“This is the kind of thing one expects in political intrigue,” said Mr. Benchley.
“None of us is involved in intrigue,” I said, assisting the Duchess on her left side as the Major supported her right. I was walking at an angle so as not to get kicked or tripped by flailing limbs and canes.
“I’m sure there’s a simple explanation to it all,” said Mr. Benchley.
“Right. Of course,” I said sardonically, throwing a face at my friend. “There is always a simple explanation for murder!”
“It was meant for me!” wailed the Duchess, “There is an assassin on board!”
People at nearby tables and within earshot had been listening to us with alarm. The little redheaded man, the man called Claude Dubois, who had the cabin next to Mr. Benchley’s, was seated alone at a table for two. He peeked over an open newspaper, and upon making eye contact with me, retreated back behind it like a turtle into its shell. Then he threw the paper aside and walked over toward us.
“There is something I can do, sir?” he asked.
“All is well, thank you, Mr. Dubois,” replied Mr. Benchley as we moved on past him.
“I thought I escaped them all,” continued the Duchess. “The first time, when I was in England during the revolt, and then again, in nineteen-nineteen, when they thought I was a threat to them. They want to be rid of me. My cousins’ executions were not enough! What can one expect of devils who would murder children?”
The Duchess was angrily recounting her years of terror. She obviously had lived in fear that Soviet influence had far-reaching powers and that for as long as she lived she would be seen as a threat to the new republic. Her outrage seemed to increase her tremors. And then, suddenly, she caved in, as if losing all conviction. A steward appeared and relieved me as “crutch” for the Duchess. I am a small creature, and managing her weight, though slight, was difficult for me. I saw that her energy was spent, if not her spirit as well. “I want to go back to my room,” she whispered as she was propped upright for the short walk to her cabin.
Mr. Benchley and I followed until they arrived at the room, and after offering to be of assistance, should any be needed, we walked out onto the outside deck for fresh air. In spite of the cold, the sun was shining. We walked along the portside toward the stern, where we found some relief from the buffeting wind.
“I find it hard to believe that the Soviets would see any threat from the ineffectual protest of an exiled tsarist. Why try to harm a little old lady?” asked Mr. Benchley.
“Perhaps she knows where the bodies are buried?” I said, knowing, of course, that nobody knows the burial place of the assassinated Tsar Nicholas II and his family.
“If it is true, what the Duchess said about an attempt on her life back in ’nineteen, it would have made some sense, because back then there might have been cause for the Reds to believe that the Whites could raise support to take back their country. Perhaps they feared her influence. But now . . . ?”
“I suppose it’s hard for her. Her cousins all murdered, her way of life forever changed. You don’t have to fight in a war to be affected by its far-reaching consequences.”
The boom of rifle fire cut through the air, and the shout of “Pull!” brought another shot to ring out.
“Skeet shooting,” announced Mr. Benchley in answer to my questioning look.
“Don’t they know they are killing fish? The bullets have to land somewhere in the sea,” I said.
“Now, Mrs. Parker, big fish eat little fish, so it won’t make a dent, anyway.”
“Pull!”
Boom!
“That is a feeble excuse for men to play with guns!”
We rounded the deck where at the stern several people were shooting, and I was surprised to see among the party were Hemingway, Lady Twinton, and Ronnie.
“Looks like Annie Oakley can handle a gun,” I said, as Daphne Twinton yelled, “Pull!” and then blew apart the disk ejected into the air.
“I’ll beat you yet, old girl,” said Ronnie, and after he called out, he fired and missed. I could see the rigid determination even though his back was toward us. Hemingway shot clay pigeons to bits, one after the other, and Daphne never missed, putting Ronnie’s nose out of joint. I thought for a moment that he was going to turn the rifle on her, because as Daphne aimed and fired, his own rifle was poised in her direction. I watched his profile, jaw set firm with anger.
I was paralyzed from the idea that he would shoot her, but then he suddenly pivoted around in our direction and lifted the shotgun up over our heads. I followed his aim across the sky.
