[Celebrity Murder Case 01] - The Dorothy Parker Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “I’ll be sending for you very soon!” he shouted in Polish, “as soon as I make my first hundred dollars in America!”

  He had made many hundreds of dollars in America, but had somehow managed to overlook the promise made twenty years ago when he was but a lad of fourteen. When he awoke with an aching jaw and no future, he remembered the dream and thought wistfully of the tiny mother and the tiny sister still languishing in the old country, assuming some pogrom hadn’t got them. They never wrote, because they had never been taught how to write. Sniff sniff sniff.

  The boat stopped. They were in stygian darkness. With the assistance of the captain, Sid Curley was lifted out of his chair and slowly lowered over the side of the boat. A scream welled up in his throat, but it had nowhere to go. The cement tub carried Sid Curley very slowly to the bottom of the Hudson River. He didn’t die right away. He held his breath, hoping for a miracle, moving his eyes about wildly, searching for some underwater swimmer hurrying to his rescue with a knife between his teeth, the sort of thing he remembered as Douglas Fairbanks’s specialty. What he saw instead, to his surprise and almost delight, were several old friends he hadn’t seen around town lately. To his left was Looey the Bum, who had ratted once too often on Arnold Rothstein, a very dangerous racketeer. And just ahead of him was Police Lieutenant Barney Fermelli, who had taken a bribe and then double-crossed the donor.

  Sniff sniff sniff. Sid Curley felt better. He was among friends. He would not die alone.

  Van Weber escorted Mrs. Parker to her door, and under the inquisitive eyes of the night porter she threw caution to the winds and invited him in for a nightcap. He thanked her for the offer but refused, not rejecting her charm or her company or whatever promise lurked or possibly cowered behind the invitation, simply reminding her they had a date at eleven a.m. which was only six hours away. He needed some sleep. Mrs. Parker understood. There was always tomorrow. Brazenly, she offered her lips, and delicately, he took them. She felt as though her lips had been brushed by a hummingbird in flight, or perhaps in fright. She watched as he found a cab and departed.

  The night elevator man roused himself as she shook him hard and took her to her floor to an accompaniment of his foul-breathed yawns. She could hear the phone ringing in her apartment as she struggled with key and lock. Whoever was on the calling end had no intention of giving up until they reached her. Breathlessly, she asked into the mouthpiece, “Yes?”

  It was Jacob Singer. He assumed he hadn’t awakened her as it was little more than ten minutes since they had parted company. Mrs. Parker explained she had just gotten home and was out of breath from struggling with the lock. She sat down on the chair next to the desk which held the phone. In answer to his next question Mrs. Parker said, “Yes, it’s quite safe to talk. I’m alone.” Singer had discreetly not implied Van Weber might be with her.

  “I wanted to catch up with you tonight in case we miss connections in the morning.” He was sitting on the floor of his tiny living room holding a glass of warm beer, the receiver propped between his ear and his shoulder. “I want you to exercise a lot of caution tomorrow on this here outing with Van Weber. I mean, he was pretty good at double-talking tonight when friend Woollcott nailed him with that underworld connection bit.”

  “Yes, I was rather proud of Alec. I’ll tell him tomorrow night when I get back.”

  “I repeat, don’t try to be a heroine. I’m glad you’re getting this chance to be alone with him because we need every piece of information you can get out of this bozo. I’m pretty convinced there’s a strong connection between him and these murders.” So am I, thought Mrs. Parker, but I won’t say so; I won’t ruin tomorrow. I’m suicidal, after all, and what a heavenly way to die. “I want to hear from you no later than six o’clock tomorrow night.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I’ll know you’re safely back in town.” Mrs. Parker sat up. “Why, Mr. Singer, you don’t think any harm could befall me tomorrow, do you? Everyone at the table heard him ask me to spend the day with him.”

  “You could have a sudden accident.”

  “I hope not.”

  “I hope not, too. But he knows you and Woollcott are looking for information and beginning to get it. He knows you have a date to talk to Charlotte Royce. He knows you recognized Raft was about to make a slip and name somebody who Raft and Valentino whored around with in their salad days, a name I strongly got the feeling Van Weber didn’t want repeated.”

