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  A MOVEABLE FEAST

  OF MURDER

  A MOVEABLE FEAST

  OF MURDER

  Agata Stanford

  A JENEVACRIS PRESS PUBLICATION

  A MOVEABLE FEAST OF MURDER

  A Dorothy Parker Mystery / June 2012

  Published by

  Jenevacris Press

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2012 by Agata Stanford

  Edited by Shelley Flannery

  Typesetting & Cover Design by Eric Conover

  ISBN 978-0-9857803-0-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  www.dorothyparkermysteries.com

  For Brenda Bright, who loves a good mystery.

  Also by Agata Stanford

  The Dorothy Parker Mysteries Series:

  The Broadway Murders

  Chasing the Devil

  Mystic Mah Jong

  Death Rides the Midnight Owl

  Acknowledgments

  I am fortunate to have the expert technical and artistic skills of Shelley Flannery and Eric Conover, who work as a team with me to bring my stories to my readers. Thank you, Shelley, for suggesting the title of this book. Thank you, Jeannette Sinibaldi, for “pardoning my French,” correcting my French spelling and applying the appropriate accents where required, answering my questions, and helping me to map out a parade route through the streets of Paris. Thanks also go to Gina Grant for additional assistance on the Paris section of this book. I send heartfelt thanks to architect and artist Benedetto Puccio for photographing the Paris landmarks featured in this book, and to author Anatole Konstantin (A Red Boyhood: Growing Up Under Stalin) for sharing his insights and knowledge of the Soviet Union and communist activity in Europe in the 1920s. Thank you, Michael Alan Mayer, author of Time Trippers: The Nights of the Round Table, for passing on to me so many details about France in the 1920s. Thanks go to Les Dean of the National Railroad Historical Society for details of 1920s European rail travel. I appreciate Facebook’s Virtual Ocean Liner page, and its anonymous patron, who has answered all my questions about steamship crossings. Thank you, Frank Pelkey at Crandall Public Library in Glens Falls, New York, for assisting me in my research. Finally, I must express my gratitude to the members of The Robert Benchley Society, who are continually educating me about all things Benchley.

  Table of Contents

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  The Final Chapter

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Who’s Who in the Cast of

  Dorothy Parker Mysteries

  The Algonquin Round Table was the famous assemblage of writers, artists, actors, musicians, newspaper and magazine reporters, columnists, and critics who met for luncheon at one P.M. most days, for a period of about ten years, starting in 1919, in the Rose Room of the Algonquin Hotel on West 44th Street in Manhattan. The unwritten test for membership was wit, brilliance, and likeability. It was an informal gathering ranging from ten to fifteen regulars, although many peripheral characters who arrived for lunch only once might later claim they were part of the “Vicious Circle,” broadening the number to thirty, forty, and more. Once taken into the fold, one was expected to indulge in witty repartee and humorous observations during the meal, and then follow along to the Theatre, or a speakeasy, or Harlem for a night of jazz. Gertrude Stein dubbed the Round Tablers “The Lost Generation.” The joyous, if sardonic, reply that rose with a laugh from Dorothy Parker was, “Wheeee! We’re lost!”

  Dorothy Parker set the style and attitude for modern women of America to emulate during the 1920s and 1930s. Through her pointed poetry, cutting theatrical reviews, brilliant commentary, bittersweet short stories, and much-quoted rejoinders, Mrs. Parker was the embodiment of the soulful pathos of the “Ain't We Got Fun” generation of the Roaring Twenties.

  Robert Benchley: Writer, humorist, boulevardier, and bon vivant, editor of Vanity Fair and Life Magazine, and drama critic of The New Yorker, he may accidentally have been the very first standup comedian. His original and skewed sense of humor made him a star on Broadway, and later, in the movies. What man didn’t want to be Bob Benchley?

  Alexander Woollcott was the most famous man in America—or so he said. As drama critic for the New York Times, he was the star-maker, discovering and promoting the careers of Helen Hayes, Katherine Cornell, Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, and the Marx Brothers, to name but a few. Larger than life and possessing a rapier wit, he was a force to be reckoned with. When someone asked a friend of his to describe Woollcott, the answer was, “Improbable.”

  Frank Pierce Adams (FPA) was a self-proclaimed modern-day Samuel Pepys, whose newspaper column, “The Conning Tower,” was a widely read daily diary of how, where, and with whom he spent his days while gallivanting about New York City. Thanks to him, every witty retort, clever comment, and one-liner uttered by the Round Tablers at luncheon was in print the next day for millions of readers to chuckle over at the breakfast table.

  Harold Ross wrote for Stars and Stripes during the War, where he first met fellow newspapermen Woollcott and Adams. The rumpled, “clipped woodchuck” (as described by Edna Ferber) was one of the most brilliant editors of his time. His magazine, The New Yorker, which he started in 1925, has enriched the lives of everyone who has ever had a subscription. His hypochondria was legendary, and his the-world-is-out-to-get-me outlook was often comical.

  Jane Grant married Harold Ross but kept her maiden name, cut her hair shorter than her husband’s, and viewed domesticity with disdain. A society columnist for the New York Times, Jane was the very chic model of modernity during the 1920s. Having worked hard for women’s suffrage, Jane continued in her cause while serving meals and emptying ashtrays during all-night sessions of the Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Club.

