You Might As Well Die (37 page)

A gaunt, white-haired man with gold-framed glasses had joined the big man with the walrus mustache. The two old men shook hands as if they hadn’t seen one another in years—decades maybe.

Then out of the crowd appeared the hotel’s suave manager, Frank Case. He gave Dorothy a wink and then approached the two distinguished-looking men. Dorothy noticed a yellow telegram envelope in Case’s hand.

“Forgive my intrusion, gentlemen,” Case said, and turned to the white-haired man. “Dr. Hurst, thank you again for taking the time to examine that family while you’re here as a guest. So, may I inquire about your diagnosis?”

The white-haired man—Dr. Hurst—spoke with an arrogant authority. “Chicken pox. Keep them confined to their room for the time being.” He had a gruff, clipped British accent that reminded Dorothy of military drill instructors or stern schoolmasters.

Case smiled deferentially. “Thank you for relieving our concerns, Doctor.” Case turned to the burly man with the walrus mustache. “I feared it might be smallpox. That is, it looked like smallpox to my untrained eye.”

“Smallpox?” said the man with the mustache. He spoke with a soft Scottish accent. “An unfortunate way to enter the new year.”

Dr. Hurst frowned at this sentiment.

“I will pass your concerns to the aggrieved family,” Case said to the big man. “I hope you enjoy your evening with us, Sir Arthur. Nice to finally meet you.”

Sir Arthur?
Dorothy wondered.

“Very kind of you, but I’m here only for a quick cigar with my old colleague,” said Sir Arthur, and he slapped Dr. Hurst heartily on the shoulder. “Haven’t seen each other in ages.”

Case smiled genially and turned back to Dr. Hurst. “A telegram arrived for you while you were tending to the family with chicken pox. Good evening, gentlemen.” He handed Dr. Hurst the envelope with a polite little bow and excused himself.

Dorothy followed after him, her tiny feet scampering to catch up.

“Frank!” she said when they were out of earshot of the two older men.

Case turned around. “Good evening, Mrs. Parker! How are you this wonderful New Year’s Eve?”

“Annoyed, thank you very much,” she said. “Who was that you were just talking to?”

Case raised his eyebrows. “Ah, that’s Dr. Quentin Hurst. Not much of a bedside manner, apparently, but highly respected in the medical field. He’s in town for a medical conference.”

“No, not that old coot,” she said. “The big fellow next to him. He looks so familiar.”

“That ‘big fellow,’ ” Case said, “is none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes.”

Dorothy let out a low whistle. She turned to have another look. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was saying something, his walrus mustache fluttering as he spoke. But Dr. Hurst didn’t appear to be listening. He had turned slightly away from Doyle, his eyes fixed on the telegram. His pale complexion had turned even paler. His hands were clenched on the paper as if he might suddenly tear it to pieces.

Doyle stopped speaking. He laid a concerned hand on Dr. Hurst’s shoulder, and appeared to ask if everything was all right.

Dr. Hurst shrugged off Doyle’s hand. He looked up from the telegram and eyed the crowded room. He spotted Frank Case and hurried over, a determined look in his keen old eyes.

“Mr. Case, I was just consulting with my medical colleague Dr. Doyle, and I may have been too hasty in my diagnosis,” Dr. Hurst said. “Upon further reflection, I do think that family has smallpox, not chicken pox.”

“Smallpox? You can’t be serious,” Dorothy said. She looked at Case. “You’d have to close down the whole hotel!”

Case leaned toward her and spoke under his breath. “Not quite so loud please, Mrs. Parker.”

Dr. Hurst nodded his old head. “The young lady is right, Mr. Case. You will have to institute a quarantine immediately for the entire hotel.”

By this time, Doyle had sauntered over and joined them. “Quarantine? A moment ago you said chickenpox, old boy.”

“I’ve revised my diagnosis,” Dr. Hurst said with that air of arrogance. “Better safe than sorry.”

Why don’t they agree?
Dorothy wondered. She cast an eye at the telegram. When she looked up, she found that she had met Doyle’s gaze. They had both been looking at the telegram.

Doyle quickly collected himself and turned to Case. “I mean no offense, sir, but I would rather not be required to stay here for the next two or three days. My family is lodged at the Plaza, and I wish to rejoin them as soon as possible.”

