A Friendly Game of Murder (7 page)

Just then Dr. Hurst groaned. His face twisted in pain and, clutching one hand to his head, he sank to his knees. Then he collapsed to the floor with a thud.

Chapter 9

“S
tep aside,” yelled Doyle. Dorothy and the others moved back. Doyle kneeled by the prone body of Dr. Hurst and carefully rolled him over.

“What’s the matter with him?” Fairbanks asked. “He’s not—”

Doyle pressed his ear to Dr. Hurst’s narrow chest. “He’s alive, but his breathing is quite shallow. Let’s lift him to the other side of the bed.”

“Oh dear,” Mary said, biting her lip. She nervously twisted one of her long blond curls with her forefinger as she watched her husband and Doyle lift Dr. Hurst onto the bed and alongside Bibi’s dead body. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

Doyle resumed his examination of Dr. Hurst, checking his pulse and his breathing.

“You shouldn’t have wound him up,” Dorothy muttered to Woollcott. “You broke his watch spring.”

Frank Case leaned forward. “Is it a heart attack?”

“I don’t think so.” Doyle lifted one of Dr. Hurst’s eyelids, then the other. He muttered to himself, “Hmm, one pupil is dilated.” Then he pronounced, “My working diagnosis is apoplexy—a stroke.”

Mary couldn’t hold her emotions any longer. She clutched at her husband’s arm. “Oh, Douglas! First a dead woman and now a dying man in our bed—
our bed
! I can’t bear it. We’ll have to burn the sheets. No, we’ll have to burn the whole bed and buy a new one!”

“You might want to remove the bodies before you burn it,” Dorothy said to her.

Doyle spoke forcefully to Mary. “I never said he was dying! The apoplexy has affected only one side of his body. He has every chance of eventual recovery.”

But Mary wasn’t listening. She had turned to leave the room.

Woollcott called after her, “Don’t go far, Mary. You’re our first suspect!”

She stopped and turned slowly. “Suspect?
Me?
What are you talking about, Aleck?”

Dorothy muttered to him, “Not sure this is the time, Detective Woollcott.”

“This is precisely the time,” Woollcott said to her, then turned again to Mary. “Were you not the last to see the deceased alive?”

Mary put a hand to her chest. “The
deceased
?”

“Yes, the deceased.” He pointed to the dead body in the bed. “Bibi Bibelot! Mrs. Parker said she encountered you in the lobby just before midnight, and you were on your way up here to have it out with Bibi.”

“Quiet, please,” Doyle said. “Or remove yourselves from the room. This man—my friend—is in a most serious condition.” He bent to search through Dr. Hurst’s medical bag and removed a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope. He put the ends of the stethoscope into his ears. He glanced at Benchley. “Would you be so kind as to go down to Quentin’s room and fetch Mr. Jordan? He may be of the utmost assistance in this matter.”

Benchley nodded agreeably and moved toward the door.

Dorothy turned to follow. “Mind if I join you, Mr. Benchley?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Parker,” he said with a smile. “I can manage.” He walked out of the bedroom and then quickly left the apartment.

“No, thank you”?
She stopped in her tracks.
What now? Is he jealous of Mr. Jordan? Or is he somehow mad at me for not being by his side at midnight? Or . . . what?

Meanwhile Woollcott, Fairbanks and Mary had moved out into the living room to continue their argument. Dorothy, too, left the bedroom to join them.

Woollcott said to Mary, “I saw you casting daggers with your eyes at Bibi all night. You hated that she was the center of attention at your party. And were you not the last person to leave this apartment before midnight?”

Dorothy interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. “Enough, Aleck! This is life and death, not one of your little parlor games.”

Woollcott faced her with a confident look. “Indeed you’re right, Mrs. Parker! No one understands that as well as I. This is most certainly a matter of life and death, and I am dealing with it accordingly. Now, didn’t you say Mary was the last one to leave this penthouse before midnight?”

