One day, after our one-o’clock luncheon, Mr. Benchley took Frank Case, the Gonk’s owner and manager, aside. “I’m giving up my rooms here, Frank.”
“Oh, Bob, we’ll miss you!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” smiled my friend. He laughed and kicked his foot in an awww-shucks kind of way. “I’m going to miss being here, but I’ve no recourse.”
“Hollywood?”
“No more of that, no. I’m moving across the street to the Royalton.”
“Bob, I don’t understand,” said Frank, his eyebrows raised like a tent, his mouth a horseshoe. He shifted from one foot to the other, probing Mr. Benchley’s face. “Is it our service that you don’t like? Is it—”
“The service is great, Frank; that’s not it.”
“Well, what can I do to get you to stay?”
“I just can’t get any work done here.”
“Is there too much noise on your floor, the other residents perhaps? Well, I’ll see to it—”
“No, no, no, Frank, it’s not noisy.”
“Privacy? Ah, I see,” said Frank with a great sigh. “That can be dealt with. I will make sure that you are never disturbed when you are working! No one will be allowed to go up to your rooms—”
Mr. Benchley cut him off. “You may be able to keep them from coming up, but you can’t keep me from going down.” And so the move across the street.
Of course there were only a few yards’ distance between the Gonk and the bachelor hotel, and that didn’t really stop anyone, especially Mr. Benchley, from walking across the street.
The door to Mr. Benchley’s room was open, as Uriah had indeed called up a warning.
“His name is Giusto,” said Mr. Benchley, indicating the young Italian huddling in the corner of the couch. “In Italian that means justice.”
I nodded, and wondered if the name given by the Italian was actually given him at birth or adopted with his cause.
“Did anyone see you take him from the station?” I asked.
“The kidnapping, you mean?” said Mr. Benchley, with raised eyebrows. “He came willingly enough, but then, it’s not wise to wrestle with such a formidable figure as Heywood Broun,” he added, “or Ruth Hale, for that matter. Perhaps the Mellons saw us, because they waved ta-ta as they climbed into one of their limousines.”
“What’s with this ta-ta crap, Fred?”
“You don’t complain when Aleck bandies it about.”
“Aleck is a pretentious—” I stopped in midsentence as my eye went to the new addition in the apartment: a tobacco-store Indian by the front door.
Upon entering, one is impressed—or should I say, smacked in the face?—with décor reminiscent of a French whorehouse of decidedly Victorian embellishments, so much so that a friend stole the beaded curtain from a Parisian Bordello for a housewarming gift to Mr. Benchley to complete the look. It brazenly hangs as a testament to bad taste between the living room and the bedroom alcove. But then, everyone had been bringing junk—I mean, items—to help furnish the little apartment. Mr. Benchley has simply chosen to enhance the nineteenth-century features—the dark woodwork and diamond-shaped casement windows—by draping everything in red. Red-velvet curtains keep out all daylight and exterior distractions, if not the bone-piercing assault of sirens from the fire station on 43rd Street, and the pigeons that torment his early mornings; red tablecloth, chairs, and rugs keep the theme flowing, and if you were in any doubt about the design period, three framed portraits of Queen Victoria hang between the windows to set you straight. Green student lamps brighten the space and keep the ambiance cozy rather than manic. Bookcases line the walls, floor to ceiling, with volumes bought for their titles alone—Talks on Manure, In and Out with Maryanne, Keeping a Single Cow, Diseases of the Sweet Potato, and, of course, my favorite treatise, Perverse Pussy. Once, when I opened a closet door in search of a corkscrew, there was revealed the true intellectual life of my friend: Stacked behind the mess of household items was a bookshelf filled with the works of the great philosophers and poets, and histories of the world, which he keeps hidden from the world at large.
And so, when word was out that Mr. Benchley had moved to an unfurnished apartment and was in need of the various necessities to fill a household, there began a competition of sorts among his friends to do just that—fill his apartment. These outlandish friends saw fit to provide only the outlandish. Forget the simple pot or pan, the toaster, the broom, the can opener, the odd lamp or side table. No! Instead, didn’t Sweet Old Bob (“S.O.B.” as he was often called) need a stuffed fox terrier from the taxidermist’s shop, bought for a song because it had seen better days and wasn’t molting too badly? And as a companion piece, why not get the raccoon, too? It’s not that tatty. Surely, Bob would appreciate a hitching post? Perhaps he would find inspiration from a bust of Sir Walter Raleigh? And who didn’t need a flight of stairs leading to the ceiling? Upon entering for the first time, Noel Coward proclaimed it “Bob’s little rose bower.”
