Downtown Strut: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries)

by Ed Ifkovic

  “Maybe they did just talk,” Waters insisted.

  “Well, that’s what Ellie told everyone. But I suspected that Roddy and Ellie were back together again, which was why he stopped seeing me.”

  “But you had Lawson,” I insisted.

  “Lawson is a leech. No one has Lawson. And I told you, it was over because of Jed. Jed told me to get rid of Lawson, and I did. Then Jed got rid of me. Cute, no?”

  “What did it matter if Roddy started seeing Ellie again?” Rebecca asked.

  The voice hard, flinty. “It mattered. Ellie and I have always been rivals. We’re performers, and she gets the jobs. We’re writers, and people praise her archaic sonnets. Look at her, a little dowdy and birdlike, a twitcher. And me…” Her voice soared, triumphant. “It was driving me crazy, the idea that Roddy would take her back. But I felt that Roddy was now sneaking Ellie in again, starting up with her again, after Mr. Porter was sleeping, usually drunk on gin, with a Bible under his head. Roddy once told him there was no God—that he was an atheist who supported the Bolshevists in Russia, and Mr. Porter went nuts. Freddy’s nonsense was just the frosting on the cake.”

  “But would Mr. Porter kill him?” Waters wondered out loud.

  Bella ignored him, lost now in her own thoughts.

  “So you did go there that night?” I ventured.

  Quiet, quiet, her fingers sliding over the tabletop. “Well, yes.”

  Waters exclaimed, “You lied!”

  “I didn’t want to look…desperate.”

  “Desperate?” From Rebecca.

  “When Lawson told me that Ellie said she was visiting Roddy that night, it drove me crazy. I mean, I figured she told him purposely—to get back at me. To be mean. Ellie was angry and she was up to something. She uses her…charms, limited though they are. I had this panic moment—Roddy and Ellie. Impossible. She’d be in the apartment, sneaking in through the back, and we’re not talking conversation about the Negro revolution and the legacy of Booker T. Washington. I knew I had to be there, to be sure. To see. Foolish, jealous, irrational, senseless. Ultimately stupid.”

  “But you were with Lawson that night,” I said.

  “Yeah, and I was furious with Lawson. With Roddy. With Jed. My world crashed down around me. I sneaked there around midnight, unfortunately a little too drunk, and, yes, I hung in the shadows but not for long. If Ellie came, she’d walk through the alley to the back of the building at that hour so she could rap on his window, and she’d find me huddled there. Comical, really. I’d not thought of that encounter.”

  “So you left?” I asked.

  “After a few minutes. Crazed. Yes.” She smirked. “I didn’t realize that Harriet had such a good sense of smell. But then…most hunting dogs do, right?”

  “Wait.” I was confused. “Wasn’t Lawson back at your apartment? With you?”

  “He certainly was, passed out on the sofa.”

  Rebecca was shaking her head. “So you left the apartment and he was there, drunk on the sofa? That makes little sense, Bella. What if he woke up and spotted you gone? You’re telling us that you were at Roddy’s place the night he was murdered?”

  Fury in her voice. “But I didn’t murder him. You don’t kill someone because they reject you.” A pause. “Well, I guess some women do. Yes, I was angry with him, with everyone, but…that’s why I lied. No one could know I was there, though I guess lots of folks routinely checked out the aromatic shadow in the alley.”

  “What if Lawson woke up?” I persisted. “That’s a possibility.”

  She debated answering me. Then, grimly, “I took care of that. Since I’m blabbing everything here—in defense of my pretty neck—I might as well confess to nefarious conduct unbecoming a damsel in distress.”

  “What are you talking about?” From Waters, exasperated.

