by George Baxt
“Entrapment? What do you mean entrapment?”
“Well, he goes out to tea houses …”
“Tea houses? Where the hell in New York are there tea houses?”
Singer wished he didn’t have to, but he explained: “Tea houses … public toilets … we call them tea houses …”
“How terribly quaint, dahiing, if terribly inappropriate. And what does Mr. Love do in these tea houses?”
“He sets himself up as a target for homos. He stands at a urinal and fondles his ding dong and when one of the boys bites at the bait—”
“How vulgar!”
“—he collars them for soliciting.”
“Why, that’s perfectly dreadful! Why, why, why, it’s unconstitutional! I’ve never heard anything so scandalous in my life! My God! You mean you dahling upholders of the law send officers out to deliberately trap those poor unfortunates… I never … I just never … I shall phone the President of the United States at once!”
“Sit down, Tallulah, it’s been going on for decades and it’ll go on for decades long after we’re gone. “ She sat down, while still fussing and fuming and making squawking noises like a hen who’s misplaced her brood. “Anyway, Love’s not available and I can’t assign anyone to Mrs. Walsh because I’m too damn short of hands as it is. Now how’d you leave it with her?”
“I told you! She’ll be in touch with the storage company in the morning and phone me when she has the photograph in hand. And I for one can’t wait to see it.” She suddenly deflated. “Oh God, I suppose it’ll turn out to be someone neither one of us has ever seen before, and I suppose that’ll open a fresh can of beans. He probably lives in some suburb like West Seventieth Street with a toothy wife and a passel of sniveling brats and is guilty of something so deadly as cheating on his income tax.”
“Where would you like to have dinner?”
Tallulah ignored the question. “Still, I’d like to meet him. I’d like to know him. He’s suffered so much, poor dahling. Think of it, Jacob, the misery and suffering that poor lad has undergone. It’s such an injustice! The pain, the agony, the suffering …”
“Quit it, Tallulah, I’ll be weeping into the booze.”
“You don’t fool me one bit, Jacob Singer. Under that granite exterior there beats the heart of a poet.” He knew he was being seduced with words. “There’s a little of Robert Browning in you, a touch of Lord Byron, a smidgen of Omar Khayyam … garnished with too much Robert Service. But nevertheless, let me tell you, Jacob Singer, if Leo Walsh turns out to be the killer, I shall personally finance his defense.”
Singer put his drink down, took her drink from her hand and placed it next to his drink, and then surprisingly gently took her in his arms and cemented his lips to hers. When she came up for air, Tallulah looked into his eyes and said huskily, “Jacob Singer dahling, this is so seldom.”
They had a very late dinner.
The next morning Tallulah was gurgling over the phone to Dorothy Parker, while Lewis Drefuss waited to consult her with a list of potential guests for the next radio show, which was to be the last of the season. He was unembarrassed, more amused, by Tallulah’s graphic description of her conquest of Jacob Singer. Mrs. Parker likened it to the fall of Troy but refrained from any prurient reference to the Trojan Horse, though it was tempting.
“Tallulah dear,” said Mrs. Parker dryly between sips of her morning coffee, “I’m picturing you with your hair braided and braces on your teeth.”
“Dahling, I’m not carrying on like a schoolgirl, am I? I can’t be, I haven’t the vaguest idea how schoolgirls carry on. I don’t remember ever being one. I mean I can’t even recall the first three times I lost my virginity. Lewis, you’re blushing, oh dahling, it so becomes you. Lewis Drefuss, Dottie, you’ve met, he coordinates the talent for my program. Although he’s practically the producer, believe me, we’d be dead without him my God look at the time it’s past noon and Lewis and I have so much to do! Operator! How many times have I told you never to interrupt me unless it’s essential? Oh my God, it’s Nanette Walshl I have to talk to her! Dottie, I’ll call you right back. Operator, connect Mrs, Walsh.” To Lewis, she said excitedly, “I think this is the break we’ve been waiting fori Nanette dahling!” She listened and her face flushed at the news she heard, “Good girl! I’ll send someone for it right away! His name’s Lewis Drefuss, he’s sitting right here, and he’ll be down there pronto.” She hung up.
