by George Baxt
“Oh, hell,” whined Cora.
“You want me to let you loose out there with a killer after you?”
“Oh, hell.”
“You’re going into the Royalton with one of my best girls, Gladys Shea. She’s built like a tank and moves like a gazelle.”
Cora’s voice was dark and suspicious. “She ain’t no lez, is she?”
“Not on duty,” replied Singer.
“Oh, God. What do I do about clothes?”
“We’ll worry about that later.” He turned to Mrs. Parker. “You ought to be getting back to the party. We don’t want Lacey Van Weber getting suspicious.”
“It’s too late for that and you know it,” said Mrs. Parker as she stood up. Woollcott sat staring at the sniveling nurse as though she were an arrival from outer space. “He’s suspicious, the people behind him are suspicious, and Saturday we’re participating in Gethsemane.”
“You’re free to cancel,” said Singer.
“I know I am and you know I won’t. The intrepid Mrs. Parker is notorious for treading where angels fear. It’s terribly funny; Harold Ross has told me to go ahead with Van Weber’s profile.”
Woollcott tore his attention away from Cora Gallagher “He didn’t! He didn’t mention it at the house tonight!”
“Well, he mentioned it when he arrived at Neysa’s Who knows, maybe I’ll get to write it anyway, regardless of what takes place on Saturday night.”
“Oh, shit!” All eyes turned to Cora Gallagher. “I get paid tomorrow! What do I do about that?” She got to her feet. “And what happens when I don’t show up at the office?”
Mrs. Parker said through a sweet smile, “I should think it might have occurred to you by now that your deadly quack doesn’t expect you to show up tomorrow.”
“Oh, God. Sure. The bastard fingered me. Oh, God.” She grabbed Singer’s arm. “What happens after Sunday? What makes you think I’ll be safe after Sunday?”
“Trust me, lady,” said Singer confidently, “just trust me.” There was a smart rap on the door. Singer indicated for Mrs. Parker to question it.
“Who is it?” trilled Mrs. Parker.
“Gladys Shea,” came the booming reply, and the door shook. Mrs. Parker admitted Gladys Shea and for an instant the cacophony from Neysa’s party swept through Mrs. Parker’s apartment. Cora Gallagher stared at Gladys Shea and swallowed nervously. Gladys Shea was not quite six feet tall but seemed six feet broad. She was built like an Olympics athlete, and Cora would later learn she excelled at javelin throwing, the shotput and wrestling. She had been a member of the police force for over two years, and Mrs. Parker would later recall she had participated in the raid on Texas Guinan’s. Gladys saluted Singer smartly when she entered and listened attentively and with an intelligent face while he briefed her. She wore civilian clothes, a precaution she had taken on her own when the desk sergeant apprised her she was being assigned to a protective custody case. “I borrowed Yudel Sherman’s jalopy. It’s double-parked downstairs.”
“Leave it there,” cautioned Singer. “I’ll have it picked up later. You walk a couple of blocks and then pick up a cab. Don’t go directly to the Royalton. Get out at Forty-fifth and Sixth and walk the rest of the way, you know, a couple of girls coming home from a night on the town.”
“Gotcha,” said Gladys, “you want me to stagger?”
“Don’t overplay it, Gladys.”
“Right. Okay, Miss Gallagher. Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute,” said Singer. “We got some customers across the hall I don’t want spotting Miss Gallagher.” He went to the door, opened it cautiously, saw the coast was clear and waved the ladies on their way. When the elevator door closed behind them, Singer remembered to return her key to Mrs. Parker and advised her and Woollcott to rejoin the party.
“Where are you going?” asked Woollcott, not bothering to mask his disappointment.
“Back to the precinct. I got a lot of work to do. There’s not much time before now and Saturday. In fact, there’s only tomorrow.”
“I love Friday,” said Mrs. Parker for no good reason at all.
“So did Robinson Crusoe,” snapped Woollcott.
Lacey Van Weber saw Mrs. Parker and Woollcott returning and when after much difficulty he joined them, he asked, “What have you two been up to?”
“Why, we’ve been necking,” said Woollcott with a magnificent display of teeth, and then shouted across the room to Harold Ross, “Ross, you trembling fart, I want to talk to you!"
