by George Baxt
A young man with a father fixation entered the steam room of the Everhard baths. When his eyes became accustomed to the dimly lit mist, he saw Lester Miroff sitting with his head back against the wall. The young man with a highly practiced and professional eye whispered to himself, “Bingo!” and zeroed in on his potential daddy He sat next to Lester and seductively rearranged his towel. He stared carefully out of the corner of an eye to sec if Lester was responding. Lester, albeit in a steam room, appeared cool and aloof to the young man. The young man was neither a quitter nor a dropout. He edged along the seat a little closer to Lester. Weird, he thought, sitting there with his head back and his mouth open. The young man moved his hand so that it now gently touched Lester’s thigh.
He decided it was time to stop wasting time and with the cheery voice of a seasoned campaigner, plunged right in. “Hi there! Do you come here often?” Lester’s head fell forward and drops of blood fell on the young man’s hand. His shriek might have gone down in gay steam-bath history for the magnitude of its pitch, but there was nobody around to record it for posterity. The young man fled to the hall, found an attendant, and babbled there was a stiff in the steam room, stiff hardly being the word he should have used on these premises. The attendant finally cottoned there was a dead man on the premises, said “Shit,” and hurried to the steam room.
At least one person in Tallulah’s audience was spellbound. Detective Jacob Singer was as mesmerized as a cobra held in thrall by a Hindu’s pipe. Dorothy Parker was more amused watching Singer watching Tallulah than she was by Tallulah’s account of a recent Hollywood rejection that would pain her until death.
“Can you imagine what that son of a bitch Jack Warner did to me? To me, mind you! That he dares ask me to do a screen test in the first place was insult enough!”
“Didn’t you do a test of Scarlett O’Hara for David Selznick, dear?” asked Mrs. Parker while fingering the small strand of pearls around her neck.
“But dahling, that wasn’t just a test, it was a production! They took three days. And Selznick was a gentleman. He knows how to treat a star!”
“For which disease?”
Tallulah’s look was withering, but Jacob Singer urged her to get on with her story. “Where was I, dahling?” she said, now favoring Singer with a smile that scorched and held some promise.
“That son of a bitch Jack Warner,” prompted the detective.
“Oh, do you dislike him too?”
“Oh, get on with it, Tallulah.” Mrs. Parker went to the bar and poured herself another drink.
“So they convince me to fly to Hollywood to test for Amanda Wingate in The Glass Menagerie. I mean it’s bad enough I’m years too young to play a mother of two grown children—”
Interjected Mrs. Parker, “And it’s bad enough they didn’t offer it to Laurette Taylor, who created the part …”
“Dahling, Laurette was dead by then.”
“Oh I hadn’t noticed.”
Tallulah returned her attention to Singer. “So I make the test and everyone is thrilled, including, I must admit, myself. My agents are ready to negotiate. And what happens? What happens?”
“What happened, Tallulah?”
“Oh, shut up, Dottie! What happened was this. Jack Warner says I don’t want Bankhead, she’s a drunk! We have enough trouble with Errol Flynn, we don’t need another rumpot on the lot.” Her voice choked. “Me! Tallulah! I’ve never been drunk on stage or in front of a camera in the entire lifetime of my career! I’m a disciplined actress and I do my job. I’ve never been sick. I’ve never missed a performance. And who do they sign for the part? Are you ready for this, dahlings?” She paused dramatically and then spat out the name. “Gertrude Lawrence, for chrissakes! A bloody soubrette with the voice of a sodomized cockatoo! Well, I’m happy to add the movie was a disaster and it serves the bastards right. I might add, and I don’t mind telling you, I wanted to murder Jack Warner. It would have been the perfect crime!”
“There’s no such thing,” said Jacob Singer complacently.
“Oh, isn’t there?” challenged Tallulah.
“Oh, some people get away with murder occasionally because there’s insufficient evidence to make a collar. Vagrants and people like that get killed. It’s hard to trace who might have done it. But celebrities, that lot, no way.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Detective!” Tallulah swayed slightly, and Mrs. Parker worried she might soon topple over. “Ever hear of a movie actress named Thelma Todd? She was murdered in nineteen thirty-five and the murderer’s never been found.”