Dorothy empathized with Doyle—because she was thinking of having to spend the entire evening without Benchley. “Not all the guests have arrived for Doug Fairbanks’ party, Frank,” she said. “Fairbanks will be crushed.”

Case, unruffled, glanced from one person to the next.

Dr. Hurst stepped forward and stood nose to nose with him. “I insist that you shut that door immediately, Mr. Case.”

Doyle smiled amiably, trying to keep the peace. “Now, now, Quentin, old boy. Let’s not be too hasty.”

Dr. Hurst ignored these protests and stared threateningly at Case. “I’ll call the police and the health department myself, if I must.”

Dorothy could see that Case was not about to argue the point. “That’s not necessary, Dr. Hurst,” Case said calmly. He moved toward the hotel’s entryway. Dr. Hurst followed him.

Case raised his voice above the din. “I have an announcement to make, everyone!” The noise in the crowded lobby decreased from uproarious clamor to murmurous chatter. Dr. Hurst’s somber presence next to him conferred a sense of solemnity. “The Algonquin has just been quarantined. From this moment, no one will enter and no one will leave the hotel.”

The mood of the crowd transformed from merry to malevolent. Dorothy was dejected. Suddenly, Woollcott was again by her side, gripping her elbow.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

She turned to him. “Count me in for your game of murder. If I have to face this night without Mr. Benchley, I’m going to kill somebody.”

Frank Case raised his hands in an attempt to quiet the crowd. “As required, I shall inform the department of health, and they will insist—and Dr. Hurst here agrees—that in the interest of safety we must quarantine the hotel.” A fresh wave of moans and jeers answered this. Case glanced toward Doyle. “Now, fear not, we will make your stay—whether or not you intended to be our guests tonight—as enjoyable and comfortable as possible. But for the time being these doors will remain closed.”

Saying this, the doors opened and a stunning young woman strolled in. She was wrapped in furs, with a matching fur hat; a long feather bobbed from it as she walked. She stopped just inside the lobby because everyone’s eyes were on her. She seemed to revel in this attention. She flung off the furs, revealing a short, skimpy flapper’s dress barely covering her tall, shapely figure.

“Bibi’s here!” the woman announced with a dazzling smile, her arms raised over her head. “Let the party begin!”

Several men cheered.

Dorothy, like Woollcott and the others, recognized the flashy young woman. She was Bibi Bibelot, currently the most popular young starlet on Broadway.

Case tried to raise his voice over the cheers. “Miss, you cannot come in. We’re in quarantine.”

“I don’t care if you’re in quicksand,” Bibi chuckled. “I’m here for Doug Fairbanks’ New Year’s Eve bash!” And she pranced on high heels into the midst of the crowd, dragging her furs behind. Woollcott followed after her, almost literally riding on her coattails.

Case shrugged. Not much could disrupt his cool demeanor. “As I was saying, from henceforth, no one shall be admitted in or out—”

Then Robert Benchley came through the doors. He shook the snow off his hat and dusted it from the shoulders of his coat. Then he looked up to see the entire crowd in the lobby staring at him.

“Hello there,” he said to the crowd, his mirthful eyes creasing. “Did someone call for a plumber?”

Dr. Hurst grabbed Frank Case’s arm and shouted in his ear. “Lock those doors!”

Dorothy rushed up to Benchley. She was so happy to see him, she could just hug him. But she stopped herself. Maybe she’d simply give him a peck on the cheek—at midnight.

“Hello, Mrs. Parker,” he said. “What fresh hell is this?”

“That’s my line!” She smiled and gently squeezed his arm. “But I’ll loan it to you for now because I certainly am glad to see you.”

“The feeling is mutual, my dear Mrs. Parker,” he said, and smiled in return.

The feeling is mutual?
she thought.
If he only knew!
“So, what’s the hullabaloo?” he asked, taking off his coat.

She nodded toward the white-haired man. “That venerable doctor there recently examined a family of tourists staying here. He determined they have smallpox. So Frank Case has just declared a quarantine of the whole hotel.”