  “Lawson wasn’t rising from that stupor. I made sure of it.” She arched her neck, insolent, and I thought: my Lord, what a manipulative woman, this vixen, a woman fiercely proud of the vein of evil shot through her gorgeous body. “You see, I knew that I’d planned on going the minute Lawson told me of Ellie’s plans that night. I wasn’t thinking straight—I just wanted to know, to see for myself. So Lawson and I went to Mambo’s, and we drank, as we always did. But Lawson drank a lot more than I did because I held back, made believe, poured out drinks when he was away from me, and we staggered back to my place around eleven. Earlier than usual because I said I was sick. My brother was just leaving for his night job and wasn’t happy with the two of us reeling on the stairs. He yelled at Lawson, in fact. So Lawson and I fought—or should I say continued our battle?—and I ended the affair. It just came out. It’s over. That much is true. But we had more drinks at my home. At my request.” A sly twinkle in her eye. “I slipped some convenient knockout drops into his drink. Within seconds he was snoring on the sofa, a dead weight. Slobbering, drool at the corners of his mouth. Delightful to see, I must tell you. He’s not so pretty when he’s a puddle of spit. Whatever did I see in him?”

  “Knockout drops?” Waters exclaimed.

  “Up in Harlem on a Saturday night, you can get you most anything lethal—or temporarily lethal.”

  “Obviously,” I grimaced.

  Bella looked at me. “They don’t have knockout drops in your world, Miss Ferber?”

  “An opening night of an Augustin Daly melodrama has much the same soporific effect, I’m sure.” I thought of something and looked toward Waters. “That explains Lawson the next morning, Waters. Remember how groggy, out of focus he was, stumbling in on us and gaping stupidly at Roddy’s body. I thought at the time he seemed…well, drugged.”

  Waters was nodding. “I remember.”

  Bella smiled and bowed her head. “The wonders of modern science.”

  Rebecca clicked her tongue. “Hardly nice, Bella.”

  “I’m not a nice person.”

  “I’ll say,” Waters broke in, and Bella frowned at him.

  “So,” Bella went on, “I was off, a little tipsy, with a mission. But, as I said, I was in that alley a matter of minutes when I realized the folly—the downright stupidity—of it, and I left.”

  “You didn’t see Ellie then?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No.” A pause. “Was she there?”

  “She says she wasn’t, but a tenant saw someone—a girl, he thought—in the hallway.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “He’s the one who saw your shadow just a bit earlier.”

  Bella roared. “So I just missed her. She was there. She…” Her face closed up. “She probably saw Roddy just before…“ She punched the tabletop. “Damn.”

  “We don’t know if it was Ellie. The man sensed a woman.”

  “I don’t like to lose to Ellie.”

  Exasperated, I blurted out, “Lose? Lose what, Bella? For heaven’s sake, listen to yourself. The only person who seems to have lost anything is Roddy. His life, Bella.”

  “And you think that Ellie did it?”

  “What?” I cried. “We’re talking about your visit. How do we know you left within minutes?”

  She sat back. “Simple. There was an eyewitness. As I was rushing up toward Seventh Avenue to the bus stop, your Mr. Harris was getting out of a cab in front of Barron’s Exclusive Club. He seemed surprised to see me rushing by—I wasn’t even looking at the crowd going inside because I wanted to get back home. Remember dear Lawson, comatose on my comfy couch? But Jed called out to me. Keep in mind—this was just hours before he finally and viciously ditched me. I had no choice but to go to him. He was alone, already tipsy, headed for a night of drinking; and he insisted I go with him. I had to go because, well, I had to. The master beckoned. The bastard. I sat with him until maybe three in the morning, marooned among all those white folks from Park Avenue. I kept trying to slip away. But not before he told me we wouldn�
��t be seeing each other any more. Finally, he put me in a cab. Just ask your pal, Jed Harris, Miss Ferber. He’s my alibi. When I got back around three or four, Lawson was snoring to beat the band. But I was a nervous wreck.”

  “I’ll talk to Jed,” I said.

  “Of course.” Bella smiled at me. “So I couldn’t have murdered dear, cruel Roddy.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I countered. “Perhaps Roddy was killed at midnight. You were there, then.”

  “But I never went inside.”

  “But you were there, Bella. And alone.”

  Her face closed up. “No.” When Waters started to say something, she reached over and held her hand against the side of his face. “No,” she repeated. “Do you hear me? No.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  That night, restless, I took a cab to Jed’s small apartment at West 10th Street.