“Miss Bankhead,” said Singer, “the files on Thelma Todd no longer exist in the Los Angeles police department, but they knew who murdered her and to expose the killer was to expose a political mess that would have rattled the city and the studios.”
Tallulah was not about to be defeated. “You ever hear of the tobacco heir Smith Reynolds?”
“Sure Libby Holman the singer, she was his wife at the time, they brought her to trial.”
“And the trial was discontinued and all charges against Libby were dismissed. I can tell you who murdered Smith Reynolds.”
“Oh, stop teasing us,” said Mrs. Parker edgily, “who was it?”
“Blanche Yurka.”
“Tallulah, you’re mad! She was a divine Gertrude to John Barrymore’s Hamlet.”
“So what? She was a brilliant Madame Defarge in Ronnie Colman’s Tale of Two Cities, she was also one hell of a shot with a handgun. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! If you could see the expression on your faces! Got you on that one, haven’t I, Mr. Detective Jacob Singer with those adorable brown eyes, and you look so edible when you flutter them.”
“Tallulah, you’re drunk. You’re making this up?”
“Like hell I am and like hell I am. I got the story from someone who got it from Blanche when she was drinking heavily. Blanche was Libby Holman’s lover then.” Singer was beginning to feel giddy. “She was in the house as Libby’s guest. Libby was pregnant with Smith’s child, though there’s those who suggest the father might have been Smith’s best friend.”
Tallulah turned to Singer. “Well, Jacob, why aren’t you off to East Seventy-second Street to arrest Miss Yurka?”
“Well, second of all, I’d have to pick up a warrant.”
“What’s first of all?”
“Proof. Tallulah’s story is hearsay.”
“It’s the fucking gospel according to Saint Bankhead!” shouted Tallulah. “Oh let’s go eat. I refuse to suffer fools any longer.”
“Now why don’t we order room service?” suggested Mrs. Parker. “It’s so snug and comfy here, and there’s more room to spread your insults and innuendo.”
Tallulah laughed and then said, “I do adore you, Dottie. You have such a one-smack mind.” Singer asked if he could use the phone.
Mrs. Parker took charge. “What do you feel like eating?”
“Order me some vichyssoise and a bottle of champagne.”
“That’s not a fit dinner for anyone. I hear they do a nice chicken here. Wouldn’t you like a nice chicken?”
Tallulah was lighting a Craven A and folded one leg over the other. “Sure, bring the young man in.” They could hear Singer speaking to the desk sergeant at his precinct.
“What part of the chicken would you prefer, dear?”
Tallulah couldn’t resist. “The left wing.”
Mrs. Parker exhaled, conceding defeat. Singer had finished with the phone. “You ladies know Lester Miroff?”
“My dear Jacob,” said Mrs. Parker, “to speak that name here is to wave a red flag at a bull. Who’s he betrayed now?”
“Himself. He’s dead Murdered.” He told them where Lester was murdered and how.
“The bastard,” said Mrs. Parker, “a man who suffered the impoverishment of courage.”
The news did much to sober Tallulah. She was on her feet with her arms folded around herself to ward off a sudden chill.
“What’s wrong, Tallulah?” asked Singer.
/> “Someone just walked over my grave. The killer got away I assume.”
“Without a trace.”
Tallulah smiled “Well, not too bad a candidate for the perfect crime, Mr Singer.”
Singer shrugged Too soon to tell, Tallulah. Ladies, it’s been nice, but I’ve got to go to work.”
“What? Without dinner?”,
“I often go without eating, Tallulah.”
“Ridiculous, but oh well. You had a hat, didn’t you? I’ll get it.” She went to the bedroom and Singer watched her leave with hungry eyes.
Mrs. Parker said, “Why, Jacob, you’re smitten.”
He blushed. “Yeah, I kind of go for her.”
“She’s a dangerous woman.”
“That’s why I go for her. What do you suppose it would take to get her into the sack?”
“Courage.”
“Just ask me!” shouted Tallulah from the bedroom. “You dear sweet old-fashioned boy!”
