You Might As Well Die (4 page)

Ross ran a hand through his thick hair, which stood on his head like an upturned bristle brush. “
Our Town
.”

Woollcott snorted. “Sounds like a Rotary Club newsletter. Come, come, Ross. You can do better than that.”

Ross folded his arms over his chest. “You’re all so damn smart. You tell me what to call it.”

John Peter Toohey, a Broadway press agent and an occasional member of the group, spoke up. “Your magazine is for New Yorkers, by New Yorkers, and about New Yorkers. Why not call it
The New Yorker
?”

They all turned to look at Ross, who exhaled in frustration. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

T
ogether Dorothy and Benchley left the Algonquin, silently and slowly strolling along Forty-fourth Street toward the Condé Nast building, which housed the offices of
Vanity Fair
.

Dorothy inhaled the last of her cigarette and dropped it into a street sweeper’s ash can. “Making money from MacGuffin’s suicide in order to pay our tab at Tony’s . . .” She sighed, exhaling the smoke. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“Don’t feel bad just yet,” Benchley said brightly, puffing on his pipe. “We haven’t made a red cent. We still need to write the darned article, and soon.”

“There’s the rub,” she said. “How do we begin? Who do we interview?”

They looked at each other. Neither one had a good answer.

A brown sedan pulled to the curb. They recognized it as Detective O’Rannigan’s car because the detective opened the door and got out. “Just the folks I was looking for.”

Dorothy frowned. “You managed to track us down in front of the Algonquin after our well-known and usual lunchtime? Incredible police work, Detective.”

“Funny business is over.” He rounded the front of the car and stood in their way. “I want to talk to you about Ernest MacGuffin, the painter.”

Benchley looked around uncomfortably. “Shall we take this inside? Not quite civil to discuss suicide on the sidewalk.”

They went back inside the Algonquin and found a small table in a dark corner of the hotel’s luxurious lobby. Dorothy dropped into one of the plush lounge chairs. “MacGuffin’s dead. What’s so urgent?”

O’Rannigan tilted his small derby back on his balding head. “Explain to me why he gave you his suicide note.”

“I was wondering the same thing myself,” Dorothy said.

“I should have collected it from you last night.” O’Rannigan held out a large hand, palm up. “Give it over. It’s police evidence.”

Dorothy grabbed her purse and held it tight. “Like hell it is. MacGuffin gave it to me. Go get your own suicide note.”

O’Rannigan snapped his fingers and held out his palm again. Dorothy grudgingly dug the note out of her purse and slapped it in O’Rannigan’s hand. He unfolded it, glanced it over and folded it up again. “Now talk. Why did MacGuffin give this to you?”

“We’ll talk if you will,” Dorothy said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Quid pro quo,” she said. “We tell you what we know, and you tell us what you know.”

O’Rannigan leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “You don’t make deals with the New York City Police Department.”

Dorothy clucked her tongue. “What are you afraid of? Or maybe you just don’t know anything.”

“I ain’t afraid. But you’re right—I don’t know anything. I mean, I can’t tell you anything. Now you talk.”

So Dorothy talked. She told him simply that Ernie MacGuffin gave her the suicide note because he knew that she had once tried to commit suicide.

“Oh—yeah?” O’Rannigan seemed unsure whether to make fun of her or feel sorry for her.

“Yeah,” she answered, not wanting either reaction from him. “And that’s all I can tell you. Now your turn. You talk.”

“There ain’t much I can say. What do you want to know?”

Dorothy leaned forward. “His body? Did you find it?”

“Nah, not yet,” O’Rannigan said. “We had a couple boats out this morning looking for it. No luck so far. But don’t worry. He’ll turn up eventually. They almost always do.”

“Well, the East River flows out to the bay and then directly to the Atlantic Ocean. I can’t guarantee that the body didn’t catch a current and is halfway to Spain by now. But probably not.”

“Probably not?” Dorothy asked. “Probably what, then?”

“Probably the body will rise to the surface in a few days, bloated and blue, maybe with a few bites out of it, and wash ashore somewhere.”

Bloated and blue, maybe with a few bites out of it?
The thought made Dorothy sick. She choked the thought down.

