A Friendly Game of Murder (8 page)

“Oh, dear me.”

“On the Broadway stage, even.”

“Heaven forbid!” Mrs. Volney gasped, shocked and thrilled at the same time. “These people should keep such things private! And the theaters these days are dens of iniquity. I’d never attend such a horrid spectacle, much less pay for a ticket. And the prices they charge these days, they’re just as obscene! And what . . . what was the name of this show—just so I know to avoid it?”

“It’s called
Peter Pan
. Very immoral. Thank you for the ammonia.”

Dorothy turned and went out the door, then closed it behind her.

She crossed the hall and unscrewed the bottle cap as she returned to Lydia’s room. The sharp, pungent smell of the ammonia made her eyes water. She propped up Lydia’s head and held the bottle under her nose. Nothing happened at first. Then Lydia winced. Her eyes flew open. She coughed suddenly and shoved the bottle away.

“Welcome back, Lydia dear,” Dorothy said. She put the cap back on the ammonia and set the bottle on the crowded bedside table. She took a quick inventory of the medicine bottles again. “Tell me you have some brandy here among these nostrums and remedies. We could both use a good snort. Though you’ve just had one, clearly.”

Lydia shook her head. “What happened?”

“You fainted when Woollcott literally pointed the finger at you.” Dorothy sat down on the edge of Lydia’s bed. “Tell me quick, before that gasbag returns: Did you have something to do with Bibi’s death?”

Lydia hid her face in her hands.

Dorothy clucked her tongue. “Don’t do that, Lydia dear. Makes you look guilty.”

“I’m not guilty!” she moaned, dropping her hands. Her eyes were pink with tears. “I was a nurse in the war. I wouldn’t hurt a soul. I was trained to help people, not hurt them. I would never, never,
never
willfully harm another person. Not even that bitch Bibi!”

The way Lydia denied it told Dorothy that Lydia was sincere about not having killed Bibi—but it was also obvious to Dorothy that Lydia had certainly done
something
that she felt guilty about.

Dorothy looked up and saw Woollcott standing in the doorway. He clapped his hands once. “A convincing performance, Lydia. Worthy of a first-rate actress such as yourself,” he said, stepping forward. “Now drop the act, and tell us the truth!”

Chapter 11

D
orothy shoved Woollcott through the door and followed him into the hallway. Before closing the door behind her, she turned to Lydia, lying in bed. “Pull yourself together. We’ll be back in a minute.”

In the hallway Woollcott folded his arms across his fat belly. “You can’t shelter her all night, Dorothy dear. I’ll cross-examine her, mark my words. She’s guilty. Anyone can see that!”

Mrs. Volney’s door opened a crack.

Dorothy grabbed Woollcott by the lapels.
“Shh!”
Then she dragged him along the corridor to the stairs.

She thought it over as they descended the steps to the lobby.
What
would
make Lydia faint like that? Did she kill Bibi? So the whole fainting bit was just an act, and she had me fooled? Jeez, maybe everyone’s playing a game with me. First Woollcott with his game of Murder, then Benchley with his emotional shenanigans, and now Lydia with her act of innocence?

Dorothy felt adrift, especially without Benchley at her side. She was having a hard time getting along without him tonight. She had realized it early in the evening, when she merely hoped he would show up for the party. But now she felt angry, wounded and confused without him. She needed someone’s help. Someone who knew what to do. And in any case this situation called for the police.

Dorothy led the way across the lobby. The lights were turned low. The party had mostly broken up. A few small groups of stragglers leaned against the columns or against each other, swaying to and fro. Other partygoers were slouched or collapsed in the lobby’s plush armchairs; their cardboard party hats were askew on their heads. Several were waiting by the elevator to go up to bed.

Dorothy rounded the corner of the reception desk and opened an office door marked
OPERATOR
. In the tiny room, a tired-looking middle-aged woman sat in front of a telephone switchboard. She coughed as they came in.

“Happy New Year, Mavis,” Dorothy said.

“Happy? Tell it to my throat. And my back.” Mavis twisted in her chair to stretch. She wore an earphone headset, as well as a heavy-looking hornlike microphone around her neck. She pulled this apparatus off her head and dropped it onto the switchboard with a clatter.

Dorothy made a sympathetic noise. “Long, busy night?”

“Long, busy
day
!” Mavis said in her usual craggy smoker’s voice. She also had a thick Noo Yawk accent. “I’ve been on duty since noon. Alice was supposed to relieve me at eight o’clock for the night shift. But on account of this lousy quarantine, she couldn’t get in. I don’t know how Mr. Case expects me to make it through the night. This had better count as overtime, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, you poor dear—” Dorothy began.

Woollcott shoved his way into the room. “Enough griping, you chatterboxes. We need to talk to the police at once. Now, what’s the matter with this thing? Why couldn’t you place the call from Mr. Fairbanks’ suite?”

