then the kitchen doors swung open. The right door bumped into Doyle, and the left pushed Benchley aside. Alexander Woollcott strode in.

  “Come, come, my dear Mrs. Parker! The stage is set. We have a packed house, and it’s your cue. All await your grand entrance with bated breath.”

  “Aleck, it’s only your breath that smells like bait,” she said. “Have a mint or something.”

  Benchley chuckled. “That’ll teach you to fish for a compliment, Aleck.”

  Woollcott turned to him. “Ah, the Benchley wit,” he said. “As sharp and as cutting as a butter knife.”

  “Ahem,” Doyle said, clearing his throat. “That’s quite enough trading insults. Shall we get back to the matter at hand?”

  “But,” Benchley said, disappointed, “trading insults is our stock-in-trade.”

  “Sorry. Artie’s right,” Dorothy said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  She grabbed the top hat from Woollcott’s head, tugged on Woody’s leash and pushed open the double doors.

  She stopped short. At least a hundred people were crowded into the dining room. Many were packed around the tables, while the rest stood expectantly—and looked slightly annoyed at being summoned at such an early hour after such an uproarious night.

  As one, they turned their bloodshot, bleary eyes toward Dorothy.

  Oh dear, what did I get myself into?

  Chapter 38

  Dorothy merely stared at the friends and guests gathered before her in the crowded dining room.

  Suddenly Woollcott snatched the top hat from her hands. “I’ll handle this bunch,” he said to her. Then, in an announcer’s voice, he spoke. “Good morning, my good people! We’re here to play a little game of M
urder. Only this time it’s no game. One of you gathered here murdered Bibi Bibelot. And I intend to point the finger at the one who ‘done it.’”

  Dorothy nearly smacked her forehead. She and Aleck had briefly discussed this plan earlier in Dr. Hurst’s room. But clearly the discussion had been too brief, because this was not what she truly had in mind.

  Then again, there was no time to lose. The Health Department would arrive before long. Woollcott might as well get things underway in his own inimitable—and insufferable—style.

  “Douglas Fairbanks!” he said, his voice heavy with blame. “You, sir, had both the ability and the motive to attack Miss Bibelot. The young woman effectively took over your party and insulted your hospitality—and that of your wife, Mary. You possess the key to the bathroom, and you had access to the locket. And you, above all, had the acrobatic ability to climb out the window and scamper across the roof—”

  “Well, so did I,” Dorothy said before she could think twice about it. “If I could get out the window and get across the snowy roof, just about anybody else could—anyone who could fit through the window, that is. It certainly wasn’t Fairbanks who killed Bibi. That’s preposterous, and you know it, Aleck.”

  Woollcott spun around and glared at her. But he quickly ignored her interruption and resumed his accusations.

  “Mary Pickford!” he said, literally pointing the finger at her. “Bibi ruined your party. You yourself admitted that you entered the bathroom and took the locket from around the young girl’s neck. If you are so bold to perform such a theft, is murder also out of the question?”

  Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Dorothy spoke first.

  “Of course it’s out of the question, Aleck,” she said. “We’ve gone over this. Why would Mary kill another woman and leave the body in her own tub? No woman would corrupt her own bathroom like that. She’d never want to use it again.”

  Woollcott again faced her with beady, angry eyes. “Whose side are you on? This was all your idea, remember?”

  She bit her lip. She couldn’t help interrupting, especially when Woollcott seemed so wrongheaded. But at the same time she didn’t want to be involved in the accusations. “Fine, then. Go right ahead. You’re the detective.”