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

by George Baxt

  “My God!” exclaimed Woollcott, “is that an airplane hangar I see in the distance?”

  “That’s what it is,” said Mrs. Parker. “Maybe Lacey will take you up in his Jenny.”

  “Who is Jenny?” inquired Woollcott.

  “That’s Lacey’s plane, isn’t that right, Lacey?”

  “It’s ready for a takeoff,” said Van Weber to Mrs. Parker, and the hint didn’t escape her.

  “What a lovely orchestra,” commented Neysa. “Were the musicians just recently introduced to each other?”

  Van Weber replied, “They’re a local group. The best I could do on short notice.”

  “I think they’re lovely,” said Neysa, “especially the violinist. I wish somebody would tell him his rug is slipping.” The musician’s toupee was indeed moving slowly toward his eyebrows, as though propelled by an invisible hand.

  Mrs. Parker saw the man who was missing a part of his ear. He was dressed as a butler and seemed to be looking for somebody. She wondered where Bela Horathy was hiding. Singer was positive he had fled to this haven. I wonder if he’s in the laboratory, she wondered, creating one last batch of cocaine, like a diligent moonshiner waiting for the revenuers to raid his still. Missing Ear disappeared behind a perfectly trimmed hedge.

  The orchestra had struck up “God Save the King.” The yacht was docking and being secured to the pier by the crew assembled to complete the operation.

  “Not exactly the Aquitania,” said Mrs. Parker, “but I suppose it’ll do.”

  Van Weber hissed in her ear. “We have to talk. Meet me in the gazebo in fifteen minutes.” He hurried off to greet his arriving guests, now gathering on deck waiting for the gangplank to be lowered.

  “He seems a bit unnerved,” Woollcott commented to Mrs. Parker.

  “He’s rushing me. He wants me to meet him in the gazebo in fifteen minutes. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Where’s the gazebo?”

  “It’s en route to the hangar.”

  “Ah. And the plane is ready for a takeoff. I shall accompany you to the gazebo.”

  “You mustn’t be seen by Van Weber.”

  “I won’t be, my dearest mudlark.” He patted his ample chest. “I’ve remembered to bring along my old army service revolver.”

  “I hope it’s working better than you are.”

  “Freshly greased and cleaned this morning. Ah! Well, will you lookie yonder over there! Coming out from behind that beautifully clipped hedge.”

  With relief, Mrs. Parker recognized Jacob Singer. And then she remembered. The man with the missing ear had disappeared behind that very hedge. Supposing he had had a rendezvous. But with Jacob Singer?

  Singer saw them and hurried to join them. He looked anxious and nervous. “Things are moving faster than I thought they would. They know Cassidy’s dead and they’re not buying the suicide rap.”

  “How do you know?” asked Mrs. Parker.

  “A little birdie just told me.”

  Mrs. Parker felt a surge of relief. The man with part of his ear missing, he was one of the good guys, he worked for Singer. It had to be that. She told Singer about Van Weber’s insistence she meet him at the gazebo. It worried Singer.

  “I have to meet him,” insisted Mrs. Parker. “I have to get the truth out of him.”

  “You’re so sure he’ll confess?”

  “I have all the confidence in the world.”

  Woollcott stuck his head between them. “What’s bothering you, Jacob? Is something going wrong?”

  ‘It’s like I said, it’s moving too fast. I hope to Christ my people are prepared for it. I didn’t expect the action this early. Look what’s going on at the dock. They’re starting to unload and the action’s accelerating. Damn it, where’s the Coast Guard?”

  “Oh, God,” groaned Woollcott, “will you look at Fred and Elfreda coming down the gangplank! Don’t they look freshly disinterred? Yoo-hoo! Fred! Elfreda! This way to the mausoleum, darlings!”

  Yudel Sherman and three members of the Nassau County police force were posted near the laboratory. He was nervous and anxious for action. The Nassau County boys looked like Boy Scouts, and he was feeling old enough to be their den mother. From a distance he had heard “God Save the King,” followed by “Land of Hope and Glory,” and was thinking it was a shame Van Weber couldn’t have lined up the kind of snappy bunch who had played at his nephew’s bar mitzvah. He stifled a yawn caused by his nervousness, a response usually reserved for the long wait while watching his wife undress. He couldn’t believe anyone was having any fun tonight. “Give My Regards to Broadway.” That old chestnut. He stifled another yawn.

