Final Curtain: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries) (15 page)

“Frank?”

“Amazing, no? But he went sober, cold turkey as some would term it—a horrible metaphor, the maligning of a very good Thanksgiving repast—and came back East. No talent for acting, he realized, and a decided talent for asceticism and monkhood and teetotaling. Edna, he’s no fun anymore.”

“But he stayed in the world of theater.”

“It’s in the blood, dear. You of all people should know that.”

“Well, he’s demonstrating signs of life in Maplewood.”

“I insist that is an oxymoron.”

“Really, Aleck, it’s a quaint village.” I smiled. “The heart of the town is actually called ‘the Village,’ capitalized.”

“Where folks are murdering one another—and not just the lines of
The Royal Family
.”

I shifted the subject. “I picked up the
Post
coming in. That young Nazi who was pushed onto the subway track was working on
The Royal Family
as an electrician.”

Aleck whooped, drawing the attention of the other diners. “Another death? Really, Edna, what is going on there?” Aleck contemplated both desserts the waiter placed before him. He groaned at the confectionary sight.

“Hold on, Aleck. I think it had to do with his fascist politics. He handed out a vicious Hitlerite leaflet as George and I sat on the porch of the Jefferson Village Inn. He and his girlfriend are—were, at least one of them—rabid followers of Nazism. The rally yesterday in Union Square.”

Aleck was shaking his head. “An ugly crowd, that. I read about it, of course. Good riddance, I say. Hitler Youth deserves no old age.”

I sat back, closing my eyes for a second. “I’m alarmed at the course of the world—and America, Aleck. You know that. This Nazism…this Hitler…I know there can only be worldwide conflagration now. I feel it in my bones. And that men like Gus can walk the streets of a town like Maplewood where American flags dot the landscape…”

The small eyes in the fat, bilious face became gleaming marbles. “Let me tell you a story, dear Ferb. A while back I was walking with Moss Hart on Eighty-sixth Street where, for years, I buy sauerbraten, and this young man, dressed like a fugitive from a labor camp, accosted us and whispered ‘Jew’ in my ear. I nearly fainted.”

“But you’re not Jewish, Aleck. Yes, Moss is, but…”

He held up his hand. “In times like these everyone different is Jewish.” He sighed. “And, therefore, everyone has to declare themselves Jewish.”

I trembled. “I get scared, Aleck. I’ve seen the signs in Yorkville…the swastikas…”

“I’ll show you something when we’re through.”

We finished dinner and Aleck, deadly serious now, hailed a cab that dropped us off in the Eighties, in Yorkville on the Upper East Side. Not too far from where I used to have my home. Dark out now, the street awash in neon and streetlight, the neighborhood looked like any other complacent, decent Manhattan block.

“There,” Aleck pointed, and I saw nothing. But he moved me closer to a storefront, a German butcher shop, brightly lit, cascades of sausage hanging in the window. Through the glass I saw white-aproned fat men, blood splatter on those aprons, sweeping a sawdust-covered floor.

“What, Aleck?”

He pointed to a back wall that led to a dark corridor. A large portrait of Adolph Hitler hung in a simple brown-wood frame, suspended over the glass cases of pork chops and rump roasts. Though it wasn’t, that portrait seemed lit by fire, the comet in the dark night sky that stops you in place, transfixes you.

Under the grotesque portrait there was a sign:
German-American Bund meeting tonight, 10 p.m.

“The back room,” Aleck whispered, “is where the meetings take place. Once, passing, I heard roaring cheers, the chilling Heil Hitlers, the thick beer-besotted laughter. It spilled out onto the sidewalk.” He turned, ashen now. “A taxi, Edna. Let’s get out of here.”

“But it’s New York,” I pleaded, though I was shaking.

“Deutschland in Manhattan. Germany on the East River.”

On the late train back to Maplewood, I sat alone, my face pressed against the window. Voices near me seemed far away, echoey, false. And though the car was steamy on the hot August night, I shook from the cold.

***

At the rehearsal the next morning, I learned that Gus Schnelling had given notice two afternoons before, as the stage crew began working. He had grandly strutted around, a swastika plastered to his arm, handing out valedictory leaflets promoting the rally in Union Square. Away from the theater, George and I missed that last performance. That same afternoon we were at the Assembly of God and, later still, having dinner with Clorinda and Tobias. Meaka Snow, similarly swastika clad, accompanied him, a look in her eyes that defied interference. An unsettling scene, I gathered, or so Constable Biggers told everyone afterwards. Before he disappeared that afternoon, Gus tacked flyers to poles and trees, tucked them under windshield wipers. Constable Biggers and his deputies—with well-intended local citizens—hurriedly combed the Village, ripping down the inflammatory notices. Gus and Meaka obviously caught the train into Manhattan for the rally—or maybe drove there in that jalopy—where he met his death. The next morning, at rehearsal, no one spoke of the departed Nazi. The news of his death was unannounced until later that day.