“Is there any more gin left?” Mrs. Parker wondered aloud. Van Weber offered to escort her to the bathroom. “Amusingly enough, Lacey, Harold Ross wants me to go ahead with the profile on you.”
“There’ll be no time now,” replied Van Weber.
“There’s always tomorrow.”
“I’m driving out to East Cove tomorrow.”
“Oh. Of course. Preparations for Saturday.”
“Want to come?”
“No. Tomorrow is for thinking. And heavens, I must see if my beautician can squeeze me in. I’ll need old magic fingers to mould me into shape for Saturday night. I hear you’ve invited Neysa and her husband and Kaufman.”
“And some others, too,” he said with a broad smile. The Victrola was back in operation and squawking “When Francis Dances with Me.” Mrs. Parker got her glass of gin. Then, passionately, Van Weber pressed her against the wall. “Say you’ll come away with me. Please. I can fly us up to Montreal in the morning and there we can book on a boat to Greece. Please, Dottie.”
She was having difficulty breathing. His sudden impassioned assault was a surprise attack for which she was unprepared. Benchley rescued her.
“Mrs. Parker, I need your help. I’ve just been asked a question and I said Mrs. Parker is an authority. How do you get laid in a rumble seat?”
“With difficulty,” replied the authority. Van Weber moved away from her. Her face was flushed, and she could feel Van Weber’s hot eyes searching hers. When she looked at him, she said, “Until Saturday night, Lacey.”
“Of course. I’ll let you know the arrangements. I have to go now.”
“So soon?” said Benchley. “Why, it’s the shank of the evening. And the Marx Brothers haven’t arrived yet.”
“I have an early morning,” said Van Weber. He kissed Mrs. Parker’s cheek. “Until Saturday.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but elbowed his way to the door and left.
“I don’t like that man, Mrs. Parker,” said Benchley.
“Why is that?” asked Mrs. Parker. “Why don’t you like him, Mr. Benchley?”
“He hasn’t invited me to his soiree on Saturday night.”
“That’s because you told him you were taking the Twentieth Century Limited to Los Angeles that morning.”
“That explains it.” He cupped her chin with his hand. “Why are you looking so mournful?”
“Does it show?”
“Had you been thinking of an involvement with Van Weber? Has it gone off the track?”
“Yes, I’ve thought of an involvement, and yes, it’s going off the track.”
“Then why go to his place on Saturday?”
“Because I want to be in at the finish.”
Kaufman was getting nowhere propositioning Lily Robson. “Young woman, do you realize I’ve just given you the best ten minutes of my life?”
“Oh, there’s Marc!” She waved across the room at Connelly.
“There’s always Marc,” said Kaufman glumly. “I don’t see how you can occupy yourself with someone born out of idle curiosity.” But Lily had left him. Morosely, he stared at his wristwatch and started for the exit, where he was intercepted by Woollcott.
“I hear you’ve agreed to gambol with us peasants Saturday night,” said Woollcott.
“Beatrice is taking the kid to the Swopes in Great Neck, so I figured with Van Weber’s layout just a hitchhike away, I might as well get a look at Van Weber’s El Dorado.”
“There’s going to be fireworks
,” said Woollcott meaningfully.
“I dote on fireworks, Alec, you must know that by now. Now let me out of here. All this rampaging joy has me depressed.”
A piercing scream knifed through the room, followed by a series of cries of pain, and Mrs. Parker moved to one side as Charlotte Royce and another girl went at each other with the ferocity of Siamese fighting fish. George Raft was standing next to Mrs. Parker and said something revolting about Charlotte’s opponent. “What did you say that girl’s name was?”
“Lita Young and she’s bad news. How the hell did she get to this party anyway?”
“What’s the bad news?” asked Mrs. Parker, remembering she had yet to have a heart to heart with the Royce girl.
