Authors: Michael Murphy
“Sure.” The cigarette girl at The Yankee Club.
Gino winked at me then gave her a nudge with his elbow. “Hey, doll, why don’t you round us up some drinks?”
Her face reddened until she appeared to notice the twinkle in his eye. She slapped his arm playfully and smiled at me. “We ain’t never been properly introduced. I’m Stella.”
“That’s what I said.” Gino shook his head.
“I didn’t realize you were a theater fan,” I said to Gino.
“I’m a fan of Laura’s, not playacting.” He took out a pack of Camels and a silver lighter. “Ain’t that something about Jimmy Vales? Two murders in one week. What’s the neighborhood coming to?”
Frankie blew out a plume of smoke. “Cops thought me and Jake had something to do with it.”
“Did you?” Gino grinned. “I’m joking.” He slipped an arm around Stella’s waist and gave her a peck on the cheek.
Stella nearly choked on her sarcasm. “Gino, I didn’t know you cared.”
“Sure you did.” He gave her another kiss. “Hey, after the show, why don’t you come back to the club and have some drinks and a plate of Ma’s spaghetti? You, too, Malzone.”
Frankie puffed with pride. “We’re going to a cast party.”
Stella checked her look in a makeup mirror. She fluffed her hair and snapped the case closed. “A cast party?”
Gino shot her a look. “Yeah, a cast party. That’s a party where, instead of charades, people put casts on each other’s arms. Fun, but it makes it hard to dance.”
“I know what a cast party is, smart-ass.” She punched him in the arm. “Got some gum?”
Gino handed her a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint.
She unwrapped the gum and shoved it in her mouth. “I just didn’t get why we ain’t invited.”
“ ’Cause we’re from the wrong side of the tracks.” Gino took a long drag on his cigarette and blew a puff past my head. “You might want to pick up a couple of broads before the party. If you don’t mind me saying so, people might get the wrong idea about you and Frankie.”
I chuckled. “What, a couple of guys can’t go to the theater together?”
“You serious? Two guys can go to the fights, a burlesque show, a pool hall, or a ball game but not the theater, unless you’re planning on picking out china together.” He pointed to the white carnation in Frankie’s lapel. “You should lose the flower. People are gonna think Jake bought you a corsage.”
Frankie’s forehead wrinkled as he glanced down at the carnation. “Edith gave me the carnation.”
“Don’t mind Gino.” Stella slipped her arm in Gino’s. “He’s just sore ’cause Jake asked you to the theater, instead of him.”
Frankie exchanged looks with Gino then me. He tossed the carnation to the sidewalk and kicked it into the gutter.
“Your reputation’s about to recover, Jake.” Gino nodded toward the lobby. “A classy dame in a hot dress is giving you the eye.”
Without her black-rimmed glasses, Dorothy Greenwoody stood beside her parents and two other couples. She looked stunning in a gorgeous green chiffon gown. She smiled and waved her fingers at me.
Hoping for an introduction to her father, I clapped Gino on the shoulder. “Thanks for everything. See you after the second act.”
I headed back to the theater as Gino stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. “Way to go, Jake.”
Inside, Dorothy held out a hand to me. Her mother, in fur and jewels as I expected, held her husband’s arm like she was the first lady and he was the president.
The other couples listened while Oliver analyzed the play. From their faces, he might as well have been the
Times
theater critic. The man’s charisma went beyond a mere war hero.
Dorothy took my hand in hers. “Mother said you called. A most pleasant surprise, Mr. Donovan.”
Feeling like a bit of a cad, I gave her hand a slight squeeze. “Jake.”
She didn’t take her eyes from me. “Mother, you remember Jake Donovan.”
I told myself Dorothy’s infatuation wasn’t with me. She was infatuated with the character
I created, Blackie Doyle, but hadn’t realized it yet. I didn’t like using her to get to her father, but Blackie wouldn’t have hesitated a minute.
Peggy steered her husband away from the other couples. “Oliver, I’d like you to meet the famous author Jake Donovan. We met on the train.”
Her husband’s tailored suit wasn’t military but still gave him a commanding presence. With silver hair and a Dick Tracy jaw, he looked like a living poster of the war hero he was. He shook my hand with the grip of a leader of men. “I’ve read all your novels.”
I hadn’t expected that. “I’m flattered.”
