Long Beach

JOHN RIDDELL

The startling exposé of another exclusive social resort, in the style of Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Having observed the facility with which Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr., has recently exposed the innermost secrets of the Four Hundred (now known as the Three Hundred and Ninety-Nine, after the appearance of Mr. Vanderbilt's book), Vanity Fair has persuaded the young scion of the Riddell millions to do the same in this issue for another equally exclusive watering-place. Like Mr. Vanderbilt, it is Cornelius Riddell, Jr.'s unique privilege to write about the smart gayety at New York's glittering playground out of an extensive intimate knowledge. The Long Beach setting of the following novel is lavish, with palatial homes and swanky hotels, exquisite gowns and jewels and sports costumes, exclusive beach clubs, night clubs and floating bars, magnificent yachts, houseboats, speedboats and imported cars, parly upon party, oil barons and movie queens, politicians and stage stars, poverty-stricken European titles and soft-spoken gold-diggers, all mingled in a veritable masterpiece of realism, without a competitor—saving, of course, your Grace's most gracious presence.)

The slim girl on the hotel verandah stared fixedly at Long Beach. There it was spread out before her, just as the catalogue had told her it would be. White sand, blue sea, the blue sky overhead; ocean breezes; swimming, surf-bathing, golf and tennis; easy commuting distance from New York; attractive rates, make your reservations NOW.

And here she was in a one-room suite at the Hotel Nassau, with a suitcase full of Gimbel's clothes; ready to have a gay time and he photographed, with her picture in the Bronx Home News.

"Mrs. Ben Leftkowitz and her charming debutante daughter Rosie of 4276 Grand Concourse, the Bronx, are among the recent arrivals at the Nassau."

To get married, too. That was the main reason why she had come—to get married. Her mother had made that very clear. It was up to Rosie to make a good match before the social season was over.

"Look, Rosie, how we've scrimped and saved, with your poor father losing his eyesight working day and night in the tailor-shop, so just you could come here and meet the right people socially. Think of it, dearie, with all these prospects you ought to be able to hook up yet with a couple of million dollars at the least."

Rosie sighed. Well, it had happened just as her mother had hoped. The rich Cornelius Riddell, Jr., scion of the Riddell millions— he had been paying her particular attention lately. If only she could be sure that he loved her. He was sitting here on the porch beside her now; but he wasn't saying a word to Rosie. Mrs. Leftkowitz on the other side of him was doing all the talking.

"And how is your sister, the young Miss Riddell?" she inquired. "I seen her picture riding horseback in the Times Sunday. And your dear father, the Major, is he married again? And old Mrs. Riddell—she was a Whitney, wasn't she? Or was it the other way round? Americans do get those things mixed. . . . Yes, of course. ... I remember reading in the Social Register, her brother was a Rhinelander and married the first Miss Riddell, your aunt. Didn't your grandmother get a divorce recently? Or was it one of the Newport Riddells? . .

Rosie's color mounted. Mamma was asking too many questions. Cornelius Riddell, Jr., would see what she was getting at, with her predatory eye fixed on a Park Avenue address for her daughter. She rose impatiently, and Cornelius smiled.

"Rosie, what do you say to a swim and a Cok'?"

Her heart beat wildly as Cornelius took her arm, and they strolled down the boardwalk. How striking he looked in his bathingsuit, his long yellow slicker flapping about his bare legs, thrust into low sneakers. Everywhere the smart world of Long Beach was hurrying past them in bathing-suits, bound for the Castle Baths, the beach, or the exclusive summer colony in the Rockaways. Cornelius nodded to them familiarly, and called each of them all by his own name.

"Hello, Mr. Morgan. Hello, Mr. Rockefeller." He turned to her. "For all its swank effulgence and liveried prestige, this glittering resort shelters the same human mixture of misery and boredom that is found in squalid back alleys like Park Avenue or Palm Beach."

"You're quite a philosopher, ain't you?" said Rosie admiringly.

"That was on the inside back flap of my last novel," admitted Cornelius.

He led her to an isolated section of the exclusive beach. Here, under black cotton umbrellas, in faded bathing-suits and sneakers, Long Beach's innermost circle disported itself. The sand was bright with squeezed oranges, egg-shells, half-buried pop-bottles, and the twisted crusts of sandwiches. Crackerjack boxes and bright chewing-gum wrappers contributed to the gayety and insouciance of the scene. Cornelius pointed out the exclusive set that sprawled on their backs, with folded newspapers over their faces, while small children built sand-forts on their rotund stomachs. He seemed to know everybody.