  I’d fretted throughout my half-eaten dinner with George and Bea Kaufman, our superstitious pre-opening ritual, my mind not on the imminent openings of Show Boat and The Royal Family. George, ever vigilant and caustic, spotted my disregard of the scrumptious food at Lüchow’s, and noted my distracted state, my non-sequitors, and my stuttered responses to his chatter. Bea, as usual, simply watched, used to the buzz-saw repartee of our dinner talk, though tonight she seemed confused by my persistent silence.

  “I’m sorry. This murder…Bella today.” I went on, incoherently recounting my conversation with Bella, and George resisted the sharp retort, instead nodding his head as though in the presence of a simple child who has wandered away from a campsite. Until, that is, I uttered the words “Jed Harris” into the chaotic mix, at which moment George, who roundly and joyously hated the upstart producer who’d mocked him one time too many—and cheated us financially, we finally believed—sat up, brightened.

  “That ass!” he blurted out. “I should have known he was somehow connected with your ramblings.”

  I defended Jed, God knows why. “No, not really, George. It’s simply that Jed, somehow, saw fit to step into these young folks’ lives, mess with them, hurt one, woo and abandon another, and…and…”

  “Say no more,” George said in an aggressive vaudevillian voice. “If there is murder, he is behind it.”

  “Oh, God, no. Not really. It’s more his questionable character than his assassin’s arm.”

  “Edna, really. Your girlish infatuation with the boy wonder has lost its novelty.”

  I fumed. “Lord, George, how tasteless.”

  “George!” Bea admonished him.

  “My apologies,” he sputtered, with nothing apologetic about his tone as Bea reached over and touched his wrist. He ignored it.

  “I shouldn’t even bring him up,” I said.

  George went on. “I saw him at the theater hours ago, crowing like a barnyard cock. So now I understand his cruel gibe.”

  “And what was that? At my expense, I suppose?”

  “He said that good old Ferb was playing interlocutor in a black-faced minstrel show. For your own amusement. And that Ferb was making a little too much of his own minor-league dalliance with a charming Negress, who would remain nameless.” George chuckled. “He added, ‘By nameless, I mean you’ll never see her name in print or in lights. At least not south of 125th Street.’ It didn’t make much sense, but…” He paused. “What?”

  I was standing, roaring mad, my five-foot-two body erect and attempting to be giant, towering. “You’ll pay the check, dear George. You’ve provided the indigestion for the evening.” And I stormed away, so emphatic my stride that the hat check girl saw me hurrying toward her and had my overcoat, scarf, and gloves thrust out, pell mell, into my furious arms. And out the door.

  Which was how I found myself in a cab heading to 10th Street, where, I knew, Jed Harris maintained his private pied-à-terre, doubtless one of many disreputable hideaways in the bowels of Gotham. And certainly not the abode he maintained if, indeed, he did, with the newly unearthed bride, Anita with the red glow. Probably dancing with a lampshade on her head.

  I slammed the cab door shut and heard the departing cabbie curse me. A Russian lad with an impossible accent, he was a character from one of my short stories. I stood in front of Jed’s apartment building, surprised that there was no doorman. But most buildings in the city lacked that special luxury. I would have thought Jed Harris might deem one necessary, perhaps some dumb-but-tough Damon Runyon type, a goon with gun and beady eyes and cartoon muscle—certainly there were enough folks in Manhattan who’d relish hearing of Jed’s painful and prolonged demise. I, among them.

  I rushed up two flights, wary of the rickety stairwell, headed down a corridor. I had the sudden thought that he might not be home—or alone. But my instinct said, yes, ten o’clock, home to dress for night clubbing or a late dinner. And, of course, he was. From behind the door wafted the staticky hum of a radio, a broadcast of classical music. Brahms, I thought, though the snatches heard through the oak door were muted and echoey. Music to lambaste a venal producer by.

  I rapped on the door and he opened it quickly, as though he expected me. For a second I could see a glimmer of surprise in the eye corner, but Jed was not one to betray surprise. He liked to let the world believe that he was ready for any situation—nothing took him unawares, by chance. Except the furious lady novelist, late at night, rap-rapping on his bachelor flat door. “Edna, do come in, I was expecting you.” He swiveled around the tiny, cramped room. “No one has ever come into these rooms.” A snicker. “I mean, your type of people, Edna. Others…”

  “Who follow the stench of your dollar bill perhaps,” I broke in, and he laughed.