  Woollcott was enjoying himself enormously. He wasn’t sure if either Fred or Elfreda remembered him; it had been so many years since he had last insulted them. “Elfreda, darling, you look like your old self again,” he cooed. “What’s gone wrong?” Mrs. Parker was appalled by the woman’s cracked teeth and wondered if her hobby was smelting ore. She wondered if they had traveled alone and soon realized they hadn’t. She recognized the two women coming down the gangplank, the repulsively fat one in the lead yodeling greetings to what appeared to be dozens of her most intimate friends.

  “My evening’s complete,” she said sotto voce to Jacob Singer, who was watching the cargo being unloaded. “The two arriving now are Elsa Maxwell and her better half, Dorothy Fellows-Gordon with a hyphen. Dorothy is more familiarly known as ‘Dickie.’ They go down better if you treat them as characters invented by Gilbert and Sullivan.”

  “Yoo-hoo, Alec! You old Sherman tank! It’s me! Marie!”

  The next passenger to disembark was Marie Dressier. She was a tall and imposing figure carrying more weight than she should, and with an unfortunate face that had served to make her popular in her younger days as a music hall comedienne. Woollcott met her at the foot of the gangplank and planted a kiss on her cheek. “What are you doing with this bunch?”

  “Hitchhiking, baby, the same as Maxwell and her bitter half. Such fights the past five days.” She spread her hands in a lavish gesture. “I’m broke! Stone flat broke! Poverty stricken! The only way I could get out of Europe was to beg passage with Methuselah and his bride. It’s not very appetizing watching people decaying before your eyes. Every morning when they came out of their suite, it was like the opening of King Tut’s tomb. How do I look? Be honest, tell the truth. I haven’t looked in a mirror in years. I can’t stand being lied to.” She charged ahead without waiting for him to answer. “What’s all this festive guck about? How come we’re not going through customs? Who’s the Barrymore type greeting their majesties or whatever the hell you’re supposed to call them?”

  “I always called them ‘it’ and ‘that,’” said Woollcott caustically. “As to what’s going on here, my dear, you’ve landed yourself in a hornet’s nest.”

  “Oh? Oh? Give! What’s up?” Woollcott explained as much as he could in less than a minute. He knew the old trouper could be trusted. She grunted, groaned and then shrugged her imposing shoulders. “Point me to a dugout and I’ll take shelter.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” muttered Mrs. Parker, “look what’s coming down the gangplank.” Woollcott moved to Mrs. Parker as Miss Dressier was led to the mansion by a footman.

  “Perfect casting for our little adventure,” commented Woollcott, as Jacob Singer thought he recognized a beautiful celebrity.

  “Is that Jeanne Eagels?” he asked.

  “That is indeed Miss Eagels,” said Woollcott, his voice lyrical, “the original Sadie Thompson of Rain. She doesn’t look too bad, does she, Dottie?”

  “Not bad at all, considering her spiritual home is a cesspool.” She said to Singer, “Miss Eagels is a notorious user of dope.”

  “I know,” said Singer, “she’s had some narrow escapes arranged by Judge Crater.”

  “Dottie, Dottie, and dear Alec. How sweet of you both to be here to meet me.” Her hands were outstretched and Woollcott took both. “Wher
e are we?”

  “America,” said Mrs. Parker.

  “But where in America?”

  “You’re in East Cove, Long Island. Mr. Lacey Van Weber’s estate,” explained Woollcott.

  “Oh, yes. Where’s Elsa? She’s supposed to be looking after me. Dottie, how charming you look. Is that a Worth?”

  “It’s a worth plenty,” replied Mrs. Parker. Jacob Singer had moved away from them. He had sighted something on the horizon entering Van Weber’s bay. He thought he saw boats reflected in the incandescence emanating from the lighthouse. Sons of bitches, he was thinking, it’s about time. So much for “Let’s synchronize watches.”

  Miss Eagels was saying, “I saw Tallulah in London. She’s doing so nicely in They Knew What They Wanted. Maugham wouldn’t let her do Rain. She thought I put him up to it. Would I do anything as vile as that?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Parker. Woollcott hastily deposited the actress with a footman who was standing by patiently. The orchestra was sawing away at “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby” and Mrs. Parker saw Van Weber hurrying in the direction of the gazebo. She ran to Singer and told him she was going off to keep her appointment with Van Weber. As she hurried after Van Weber, Singer shouted after her to wait for Woollcott.

