Manhattan Mayhem: New Crime Stories From Mystery Writers of America Read online

  That same day, maybe while we were kicking around theories, the Executioner was up in Cape Cod taking his fifth victim, Justin Gentry, an aging matinee idol best known for getting supporting players, stage hands, directors, dressers, and anybody who annoyed him fired. He’d even tried to dismiss the playwright on one production. Died in a boating accident, but what about that newspaper personal item that said “MASSACHUSETTS IS A LONG WAY FROM NEW YORK”?

  “So,” I said to Evan, “that finished out the career of the Broadway Executioner, at least as far as I know.”

  “But that isn’t all. What about the last one, about the highest spot? Who got killed to that melody?”

  “As far as I know, nobody.”

  “Then why was it on the list?”

  “Because there’s a little more to the story.”

  Danny had retired from the stage, but he was still doing occasional TV, on videotape now, when he died in 1978, right around the time they were turning his beloved Hotel McAlpin into an apartment building. At least he wasn’t around to see the Marine Grill torn up and replaced by a Gap store a dozen years later. In one of our last conversations, Danny noted that Max Bialystock in Mel Brooks’s The Producers could have been inspired by Ned Spurlock, though much more amusing and less villainous. Danny never lived to see the stage musical with Nathan Lane, but he loved the movie with Zero Mostel.

  Life went on, and for years I didn’t think much about the Broadway Executioner. Lots was happening. My eighties may have been busier than my seventies. It was only a couple years ago, a happy centenarian living out my days at Plantain Point, that I thought about the mutual interest Danny and I had in those killings, and I considered taking a crack at solving them, just as an intellectual exercise, of course. And so I did, after a fashion.

  I’d put together certain clues and got a very rickety theory that sounded good to me, but it might not convince anybody else—and certainly wouldn’t fly in a court of law. Besides, all my suspects from that long-ago New York cocktail party were dead. Weren’t they? Well, not quite. Arthur Belasco, Elmer’s son, had put together quite a career as a Broadway producer—an honest one, I should add—in the last quarter of my century. He was still working and still vigorous, as why shouldn’t a young man barely in his eighties be, and he’d come to California on a book tour, promoting his newly published memoirs. Plantain Point has a lot of showbiz residents, and I suggested to our energetic young program director, always looking for diversions for her geriatric charges, that she call Arthur’s people and arrange for him to drop in during his California visit, give a little talk maybe, sell and sign some books. Once he was in town, I called his hotel and invited him to pay me a little visit while he was here.

  Some people change less than others with the years, and I could see in Arthur’s wrinkled face the brash twenty-two-year-old I’d met back in 1946. He remembered me, too, though we hadn’t seen each other since. He glanced around at all the entertainment memorabilia in my living room and said it brought back memories. I wanted to bring back one particular memory over a glass of Remy Martin XO.

  When he noted a signed photo of Danny Crenshaw in my rogues’ gallery, I said casually, “I guess you remember that get-together at Danny’s place, back in 1946?”

  “Vividly. Hotel McAlpin. It’s now called the Herald Towers. They tore out those incredible murals in the basement restaurant. I think they’re in a subway station now. Can’t argue with progress, can we?”

  “We can, but progress won’t listen. Did you put anything in your memoirs about that day?”

  “No, there was nowhere to go with it, so it wound up on the cutting room floor, as you Hollywood types might put it. We did write it up, though. My daughter Eleanor helped with the book, and that day was so imprinted on my memory that I was able to reconstruct it pretty much word for word onto a tape recorder. Didn’t miss a thing.”

  “As I remember, Eleanor was just a baby at the time. But she joined the family business, too, didn’t she?”

  “In a big way. She’s a better actor than her old man, as my father constantly reminded me. Does plenty of TV, plays, pictures.”

  “But about that day in Danny’s apartment. I know you have a great memory, but I doubt if you can remember every conversation you’ve had and every social event you’ve been at since World War II.”

  “No, but that one was unforgettable. Especially a little colloquy between Danny and his wife and Jerry Cordova about an old Gershwin song. Eleanor really enjoyed that part.”

