You Might As Well Die (31 page)

What was he up to? What were
they
up to?

Clay slowed down as he neared the shoe-shine stand. He looked curiously at Rudy and the stand. Benchley could almost read Clay’s thoughts:
There was never a shoe-shine stand here before.
Clay looked up at Benchley and frowned. Benchley’s hands began to shake; the newspaper started to rustle. Clay shook his head and moved on.

After Clay was a few paces away, Rudy whispered, “You got the dang newspaper upside down again.”

Nevertheless, Benchley exhaled in relief now that Clay was on his way. The man seemed like a bully, and Benchley didn’t want to cross him. Clay not only was physically imposing, but also seemed temperamental and aggressive—a rotten combination. And now Benchley started to wonder....

They had three suspects—Snath, Midge and Viola. But what about Clay? They hadn’t even considered him. . . .

Benchley dropped the newspaper and looked back and forth between Midge’s house and the receding figure of Clay. What should he do? Should he stay and keep an eye on Midge? Or should he follow Clay and see what the big man was up to?

He reasoned that Clay would come back sooner or later—he had left his suitcase behind, after all. And if he was coming back, that probably meant that Midge would stay put until he did. But where was Clay headed?

Benchley decided to follow him. He jumped down from the shoe-shine stand.

“Hey!” Rudy cried. “That’s the second time you almost kicked me in the chin. And where do you think you’re going ?”

“I need to follow that big fellow,” Benchley said hastily, pointing in Clay’s direction.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Rudy said, hands on his hips. “You need to help me carry this big old shoe-shine stand back to where it belongs. And you owe me for at least three shines!”

Benchley pulled out his wallet. Perhaps he could make it worth Rudy’s while. But other than his train ticket, his wallet was empty.

Rudy stepped closer, seeing the empty wallet. “Oh, I should have known!”

“Rudy, I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” Benchley pleaded, shoving the wallet back in his pocket. “But right now I have to go.”

“Oh, you’ll make it up to me, all right.” He eyed Benchley’s exquisitely polished brown oxfords. “You can make it up to me right here and now,
sweet old Bob
.”

Benchley sighed. How fast could he follow Clay in his stocking feet?

He kicked off his shoes. He was about to find out.

Robert Sherwood nearly dozed off in his seat. The orchestra still played. Onstage, the performers were now doing a fan dance. But their peacock-feather fans were so large, and their moves so quick, that it was hardly worth getting excited over. Or even paying attention to.

Sherwood was determined to stay awake for the finale. . . . But when he opened his eyes again, the music had stopped and the houselights were up.

Was the show over? He looked at his watch. No, it was only the intermission. It felt as though he had been sitting here for hours, yet only one hour had passed.

He was terrifically bored. Perhaps a snack would keep him awake. He stood, stretched and strolled up the aisle to the lobby. At the concession stand, he bought a bag of peanuts. The lobby lights flickered—the show was about to resume—so he reluctantly went back to his seat.

He cracked a few peanuts and carelessly threw the shells on the dirty floor. Peanut shells were certainly not the worst thing this floor had seen. The orchestra, like an old cat dragging itself to its feet, slowly lurched into a discordant ditty.

But as the houselights dimmed, before the curtain went up, something strange happened. A hard red ball came hurtling down the aisle, rumbling toward the orchestra pit. It bounced twice, hit the balustrade that separated the audience from the orchestra, and flew up in a narrow arc. It came down hard in the orchestra pit, crashing loudly onto a cymbal and knocking over the percussionist, who fell backward into the saxophone player. The sax player’s feet upturned two music stands, which brought the entire orchestra to a loud, disruptive halt. Pages of sheet music fluttered down like pigeons shot from the sky. The musicians—those who weren’t lying on the floor—stood shocked and stunned.

But Sherwood wasn’t quite so surprised. He turned toward the top of the aisle. Two dark figures were silhouetted in the doorway to the lobby.

