Mood Indigo

by Ed Ifkovic

  I broke in, anxious. “Noel, take a breath. You’re not onstage now.”

  He laughed. “I’m always onstage.” Then, deliberately, he added, “My dearest.”

  “Look, Noel. There’s something you have to do. I know Cleveland is waiting. Lynn Fontaine and Alfred Lunt are waiting. Design for Living is…”

  “Going to be a smash hit.”

  I breathed in, inpatient. “Noel, you have to give me part of today.” I explained what I wanted and I could hear him tapping the table with his fingertip. The striking of a match. An intake of cigarette smoke. “I think I understand something now.”

  His voice was sober now, reflective. “Good for you, Edna dear. Of course. Just tell me where.”

  “You need to invade a sacred male province, forbidden to mere women, Noel. I understand from a call I made to his office that Cyrus Meerdom is hold up for the day at the Union Club on Park Avenue. No women allowed entry into that rarefied world. I can’t even call him to the phone. Men are fearful that the presence of any woman in those hallowed halls will point up their obvious inferiority.”

  He laughed out loud. “Go for the throat, dear Edna.”

  When I hung up with Noel, I phoned the New Beacon, asked to speak with Tommy Stuyvesant. His secretary hemmed and hawed, whispered that he was busy—“A hit show, you know”—but when I identified myself a second time, my voice firmer and lamentably attaching the words “Show Boat” to my name, she made a quirky sound and scheduled me for a brief meeting late that afternoon. “Only for you,” she breathed into the phone. “At the theater.”

  Noel called back an hour later, obviously delighted with his part in these sudden machinations. “Male province indeed,” he said gleefully. “The man who answered the phone dripped privilege and haughtiness. What are they hiding?”

  “They?” I asked. “Who—men?”

  “I still find my own species bizarre and—sometimes impossible.”

  “Aren’t we lucky then that we both escaped that purgatory?”

  Noel didn’t answer that, but I heard papers shuffling. “Cyrus Meerdom agreed to meet us at noon in a private dining room at the Savoy Hotel on Fifty-ninth. Yes, he has that estate in Dobbs Ferry with his patient-Griselda wife. Yes, he maintains a not-so-secret pied-à-terre somewhere on the West Side, probably over a speakeasy, and yes, he spends most of his time at the Union Club where he doesn’t have to talk to the likes of us. Shelter from the tempest that is the Depression. Edna, it took some arm twisting—I actually had to use that toadstool as an intermediary—Buzzy Collins, sycophant extraordinaire—to broker the meeting. Buzzy knows all, and for some reason seems to have control of Cyrus’ expensive ear.”

  I sat back. “But it’s done.”

  “It’s done.” A pause. “But a caution, Edna. I told Cyrus that we want to talk about Dougie and Belinda, as he expected. Not surprisingly, he immediately became distant. He’ll be difficult to deal with.”

  Grimly, I said, “We have no choice.”

  Up until his amorous devotion to Belinda Ross, Cyrus Meerdom relished his reputation as a hard-nosed businessman, a fierce negotiator, a slick entrepreneur reinventing Manhattan. He was also a formidable force in Shubert Alley. A string of successful shows financed by his family’s oil refinery interests, spotlighting the career of Helen Hayes, for one, and he became a fixture on Broadway.

  His theatrical sense, however, was not always unerring—witness the short-run flop he created to spotlight Belinda. Of course, he would have gladly paid for her to read out loud the Manhattan yellow pages perched on top of Grant’s Tomb up in Washington Heights—and expected the world to genuflect in awe. Since the caper with Belinda ended so badly, his reputation was tarnished, if only a little. He retreated back into his wealth and private men’s clubs.

  ***

  Noel and I sat in a surprisingly small room off the lobby at the Savoy. A long mahogany table surrounded by chairs upholstered in striped burgundy-and-white fabric, green-shaded table lamps, a black walnut floor-to-ceiling bookcase crammed with evenly-lined volumes. I examined the books, a persistent habit I never lost. The books folks surrounded themselves with told me a lot about their lives. Of course, these days I visited homes where nary a volume could be found. Persnickety matron that I am, I paid no second visits there. Here, in this claustrophobic chamber with dimly-lit wall sconces and an emerald green Tabriz Oriental, I ran my fingers down the burgundy spines of a complete set of Bulwer-Lytton, another of Charles Dickens’ bound in calves’ leather, and a wonderfully decorative set of the complete works of Marie Corelli, that British romancer who once proclaimed her superiority to Shakespeare. I chuckled out loud. I pointed out the set to Noel.