Now, of course, everyone was buzzing about Gus and Evan, though, save for Nadine, no one really knew either. Cheryl was asked about Gus. “I don’t remember him at all.” Dak, I noticed, was nowhere around, though early mornings he usually would be at the Assembly, only joining the stage crew in the afternoon.

Constable Biggers lingered in the orchestra, pad in hand, unmoving, and I noticed Nadine stayed backstage, cloistered in a tiny room. During a break, the constable chatted with George and me and noted that he’d admonished Gus to stay in town during the investigation of Evan’s murder. Gus had nodded, though with a sickly smirk, and Biggers sensed that the young man had plans to skip town. “It’s him or that Dak. I feel it in my gut.” Biggers wrestled a cigar out of a breast pocket and tucked it into the corner of his mouth. “One of them most likely a killer. Now it’s down to one to look at.”

“Of course, Gus could have killed Evan,” I protested. “And now, because of his politics, he ended up murdered.”

“Life don’t work that way.”

“And what way is that, sir?”

“Too convenient. Wraps things up too easy.”

“But sometimes…”

“It ain’t a novel, lady.”

George was grinning. “Said to the lady novelist.”

When we were alone, George confided, “Edna, I’m worried.”

“You think the two killings are somehow connected?” I deliberated. “Well, it’s a possibility. Although I won’t admit it, I agree with the constable—life doesn’t work that way.”

He bit his lip. “What if they are?”

“Then there’s a madman afoot.”

“Exactly. And here you are, stepping lively through the quicksand. Think of it, my dear. Gus, Edna. On the subway tracks, Edna. Evan shot in the chest. What next? A piece of scenery crashes down on your head?”

My eyes scanned the stage. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

“Well,” he concluded, “I’ve been a tad frivolous as you’ve gallivanted around playing Nancy Drew. But from this point on, we’re in this together. Collaborators to the end. This play’s the thing—in which we catch the conscience of the…killer. Thank you, Shakespeare. You won’t stop, of course. So when you head off to do your cockeyed mischief, Edna, knock on my door. We’re a team.”

“A team,” I echoed.

“Yeah, like Weber and Fields without the pratfalls.”

***

Late in the afternoon, strolling back from the Full Moon Café where I’d daydreamed over blueberry pie and a lemon phosphate, I spotted Dak sitting with Frank on a sidewalk bench. They didn’t seem to be talking, both staring vacantly out at the street, elbows resting on knees, heads slightly turned away from each other.

“Hello.” I stopped before them, waited. Frank eyed me warily.

“Miss Ferber.” Frank threw a sidelong glance at Dak, who seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.

“I wondered about your reactions to Gus’ death.”

Frank said nothing for a moment, picked at the scab on this thumb, and then stared over my shoulder, addressing someone in the distance. “Oh, that Nazi insanity. A sad end, yes, but, I mean, Hitler. You set sail with a madman and the waters are rough. Gus kept his mouth shut at work—until that last day, that is. Then those nasty flyers. Hitler as hero of the Aryan lineage and all that nonsense. Joe, one of the Great War veterans, threatened to beat him up. Folks had to intervene. Still and all…”

Dak looked at me, his voice fierce and hard, a tone I’d never heard from him before. “You know, I never trusted him.”

“I know.”

“Out in Hollywood he was sneaky, slinking around with Evan, the two of them always with their heads together. Talking about me. Or…or Nadine. Evan would look up when I walked by and tell Gus to shut up. But he did it so…so obviously. Like he was getting a thrill out of it. A game.”

“And when he arrived in Maplewood?” I prompted.

“I felt he was in the last act of some great scheme.”

“But about what?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I wish I did. But don’t you think it’s funny he was
here
? The Nazi strolling under the maple trees. That surprised me. I know it surprised Evan—he wasn’t happy when Gus came to town. I’d spot Evan watching Gus, anger in his face.”

“And Meaka Snow?”

“I didn’t know her till she appeared by his side one day. Evan said they met in New York. A vicious, nasty woman, hard as glass, cruel. I’m surprised no one killed her.” A shaky laugh, dreadful. “Maybe they will. Evan’s gone. That bastard. Gus is gone. Another bastard.”

