You Might As Well Die (22 page)

She almost kicked him in the shin. Instead, she yanked open the door and stomped out into the night, followed by Houdini, who slammed the door behind them.

“And good riddance,” Houdini said, as they stepped into the darkened alleyway.

“You got that right,” Dorothy said, exhaling smoke.

But she already felt lousy again—as she had before, on the night when she believed that Ernie had killed himself, and she hadn’t been able to help him.

I
t was very late when Dorothy and Houdini arrived at the Algonquin Hotel. On the street, they had passed several revelers and merrymakers in Halloween costumes—yet Dorothy still felt conspicuous and uncomfortable in her errand boy’s outfit.

When they entered the hotel’s lobby, they found Benchley slumped in a club chair, smoking his pipe. A tall, flat rectangle, wrapped in brown paper, leaned against the side of his chair. Dorothy was fully prepared to let him have it for going out with Lucy Goosey—even though she knew Mickey Finn had ordered Benchley to go. But here he was, sitting alone, staring gloomily ahead. Not at all his usual cheery self.

She tried to act nonchalant. “Oh, Fred, there you are. We drove by Tony Soma’s, but you weren’t outside as we agreed, so I knew I’d find you here.”

Staring ahead, Benchley just nodded.

“Fred, are you all right?” she asked.

Benchley looked up slowly. “Hello, Mrs. Parker, Mr. Houdini. Did you have a wonderful Halloween evening?”

“Oh, very spirited. And your evening?” She bit her tongue to keep from asking about Lucy Goosey.

“A real dandy,” he said morosely.

“I see you bought a painting.”

That brought him to life a little bit. “Not just any painting.
The
painting.” He explained it was the one that MacGuffin had left on the Brooklyn Bridge on the night of his suicide.

Dorothy dropped into one of the chairs. “Well, I hope you didn’t pay too much, because we don’t need it now.”

Benchley’s eyes went wide. “Don’t
need
it?”

“Ernie MacGuffin is alive. His suicide was a fake. There’s no need to have that painting authenticated. I can guarantee that it’s genuine.”

Benchley stared straight ahead. “Oh. Well.”

She didn’t like the looks of this. Benchley was never at a loss for a joke, no matter how bleak things seemed.

“‘Oh. Well.’ Is that all you have to say? Nothing to add?”

Benchley shook his head. “I could add that I now owe a ruthless gangster five thousand dollars for a painting we don’t need. I could also add that Crowninshield is going to fire me first thing tomorrow because I was not at Houdini’s show as I was supposed to be, but instead had my hands between Lucy Goosey’s legs—”

“Wait.” She felt a wave of panic. “What do you mean, you had your hands between Lucy Goosey’s legs?”

But Benchley continued. “I could also add that I raised the suspicions of Police Captain Church. And I insulted Horace Liveright’s liver. Or his kidneys. Or his bladder or giblets or something.”

She gently laid a hand on his knee. “Go back. Tell me what happened at the auction.”

So Benchley told her.

“Oh,” she said when he was finished. “Well.”

“You can say that again.”

Houdini smiled optimistically and waved one of his large hands, as though brushing aside these problems like gnats. “Don’t be so down in the mouth. You have the power of the press on your side, do you not? Bring this scoundrel’s shenanigans to light. Expose the fraud. Then we’ll see if his paintings still fetch five thousand dollars at auction.” He leaned back in his chair. “Mark my words, they won’t fetch five cents. There’s your revenge. If you don’t expose him, I gladly will.”

“No, no, no!” Benchley sat up. “We can’t tell anyone. Nobody, you understand? It’s just like you said—if anyone finds out that Ernie’s alive, the value of his paintings will plummet.”

“Good,” Dorothy said. “Serves him right.”

“No, no, no! Not while I have this thing on my hands.” Benchley pointed to the painting. “My name is already mud as soon as Mickey Finn finds out I cost him five grand for this painting. But if Ernie is exposed, and this painting loses even a nickel in value, my name won’t be mud. It’ll be on a tombstone.”

Now she understood Benchley’s dreadful mood. She turned to Houdini. “Mr. Benchley is right. We can’t tell anyone.”

“Tell anyone what?” said a strident, nasal voice. It was Alexander Woollcott, with Harpo Marx in tow.