“Nonsense. Nothing like a good mystery to take one’s mind off the world’s real problems.” A backhanded compliment? “Dashiell Hammett’s my favorite, but you’re catching up.”
His eyes never left mine while he talked, and he appeared to actually listen when spoken to. For a moment, his allure sucked me in.
Dorothy held my hand. “Mr. Donovan fought in Europe, Father.”
He nodded toward my cane. “A war injury?”
“Really, Oliver.” Peggy shook her head. “Someone shot Mr. Donovan a few days ago. It was in all the papers.”
“That’s right. I’ve been distracted by the financial page, but I did read the police found the man responsible—dead in some back alley. We live in troubled times, Mr. Donovan.”
The lights flickered, signaling the impending start of Act II. He appeared to notice Dorothy’s hand in mine. “I hope you’re coming to the Dalrymple party.”
I let go of his daughter’s hand. “I’ll be there, sir.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Donovan. Until the next time.” He took Peggy’s arm, and they headed toward the stairway.
“Father likes you.” She kissed my cheek and followed her parents. The chiffon dress swayed when she walked. At the foot of the stairs, she turned back and waved.
I waved back and remembered the tingling sensation when she slid her foot up my leg in the dining car. I quickly dismissed the memory.
With Stella and Frankie beside him, Gino clapped me on the shoulder. He let out a low whistle as Dorothy climbed the stairs. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
After the final curtain call, Frankie and I went backstage, two of maybe a hundred anxious to offer their congratulations to the cast. I had to warn Laura about her fiancé.
Frankie tipped his hat to every gorgeous dish who passed by, and there were plenty. We stood outside Laura’s dressing room, in an area packed with reporters and photographers snapping pictures. Leaning on my cane, I caught a glimpse of her well-practiced smile as she
held a dozen white roses, her favorite.
The lights around the square mirror behind her shimmered off Laura’s black curly hair. She looked more beautiful than her billboard outside The Yankee Club. For a moment I found myself staring into her dark brown eyes and the face I knew so well.
Laura caught my eye. She smiled and waved. “Jake, come in.”
Frankie followed as we wedged our way inside. Roses were everywhere, mostly red and white. I kissed her cheek. Over the din, I introduced Frankie, who stood with his mouth open like a kid meeting Babe Ruth for the first time.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malzone. Hope you enjoyed the play.” Laura held out a hand to Frankie but glanced at me. Perhaps I was the only one who recognized concern behind her gracious exterior.
Frankie shook her hand. For a minute, I didn’t think he could speak. “You were wonderful, Miss Wilson.”
“Darling.” Spencer Dalrymple stepped between Frankie and me. He kissed Laura’s cheek then introduced her to a short man in tow. “Laura, may I present Baron Karl Friedman.”
Wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a blond, thinning comb-over, the Baron clicked his heels and kissed Laura’s hand. “My father was a baron. I’m just a humble public servant. Please call me Karl, fräulein.”
Laura took her hand back and glanced at me a moment. “A pleasure, Karl.”
The so-called baron stared at me as if he knew me, but I couldn’t see how, unless he was one of a couple hundred Germans who stormed our trench near the Marne River in ’18.
Dalrymple’s steel-gray eyes didn’t blink as he shook my hand. “So glad you recovered in time to come to the play … and to the house later.” No mention of our limo ride.
I held his gaze and gripped his hand harder than he squeezed mine, an immature gesture, but a satisfying one nonetheless. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
He introduced me to Karl, the German public servant, code for Nazi, no doubt.
A reporter, with a pencil and pad in hand, shouted from behind me. “Miss Wilson, so many Broadway actresses have left for Hollywood since talking pictures have proven more than a fad. What are your plans now that
Night Whispers
has closed?”
“Hollywood? I can’t imagine leaving Broadway, though I don’t have any new roles lined up, just yet.”
Dalrymple slipped an arm around her, posing for photographers who obliged with several flashes. “Except the role of Mrs. Spencer Dalrymple.”
The reporter wrote down the quote. “Have you set a date for the wedding?”
I tapped Frankie’s shoe with my cane. “Let’s go.” I couldn’t take any more
darlings
and Mrs. Dalrymple talk and certainly didn’t want to learn when they’d marry.
Behind me Laura called, “We’ll chat at the party, Jake.”