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"There's Vinnie Astor," he told her. "And Bernie Gimble, talking to Peggy Joyce and the Countess Mercati. And Tony Biddle over there with William Rhinelander Stewart, Peggy Hitchcock, George M. Cohan and Princess Bibesco. That tall thin man is Dudley Field Malone, and the fellow beside him with the black beard is Jimmy Walker. Oh, and there's the haughty Baroness de Cartier de Marchienne, and Flo Ziegfeld, and Mrs. Jerome Bonaparte with the hat, and Maria Jeritza, and Elsie de Wolfe, the* dancer, with her husband, Otto Kahn. A veritable Burke's peerage."

"You certainly know them all, don't you," exclaimed Rosie. "Who's that short stocky chap with the black moustache?"

"Oh, that's Gene Tunney," answered Cornelius, "with his wife, the former Anne Morrow. Hiya Gene?" he called.

Gene Tunney frowned and answered something in Yiddish.

"Nice chap. Gene," added Cornelius hurriedly. "Come on, let's get an orangeade."

At tea-time, the Nedick's stand on the Long Beach boardwalk, surrounded by a veritable fairyland of amusement booths and bath-houses, is the vortex of gayety and smartness. Here, propped on wire-legged stools with their elbows on the marble counter, sit the rich, the powerful, the fashionable, the distinguished denizens of this exclusive resort. Here Cornelius pointed out such notables as Princess Bibesco, Mrs. August Belmont, Vincent Astor, Bill Rockefeller, Maria Jeritza, Roy Howard, Flo Ziegfeld, Helen Morgan, the blonde Helen Fahnestock, Tony Biddle, William Rhinelander Stewart, Peggy Joyce.

"Hello, Peggy," Cornelius nodded to the stout brunette beside them.

"All the swells are here," he added to Rosie; and oh how Rosie loved the sound of his rich, confident voice.

"I'd love to be in a gondola," she sighed.

With a smile Cornelius led her to Long Beach's exclusive amusement park. Seated side by side in one of the gilded gondolas, Cornelius held her hand as the huge ferris wheel turned slowly, and their frail craft slid noiselessly through its deep revolution, rising black and sinister while little twinkling lights bobbed like fireflies below them, and the moon left a path of silver as it moved on its endless journey through the sky. (Hot damn.—Ed.)

"This ferris wheel is very exclusive," whispered Cornelius in her ear. "Everybody's here. In that gondola ahead of us, are Maria Jeritza, Bill Rockefeller, Mrs. August Belmont and the Princess Bibesco. In the next gondola are Tony Biddle, Jimmy Walker, Peggy Joyce and the Baroness de Cartier de Marchienne. In the next are Mrs. Jerome Bonaparte, Vincent Astor, Elsie de Wolfe and William Rhinelander Stewart. And in the one over here are General Smedley Butler and Mussolini. Hello, Mussolini," he called to an elderly gentleman in the adjoining gondola, with a black skullcap and long white beard.

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"I beg your pardon," said Mussolini.

"Great kidder, Mussolini," winked Cornelius to Rosie. "We drove all over Italy together a couple of summers ago."

"It must be great to know everybody," envied Rosie.

"Well, what do you say we try an exclusive gambling resort?" suggested Cornelius genially.

They walked happily down the exclusive boardwalk toward the famous booth where the denizens of Long Beach's gay whirl were wont to gather. Cornelius pushed his way to the forefront of the mob, and bought a chance.

"Seven!" called the croupier.

"I win," smiled Cornelius, handing a Kewpie doll to Rosie.

"Just one minute," called a voice in the crowd. "I had number seven."

Riddell's face went white and he sought to run. Otto Kahn and the Countess de Cartier de Marchienne and Mrs. August Belmont and one or two others blocked his way. A couple of policemen pushed through the crowd and pinioned his arms.

"You can't do that!" screamed Rosie. "That's Cornelius Riddell, Jr.!"

"Exactly," nodded one of the bluecoats grimly. "I'm sorry, Miss, but this man is a notorious novelist. He is already wanted for the theft of half a dozen plots, and in addition he is being sought on several charges of passing phoney grammar."

"You must be mistaken," said Rosie faintly.

"Not on your life," said the other policeman. "There's a warrant out for his arrest right now, charging him with being implicated with Oppenheim and one or two others in a big international 'dope' ring, peddling fake social atmosphere to unsuspecting stenographers and servant-girls."

Rosie's face went pale as she watched the crumpled form of Cornelius being led away to Oblivion. Her mother bustled up and seized her as she fainted.

"That's the trouble with these exelusive social resorts," sighed Mrs. Leftkowitz. "Come on, Rosie, we're going back to the Bronx!"