by George Baxt
Tallulah stared at Patsy through the mirror and stopped fussing She was genuinely touched. She left the mirror and went to her friend, put her arms around her, and kissed her cheek. “Patsy, it’s at rare moments like this one that I’m not annoyed you’re constantly hanging around.”
“Don’t give me that crap. You begin to get the cold sweats if you’re left alone longer than three minutes. And where’s Estelle this morning? How come the duchess is not in attendance in your hour of need?”
“Estelle is having her wig vacuumed, or whatever needs doing to that ratty object.” The stole was finally draped to the queen’s satisfaction. “Now tell me, Patsy, how’re you fixed for cash?”
“Don’t embarrass me, Tallu.” Tallulah deciphered the code immediately. Patsy was broke.
“Dahling, there’s a few hundred in my jewelry box. Help yourself.” She patted Patsy’s cheek as she went past her into the living room. “Don’t be stingy. And don’t get pissed!”
“When you getting back?” Patsy yelled as Tallulah opened the front door.
“I don’t know, dahling! It’s an open-end booking!”
The Fifty-fourth Street precinct would never be the same again. Hurricane Tallulah was in her element. Here were all assortments of men in blue—thin ones, plump ones, young ones, middle-aged ones, handsome ones, unattractive ones—but men, and after five minutes of Tallulah, they were her slaves. Jacob Singer had taken the trouble to introduce her to each man personally, and Tallulah responded as though she were a politician canvassing votes. “Now tell me, dahling,” she said to a goggle-eyed rookie, “is this where you fingerprint your felons? Oh, it is, dahling. Tell me, dahling,” she said seductively, “would you like my fingerprints? Tell me where you’d like them, dahling … Oh dahlings, what a cunning camera! Is this where you take those—what do you call them…?”
“Mug shots,” provided Singer.
“Mug shots! Now who invents those marvelous expressions! Mug shots? What, dahling? Why, I’d adore to pose for you. Full face and profile? How marvelous, dahling! Do I get a number across my chest? Why you sweet thing, you’re blushing!” She patted the photographer’s cheek gently. “I’m sure you’ve got my number, dahling!”
“Jacob dahling, I’m having the most wonderful time. Where’s the morgue?”
“The morgue’s at Bellevue.”
“So far downtown, dahling? Domage. I never go below Forty-second Street. What’s through here?”
“The holding cells.”
“Oh, dahling! Are you holding anyone today? I must pay them a visit. Not to worry, Jacob. I was enchantment itself when I toured for the USO, The recaptured AWOLs adored me.” Singer led the way to the cells. “Oh my God, Jacob! Look at that poor boy’s face! I suppose this is an example of police brutality!”
“No, Tallulah, this is an example of street brutality.”
“Hey, lady,” said the prisoner, “you should have seen the other guy.”
“Why, dahling?”
Jacob Singer said, “He murdered his brother-in-law.”
Aghast, Tallulah said to the prisoner, “Oh no, dahling! Not your brother-in-law! Why, that’s incest!”
Singer took her arm. “Come on, Tallulah. I want you to tell me about the phone call in fuller detail.”
“There’s really little else to tell.” It was as though the police officers had formed an honor guard leading to the door of Singer’s minuscule office. “Oh, dahlings, you all look so splendid in your uniforms. Are you all New York’s finest or does one find better elsewhere?”
Singer shut the door behind them and Tallulah perched on the edge of his desk, torching a Craven A. “Wasn’t there anything about the voice you might have recognized?”
“Not a hint, dahling.”
“And all he said was, “Miss Bankhead, don’t get involved.”
“That’s all.” She exhaled smoke. “Not exactly garrulous, dahling.”
“Is it possible it might have been a woman?”
“Well, maybe Sophie Tucker, but we don’t know each other well enough to exchange threats.”
“This is no joking matter, Tallulah. Lester Miroff was threatened before he was murdered.”
“I know that, dahling, and I’m only treating this lightly to keep myself from suffering total collapse I’ve been up all night giving it a great deal of thought. It’s apparent, isn’t it, dahling, that the murderer thinks I know something that’s dangerous to him?”