  “Any chance you or she could send me a transcript of your notes on that party? I might have a use for it.”

  “Sure. Be happy to. Why the special interest, Seb?”

  “I think that was when you and your dad hatched the Broadway Executioner murders.”

  Arthur Belasco’s eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked around for a moment like a hunted animal. Then he intoned, his voice dripping with menace, “Seb, I don’t know what you think you know or how you know it. But if you hope to still be breathing when I leave, we need to come to an understanding.” His hand had moved to a bulge in his jacket pocket.

  “You can’t get away with it,” I said. “You’re not going to shoot me in my own apartment.”

  “There are other ways,” he said, a gleam of madness in his eyes. “I’m an expert at that, aren’t I?”

  I’d kept a straight face as long as I could. I laughed at him. “Your dad was right. You are a lousy actor.”

  Then he laughed, too, and pulled out a pipe. “I had you for a second, though, didn’t I?”

  “Maybe for a second,” I agreed.

  “Well, for a second, you had me, too. I heard about Danny’s crazy theory, you know, and maybe there’s something to it. But the old man and me as the murderers? Very far-fetched, and I’m glad you don’t really think that.”

  “Oh, but I do,” I said. “Arthur, you and I both know the chances of getting anybody charged with a series of crimes the police don’t even admit were crimes after all these years is zero, and there’s nothing to prove my theory in a court of law. We also know that no matter what I say, you have nothing to fear from me and have no reason to pull out your roscoe and ka-chow it at me this pleasant afternoon. But I’d be happy if, just between us, you could admit what happened and tell me how you brought it off.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he said, still taking it as a joke. “First, tell me what your evidence is.”

  “Okay, here goes. First, look at the songs. Two of the ones that carried clues were in productions of the Ziegfeld Follies, and we know your father worked for Ziegfeld in that period.”

  “Uh-huh. So what?”

  “How about this? Most of the songs, except for the Irving Berlin, were from lesser Broadway composers. No Gershwin, Porter, Rodgers, Kern. Instead Shean, Blitzstein, and Brown. But one song was by Kurt Weill, and he was your father’s choice as greatest Broadway composer.”

  “Philo Vance and Charlie Chan would have thrown that one back.”

  “Okay, but look at the alibis. Elmer couldn’t have committed all of the murders. You couldn’t have committed all of the murders. But between the both of you, you could have done them all. You and Elmer joked about his wanting you to join the family business. Could it be that he asked you in on this project as well?”

  “Oh, if he’d been a serial killer, he probably would have. Great family man, my father. You got anything else?”

  “The clue on Ned Spurlock referred to somebody running a marathon. The connection wasn’t as immediately obvious as some of the others. But Ned Spurlock and Elmer Belasco both worked on a flop musical called Boston Marathon.”

  “I remember that one. It died in Boston, where else?”

  “Maybe Elmer had been one of Ned’s victims.”

  “Well, he hated him enough. Still, that’s pretty thin.”

  “Oh, it’ll stay pretty thin, but I did save the best clue for last. The line about Massachusetts and New York came from a show call
ed New Faces of 1952, which didn’t open till May of that year. In late 1951, when the murder of Justin Gentry occurred, you were working on a satirical musical revue that would introduce young talent. Sounds like New Faces to me.”

  “It was. I’m proud to have worked on that show. Incredible cast. Paul Lynde, Eartha Kitt, Carol Lawrence, Alice Ghostley, Mel Brooks. But what was your point?”

  “Just this. Before it opened, when it was still in preparation, how many people would have known the lyrics to that Lizzie Borden song? Somebody involved with the production would. Whoever put that line in the personal columns to foretell Spurlock’s murder had to have been involved with the show before it opened.”

  “That one’s a little better, Seb, I have to admit. But you’re still talking through your hat. How do you know how long that song was in gestation before the show opened and who else might have heard the lyrics? The author might have been singing that at Broadway cocktail parties for a year. Jerry Cordova might have been playing it, for all we know.”

