A Friendly Game of Murder (6 page)

Chapter 8

I
t was twelve midnight. Cheering erupted from the lobby and the city streets. This happy roar was accompanied by the clangs of pots and pans, the wails of horns and sirens, and the blares of noisemakers.

Dorothy momentarily forgot about the cold, dead body in the bathtub next to her. She even forgot about Alexander Woollcott, who stood directly in front of her with a puzzled look on his chubby face.

For the moment her mind was occupied only by the frustrating realization that she had missed her perfect opportunity of planting a kiss on Benchley at midnight.

“Mrs. Parker?” Woollcott was saying softly. “What, pray tell, is going on here?”

“Bibi’s dead,” Dorothy said.

“Dead?”

She looked down at the pale, lifeless body. “If she’s not dead, then she’s a much better actress than any of us gave her credit for.”

“What—?” Woollcott hesitated. “What should we do?”

“What do you think? Call down to Frank Case, of course. He’s the manager. He’ll know what to do.”

Woollcott turned to find the phone. Dorothy wanted to leave the bathroom, too, but she found a morbid fascination in staring at the beautiful young girl.

Something’s wrong with this picture. . . .

Dorothy bent closer. All around Bibi’s mouth and chin, the skin was pink and blotchy, like a stain or a rash. Almost like a burn.
That’s odd.

But that wasn’t the strangest thing. . . . Bibi, as a corpse, didn’t have the vivaciousness and audaciousness of the living girl. She was not just naked but bare. Raw. Vulnerable. Stripped of life, in every sense of the word.

Poor Bibi. Is this what you get for having fun? For being brash and silly?

Dorothy found her mind wandering. She stared at the ice bucket and the shards of shattered glass on the tile floor. A steamy wisp of vapor crept out of the metal bucket as the last pieces of ice slowly melted.
Like the soul leaving the body
. Dorothy shivered again and told herself it was because the bathroom was so chilly.

Woollcott hurried back in, looked again at Bibi and then at Dorothy. “Let’s shut this window. You’ll catch your death of a cold.” He flung the sash down quickly.

They stood silently for a minute, both looking at the body. Then Woollcott said, “Our magnificent hotel proprietor will be up momentarily.”

“Perhaps he’ll have housekeeping clean up this mess.”

Woollcott ignored her stab at humor. “What do you think happened to her?”

Dorothy didn’t answer. She was wondering the exact same thing.

He said, “I can’t stand to see her lying there wet as a clam. Should we drain the tub?” He reached for the chain attached to the tub plug.

She stopped him. “Don’t. You’re liable to throw out the Bibi with the bathwater.”

He turned, a quizzical look on his face. “She’s not going to go down the drain.”

“Leave her be. She went out of this world the way she came into it—naked and wet. Let’s let Frank Case decide what to do.”

A moment later they heard the ding of the elevator. Frank Case entered the apartment, with Douglas Fairbanks and Robert Benchley in tow.

“Oh, dear,” Case said.

“Oh, Bibi . . .” Fairbanks slapped his forehead. “Someone remind me to never throw another party.”

Benchley spoke under his breath. “Never throw another party, Douglas.”

Case looked to Dorothy and Woollcott. “How did it happen?”

“No idea,” Dorothy said. “This is how I found her.”

Case put a hand to his chin. “I’d call the ambulance, but we’re quarantined. And, well, it’s apparently not an emergency at this point anyway. I know, I’ll get Dr. Hurst. He helped me earlier.”

“Very little a doctor can do for her now,” Dorothy said, moving next to Benchley for comfort.

Benchley sighed in agreement. “She needs an undertaker, not a doctor.”

“Besides,” Fairbanks added, “that Dr. Hurst was dastardly drunk when I threw him out of here an hour ago. He should be sleeping it off in his room by now.”

Dorothy asked, “What about Dr. Doyle?”

“Who is Dr. Doyle?” Woollcott asked.

“Artie,” she said. “The one who wouldn’t play your game of Murder.”

Woollcott looked skeptical. “That old bear? He’s a practicing physician?”

She considered this. “Nope, I guess he’s not. Not practicing anymore, at any rate. But he’s caring—and smart.”

“I’ll bring them both,” Case said, walking quickly out the door. “Perhaps two inadequate doctors will add up to one good one.”

After he left, Fairbanks smiled ruefully, rubbing his hands. “Well, isn’t this a lovely kettle of fish! Mary’s going to just treasure this—” He paused, dismayed. “Say, where is Mary?”