I shouted, “No!” The shot rang out and the sea bird spiraled down into the ship’s wake.
“Clay pigeon, you dolt!” yelled Daphne. “Not sea tern!”
It became obvious that Ronnie was tight: “There! Got the bloody bastard!” he said. “Kill the bloody scavengers!” And with the gun in tow, he walked toward us. He glared at Woodrow, who skittered behind Mr. Benchley’s legs, and as he passed, mumbled, “—and all the bloody rotters that feed off the remains of the day.”
“I see the Marquis Ronald is in his usual high-spirited mood,” said Mr. Benchley, picking up Woodrow and petting his head with long, soothing strokes. A few passes at ear-kneading, which Woodrow so enjoyed, stopped his shivering. I wished Mr. Benchley could have soothed away my trepidations, but that would not have played well with Mrs. Benchley.
The crewman in charge of the shooting tried to catch up with Ronnie, who had absconded with the shotgun, and the two disappeared from view. I turned at the sound of gunfire to observe Hem and Daphne. The Lady Twinton continued her assault on the clay pigeons, while Hemingway, when not shooting, continued his very engaged, very attentive admiration of Lady Twinton.
We turned back from whence we came, I hatless and the stiff wind assaulting our faces. Mr. Benchley said, “Let’s play a quiet game of bridge this afternoon.”
As we left the outdoors for a calmer interior climate, a steward approached, carrying a canvas-covered tennis racket. “Sir, we’ve found your tennis racket,” he said to my friend.
“I see! Good man! Now, if you can find where they hid my briefcase—”
“Why are your things scattered about?” I asked.
“There was a misunderstanding,” replied my friend, and then addressing the steward: “Would you please put the racket in my room? Wait! Give it to me.”
I said with a laugh, “Why? Do you want to practice your backhand hitting balls off the back of the ship? You’ll lose your balls that way.”
“Mrs. Parker! Really! I have no balls!”
“Just as I suspected . . . .”
“They’re tucked away, shifted to the side, last I looked—”
“I don’t need to know this—”
“—somewhere in my drawers—”
“Say no more!”
“—of my steamer trunk, back in my cabin.”
“Just when you were getting interesting.”
“I try never to be dull. No, I just realized that Gold is probably still sleeping it off in my room, no reason to disturb the man.”
“You are a considerate fellow.”
Richard Hartley caught up with us as we walked the long corridor to our cabins.
“There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you both. The captain was called down and they are looking into the juice incident. Can you imagine if either one of us had taken a sip, Bob?”
“I am trying not to imagine, Richard. I suppose Mrs. Parker would have had to see herself to Paris.”
“Very funny, you idiot,” I scolded. I turned to Richard. “The Duchess believes she was the intended victim,” I said. “What, do we need to hire a food taster now? We escorted her to her stateroom. I suspect she has locked herself in for fear of Russian assassins!”
We all looked at each other for a long moment. Mr. Benchley asked in a casual tone, “What did you find out about what happened?”
“The waiter was in tears, as w
as the kitchen boy who set up the drinks—they swear it was all an accident, and that they had no idea how the acid got into the juice. I asked if the filled-up glasses were left unattended once they left the kitchen, but they assured me that the juice was served immediately.”
“Were any of the other drinks from the tray tainted?” asked Mr. Benchley.
“Who can know for sure now? In the hysteria, the ones that weren’t delivered were emptied down the sink by a busboy, and those delivered were taken away and dumped, too. Only a few people who’d been served drank theirs, and one woman became hysterical believing she was poisoned, too. I attended her immediately, but it was all in her head. I assured her that she wouldn’t have had much time to raise an alarm had there been acid in her drink.”
We walked toward my cabin to leave Woodrow there for his late-morning nap, and on the way spotted Mathew outside Mr. Benchley’s door. He turned when we called to him, and came to join us.
“I was looking for Hem,” he said.
“His room is down that way,” I said.
“He’s not there; I thought he might be with you, Bob.”
I told Mathew that Ernest was playing with Lady Twinton. The look on his face changed from one of hopeful discovery to one of worrisome dubiety, resulting in my asking him if there was anything wrong.