“Well, what do you know?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea, dahling. If I did, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?”
“Would you?”
Tallulah smiled deliciously. “Oh, dahling, a woman is always at her best when she retains an air of mystery about herself, but where there’s murder, dahling, I’d keep nothing from you.”
“Where did you and Mrs. Parker go last night after I left you?”
“To Tony’s for some dinner and to hear Mabel, but Mabel was out ill so we had to make do with some pianist who seemed to have a terror of the black keys.”
“Did you meet anyone there? Talk to anyone?”
“Dahling, I’m always meeting people and talking to people Let me think, there’s a young man I mistook for a waiter but he wasn’t and he forgave me. In fact, he sent us a round of drinks. And then Lewis Drefuss came in with a friend of his, George something or other … oh yes … he’d been Abner Walsh’s agent, so we chatted at length. As a matter of fact”—she moved from the desk to the chair and sat and crossed her shapely legs—”when I questioned him about the Walshes’ child, he said the person who would know more about Abner’s marriage to Martha was a director named … named … now don’t give me a hint, let me think a moment …”
“Ted Valudni?”
“Oh, no no no …”
“Oliver Sholom?”
Tallulah snapped her fingers. “That’s it!”
Singer made a note to question this George himself, once he learned his last name. To Tallulah he said, “Sholom phoned me this morning, but I didn’t get much out of him.”
“Well then, dahling, perhaps you should invite him over for the third degree.”
“Tallulah, you’ve seen too many bad movies.”
“I’ve also starred in too many bad movies, dahling. Where are you taking me for lunch?”
Singer was still dwelling on the threat. “Lester Miroff was murdered about three in the afternoon. Who’d you talk to besides Mrs. Parker and myself?”
“My usuals. Patsy Kelly, Estelle Winwood, my hairdresser, my couturier, my sister Eugenia, but that was long distance— she’s staying with a friend in Maryland. Now let me think who else. Oh yes, Gabriel Darnoff, the actor’s son, about his doing a play for me I’ve decided to return to the theater, dahling. I’m sure my radio bubble is about to burst and I’m not too enthusiastic about television. I don’t get film offers anymore, so what’s left but the boards? I’m boring you.”
“Not at all. Just keep talking.”
“Dahling, you don’t have to say that to Tallulah!” She chainsmoked a fresh cigarette. “Now let me think, who else? Oh yes. Barry Wren—you’ve heard of him, I’m sure.” Singer nodded. “Trying to talk me into doing a musical with him, the beast. I can assure you I buried him in outrage. Oh yes. Beth Valudni. Ted’s wife. They’re estranged now and she’s doing a sketch with me this Sunday “ She was getting tired and thinking about some martinis and some lunch. “And in the hotel, the chambermaid, some bellboys, the switchboard operator, the desk clerk, the doorman … that’s about it, dahling.”
“I’m going to be checking out Martha Walsh’s apartment. Care to join me?”
“Dahling, I’d be fascinated. Poor sweetie, she’s being cremated or did you know?”
“I didn’t.”
“The Actor’s Fund is paying for it. I offered to do the honors, but it seems Martha had arranged it all herself before her suicide. Now listen, you’re not forgetting about lunch, are you? I mean really, dahling, it’s past o
ne o’clock and I need a drink, or I’ll be experiencing withdrawal symptoms.”
In the Golden Cinema Memorabilia Shop on West Forty-second Street, Joseph Savage thanked Dorothy Parker profusely and sincerely, said goodbye, and hung up. What was that all about?” asked the shop’s owner, an Ichabod Crane look-alike who was tenderly dusting a framed photograph of former film actress Fifi D’Orsay.
“That was Dorothy Parker.”
“Oh, really? And I’m Hoot Gibson.”
“So you’re Hoot Gibson because that was Dorothy Parker and she’s setting up a meeting for me with Tallulah Bankhead.”
Ichabod’s look-alike snorted as he moved to a photograph of Esther Ralston. “And what are you supposed to be doing with Tallulah Bankhead?”
The bell over the door jingled “Hooray for Hollywood” as a customer entered.