  He was dressed in creased trousers and a white undershirt, suspenders draped over his slim hips. Freshly shaved, he smelled of a European cologne. Not pleasant, this scent of overblooming Mediterranean flowers. Bougainvillea for the bad boy. A formal tux jacket covered the back of a chair, and a white dress shirt hung off a doorknob. “I have an appointment.”

  “Cancel it.”

  He laughed. “You seem out of sorts, Edna, dear Edna.” He waved me into the room.

  I sat on the edge of a blue velvet wing chair and stared around the claustrophobic room at the oversized ornate Victorian furniture stacked against walls. A strange room, unfit for human beings, windows lacking curtains, wallpaper looking freshly but unevenly applied. A transition room: the itinerant drummer stopping overnight. On a small table a half-eaten sandwich that he’d doubtless bought from the Automat. Jed saw me looking around. “It’s not where I live. I come here to get away from people. Obviously it’s not working.”

  “Then why’d you write this address on a slip of paper for me?”

  A sickening smile. “I was hoping you’d show up eventually. It certainly worked.”

  “Make up your mind. It’s working…it’s not working.”

  “What do you want, Edna?” Cold, fierce, unfriendly, the hooded eyes wary.

  “Bella,” I emphasized the word. “Bella. And the night poor Roddy was murdered.”

  “We’ve been through this. I am not—repeat: not—involved…”

  “You were with Bella that night, and you never mentioned it to anyone. Never. Certainly not to the police. You are important to the investigation.”

  “Which, I gather, is over, given the newspaper reports.”

  “Not so far as I am concerned.”

  He stood over me, glowering. “Edna, this is none of your business.”

  “Of course it is. There are people I know…”

  “Friends? Young Negroes.”

  I bit my tongue. “At least I’m not…bedding them down.”

  He roared. “Only one, Edna. Only one. And that’s a thing of the past. Mistresses are liabilities when they’re young, beautiful, and ambitious.”

  “Bella told me she discovered you are married.”

  “So?”
/>
  “You kept it a secret from her.”

  “It didn’t come up in our conversations.”

  “Your wife…”

  He whispered, menacingly, “What are you here for, Edna? A morality play with you as the cruel hand of God?”

  “I just resent duplicity, Jed. You don’t believe the rules and regulations that grease our society are for you—that you inhabit a world…”

  “Edna,” he broke in, “I’m not one of the characters you create in your fiction, those destructive romantic ne’er-do-wells that test the mettle of your stalwart and purposeful heroines. I’m not Gaylord Ravenal on the upper deck of the Cotton Blossom, wooing the ingénue…”

  “Nothing of the kind, sir.”

  He slid into a chair opposite me, but immediately he popped up. A car backfired in the street under his window, and I started. He didn’t. A sadistic smile crossed his lips. “Edna, the problem is that you believe such men only exist in your imagination. Most real men you despise, see as weaklings. Well”—here he did a vaudeville two-step—“here is your hero, flawed and all.”

  “Not you, Jed!”

  “Not many men get the best of you, Edna. I may be the first.”

  “Jed, I came here for a serious talk. This is frivolous posturing on your part, behavior that you…”

  “A drink, Edna? A night cap?”

  He didn’t wait for my answer but disappeared into a small kitchenette, where I heard the crunch of smashed ice cubes, the fizzle of a mixed drink, the closing of a refrigerator door. He walked back into the room, placed the highball on the table before me, and stood there, his own drink in hand, watching me. I picked up the ice-cold glass and sipped the cold whiskey. I’d not realized how parched my throat was, but the drink burned my throat.

  He watched me, waiting, waiting. For a moment he closed his eyes but then, in a quick, jerky twist of his arm, he downed his own cocktail. He started fiddling with the fabric of his undershirt, pulling at it, and, for a second, I panicked. Jed notoriously liked to undress in front of guests, something doubtless he’d learned from that other brazen exhibitionist, Tallulah Bankhead, who liked to dine au natural with horrified guests. Now Jed had never dared disrobe before me—even he would not cross that threshold—but George Kaufman had bandied about a delicious story.