[Dorothy Parker 01] - The Broadway Murders Read online

  “Afraid?” challenged Aleck.

  “You betcha! If I had to write it, they’d suspect he was murdered and that I’d’ve done him in.”

  “I can see the headline now: ‘Stage Star Tomatoed!’” chimed in Harpo.

  Autumn in New York is a truly glorious time of year. The days are cool and crisp and usually a welcomed relief after summer’s deep-fry heat rising off the streets.

  A couple hours after lunching at the Gonk and hearing the news about Reggie Pierce, Woodrow Wilson and I took a long walk around the neighborhood. We walked through Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library. Construction on the new American Radiator Company Building was nearing completion. Thirty-six stories high, its black brick and four-storied pyramidal step-back tower stood like a dark imposing guard over the park, library, and 40th Street. Such feats of human ingenuity amaze me.

  An hour later, Woodrow Wilson and I were window-shopping fifteen blocks north along Fifth Avenue, when my attention was called by the very chic moss-green silk Charmeuse little number, draped over one shoulder with a lace reveal at the bodice, in one of Bergdorf’s windows. The gown would go very nicely with the bracelet I'd just admired at Tiffany’s, and wouldn’t you know, I had the perfect little pumps at home to complete the look. I was contemplating how I might justify such purchases, had I the cash in the first place, when I was heralded by a sound, like a deep and raspy foghorn, wafting on a breeze of Bal au Versailles. Without needing to turn my head I knew who’d addressed me.

  “Dottie, dahhhling,” drawled the star, “any designs you may have on that dress must never be realized, you know that, don’t you? It screams ‘Hippodrome Chorus Girl.’”

  “Tallulah, dear,” I said, turning to greet the glamorous creature. Her honey-colored hair lashed my cheek as she leaned in for an airy kiss. “Those are Worth Paris gowns, and ‘darling’ yourself. You were planning on buying it for yourself, of course. And ravishing you will be in it.”

  Woodrow Wilson barked agreement.

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in it!”

  Woodrow Wilson chimed in with a whine.

  “Good, because Marilyn Miller purchased that one this morning. She didn’t know that Helen Hayes had bought one yesterday. One more girl wearing that dress at the Actors Equity Ball— why, the three of you’d be mistaken as a triplet vaudeville act brought in for after-dinner entertainment.”

  Once again Woodrow Wilson barked.

  “Does he always agree with you?” Tallulah looked at me and then down at Woodrow with a suspiciously raised pencil brow. “How do you know such things? Do you bribe the store clerks to ring you up after they’ve rung up their cash registers?”

  “I have my sources.” I knew for certain that neither Marilyn nor Helen had purchased a frock. My friend, Jane Grant, had seen the ad in yesterday’s Tribune, cut it out, and slipped it to me this morning. Jane knew I was looking for a new dress and suggested I stop by the store to check it out. I really couldn’t afford such a gown, but I made up the tale about the Broadway stars’ purchasing the dress because I could read Tallulah like a cheap novel, and I thought I’d have a little fun playing with her. I’ve found that all really beautiful and accomplished women are riddled with self-doubt. Everything this actress did bordered on the outrageous, and I suspected most of her escapades were born from her fear of being perceived as normal and boring. As if she could ever be boring! Tedious at times, but never boring. We’ve been friends for several years, since she first arrived in town. Every day during her first year in New York, before she got steady work on the Broadway stage, Tallulah Bankhead would bound into the Algonquin at lunchtime, wearing the same sorry black dress, and pick at the food from our plates. She was clever and funny and wild, so we rarely slapped her hand. And, now, she was doing well enough to buy most any dress in Bergdorf’s windows. She was welcome to the dress, really. I just didn’t want to be rushed out of my fantasy of buying it just yet.

  “Did you hear about Reginald Pierce?” she asked, pushing a Marcel wave under her hat, while checking her reflection in the window glass. “Alas, we won’t have Old Reg to sling mud at anymore.”

  “There’s always Billie Burke,” I reassured her. She gave me a sly smile, then threw back her head and let out a hearty, throaty laugh.

