by George Baxt
“Oh, by all means.”
“In fifteen minutes we’ll be standing outside under the canopy.” she hung up, and George removed the phone and himself. “That was our detective friend, Jacob Singer. Another woman of dubious reputation has been murdered.”
“Mrs. Calvin Coolidge?” asked Benchley.
“Vera DeLee. One of Mrs. Adler’s girls.” She studied her companions, all but Miss Ferber. She was pretty sure it was safe to assume that Edna Ferber was not a client of Mrs. Adler’s. Considering Woollcott would be as likely as Jack Dempsey prancing in a Vassar daisy chain.
“Also strangled?” asked Kaufman while Ross reread the article on Ilona Mercury in one of the newspapers. “Brutally.”
“In whose apartment?” asked Woollcott wickedly while Kaufman stared daggers across the table at him.
“Her own.”
“Ah,” said Kaufman with a forced smile, “a home girl.” Ross leaned forward and aimed his mouth at Mrs. Parker. “How come you’re so privy to all this inside dope?”
A puckish look spread across Benchley’s face. “Oh, tell me privy maiden, are there any more at home like you?”
He was ignored. Mrs. Parker was struggling with her gloves. “Last night when dining with Mr. Singer, I told him Alec and I were seriously considering collaborating on a series of articles about contemporary murders.”
Ross looked dubious. “You and Alec collaborating? That’s like crossing a lynx with a mastodon.”
“And why not?” interjected Woollcott. “Might be fun. Where are you off to, Dottie?”
“Where are we off to, sweetheart. Why, we’re off to Mrs. Adler’s house of ill repute as Mr. Singer’s companions. He’s picking us up in a squad car in a few minutes. If you’re a good boy, he’ll let you stand on the running board with the wind in your hair.”
Ferber snorted. “This could be history—Alec in a whorehouse.”
“And why not?” Woollcott inquired acerbically. “Mrs. Adler is a delightful conversationalist. She’s a hell of a lot more intelligent on diversified subjects than a few in my immediate vicinity. She’s also one hell of a backgammon player.”
“Imagine patronizing a madam for a game of backgammon.”
Mrs. Parker wondered if she dare reach across the table in an attempt to strangle Ferber.
Ross was asking Woollcott, “How the hell did you get to meet her in the first place?”
“She attended one of my lectures. Afterward, she came forward to ask some incredibly intelligent questions. When I asked her to identify herself, she did. I couldn’t have been more pleased if I had found myself in the presence of Queen Mary of England.”
“Come on, Alec, we’ve got to go.” Mrs. Parker was on her feet with her handbag hanging from her hand.
“You haven’t paid your share of the lunch,” growled Ross.
“Take care of it for now, Harold,” said Woollcott imperiously. “We’ll settle up with you later.”
As they walked away, they heard Edna Ferber telling the others about a party she had attended the previous evening. “It was one of those star-studded affairs where the person at the piano playing Gershwin was Gershwin.”
Mrs. Parker took Woollcott’s arm as they walked through the lobby. “I have a feeling about all of us, Alec. I have a feeling that, very soon, we shall have outlived our need for each other.”
“But we’ll still be friends, won’t we, darling?”
“That depends on how you review my collection of poetry.” She glanced around the lobby, but there was no sign of Lacey Van Weber. She made a mental note to beard Ross later in the day about the profile.
Woollcott was testy again. “Now what about you and Van Weber? I mean, I arrived at the tail end of your exposition. You most certainly owe me an explanation.”
“I most certainly do, and I have every intention of giving you one, but there’s Mr. Singer waiting for us in the squad car. Mr. Singer! How did you get here so soon?” Singer sat in the front seat next to the driver, detective Al Cassidy. “We used the siren.” When Mrs Parker and Woollcott were lodged in the back seat, Singer introduced them to Cassidy, and they took off. “Cassidy’s working with me on the case. He knows about Kaufman’s connection to the Mercury stiff. DeLee’s at the morgue now, and I’ve ordered a quick autopsy. I got a feeling she was a junkie from what the maid told me. She said she’d seen syringes on top of DeLee’s dresser, stuff like that. DeLee said she was diabetic, which could be a reasonable explanation. But in our circumstances, I prefer to think she was on junk. Either of you met Mrs. Adler before?”
