He took off the top hat. His hair was ginger red. Now he stood over their table. The man was devilishly handsome, Dorothy thought, except for his teeth, which were yellow, crooked and foul. Looking into his mouth was like looking into a rusty can filled with a jumble of old, ivory mah-jongg tiles. Even his gums receded, as if to get away from those decrepit teeth.
“Go on.” He grinned, his eyes flashing. “Tell us a joke.”
Benchley said the first thing that came to mind. “What’s black and white and red all over?”
“Hmph,” the man said, disappointed. “A newspaper.”
“Nope,” Benchley said. “A zebra with eczema.”
The man’s smile disintegrated. “I said I like a
funny
joke.”
“Try the liver,” Dorothy said. “You’ll feel funny in no time.”
The red-haired man smiled. “Now, that’s a joke. So, let’s say you two come with us. We’ll have a drink, share some more laughs, and have a nice little chat.”
“Chat about what?” she said.
“Your friend Mr. Dachshund. I hear you’ve been talking about him to the police. They’re looking for him, I know. But I want to find him first.”
She didn’t like his smile. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach, and it wasn’t from the liver.
“Thanks for the invitation,” she said, “but it’s late, and we each have liver to eat.”
“It wasn’t an invitation. Let’s go. Or you’ll have lead to eat.”
“What if we put up a fight?”
He threw his head back and erupted in laughter. “Put up a fight? Oh, now, that is funny. You are too funny, miss. Put up a fight, will you?” Tears rolled down his cheeks as his laughter subsided. The menace returned to his eyes and his voice. “You and what army?”
The bell tinkled again.
She exclaimed, “Well, if it isn’t my old friend Jack Dempsey! And you brought some friends!”
The square-shouldered boxer entered calmly, confidently. Behind him, extending out the door, was a gang of a dozen other tough-looking men. Probably fellow boxers or cornermen, Dorothy thought.
“Mrs. Parker,” Dempsey said, ignoring the red-haired man as he stepped by him. “Ain’t that a kick in the head to see you here. Talk about a coincidence. Why, my pals here were just walking by on our way to find a cocktail. Would you like to join us?”
“Delighted,” she said, scrambling out of the booth.
The redheaded man stepped forward, his blue eyes raging. “Why don’t you make plans to meet Mr. Dempsey later? It’s not healthy to eat and run, don’t you know?”
Benchley shoved away his plate. “It’s not healthy to eat in here, period.”
“Hey, take that back, too,” the cook yelled from behind the counter. Everyone ignored him.
Dorothy wouldn’t be intimidated. She started toward the door.
The red-haired man stood in her way, holding the shillelagh to block her path. He spoke between his clenched yellow teeth. “I’m telling you, it’s not good for your health. You’ll live longer if you take your time.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
She brushed by him. Dempsey stepped aside to let her pass, and although she wanted to run, she calmly strolled out the door, followed by Dempsey’s gang of boxers. Benchley jumped up, threw a few bills on the table, and quickly joined the group.
Outside, it was still dark on the nearly deserted city street. Dempsey walked beside her.
“That was pretty gutsy of you,” he said.
“Gutsy of me?” she gushed. “You came to our rescue.”
“Don’t sweat it. That hoodlum wouldn’t touch me, especially with my chums here. But he could knock down your door anytime, and there’s not much I can do about it unless I just happen to be nearby, like I was tonight when your friend Mr. Benchley called.”
“Strange men knocking down my door?” she said. “Sounds like an average Saturday night.”
Dempsey placed his large hand on her sleeve. “Hold on, now. You do know who that was back there, don’t you? Only one of the most ruthless gangsters in the city.”
“Was it? I confess I didn’t catch his name.”
“That was Mickey Finn.”
Chapter 24
The Sunday afternoon sun slanted through her bedroom window and warmed her face. She sat up in bed. The sunlight felt good, and she realized she felt good. She felt alert and ready to go.
This was unusual. Most Sunday afternoons, she woke up hungover and irritable.