She entered twirling his hat on her index finger. “Now seriously, about Lester Miroff. Oh, do sit down the two of you, you don’t have to go rushing off, Jacob, Lester isn’t going anywhere. There’s a lot to be considered here. The murder of that man could lead to serious consequences for a lot of people.”
“Such as?” asked Singer as he took his hat and sat.
“All the people he named before the House Un-American Committee! He fingered at least a dozen.”
“More,” said Mrs. Parker.
“The greedy sod. I mean he helped destroy Abner Walsh and Michael Darnoff and that writing team the Hagles.”
“They’re all dead,” reminded Mrs. Parker.
“But there are plenty still living.”
“On the other hand, Tallulah,” said Jacob Singer, “it might just have been your everyday run-of-the-mill sex crime. The steam room he was killed in is part of a notorious fag hangout.”
“Oh really, dahling, the boys don’t go cruising packing gats or rods or whatever. At least not the ones I know and I know a great many and they only shoot off their mouths.” She turned to Mrs. Parker. “What do you think, Dottie?”
“Well, thank God my husband’s in L.A.”
“Are you sure, dahling?”
“Yes, darling, I spoke to him a couple of hours ago. I’ll tell you what I really think! If one of the blacklisted murdered the little bedbug, I’ll help raise money for his defense if they ever catch him.”
“I think they’ll have a hard time catching him,” said Tallulah. “That chill I had, I’ll tell you why. It occurred to me, and much too quickly I might add, because I’m not all that quick a thinker. It occurred to me that Lester Miroff was the first. There’ll be more. All the others who cooperated with the committee. I think they could be marked for murder.”
“Tallulah, how morbid.” Mrs. Parker sipped her drink and then said, “How wonderful.”
“Ladies,” said Singer, “I’d appreciate your help. Offhand, which of these people do you think might be in line to draw the black ace?”
“Have you got all night?” asked Tallulah. “Oops.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Jacob Singer was busy writing names in the notebook he always carried with him. He had a cast list of stars, supporting players, bit players, and walk-ons. He had directors and writers, composers and choreographers, singers and charlatans; the size of the list was mind-boggling, a list, Mrs. Parker insisted, that would someday cause historians to break down in despair.
“Now there’s another thing to consider,” said Singer when he was finished writing. The women waited. These blacklisted people who are dead. Some of them had families? They have children?”
Said Tallulah, “You mean avenging angels swarming about bleating threats of revenge?”
“Don’t take it so lightly, Tallulah,” admonished Singer. “I’ve turned up some very strange murder suspects in my time. I mean there was this here private secretary who bumped off a whole board of directors who had destroyed her boss.”
“He must have paid her handsome bonuses,” said Mrs. Parker.
“These dead ones have children or lovers or sweethearts or somebody connected with them who gets it in their head to revenge their deaths. Isn’t that likely?”
“Well, let me think,” said Mrs. Parker, back at the bar for a refill. “There’s Gabriel Darnoff, he’s the actor’s son. But he’s got a play opening in a few days, when he’ll probably be thinking of murdering the critics.” Singer was scribbling rapidly. “The Hagles had no children. Julie Garfield had kids …”
“Oh, dahling, they’re just babies,” said Tallulah, “and as for his wife, if Robbie was ever going to kill for him, she would have done it years ago when he was just getting started in Hollywood. But today…” Tallulah shrugged.
“What about Abner Walsh?” asked Singer.
“There was Martha, his wife,” said Mrs. Parker, “but now she’s dead too, a suicide.”
“There’s a son,” said Tallulah.
“There is?” Mrs. Parker was honestly amazed at the news.
“Well there was,” said Tallulah. “I don’t know, he might be dead for all I know. Something about some awful tragedy some years back, a plane crash or maybe it was a train crash. I’m really not sure, dahlings. I do remember Abner mentioning the boy once, and then, come to think of it, he clammed up as though it was privileged information not meant for sharing. Oh, the hell with it. I’m starving Come on, Dottie, let’s go eat at Tony’s and make Mabel Mercer miserable.”
“I will go nowhere if you’re planning to make a spectacle of yourself. And I adore Mabel’s singing and will not tolerate your badgering her. Wait, Jacob, and we’ll go down with you.”