“Woollcott! Harpo!” Sherwood called. “What the devil do you think you’re up to?”

Alexander Woollcott, wearing his croquet whites and carrying his mallet, came sauntering down the aisle. Harpo Marx, also wearing his whites as well as a mischievous grin, followed close behind.

“What are we up to?” Woollcott asked. “Nineteen to twelve, my lead!”

“Ha!” cried Harpo. “Your ball’s in the rough. It’ll take you a dozen strokes to get it out of there.”

“What kind of insane form of croquet is this?” Sherwood asked.

“Not insane at all, my lanky lad,” Woollcott said coolly. “Standard croquet rules, just altered slightly for the urban landscape.” He turned to Harpo. “As for getting my ball out of the rough, I won’t need a dozen strokes. Not even one, because you owe me a mulligan.”

Harpo raised his mallet. “A mulligan, my eye!”

“But I let you have a wicket on that old gent with the cane,” Woollcott argued.

“That old guy was on crutches, and my ball sailed right between ’em. That was a wicket, fair and square. You didn’t
let
me have anything!”

Sherwood noticed that the musicians had gathered themselves together. They were climbing over the balustrade, instruments in hand. And they looked angry.

“Listen, boys,” he said urgently to Harpo and Woollcott. “Let’s take this out of here.”

Woollcott said, “But I haven’t retrieved my ball.”

“Here it comes now!” Sherwood said, as the percussionist hurled it with deadly aim. But Harpo was quicker. He snatched the soft white fedora from Woollcott’s head, held it like a catcher’s mitt and caught the ball easily.

“Your ball, your highness,” Harpo said, offering it to Woollcott.

“You’ve dented my chapeau!” Woollcott cried, taking both the ball and the hat.

“They’ll dent our craniums in a minute,” said Sherwood of the menacing musicians. “Let’s go.”

He grabbed them each by the shoulder and led them quickly up the aisle. But when they got to the entrance to the lobby, Sherwood stopped.

Someone was blocking the way. A very large someone.

“You!” Viola’s mother shouted at Sherwood. “So you did come to get an eyeful of my daughter, you dirty pervert.”

Sherwood glanced over his shoulder. The musicians were getting closer, their instruments raised like weapons. He turned back to Viola’s mother, who stood like a brick wall in front of him.

He had never struck a woman before, and he decided this was absolutely, positively, most definitely
not
the time to give it a try.

D
orothy and Houdini watched the flames dance and destroy the stack of MacGuffin’s paintings. Snath stood over the pyre, as though to make sure no canvas might somehow escape.

Dorothy tugged Houdini’s sleeve. “Let’s go around to the front of the alley,” she whispered. “He’s bound to come back this way eventually.”

They tiptoed back along the hallway and through the large room used for the auction. They went out the front door and around the corner and soon stood near the entrance to the alley, peeking in. From this vantage point, Snath was much farther away—perhaps twenty yards. But they could see that the canvases were already blackening, the oil paint sizzling in the heat of the fire.

Dorothy whispered to Houdini. “There goes the career of Ernie MacGuffin. Up in smoke.”

“A flash in the pan,” added Robert Benchley, who suddenly appeared behind them.

Dorothy and Houdini spun around in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “You’re supposed to be watching Midge!”

“I was, but—” Benchley looked curiously at Houdini. “Why are you wearing that strange mustache?”

Houdini, taking off the mustache, looked with equal curiosity at Benchley. “Why are you not wearing shoes?”

They looked down at the soiled socks on Benchley’s feet.

“Now, that’s a funny story,” he began.

“Tell us later,” Dorothy said sharply. “Why aren’t you watching Midge?”

“I’m following Bert Clay.”

“Clay?” she asked.

“He stopped by Midge’s house with a suitcase. It occurred to me he could be our suspect. He’s big enough, and rough around the edges.”

“So’s the Rock of Gibraltar, that doesn’t make it a suspect,” she said. “So where is he?”