  Heywood Broun began his career at numerous newspapers throughout the country before landing a spot on the World. Sportswriter and Harlem Renaissance jazz fiend, he was to become the social conscience of America during the 1920s and beyond through his column, “It Seems to Me . . . .” His insight and commentary made him a champion of the labor movement, as did his fight for justice during and after the seven years of the Sacco and Vanzetti trials and execution.

  Edmund “Bunny” Wilson: Writer, editor, and critic of American literature, he first came to work at Vanity Fair after Mrs. Parker pulled his short story out from under the slush-pile and found it interesting.

  Robert E. Sherwood came to work on the editorial staff at Vanity Fair alongside Parker and Benchley. The six-foot-six Sherwood was often tormented by the dwarfs performing—whatever it was they did—at the Hippodrome on his way to and from work at the magazine’s 44th Street offices, but that didn’t stop him from becoming one of the twentieth-century Theatre’s greatest playwrights.

  Marc Connelly began his career as a reporter but found his true calling as a playwright. Short and bald, he co-authored his first hit play with the tall and pompadoured George S. Kaufman.

  Edna Ferber racked up Pulitzer Prizes by writing bestselli
ng potboilers set against America’s sweeping vistas, most notably, So Big, Showboat, Cimarron, and Giant. She, too, collaborated with George S. on several successful Broadway shows. A spinster, she was a formidable personality and wit and a much-coveted member of the Algonquin Round Table.

  John Barrymore was a member of the Royal Family of the American Stage, which included John Drew and Ethel and Lionel Barrymore. John Barrymore was famous not only for his stage portrayals, but for his majestic profile, which was captured in all its splendor on celluloid.

  The Marx Brothers: First there were five, then there were four, then there were three Marx Brothers— awww, heck, if you don’t know who these crazy, zany men are, it’s time to hit the video store or tune into Turner Classic Movies!

  Also mentioned: Neysa McMein, artist and illustrator, whose studio door was open all hours of the day and night for anyone who wished to pay a call; Grace Moore, Broadway and opera star, and later a movie star; Broadway and radio star Fanny Brice—think Streisand in Funny Girl; Noel Coward, English star and playwright who took America by storm with his classy comedies and bright musical offerings; Condé Nast, publisher of numerous magazines including Vogue, Vanity Fair, and House and Garden; Florenz Zeigfeld—of “Follies” fame—big-time producer of the extravaganza stage revue; The Lunts, husband-and-wife stars of the London and Broadway stages, individually known as Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne; Tallulah Bankhead—irreverent, though beautiful, southern-born actress with the foghorn drawl, who later made a successful transition from the stage to film—the life of any party, she often perked up the waning festivities performing cartwheels sans bloomers; Irving Berlin, George Gershwin, and Jascha Heifetz—famous for “God Bless America” and hundreds more hit songs; composer of Rhapsody in Blue and Porgy and Bess and many more great works; and the violin virtuoso, respectively.

  A MOVEABLE FEAST

  OF MURDER

  Chapter One

  It was only natural that I should be nervous—all right, I panicked; after all, my Uncle Martin went down with the Titanic.

  A February blizzard was raging fury over the East Coast as the S.S. Roosevelt was being tugged out of the harbor at Hoboken toward open seas. I shook from trepidation as I stood out on the open deck of the ship this midnight, the flurry of thick flakes, a disappointing substitution for confetti, changing to hard, biting pellets of mean sleet.

  Mr. Benchley, collar pulled up and fedora pulled low over his brow to ward off the stinging assault, had accompanied me at my nervous desire to view, perhaps for the very last time, the island of Manhattan. We couldn’t see much more than the blurred lights of the skyline beyond the ship’s railing.

  “To your right, you will see the Battery,” bellowed Mr. Benchley like a tour guide, waving a hand through the howling gale and in the general direction of the southern tip of the city. He wrapped an arm around my shivering shoulders. “Ah! The Statue of Liberty; her flame lights our way out of the harbor, how thoughtful. Well, she’s out there, somewhere in that general direction . . . .”

  “I must have been mad, out of my mind!”

  “Your usual self—”

  “What could I have been thinking?”

  The wind whipped us, and Mr. Benchley held onto his hat. “Oh, Lord! What a night to go out in a storm! It wouldn’t be so bad if the crew wasn’t yellow. You must write a short story about this. Wait! I have the first line: ‘It was a dark and scary night . . . .’ No, that won’t do. ‘It was a stark and starry night.’ No! Let me think!”

  “Don’t, you’ll strain yourself.”

  “Listen, why don’t we do something useful to pass the time. Keeping busy will make you less anxious.”

  “A drink will make me less anxious.”

  “We’ll begin by throwing overboard all the children’s life jackets—won’t the little tykes be surprised?—and then we can set about cutting the ropes of the lifeboats.”

  The blast of the ship’s horn vibrated along the icy deck and thrilled through my body like the voice of Jehovah from out of the fog. I jumped, slid, and grabbed the rail.