  “Okay, it’s speculation, but I don’t expect to satisfy anybody else. I just want to satisfy my own curiosity. So, why don’t you just admit to me that you did it? You and your father.”

  Arthur shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, Seb. Your theory is clever. Rosey Patterson would have loved it. But my dad and I weren’t murderers.” After a moment’s silence, he grinned slyly. “We could have done it, though, and if we had, it wouldn’t have been a crime. It would have been a public service. Remember that book O. J. Simpson did?”

  “Where he said he didn’t do it, but this is how he’d have done it if he did it?”

  “That’s it. Just for fun, I’ll use my imagination and do an O. J. number for you on the Broadway Executioner murders.”

  “Starting with Claude Anselm.”

  “Oh, that one would have been Dad’s alone. Assuming, that is, that it was really part of the series at all, and not just an anonymous mugging, like everybody thought. Dad hated Anselm’s guts. He’d worked with him, knew how he operated. He could have stalked the guy and killed him and left the scene knowing he’d never be suspected. But let’s say I found out about it. Maybe I saw him just after the killing, spotted something that tipped me off. Maybe he was disposing of the weapon. A bloody golf club would be appropriate. So, I’d get him to tell me the truth, and he’d make me agree to stonewall it. Certainly, I’d have had no problem with the morality of the thing. Then Rosey’s brainstorming on it might have inspired us. Dad had done it once. Why couldn’t he do it again, especially with me helping him? Put that line about Anselm’s lousy golf game in the personals the next day. It was no great trick to place a classified ad anonymously in those days. Then after that, we’d make it harder on ourselves, give ourselves a challenge. Sort of predict the murder to the papers before we actually committed it. Maybe I had this desire to show my dad I really was a good actor, that I could put on a fright wig and do a righteous killing and cover my tracks. Hey, this makes such a good story, I almost wish it really had happened this way. So, let’s see, what was the next one?”

  “Monique Floret.”

  “Ah, yes, that bitch. That woulda been mine alone. I would have altered my appearance so I wouldn’t be recognized, easy for an actor. ‘Even a crappy one,’ I hear my dad saying. Blackface maybe? No, I wouldn’t risk that in Harlem. But add a moustache, comb my hair a different way, dab on a little gray to make me look older. I’d have gone to the Savoy, danced with her to the alternating bands—”

  “How’d you know she’d be at the Savoy?”

  “Made a date by phone to meet her there, used a phony name, dropped a few famous ones she’d know to make me look like an insider, pretended I could help her career or something, said my wife didn’t understand me. Monique couldn’t resist that stuff. She’d tried to frame my dad one time. Didn’t know that, did you? It would’ve killed my mother, but he got out of it before it boiled over. Then I’d have left the Savoy with her, walked the streets looking for my opportunity, pushed her in front of a train in the subway station.”

  “It wouldn’t be crowded enough at that time of night. It sounds risky.”

  “Having embarked on this plan, you think we were worried about risky? Anyway, I’d have had a chance later if the platform wasn’t nearly empty. I had to do it that night, you know. The message was already in all the papers, and you don’t pay to advertise a show and then cancel it.”

  “How about Esterhazy?”

  “That would have been Dad’s. I wasn’t even in town at that time. Esterhazy loved cloak-and-dagger stuff. If Dad had called him and arranged to meet him somewhere secretly, in some cheap and anonymous hotel room, he’d come even in a blizzard, wouldn’t tell anybody about it. I’d learned something about drug actions during my short stint in medical school, and that would come in handy faking a natural death. Telling Dad how to do it could have been my contribution. Dad would have drugged him, carried him out by a back exit, and buried him in the snow before he could wake up. Cause of death: freezing.”

  “Quite a job for a man of his age.”

  “Seb, you remember how strong my father was, and Esterhazy was the size of a jockey. He could have done it.”

  “What about Spurlock?”

  “Hmm, yeah, that was a tricky one, wasn’t it? Shot to death, weapon never recovered, cops had to know it was murder. How the hell would we have done that one?”

  “You mean you’re stumped?”

  “No, no, give me a minute. This is fun, isn’t it? We’d have got together on Spurlock, too. Once again, Dad was in a position to arrange a meeting surreptitiously, maybe in a hotel near the Garment District.”