Mavis’ face soured. “Most of the lines are down because of the snow, sir. There’s one emergency line available, but it only goes through this switchboard. I can’t connect you through a room telephone.”

“Then connect us here, you obtuse operator,” Woollcott said in his most pompous tone. “Do you think we came all the way down from the penthouse for nothing? Go ahead, place the call.”

Dorothy wondered (and not for the first time),
Why do some people think they’ll be helped faster if they act like first-rate arrogant bastards?

She patted the operator on the shoulder. “Just show me how to do it, Mavis. And then you go take a five-minute break.”

For a woman who seemed so tired, Mavis jumped up from her chair surprisingly quickly.

“It’s easy peasy! Just put this on,” she said, grabbing the headset, and shoving it onto Dorothy’s head.

She sat Dorothy down in the swivel chair and turned her to the switchboard. Dorothy faced a wall-like panel full of holes and little unlit lights. Below this, on a desk-like board at her fingertips, was an array of switches, more little unlit bulbs and the upright tips of many cords.

Mavis pointed to the end of a metal-pronged cord. “You pull that out and plug it in that red-rimmed socket up there. That connects you to the emergency operator.”

Dorothy did so.

Mavis continued, “When you’re ready, pull back your switch there. That’ll signal her on her end, and the light above the plug will go on. The light goes off when she answers. Flick the switch back to the middle position, and then ask her for the police. When you’re done talking, just unplug the cord. It’ll snap back into place on its own, so watch your fingernails. Easy as that.”

While she was saying this, she had taken off her thick sweater and adjusted her skirt. She puffed up her hair where the headset had been, and now she put on lipstick.

Dorothy said, “You’re coming back in five minutes, right?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Parker! The party in the lobby isn’t over yet, is it?”

“Not just yet,” Dorothy conceded. “There are still drinks to be had and men to accost. But wait a minute, Mavis. What if somebody in the hotel wants to place a call while we’re here?”

She waved her hand and laughed. “Ignore it. What’s so important at twelve thirty on New Year’s night?” But then she seemed to realize that she wasn’t being quite helpful. She spoke less flippantly. “Oh, just tell them the truth—the lines are down and no outside calls can be made.”

She closed her purse with a snap and disappeared out the door.

Dorothy faced the large switchboard with its neat lines of wires, rows of plugs, columns of switches and array of darkened lights.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Woollcott asked. “Place the call, woman.”

Dorothy imitated Mavis’ throaty and imperturbable operator’s voice. “Just a moment, sir.” Then she plugged the cord into the emergency line and flipped the switch as Mavis had instructed. A red light went on and then off again as a man’s gruff voice spoke in her ear.

“New York Emergency. What’s your call?”

“The police, please,” Dorothy said in her usual quiet voice.

“Police? Which precinct, Operator?”

“Oh, whichever is available at the moment.”

“Whichever is available? Who is this?”

Dorothy became a little nervous. “Which precinct is closest to the Algonquin Hotel?”

The man on the other end snorted. “Hold on. I’ll connect you.”

The little red light went on again.
Oops, did I do something wrong?
Then there was a click, and it went off again by itself.

Another man’s voice came through the headphones. “Sixteenth Precinct. What’s your emergency, Operator?”

“Can I speak to Detective O’Rannigan, please?”

“O’Rannigan’s off duty. I’ll put you through to the night desk instead.”

“Not so fast.” Dorothy spoke quickly. She didn’t want that little light to go on again. “Is Captain Church there?”

“When is he
not
here? Hold on, I’ll put you through.”

The line went quiet, but the light remained off. Next to Dorothy, Woollcott crossed and uncrossed his arms impatiently.

There was a click, then a stony voice. “This is Church.”

“Good evening, Captain. Or should I say
good morning
? It’s Dorothy Parker. You remember me, don’t you?”

There was a long, weary sigh at the other end. “I am afraid I do. Mrs. Parker, this is an emergency line—”

“I have an emergency. I’m at the Algonquin Hotel. One of the guests has died. A prominent guest—Bibi Bibelot, the Broadway starlet.”

She heard the scratching of a pencil on the other end.

“Bibelot . . .” Captain Church repeated. “What happened to her? How did she die?”

“We don’t know exactly.”

Woollcott leaned toward the microphone horn around Dorothy’s neck. “She was murdered!”

“Who is that?” Church asked.

“Alexander Woollcott,” she said. “Do you remember him, too?”

“I’m afraid so,” Church said.

“Bibi Bibelot was murdered!” Woollcott nearly screamed. “In cold blood!”

In response to his outbursts, Dorothy tried to sound as calm and rational as she could. “It wasn’t in cold blood, Captain. It was in a cold bathtub, actually.”

Church made that long, weary sigh again. “Mrs. Parker, if this is some kind of prank—”

“It’s no prank. Bibi was found dead in Douglas Fairbanks’ bathtub just a little while ago.”

“Fairbanks . . .” he said evenly. The pencil scratched again. Any other person would have screamed the famous name. “Why did Mr. Woollcott say she was murdered? Who found her?”