Dorothy didn’t respond. She looked to Mary and expected her to profess her innocence.

Instead Mary’s husband spoke up. “I was the last one to see Bibi alive. I tried to persuade her to get out of the tub, but she wouldn’t,” Fairbanks said.

Woollcott frowned. “Hogwash. Don’t try to cover for your wife, Douglas. I saw you down in the lobby after you shooed everyone out of the party.”

Fairbanks hesitated. “This was before you saw me in the lobby.”

“Nonsense, Douglas,” Woollcott said, and turned to Fairbanks’ wife. “Come clean, Mary. Did you or did you not say to Mrs. Parker that you were coming up to this penthouse to deal with Bibi?”

Mary began twisting another lock of her blond hair. “Well, yes, I did say that—”

“Aha!” Woollcott cried.

Mary spoke more loudly. “Yes, I did say that to Dottie. But I never made it up here. I encountered Lydia Trumbull in the elevator. She was in an emotional state, so I went with her to her room on the second floor to talk.”

Woollcott frowned again. This didn’t fit in his theory. “Talk? Talk about what?”

Mary bit her lip.

“Aha! You’re keeping secrets!” Woollcott said, jabbing his fat index finger into the air.

Dorothy put a hand to her head. “Aleck, stop saying ‘Aha!’”

Woollcott looked pleased. “But now we have another suspect. Lydia Trumbull—who was in an emotional state! Where had she come from when you encountered her in the elevator?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Mary said. “Her room, I suppose.”

“Was the elevator going up or going down?”

“Well, down, of course,” she said. “Lydia was on it when it arrived in the lobby.”

“So she had come down,” Woollcott said slowly and dramatically. “As in, she came down from her room—or perhaps she had come down from this very penthouse after murdering Bibi!”

Dorothy folded her arms. “Hang on there,
Detective
Woollcott. Exactly who is it that you suspect? Mary or Lydia?”

He turned to her. “I suspect everyone! You included, Dottie. Were you not alone with Bibi’s body when I found you?”

“Oh, good gravy,” Dorothy moaned.

“There’s more of grave than of gravy in this,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“Aleck, stop it,” she said. “You’re being morbid. I’m not one to surrender to scruple, but the dead woman is in the next room. She’s barely even cold.”

“She’s as cold as the grave, Dottie,” Woollcott said. “Silent as the grave, as well. Who will speak for her? The hotel is quarantined. No policeman can enter the building. Someone must figure out what happened, and I’m just the one to do it. Little Acky has never lost a case!”

“Maybe not,” she said. “But Little Acky has lost his marbles.”

Chapter 10

“Y
ou can drop your investigation,” Dorothy said to Woollcott. “I’m calling the police.”

He made a slight bow. “Be my guest. I welcome their involvement.”

An elaborate pearl-handled telephone sat on the end table by the sofa. Dorothy went toward it.

“Dottie,” Fairbanks said with a sort of impatient bluster, “is that absolutely necessary? Why bother them with this now? As Aleck says, no one can even enter the building.”

“Why
bother
them?” she asked. “You have a dead body in your bed, Douglas. I don’t think they’ll mind a quick phone call.”

She picked up the handset and tapped the switch hook. “Operator?” There was silence on the other end. “Operator?”

She tapped the switch hook again and more vigorously now.

A woman’s weary, hoarse voice answered. “Operator speaking.”

“Mavis?” Dorothy asked. “Is that you? You sound like a sick kitten.”

“I am a sick kitten, Mrs. Parker,” the woman’s throaty voice answered. “Been on this switchboard all night. My voice is kaput. So, what can I do for you?”

“Put me through to the police, please,” Dorothy said.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker. I’m having trouble making outside calls. There’s something wrong with this lousy old thing. Or maybe all the snow affected the lines. You’ll have to come down here and place the call directly from the switchboard, using the emergency line.”