The good feeling was short-lived, though, as she recalled the night before ... the long grilling by Captain Church and Detective O’Rannigan. The close call at the greasy spoon with Mickey Finn and his henchmen. Then Jack Dempsey had informed her that he wasn’t really up late drinking cocktails. He was up early and on his way to the gym. He said he hoped to see her again; then he and his pals left. Benchley had walked her back to the Algonquin; then he, too, toddled off to the train station to spend the day with his family.
She kicked the blankets off. She lit a cigarette and exhaled fiercely. The hell with all those men!
Woodrow Wilson hopped up on her bed and nuzzled under her arm. The poor dog needed a walk, she knew. But would she be safe if she took the dog for a stroll by herself? She imagined a long black limousine pulling up alongside her, a pack of men in long coats jumping out, grabbing her, dragging her inside.
The dog laid its head on her lap.
The hell with Mickey Finn! Who was he to cage her up on such a brilliant, sunny day?
“Come on, Woody. Let’s go for a walk.”
The dog jumped down from the bed with a bark. He seemed to make a playful bow. His forelegs stretched out, his backside went up in the air, his stubby tail wagged expectantly and his snout curled almost in a grin.
While she got dressed, she tried to catch the thread of a nagging thought. Several things about the previous night bothered her, but there was something in particular. Something about someone Church had asked about ...
Was it something about Frank Case? Could the hotel manager have murdered someone in his own hotel to make headlines? That bothered her, true, but that wasn’t it.
Was it something about Robert Sherwood? Sherwood had certainly killed men in the war; that was a fact. But Sherwood, even if pushed far enough to kill, wouldn’t have murdered Mayflower in so cowardly a fashion. No, her mind was certain about Sherwood. But, she remembered something else. Church and O’Rannigan wanted to pull Sherwood in for questioning. She’d have to warn him. But, still, this wasn’t the thread she was trying to get hold of.
Was it something about Woollcott? Perhaps. O’Rannigan had said Mayflower went behind Woollcott’s back to land the Saber fountain pen endorsement contract. That had surprised her. Had Woollcott seriously wanted that endorsement deal? Would it compel him to murder with the very item in question? Hmm. Something didn’t add up there. Mayflower had been appearing in the Saber ads for months now. But on the day he was murdered, Mayflower had contacted Woollcott to brag about some
new
accomplishment.
That wasn’t quite it, but that was closer to the thought she was trying to recollect. Something about Mayflower. Something else that she didn’t know—
Yes, that was it! Mayflower had a lover. Everyone seemed so desperate to catch Mayflower’s killer, yet no one seemed to give a damn about Mayflower himself. Perhaps she could go talk to the man—what was his name? Aloysius Neeley; that was it. Perhaps she could go talk to Mr. Neeley to learn a little bit more about Mayflower. Maybe, somehow, she’d learn of a connection between Mayflower and the Sandman. Maybe this would get the cops and the gangsters off her back, which in turn might bring Faulkner out of hiding, and then the whole lousy mess would be over with. Maybe.
Hell, it was worth a shot.
She was starting to feel better again. In the elevator, she cheerfully greeted old Maurice. “Good morning!”
“It’s afternoon,” he grumbled.
“Says you.” She smiled.
She walked the dog through the lobby. Sunday afternoons were always quiet. She realized she was hungry, but it was well past lunchtime. The Vicious Circle did not gather for lunch on Sundays.
“Oh, Dottie,” called a sultry female voice.
She turned around. Neysa McMein approached her, looking considerably worse for wear. Neysa wore the same slim black dress she had worn when Dorothy saw her at last night’s poker game. Neysa’s beautiful half-lidded eyes drooped more than usual.
“What happened to you last night?” Neysa said.
“I could ask the same of you,” Dorothy said.
“The last we saw, that grizzly bear of a policeman dragged you and Mr. Benchley out the door. We thought you might be in for a spell at Sing Sing.”
“I sang-sang, all right. I sang like a bird. The police questioned us all night.”
She explained to Neysa how Captain Church had a long list of suspects and how she and Benchley had to answer for each one.
“How detestable,” Neysa said. “On a brighter note, I’m having a little get-together at my studio on Thursday night. Can you make it?”
For these “little get-togethers,” Neysa threw open the door of her spacious artist’s studio, and anyone and everyone was likely to walk in. While the party went on, Neysa continued to paint. These huge gatherings were often the oddest and most interesting parties that Dorothy attended.