“Well—” Dorothy hesitated. “I suppose I found her.”

“You suppose? Is there some doubt?”

“No, Captain. I found her.”

“And was she murdered?”

“I can’t say. I’m not a detective—and neither is Aleck Woollcott!” She gave him a reproachful look.

“I am sending over a squad car. Do not do a single thing. Do not even touch the body.”

Dorothy decided that now was not the time to tell Church that they had not only touched the body but had already moved Bibi from the tub to the bed. Then she remembered something else. “Oh, and we need an ambulance, too. An elderly man has had an apoplectic stroke.”

She heard the rustle of papers on the other end.

“Just a moment,” Church said. “You said the Algonquin Hotel, did you not?”

“Yes, we’re—”

“Under quarantine. That changes things. A squad car is out of the question.”

“What?” she said, dismayed. “Why?”

Woollcott leaned close, trying to hear from the outside of her headphones. “What? What is it?”

Dorothy swatted him away. She focused on getting answers from Church. “You mean your officers can’t break the quarantine?”

“Not without permission from the Health Department.”

“Not even in a life-or-death situation? Because that’s what we have here, Captain. Life or death.”

“The earliest we could expect to obtain permission from the Health Department is in the morning. And that is an optimistic estimation.”

“Bibi’s dead body is lying in Douglas Fairbanks’ bed, and his wife, Mary Pickford, is none too happy about it. Wouldn’t you call that a health violation? Don’t you think the health commissioner would make an exception?”

Church’s voice was sharp. “The dead body is in Fairbanks’ bed? I thought you said Bibi died in a bathtub?”

“Uh, what I meant is that the
man with the stroke
is in the bed,” she said without further elaboration. “So what about the ambulance? That could certainly break the quarantine, right? The ambulance boys could take away Bibi’s body while they’re here to see Dr. Hurst.”

“To be perfectly frank, I doubt it. Not at this hour. The wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly in this city—and that much slower in the early hours of New Year’s Day during a snowstorm.”

She was becoming impatient. “How about not being perfectly frank? How about you try being imperfectly frank? Would that change your answer?”

“Fear not!” Woollcott shouted into the microphone. “I’m on the case, oh, Captain, my captain! Your boys in blue may take their sweet time, because I’ll have this murder mystery wrapped up
tout de suite
.”

Church spoke sternly. “Tell him he is not to interfere with a police investigation.”

Dorothy turned to Woollcott. “The captain says if you get in the way, he’ll arrest you
tout de suite
.”

Woollcott grinned. “Ha! I’ll clear the way, not get in the way.”

Church’s voice was threatening. “Please repeat that he is
not
to interfere with this investigation.”

Dorothy said to Woollcott, “The captain says he’ll lock you in the Tombs and throw away the key.”

“Poppycock!” Woollcott sneered. “He’ll award me the key to the city. Mark my words.”

She ignored Woollcott and spoke again to Church. “If you can’t send over a squad car or an ambulance, how about a delivery boy with some Chinese food? We’re starving here.”

“Please hold the line, Mrs. Parker. Let me see what can be done.”

“About the Chinese food?”

Church sighed wearily again. “About the dead body. And the elderly man with the stroke.”

The line clicked and went silent, and she was relieved to see that the light remained off, which meant the line was still connected.

Suddenly Woollcott was like a fly buzzing in her face. “Did he hang up on you? He hung up on you! Some public servant! He should be tarred and feathered.”

She clucked her tongue at him. “He’s just on another line, you ninny. And, as a matter of fact, he
is
quite a public servant. He’s on the job in the middle of the night while everybody else is out whooping it up.”

Well, almost everybody,
she thought glumly to herself.
Whoop-de-do . . .

“Ha! He’s on the job, is he?” Woollcott shook his melon-like head. “Well, I’m the only one in this hotel on the job! And, to that end, I shan’t stand around here blowing hot air—”

“Too late.”

“I’ll resume my investigation posthaste!” He turned to leave.

Church came back on the line. “Mrs. Parker?”

“Yes, I’m still here, Captain.”

Hearing this, Woollcott paused in the doorway. He cocked his ear toward her.

Church continued, “I was just on the other line with Dr. Norris at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Do you remember meeting him?”

“Do I ever. We once went on a date. Let’s see . . . cold heart, warm hands—hands he wouldn’t keep to himself,” she said, but with only slight irritation. “Now, speaking of cold hearts, what do we do with Bibi?”

Church was matter-of-fact. “Dr. Norris said it is important to keep the body at a low temperature to preserve it. Since you are in a hotel, there is certainly an ample supply of ice there. Surround the body with the ice.”

“Ice?”
Ice in Fairbanks’ bed? Oh well, Mary was going to toss it out anyhow.

Church replied, “Dr. Norris said that because the body is already in a bathtub, it will be a simple matter to easily add a large quantity of ice. That should be sufficient until we can obtain permission from the Department of Health to enter the premises.”