Joseph was sorting postcard-sized pictures of Douglass Montgomery. “Maybe write a play for her.”
“You’re not kidding me, are you?”
“I hope they’re not kidding me.”
The customer asked with a nasal whine, “Do you have any pictures of Ethelreda Leopold? She used to be a Busby Berkeley girl …”
Ichabod drew himself up haughtily and said with words that dripped icicles, “You don’t have to tell me anything about Ethelreda. She’s in the files in the back under I, right next to Leopold and Loeb.” To Joseph he said, “I really hope it’s a break at last, Joe I know you’ve been through hell.”
“Thanks. I haven’t felt this good since … since Lester Miroff was murdered.”
“Well, that was only yesterday Your cup runneth over.”
From the back near the files came a shout, “How much for Margaret Lindsay?”
“I don’t know, young man,” came back a snarled response, “phone her in Hollywood and get the price!”
Lester Miroff’s family claimed his body from the morgue shortly after the autopsy was performed. The family, being Orthodox Jews, rushed the body to a funeral parlor and then to a cemetery for burial before sundown. Lester wasn’t very good box office. There was just his immediate family in attendance, a few of his parents’ friends, two cousins his mother had managed to round up, and three die-hard Miroff fans who owned all his recordings. His obituaries reminded readers he’d been a cooperative witness for HUAC and was scheduled to star in his own TV show. What they didn’t know was that his agent, Leona Clystir, had industriously tracked down a faded singing movie star of the mid-thirties, had her lawyers get him signed out of the insane asylum to which he had been committed ten years earlier by his wife—who had been a kiddie in Our Gan# comedies and now ran a call-girl service in Santa Barbara—was now flying him to New York under the watchful eyes of two male nurses, and had convinced the executives at CBS he’d be the perfect replacement for Lester Miroff. When told of his unexpected good fortune, the faded singing movie star said, “Crazy, mant” and buried his nose back in a biography of Rudy Vallee.
Gabriel Darnoff lunched with Beth Valudni in a tiny French hideaway in the theater district. She had tracked down Gabriel at the theater where his play was to open, fully expecting him to reject the call, but he knew she’d left her husband and was glad to hear from her. He’d always had a warm spot in his heart for Beth, who had had an affair with his father years ago. Now she and Gabriel were discussing Lester Miroff’s murder.
“Who do you think did it?” asked Beth, letting her petite mar- mite go cold.
“Oh, I should think there’s about thirty possible suspects. I’d suspect my father, but Pops dead. Lester helped kill him. And Barry Wren and …” He droned on with a list of those who had been cooperative witnesses until finally Beth put a hand on his and he paused. After a moment’s thought, he said, “You know Lester named Barry Wren, so Barry Wren turned around and named Lester. It’s almost Laurel and Hardy. I spoke to Tallulah yesterday I told her I was thinking of doing a play about the blacklist and she said, “It’s too soon, dahling.”
“I think she’s right, Gabe. It’s too soon to get a perspective on it, and besides, it’s far from over. They’re serving subpoenas for breakfast every morning. I keep wondering when mine will show up, except Lewis Drefuss at Tallulah’s show says he had no trouble clearing me.” She spooned some soup, tasted it, made a face, and switched to a piece of crisp French bread and butter. “But murder. That’s something else.”
“It’s going to be an epidemic.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are going to be more killings.” She stared at him. She had lost her appetite. “Face it, there’s an avenger on the loose brandishing a black sword and demanding blood.”
“How very gothic and fruity, Gabe. There’s never an excuse for cold-blooded murder.”
“Lesters was warm-blooded. He got it in a steam room.”
“It’s not funny, Gabe. I mean if that’s why Lester was murdered …”
“Why else?”
“Then … then … damn it, Ted could be in danger … and Barry … and all the others …”
“Screw them. You’re still in love with Ted.”
“Of course I am, but I can’t live with him.”
“I’ve never heard of people getting a tan from carrying a torch.” He was lighting a cigarette. “Do I look a likely suspect, Beth?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know the look of a suspect.”