“Lewis dahling, this is an emergency!” She explained the errand and with his usual good nature he agreed to run it for her. She pressed two ten-dollar bills on him for cab fare down and back, and though he tried to refuse it, she insisted with her famous show of strength. “Hurry, Lewis dahling, hurry.” He left and she sat down on the sofa, every nerve in her body tingling. Then in a quicksilver burst of enthusiasm she flung her arms up and shouted to the ceiling, “Oh God dahling, what hath Tallulah wrought!”
FIFTEEN
While waiting for Tallulah to call back, Mrs Parker dipped into a paperback collection of new voices in poetry. She was appalled by some, depressed by some, deplored a great many, and begrudgingly admired one or two. She hadn’t composed a poem in too long a time but was now overwhelmed with sudden inspiration. She wrote on the flyleaf:
I’m up to my ath
In Sylvia Plath.
Under this she wrote, “No future.” The phone rang and it was Tallulah, who babbled the latest turn of events in the case. Mrs. Parker commented, “I think you should let Jacob Singer know all this. It’s his case, dear.”
“I know, dahling, but I can’t resist springing this on him. I know he hasn’t been taking seriously my detective work, but I think I’ve been doing damn well. The trouble with Jacob, like so many other people I know, is they overestimate themselves while underestimating me.”
“I still think an officer should have gone for the photograph.” She thought about something. “Tallulah?”
“Yes, dahling?”
“Supposing it’s a photograph of a plump little baby Leo on a bearskin rug.”
“I’ll kill Nanette.”
Nanette Walsh and Oliver Sholom had never had anything in common until today. Her skull had been crushed. The weapon, a mallet, lay on the floor near her, matted with blood and skin and shards of skull. The murderer had even less respect for womanhood than he had for his male victims. Yet Nanette was recognizable. She had been attacked from behind; her face had not been touched. She was sprawled prone on the floor, a very stern and disapproving look on her face. She obviously hadn’t cared one bit for the mode of departure assigned her.
Lewis Drefuss was trembling. He found the kitchen and drank a glass of water. There was a phone extension on the wall and he dialed the Elysee. Tallulah’s line was engaged, but Lewis convinced the operator it was an emergency. Once again, Mrs. Parker was cut off in her prime and Tallulah barked, “What’s the problem? Do you have the photograph?”
“I found her dead.”
“What!”
“She’s been murdered.”
“Jesus! Where’s the photograph?”
“There isn’t any. What shall I do?”
“I’m coming right down. Don’t touch a thing.” Tallulah would never forget one of Singer’s lectures on proper police procedure. “The place has to be dusted for fingerprints.”
“Shouldn’t I call the police?”
“The police! Jacob! Of course, dahling. You’d better let me do it. Jacob Singer will be furious, but I know how to handle him. Oh my God! Nanette Walsh! A dark horse when all the while my money’s been on Ted Valudni. God, I choose murder victims like I choose most of my plays, very badly. Don’t let anyone in until the police or I arrive. And, dahling, if she’s too ghastly a sight, cover her with that dreadful Spanish shawl draped across the grand piano. Remove the photographs first, of course, wreckage would only confuse the police.”
She dialed the precinct and was told Singer was in conference. She told the sergeant to tell Singer th
ere was another murder. Singer grabbed for the phone and shouted, “Are you all right?”
“I’m just dandy, dahling, Nanette Walsh isn’t.” She told him rapidly the morning’s events. He shouted at her. She shouted back. “If I had a gun, Jacob Singer, I’d kill you!”
“You don’t need a gun, you’ve got your mouth?” He slammed the phone down.
“Son of a bitch!” shouted Tallulah at the dial tone. The rapidity with which she dressed, flew from the apartment, flagged a cab, and arrived at Nanette Walsh’s carriage house should have been entered in the Guinness Book of Records. Jacob Singer was getting out of a patrol car followed by Oscar Delaney and three other plainclothesmen. A cab screeched to a halt behind Tallulah’s, and Adam Todd got out, very angry and very red in the face as he fumbled for his wallet to pay the fare.