Benchley looked around as if Mary Pickford would suddenly pop up from behind the sink.

Dorothy said, “I saw Mary down in the lobby just before midnight. She told me she was coming up here to pry Bibi out of the tub.”

“She did?” Fairbanks’ handsome face looked worried. “So where is she?”

Dorothy shrugged. “We haven’t seen her.”

Without a word, Fairbanks left the bathroom and called out in the apartment, “Mary! Darling, are you here?”

It took Fairbanks only a minute to walk through the entire apartment. When he didn’t find his wife, he went out the front door without a word to the trio in the bathroom.

“So,” Benchley said, “what brought you two up here at midnight on New Year’s? Funny place to celebrate.”

Dorothy glanced again at Bibi’s dead body. “Yes, absolutely hilarious place to celebrate the New Year.”

But had she detected a note of disappointment in Benchley’s voice? Did his lightheartedness actually mask a wish for her to be by him at the stroke of midnight?

Woollcott appeared irritated. “Mrs. Parker, you told me that Douglas and Mary needed my discreet help. Clearly that was a lie. What do you mean by sending me up here?”

She leveled her eyes at him. “To murder you, of course.”

“Aha! I knew it! In the kitchen, you—”

“Shut up, Little Acky. We have bigger fish to fry. The game’s over.”

Woollcott raised an eyebrow as he eyed Bibi’s body. “And perhaps another has begun.”

Benchley ignored this. “Then what happened? Woollcott took the elevator up here, and you followed?”

“On the contrary,” Woollcott said, turning to Dorothy. “How
did
you arrive here before me?”

“Took the service elevator,” she said. “When I arrived on this floor, the suite was wide-open. But the bathroom door was locked. I had heard Mary say there was a key in a kitchen drawer—” She held up the key ring, which was still in her hand.

“Just a moment,” Woollcott said. “The bathroom door was locked?”

“Yes, I just said that.”

He turned and closed the door. There was no keyhole on the inside of the door, just a standard doorknob and a handle to lock the deadbolt. “So it would appear the door was locked from the inside?”

“Who knows?” she said.

“Whoever locked this door, that’s who knows!” Woollcott replied. “So if the door was locked from the inside, that means Bibi got up from the tub, locked it, then got back in the tub and died?”

“I doubt it,” Dorothy said. “The floor is dry, and it was dry when I got here. If Bibi had gotten out of the tub, she’d have left wet footprints all over the floor, or at least quite a few drops behind.”

They examined the floor, especially right in front of the tub. It was bone dry.

Woollcott took the keys from Dorothy’s hand. “So you found this in a kitchen drawer?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Dorothy said. “What are you implying?”

“I imply nothing. I merely state the facts—that someone locked this door to prevent or delay the discovery of Bibi’s dead or dying body. Isn’t that how you see it?”

They stood looking at the door when it suddenly swung open. Frank Case, Dr. Hurst and Arthur Conan Doyle entered.

Dr. Hurst’s white hair was disheveled, his high collar was undone and his necktie was loosened. He looked pale and sick. When he saw the body of Bibi, he looked even sicker.

“Get her out of there!” he croaked, pointing at the body but looking away. “Carry her to the bed. Cover her up.”

Woollcott opened his mouth to protest, but when no one moved, Dr. Hurst spoke even more loudly. “Get her out of that tub this instant, I said!”

Instinctively Doyle and Case grabbed Bibi’s arms. Benchley reluctantly reached in the tub and held one of her ankles. He shivered at the strange feeling of it. Woollcott, unhurried, took off his tuxedo jacket, rolled up his white sleeves and carefully reached into the tub for the other ankle. By some unspoken understanding, they simultaneously hoisted the body out of the tub, and the champagne cascaded from it. The sweet, crisp smell filled Dorothy’s nose, and she winced. Then she watched as a small circle of liquid pooled around Bibi’s navel and then drained away as they moved the body. Dorothy moved quickly to cover Bibi with a bath towel—it somehow seemed necessary to lend this undignified girl some dignity, as though the propriety she lacked in life could be bestowed on her in death. The only things left in the tub were the ladle and a washcloth.

They maneuvered Bibi’s body through the doorway and carried her to the bedroom, where they laid her carefully on the bed. Dorothy couldn’t help but rearrange the towel to neatly cover the girl’s body.

Dr. Hurst followed them into the room. He staggered toward the bed and dropped his leather doctor’s bag onto the floor. Dorothy was compelled to move out of the way. Dr. Hurst held one of Bibi’s wrists for a moment while he felt for a pulse. He let go of the arm and then applied two fingers to her neck.