  “And he agreed that Hollywood is a very cruel place.”

  “I didn’t miss that one.”

  “I didn’t think you did, Mr. Singer. I can see you don’t miss very much.”

  “I try not to. But I repeat, Mrs. Parker, I don’t want , you swimming out over your head.”

  “I’m a very good swimmer, Mr. Singer. And I’ll make I sure we’re back in the city by six o’clock. And Mr. Singer …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” She hung up, went to the bathroom and ran the tub. Slowly, she undressed, her mind deep in troubled thought. She poured salts into the bath and stirred the water with her hand, causing a small whirlpool. And in this whirlpool, she saw Lacey , Van Weber’s face, smiling at her. But the smile could not mask the eyes, the eyes she had studied at every opportunity at Texas Guinan’s.

  Blue. Cold. And cruel.

  The man used his skeleton key to let himself into George Raft’s hotel room. He had developed materializing from out of nowhere into a fine art. He had entered the hotel unseen, made his way up the back stairs unseen, crossed the corridor to Raft’s room unseen. It was as easy as murder. The errand had been assigned him less than an hour ago. He was used to being given odd jobs at odd hours. Six in the morning was a good hour for a surprise visit. He even had time to stop off at an all-night cafeteria in Times Square for coffee and sinkers. The doughnuts were fresh and crisp, the first batch of the day. The coffee was piping hot and aromatic; it was their own brew. It didn’t matter if he was recognized. His face was a familiar one in these parts at any hour of the day and night. That was part of the game, never any surprises.

  He looked around the modest premises with distaste. Raft’s tuxedo jacket was on the floor near the radiator. The trousers hung over a chair, his underwear discarded in the middle of the floor next to a pile of dancing slippers and black hose. Raft lay on the bed, naked. The two windows were open and the man could hear the garbage being collected in the street, which reminded him he had a job to do. An electric fan was poised on one of the windowsills directed at Raft, giving off a faint hum and little relief from the heat. The pillow was stained with the grease Raft used to plaster down his hair. There were scratches on his face and bruise marks on his legs. The man lifted a leg and kicked Raft gently. There was no response. He kicked again, increasing the pressure. A grunt from Raft. The third kick rewarded him with Raft’s eyes flying open, the dancer staring about bewilderedly until the man’s beefy face came into focus. Raft was confused and then, recognizing the man, frightened. The man sent his beefy right fist crashing into Raft’s ribs. Raft’s howl was cut short when the man smothered his face with a pillow.

  “You talk too much,” said the man. Raft lay still, breathing heavily, knowing the man wasn’t here to kill him. His ribs ached and his heart throbbed and he knew he didn’t dare try to defend himself. He waited for the man to make the next move. “You talk too much about your friend Rudy and your other dancing buddies. You’re too ambitious, Georgie. You push yourself where you’re not wanted, where you’re not needed. You been promised your Payoff. You’re gonna be a big movie star. We need a big movie star out there, too many of the others are dead or dying. You gotta be patient, Georgie. Success takes time. A couple of years maybe, then pow.” The man hit him in the nbs again. Raft groaned. “But you gotta be patient, you know? Next time, Georgie, we’re gonna break your legs. Now just lay there till I get out of here. Go back to sleep. It’s still early.” The pressure on the pillow relaxe
d. He heard the man say, “Christ, but you are uncouth,” and then the door opened and closed, softly. Raft flung the pillow on the floor and struggled to a sitting position, his face contorted with pain. He sat back against the brass headboard and took a series of deep breaths. Then he reached for the package of cigarettes and matchbox on his night table. After the first puff, his face screwed up like a child’s, and he burst into tears. Oh, shit, he was thinking, oh, shit, I’m theirs for life. I belong to them forever. Oh, shit, this had better be worth it.

  Neysa McMein couldn’t believe her ears. It was ten o’clock in the morning and Dorothy Parker was scratching at the door, begging admittance. Neysa asked her husband, who was seated at the kitchen table absorbed in a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, “Do you hear what I hear?”

  “We’re in the same room.”