  “I met her years back,” he told me. “She floated into a room in gossamer and tulle, a specter out of the Arabian Nights, and talked in a breathy voice.”

  I smiled. “A look I’ve never cultivated.”

  Noel eyed the severely cut wool suit I was wearing, charcoal gray, a hint of black piping, a rigid Eton collar that I’d accented with a sapphire brooch.

  “Edna, you look almost like a man.”

  I counted a heartbeat. “So do you.”

  He roared until the door suddenly opened, and Cyrus and Buzzy walked in, both alarmed by Noel’s laughter.

  They sat down opposite us, grim-faced, their shoulders almost touching, and immediately the door opened and a young waiter, probably eighteen or nineteen, pimply and all Adam’s apple, placed a tray of coffee on the table. Bowing deferentially, a grand salaam, he backed slowly out of the room, behavior that annoyed me. The mimicked trappings of old-guard European royally here, I thought—and particularly unwelcome in the grand old Republic. Neither Buzzy nor Cyrus even looked into the young man’s face.

  Buzzy was the first to speak. “What’s this all about, Noel?”

  Noel deferred to me. “Edna has some questions, if you don’t mind.” He was looking at Cyrus.

  Cyrus’ voice was thick and harsh. “Let’s get this over.” He shot a quick, unhappy glance at Buzzy. “I still can’t get over Belinda’s death.” He shivered. “Murdered. Poor Dougie—gone. Murderers all over the place.”

  “Mr. Meerdom,” I began, “ever since Dougie was murdered at Beekman Place, I’ve been…” I stopped because he held up his hand. “What?”

  “You certainly don’t believe I killed that hapless young man?” A fingertip smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket. A small gold pin in the buttonhole. A diamond chip.

  “No, I don’t,” I told him, but suddenly thought maybe yes, maybe no. “And after Belinda’s sad death, we”—I indicated Noel who was watching me closely—“we thought it best to ask questions.”

  Sarcastically he replied, “We do have a police force, you know.”

  “Of course.” His stare was unnerving. “Of course. But Noel and I were friends with Dougie, liked him, and we…”

  Buzzy broke in. “I heard Lady Maud told you two to step aside. To mind your own business.”

  Beside me, Noel fussed, tapping his foot nervously.

  “She did, indeed.” I glanced at Noel, who nodded back at me.

  “And you didn’t listen?” Buzzy checked with Cyrus, who refused his stare.

  “I make my own choices, Buzzy,” I said.

  “She makes her own choices,” Noel echoed, relishing the moment.

  “What do you want from me?” Cyrus stared into my face. His forehead glistened, and he extracted a huge white handkerchief from a pocket and ran it across his forehead.

  “I need you to help me put events in order. What happened when. I’m trying to understand Dougie and Belinda’s relationship. I have the feeling that I’m missing something, that some things were not true. Idle rumors, maybe, converted to truth. It dawned on me that everyone has told me a self-serving story. Dougie and Belinda had their own—perhaps ignored.”

 
“I’m not following you.” Cyrus took a cigar from a pocket and lit it. A cloud of smoke filled the room. “Everyone knows what happened. Lord, the subject of their romance entranced parties and gossip fests all over town.”

  “But I’m still missing pieces.”

  “I’m not sure I can help.”

  “I believe you can.” I breathed in. “Could you please tell me how you met Belinda? And—even Dougie. Yes, his family is part of your social world, but…” I stopped.

  Frustrated, his face tight, he put down his cigar in an ashtray. “Important?”

  “Maybe.”

  Resigned, he sat back after glancing at Buzzy, who hovered near him like a lawyer who knows he’s lost his case but needs to act the part for his client.

  Cyrus didn’t talk for a long time, and the room got uncomfortable. Buzzy, rattled, rolled his head back.