“I have,” said Woollcott. Cassidy studied him in the rear-view mirror and suppressed a guffaw, covering his mouth with a beefy hand while his huge frame shook.
Mrs. Parker explained, “Mr. Woollcott enjoys a verisimilitude of friendships.”
Singer explained to Cassidy, “That means all different kinds.”
“What does?” asked Cassidy as he avoided sideswiping a beer wagon drawn by two sorry-looking horses.
“Is she expecting us?” asked Mrs. Parker.
“I called her from the hotel. She’s pretty shook up. DeLee was one of her pets, or so it sounded like over the phone.”
They pulled up in front of Mrs. Adler’s apartment house. The doorman paled at the sight of the squad car. “Mrs. Adler’s expecting us,” barked Singer. “Keep an eye on the car.”
Polly Adler was wearing one of her most expensive, black Lucile creations which she had had especially designed for herself on a recent talent-scouting trip to London. It gave her some much needed height and a look of regal elegance. Lucile was a sister of the celebrated novelist, the self-styled goddess of sex, Elinor Glyn, whose steamy tale of passion in palatial pits, Three Weeks, had won her the eternal patronage of the moguls of Hollywood. It was there, the previous year, she had dubbed Clara Bow “The It Girl,” thereby launching the young actress on a trajectory of misfortune and tragedy. She braced herself against the grand piano while Gloria, in response to the door chimes (a careful selection from Brahms), admitted Jacob Singer, Al Cassidy, Woollcott and Mrs. Parker. While the introductions were in process, Gloria discreetly withdrew to the kitchen, where she finished chopping ice in a bucket. Mrs. Adler had foreseen the need for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Mrs. Parker was admiring Mrs. Adler’s taste in interior decoration.
“You really like the place?” Mrs. Adler knew Mrs. Parker by reputation. She knew a kind word could be followed by a lethal indictment.
“I could live here myself, except I wouldn’t be much use to you.”
“Let’s get down to business,” interrupted Singer, who had a heavy day ahead of him and wasn’t looking forward to it. They were all seated now in a circle around the centrepiece of a marble-topped coffee table. The marble, Mrs. Parker was positive, had been quarried in Venice. “From the condition of the body,” he began authoritatively, “I guess that the woman was strangled sometime last night. I won’t know for sure until I get an autopsy report, which should be in an hour or so, but still, Mrs. Adler, it would help if you could tell us about for instance the state of her health. Who were her enemies if you know of any? What was her relationship to Judge Crater? Do you know if she knew Ilona Mercury?”
“Mr. Singer,” said Mrs. Adler with overstated patience, “as any good madam instructs a new girl in the business, honey, one thing at a time.” Gloria entered wheeling a cart laden with drinks, glasses, ice and nosh. “Let’s begin with her health while Gloria fills your orders.” Gloria placed the plate of food on the coffee table and then dispensed the drinks. “Vera was a diabetic. She was what the doctors call a border-line case, so she didn’t have to inject herself with insulin.”
“She had hypodermics,” said Singer. “So she was on junk.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Adler huffily? “I don’t allow any of that shit … forgive me, Mrs. Parker … on the premises.” She paused. “I heard she was on morphine.”
“Was she on call last night?�
� asked Singer.
“She was, but she begged off. She was wanted for a midnight party.” Mrs. Parker and Woollcott exchanged a knowing glance. “But she phoned me around seven o’clock—I think it was from her doctor’s office—and said she wasn’t feeling too good. So I told her to go home and take it easy. I don’t like to supply my customers with damaged goods. My girls are clean. I’ll stake my reputation on that.” Mrs. Parker admired the other woman’s look of fierce pride.
“Who’s her doctor?”
“Horathy. Bela Horathy.”
Singer sighed. “Old Dr. Bliss himself.”
Mrs. Adler shrugged. “It was Ilona Mercury who recommended him.”
“You mean Mercury was hooked, too?” There was no evidence from her autopsy report.
“I think she claimed to know him from the old country. After all, they’re both Hungarians, except Ilona was a good deal younger.”
