A DEATH AT THE WALDORF
(an Achille Poirot Mystery)
In this latest episode, Achille Poirot, twin brother of Hercule Poirot, investigates the scene where a beautiful, young debutant was found dead.
Sunday, 4 September 1932, 10:00 A.M.
A brutal, broiling summer had been hard on the younger citizens of New York. Only two weeks past, a third youthful debutante vanished after her party of introduction to elite society. I began to lean towards the current view of the press and believe there might be a connection and possibly a lunatic on the loose.
Still, I wondered how this latest tragedy could fit into any potential pattern. Other than the fact that she was a recent debutante, there was nothing to connect this girl’s death with the other dreadful disappearances. Something did not sit right and I needed a good walk to sort out my troubled thoughts.
Even at this early hour of the morning, an oven blast of New York summer heat assaulted me as I left the cool cavern of the hotel lobby. Pausing to let my eyes adjust to the dust and glare, I tipped my hat to George at the door, turned left and began walking down the heat shimmered sidewalk.
At the corner of 49th, I decided to turn left again and, dodging a panting French bulldog and its overfed owner, I continued down the side of the Waldorf. As I gazed down the avenue, it was soon apparent where the victim had been found. At a brass covered side entrance door, a young boy of 18 or so was holding court for a couple of truck drivers, a police officer, and a half dozen clucking citizens.
“She was right there where you’re standin’ lady,” he said as he straightened his bellman’s jacket.
A blond woman gasped and quickly back-stepped from the indicated spot. Everyone gave a nervous laugh as the lad continued with his narrative.
“Besides her not breathin’ or nuthin’,” he continued. “You woulda swore she was just sleepin’”
“Was there a lot of blood?” asked the blond.
“Do you see any blood sister?” he scoffed and gave a knowing glance to the other listeners. “The lady offed herself with the goofy gas.”
I allowed myself to approach the edge of the circle of interest. “So there were no obvious signs of a struggle?”
Shading his eyes against the morning glare, the boy looked suspiciously at my arrival. However, his frown soon turned to a smile as recognition dawned on his face.
“Hey, Mister Purrow! Did ya come to check out the scene of the crime?” He exclaimed as came forward to pump my hand.
I shrugged. “Well Billy, if it is like you so succinctly say that ‘she offed herself’, then there is no crime, just a scene”.
Billy’s brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment and then he slowly grinned.
“Hey, that’s a good one.”
“So, how was the young lady’s appearance when she was found?” I continued.
Billy ignored the bystanders and walked closer to me.
“Well, it was like I was sayin’ Mister Purrow, she just looked like she lay down and went to sleep.”
I considered this image for a moment before continuing my inquiry.
“Was her clothing tussled in any way or her hair out of place?”
Billy quickly shook his head.
“Heck no. She looked pretty as a picture with her dress all straightened and her wrap bundled up under her head like a pillow. I tell ya she was just like Sleeping Beauty or somthin’”.
An emerging picture in my mind’s eye now grew ominously shadowed. This account did not sound like a suicide and I would hazard a guess this public spot was not the original scene of the crime. My apprehension growing, I wanted to find out more about how this young girl’s evening had gone so dreadfully awry. For that, I knew I must head to the Bowery and speak to her former Prince Charming. I would need to seek out the young artist James Crenshaw who was mentioned in this morning’s paper.
I bid adieu to Billy and turned to go back to Park Avenue. Feeling the relentless sun begin to turn my Homburg hat into a greenhouse and a tickle of sweat trailing down my back, I thought it prudent to seek a cab in front of the hotel. As I approached the hotel’s main entrance, I signaled to George. As Manhattan’s best doorman, George had a magician’s gift for pulling cabs to the curb out of thin air. In no time at all, I was speeding my way through the downtown herd of automobiles towards the Lower East Side and I hoped, answers to my growing list of questions.
Finding young Crenshaw would not be hard. After all, I knew his family well and had listened to many hours of bemoaning from his successful attorney father. It seems the young man shunned his family’s wealth and plans for his life after a turbulent spring trip to Spain. It was there that the Mediterranean sun and the startling paintings of the Spaniard Picasso boiled his blood to a fever. From there, he made a pilgrimage to Paris to meet his new god. However, a withdrawal of parental funding left him insolvent and he had to limp back to New York where he established himself in a coldwater flat in the bowels of the Bowery.
Still, I had to give credit to the boy for not succumbing to the designs of his parents. Always I have admired passion. Moreover, it would seem passion had led me to the grimy and dusty little heart of New York’s Lower East Side.
As I departed my taxi at 241 Bowery, I looked up to see a tired red brick building where a most unpleasant looking Minotaur of a man leaned back in a chair by the lobby door. The old wooden chair’s tortured seat caning was collapsing under the man’s considerable weight and was revealing a cheek of his ample bottom. I thought it best to try to ignore the brute in hopes he would return the courtesy. However, as I stepped forward and reached for the doorknob, his oak tree of a right leg shot out and barred my path.
“Where the hell you think you’re goin’ pal?” he asked without looking up from his paper.
“I seek the manager of this hotel,” I replied and took a step back from his rudely placed appendage.
As he leaned forward, looked down and presented his balding, red and flaky scalp, I could surmise he was glancing at my patent leather shoes that Miguel had so expertly shined for me this morning. With my 23 pair of leather shoes, 16 pairs of leather boots, and assorted matching belts, Miguel never lacked for employment.
Lowering the sadly abused newspaper revealed the man had a huge head that was in sad need of a sturdy neck.
“Don’t look like you’re in need of a room to me,” he remarked as he moved what used to be a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other spit-crusted corner.
“How very perceptive of you my friend.”
Getting no further reply, I plowed on.
“Allow me to introduce myself.”
I tipped my hat.
”I am Monsieur Achille Poirot, and I am seeking a young artist named James Crenshaw.”
He flipped the paper back up and I could not help but notice there was a sale at Gimbles on silk ties. “I don’t ask their names. I just take their dough.”
I stood there waiting for a continuation of his narrative. However, waiting for further illumination appeared to be a fruitless pursuit. Therefore, I instead tried to bore a hole through his paper with my eyes and stood there a full two minutes before his paper flipped down again.
“Jeez, you ain’t goin’ away are ya pal?”
He lowered his elephantine leg and flipped his paper up once again.
“Third floor, second room on the left,” he mumbled.
I quickly walked past the beast and entered the musty lobby before he could change his mind.
My shoes kicked through scattered sheets of soiled newsprint as I moved into the lobby. Closing my eyes to let them adjust to the darkened hallway, my other senses picked up the depressing story of this dismal place. The stale pungency of old urine and stale sweat assaulted my nostrils . My ears detected rustling in the walls that surely meant the rats were seeking somewhere dark and cool to wait out the heat of the day.
In short, it was a place where misery goes to hide its face from the world. As I opened my eyes and they adjusted to the dim light, the first thing I saw was a hairy knuckled fist heading for my face. Then, there was a painful burst of blinding stars followed by darkness.
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR A NEW EPISODE