  “You’re making everyone goddamn nervous.” Cyrus’ eyes darted to me. “Pardon my French, Miss Ferber.”

  “I’ve heard worse, sir.”

  The rebuke didn’t please Buzzy, whose body gyrations only intensified. Finally, Cyrus laid a hand on Buzzy’s forearm, and the man settled down.

  “I find talking about Belinda embarrassing,” Cyrus said at last.

  Noel looked puzzled. “Embarrassing?”

  Cyrus’ eyes landed on the wall of leather-bound books. Softly, his voice hesitant, he laughed lightly. “An old fool.” A heartbeat. “Still an old fool. Frankly, I would not be sharing these thoughts with you had not—Belinda died like that. And even poor Dougie.” For a second he shut his eyes, then sighed out loud. “I’ll never understand the loss of that boy.”

  I felt a tick inside me. Me too, that horrible loss. A life, wasted. Two lives, wasted.

  “How well did you know Dougie?”

  “Not very, frankly. Of course, the young son of an old friend. Away at school. I don’t pay attention to other people’s children.” A thin smile. “Until he was in my sight.”

  “With Belinda?” Noel asked.

  “I guess so.” Cyrus sucked in his breath. “Part of the business world earlier—but…just there. But when Belinda came into sight…I can’t explain my…my infatuation with that poor girl. I’m a married man, and happily so, grown children. A wife who indulges my peccadilloes, such that they are. You know how it is in the theater, Noel. Fresh new faces stepping off the bus from Topeka or Peoria, fluttering eyelids, whispering. Flattering, to have a beautiful girl on your arm. We all do it.”

  I winced at that. “All?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe not all. But…flattering. And harmless. A decoration accompanying you to parties, to openings. But never a step into dangerous indiscretion.”

  “Until,” I commented wryly, “Belinda came along.”

  “No.” Emphatic, forceful. “No, Miss Ferber. Yes, we went places, the two of us. I wanted her on my arm. But that girl was—circumspect.”

  I protested, “But all the rumors.”

  “The hell with the rumors,” he stormed. “I know what I know.” A trace of a smile. “Okay, I heard the rumors and let them go unanswered. A boost to my ego, maybe. As I say, I’m embarrassed by my…” He stopped, his gaze drifting from me to Noel. “Anyway, I fell for her. Hard. I wept with the pleasure of her company. I was drunk with her. I was used to the…we men at the club call them five o’clock girls. They stop in when day is done. Showgirls. Secretaries, the pretty ones. You know…”

  Icily, “No, I don’t.”

  “Noel?”

  “Really now?”

  Cyrus looked baffled as he fiddled with the stub of his cigar. “Of course, I’m not a stupid man. I know that was the intention of her mendacious brother, Jackson. A slime-bag, completely. He maneuvered her into my sight, and she was complicit. Yet it had to be—her success. The girl was monumentally talented, and beautiful, and funny, and—she was made to be a star.”

  “But she left you for Tommy—and his successful revue.”

  He made a pinched face. “That was business. My revue failed miserably within weeks, so she disappeared from my arm. No time for me to mount another revue. Waiting in the wings, a move plotted out, Tommy swept in, a vulture. It’s the way things are in this business. Stupidly, I mooned over her, unable to let go of the fascination. I swear it was new for me, such abject hunger. I couldn’t even explain it to myself. An old man acting like a randy farm boy. But spurred by Jackson, Belinda moved on.”

  “Yet you followed her around. I’m confused.”

  A hint of color in his cheeks. “As I said, a foolish old man, obsessed with beauty—and, I suppose, rejection. The ornament disappeared from my grasp.”

  “How did you know where she was all the time?”

  An embarrassed chuckle. Suddenly he tapped Buzzy’s forearm. “A spy in the house of love.”

  Buzzy fumed. “Not true, no.” A fiery look on his face. “Cyrus, why do you tell them all this?”

  He sighed. “Because it’s all over, that’s why. I know when the game is over.” He grinned at me. “Buzzy reported in—for a fee.”

  Buzzy sighed. “Goddamn it to hell.”

  “A contract,” Cyrus added. “A few dollars here. There. Some, in fact, dropped into the sweaty palm of a girl named Kitty Baker.”