“I wanted things I could use,” said my friend, weeping into his gin (he never cared for beer). “I didn’t say that I was starting a whaling museum,” he had said plaintively one night at Tony’s. “I have a terrible premonition they are going to drag around a Pullman car and ask me to give it a home.”
He got rid of most of the junk, but kept the cello and music stand brought by a friend to whom he’d confided that he “would like to learn to play the cello, someday.” And although he has not touched the instrument since it entered the apartment three years ago, his cleaning lady keeps it dusted and at the ready.
Mr. Benchley bade me enter. “As I was saying, according to his passport, his name is Giusto Maggiorani—”
I followed his eyes as they moved to rest on the Italian who sat, hat in hand, on the blue sofa. The man looked at me with a wary-eyed expression, a look commonly worn by many newly arrived immigrants trying to fend for themselves in this strange new world of New York City. If dealing with the English language wasn’t enough, there were plenty of other hazards to contend with, lots of shysters in the shadows ready to pounce. Most immigrants had family members or friends in America who sponsored them, a family to live with, people who had arrived years before and could ease the newly arrived toward assimilation into American society. But for all the reasons of his rather tentative appearance, I wondered if he was quite alone in this country. Considering how he was hustled into a cab by strangers, perhaps he thought we were white slavers who’d abducted him. When he opened his mouth to speak, out came a flood of words in Italian.
I smiled, and said the only pleasant Italian word I knew, other than the expletive I have been called on several occasions, but that is another story.
“Aqua?” I said, maintaining the smile and indicating with my hand a glass of water brought up to my lips.
“Si, si! Per favore!”
Mr. Benchley filed a glass with ice and spritzed the seltzer bottle handle. He handed the glass to the man, who thirstily gulped it down.
There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Benchley revealed our socialist friend from the train, explaining, “We shared a cab from the station. And to my surprise, he speaks fluent Italian.”
“I see he is holding the bag,” I said.
Our socialist friend sauntered in through the cluttered foyer and placed the grocery bag on the table. From it he extracted donuts and paper cups filled with coffee, which he handed around. Then, he sat down next to the young Italian, who took a bite of a donut. “He’s already professed his innocence, Bob.”
“Yes, and I believe him, but for no reason that is more than a feeling. But the fact is Mrs. Parker saw him right outside the room of the murdered woman, whose bedroom door was ajar—”
“We asked him on the way here in the cab, Bob. He doesn’t deny that he entered the woman’s room.”
“But, why? If he didn’t know her, why was he in her room?”
The socialist turned to the now-sated young man, who was wiping away donut crumbs f
rom his mouth with his handkerchief while never taking his eyes from us.
In Italian he asked, “Giusto, you said that you never saw the murdered woman before, but why had you entered her bedroom?”
“Mi ha chiesto di venire al suo compartimento.”
“She asked him to come to her compartment. So, you knew the woman?”
“No! Poverina. Mi ha parlato prima di salire sul treno.”
“He said the poor dead woman spoke to him while he was waiting to board the train.”
“Essa ha pagato per il mio biglietto.”
“She paid his fare.”
The young man pulled a ten-dollar bill from his coat pocket to show us. He placed it in the palm of his interpreter, closed the fellow’s fingers around the bill, and with a gesture of wiping his hands, spoke in Italian in the face of Mr. Benchley’s and my blank expressions.
“He was just doing what she asked him to do. She gave him ten dollars and promised fifty more at delivery.” The socialist pressed the money back into Giusto’s hand.
“Yes, but what was it he was supposed to do?” asked Mr. Benchley, preparing gin-and-tonics as a coffee chaser.
After several questions and answers between them, our socialist friend turned to us. “She asked him to call at her room at three A.M. for a package he was to pick up from her and later to deliver after arriving in New York. When he arrived at her door, he found it open and she was lying there, dead.”
“So, the package he was to get from her and deliver in New York contained a fake bomb?” I asked.