“He just went into this building by the front entrance. He must be looking for Snath. I saw him go inside, but I also saw you two lurking here.” Benchley took another peek around the corner into the alley. “What is Snath up to? Why the bonfire?”

Dorothy and Houdini quickly explained the auction debacle.

“There he is!” Benchley said, looking up the alleyway. Bert Clay stood in the doorway where, moments ago, Dorothy and Houdini had crouched.

“There you are!” Clay said to Snath with a mean smile.

“Who the hell are you?” Snath said.

“Harriet sent me. You owe her a share of the profits for the paintings.”

“
Harriet?
I know no—”

“Midge MacGuffin!” Clay spat out the words, as though it pained him to say it. “I’m here for her share of the profits.”

“Profits?” Snath laughed. “What profits? These paintings are worthless. They’re less than worthless! That’s why I’m burning them, you dolt.”

Clay stepped forward, fists out. Snath, who was about Clay’s size, didn’t move a muscle.

“The paintings you sold the other night. Where’s the money for those?” Clay shouted. “You raked in tens of thousands of dollars at that highfalutin auction. It was all over the newspapers. You owe her a fortune. And I’ve come to collect.”

“In due time.” Snath folded his arms. “There are forms to fill out. Procedures to follow.”

“Procedures, like hell!” Clay growled, stepping closer, inches from Snath’s face. “Hand it over. Now!”

Snath looked down his pointy nose at Clay. “You lowly underling. I don’t carry such sums—”

With one hand, Clay grabbed Snath by the collar. With his other hand, he punched Snath hard in the mouth. Snath cried out. Clay punched again, but it glanced off Snath’s sharp chin.

Snath brought up his knee toward Clay’s groin, but Clay managed to turn aside. Snath lost his balance and fell backward, nearly pulling Clay down with him. But Clay let go of Snath’s collar, and Snath hit the concrete with a thud.

On his back now, Snath tried to scramble away like a crab. But Clay leaned out and grabbed his legs.

“Give me the money, you shyster!” Clay yelled. “I want it. Now!”

Back at the alley’s entrance, Dorothy turned to Benchley and Houdini. “Should we lend a hand?”

“To whom?” Benchley asked. “To help Snath escape, or to help Clay beat the snot out of him?”

Houdini laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t trouble yourself. They’re grown men. Let them deal with the matter as they choose.”

Clay clutched Snath by the ankles. Snath couldn’t pull free, no matter how he flailed. Now Clay dragged Snath toward the bonfire of MacGuffin’s paintings.

“I don’t like the look of this,” Dorothy muttered.

Snath started grunting, jerking even more violently. His arms flailed as though he were doing the backstroke, but Clay only pulled him inexorably forward toward the large, crackling fire.

“The money,” Clay demanded through gritted teeth. “Where is Harriet’s money?”

Snath weakened as Clay brought him close to the bonfire. “I will get it for you, sir, I assure you. It’s in my safe. Upstairs.”

“Bullshit!” Clay snarled. He dragged Snath the last few inches and literally held his feet to the fire. Snath wailed. But Clay kept talking. “I know the kind of man you are. I know you’re not afraid to carry around that kind of cash. You like to keep it on you, don’t you? You think it’s safer with you than hidden away in a safe.”

Snath was breathless now. He couldn’t even scream for help. The flames licked at his heels. His leather shoe uppers began to smoke.

Dorothy turned to Houdini and Benchley. “Do something !”

Houdini tightened his jaw, prepared to step forward. “You’re right. I’m the man to—”

“Not yet,” Benchley said, grabbing Houdini’s sleeve. “Look.”

Snath had reached inside his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small leather case, just large enough to hold a thick wad of bills. He flung it at Clay.

Clay dropped Snath’s feet and snatched the case out of the air.

Snath’s legs landed in the midst of the fire. Snath howled and pulled his legs out immediately. The leather of his shoes still emitted wisps of smoke, and his heels and pants were blackened with soot. But he was otherwise unharmed.