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  THE

  BROADWAY

  MURDERS

  THE

  BROADWAY

  MURDERS

  Agata Stanford

  Second Edition

  A JENEVACRIS PRESS PUBLICATION

  THE BROADWAY MURDERS

  A Dorothy Parker Mystery / June 2010

  Second Edition March 2011

  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 © 2010, 2011 by Agata Stanford

  Typesetting & cover design by Eric Conover

  Second Edition edited by Shelley Flannery

  ISBN 978-0-9827542-1-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  www.dorothyparkermysteries.com

  for Serena

  Acknowledgments

  I thank a number of people for their encouragement and support throughout the process of writing the books of my Dorothy Parker Mysteries series. An author needs resources, feedback, and sounding boards as well as emotional support from family, friends, and colleagues. So it is with gratitude that I mention, here, the names of those wonderful people who have provided their time and love and assistance: Rosaria and Anatole Konstantin, who read everything I sent to them and let me know if I was on track; Mary Rose Greer, who has listened to my ideas over the years, and has been an invaluable “sounding board,” allowing me to find my own way; Brenda Bright, my very good friend, who encourages me, and whose opinion I value; Lisa Green, good friend and avid reader of all my work; the lovely librarians of the Richard’s Library in Warrensburg, New York, Sarah, Linda, and Lynn, who always greet me with a smile and who ordered whatever I needed for research; the research staff at The Baseball Hall of Fame, who kindly answered all of my questions about the 1926 World Series for Mystic Mah Jong; Jerome Cortellesi, for taking me on a personal tour of the University Club; Amanda Mecke, my agent; and Eric Conover, without whose talent these books would not look nearly so good. And, going way back, to when I first took an interest in the Theatre and writing, I must thank Mrs. Kominars, my 7th- and 8th-grade English teacher at P.S. 185 in Queens, New York. She encouraged me and always said I should become a writer.

  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

  Poetic License

  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 1:00 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, “As I See It.” 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 bestselling 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.

  THE

  BROADWAY

  MURDERS

  Chapter One

  “Woodrow Wilson,” I ordered, “sit there and don’t say a word. If Aleck suspects, the Wit will throw a fit!”

  I spooned out a small helping from the rounded hill of pâté de foie gras, and then, with my fingers and a butter knife, filled in the unsightly crater. I admired my handiwork, and then peeked over my shoulder for witnesses to my thievery, as I fed the chopped liver to Woodrow Wilson, my co-conspirator.

  “Too much garlic, don’t you think?” I asked Woodrow as I licked my fingers.

  Garlic or not, he wanted more.

  It is the fall of 1924. Manhattan. We’re sitting at the table waiting for the others, and this room, a hotel dining room on West 44th Street, is the heart of my world.

  A couple blocks away is Broadway. Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne are making their first big splash in The Guardsman, and Desire Under the Elms promises fame for its playwright, Eugene O’Neill. The ubiquitous Barrymores dominate the stage for yet another season. George S. Kaufman has two shows running, one written with Edna Ferber, the other penned with Marc Connelly, and Sam Harris’s and Irving Berlin’s Music Box Revue (starring my closest friend and confidant, Robert Benchley) has recently closed after a lengthy run. These glorious people are just a few of my friends, people I’ve broken bread with and washed down the crumbs with innumerable bottles of hooch, here in this dining room, the Rose Room of the Algonquin Hotel, the heart of my world.

  While the Gershwin boys are hacking away at words and music, and gin is distilling in bathtubs throughout the country, political dramas (demanding suspension of disbelief) play out on the world stage: Calvin Coolidge is running for president against J.W. Davis; a smug bullyboy named J. Edgar Hoover just got appointed director of the Bureau of Investigation; and Woodrow Wilson, a man of great insight, integrity, and intelligence (unusual qualities in a politician) has died. To honor the great man I’ve named my Boston terrier puppy after him.

  On the other side of the pond, in Germany, a nasty little upstart with a Little Tramp mustache has been sentenced to jail, an uncouth braggart named Mussolini grips power in Italy’s first Fascist election, while philosophical infighting among the Reds is causing havoc in Russia. Had I to review such melodrama, top-heavy with villainous protagonists and shakily supported by an incompetent cast, I’d’ve asked, “What fresh hell is this?” and advised an absinthe chaser after swallowing such swill!

  As these great and inconsequential events pass through my life, resulting in little more emotional reaction than a head-shake and a mindless tongue-cluck, I am unexpectedly knocked for a loop when Reginald Ignatius Pierce, Broadway producer, man-about-town, bon vivant, general swell, and pain-in-the-ass, is found dead in his 46th Street apartment, saving anyone the bother of pulling a trigger, plunging a dagger, or poisoning his highball. It was generally known in Theatre circles that there were numerous people who would have gladly wielded an ax, tightened a rope, bloodied their hands, but for fear of persecution, if not lack of nerve to live out their dreams of murdering Reginald. Not to sound hard-hearted, but for me and my friends, the surprise is not that he is dead, but that he had not been murdered.