“Now,” interrupted Mr. Benchley, “that makes no sense at all! Why would anyone in their right mind accept a package that was ticking? An Italian? Looking like he’s stepped right off the boat? Riding a streetcar through Manhattan with a ticking package? On the morning after the executions? Only a fool would be so stupid! Or an anarchist.”
I had to laugh, although it was not really a laughing matter: People of all nationalities promised to be out on the streets in protest all over my city and in cities throughout the world if the executions were not stayed. And it was bad enough that these poor people were the victims of discrimination all over the country, accused of violent anarchistic ties, even when most were law abiding and hard working, yearning for better lives in the country that advertised streets paved with gold!
“Well, he is one.”
“One what?” I asked.
“An anarchist.”
“Si! Io sono un anarchic.”
“Yes, of course you are,” I said sarcastically, knowing he didn’t understand a word I was saying. I looked up at Mr. Benchley. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”
“You mean, what have you gotten us into, don’t you, my dear Mrs. Parker? I was only following your instructions to follow him. I was doing your bidding.”
“I never said to take him home!”
“That’s spilt milk, and all that!”
“I no bomb, no hurt no one.”
“Ah, he does understand!”
“Not much,” said our socialist friend. “But he knows enough to deny violent activity. All who embrace anarchistic philosophy are accused of purporting violence. And you know that isn’t always the case. Didn’t we just come from the executions of two innocent men?”
“If you’re going to begin an exegesis on the topic for my benefit—”
“I’m sorry; you’re right. But he had no idea what the package looked like, or what was in it, or to whom he was to deliver it. He never got further than checking to see if the woman in Bedroom Two was still alive, and then when he heard you at your door he bolted.”
“Should we consider espionage, here?” I said.
“I see what you’re getting at: Why else choose a fellow at random, if what Giusto says is true, and I think it is. Why pay him to deliver a package? Would a spy trust a complete stranger for such a task? How can you know for sure that he is trustworthy, and will deliver the package?” said Mr. Benchley.
“A promise of fifty smackeroos upon delivery, don’t forget. Maybe he was meant to be just a decoy,” I said. “After all, there was that wire stating there was a bomb on the train, so maybe there was another bomb, yet to be delivered.”
“Oh, so the intended courier could get through clean, while Giusto, here, was meant to be snagged.”
“The package was wrapped, taped, and addressed, and yet wasn’t even a real bomb. Surely it was a diversion, a decoy,” I said.
“And yet, there is no reason to assume espionage had anything at all to do with the woman’s murder,” interjected our socialist friend.
“But, something she had—or knew—was important enough to kill for,” said Mr. Benchley.
“And all we know for sure about the woman was that she sought out the services of this young man, knowing full well he did not really know his way around and could barely speak the language,” I said. “The whole thing smells, if you ask me. Spy or not, she was up to no good, that’s for sure.”
“You’ve raised a good point: He can barely speak English,” said Mr. Benchley, and with that our interpreter turned to ask the young Italian more questions.
“He says that when the woman approached him at South Station, she referred to a piece of paper, as if reading from it, and then handed it to him to read for himself,” said the socialist.
“Does he still have her note?” I asked, and Giusto pulled a scrap of paper from his coat pocket to show me. “What does it say? I can’t read Italian.”
“Come to Bedroom Two in Car Seven at three A.M. to take a package for delivery at a New York address. Upon delivery you will be paid fifty dollars for your services.”
“Well, the note suggests the woman knew she needed an Italian for the job and had anticipated a communication problem,” I said.
“But the police didn’t find anything other than some bomb components in her room, not a real bomb there or anywhere on the train. Giusto, here, hasn’t anything on his person or in his suitcase to suggest he took anything else from the room.”
“Perhaps he passed the package to someone on the train last night, after Woodrow and I saw him leaving the car?”
“It’s possible,” said Mr. Benchley, “but we searched him and he certainly hasn’t fifty dollars, the promised payment, on him.”
“Well, whoever killed her probably took the real bomb. Wherever it was to go we’ll never know until it goes off, but it was worth it to someone to murder for it,” I said.
“So, if this young man has been telling the truth, there are many possible scenarios: A delivery is still expected and the awaiting party is unaware of the murder of the woman on the train, or her accomplices killed her,” said Mr. Benchley.
