Chelsea Hotel Manager Andrew Tilley’s Wife Receives “Knickers” in Her Letterbox: Is Marlene Krauss a Suspect?

Don’t miss manager Andrew Tilley’s puff piece in Sunday’s Independent, wherein he makes several interesting admissions (more on this later).  Most humorous among these is his claim that someone (presumably from the Chelsea Hotel) mailed his wife a pair of knickers!  This has instantly set off speculation around the hotel as to whom the culprit could be.  Who the hell wears knickers?  Oliver Twist?  Maybe they were sent by a jealous Master Bates in an extortion attempt masterminded by Fagan.  Oh, but wait a minute, we’re in New York.  So maybe it was Huntz Hall or Leo Gorcey or another of the Dead End Kids who mailed the cut-off pantaloons.  But would that be with or without knee socks?  And how about a page-boy hat to go with those?  Since he spilled the beans to a newspaper, will they now give Andrew Tilley the “mahk of the squealah”?
      Oh, wait a minute again, I get it now: “knickers” is what the Brits call women’s panties!  That clears up a lot.  I could scarcely imagine that Tilley had gone that far over to the dark side.  According to the article, the panties came in a package with “a note insinuating that Tilley was up to no good at the hotel and she should make him leave.”  “No good”!  What could that possibly entail?  Maybe something along the lines of: “Dear Mrs. Tilley, Your husband is attempting to evict the long term residents of a New York landmark, so he can gut the building and junk it up with mini-bars and I-pod docking stations.”  Seriously though, due to the hard work of our vast network of informants, Legends has obtained a copy of the actual offending missive:

Beware, Mrs. Tilley,

I am no fan of infidelity, so I suggest you divorce your no-good, lying, cheating husband right away.  The siren song of the Chelsea is too strong for mortal man to resist.  Temptations here are too great, and everyone knows that once you go Bohemian, you can never go back. 
         To my eternal shame, I must confess that I enticed Andrew through the dark portal of my boudoir of earthly delights, leading him through the labyrinthine corridors of books and magazines that I have piled up over the years in homage to the Collyer Brothers.  (I understand that you are quite a big reader too.) We collapsed in wild abandon upon my blood-and-urine stained mattress as clouds of dust filled the air and swarms of moths ascended from the piles of old clothes heaped upon the bed.  As Andrew slammed me repeatedly into the crumbling, termite-infested headboard, chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling and hit him in the head, and an excited rat scampered across his backside.  At the moment of supreme ecstasy several towers of  books and magazines came crashing down all around us, and it took us nearly seven hours to tunnel our way out.  That was why Andrew was home late on meatloaf night!

Naturally, I thought that this sublime erotic interlude would be enough to convince Andrew to repair my apartment, but he has since demanded further highly perverse favors—such as that I wear a page-boy hat to bed—and in truth I don’t know where it will end.  (I guess I’ll just have to dial 311 and complain to the HPD like everyone else.)  I am writing in the hope that you will use whatever influence you still have to convince Andrew to quit this horrible job and return to the fold of suburban normalcy before it’s too late.  After he replasters my ceiling, of course.  I could also use a new refrigerator (see below).

With Deepest Sympathy,

An Anonymous Bohemian Temptress

P.S.: I didn’t wash these knickers, by the way, in case you wanted to have them checked for DNA. Although I collected most of the evidence in a babyfood jar and crammed it into my freezer next to all my dead cats (for use in possible future insemination attempts), enough dried residue no doubt remains for scientific purposes.

Now who on earth could this demented, home-wrecking tramp possibly be?  Although the writing looks suspiciously like my own, we can no doubt attribute this to the influence of the blog. 

As for the advertised teaser about a possible union of the damned between manager and minority shareholder: sorry to lead you on, but I was just kidding about Marlene being a suspect.  We know it’s not her, because she would have sent Tilley’s balls! -- Ed Hamilton