“No, not at all,” he replied, as if taken aback, before flashing a fast grin at us, and then he walked toward the doors leading out to the deck. He was a bad liar.
Lady Daphne Twinton
Gerald’s Boatdeck
Chapter Five
Weather on the ocean descends the way stage scrims are lowered in a theatre. Fast. One moment it is all sun and balmy air, the next we are pitched into a raging storm. Such was the case soon after we sat down for our afternoon game of bridge.
I was coupled with Mr. Benchley against Soledad and Richard Hartley. It was good to laugh and enjoy witty conversation again after our morning escape with our lives, as well as the past several days of witnessing the tiresome sparring among the royalty at the captain’s table. This was the first time during the journey I had really begun to relax. I liked listening to Soledad’s sharp and clever observations about everything and everybody. This afternoon, Richard Hartley was a pleasure to be with: handsome, in an unconventional way, with those lovely, heavy-lidded, cognac-colored eyes—the light in the room set them atwinkle. His charm was a sharp wit combined with gentlemanly manners. He and Mr. Benchley were cut from similar cloth.
Across the room, the group of men who had been playing for high stakes the day before considered their hands. Alfred Arbuthnot was again sweeping up the chips, much to the frustration of his opponents. The same hefty fellow who had violently thrown down his cards the day before now repeatedly wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and once, to the annoyance of the other players, had the bad manners to interrupt the game with an order to the steward to bring him a glass of ginger ale, into which he poured a healthy slug from the contents of a flask before meeting the bid on the table. I watched, suspecting that his too-obvious show of nerves was the bluff to take the hand, to make the others see his raise. It did not work. He lost to Major Arbuthnot.
Mr. Benchley followed my gaze across the room, took in the innocuous Major, and then nodded and flashed me an all-knowing smile that did little to inform me of his thoughts.
“Where’s Hemingway?” asked Soledad when we took a break to order a tray of sandwiches along with beverages.
“Out fishing for a true sentence,” I said.
“I doubt that’s how he’s spending his time,” Soledad giggled wickedly. “I saw him knocking at Lady Daphne’s cabin door after lunch.”
“Selling Girl Scout cookies, I suppose,” I replied.
“I thought I saw him climbing up to the bridge,” said Mr. Benchley. “Perhaps he’s at the helm—”
“I’ll bet he is!” I said, throwing a knowing look at Soledad. “He likes to be on top!”
“—swapping tales of heroic rescues with our Captain Fried.”
Soledad and I gave up the naughty insinuations, true as they might be.
“He is intrigued with him, too—our captain, that is,” said Soledad.
“And Mathew?” I asked. “There’s a young man intrigued with Hemingway!”
“Well, Hemingway is a striking character, I must say: handsome, manly, very sure of himself, very confident. I can understand Mathew’s hero worship there,” said Soledad.
“Emerson wrote, ‘In the end every hero is a bore,’” Richard Hartley said with a chuckle. “And by the way, Sollie, you used to describe me as “very handsome, manly, very confident—”
“I doubt anything’s changed there,” I said, and then felt the heat rise to my cheeks.
I lowered my eyes for a moment from embarrassment, but my disdain for coquettishness forced me to face my companions. Richard held my gaze, and the look of admiration on his face forced me to comment yet again, as I was sure I was as red as a tomato. “Did you know—”
I was happily interrupted when the food arrived, and we set about “improving” our drinks and choosing our little sandwiches.
“What were you about to say?” said Richard.
Grabbing at straws I replied, “Just that our good friends, Aleck Woollcott and Harpo Marx, will be meeting us when we arrive in Paris.”
“You mean the famous theatre critic?” said Soledad. “Why, his column is enormous fun. Richard, you know who he is, don’t you? The fellow with the theatre column everybody reads? Why, I never read such hyperbole, mixed metaphors, and absurd similes as can be found in just one theatrical review by Alexander Woollcott!”
“Dear me!” I said, “For the love of peace, Soledad, don’t tell Aleck that!”