But something—just a little something—had been bothering her since last night: MacGuffin’s shoes. They were placed so neatly, side by side, at the rail of the Brooklyn Bridge. In appearance, MacGuffin had always been unkempt. Messy hair, paint-stained hands, rumpled jacket. It was odd that he placed his shoes so neatly—

“Mrs. Parker,” Benchley said softly, “is anything the matter?”

“I’m not sure.” She turned to the detective. “You don’t think MacGuffin may have been the victim of foul play?”

“Foul play?” O’Rannigan laughed. “Didn’t he stuff this suicide note in your purse? Exactly what kind of foul play would make a man willfully write a suicide note and then jump off a bridge?”

“You’re the detective,” Dorothy said. “You tell us.”

“No kind of foul play, that’s what,” he answered. “We get dozens of dumbasses jumping off bridges every year. This MacGuffin is just another name to add to that list.” He stood up to leave and held up MacGuffin’s note. “Thanks for the evidence.”

Dorothy pondered a moment. “Evidence of what, Detective?”

But O’Rannigan was already out the door.

 

Moments later, Dorothy and Benchley were back on the sidewalk. The early-autumn afternoon was bright and sunny as they strolled along. The warm sunshine came at an angle, lighting the busy street with a golden glow. The air, which usually smelled of car exhaust and horse droppings, was now fragranced with a whiff of chimney smoke. A spinning cluster of dried leaves, animated by a cool breeze, danced across their path. Dorothy parted the dust devil of brown leaves with her little scuffed shoe.

She didn’t feel like going back to work on such a glorious afternoon, especially after their disheartening chat with O’Rannigan.

“You know,” Benchley said suddenly, as though reading her mind, “I don’t feel like going back to the office. Let’s go have a drink.”

She looked up at him, at his funny bow tie, his kind smile, his twinkling eyes. She glanced at his soft, gentle hands and slid her arm through his as they walked together.

“Have a drink? Where? Not Tony’s, certainly.”

“Somewhere outdoors,” he said with a sigh. “It’s so enjoyable to have a drink in the autumn sunshine.”

“That’s all well and good. But, again, where? Should we get a bottle of bootleg hooch from a drugstore and plop down on the grass in Central Park like a couple of vagrants? The vagrants wouldn’t stand for it.”

They mulled this over as they strolled to a stop in front of a combination betting parlor and ticket shop. The window was covered with advertisements, placards and posters for different events—horse races, boxing matches, tennis matches, football games—all with large, screaming headlines.

“Look at this,” Dorothy said. “The first-ever professional football match in New York is being held today. ‘The National Football League presents the New York Football Giants versus the Frankford Yellow Jackets.’”

“
Professional
football?” Benchley scoffed. “Who wants to watch a bunch of washed-up players fumble around and lose a game when we can go see my alma mater’s team fumble around and lose a game?”

“I do, if it means a drink,” she said. “Didn’t Sherwood say that’s why Heywood Broun couldn’t make it for lunch today? Broun is reporting in the press box for this game.”

“The press box? Those boys can drink.” Benchley inspected the poster. “New York Polo Grounds—there
is
no finer place to drink in the autumn sunshine than at a sporting event. On we go!”

T
hey arrived at the enormous and crowded stadium just as the first half of the game ended. They pressed through the crowd, climbed three flights of concrete stairs, and shuffled down a dim side corridor until they finally entered through a battered door to the shabby press box.

The box was about twelve feet wide and three rows deep. Several sports reporters—jackets off, sleeves rolled up, hats tilted back, cigarettes hanging from their mouths—clacked the keys of portable typewriters or scribbled in notepads. Heywood Broun turned and, seeing Dorothy and Benchley, greeted them with a cheer. As usual, the big, burly sports writer looked disheveled, like an unmade bed.

“Mrs. Parker! Mr. Benchley! What a grand surprise.” Broun beamed. “Sit right down. You’re just in time for the halftime show. Houdini’s here. He’s going to make something disappear.”

They sat down and Dorothy asked Broun if he had anything to drink.

“I had a bottle here a moment ago. We were handing it around.” He stood up and addressed the other reporters. “Hey, boys, who’s got the bottle?”

A bottle of rum was passed hand to hand back to Broun. He held it up. It was empty.