I wasn’t so sure. Dalrymple would, no doubt, find a way to keep us apart.
As Frankie and I made our way through the crowd, her fiancé called to me, “Good-bye, Mr. Donovan.”
His knowing voice shot a chill into my back but filled me with renewed determination.
Chapter 7
The Green Hippopotamus and the Stalker
Frankie turned down a well-lit tree-lined drive. The Dalrymple Estate rose from the rolling countryside twenty miles north of the city. Past the gatehouse, white marble columns and nude statues around the mansion evoked images of ancient Greece and Washington D.C. At the gate, two uniformed guards waited with unsmiling expressions and black-braided uniforms. They increased the sensation that we were about to enter a foreign country ruled by King Dalrymple.
I accepted the cast-party invitation out of respect for Laura. The limo ride gave me a better reason to attend and a new mission—to convince her that marrying the arrogant bastard would be a dangerous mistake. She’d never listened to my frequent suggestions about marriage before, but I had to try.
The gatehouse guard studied Frankie and me and the inside of the car. Apparently, he couldn’t picture us with the rich and famous. He found my name and practically snapped to attention and waved us through.
Frankie drove down a gravel drive and let out a low whistle. “Your ex … Miss Wilson … Never mind, I’m just your driver.”
Frankie was much more than a driver. He saved my life the first night we met. “Say what’s on your mind.”
“When I met your ex’s fiancé, I didn’t know what she saw in him. He’s short, pale, has a whiny voice, the kind of guy we used to pick on at school.” Frankie parked next to a red Pierce Arrow and nodded toward the huge mansion. “Now I get it.”
Growing up, Laura endured a father who never held a steady job and spent what little he earned on booze. She deserved the kind of life that Dalrymple’s wealth could provide, but he didn’t deserve her.
He might act like a gentleman around Laura, but during the limo ride, Dalrymple displayed his true nature: a dangerous bully. Laura was as tough as they came in our old neighborhood. She could handle anyone. Still, she couldn’t possibly know what she was in for.
We climbed the steps to the white-columned entryway. Outside the massive front doors, another uniformed guard checked us off his list.
Inside, my cane slid on the slippery marble. A pretty young woman took our hats and smiled at Frankie. He possessed an uncanny ability to attract the ladies.
Scores of old-money guests and self-indulgent celebrities filled a main hall the size of a basketball court. At the far end, two winding staircases flanked French doors that led to an outside deck.
Frankie looked like he’d swallowed a bar of soap. “A regular stiff’s convention. Remind me again why we’re here.”
“Free booze.” I nodded toward a bar outside an open door. Piano music came from the room.
Frankie ordered a scotch, but I had no intention of drinking. Booze might take the edge off my throbbing leg, but I didn’t want Laura to think the booze was talking when I coughed up information disparaging her fiancé.
Frankie poked his head into the music room. “It’s Cole Porter. He’s playing our song.”
Lillian Hellman came through the French doors. Cigarette in hand, she headed for the bar. The aspiring playwright appeared just as I remembered, late twenties, serious minded, with reddish-brown hair. Unlike most of the women who’d dressed to impress, Lillian’s style was practical, a beige cotton dress and comfortable black shoes.
“Go ahead.” I patted Frankie on the back. “I’ll join you later.”
Frankie did a soft shoe into the music room while Lillian stepped to the bar without noticing me. Her voice still contained the hint of a New Orleans accent as she ordered a martini. She turned and grinned. “Jake Donovan.”
I kissed her cheek. “Lillian.”
“Don’t Lillian me.” She grabbed the martini from the bartender and took a long gulp.
Why was she mad at me? “Where’s Dashiell?”
“On the deck.” She led me away from the bar and the crowd of people. “You had to come back to New York, didn’t you?”
The question, though rhetorical, made me face the truth. Now that I’d returned, I knew finalizing the novel wasn’t my real reason for returning to New York. I came back to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake leaving Laura. Returning had been a dreadful disaster. Laura was engaged, Mickey was dead, and I was to blame for both.
Lillian tossed back the drink, crushed her cigarette into the glass, and set it on a table. She led me toward the French doors. “Dash is facing a deadline on his latest book. Since he read in the papers you’re investigating Mickey’s murder, he hasn’t been able to write a lick. Now he finds conspiracy in everything.” She peered through the French doors. Her face sagged. “See what I mean?”