  The piercing wail of a siren shattered the noise of the festivities. It was coming from the lighthouse. The crew unloading the cargo were armed and drew their weapons. Woollcott had seen Mrs. Parker’s flight and went in pursuit of her.

  Yudel Sherman and his men were deployed in positions to cover the laboratory’s back and front doors. He warned his men to avoid hitting the interior of the building if it was necessary to fire their weapons. The laboratory equipment would be highly sophisticated and could explode and incinerate on impact.

  Van Weber, in the gazebo, could hear the Jenny warming up. In the hangar, the man with the scar running from his ear to his mouth had finished his task and, with revolver in hand, left the building on the double.

  Van Weber could see Mrs. Parker approaching, silhouetted against the lights coming from the party. She entered the gazebo, out of breath. She could hear the siren joined by other sirens marking the arrival of Nassau County patrol wagons. She could hear gunfire and people shouting and screaming, and she couldn’t believe Lacey Van Weber was smiling as though he had just been complimented. He took her hand and said, “We’ve no time to lose. The plane’s ready to take off!” She pulled her hand away and backed off until she could feel a railing behind her.

  “Will we be married?” She had found her breath and, partially hidden by the shadows as she was, she looked like a wraith with a disembodied voice.

  “Of course we will, darling.”

  “What about your wife?” She heard his intake of breath.

  “How did you find out about her?” She didn’t recognize his voice. It was harsh and ugly. It wasn’t Lacey Van Weber. It was Dennis Deane Tanner.

  “Lacey, I have found out many things about you that need explaining.” She was surprised at how calm and collected she was, not in the least bit frightened of this man who was quite capable of murdering her at any moment.

  “I thought you loved me.” He still didn’t sound right. Mrs. Parker wondered if Woollcott and his trusty army surplus weapon were within aiming distance.

  “A part of me will always love you.”

  “You had no intention of going away with me.”

  “I might have gone away with Lacey Van Weber, but Lacey Van Weber doesn’t really exist. Lacey Van Weber is a pale imitation of Jay Gatsby, a lovely idea, but here it is backfiring. Yet it’s Lacey Van Weber I love, not Dennis Deane Tanner.” He said nothing. “You shot your brother. You strangled Ilona Mercury.”

  “That’s two,” he said. “I’m superstitious. Things have to come in threes.” He took a snubnosed automatic from his pocket and aimed it at her. For a reason she would never understand, Mrs. Parker took a few steps toward him, emerging from the shadows, making it easier for him to kill her.

  “Don’t be a damned fool. You can’t run forever.”

  He raised the weapon. A shot rang out. The weapon dropped from his hand. He clutched his shoulder, turned around and fled toward the hangar. Woollcott reached Mrs. Parker, holding the smoking revolver.

  “Thank you, Alec, thank you very much.”

  “Are you all right? Weak at the knees or feeling faint?”

  “I’m quite all right. You heard him? He didn’t deny anything.” They saw the plane taxiing out onto the runway. “He’s getting away. That’s not in the scenario, is it? Villains aren’t supposed to get away.”

  The explosion was of such frightening intensity, it rocked the gazebo. Woollcott threw his arms around Mrs. Parker shouting, “Earthquake!”

  On the dock, the explosion interrupted the exchange of gunfire between Singer and his men and their adversaries on the dock and on the yacht. Two Coast Guard boats had been placed strategically in the bay, making any hope of escape for the yacht impossible. Singer cursed and hoped Yudel Sherman wasn’t a victim of the detonation.

  Yudel Sherman huddled behind a large oak cursing the damn fool who couldn’t shoot straight. The flames shot up like a holocaust in hell’s inferno and incinerated the tree-tops. A wind from the bay was carrying flames and burning ashes toward the house. In the mansion, Elsa Maxwell was shouting for Dickie, and Marie Dressier, undaunted by impending disaster, stood at the buffet table gnawing at a turkey leg. Jeanne Eagels gathered up her overnight case which contained her cosmetics, her passport, her cash and her drugs, and hurried out of her boudoir into the hall. George S. Kaufman sat in a lawn chair with his arms folded while the undaunted orchestra struck up “Nearer My God to Thee” and Neysa and John Baragwanath waltzed on the lawn. In their suite, Lord Wussex suffered a heart attack and collapsed on the bed while his wife remained riveted to the dressing table, adjusting her wig. Florenz Ziegfeld and his wife threaded their way to their limousine while hearing the ugly rat-a-tat of .45-caliber tommy guns.