Case and Dr. Hurst rushed past them, followed by Alfred, the uniformed employee who manned the front desk. Alfred had a ring of keys. He selected one key without looking, slid it smoothly into the keyhole and locked the doors with a decisive
clack
.

Case turned to Dr. Hurst. “The health department will be here soon with an official notice and a seal for the door. Is that satisfactory?”

Dr. Hurst tested the door himself. It didn’t budge. “Yes, fine, fine,” he said dismissively. “By the way, do you have a safe in which guests may keep valuables?

For the first time, Case looked put out. “Yes, but it’s broken. I entrust our valuables to Oscar.”

“Who the devil is Oscar?” Dr. Hurst fumed.

“Our doorman. A large and eminently trustworthy fellow.”

“Fine, fine.” Dr. Hurst dug into his jacket pocket and brought out a silver locket. “This item is extremely important. Please give it to him immediately.”

“I can’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“We’ve just locked him outside,” Case said simply.

Dr. Hurst turned and charged off in a huff, shoving the locket back into his pocket. Over his shoulder, he muttered to Doyle, “Come on. You can telephone your wife from my room.”

Dorothy stood on tiptoes to whisper in Benchley’s ear. “That’s Arthur Conan Doyle—
Sir Arthur
to peasants like you and me. Let’s go pull his whiskers.”

She and Benchley followed Dr. Hurst and Doyle to the small elevator. Bibi Bibelot was already inside, as was Maurice, the greasy old elevator operator.

Bibi twisted in the tight space, turning her beautiful body and her big bright eyes on Dr. Hurst. “How long will the quarantine last?” she asked him breathlessly. Dorothy wondered how Bibi could make a question about smallpox sound sexy, but somehow she did it.

Dr. Hurst appeared immune to Bibi’s allure. He stared straight ahead at nothing. “Could be forty-eight hours. Could be two weeks.”

“Well, that’s okay, then,” Bibi cooed. “Fairbanks’ New Year’s Eve party could very well last that long!”

Dr. Hurst didn’t answer. Bibi eyed him up and down. Dorothy knew that look—it was the look of an unabashed gold digger.

Maurice closed the elevator door, threw a switch and then pulled a control lever. The elevator lurched slowly upward.

Dorothy stood behind Benchley’s elbow and in front of Doyle’s barrel chest. Doyle cleared his throat and broke the awkward silence, addressing Dorothy.

“Forgive my curiosity, miss, but did I hear you and a colleague discussing a murder?”

Miss!
She liked Doyle right away. She would have stepped on his foot if he had said
madam
.

“Not a real murder.” Dorothy said to Doyle. “It’s a silly party game. We put slips of paper into a hat. One slip is for the detective, one is for the murderer. Everyone else is a potential victim. The person who pulls out the murderer slip pretends to kill someone. The detective, and everyone else, has to solve the murder. If anyone would enjoy such a game, you would.”

“Me?” Doyle asked. “Why me?”

Dorothy was momentarily taken aback. “Because you wrote all those Sherlock Holmes stories, of course.”

“Hell’s bells!” Bibi cried. “You wrote Sherlock Holmes?”

“Not in years,” Doyle said sullenly. “I’ve grown weary of that name.”

Bibi took no notice of Doyle’s sour change in mood. “When we were kids, my brother could not stop reading your silly little detective stories. You must be rich and famous.”

“I too am quite an admirer of Holmes,” Benchley said sincerely.

But at the mention of the name Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle’s eyes had clouded over. He didn’t answer.

Dr. Hurst snorted. He turned and spoke to Doyle as though they were alone. “I’ve a new attendant. He can pour us some sherries while you make your phone call.”

Cripes,
thought Dorothy,
one little mention of Sherlock Holmes and they get their noses out of joint?

She and Benchley exchanged a look. Now Benchley cleared his throat. “So, how do you two gents know each other?”

Dr. Hurst responded curtly, never looking at Benchley. “Medical school. University of Edinburgh.”

“Ah, medical school,” Benchley said thoughtfully, and turned to Dorothy. “And what school did you attend, Mrs. Parker?”

Benchley knew full well she hadn’t even graduated from high school.

“Elementary, my dear Benchley,” she said with a wry grin. “Elementary.”

Other Books in the
Algonquin Round Table Mystery Series
by J. J. Murphy