Mrs. Parker cleared her throat, and Singer knew it was time to turn the floor over to her. “Mrs. Adler, did Ilona work for you, too? I mean, I know her official designation is that of one of Mr. Ziegfeld’s showgirls, but so many of these girls have such expensive tastes, you know what I mean.”
“I catch your drift. Yeah, Ilona was one of my back-up girls. But very choosy. You couldn’t just offer her anything, like some fat butter and egg man from the Midwest. Ilona went in for big money and big names.”
“Like Rudolph Valentino?” To Mrs. Adler, Woollcott looked like an evil cherub, but he played one hell of a game of backgammon.
“Valentino was her own score, Alec. She said they were old friends.”
It was Singer’s turn again. “I thought she’d only been here a year and spent all that time here in the city. I didn’t know she’d done a tour of the West Coast.”
“I wouldn’t know that either,” responded Mrs. Adler. “I never had a hen session with Ilona. Girl to girl talk wasn’t her specialty. Vera was about the only one of my kids that Ilona socialized with occasionally.”
Mrs. Parker asked Singer, “Isn’t Immigration investigating Miss Mercury’s background for you?”
“They are, but they’re very slow. Damned administration is overworked and understaffed.”
“So’s my place,” said Mrs. Adler sadly. “With Vera and Ilona gone, I gotta start holding auditions again.” She smiled affably at Mrs. Parker, who wondered if she was being friendly or propositioning. “Nobody’s eating nothing. Come on folks, help yourselves. I made that pate myself from genuine Long Island goose livers.” Woollcott dived in.
“What about enemies? Vera ever tell you she’d been threatened?”
“Sure. Lots of times. Some of my clients have kinky notions. Some of the girls ain’t interested. It makes for bad feelings on both sides. Now I make sure I choose the girl to suit the client’s taste.” She favoured Mrs. Parker again. “Every day in my business, you learn something new.”
“Ain’t it the truth,” agreed Mrs. Parker. Woollcott had a coughing fit. Gloria brought him a glass of water. Cassidy slapped him on the back. Woollcott waved him away. Singer resumed questioning.
“What about Judge Crater?”
“What about him?”
“Was he seeing a lot of her? I mean, we know he took her to Lacey Van Weber’s penthouse party.”
“Well, you know how it is with Joe. He’s always fooling around with one chippie or another. I mean, Stella, his wife, ain’t exactly passion’s pet.”
“So what about Vera?”
“So what about her?”
“Were they steady?”
Mrs. Adler gave the question some deeper concentration. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Singer, to my knowledge, he did see more of her than he did of my other girls. But wouldn’t call it steady. There were other of my kids he too, a shine to from time to time. And listen, you gotta keep mind I ain’t the only exotic establishment in town. By the way, they still holding Belle Livingston on Rikers?”
“Naw, she got sprung this morning,” Cassidy informed her.
“Poor Belle. She shouldn’t be in this line of business, She should settle in Italy and indulge her supreme passion,’
“And what is that?” inquired the fascinated Mrs. Parker.
“Fuckin’ wops. Say, how are you two involved in this?" She was referring to Mrs. Parker and Woollcott. Woollcott explained their collaboration. “Weird,” was Mrs. Adler’s only comment.
“Vera have any family?”
“Someplace upstate, I think. But don’t worry. I’m taking care of the funeral. I own a plot out in Montefiore.” She explained to Mrs. Parker and Woollcott, “That’s a very sweet cemetery out on Long Island. I keep it for emergencies. I’ve already planted three of my kids there. I guess some girls are just doomed from birth.” Woollcott though he heard Mrs. Parker stifling a sob. Mrs. Parker was stifling laughter. Somewhere there had to be a delicious short story in a madam who kept a cemetery plot exclusively to accommodate her deceased employees. She would have to try to remember if Guy de Maupassant hadn’t already covered that territory. “Was there anything in her room about her family?”
“There was not much information there. There was an address book, but that was mostly filled with local stuff. My boys are still looking. If anything good turns up, I’ll let you know. If she’s got a family, they ought to know.”
“Her murder’ll be in the papers?” Singer assured her the tabloids would be feasting on it. “So if they can read they’ll know. Who’s for a refill?” She had no takers. “When can I claim the body?”