“She’s on junk, that’s the bad news. She’s been after Ziegfeld all night, and Charlotte don’t tolerate no poaching on her territory.” Baragwanath and Ziegfeld were trying to pull the girls apart. Raft was goading the girls on. Texas Guinan moved in on Raft’s opposite side and jabbed him in the ribs. He howled with pain, clutching his side. Mrs. Parker went in search of Woollcott. Somebody at the piano was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The tenants in the adjoining apartment were banging on their radiators. An irate neighbor in the hallway was banging on the door. Mrs. Parker found Woollcott and told him she was deserting the party before the place exploded. Woollcott told her he’d call her in the morning. Then a chair went crashing through a window, and Mrs. Parker found Neysa McMein sitting near the exit, holding a glass of gin and serenely puffing on a cigarette.
“Do you know that girl lacerating Charlotte Royce?” Mrs. Parker asked Neysa.
“I gather she’s the missing link from a Vassar daisy chain.” Neysa was pie-eyed.
“Her name’s Lita Young. Have you any idea who brought her?”
“What does she look like?”
“A shambles. Earlier, she was a peroxide blonde who’s a dope addict. George Raft told me.”
“Ah, Raft. That’s who she said asked her here, in case he could unload Guinan. Where’s my husband? Where’s Jack?” She struggled to her feet. “Jack!” she shouted. “Jack! I want to set fire to this fucking dump!”
Mrs. Parker let herself out and then locked herself into her apartment. She undressed quickly, poured herself the remainder of the Scotch, and sat at the open window waiting for fatigue to overtake her. She could hear guests noisily departing the party and the heartrending sobbing of a woman she assumed to be either Charlotte Royce or Lita Young. Then she blocked the party from her mind in favour of Lacey Van Weber and the appointment for Saturday night. She was beginning to understand the rationale for the party: with so many celebrities on hand, the risk of gunfire, should there be a police raid, would be minimized.
During the festivities, the yacht would be swiftly unloaded and then used for the getaway, probably stranding Lord and Lady Wussex, which would serve them right. She put the glass of Scotch on the windowsill and stared at her wrists. She felt a sudden mordant chill and embraced herself.
Lonely. So deadly lonely. So hungry for love, for a man of her own. Any old man in a storm. But it couldn’t be Lacey Van Weber. It couldn’t be him. Because as sure as God made little green apples, she was positive Lacey Van Weber was a murderer.
Back at the party, Texas Guinan was furious. “Where’s George? Has anyone seen George?” Someone told her he’d been seen leaving with the peroxided spitfire, Lita Young. Guinan’s eyes blazed like a forest fire, and she left the party in a hurry.
On the other side of town, George Raft was inserting the key into the lock of his hotel room door, while Lita Young crooned scatalogical lyrics, oblivious of her battered face and disheveled coiffure.
In his office at the precinct, Jacob Singer was diligently plotting his strategy for Saturday night. In the morning he would talk on the phone with his Nassau County counterpart and the captain of the Long Island Coast Guard. He had heard from Gladys Shea, who told him Cora Gallagher was sleeping like a baby, though babies don’t snore, and she’d have to order food in from a coffee shop nearby as the Royalton did not provide room service. Singer assured Shea that she and her charge would be well provided for and to get a good night’s sleep. He phoned Yudel Sherman, apologizing for waking him at this unseemly hour, but it Was an emergency, and Yudel Sherman arrived at the precinct with the first light of dawn, carrying a bag of his wife’s homemade apple strudel and several containers of coffee he’d picked up at the Greek’s on the corner.
In his library on the third floor of the Ross brownstone Alexander Woollcott, wearing a tattered bathrobe, sat at the desk collecting his thoughts and making notes. After much thinking and rethinking and jotting down and scratching out and referring to his pocket book which contained his notes on the Los Angeles police reports, he deduced, somewhat sadly, because he had a slight admiration for the man, that Lacey Van Weber might very possibly be a murderer.
In her expensive and tacky apartment, Texas Guinan made a phone call, and at the first light of dawn, the beefy man was letting himself into George Raft’s hotel room. Raft was asleep nude with his arm across Lita Young’s body. The man picked up a pillow from the couch and, within minutes, had snuffed the life out of Lita Young. The man left the room. Raft hadn’t heard a thing.