  “But Dottie, at ten in the morning?” Neysa unlatched the door and Mrs. Parker swept in, a vision in cool green chiffon, a yellow straw hat dangling from a string loosely held in her left hand. Her right hand clutched a canary yellow handbag which she remembered purchasing somewhere in Spain from a pathetic urchin whose arms were dotted with scabs.

  “Am I too early for you?” asked Mrs. Parker.

  “No, you’re too early for you,” replied Neysa.

  “Dare I beg a cup of coffee?”

  “You can even get eggs and bacon if you play your cards right,” replied Neysa as she poured piping black coffee into an earthenware mug. Mrs. Parker sat at the kitchen table and smiled at Baragwanath, a man she once described as wading through life trying to prove himself necessary.

  “Did you have a good night, John?”

  “No,” he replied through a mouthful of egg, “I had a very bad night.”

  “You always have a very bad night,” reminded Mrs. Parker.

  “That’s true. I haven’t had a good night since the one before the day I married Marjorie.” Marjorie was Neysa’s real name. She loathed it.

  “What about your night, Neysa?” Neysa had brought the coffee and a mug for herself and sat down next to Mrs. Parker.

  “I haven’t been to bed yet,” replied the artist cheerfully. “I was up all night making gin in the bathtub. I’ve got the gang coming over tonight. You, of course, do not require a formal invitation.” She sipped the coffee. “By God, this is good stuff.” Mrs. Parker agreed with her. “It’s the Armagnac. Real stuff, none of that South Bronx turpentine.”

  “What luxury!” exclaimed Mrs. Parker.

  “Stop stalling, Parker. Tell us about your night.” Neysa McMein knew the lady well. She was her closest friend, one of the few women Mrs. Parker permitted to be a close friend. One was a writer, the other a gifted artist and illustrator, so there was no rivalry there. They had alien tastes in men, Mrs. McMein tending toward the bland, like her husband, whom Mrs. Parker saw only as an unidentifiable cipher. Mrs. Parker’s taste bent toward the neurotic or the unattainable, men with weak characters or strong wives.

  Mrs. Parker was delighted that Neysa was quick on her cues this morning, and eagerly took centre stage. Her litany started with No Foolin’ and concluded with the gentle goodnight kiss awarded her by Lacey Van Weber. The litany required three cups of coffee apiece, in the middle of which Mr. Baragwanath departed the apartment unnoticed, his usual exit, and Mrs. Parker still had fifteen minutes at her disposal before Van Weber’s arrival. “What do you think?” asked Mrs. Parker.

  “It’s all so terribly glamorous and exciting,” said Neysa, but that wasn’t what she really thought and Mrs. Parker knew it.

  Mrs. Parker came flat out with it. “What do you really think?”

  “I think you’re playing in the wrong ballpark and with the wrong team. I’ve never seen your Lacey Van Weber, I’ve never met him, but God knows I’ve read all about him in Winchell and the other dispensers of garbage I find irresistible. I think Texas Guinan is a freak and as to murdered whores, well, dear,” continued Neysa as she worried a fingernail with an emery board, “prostitution isn’t exactly a modern miracle. There’s nothing new about murder for silence either, but when it’s on your front doorstep, I say call the Department of Sanitation or move. You and Alec aren’t exactly my idea of paradigms of detection. Holmes and Watson you ain’t, especially since you don’t have Conan Doyle around to call the shots.”

  “I must say, Alec was terribly impressive last night.”

  “He’ll be terribly impressive laid out in a mortuary.” She gave the idea further thought, and the canvas in her mind widened. “With Ring Lardner conducting a crap game at the foot of the catafalque. Dottie, whether you want advice or not, you’re getting it. Get your head out of the noose before somebody tightens it around your neck. Shame on Jake Singer for sending you into the spider’s parlour in green chiffon!”

  “Don’t you like the dress?”

  “It’s absolutely adorable.” Neysa refrained from commenting she also thought it would look better on one of D. W. Griffith’s simpering ingenues, but oh, what the hell. “Are you going to take my advice?”

  “Of course I’m not going to take your advice.” She was adjusting the green chiffon bracelets she’d hastily run up earlier for her wrists. Neysa recognized the inflection in her voice. The last time she’d heard it was when trying to dissuade Mrs. Parker from going wading in the Plaza Hotel’s fountain. “What I might do is invite Mr. Van Weber to your soiree tonight. Would that be au fait?"