“Where there’s one spy there are three more lurking. I wouldn’t be surprised if the news has already traveled around,” said the socialist.
“Hey! Wait a minute!” I yelled, jumping up from my seat. “What if they think this young man actually picked up the package? Only the murderer would be sure of that, if he didn’t find the package after murdering for it. What I mean is, wouldn’t this young man be a target from both sides if anyone believes he successfully retrieved the package?”
“That’s possible,” agreed the socialist.
“Whoa!” jumped in Mr. Benchley. “We’re making assumptions. We’ve scripted a little play with spies and espionage and two sides each ready to kill the other over obtaining government secrets or securing the plans for a new kind of weapon, when all that the woman probably wanted was for the fellow to pick up and deliver her dry cleaning!”
“You really know how to put a damper on things, Mr. Benchley!” I said, the wind sucked out of my sails. “You’ve no romance, Fred, not an inkling!”
“Who’s ‘Fred’?”
“It’s what Mrs. Parker affectionately calls me when I’ve scolded her and taken her toys away. She thinks it’ll soften me up. It usually does, you know,” laughed my friend, before turning all serious once again: “Of course, there is sti
ll the possibility that the object of intended delivery was of some importance to someone. I suggest we wait and find out more about the dead woman and who comes to claim her body and belongings.”
“Do you think we can find out from Sgt. Joe?” I said.
“Who’s this ‘Joe’?” asked our socialist friend.
“Joe Woollcott, Aleck Woollcott’s cousin who’s with the police force,” explained Mr. Benchley. “He’ll have details before the Department releases the information to the press.”
“If we can find out a few facts about her and those interested in her death, we can find out what’s been going on,” I said.
“We’ll, that’s a good idea, if you want to get involved with all this stuff,” said the socialist with a dismissive shake of his head as he rose to his feet. Giusto looked at him searchingly, seeking direction I suppose, but none was offered. “I’ve got to get downtown. Word has it there’s a demonstration at Herald Square this noon, and I’ve got to check into a hotel to scribble down notes for my new book, and then off to a labor rally in Ohio before the weekend.”
“You’re just leaving?” I said, miffed at his sudden disregard of responsibility. That’s right, I thought, go write your next Pulitzer-Prize-winning exposé. Just leave this poor little anarchist in our care! Our care? What on earth were we supposed to do with him? I started to voice my dismay: “But, stop! What about—?”
Mr. Benchley ignored my protest and shook the fellow’s hand before seeing him out the door. Giusto looked from one to the other of us with wide-eyed wordless query, and was bidden to sit again as Mr. Benchley dialed the telephone. When he hung up the receiver, we left the Royalton and got Giusto into a cab for a ride down to Mulberry Street.
Stylish boaters
Chapter Five
The cab put us out amid the madness that is the Lower East Side, made worse by the noontime hour when it seemed the entire population of the city had decided to descend upon the few square blocks known as Little Italy. Chinatown was just across Canal Street, and the smells of roasting duck and exotic spices wafted drowsily on the still, hot air to mingle with the more immediate odors of garlic and tomato sauces and sausages frying and yeasty bread baking in the bakery down the street. Automobiles and trucks competed with the traffic of the horse-carts. The hee-haw of car horns sounded, the horse-drawn cartwheels creaked and horses’ hooves clanked along the cobblestones, and vendors shouted in brash voices to be heard over the din. The iceman carried his delivery with huge iron tongs, and children, home from school, raced to retrieve the chips deliberately hacked off for their pleasure. The vegetable man hawked eggplant, onions, chard, and escarole fresh from Long Island farms. The junkman was making a deal with newlyweds for the wares he’d bought from the son of the old woman who had died over on Mott Street. The soda-man and his teenaged son unloaded cases of White Rock for the residents of the walk-ups, for the grocer, and for the little restaurant in a storefront across the street. There was the serious air of business being conducted, but because of the residents’ close proximity, a family atmosphere persisted in a manner unheard of between merchants and salesmen above 14th Street. I got the immediate sense that here everyone knew everyone else along the street; everybody knew everybody’s business, fortunes, and failures. This street combined a little bit of Naples with its familiar flavors, a touch of Palermo’s music for the heart, and a great dose of the spirit of America for inspiration.
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