Dorothy thought quickly. “We can’t tell anyone about the croquet tournament. Happening at this moment on the sheep meadow in Central Park. But if you go right now, don’t say you heard it from us.”

Woollcott was wearing a big bumblebee costume. “I certainly shan’t, because I’m not going.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is croquet no longer the bee’s knees?”

“It’s still the bee’s knees. It’s the cat’s pajamas even.” He pointed to Harpo, who was dressed in a cat costume. “But Harpo and myself have taken the evening off our game of croquet to enjoy the frivolity of All Hallow’s Eve.” Woollcott looked Dorothy up and down. “Speaking of which, did you steal the clothes off the back of your latest romantic conquest for your costume?”

“Oh, queen bee, where is thy sting?” she asked. “Is that the best you can do, Aleck?”

Woollcott ignored her, looking instead at Houdini. “And who is this spindly old gent you’ve dragged out of his convalescent home?”

“This is Harry,” Dorothy said.

Houdini jumped up and bowed deeply. “I certainly recognize you, Mr. Woollcott. A pleasure.”

“For you,” Woollcott sneered, not recognizing the famous magician.

Harpo, in his cat costume, was struck dumb. He and his zany brothers were still a fairly recent success on Broadway, so the recognition of Harry Houdini, one of the greats of show business, standing right before him reduced the professional prankster to silence.

“What’s the matter with you?” Woollcott said sharply to Harpo.

“Perhaps he’s got his own tongue,” Benchley said.

 

A few minutes later, they had adjourned to Dorothy’s suite on the second floor of the Algonquin. Woollcott—still in his outrageous bee outfit—hadn’t relented. He hated to be left out, to have secrets withheld from him.

“I’ve got a real me in my bonnet, Dottie. Tell me what you don’t want to tell anyone. And, Benchley, open that parcel.”

“No,” Benchley said and pointed to Harpo, still standing mute in his cat costume. “I won’t let one of him out of the bag.”

“Never,” Houdini said. “Never reveal your secrets. I never do.”

“Don’t listen to this old fool,” Woollcott said haughtily. “Tell me, Dottie. Tell me. Tell me!”

It was late, and Dorothy knew her strength of will was weak. Also, she herself was rarely one to keep a secret. “Oh, why the hell not? Just please, Aleck, don’t let this out.”

“Yes, Aleck,” Benchley said. “It’s not a stretch to say my life is on the line.”

“On my honor, I shall tell no one, especially if it means Robert’s dear life!” Woollcott spoke with exaggerated drama, but Dorothy sensed he understood the seriousness of the situation. They then looked at Harpo, who mimed turning a key on his lips and throwing it away.

So Dorothy told them how Ernie MacGuffin had faked his death and was still churning out paintings for money. (“That cad!” Woollcott cried.) Benchley unwrapped the parcel and explained how he had gone to the auction, intending to acquire a painting so they could have it authenticated. But he had wound up with the most expensive painting of the lot.

“So you see,” Dorothy said, “because the value of the paintings depend on Ernie’s suicide, if anyone finds out he’s still alive, the price of the paintings will plummet.”

“And so will I,” Benchley said, “out of a skyscraper window, if Mickey Finn loses his investment.”

“Never fear!” Woollcott said, standing up, the fake antennae on his head bobbing up and down. “Not only is your secret safe with me, but I can help you increase the worth of that despicable waste of canvas and pigment.” He pointed to MacGuffin’s abstract of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Dorothy regretted, as she thought she might, letting Woollcott in on the secret. But she was tired and just plain worn-out. “No, Aleck, don’t trouble yourself.”

“No trouble at all, my dear Dottie. You know I have perhaps the most-read column in all the newspapers of New York.”

Benchley leaned toward her. “Emphasis on the
perhaps
,” he whispered. It made her feel better that Benchley was making jokes, or at least insults, again.

“I heard that, Robert,” Woollcott said, examining the painting. “Nevertheless, I will save your hide from Finn the bootlegger by extolling, in my column, the beauty and modernism of this dreck, which will undoubtedly increase its value further. Then, after a suitable period of time, you can sell it at an increase in profit. You can thank me by naming your next child after me, Robert.”

“Bumblebee Benchley?” Benchley asked.