Tallulah saw him and said, “Oh, dahling! I forgot all about you! We could have shared one down here!”
“What’s going on?” he asked as he hurried after her.
“There’s been another murder, dahling. From the distaff side for variety’s sake.”
Nanette Walsh was covered with a bed sheet Lewis had found in a cupboard. Lewis was sitting on the piano bench, his hands folded in his lap, looking forlorn and ill. Tallulah went to him and put her arms around his shoulders. “Oh, dahling, had I known the errand would end this ghoulishly, I’d never have sent you!”
“How were you to know?”
“True. Would you like a glass of water?”
“I’ve had three.”
“Have another. It’s very good for you. It flushes the system.”
The sheet was uncovered and most of them would skip lunch. The coroner arrived and with a grunt that passed for a greeting went immediately to work. Singer crossed to Lewis and Tallulah.
Tallulah’s eyes flashed a warning, the kind that sent ingenues seeking a different profession. Jacob just shook his head and then directed his attention to Lewis. “You found the body, Lewis?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing down here?”
“I sent him,” said Tallulah.
“I’m asking Lewis.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, Mr. Singer”—she bore down on the Mr. as though she were crushing out a cigarette with her shoe— “the story begins with me.” And I hope it doesn’t end with me.
“All right, let’s hear it.”
“Well, dahling, yesterday after recording the show I came down here for a drink with Nanette and …” She recounted the events swiftly and—surprisingly for Tallulah Bankhead—lucidly She always told a story well and this was one of her better performances. Singer didn’t make notes as she spoke, but Oscar Delaney did. Oscar was so precise as to be almost prissy. He not only dotted i’s and crossed t’s, he was very big on colons, parentheses, and underlinings. He would one day publish a very good book on police procedures, and then never be heard from again, like a former Vice President. Tallulah was winding down while lighting her fifth Craven A. “… and so, dahling, I sent Lewis here to collect the photograph.”
“You should have told me about it” Singer’s voice wasn’t friendly.
“You’re quite right, Jacob, you are very very right, and I’ll never forgive myself. But you will, won’t you, dahling?”
“Okay, Lewis. It’s your turn.” He warned Tallulah, “And don’t you coach or interrupt!”
Tallulah glowered and exhaled smoke like the dragon contemplating St. George.
Lewis spoke slowly and deliberately. He wanted to get the story right and only have to tell it once. He wanted to get the hell out of there, into fresh air, away from death and law officers and the police photographer who had arrived while Tallulah was talking, and was wondering if there would be a right time to ask for her autograph.
“When I got here, I used the door knocker. But the door was open.” Tallulah listened carefully, something she did brilliantly in performance if not otherwise. This was one occasion when she knew it was important to listen with all her concentration. “When I knocked, it just opened further. I called out her name. After a while, I decided to go in. The light wasn’t very good, there were no lamps lighted, not anything, just what light was coming from the skylight. I kept shouting her name, thinking maybe she was upstairs or in the kitchen. Hell, I don’t know, I was spooked. I could feel something was wrong. And then I saw her lying there.”
“The mallet was in the position you see it now?”
“Yes. I didn’t touch anything. I was so shocked, it was such a revolting sight, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Oh! My fingerprints!”
Singer said, “Then what did you do?”
“I phoned Tallulah.”
“Why didn’t you phone the police?!”
Tallulah finally spoke up. “Because I always get top billing, dahling, and don’t jump down my throat. He was correct in calling me because I got him into this mess, albeit inadvertently. And I was glad he did because I knew I had to be the one to break it to you and take the rap for not having told you about the photograph in the first place! I don’t suppose I can pour myself a drink—she has a very good bar.”
“Don’t you touch a goddamn thing.” His attention returned to Lewis. “Was there any sign of the photograph?”
“Oh God, it didn’t even occur to me to look. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He assigned Adam Todd and two other officers to look for Leo Walsh’s picture. He asked Lewis, “When you got here, none of the downstairs windows were open, just the door?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“No, there would be no reason to.”