  You see, a couple of years ago, while working at my first job as an arts editor at Vanity Fair, Frank Crowninshield, the magazine’s editor-in-chief, took me out to lunch at the Tea Court of the Plaza Hotel, and while sipping cocktails and slurping down oysters—actually we were slurping down cocktails as well as the oysters—Frank fired me after four years in his employ. He explained I was not being let go because I didn’t know how to change the typewriter ribbon (as was my usual quip for not handing in copy in a timely manner), but because of my review of Miss Billie Burke’s performance on Broadway in Caesar’s Wife. I made note that Miss Burke was far too “mature” at thirty-five to be playing the ingénue role in the play. Actually, I think she was miffed because I insinuated that she had thick ankles. Had the review been about anyone else, or had Miss Burke not been the wife of the great Florenz Ziegfeld, one of the most powerful Broadway producers as well as the magazine’s biggest advertiser, my comment that Miss Burke’s impersonation of Eva Tanguay (the I Don’t Care Girl) had been an unfortunate artistic choice might have merely elicited chuckles of agreement and kudos for my cutting wit.

  “Poor old Reggie,” moaned Tallulah, slipping a hankie from her purse. She was dabbing dry eyes when an idea suddenly dawned to light up her face. “I must be off, Dottie, dahhhling.”

  “You’re running off! Well, I thought, since we’re here, we’d go in the store and look around, ’Lulla, and then slink on over to Tony Soma’s for a drink,” I pouted with disappointment. I liked Tallulah, and I was glad she’d stopped me on the street. Here was an opportunity to catch up with some long-neglected gossip. She was as serious a drinking woman as I, and lots of fun. “Why the bum’s rush?”

  “Dahhhling Dottie, you’re no bum, dahhhling. It’s just—I realized Reggie’s apartment must be available, now he’s dead and all. . . . I’ve got to find out if it’s available to rent before anyone else leases it!”

  “’Lulla, dearest, unless you wish to purchase the Reginald Pierce Theatre on West 46th, you can’t get the apartment.” Her frowning stare informed me she hadn’t a clue about what I was talking about. “Reggie lived in the apartment above his new theatre. You’d have to buy the entire building.”

  “Rats!” she said, her hopes dashed. “I thought he had an apartment at the Dakota.”

  “Ahh, I see. No, dearest, his wife threw him out last winter, so he made himself a gorgeous pied-à-terre on the top floor of the theatre.”

  “That’s right, he was married. I forgot he was married.”

  “Reggie forgot he was married, too; that’s why Myrtle threw him out.”

  We walked into Bergdorf Goodman’s, where Tallulah drove a salesgirl to the brink of insanity while deciding which of four hats she should buy, before rejecting all and insisting we make a stop at Henri Bendel’s, just up the street along 57th, to check out their haberdashery.

  The streets were teal blue and the street lamps alight when we walked out of Bendel’s. Rectangles of yellow light stacked vertically into the darkening sky, lending warmth to the dimming geometry of New York’s cityscape. It was rush hour, and the hum and honking of traffic and the murmur of humanity bustling along the sidewalks on a million journeys brought a new rhythm to the music of my Manhattan. I love New York. It all happens here, and I never know, upon waking in the morning, what my day will bring.

  All’s fair in love, war, and, in Manhattan, securing a taxi. We managed to snag a cab out from under the grasp of two very determined businessmen with the help of Woodrow Wilson and a much-rehearsed trick. I said, “Hail a cab, Woodrow!” With his teeth gently pulling the cuff of one gentleman’s trouser leg, before moving on to the cuff of the other fellow’s, he succeeded in causing just
enough distraction for us to hop into the cab before the boys realized they had been bamboozled.

  “Good boy, Woodrow!” I laughed as he leaped onto my lap and licked my face.

  “I have to get me one of those,” said Tallulah.

  “Woodrow is a very special puppy dog,” I cooed, rustling his wiry fur.

  It was only a dozen blocks to Tony Soma’s, my favorite watering hole. We got out on 49th Street before what appeared a brownstone whose residents were not at home. The ground-floor windows were shuttered, and those who didn’t know better would never guess at the action happening within. The peephole isn’t even a giveaway. Tony’s establishment is only one of dozens of places like this along 49th Street.

  My knock was answered, and I gave the password. Not that I had to; Buddy, the doorkeeper, knew me well. Metal rasped against metal as the slide bolt released and the door swung open. We entered the secret world of Tony Soma’s Speakeasy.