Frank bristled. His hand shot out and touched Dak’s shoulder. “Dak, enough. Be quiet. You talk too much. Do you know how that sounds—your words? They’re dead men. Dead.”

“I want to hear what he has to say,” I insisted.

Frank’s face closed up. “Dak, no.”

“What does it matter?” He stared into Frank’s face.

Frank touched his sleeve protectively. “They already think you murdered Evan. Do you want to be blamed for Gus’ murder, too?”

Dak shook away Frank’s hand. “Why would you say that?”

“Are both murders connected?” I spoke to Frank but was watching Dak.

Crazily, Frank stood, twisted around. I watched him closely. There were tears in his eyes. Then, as though ashamed, he rushed away.

Chapter Twelve

Meaka Snow stood in front of me, blocking my path on the sidewalk in front of the Jefferson Village Inn. For a second I caught my breath, alarmed by the anger in her face. Unblinking cold agate eyes, the broken head of an old porcelain doll I recalled from my childhood. Macabre, that look, the innocent play toy now transformed into nightmare.

“What?”

“They’re going through Gus’ things at the rooming house.”

“What?”

“The local cop Biggers and some FBI, I think. They won’t let me in.”

“But I don’t see how I can…”

“You’re telling everyone Dak didn’t kill Evan. Yes, he did. He got you fooled with that pitiful look he has. And I think he killed Gus.”

I thought of stepping around her but stayed in place. “That’s impossible. Dak was here.” I took a step toward her, but she didn’t budge, standing there with her thick arms folded over her chest.

“How do you know?”

That gave me pause. I didn’t know—how
would
I know?

“What do you expect from me, Meaka?”

In that instant the wide face crumbled, raw emotion breaking through. “They didn’t have to kill Gus.” Her voice cracked at the end.

“Who?”

“They hate us. It ain’t fair. It ain’t. We had a life together—tomorrow. Gus and me.”

She rocked back and forth, this small chubby girl, her blunt head quivering. So unlovely, this woman, so purposely unattractive, I thought, with the stolid peasant garb, ill-fitting and gray; with the abundant honey-wheat hair pulled up and back so that she resembled a disorderly hay field. A driven political child, like so many of the agitprop players in the Greenwich Village social melodramas Peg Pulitzer and Franklin P. Adams forced me to attend: the ideological fury borne out of the Great Depression. Left wing and right wing—it didn’t matter. What did matter was the fire within. This dangerous Nazi
fraulein
with the pancake face and thrift-store smock, in thick shoes, her nails bitten to the quick, the swastika pin stuck on her chest like an unfashionable brooch.

I tried to move around her, but she stood there, a rock, solid.

“Well…” Dismissive, casual, trying to end this futile conversation. But then I thought: Does she know anything that might solve Evan’s murder? Gus’ murder—that was confusing, yes, and I was uncertain whether it somehow related to the Maplewood crowd. But perhaps this hapless woman, this fanatical young Nazi follower, harbored bits and pieces of information that, mixed in with the other jigsaw pieces, might provide me with direction. Staring at her, I had the gut feeling that the answer to one murder might solve the other.

Yet…there was that hateful swastika pin facing me—an affront, blatant and awful. A small but dark sun in the noontime sky. Inescapable. Foul. Cruel. Hideous. But…

“Meaka, let me buy you a coffee.” I pointed to the Full Moon Café.

The invitation took her by surprise, wariness coloring her eyes. Here was a woman who trusted no one, who had subsumed her self-loathing personality into that of her aggressive lover, the
über-
Nazi lad himself, Gus the agitator.

She nodded quickly. “A minute. I want to get to Gus’ room when the FBI leaves.”

Mamie Trout raised her eyebrows when Meaka and I walked in, a tilting of her chin that suggested I had a questionable range of acquaintances. But she smiled as she seated us, giving me an affectionate tap on the shoulder. “Seen you over to the Assembly,” she whispered pleasantly.

“The Assembly of God? You were there?”

“I won’t miss it. That Clorinda Roberts Tyler is a gift. Best show in town. The other night she soared—took me with her—all that talk about us powerful women. Talking
to
me, felt it to my core.” She winked. “Better’n that
School for Scandal
, which I seen at the Maplewood Theater.”

Surprise in my voice. “Will you become a follower?”

She was shaking her head. “Nope. I’m a born and bred Baptist. Good enough for my parents, good enough for me.”