“No surprise, I guess,” Dorothy said downheartedly. “Sunny afternoon in a reporter’s box. You boys work up a thirst watching the pigskin fly.”

“Don’t fret,” Broun said, dropping the empty bottle into a dustbin. “Liquor bottles are like subway trains around here. Miss one and another will show up in a few minutes. So, what brings you to the Polo Grounds?”

It seemed preposterous to explain that they had traveled a hundred blocks for a nonexistent drink.

“It’s a nice day, so we gave ourselves the afternoon off,” Dorothy said.

“You just missed Edna Ferber,” Broun said, referring to the bestselling novelist and infrequent attendee at the Algonquin Round Table. “She went down to talk to—”

A voice burst over the loudspeaker.
“La-dieees aaa-nnd gen-tle-mennnnnn . . .”

They looked down at the center of the football field. On a hastily erected stage, a dark-haired man in a tuxedo stood beside an enormous wooden box. “You know me as Houdini the escape artist, who has baffled millions around the world. I have escaped from all types of handcuffs, manacles, ropes, straitjackets, cages, jails—and even coffins. Although imprisoned and handcuffed, I am no criminal. But as every criminal knows, there is no escape from”—he paused dramatically as a policeman on horseback climbed the short flight of steps up to the stage—“the law.”

The crowd laughed and jeered at the policeman. The horse, a Clydesdale, stretched its neck and whinnied.

“Even I can’t outrun the law,” Houdini continued good-humoredly. “Or can I . . . ?”

The crowd, clearly on the side of lawlessness, cheered again.

Houdini swept across the stage to the horse and policeman. “Officer,” he said, “would you kindly dismount this majestic creature?”

The policeman hesitated. The crowd jeered. The policeman slowly, resentfully climbed down from the horse.

Houdini took the horse’s reins. “La-dieees and gen-tle-men, what you are about to see is merely a sampling of my phenomenal, phantasmagorical presentation at the Hippodrome, opening next week. Buy your tickets now because, I guarantee you this, they will not last long. This will be the most sensational exhibition ever presented at the Hippodrome, or anywhere else in the world!”

Dorothy turned to Benchley. “He’s got a knack for quiet understatement, don’t you think?”

“Watch closely,” Houdini continued. “To outrun the law, one must take away his means of swift transport.”

The policeman started forward, but Houdini held out his hand and the policeman stopped. Houdini walked the Clydesdale into the open end of the enormous wooden box, which was big enough for only the horse. Houdini stepped back, patted the horse on the rump, closed the door and threw the sliding lock, bolting the box shut.

Houdini again addressed the audience. “Your patience, please, as I make this policeman’s beautiful steed disappear!”

On the sidelines, the New York Giants’ marching band struck up a rousing rendition of Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever.” On the small stage, the policeman made several attempts to reach the big wooden box. Houdini blocked him and held him back each time.

Heywood Broun shook his head. “We live in an age of mania. Everywhere you turn, there’s someone doing a lamebrained stunt or lunatic spectacle or frenzied endurance contest. Last month, a man sat for days on the top of a flagpole. Today, a bunch of college boys are seeing how many of them can stuff themselves into a Model T. Tomorrow, party boys and flappers are dancing themselves to death in a twenty-four-hour Charleston contest.”

As he spoke, Edna Ferber appeared, sat down beside Broun and picked up the conversation as though she had never left.

“And don’t forget hypnotic trances, mystical séances and the all-night Ouija board readings,” Edna said. “Thank goodness these absurd, manic pursuits haven’t infected our little group.”

Dorothy looked down to the football field. “Perhaps you spoke too soon.”

The crowd erupted in a roar. On the stage, Houdini and the policeman had frozen as they watched two figures carrying croquet mallets zigzagging across the field. Dorothy recognized them instantly as Alexander Woollcott and Harpo Marx. As they ran, Woollcott and Harpo knocked croquet balls every which way. A group of stadium officials appeared on the field and chased after them.

Edna, abruptly turning away from the spectacle on the field, addressed Dorothy and Benchley. “So, what brings you two here?”

“I already asked them,” Broun said. “Some nonsense about enjoying a sunny afternoon.”

Edna nodded thoughtfully. “So what
really
brings you here?”