Early Friday morning, a procession left Frank Campbell’s funeral parlour, headed for Grand Central Station. The hearse in the vanguard carried Rudolph Valentino’s coffin. The limousine following the coffin contained Opal Engri and Valentino’s brother Alberto. Between them sat Valentino’s former press agent, S. George Ullman. There had been an overwrought service for the dead actor at St. Malachy’s Church attended by many dignitaries of the film, theatre and political worlds. Nita Naldi had sat in the back row with Jean Acker, Valentino’s first wife, trading unkind words about the Polish actress. There had been a rumour that the body in the coffin was not really Valentino’s, but a wax effigy, the body having been spirited back to California secretly.
Mrs. Parker spent a fitful night. She awakened earlier than was her custom, regardless of her impressive intake of an assortment of liquors the night before. She had a lot to do, that was for sure. At the top of her list was a meeting with Charlotte Royce, Ilona Mercury’s roommate. She would see the girl this morning if she had to plant herself outside the girl’s door.
George Raft awoke with a terrible thirst. It was still early in the morning, unusual for him, but there was this terrible thirst. He crawled out of bed with an effort, and in the bathroom, it took four glasses of water to slake his thirst. In the mirror he examined the black-and-blue bruise marks where he’d been beaten the morning before and where Texas Guinan had deliberately jabbed him at the party. The man. That fucking monster of a man. He returned to the bed and noticed the pillow from the couch covering Lita Young’s face. He shoved the pillow aside. He’d seen stiffs before, plenty of them, and it didn’t take a kick in the behind to alert him that Lita Young had died by suffocation.
He’d been set up. The man had paid a visit. Raft backed away from the bed. He looked at his wristwatch. It was not yet ten o’clock. He phoned Jacob Singer and prayed he’d be put through to the man without a wait, prayed the man was in his office this morning. His prayers were answered.
“What do you want?” asked Singer, a long time hoping for this phone call, if Raft was calling because he was ready to sing.
“I’ve been set up. There’s a stiff in my bed. Lita Young. She’s been suffocated.”
“All this while your back was turned?”
“You gotta believe me, Jake! I was out cold when the man paid me a visit. He didn’t kill me, too, because they’re setting me up.”
It didn’t sound right to Singer. The boys wouldn’t set up Raft. Warn him from time to time, but not send him up the river. He was too valuable an errand boy, and errand boys took a long time to train. This had to be Texas Guinan’s work. Jealousy could be very unreasonable. He asked Raft, “Texas know you been two-timing her with Young?”
�
�She’da guessed last night. I took Lita home from the party. She’d had a scrap with that Royce twat.” He thought for a moment. “You mean you think Tex set me up?”
“I want information, Georgie, or you’re in serious trouble. You got a homicide on your hands.”
“But I tell ya I didn’t kill her!”
“That’s your story, and there ain’t that many who’d buy it.”
“Jake, you gotta help me!”
“Georgie?”
“What, Jake, what!”
“I’ve seen you dance, Georgie, now I want to hear you sing.”
There was silence, and Singer waited.
“Jake, where can we meet that’s safe?”
“You can come here.”
“It’s not safe.”
That’s what Jacob Singer was hoping Raft would say.
It was a busy Friday morning for a lot of people. There were two funerals that attracted the sob sisters of the morning tabloids with photographers in tow. It was no coincidence that Ilona Mercury, whose body was found in an empty lot in Canarsie, was buried in Canarsie Cemetery, especially since Canarsie Cemetery offered the cheapest interment of all the boneyards canvassed. A modest group assembled at the graveside early that Friday morning, consisting of those hardy souls who could force themselves awake at the ungodly hour usually favoured by funerals. About a dozen people gathered to send Ilona Mercury on her way, including one of Ziegfeld’s favourite tenors, John Steele, who sang in his reedy voice “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody,” which he had introduced in the Follies of 1919. One of the girls from No Foolin’ asked if anyone could sing the Hungarian national anthem but found no takers. A local Canarsie priest was under the impression Miss Mercury had been somebody’s wife and mother and sent her off with a totally inappropriate service, which won him several snickers and an assortment of muffled guffaws. The priest hoped the photographers were favouring his better profile, and at least three people wondered why Charlotte Royce, Ilona’s roommate, had skipped the funeral altogether.