  At Tony’s you can be assured that the liquor is safe and won’t make you sick, as in some less salubrious establishments around the city, and the clientele includes lots of my friends in the Theatre and publishing. Best of all, Tony’s doesn’t close until the last customer has gone home.

  A homey haze of cigarette smoke mingled with the aroma of frying steak and tomato sauce. There was the promise of a T-bone in Woodrow’s near future, and he sat, expectantly, while we checked our coats and bags before we were shown to a checker-clothed table.

  Maurice, our waiter, took our order: an orange blossom for me, a gin-fizz for Tallulah, and a bowl of water for Woodrow. It wasn’t long before we were joined by Bunny Wilson and Heywood Broun, who had spotted us from the bar. No girl-talk tonight, I realized, when Johnny Barrymore, still high from last -year’s brilliant portrayal of Hamlet, moved in on us. An hour later he and Tallulah ordered dinner in time to leave for their respective stage shows.

  Aleck Woollcott walked in with Mr. Benchley, and as none of us had a show to review this evening, we were all free to relax into an evening of good food, great conversation, and if not quality liquor, at least decent booze.

  Under the table, Woodrow Wilson was snoozing in postprandial splendor, several steak bones nibbled clean at his paws, as we drank from heavy white “coffee” cups. The sudden death of Reginald Pierce was among the various topics of discussion, and there was wild speculation about what would happen now that his empire had been dealt such a blow. Rumor had it the divorce from wife Myrtle had not been finalized, although there were rumors that it had been. If he and Myrtle had still been married when he died, would she cancel the evening’s performances of his three Broadway shows, or would the curtains go up? Would, because of the publicity and perhaps a macabre interest, his shows sell out, even though two were just hanging in there by threads and the third was set to close any day now, after a shaky opening and bad reviews? Three-hundred-and-fifty-six people might either be out of work soon, or enjoy a reprieve from joblessness. And then there was the real estate, the vast art collection, the many stockholdings, as well as the production companies. Who, if the divorce had been finalized, would inherit? All I can say is that there had been a lot of scrambling around the past nine hours since the discovery of Reginald’s dead body, and along with the disingenuous whispers and long faces there existed a good smattering of glee that he’d finally got his comeuppance. Just as soon as the topic had made a full circle, people moved on to the next pain-in-the-neck of local gossip: Lee Shubert and his new theatre, which was built without stage access from the dressing rooms and without hot water!

  Bunny and Heywood got into enthusiastic conversation with a couple of editors from the Times, who sat at the next table, about the elections in Italy, and by eight o’clock, Aleck, Mr. Benchley, and I, pulling along a very reluctant Boston terrier, bid all a good-night and bustled out into the street.

  The evening was pleasantly cool as we sauntered along toward Sixth Avenue. We were only a couple of avenues from Broadway and Times Square. Curtains would rise soon, and the streets became brighter and busier with automobile, streetcar, and pedestrian traffic as we neared the Great White Way.

  Fur-wrapped and chiffon-gowned women, their jewels sparkling, and men in shiny black top hats and tails spilled out of Silver Ghosts, Duesenberg touring cars, Packards, and Stutzes at the prompting of liveried chauffeurs. And mingling with the swells were modestly attired office girls and stock clerks arriving in cabs and trolleys and rising from the steps of the subways to fill the cheap seats of the balconies.

  Marquees were lit with the names of our friends. On 47th Street alone, Katherine Cornell was appearing in The Outsider, Helen Hayes in Dancing Mothers, Ethel Barrymore in The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, and Marilyn Miller in a revival of Peter Pan, with Leslie Banks playing Captain Hook! We were stopped numerous times, much to Aleck’s pleasure—he is a ham and likes to be fawned over—by many friends and acquaintances, as we strolled through the crowds of theatregoers who were eagerly anticipating the exciting spectacles of the Stage. Not only were the marquees lit up with electricity, so were the people.

  On our way to Aleck’s new residence, which he had purchased with Jane Grant and Harold Ross on West 46th Street, it came at us like a surprise to find ourselves approaching the Reginald Pierce Theatre. It looked like the curtain was going to go up in spite of the producer’s death and the show’s God-awful reviews. Aleck’s critique for the New York Times was hysterical, if brutal, if deserving. The play received only one good notice, and that was from the Tribune’s Ralph (pronounced Rafe) Chittenham, in which he praised the show, calling Lucille’s Montaine’s performance “inspiration in touching understatement,” whatever the hell that means!