  “The McAlpin, maybe?”

  “That’d be an appropriate gesture, I admit, but probably more of a down-market place, not so conspicuous. So, let’s see. I acquired a garment rack and filled it up with long overcoats so the body could be concealed there later. I stationed it in a secluded spot among the trash cans behind the hotel. Meanwhile, Dad was in charge of shooting Spurlock, getting him down a back stairway unseen, and helping me hide the body. We might have tried to hang the guy up in one of the overcoats, but that probably wouldn’t work. Whoever pushed the rack to the spot where it was found would have noticed its unusual weight, so he had to be the murderer or his accomplice. Those racks are so commonplace on the streets in that area, any single one is about as noticeable as Chesterton’s postman. I’d have done the pushing, looked for a spot to disappear quickly, then abandoned the rack, leaving the cops to find the body and wonder. Dad could have disposed of the gun any number of ways.”

  “That leaves Gentry.”

  Now Arthur gave me a broad satirical smile. “You’ll need a séance to answer that one. I was nowhere near the scene, so my dad must have handled it by himself. Let me just say he was an experienced sailor and very able, despite his advanced years. He could have found a way. So there you have it. That’s how we might have done it—if we’d done it.”

  “But you didn’t do it.”

  “Heck, no.”

  “Now, still speaking hypothetically, if you’d done all this, so successfully, with nobody suspecting, why would you have stopped?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe we planned more that never came off. I’ll bet there were some we wanted to do but couldn’t find a way to do them safely.”

  “Safely for yourselves?”

  “For innocent bystanders. We were never safe. That was part of the thrill. We might have wanted to do another in tribute to Danny, whose party was responsible for our whole crime wave. What better way than to send some deserving scoundrel off the top of the Empire State Building to be squashed on the street below? Hard to bring off, though, and we couldn’t have the victim take out some poor pedestrian. That would make us murderers rather than public benefactors, wouldn’t it? But if we’d been able to do the Empire State Building job, we’d have had a great line for the newspaper ads, from On the Town. It’s where the sailor on twenty-fou
r-hour shore leave reads in his old guidebook that he should visit the Woolworth Tower for the best view of the city, and the lady cab driver points out to him, ‘That ain’t the highest spot.’ ”

  “If all this had happened, do you think anybody might have found you out?”

  “Not the cops or some true-crime writer, that’s for sure.”

  “Somebody closer. Your daughter Eleanor. She’s a Broadway person, too.”

  “She’s gone from ingénues to leading ladies to mother parts to old crones, and she’s seen all the theatrical mendacity we did. Good word, mendacity, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. It wouldn’t have shocked her, and she wouldn’t have given us away. If any of this had happened, you understand. Let me have another glass of that brandy, will you, Seb?”

  We parted on friendly terms that day. Had Arthur indirectly confessed to the Broadway Executioner murders, or was this just a game two old codgers had been playing to while away the time? Arthur has since died, too—and he’d seemed so healthy and vigorous that day he came to Plantain Point. So no one at that gathering of Danny’s survives, except me.

  If all it amounted to was another way to bond with my favorite great-granddaughter, that was okay with me. Evan developed an interest in the music of long before her birth, started listening to original cast albums on whatever her current listening device was, branched out into big bands, swing music, jazz. That was what I’d really been hoping for when I sent her after those old songs.

  Then one morning I read in one of the dwindling print newspapers the obituary of a Wall Street investment banker, Edgerton Makepeace, who had blood all over his hands during the financial crisis but was never prosecuted for anything, of course. Not quite in the Bernie Madoff class, but close. He’d backed some Broadway shows, but, more to the point, some Broadway people had lost a ton of money with him. He’d died by drowning in the East River during a visit to the South Street Seaport, a sort of nineteenth-century nautical theme park with a fleet of historic ships. It crossed my mind that the Executioner might be back at it, next generation this time, the little daughter and memoir collaborator, Eleanor Belasco, maybe with an accomplice of her own. I soon dismissed the idea.