“And, dahlings, it just might be the only time the three of us will go down together?”
FIVE
“Where’s that sandwich and coffee I ordered an hour ago!” Jacob Singer bellowed from his office to no one in particular.
“It’s on the windowsill!” someone yelled back, and it was. Jacob rolled his chair over to the food and carried it back to his desk. When he unwrapped the sandwich, the Swiss cheese was soggy and the ham was wilted The coffee was cold. He committed the mess to the wastepaper basket behind him and then returned to studying the list of names he’d taken from Tallulah and Mrs. Parker. He had a man investigating Abner Walsh s first wife, Martha, and the whereabouts of the son, name unknown. He had another man tracing Lester Miroff’s movements that day. He had located Miroff’s agent, Leona Clystir, who told him about the threat Lester had received on the phone. She could tell him little else about Lester or his movements and said it was she who suggested he go to a movie or a steam bath to calm his shattered nerves.
Leona had never met Lester’s family but knew where to reach his parents. The officer who went to their apartment to break the sad news to them reported there was no crying or sobbing or tearing of hair, but a gentle inquiry as to the whereabouts of his insurance policy. Leona said she didn’t know any of Lesters friends because since his command performance in Washington, he didn’t have any friends, but oh yes, there was this director Oliver Sholom, who Lester still saw because he’d also ratted and the two of them were a case of misery loving company. Jacob duly jotted down Sholom’s name.
In response to the question did she know either Abner Walsh or his first wife, Martha, Leona Clystir was a jackpot of Walsh history. She kept transferring the phone from one ear to the other while talking to Singer, trying to watch a client performing on a variety show on the television screen (the reception was dreadful and so was the client) and fixing a salad for her dinner. “I knew Abner and Martha when they were first married. There was a child. A boy, I think. I was booking club acts then for some goniff in the Brill Building and I used Abner as often as possible. Then we lost touch, but later, when he was a big success, Martha and the boy were in some dreadful accident. I think it was a plane, or maybe it was a train.”
“About how long ago would you say that was?”
“Oh,
hell,” said Leona as she screwed up her face and looked out the kitchen window, hoping she’d find the answer on the billboard on the roof of the building across the street. “It must have been at least twenty years or thereabouts. You know, I think the boy was killed.” She thought for a moment. “Yes, that’s what happened The boy was killed and Abner dumped Martha for that sculptor thing he’s married to now. I mean she’s his widow, or something. Nanette. A maneater, I’ve been told. When Abner met her she was known as ‘No No Nanette.’ Listen, Mr… . what’s your name again, dear?” Singer told her. “Of course, Detective Singer. Have Lester’s parents been told or do I have to do the dirty work?” He told her they were told and were making the funeral arrangements once the autopsy was performed. “Oh, poor Lester,” she wailed. “A TV series up in smoke,” and with it, she diplomatically refrained from remarking, her ten percent commission. “I’d arrange a memorial service, but who’d come?”
While chewing on a chocolate bar he found on somebody else’s desk, Singer began phoning the people he wanted to talk to starting the next morning. He left messages for Gabriel Darnoff, Barry Wren, Ted Valudni and his estranged wife Beth, Oliver Sholom, and so on and so forth. He wasn’t looking forward to the tedium of the investigation, nor was he relishing the prospect of the inevitable false leads and blind alleys and reluctant cooperations. He was hoping somebody would suddenly leave town. That was always a healthy sign that the person knew too much or with any luck was the guilty party.
There was a tapping on his window. Singer yelled “Come in!” and the young man who had discovered Lester Miroff’s body entered. He had a look of exasperation on his face.
“Are you Jacob Singer?”
“That’s what it says on the door.”
“I’m Clive Osgood Thmm the Third.”
Singer looked up. He wondered what the first two Clive Osgood Thmms looked like. This one was no beauty-prize winner. Singer indicated the only other chair in his cubicle. “Have a seat, Mister Thrum the Third.”
“Now can you please tell me what I’m doing here? I told that cop down at the Everhard everything I knew, which wasn’t much.”