  “See what the right kind of publicity can do?” I said.

  “Murder the producer and you’ve got a hit,” agreed Mr. Benchley.

  “Better to have murdered the star, of course,” said Aleck. “Lucille Montaine’s performance will most definitely clear the house—if not tonight, then eventually.”

  “I agree with you, Aleck. After this mob endures Lucille’s mumbling, bumbling, and stumbling, my review for the Saturday Evening Post will seem kind.”

  This is where I should enlighten those who do not know me—people living in Saskatchewan or the sparsely populated regions of these United States that receive no postal delivery for subscriptions of the Saturday Evening Post or Vanity Fair or the Bookman. For those who might chance upon this journal, unwittingly tossed aside by a camper from the city during an exploratory expedition, when, while relaxing with one of the aforementioned journals by the evening campfire, said camper was rudely interrupted by a black bear demanding more than the fellow’s marshmallows: My “celebrity,” for I would not be so presumptuous as to call it “fame,” aside from my very fresh, honest, and often self-deriding poetic verses, arose from my natural talent of cutting to the quick in a fashion that is humorous. Sometimes, I flip the viewpoint, as in my review for this, Reginald Pierce’s new show, which was such an abomination that I couldn’t find a way to begin to tell my readers just how bad it was without using the word “shit.” So rather than deal with the censors, I concentrated my critique on the very fine performances of the theatre ushers, the doormen, the house manager, and the box office staff, and the exceptional debut of the ladies’ lounge attendant, a newcomer in black dress and starched white pinafore and cap, agile in sensible shoes, who delivered her line, “Good-evening, Madame!,” with aplomb, while at the same time handing over a crisp, white towel. I rested all my criticism on the audience: their failure to applaud, stomp, and whistle at the appropriate times.

  I love the Theatre and the people who are part of making great Theatre. It’s true that my readers expect me to write with clever, entertaining insight, but why be mean when I can get the point across by being droll? And here’s a secret: I actually liked Reginald Pierce. Others may have seen him as a rat, but he always behaved gentlemanly toward me. Aside from the fact that he’d suffered more than his fair share of flo
ps in recent years, he’d also brought to the Stage many successes, many works of high quality. I think people didn’t like him because, like me, he didn’t suffer fools easily. And the Theatre is full of fools, let me tell you. In this business, too, as in any other, success does breed contempt. People relish the downfall of the rich, the powerful, and the accomplished.

  “Aleck, have you ever been to Reggie’s apartment?” I asked, picking up Woodrow Wilson, who was dragging from fatigue.

  “Only been to the Dakota apartment with Edna Ferber, to a party for Myrtle, her birthday or something-or-other. . . .”

  “Is the entrance to the apartment from inside the theatre’s lobby?”

  “How the hell should I know! I’ve never been here, I say!”

  “Stop being such a crank,” I chided. He was obviously more upset by Reggie’s death than he had been letting on. “I only thought we might go on up and pay our respects, and maybe drink a toast to him; I hear Reggie imported the very best Scotch, so they say.”

  That lightened his mood.

  We inquired within the lobby for the entrance to the apartment, but were told we needed to walk around past the stage-door entrance where another door, further along, led to an elevator that would take us up to the top floor.

  Easily found, but the door was locked. I rang the bell. No one answered after a second and third try. Finally, disgruntled once more, but this time at the disappointing possibility of really fine Scotch whiskey being beyond his reach, Aleck took my purse and riffled through, looking for an appropriately sharp and pointed object. Failing that, Mr. Benchley took out his penknife and told us to step aside. A couple of precise twists and we were in.

  “Mr. Benchley, I’m pleased to inform you that you are now among the rank-and-file of New York’s criminal element,” I applauded him.

  “But, I deplore politics!”

  We entered the elevator, and soon found ourselves arrived at a small foyer, walls painted blood-red, and facing an elaborately decorated door. We knocked and waited, and knocked again. It never dawned on me that there would be no staff to welcome us. When I turned the knob as a last resort, it turned without resistance.