“Maybe sometime this afternoon. For sure by tomorrow morning.”
Mrs. Adler was standing as the others prepared to leave. “I’m giving her a nice send-off. She’s going from Campbell’s, same as Valentino. I hear that polack Opal Engri’s in from Hollywood laying all over Valentino’s coffin. Them polacks’ll lay over anything. Say, Singer, anything in the rumour he was poisoned?”
“We got no proof.”
“So what? He still could’ve been poisoned. Well, Mrs. Parker, it is a delight to meet you at last. We been reading you in my literature class at City College. Why are you so cynical and tear-stained?”
Mrs. Parker was startled, but soon recovered. “I guess that’s just my style.”
Mrs. Adler took Woollcott’s arm as she led the party to the door. “When are you coming up for some backgammon? We ain’t faced each other across the board in a long time.”
“Very soon, I promise you, very, very soon.”
“And Mrs. Parker, I’d be happy to see a lot more of you, too. I mean, now that you know the way, don’t be a stranger.” Gloria held the door open. “And Mr. Detective, when you find the bastard that strangled her, turn him over to me. I’ll cut off his balls and gardemff them.” She explained to Mrs. Parker, “That’s a style of Yiddish roasting.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Parker, “my father was Jewish. So nice to meet you, Mrs. Adler.”
Later, Cassidy steered the squad car in the direction of Mrs. Parker’s apartment house on West Fifty-seventh Street.
“What do you think?” Singer asked the others in the back seat.
“I think she’s lovely,” said Mrs. Parker. “Imagine attending a class in literature.” She resisted a comment on Mrs. Adler’s analysing her work as cynical and tear-stained, he would have to re-examine the direction of her gift. Cynical was fine, but tear-stained?
Woollcott was speaking. “Do you think both murders are the work of the same person?”
“You got any better ideas?” asked Singer.
“Too soon to formulate them. But still, both strangled. The girls knew each other. They shared the same doctor.” Mrs. Parker sat up straight. “Why are we driving me home?”
“Because you asked me to,” said Cassidy.
“Shouldn’t we be calling on Dr. Horathy?”
“I was going to wait until after the autopsy report,” explained Singer.
“Surely that report must be in by now. Let’s find a phone booth and yo
u call the morgue, Mr. Singer. I mean, why waste time? Mr. Woollcott and I have hours before we go to the theatre.”
“Has it occurred to you I might have other and more pressing matters to attend to?” raged Woollcott.
“Such as?”
Woollcott folded his arms and glumly stared out the window. Cassidy pulled up at a candy store where a bank of phone booths was evident through the plate-glass window. Singer borrowed a nickel from Cassidy and then spent five minutes in a phone booth. Settled back in the front seat of the squad car, he told the others, “She was shot through with morphine. There were tracks all over her backside. She’s obviously been under a long-term treatment. I looked up Horathy’s address in the phone book.” He recited it to Cassidy. They were soon pulling up at Horathy’s office in a building on lower Park Avenue. A newsboy was peddling the latest edition of the afternoon Journal. He was enticing buyers with the news of Vera DeLee’s sordid murder in a powerful voice that deserved to graduate to Grand Central Station. Woollcott splurged two cents and bought a copy. A photo of DeLee’s body in the morgue was plastered across the front page. Mrs. Parker grimaced and followed the detectives into the building.
* * *
Nurse Cora Gallagher sat behind her desk reading the newspaper. She sat so still, she looked like the finished product of a taxidermist. The door to the doctor’s office opened, and she quickly became animated. She folded the newspaper and put it to one side. She smiled at the patient who emerged from the doctor’s office, an incredibly beautiful young woman with flaming red hair. Dr. Horathy followed Lily Robson into Nurse Gallagher’s domain and then put his arm around Lily’s shoulder.
“If there is continued pain, double the dosage. And if it gets worse, you will phone me, okay?” Bela Horathy was not quite six feet tall. He had aquiline features with a head of jet-black hair through which there ran an inch-wide streak of white. He had an athlete’s slimness with fingers that tapered artistically. His voice was buttered and mellifluous. His accent was slight, almost unnoticeable.
“I don’t want to get hooked on this stuff,” said Lily Robson in her slum-cultivated voice.