  The news of his sudden death came as we were lunching at our usual haunt, the Rose Room of the Algonquin Hotel. Frank Case, the hotel manager, had called Aleck Woollcott away to the telephone, putting an end, if only temporarily, to Aleck’s vitriolic remarks concerning Condé Nast’s latest sexual transgressions.

  All of the kids were arriving; the scrape of chairs and shuffling feet were reminiscent of the game of musical chairs at children’s parties.

  Alexander Woollcott and I had been the first to arrive. George (S. Kaufman) and Edna (Ferber) were taking a break from yet another collaboration, arriving in time to scoop up and devour most of the popovers. Charlie (MacArthur) bounded in with Harold Ross, who grabbed the remaining stalk of celery and crunched a fervent plea in my left ear for the short story I had promised to deliver a week ago last Thursday. Ross is all worked up about a new magazine he is about to publish, which we’d all agreed should wear the moniker, The New Yorker, if he ever got it off the ground.

  Columnist FPA—Frank Pierce Adams—and sports journalist Heywood Broun beat my friend and neighbor, artist Neysa McMein, who ambled in with Irving Berlin, to the last sorry pickles, and wouldn’t you know that Harpo (Marx) flew into the room and used the art of distraction by kissing my right shoulder to help himself to a handful of pâté at my left, which I had been diligently guarding, like a dodo bird her newly laid eggs, for Aleck. I couldn’t sculpt over the devastation, so I popped the garnish of parsley into my mouth and offered the smattering that remained to a grateful Woodrow Wilson, before signaling our waiter, Luigi, to bring another portion.

  We are all a little crazy. The War made us this way. Artistic temperament and youthful energy, too. Reckless pride brought Europe to war, and America jumped in to end it. The often frenzied exuberance of my generation is just our juvenile insistence that we return to a happier time: before loss, before senselessness. Senseless death inspires in some people a quest for meaningful living; for others, senseless death gives rise to senseless living. (How else does one explain the song lyrics, “Diga-Diga-Doo, Diga- Doo-Doo”?) I live in a place somewhere between the Sublime and the Ridiculous.

  As in a well-directed farce, Aleck bounced back into the room with the authority of a school headmaster, and an unprecedented silence fell over the table. Except for celery chewing that crunched a beat not unlike the tick-tock of a time bomb, no one spoke! Such a thing had never happened before. We are a circle of friends whose rapid-fire conversation could send a stenographer off for an extended stay at Bellevue.

  All eyes were drawn toward Aleck’s sizable form. His triple chins quivered in rotation, sunlight reflected off one of the lenses of his heavy spectacles, and he was solemnly wiping sweat from his brow with his kerchief. Our silent expectancy did not escape his notice. He milked the moment, relishing the rare, undivided attention for a few dramatic seconds, almost overlooking the fact that the plate of pâté was gone. I thought he was about to make comment of it, when, with dour expression, his hands resting on the back of his chair, he stared down at the expanse of white cloth, and announced solemnly, “Pierce, Reggie Pi
erce is dead!”

  “Well, we know that, darling; his last show bombed—dead in the water,” I jumped in, relieved that Luigi had arrived with the new plate of chopped liver.

  “Not finished, Dottie, but dead.”

  “Holy moly!” squeaked FPA.

  “What a scoop!” yelled Harold Ross.

  “Awww, shit!” I added.

  It was just then that Bob Benchley arrived, scanned the table for something edible, and settled on the very last, forlorn-looking cherry tomato on the pickle dish, which he tossed into the air and caught in his mouth. “How’d he kick off?” he asked.

  “Choked on a cherry tomato.”

  Like the newfangled machine that spits out tennis balls, Mr. Benchley ejected the murderous fruit for a high velocity flight across the table, only to be caught by an ever-ready, ever-scavenging Harpo, who donned it like a clown’s nose.

  “Natural causes? Who’d have thunk it?”

  “He was found in his apartment just a little while ago.”

  “How come I didn’t hear about it?” asked George Kaufman, who still works at the New York Times for seventy-five dollars a week, even though he’s made a fortune as a playwright.

  “I have a friend at the Morning Telegraph who has a friend whose brother has a friend whose sister’s husband has a friend on the police force,” said Aleck.

  “Aleck, you mean your Cousin Joe up at the 20th Precinct,” piped in Ross.

  “I guess we have to scribble a piece on Pierce for tonight’s editions,” said Heywood.

  “I rather like that alliteration,” considered Marc Connelly.

  “Can’t somebody who didn’t know him write it?” asked George. “How about you, Ross?”