Dorothy thanked her and hung up.

“Well?” Woollcott said. “Are they coming?”

She ignored him and went back to the bedroom, where Case was conferring with Doyle.

“What can be done for a stroke, Dr. Doyle?” the hotel manager asked. “What’s the treatment?”

“Well, I’m not precisely sure.” Doyle ran a hand over his chin. “It’s been decades since I’ve been in actual medical practice.”

“Maybe raise his head?”

“Of course,” Doyle said confidently, but then he looked uncertain. “Or is it perhaps his feet?”

Dorothy interrupted. “I’m going down to the switchboard to call the police. Shall I also call for an ambulance?”

Doyle sighed in relief. “That would be most welcome, Mrs. Parker. Thank you. Bring them at once.”

Now Case spoke uncertainly. “I’m not sure if they’ll be able to enter the building with the quarantine—”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” she said.

Case studied the pale, thin face of Dr. Hurst. “But it’s certainly worth a try.”

She shook her head and left. Woollcott followed right behind her. He turned to Douglas and Mary. “Don’t go anywhere, you two. We shall talk further.”

“Where would we go?” Fairbanks asked. “This is our apartment.”

Dorothy stopped and faced Woollcott, who nearly collided with her. “Must you come with me?”

Woollcott puffed out his chest. “I want to speak with the authorities myself. I want their official permission to investigate this case.”

“You’re the only case around here. A nutcase.”

She went into the hallway toward the elevator and reached for the call button. But before she could press it, the elevator door opened. Benchley and Jordan stepped out.

“Oh, Fred, there you are!” she said. “Please come with me.”

Benchley smiled—but it wasn’t his usual warm lovely-to-see-you smile. It was more like a don’t-bother-me-right-now smile.

“Go with you?” he asked.

“I’m going down to the lobby to call the police.”

He made that smile again. “I’m certain you can handle a phone call on your own, Mrs. Parker. Artie and Mr. Jordan might need my help with Dr. Hurst.” The smile still on his face, he walked past her. Then he called over his shoulder, “And please stop calling me Fred.”

She stood and watched him go.

In a huff, she turned and stomped onto the elevator.
Is he trying to punish me? That’s certainly not like Benchley. And punish me for what? For merely giving handsome Mr. Jordan a fleeting glance earlier? The punishment doesn’t fit the crime!

“Where to?” said Maurice, the elevator operator, after Woollcott stepped in, too.

“Where to?”
she snapped. “Twice around the park and take the scenic route.”

“You want to pick a floor?” Maurice asked impatiently in his creaky old voice. “Or you want me to pick?”

“Lobby,” she said gruffly. “And step on it.”

“Hmm,” Woollcott said. “Is there trouble in Lovey-Dovey Land?”

She gritted her teeth.

When she didn’t answer, he spoke again. “No caustic remark? No vicious retort?”

“Sometimes the best reply to an insult isn’t another insult,” she said, “but a quick knee to the groin. Do you still want my reply?”

They stood in silence as Woollcott cast nervous glances at her.

Before they reached the lobby, a light flashed and a bell sounded on the operator’s controls. Maurice stopped the elevator on the second floor. He opened the door, and there stood Lydia Trumbull. Her eyes were wet from tears.

“Aha!” Woollcott cried, pointing his finger at her.

Lydia was taken aback. “Going up?” she asked nervously.

“Not by a long shot, lady,” Woollcott said. “You’re going down.”

“What?
Down?
”

“Down to the jailhouse. You’re a suspect in the murder of Bibi Bibelot!”

Lydia’s pale eyes widened. Then her eyelashes fluttered, her head tilted back and she crumpled into a heap on the floor in a dead faint.

* * *

Dorothy and Woollcott lifted the unconscious Lydia off the floor.

“Wonderful investigative skills, detective.” Dorothy spoke in gasps to him. “You nearly frightened the poor woman to death.”