He stood and turned to them. “She’s dead.”

“Of course she’s dead!” Dorothy said impatiently. “The question is, what killed her?”

Dr. Hurst’s mouth tightened. “I can’t say.”

Frank Case said, “Some sort of accident, undoubtedly.”

“An unusual sort of accident,” Woollcott said.

“People slip and hurt themselves in the bathroom all the time, unfortunately,” Case said. “Most dangerous room in the house.”

Doyle cleared his throat and carefully looked at Bibi’s face. “What’s that strange redness around her mouth?” He moved forward for a closer look, then turned quizzically to Dr. Hurst. But Dr. Hurst didn’t answer. He even took a step back to allow Doyle more room to examine the body.

“Perhaps she drowned?” Benchley offered. “We’ve all heard the old wives’ tale of people drowning in three inches of water.”

“No,” Doyle said, carefully turning Bibi’s head. “Her hair is completely dry.”

“Maybe alcohol poisoning?” Case asked. “People can go blind or even die from bad moonshine.”

“We drank a couple,” Benchley said, indicating himself and Dorothy. “We weren’t poisoned. Fairbanks wouldn’t throw a party with rotgut booze.”

Woollcott stuck out his tongue. “You drank champagne that a woman was bathing in? I’d expect that from the thirsty rabble, but from you two—?”

“The alcohol kills the germs, doesn’t it?” Benchley said gamely. “Besides, nothing else was available.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Dorothy said regretfully, pointing to Bibi and unable to stop herself from joking when things looked so gloomy. “Unmistakable flavor of tart.”

Case frowned at her and addressed Doyle. “If not alcohol poisoning, then perhaps an alcohol overdose? Could she have absorbed it somehow?”

“Through her skin, do you mean?” Doyle said. “Not likely. I’d wager the skin absorbs only trace amounts of alcohol. However, inhalation is another matter.”

“Drunk by inhalation?” Dorothy muttered dismally. “Now that’s a gas.”

Doyle nodded. “During the war, the armies of the world experimented with all manner of poisonous gases for debilitating and destroying their enemies on the battlefield. I studied it extensively for the British government. Vapors inhaled through the lungs absorb into the bloodstream much more quickly than through the skin.”

“Enough to kill her?” Case asked.

Doyle considered this. “In the same manner in which a drunkard will become poisoned by excessive drink, she’d become progressively intoxicated by inhalation. Was she extremely drunk?”

They looked at each other. No one knew.

Dorothy said, “She appeared pretty happy with herself when we last saw her, sometime before midnight. But then again she was full of beans even when she arrived at the hotel earlier.”

“Sometime before midnight?” Doyle repeated. “So who was the last to see her alive?”

Dorothy shrugged and wondered again about Mary Pickford.

Case folded his arms and turned to Dr. Hurst as the final authority. “So what did kill her? A slip in the tub and a rough knock to her head?”

Dr. Hurst looked down demandingly at Doyle. “Well?”

Doyle was bent over Bibi and carefully feeling her head. “Her skull appears intact. No lacerations or abrasions. No palpable contusions or swelling.” He stepped back, hands on his hips, and shook his head.

“Then how
did
she die?” Dorothy asked.

Suddenly Woollcott pointed at the body and yelled, “Murder!”

Dr. Hurst visibly jumped. He clutched at his chest. “You gave me a start, sir!” he croaked.

“Has no one else noticed?” Woollcott cried. “The locket is missing! She was wearing it all night, but now it’s gone. And if it was left in the bathroom, we would have seen it. It was stolen! This was murder. Murder for that locket!”

Dorothy turned to Dr. Hurst. “Wasn’t that your locket?”

Dr. Hurst was still breathing heavily. “How did you know that?”

“I saw you with it earlier. In the lobby and again when you arrived for Fairbanks’ party.”

“No, no,” Dr. Hurst said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It was just a trinket. Nothing more.”

Mary Pickford, followed by Douglas Fairbanks, stormed into the room. “Just a trinket? Hardly! I saw that locket around Bibi’s neck.” She turned and faced Fairbanks. “It’s the kind of jewelry exchanged between lovers!”

Fairbanks looked at her wearily. “Now, dearest, I’ve already told you—”

“Aha!” Woollcott said, pointing a fat finger in the air. “So there is more to this than meets the eye. It’s murder, I tell you. And I shall investigate! I’ve never failed to solve a case, and I won’t fail this one. The game is afoot!”