“Aleck, please, don’t get muddled into this,” Dorothy said.

Woollcott held up a hand. “It’s no trouble in the least, and it won’t even interfere with our croquet game. Consider it done. Now, what do you plan to do?”

Dorothy considered this a moment. “I’d like to pay another visit to Midge MacGuffin, first thing in the morning. She knew all along that Ernie was alive, yet she allowed me to believe he was dead. Ernie may well have been painting in the basement as Midge and I were talking. I think she has some explaining to do.”

As angry as Dorothy was about Midge’s dishonesty, she was just as annoyed that Midge could have secured a deal to get a book published so quickly. Dorothy wanted to grill her about that, too. “Fred, will you join me?”

Benchley checked his wristwatch. “First thing tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I’m supposed to meet with Crowninshield first thing tomorrow. I think he’s going to fire me. So, considering that, yes, I will most certainly join you, Mrs. Parker.”

Houdini chuckled to himself. “You people meet together for lunch. You gather together at night. You write articles about each other. And you skip work together. How do you ever get any real work done?”

Woollcott narrowed his eyes at Houdini. “I don’t know who you think you are, but would you please just disappear?”

Houdini smiled and nodded. “As you wish.” He turned to Dorothy. “Thank you for the interesting evening, Mrs. Parker. I’ll see you again soon.” He moved toward the closet, opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

“Ha,” Woollcott laughed. “You’ll see him again sooner than he thinks. The old coot doesn’t know the difference between the closet and the hallway. Where did you find that rube, Dottie?”

“I found him backstage at the Hippodrome,” Dorothy said, moving toward the closet. “He had just performed for an audience of five thousand.”

She opened the door to the tiny closet. Houdini was gone.

Woollcott looked puzzled.

Harpo finally broke his silence. “‘I don’t know who you think you are’?” he said in a perfect imitation of Woollcott.

“What do you mean?” Woollcott said, confused.

Harpo said, “That ‘rube’ was Harry Houdini, you idiot!”

T
he next morning, by the ninth toll of the bell from St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral several blocks away, Dorothy stood across the street from the MacGuffins’ house in Greenwich Village.

Benchley soon arrived. “Look at you,” he said. “You’re rarely so bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning. Usually you’re bushy eyed and bright tailed.”

Dorothy thought about how she hadn’t had a drink in days. “It’s not my fault. Sobriety is to blame.”

“Perhaps sobriety agrees with you,” he said as they strolled across the street toward the house.

“Unfortunately, I disagree with it,” she said.

Sobriety had its place—Dorothy didn’t disagree with that. For instance, she didn’t like to drink when she had real work to do. But to go for days and days without any drink was simply no fun at all.

Then again, she had to admit that she did feel upbeat today. She figured her mood was also lifted by the prospect of spending the whole day with good old Benchley.

She banged on Midge’s door.

Seconds passed. Dorothy and Benchley glanced at each other. After half a minute, Dorothy banged on the door again. They heard shuffling, scuffling, a moment’s pause; then the door swung open. Midge MacGuffin stood there, blank faced and regal, like a tall, raven-haired angel in luxurious satin pajamas the color of expensive pearls. But as poised as Midge seemed, Dorothy noticed that her breathing was slightly quickened, as though she had to take care of something hastily before answering the door.

“Good morning, Midge,” Dorothy said. “May we come in?”

“Actually—”

“Wonderful,” Dorothy said, moving forward. Midge was forced to step backward into her front hall, but she kept the door open, one hand on the knob, signifying she wasn’t willing to give them much of her time.

“What—” Midge began.

“Is there something you’d like to tell us?” Dorothy said politely but with gritted teeth.

“Tell you?”

Dorothy tried again. “Is there something else you think you should share with us, given that we’re writing a glowing article memorializing your late husband?” She emphasized the word
late
but didn’t bother to elaborate that they hadn’t yet written a word of this article.

Midge’s face was as blank as a plaster statue. “Something else to share? No, I don’t think so—”

Dorothy smiled, looking up at the elegant woman. “I do believe we’re short—”

“Short?” Midge said.

“Short on a few facts,” Dorothy continued, still smiling. “One very pertinent fact, in particular.”

“Yes,” Benchley agreed. “One particular pertinent fact.”