With the actress’ arms over their shoulders, they struggled to carry her—dragging her feet on the carpeted hallway—back to her room.

“Frightened her, did I?” Woollcott wheezed. “Where there’s fear, there’s guilt. And guilt flees from Alexander Woollcott!”

“So does common sense,” Dorothy said as they reached Lydia’s room. “Now, hold her up while I unlock the door.”

Lydia had held a room key in her hand when they encountered her. After she fainted, Dorothy had picked it up from the floor. Dorothy shifted the weight of Lydia’s body toward Woollcott, who groaned. Dorothy slid the key in the lock, opened the door and flicked on the lights.

Then they struggled to maneuver Lydia through the door. Although the actress was petite, neither Dorothy nor Woollcott was strong, and it took effort not to simply let Lydia drop into a heap on the bed. Instead they did their best to slide her gently onto the bedspread.

“Whew,” Woollcott said breathlessly. “Someone should alert the Michelin Guide. Guests are dropping like flies in this hotel.”

Dorothy stared at him. “
You
did this to her. This is your fault. Now go back upstairs. Dr. Hurst probably has smelling salts in that medical bag of his. Go get them.”

Woollcott snorted. “Why should we offer succor to the accused?”

“Why should I not sock you in the eye? You made her faint, so you wake her up.”

He frowned but eventually turned and left. Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief. That little errand would get him out of her hair for a few minutes at least. She wanted to talk to Lydia without Aleck frightening her again.

She looked around the room. What could she use to wake Lydia up while he was gone?

There were a number of medicine bottles on the bedside table. Dorothy picked up a few and scrutinized their labels. A couple were liquids, and the rest were pills or powders. Most she recognized as sleep medicines or tranquilizers—laudanum, Veronal, hydroxycodone, even morphine. But nothing that appeared to be a stimulant.

Dorothy looked down at the inert actress’ troubled face and thought for a moment. She had read somewhere that the main ingredient of smelling salts was not salt but ammonia. She went to the bathroom, but of course there was no ammonia. The Algonquin was a residence hotel and had two types of rooms—regular hotel rooms booked by the night, and suites for rent for residents such as herself. Lydia’s room was a guest room, of course, not a rental suite. As such, it had no cleaning supplies.

Dorothy went back into the bedroom, and then opened the door and looked up and down the corridor. Dorothy herself lived in a very small rental suite down the hall. She had no ammonia in her apartment, though, because she never cleaned. But across the hall lived old Mrs. Volney. . . .

Dorothy stared at the door. Even at this hour, she could hear the cats mewing inside. But cats were nocturnal creatures, of course. And, for that matter, so was Mrs. Volney. Day or night, the meddlesome old woman would poke her head out of her door at the slightest disturbance, and then she’d grin with her gray teeth and her thin lips when she saw that someone had stumbled and dropped a carton of eggs, or had twisted an ankle on a fold in the carpet.

“Oh, dear me!” she’d always say with a smirk of pleasure. “Someone should
do
something about that!”

But for Dorothy there was more to her dislike of Mrs. Volney than just the old woman’s nosiness. In Dorothy’s heart of hearts, one of her greatest fears was that she’d someday end up like Mrs. Volney. A wrinkled, doddering busybody who had nothing in her life other than tending her unruly cats and feeding like a parasite off of others’ daily misfortunes. Dorothy swore to herself to never become like that. She strode across the hall and knocked on the door as if to spite fate. Mrs. Volney opened it almost immediately.

The old woman’s wispy hair was the color of pewter. It lay flattened on her head and rolled in curlers by her ears. She wore an ivory-colored robe that had once been elegant but was now yellowed and shabby. She had a dowager’s hump and always held her hands up in front of her frail, narrow body—she looked like a praying mantis, Dorothy thought. Or perhaps a
preying
mantis.

“Well, hello to you, Miss Parker,” she said in her shrill, creaking voice, like a rusty old machine that was missing a few pieces. “My, but it’s late for social calls, isn’t it?”