“Oh, I shan’t, I wouldn’t, I promise. I’ve heard he is quite violent!”
“His remarks do sting, that’s true. But, if he takes to you, the way he has to our Harpo and his brothers, he is a lamb and a loyal friend.”
Mr. Benchley said, “Yes, Aleck is at times somewhat like a smiting god. He may smack you down now and then when you don’t do as you are told, but his love is eternal.”
“Someone once dubbed him ‘vitriol and old lace,’” I said.
“I am looking forward to meeting him!” said Soledad. “I adore autocrats—they are so amusing!”
Soledad was like a refreshing breeze on this tub full of scoundrels. With her svelte physique, her lovely, fair skin, her glossy black hair reflecting the light, the generous red lips so quick to smile, I knew Aleck would also adore her.
And Harpo, the bad boy, would be all over her.
“I saw what you did!” bellowed a gruff, masculine voice, and we all turned to see the hefty man at the Major’s table throwing over his chair as he pounded a fist on the table. Glasses teetered, cards and chips scattered. “You palmed that card!”
The Major leaned stiffly back in his chair, a look of horror crossing his face, before his features relaxed and a wistful smile settled in. “Gentlemen—” he began to protest in a low and soothing tone. But before he could continue, the man sitting to his right grabbed his brittle wrist, twisting it until the cards he was holding fell onto the table. The man who looked like Durante, who had the day before chuckled and wagged a finger at the Major’s suspected cheating, walked over to the Major’s table from across the room, where he’d been sitting in a club chair, reading. The players hovered over the frightened man, shouting accusations at him. The Durante lookalike stood behind the Major’s chair and, after a warning glance, the other let go of the Major’s wrist and turned over the cards he’d been dealt. One big cretin, who had remained seated during this inspection, rose up and roughly pulled the Major to his feet, making him look like a sorry old ragdoll and causing his knee-brace to click loudly, whereupon the others emptied his coat pockets before yanking off his coat. “Durante” objected, but was told to move aside. Although no proof was discovered to substantiate a cheat, that didn’t stop their abuse.
The violence with which the Major was handled was shocking to witness. Thugs—for the other men at the table were twice his size and half his years—molesting an old man!
Mr. Benchley and Richard bolted to their feet to go to his aid, while at the same time Hemingway and Mathew entered the card room, having heard the ruckus from the corridor. The sight of Major Arbuthnot manhandled by the brutish quartet sent Hem into a charge. He wasted no time in landing a right-hook to the jaw of the first accuser, sending the man spinning to the floor, and a serving cart crashing into a wall, the shattering glass and china ringing like wind-chimes on a stormy night. A dozen card players were trying to exit the room as the perimeters of the fight expanded.
Any ladies present in the room had been escorted out by the time Soledad and I were cornered. We clung to each other; we had no way of getting out of the room safely, no way around the battlefield without suffering injury, because in an instant, several other men who’d been playing a dull game of whist and gin threw down their cards and leaped, with newfound gusto, into the action and excitement that no mere card game could possibly offer.
Mr. Benchley was situated in the middle of the fray, ineffectually trying to make heard the voice of reason, which was ignored in the passion of the moment and the thrill of the fight. He ducked just in time to avoid a direct strike to his head. Throwing up his hands he watched in terror as he was charged at waist level and literally carried to, and then pinned against, the wall. The moment he was released by his attacker, who had bounced back from the impact, he grabbed a chair, lifted it over his head, and struck the fellow to the floor.
Mathew, knocked down, clobbered an attacker with a silver-plated carafe that had conveniently rolled into his grasp. Richard landed a punch in the gut of the man who had seized the Major.
Mr. Benchley helped the fellow he had crowned with the chair get up on his feet, asked him if he’d had enough, and, when the reply came in the form of a growling advance, made short work of the situation with a very successful block with his left forearm, followed by a side-handed chop to the trachea. “I won’t ask you again,” he said with a near-hysterical chuckle, “because I doubt you can answer.”
[Dorothy Parker 05] - A Moveable Feast of Murder Page 7