  “My God.” I looked at Noel who was smiling.

  “Belinda was Jackson’s tool, but his grip failed. Finally.”

  “Greed is a democratic vice,” Noel said.

  I was bothered. “And how did Dougie fit into all of this? When did he appear on Belinda’s arm?”

  He seemed surprised at the question. “Frankly, Dougie was there from the beginning.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Miss Ferber. She met Dougie a day or so after she was in rehearsals for my revue.”

  “I didn’t realize she knew him that far back.”

  Noel spoke up. “When I got back from Europe a month back or so, they were already a couple. I thought…” His voice dropped out. “What was I missing?”

  I looked into Noel’s face. “I met Dougie through you, Noel. After you returned. I never questioned…”

  Cyrus’ voice rose. “What you don’t realize, Miss Ferber, is that Belinda and Dougie went out for coffee that same afternoon. Suddenly she was happy to be with him. And, wildly, unexpectedly, Dougie, the cold-blooded financial wizard, was giddy as a puppy.”

  “Then…” I tried to form words. “Then they were involved…”

  He nodded at me. “From the very beginning. She didn’t leave me for Tommy—he enjoyed squiring her to fancy clubs, too—then jumped into Dougie’s eager arms. I was so moonstruck over the girl that I closed my eyes to her real love—that boy.”

  Noel was sputtering. “But Dougie never said anything.”

  He laughed out loud. “I don’t know if Dougie understood what was going on. He’d see her on my arm, and shrug. On Tommy’s arm. His jealousy came later. His temper. In the early days he spent long hours watching her, eyes glassed over, not realizing she was watching him, eyes glazed over.

  I sputtered, “But all the rumors suggested…”

  “No, all the rumor-mongers played with it all, mocking me for my all-too-public infatuation.” He grit his teeth. “I’m still mortified by the way I acted at your party, Noel. When I called her that horrible name. I was—stunned to see her. If I could take back any moment, it would be that. The look on her face.” His voice hardened. “I deserved to be slapped. You know, I still mourn that girl. My heart still breaks. She did something to me.” He tapped his heart. “In here. A tick that I thought was long dead. But no, Juliet only had eyes for her Romeo. And she was singing to him from the front of the theater nightly.”

  Noel was grumbling. “As the Bible tells us, a loose translation, ‘Tattlers and busybodies blab things they s
hould not say.’ Welcome to the world of the theater.”

  “Welcome to the planet,” I added.

  Noel was anxious to say something. “And that story about Belinda leaving Dougie for some rich tycoon. Maybe a smitten Wallace Benton?”

  Buzzy was nodding his head. “Everyone said that. I heard it more than once.”

  I bit my tongue. “But not from Belinda, I gather. I bet no one believed it—those fabricators.” I was thinking out loud. “Kitty, for one.” I paused. “Or maybe she made it all up.”

  Noel tapped my elbow. “One person did believe it. Dougie.”

  Cyrus frowned. “That was unfortunate.”

  Buzzy, his eyes flitting around the room. “It didn’t matter because everyone knew she was a gold-digger. Her plot with her scheming brother. The path to riches. To—to this world.” He pointed around the elegant room. “She was at fault. Her behavior brought about those rumors, Miss Ferber.”

  “Rumors.” I let the word roll off my tongue. “A death sentence.”

  Cyrus’ eyes focused on Buzzy. “You’re as much a fool as I am, Buzzy.” But he smiled at the end of it, though Buzzy, caught off guard, squirmed. “Do you know what I think happened, Miss Ferber?” A wide engaging smile, genuine, Cyrus pleased with himself. “I think Belinda surprised herself by falling in love with Dougie.” The smile disappeared. “But that, too, was ultimately unfortunate.”

  ***

  Tommy Stuyvesant was late arriving at the theater. Noel and I sat in a tiny makeshift office at the New Beacon in front of an old chipped oak desk. Probably once a dressing room, the office smelled of old rotting wood, generations of mouse droppings, and the sour odor of old rags and water stains. A young woman had led us in, insisting Tommy would arrive any moment. An indulgent smile. “He likes to spend as little time in this cramped room as possible.”