“It’s
Mrs
. Parker, if you please. And this isn’t a social call—”

“Oh yes,
Mrs
. Parker. Where is that darling husband of yours? Tell me once more what happened to him? I forget. . . .”

Like hell you forget!

Dorothy spoke matter-of-factly. “He fell down an elevator shaft and was never heard from again.” She would be damned if she satisfied this old biddy’s thirst for scandal and hardship—ammonia or no ammonia!

The truth was, her husband had gone off to the Great War in Europe, had seen too much horror, and had come home a shell of a man, hooked on morphine. Dorothy and Edwin Parker had parted ways with sadness and great regret. Dorothy kept his last name—it was the best thing he ever gave her.

But by no means was Dorothy going to repeat the story to this elderly vulture, who had already heard it at least once from her and probably several more times from others.

“Elevator, you say? My mind must be failing me in my old age. I really thought he became addicted to dope. For some women it can be so hard to keep a good man or even a mediocre one, don’t you agree?”

Dorothy struggled to hold her tongue.

Mrs. Volney continued, “Now, I’ve never had that problem. My dear Donald, may he rest in peace—”

“May we all,” Dorothy said hastily. “But, as I was saying, this is not a social call. I’m in dire need of a bottle of ammonia. Do you have one?”

“Why, certainly. I keep my little home spick and span. With four cats, cleanliness is a must. Next to godliness, as they say.” Mrs. Volney turned and shuffled off to her kitchenette, opened the cabinet under the sink and took out a glass bottle of ammonia. Dorothy looked around the woman’s tidy little apartment.

It was the same size as hers, she knew, but it seemed just a little bit larger because every item in the room was smaller: two small armchairs; a small, uncomfortable-looking couch; a small side table; a small knitting basket beside it; a small teacup with a small saucer on top. It was as though everything had been miniaturized just slightly, just enough to fit little Mrs. Volney perfectly.

Was this what old age was all about?
Dorothy wondered.
When you’re young, the world seems so immense all around you. But as you get older, your world gets smaller and smaller, reducing little by little until your modest apartment is your entire world.
Dorothy involuntarily shivered with the thought.

Mrs. Volney shuffled back to Dorothy with the bottle of ammonia in her hand. “You don’t mind if I pry, do you?”

Never stopped you before,
Dorothy thought. “Pry away,” she said.

“What can you possibly need ammonia for at this hour?”

You think I’m up to something sordid and scandalous, do you?

“Some fellas were lion hunting in my room,” Dorothy said with a straight face. “The lion put up a hell of a fight. But we got him in the end. Actually not in the end—we got him in between the eyes. Blood went everywhere. So, thank you.”

Dorothy grabbed the bottle from the woman’s spindly hands. Mrs. Volney stood there with her mouth open. Dorothy turned to go.

No, that won’t do. I can’t leave the old hag thinking I’m crackers. That would just give her more reasons for gossiping—especially about me.

Dorothy resolutely turned back around and pasted a friendly smile on her face. “Just kidding, Mrs. Volney. Actually, a friend fainted, and I need the scent of ammonia to revive her. She’s an actress. Very dramatic, you know. Always swooning and such. She’s a typical thespian.”

“She’s a . . . a what?”

Dorothy paused. “A thespian.”

“Oh, she’s one of
those
, is she?” Mrs. Volney’s expression was a mix of primness and salacious curiosity. “Well, this is the modern age, and a person’s . . . well, a person’s romantic proclivities are their own. One mustn’t be too judgmental, Mrs. Parker,” she said with a decidedly judgmental tone. “No, one mustn’t.”

Dorothy did not correct the old woman’s mistake. Instead she decided to have some fun with it. “Oh yes, Mrs. Volney. My friend is a card-carrying thespian. Quite public about it, too. I’ve seen her act ‘that way’ in public in front of hundreds of people.”