“But then why…”

“Told you. Best show in town. Maplewood can get a tad dull.” But she glanced at Meaka. “Though if folks find religion there and save their sorry souls, it’s all right with me. Fact is, it’s time some folks stepped lively to God’s tune.” She glowered at Meaka. She walked away.

Meaka, under her breath. “A hideous, dreadful woman.”

“She makes a wonderful blueberry pie.” I smiled disingenuously.

“I don’t care. Pie served with a slice of her pocket Jesus.”

“Meaka,” I began, “why did you stop to talk to me?”

She drew in her breath, fiddled with the cheap bracelet on her wrist, and glanced toward the door. For a moment she looked the dumb animal in a pasture, stolid, languid, baffled by the sudden falling rain. Meaka Snow, I concluded, was a plodding young woman, easily shoved out of the way or into danger, the mindless ox, saddled with a kind of blind faith in anyone who whispered a kind or loving word to her. A sad woman, one lacking a moral reserve, this
lumpen
who must have been unloved all her life until Gus Schnelling, dashing in a Prussian-boot sort of way, took her by the hand and delivered lines for her to recite. Once learned, she became the most vocal and strident proselytizer.

For that reason she was a dangerous woman, one whose emotions and intellect were the playground for the sly and the cruel.

“They’re going through Gus’ stuff now.” She looked at me with angry, bitter eyes.

“I know. You told me. So what? He was murdered. The police have to do their job.”

“I don’t trust them.”

“Well, that’s your particular failing, my dear.”

Mamie Trout, still frowning, handed us menus. I ordered a sandwich and fries for both of us. Meaka scarcely looked up at Mamie.

“They’ll make him out to be evil. He’s the…victim here.”

“Stop that, Meaka. I’m sorry but he
was
evil. He was a Nazi. I know you can’t see that, but your faith in Hitler is evil. Evil.” Flat out, perhaps cruel.

The flesh around her eyes bunched up. “I’m a proud Nazi.”

“Are you really? Or did you take on Gus’ coloration to please him?”

She slammed her palm down on the table. “I believe in what he taught me.”

“Tell me, were you with him when he was killed?”

She huffed in small, jerky grunts. “I was at the other end of the platform. When someone screamed, I thought it was another fight. Those protesters who followed us down into the subway. Then I looked for Gus.”

“So you didn’t see who pushed him?”

I waited for a sudden burst of tears, but none came. Instead, her eyes darkened. “He’ll pay.”

“Who?” Startled.

“Dak.”

“Meaka, I don’t think…”

“I don’t want to go to the police. No one would believe me.”

I cringed. “You have an idea that Dak did something?”

She actually yelled out, her voice raw. “Yeah.”

“Then tell me.”

Meaka nervously lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. “I don’t even know why I’m sitting with you.”

“Because I’m Jewish? Is that why you won’t trust me?”

“That’s part of it.”

“The other part?”

“I don’t know. Look.” She leaned back and picked up a canvas bag she’d dropped onto the floor. “I was carrying Gus’ bag—I don’t know why. He had, you know, the bigger sign.” A snicker. “German Solidarity in New York.’ I colored that one in.”

“Nice touch.”

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“I’m Jewish. We tend to get sarcastic when we’re having coffee with Nazis.”

A scowl. “Maybe you should be afraid.”

“Of you?”

“Of Hitler.”

My mind went blank. Then I said, “There’ll always be Jews, despite what your Hitler believes. There just won’t always be a Hitler.”

I could see the direction of the conversation confused her, and she stared at the glowing tip of her cigarette. Finally she snubbed it out and zipped open the bag. “I’m only here with you to prove to you that Dak is the murderer. Maybe then you’ll do something about it—and stop believing him. He’s a fool who hated Evan and hated Gus. And me, too. Him and that bitch Annika with her holier-than-thou mouth.”

“Show me.”

But she paused. “Gus told me you and George Kaufman
know
who killed Evan. Like you got evidence. You know that it was Dak but you are protecting him.”

“Why would he say that?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “He seen you with that…that crowd. Cozy and all.”

“How does that translate into a belief he’s a killer?”

A puzzled look on her face. “I dunno. That’s what he told me.”

“Meaka, I don’t know who killed Evan. That’s the truth.”

“But you wanted to pin it on Gus.” She seethed. “But Gus got murdered.”

“Perhaps Gus’ politics did him in.”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, it ain’t so.”

“The New York police are on it.”

“Like they care. Did you read the paper this morning?”

I hesitated. “No. Why?”

“It said the police believe Gus was singled out by someone. Witnesses testifying to that. Like someone pushed through that crowd, edged near him, waited till the train came, and then shoved.”