“I’ve heard from the police, they’ve been checking up my whereabouts when Lester was murdered. A certain detective named Jacob Singer.” He exhaled smoke “I don’t have an alibi I was out taking a long walk to forget about my play and the blacklist and the indecency of suicide, and I’m the kind of nondescript-looking guy nobody recognizes or remembers. So I’ve got no alibi.”
“So what’s going to happen?” She was genuinely concerned.
He shrugged. “How do I know? I’m not writing this scenario.”
Ted Valudni was lunching with his lawyer at the Yale Club. He had hired him at the time he was subpoenaed, firing the one who had been faithful to him through the early snuggles when he couldn’t pay his fees. This one was a Presbyterian Republican, which Ted considered more politic in light of the touchy situation with HUAC. Armbruster Pershing was a formidable and respected name in the world of law, whose opposition was known to capitulate rather than face the slow torture of being bored to death. His intimates, the two of them, insisted he had a dry sense of humor, but were unable to produce any examples of it
“I have suffered enough,” said Ted Valudni, ignoring his chicken potpic “I will not tolerate this police harassment”
Armbruster Pershing was mashing one egg fried sunny-side up into his corned beef hash (it was the way he liked it) before adding ketchup; Valudni averted his eyes, fighting rising nausea. “One phone call from a detective is not harassment, Theodore. Did you know this Lester Miroff?”
“Yes”
“Did you know him well?”
“Years ago.”
“And he named you to the committee?”
“Yes, among others. But you know all that!”
“Have you ever threatened to kill him?” Silence. Pershing fixed Valudni with his famous cold eye. “Have you ever threatened to kill him?”
“Yes. When he first fingered me and got me into this mess.”
“Did you make this threat in front of witnesses?”
“My wife.”
“And she’s left you.”
“I’m sure she’ll come back.”
“Do you want her back?”
“I’m used to her.”
“And if she doesn’t come back?”
“Then we’ll divorce, of course. It’s the civilized thing to do.”
“Is this a friendly separation?”
“I’m friendly. She’s not.”
Pershing now fixed him with a wise look. “It’s not just the police you’re afraid of, is it?”
Valudni pushed his food aside. “No. It’s not. I told that Detective Singer. I’m afra
id. I’m afraid whoever killed Lester may have a little list.”
Pershing’s face brightened. “Ah! The Mikado!” He sang in a cracked voice, “‘I’ve got a little list…’”
“Armbruster, this is not an occasion for levity. My life may be in danger What shall I do?”
“Hire a food taster. You’re not eating—isn’t it any good?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You know, Theodore,” the lawyer said, speaking through a mouthful of mess, “if this were a scene from a mystery novel, I might be tempted to think your fear is a camouflage, a red herring to throw me off the scent.”
Valudni’s palms were sweating. “You think I might have murdered Lester Miroff?”
“Why not?” He laughed his dry laugh. “Oh, now, Theodore, where’s your sense of humor? Have some strawberry shortcake. I’m told it’s a recipe handed down from Betsy Ross.”
Valudni dutifully ordered the shortcake. After one spoonful he decided Betsy should have stuck to her sewing. The lawyer wasn’t surprised to notice Valudni’s hand trembling.
The members of the dance class that Barry Wren conducted every weekday morning were exhausted. It wasn’t from pliés or tour jêtis or fumbled adagios, it was from listening to the choreographer’s bitchy raillery. Mighty Mouse, as he was referred to behind his back, had obviously had a bad scene before arriving at class. His students swapped gossip about him with the regularity of schoolchildren trading baseball cards. From the grapevine (the ballet class office) they’d heard Barry had been interrogated over the phone by a detective about Lester Miroff’s murder.
“He’s got no alibi,” said one.
“Says he was on the Eighth Avenue subway going up to the Bronx to visit his mother.”
“Ha! He never had a mother. They were too poor,”
“Bankhead’s turned him down. She won’t work with a traitor.”
“Listen, this I got straight from his assistant.”
“Straight, hah!”
“Oh, shut up and listen. Barry’s scared shitless. He thinks whoever killed Miroff might be out to get him too.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be too divoon, darling? But if you ask me, Mighty Mouse is a perfect suspect.”