Tallulah squeezed Lewis’s shoulder and he gave her a look of gratification. “I hope he’s not too angry with you.”
“Don’t let it bother you, dahling. I’ve never been all that respectful of authority. By the way, dahling, is there anything protruding from between my shoulder blades?”
Jacob had left them and was wandering about the room, his hands plunged in his trouser pockets. To an untutored eye, he looked bored. His associates knew he was hard at work His eyes examined everything. He didn’t like the bust of Abner Walsh but didn’t say so. He examined furniture and looked under chairs. That had already been done by the others, but he liked to cover their tracks. They found nothing that would prove to be of any help They didn’t find the photograph. His eyes met Tallulah’s across the room and he read her correctly. She needed to talk to him alone, away from the scene of the crime. He went to her and Lewis. He spoke to Lewis “You don’t have to hang around, Lewis.” Lewis made a move and Jacob thought he was going to kiss his hand in gratitude. Lewis got up.
He asked Tallulah, “Do you want a lift uptown?”
“No thank you, dahling I don’t think Detective Singer is finished with me.” If he is, there’s that dahling musician who plays piano weekends at the Famous Door.
Singer was speaking to Lewis. “We’ll need you to sign your statement.” Lewis told him where he could be reached and left. Singer conferred in a low voice with his colleagues and then took Tallulah by the arm and steered her out to the street.
“Oh my God, dahling! Look at this mob!” Word of the murder and the unscheduled appearance of a great star had spread through the area faster than a social disease at an overseas army camp. The media was represented by television, radio, and the newspapers. Photographers descended like a plague of locusts, and microphones were shoved in their faces.
“No comment!” shouted Jacob. “No comment!”
“Dahlings, how lovely to be here,” said Tallulah into the array of microphones, trying loyally to favor NBC’s.
“Miss Bankhead!” shouted NBC. “What’s your connection to the murder?”
“The poor unfortunate victim and I were in the roller derby years ago. We’d meet annually to toast our dead buddies.”
“Come on, Tallulah, level with us. Were always good to you!” shouted CBS
“Oh really, dahlings. Did you ever read my notices fo
r Anthony and Cleopatra?”
“What’s Mrs. Walsh’s connection to the other three murders?”
“Dahling, that’s for the police to say. After all, dahlings, I’m an actress, not a detective.”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
Tallulah glared at Singer Ten minutes later they were sitting in the booth of a quaint Greenwich Village coffee shop. They ordered sandwiches and coffee from a waiter dressed, Tallulah finally deduced, as Peter Pan.
“You are supposed to be Peter Pan, aren’t you, dahling?”
“That’s right, Miss Bankhead.” She was never not recognized. “Didn’t you notice our name?” Tallulah peered through her spectacles at the name on the menu. J. M. Barrie’s.
“Oh, how adorable,” said Tallulah. She said to a passing waitress, “Dahling, which Barrie character are you?”
“Wendy Darling.”
“Wendy Dahling! How dahling, dahling.” To the waiter she said, “Hurry, dahling, I’m famished,” grateful she hadn’t looked at the corpse.
Singer said, “I should wring your neck.”
“Why, dahling, is it damp?”
“Do you realize you could have cost Lewis Drefuss his life?”
Tallulah stared at him as she removed her spectacles, set them aside, and applied a match to a Craven A. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and contrite. “If anything had happened to Lewis, I’d have committed suicide.”
“Fat chance.”
“Don’t be unkind, Jacob. Why can’t you be more generous at times?”
“I’m a detective, Tallulah, not a philanthropist”
“You certainly aren’t a philanthropist. A philanthropist is a person who heads good give.”
The waiter brought their coffees with a pitcher of cream which Tallulah eyed suspiciously.
“Peter Pan, dahling. Is this cream fresh?”
“Miss Bankhead,” came the reply with exaggerated patience, “a few hours ago it was grass.”
“It’s going to be one of those days,” grumbled Tallulah as she dumped sugar into her coffee. “All right, Jacob. Let me have it. I’m ready for the firing squad, and no blindfold, thank you.”