  Mrs. Parker and Woollcott stood in the light of the moon watching the Jenny as it gained altitude. Woollcott’s arm was around her shoulder, and he felt her body quiver as they both heard the Jenny’s motor begin to sputter and fail. Mrs. Parker’s hands flew to her mouth. Somewhere on the lawn, the man with the scar on his cheek heard the motor fail and smiled. Then he felt a gun being poked in his back, and the smile disappeared, somewhat slowly, like the Cheshire cat’s. The man with part of his ear missing said, “Okay, killer, start walking and no tricks.” The prey recognized the voice of the captor and cursed. A cop. He should have guessed.

  Lacey Van Weber fought to control the foundering plane. There was no parachute. He had told that scarred fool to be sure to pack a parachute, and then he realized what was happening. Once he did, a calmness settled over him. His death had been arranged. He should have known there would be no escape. They had told his brother there was no escape, why did he dare think it would be otherwise for himself? Mrs. Parker. My dear Mrs. Parker. How wisely you chose not to accompany me, but what marvellous headlines we would have made. The plane plunged downward in a spiral. He sat back with his eyes closed. He hoped it would be quick.

  The plane struck the top of the lighthouse and ignited.

  The plane and the body it contained fell slowly to the ground.

  “Oh, look,” said George S. Kaufman, “fireworks.”

  The raid on Lacey Van Weber’s estate and its attending tragedies made headlines the next night and all day Monday. On Tuesday the headlines were displaced by a brutal sex murder that took place in a midtown hotel.

  Woollcott would never forget that horrible night, how Mrs. Parker screamed and how bitterly she wept and Woollcott and Singer doing their best to comfort her. Ruefully, Singer realized that if he predeceased Mrs. Parker, there would be no screaming or bitter tears, probably the gentle clucking of her tongue, a wistful shake of her head, followed by a devastating wisecrack. Reluctantly, he left the grieving woman to Woollcott, who seemed i
n his element as a mother hen comforting her chickadee.

  Singer remembered standing still as a sudden quiet overtook the estate. The mansion had caught fire and nobody was doing anything to rescue it. At the laboratory site, Yudel Sherman was ill. There were four charred corpses lying on the grass, so badly burned they would have to be identified by dental charts, if any existed. He knew one was Bela Horathy. He had seen him earlier through a window and recognized him. He didn’t recognize him now.

  On Sunday, Jacob Singer and Yudel Sherman dutifully attended Al Cassidy’s funeral. Sherman wept openly, and Singer was anxious to get back to the precinct and tie up all the strings still dangling from the previous night’s raid.

  George Raft was released from the Tombs, went back to his hotel and demanded a better room. They couldn’t expect him to continue housekeeping in a place where a stiff had been found.

  Texas Guinan suddenly found it necessary to book passage on the Mauretania for London on the pretext of urgent business. She left the management of her reopened speakeasy to her brother, Tommy, with strict instructions not to skim too much off the top of the profits or she’d have all ten of his fingers broken.

  Horace Liveright secretly entered a hospital to attend to a rash that had appeared on his body that weekend. His doctor had sternly cautioned him that there could be a dangerous infection, and Liveright was horrified at the thought of possible blindness or brain deterioration. He demanded and got a prettier nurse with voluptuous breasts.

  George S. Kaufman was being driven to Ring Lardner’s Great Neck estate by an accommodating Florenz Ziegfeld. At the estate, Mr. Kaufman dutifully kissed Lardner’s wife and daughter and when asked by his host what had gone on at Lacey Van Weber’s party, Kaufman laconically replied, “Nothing much.”

  When Gladys Shea told Cora Gallagher they were free to leave the Royalton and that Bela Horathy was deceased, the ladies packed, checked out of the hotel, and on Monday morning bought a New York Times and went in search of a modestly priced apartment they wanted to rent together, hopefully, for the rest of their lives.