  “That would be just dandy. And Dottie”—Mrs. Parker was at the door preparing to exit—“don’t be too demure to scream for help should the occasion arise.”

  “I send you a loving kiss,” said Mrs. Parker, and then closed the door behind her.

  “A loving kiss, my ass,” muttered Neysa as she headed into the bathroom to doctor the gin.

  Back in her apartment, Mrs. Parker telephoned Woollcott. “Have I awakened you?”

  “I’ve had no sleep whatsoever,” lied Woollcott as he sank his teeth into his third prune Danish. “In fact, I’ve been wondering if we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew.” He was chewing ravenously.

  Mrs. Parker sounded chagrined, but looked determined. “Alec, you can’t back out on Jacob Singer now!” Hearing Jacob Singer’s name, Woollcott mellowed. The movement of his jaws decelerated, and his face gave the impression he was listening to a chorus of castrati singing a Haydn oratorio.

  “Of course I’m not backing out,” blustered Woollcott, as he spooned five helpings of sugar into his tea, “but this isn’t exactly a Boy Scout outing we’ve gotten ourselves into. Don’t you realize we were surrounded by danger everywhere last night?”

  “Wasn’t it exciting?” She was staring out the window at the traffic below. There was no car waiting yet outside her building. There was still time. He wouldn’t disappoint her. Not Lacey Van Weber.

  “I must admit, it gave me a bigger jolt than drawing to an inside straight. I suppose you’re being all girlish and alluring this morning?”

  “Alec, there’s something I’d like to tell you.”

  “And that is?”

  “I thought you were just wonderful last night at Texas Guinan’s.”

  Woollcott squirmed uneasily. A compliment from Parker usually camouflaged a descending guillotine blade.

  “When you asked Ziegfeld and Mr. Van Weber if they were connected to the underworld, I just wanted to reach over and pin a croix de guerre on your chest. Of course I don’t carry any with me, but the thought was genuine.”

  “And generous,” conceded Woollcott, now preening before a mirror that hung on the wall next to the table where he was breakfasting. Happily, Harold Ross and his wife, Jane Grant, with whom he shared the premises, had long departed, Ross to The New Yorker office, his wife to wherever wives depart on occasional mornings.

  “Alec, you’re just about my favourite character in fiction. Oh, God, there’s the downstairs buzzer. I’ll see you tonight at Neysa’s.” She hung up.

  Woollcott shrieked into the dead telephone, “What’s going
on at Neysa’s?” He was left quivering with anxiety. Lacey Van Weber stood on the sidewalk next to his Pierce-Arrow Runabout. He wore a blue blazer, white slacks, an ascot tied artistically around his neck, and on his head, a yellow straw hat. “Don’t you look lovely,” he said as Mrs. Parker came hurrying out of the building.

  “And on time, too. I’m rarely prompt, but you are, aren’t you? You look as fresh as a daisy.” He helped her into the car. “Amazingly enough, I don’t have a hangover. Do you have a hangover?”

  “I never have hangovers,” thereby slamming the door on the subject of hangovers. He pulled into traffic, heading for the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge.

  “What an exciting night,” said Mrs. Parker. “But then, you always have exciting nights, don’t you?”

  “I’ve never been caught in a raid before.”

  Oh, good, thought Mrs. Parker; then I’m one up on you. “I have. That’s how I met Jacob Singer.” She told him about Singer’s rescue. “Did you like Mr. Singer?”

  “The old sport is a bit of all right, I suppose. I always feel a bit clumsy in the company of the law.” She wondered how often he’d been in the company of the law, clumsy or otherwise. “I’m never quite sure of saying the right thing or making the wrong move.”

  “I don’t worry about those things. I’m always me.”

  “And quite fetching you are, too,” he said, without taking his eyes off the traffic ahead of him. “And aren’t we lucky with the weather? I phoned East Cove before picking you up. The weather’s glorious there. If it holds, we might take a spin in my Jenny.”

  “What’s your Jenny?”