“Can I make it?” she said. “Try and stop me.”
She said good-bye to Neysa and steered the dog away. She hadn’t gone more than a few paces when she saw the tall figure of Robert Sherwood approaching.
“What happened to you last night?” he said.
As she had explained to Neysa, Dorothy repeated the events of the previous night.
“And that’s not all,” she added. “Captain Church said he wanted to bring you in for questioning, too. I’m sorry if I said anything to get you into hot water.”
“It’s not your fault. That’s what I get for tormenting Bud Battersby. Next time, I’ll watch my temper.”
She paused, thinking.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “How many men did you kill in the war?”
“Not many, I don’t think. I don’t know, really. Why?”
“Would you kill a man for revenge?”
“Honestly, Mrs. Parker.” He pretended to be insulted, but there was an amused grin behind his shocked grimace. “Leland Mayflower, do you mean? First of all, why would I wait a year after his malicious drama review to get my revenge? And second of all, to answer your question, no, I don’t think I could kill a man out of revenge, even at my worst. And third, even if I could, I wouldn’t hire some devious thug to do the deed for me.”
“That’s what I thought.” She felt relieved, even though she’d known how he would answer. “By the way, have you ever heard anyone mention Mayflower’s boyfriend, Aloysius Neeley?”
“No, though I always had the impression Mayflower skulked around with some sequin-shirted chorus boy. Did you check the obvious sources?”
“The theater guild, you mean? It’s Sunday. They’re closed.”
“Some detective you’d be,” he said. “I meant the city directory.”
She said good-bye to Sherwood and made her way to the hotel’s front desk. She asked to see the city directory.
A suave voice purred in her ear. “What happened to you last night?”
“Everyone keeps asking me that,” she said, turning to greet the Algonquin’s manager, Frank Case. Having explained what happened twice in just the past ten minutes, she didn’t feel like going over it again. “Let me ask you a question instead. Would you kill a man for the publicity?”
Case considered this. “In my own hotel? Do you think that’s the kind of publicity I really want? Dead men lying about in our restaurant? Not very appetizing, I’d venture to say.”
She felt ashamed to even consider that he might find such notoriety appealing.
Case continued, “So, do you imagine that Leland Mayflower was murdered for the sake of publicity?”
“Not his own, certainly,” she said.
“Then for whose?”
Yes, indeed,
she thought,
for whose?
Aloysius Neeley was not what she had expected. She had pictured Neeley as an ostentatiously pretty young playboy, his grin too wide and his hair artificially blackened, wearing a flashy tie and an expensive suit, living in a ridiculously extravagant apartment overlooking Central Park, squandering away his trust fund or living off Mayflower’s generosity.
But the city directory informed her that Neeley lived on West Forty-eighth Street, not a far walk but far enough from Central Park. Neeley’s apartment was in an unremarkable building in a modest neighborhood. Dorothy stood in the April sunshine and stared up at the building. She finished off the little roast beef sandwich that Frank Case had fetched (or more precisely, that Luigi the waiter had fetched) for her, and tossed the last bite to Woodrow Wilson, who chomped it down in one gulp.
The doorman admitted her and directed her to Neeley’s apartment. She knocked. A middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses (much like her own) opened the door. She immediately assumed it must be Neeley’s father.
“Is Aloysius Neeley at home?”
“I’m Aloysius Neeley, but you can call me Lou. Can I help you?”
The man wore a camel’s hair sweater over a cream-colored shirt. His hair seemed to be colored, but it was brown, not glossy black. His shoes—the same color as his hair—were in need of a polish. He was trim, but his apparently once-handsome rectangular face had softened with age, like a favorite old suitcase.
Without asking her permission, the man bent to scratch the dog behind the ears. She liked Lou Neeley immediately.
“Can I help you?” he repeated. He had a soft, mellifluous voice.
“My name is Dorothy Parker. I’d like to talk to you about Leland Mayflower.”
Chapter 25
They sat on the sofa. Lou Neeley handed her a cup of hot black tea.
“What would you like to know about merry old Mayflower?” he said. His expression was one of sadness mixed with fondness.