  “Mrs. Parker, I understand that you want to face death bravely and head on as it approaches, but let’s let death sneak up on us while we’re safe and warm inside,” shouted my friend as he secured his footing and pulled me in toward the doors. “Too late to change your mind, my dear! We can’t swim back now, much as you’d like; these are crocodile-infested waters, and you hate it when you get your hair mussed.”

  I started to laugh and a shiver quivered through me. I allowed Mr. Benchley to lead me in out of the storm, and the sudden absence of pummeling weather made my ears ring. I leaned against the door with relief, before the feeling of dread rose once more from within my lower regions. But, when the very weather-drenched Mr. Benchley looked at me and said, “Next time we go out for a midnight swim, bring a towel,” I felt the fear abating.

  As we walked along the interior deck toward the passenger cabins, I said, “Weren’t there any cancellations? You don’t have accommodations! Where will you sleep?”

  “You’d think, sailing off in this tempest, people would remember the Titanic and call the whole thing off. But for our heroic captain and crew, people are beginning to believe the fantasy that the ship might actually make it across the pond—this time around.”

  I cringed, and then laughed. Gallows humor always perked me up.

  “If I were a betting man, I’d wager our Captain Fried is due for a big loss. He can’t sustain this winning streak,” he said.

  “We’ll go down knowing we sailed with the savior of the wrecked English freighter the Antinoe,” I stated, stoic and head held high for the fate that awaited this doomed voyage.

  I needed a drink, and as we entered my cabin, to the joyful tail-wagging welcome of my canine companion, Woodrow Wilson, we threw off our wet overcoats onto the dozen bon-voyage fruit baskets sent by well-meaning friends. I pointed to a crate in the corner, behind my new steamer trunk, from which Mr. Benchley extracted one of the bottles of scotch we’d purchased from a bootlegger in Paramus on our way to the pier, and from which he poured two neat tumblers of the golden elixir.

  After the flash-fire effect of genuine imported booze had warmed the cockles of my heart, I regained a modicum of sanity.

  “I suppose I should feel safe. After all, we are aboard the ship whose captain was given a tickertape parade only a few days ago.”

  “I’m sure his Key to the City can get us out of any chance encounter with icebergs or tidal waves along the way,” nodded Mr. Benchley, referring to the gift presented to the captain of our vessel by Mayor Jimmy Walker three days ago at a banquet at the Roosevelt Hotel to honor Fried and his crew. The rescuers were honored with a welcoming salute to “Hail to the Chief,” accolades, and hyperbolic speeches spun out by every handy politician, as well as a concert at Carnegie Hall, and an audience with the President. I guess the Pope couldn’t make it.

  Knowing that an international hero was at the helm did not quiet my anxiety. Of course I knew what I was getting into. I had boarded a ship!—for a transatlantic journey to France during a season beleaguered with storms rocking the Atlantic Ocean, the worst in recent years. Mr. Benchley had come along for the ride to hold my hand, knowing my fear of the sea. At least, that’s what he told his wife, Gertrude, who finally agreed that he could accompany me, only on his promise to return home on the next ship.

  My decision to leave New York for Paris had been made only the week before, and over the next six days I scrambled around making the arrangements, tying up loose ends, and saying good-bye to my friends.

  Ernest Hemingway had arrived in New York two weeks ago. He came to sign with a new publisher, Scribner’s, who have agreed to publish his first novel, The Sun Also Rises. Our mutual friend, Scott Fitzgerald, now living in Paris, told Hem to drop in for lunch to meet me and my friends at the Algonquin. He did just that and we showed him the town—all the best watering holes. We hit it off. Hem talked about his life in Paris, and
of the other writers and artists living and working there. It sounded like a creative paradise, a beautiful city where one could sit and write all day at a delightful, sunny outdoor café, sipping a fine. In the evening, one mingled with the best and brightest, artists like Picasso, Miró, Léger, Dali, and Man Ray, and the new writers, those employing a new style, James Joyce and Ezra Pound among them. When Hem mentioned that the exchange rate made it possible to live well on little money, and that liquor was legal, well, I thought a move could be the answer to my prayers.

  For I had found it more and more difficult to do any serious writing. I have wanted to start work on a novel, but I seem to have fallen into a routine of doing everything else except starting on it. A clean slate, that’s what I need; I love New York, but I’ve been getting weary of my routine, of being in a rut. I could do with a new environment for a while, one that would stimulate my creative juices. I will return home with a completed manuscript and rise up from poetess to novelist. It might take some time, but I will learn to speak French (with a lot of sign language), and perhaps I will find out exactly what a fine is and why I should be sipping it. So I booked passage on the same ship that Ernest was returning on to Paris. Mr. Benchley had tried to get a cabin in First Class, but landed on the waiting list. And as we steamed out into the Narrows, I told him that he was now officially a stowaway.

  “I’ll talk to the purser. There must be some sort of accommodation, even if it’s in Third Class.”

  “You’ll bunk with the crew, matie!”

  “I suppose I’m destined to a week of swapping seafaring tales: the time that big white whale pulled my leg, and when I wrestled that fifty-foot octopus, the minnow I landed—”