“An old man, I read yesterday.”

“Nonsense.” She wore the look now of a smug, bratty girl who raised her hand to answer all the teacher’s questions. “The article said some witness said it
looked
like an old man but the moustache and white hair was something out of a vaudeville show or something.”

“Still…”

“And then this old, old man scooted up the steps like a fifteen-year-old boy, lickety-split. Do you hear what I’m saying, Miss Ferber? A disguise.”

I reflected on her words. “So he
was
chosen from the crowd.” The knowledge hit me full-force. It wasn’t political, this death, not the fiery anger of an anti-fascist zealot. Gus was targeted. “Intriguing.”

“Yes, ain’t it?”

She tapped the canvas bag. “The only thing I regret is that Gus didn’t tell me things. He had secrets. I know he cared for me—took care of me—but he thought I was stupid. He thought women was stupid.” She grinned. “He thought
you
was stupid.”

“Me?” An unnecessary shriek from me.

“Because you believed Dak. Gullible, he called you. ‘A sex-starved lady whimpering about a handsome Valentino boy.’ His words.”

I fumed. “How dare he!” Then, sheepish, I told myself: Lord, the man is dead, Edna. Murdered. He’s beyond your censorious tongue.

“But Gus told me he had a secret.”

“But of what? Any idea?”

Again, the dumb-ox shrug. “Dunno.”

“You must have some idea.” I leaned forward, frustrated. This young woman, so hapless and bungling, held the key to something. I knew it to my marrow.

A sly grin appeared on her face. She reached into the canvas bag and grabbed a handful of papers. Releasing her clumsy grip—I noticed dark yellow cigarette stains on her fingertips—the papers spilled across the table. Those infernal leaflets she and Gus had handed out and tacked to poles: Nazi propaganda, warnings about the Jewish international banking elite, the sanctity of precious Aryan blood, the blotchily reprinted figurehead of Hitler, a grainy reproduction that highlighted those insane eyes and that musical-revue moustache. Involuntarily, my hand swept them away from me. Meaka grabbed some and shoved them back into the bag.

As she lifted a pile of them, a wad of elastic-bound cash rolled away and bounced onto the floor. Quickly, Meaka retrieved it, wrapped her fingers around it, and cradled it to her chest, her head tilted up, a beautiful smile on her lips. It reminded me, perversely, of some Renaissance Madonna and Child depiction, so ecstatic and lovely was her look. A woman cradling precious money, a curious distortion of a venerated icon. “What?”

“He didn’t tell me he had all this money. I didn’t know it was in there.” Her fingers lovingly caressed the wad of cash.

“What’s your point, Meaka?”

She tucked the money back into the bag, though she tapped it affectionately first. Then, her eyes scanning the table, she reached for a small white envelope. “This.” She pushed it across the table at me. “This was hidden in an inside pocket.”

Inside the envelope were two slips of paper, small, torn sheets, both folded over and crumpled.

The first was written in a sloppy penmanship, with splotchy ink:
Yeah, I know
.
I don’t owe you, friend. We’ll see about that
.

I looked up, confused.

She peered forward to see which note I was reading. “Evan wrote that.”

“What does it mean?”

Her voice got low, mean. “The secret I couldn’t know about.”

I opened the other slip.

Leave Nadine alone, Evan. I mean it. I swear you’re going to pay. I’ll hurt you. I mean it. Leave Nadine alone. You better listen now. Dak.

Meaka was watching me, a triumphant look on her face. “You see, Miss Ferber. Dak killed Evan.”

I turned the note over—nothing on the back. I pushed it across the table, and Meaka grabbed it. “How do you know he wrote it?”

“Of course, he did.”

I thought of something. “Why would this note to Evan be in Gus’ bag? Why would Evan give it to Gus?”

“Maybe Gus took it off him. Another secret.”

“What was Gus going to do with it?”

“Dunno.”

“Did Gus talk about trying to break into Evan’s room—when he was stopped by Constable Biggers?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“What was he after?”

“Maybe these.” She pointed to the slips of paper
.

I shook my head vigorously. “No, he was stopped before he got inside. I was there. Think about it, Meaka—wouldn’t he
want
Constable Biggers to find Dak’s note? It’s incriminating.”

“Maybe he went back.”

And so did I, I mused. And this note was not there, so far as I knew. “I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t matter
how
it got in Gus’ bag, Miss Ferber. It’s just, you know, that it
got
there. And Gus had it. It’s proof that Dak killed Evan.”

“Because of Evan’s attention to Nadine?”