[Celebrity Murder Case 03] - The Tallulah Bankhead Murder Case

by George Baxt

  He aimed and fired. “You could have gotten killed when you went to Oliver Sholom’s, and you could have gotten Lewis killed when you sent him to the Walsh woman. I want you to stick out from now on. The fun and games are finished.”

  “This has not been fun and games for me, Jacob, I have been dead serious. And one day you’ll be man enough to admit I’ve accomplished a great deal, albeit in my own fumbling way. What I’d like to know is how the hell the killer knew Nanette was in possession of incriminating evidence! How has he managed to keep one step ahead of the police? Is he a genius or is he just plain lucky?”

  “He’s a genius and he’s just plain lucky. He’s also made a few mistakes and they’ll surface, they always surface.”

  Tallulah was staring at the sandwiches Peter Pan was serving. “Don’t you have any half-sour pickles?”

  “Miss Bankhead, this is not Lindy’s,” said the waiter.

  She said something unkind as he went away, which he did not hear.

  “About the mistakes,” said Tallulah as she spread mustard on the top slice of rye, “exactly what kind of mistakes are they?”

  “If I knew, I’d make a collar and mark the case closed.”

  “Jacob, don’t talk down to me.”

  “For crying out loud, Tallulah, I’m talking plain English. If I knew, I’d make a collar.”

  “You’re not kidding me one bit. You know,” she said, and Jacob looked up from his fatty corned beef on white, “but you haven’t a shred of evidence. Not a whit of proof. You know, and Jacob “—she paused dramatically—“I know. Remember that little something tucked away in the back of my mind I couldn’t remember?”

  “That’s pretty crowded territory.”

  “I remember it now.”

  “What jogged your memory?”

  “Nanette’s murder. Jacob”—she spoke his name with an authority that commanded his attention—-”I’m going to give a party. This coming Sunday.”

  “That’s pretty short notice.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dahling. People never have much of anything to do on Sundays except go to brunches or a movie. My program’s been prerecorded so I’m free. I assure you, Jacob, it’ll be standing room only.”

  “And what is the purpose of this party besides helping pass another Sunday?”

  “Don’t be dense, Jacob.”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Tallulah.”

  “I’m going to unmask the murderer.”

  He put down the sandwich, swallowed what was in his mouth with difficulty, took a sip of coffee, and then said, “Didn’t we agree from now on you stick out?”

  “You agreed, dahling, I didn’t. You need me to give this party, Jacob. Without it, you’ll never get a shred of proof. You’ll never make what do you call it, dahling, oh yes a collar— where these colloquialisms spring from I’ll never know—and even if you dare make a collar, you’ll be hard put to win a conviction You’ll be hard put to get the killer before judge and jury. Even if you did, it’d be a hung jury with all you’ve got against him now, which is absolutely nothing. You’re mumbling under your breath, what is it?”

  “It’s this sandwich. It’s from never-never land.”

  “Frankly, I don’t understand how you can have an appetite after what you’ve just seen. Thank God I didn’t brave a look at her. Was it awful?”

  “She wouldn’t win a beauty contest.”

  Tallulah shoved her sandwich aside and lit a cigarette. “I shall invite all the suspects, and of course they can bring a friend. After all, dahling, we don’t want to give the impression I’m arranging one of those climaxes William Powell and Myrna Loy do so well in the Thin Man films.”

  “You also don’t have a scenarist writing it for you.”

  Tallulah smiled. “I think I’ll do just fine with this one. Now let me see …” The guest list tripped from her lips like the Music Hall Rockettes time-stepping from the wings. Some of the names Singer didn’t recognize and Tallulah identified them. “I think it’s a good idea to populate the party with a few people who have nothing to do with the case. It’ll disarm the killer, don’t you agree, dahling?” Jacob signaled for more coffee “And we need some of your men, too, dahling. Adam Todd of course, because he’s on my tail, Christ what a deadly expression, and that nice Oscar Delaney and one or two more in case there’s violence.”

  “I’m not worried about violence, Tallulah, I’m a little worried about an action for slander.”

  “What action for slander, dahling? Have you been keeping something from me?”

  “Tallulah, if you name a killer without any evidence to back you up, you could be sued.”

  “Mr. Singer, Bankhead always gets her man. She frequently regrets it, but she gets him. It’s only the violence that has me worried. I don’t want anyone hurt—”

  “Or killed.”

  “I’ve a marvelous idea!”

  “Help.”

  “Yes?” asked Peter Pan who was refilling the coffee cups.

  “It’s only an expression,” said Singer. “Don’t be stingy, son, fill them to the top.”

  Peter Pan wondered what Tallulah Bankhead saw in a lunkhead like this. Well, he’d heard rumors about her kinky indulgences. He was dying to know if it was true she used cocaine, and if she did, how to get the name of her dealer

  “What’s the marvelous idea?” Peter Pari was finally out of earshot.

  “I want your boys dressed as waiters and bartender. Now isn’t that a good idea?”

  “Absolutely great.”

  “I’ll need someone to look after the women. How about a policewoman, someone not too tough looking.”

  Jacob thought of Annabel Forsythe. He suggested her to Tallulah.

  “She sounds wonderful. Will you call her for me, dahling, and have her at my suite Sunday at five? Bless you, Jacob.”

  “And what if this backfires?”

  “It mustn’t backfire and it won’t. I won’t tolerate another flop, Jacob. This one has to work because I’m staging it myself. “ She looked at her wristwatch. “I’ve got to get moving “ She almost offered to drop him at his precinct, but then thought better of it. She didn’t want him questioning her errand on the West Side. She reached across the table and grabbed his wrist. “Promise me I have your full cooperation.”

  “Tallulah, have I any choice?”

  Twenty minutes later, Tallulah was sitting on a hard-backed chair looking at Herbert Sholom seated at his sewing machine. The man seemed to have shrunk and shriveled in the past few days

  “So how can I help you, Miss Bankhead?” he asked, threading the needle. She told him. He said nothing

  “I really need you to do this, Mr Sholom. I think it’s the only way we can trap your nephew’s killer.”

  “My nephew. That bum. You should have known his father, my brother. He was just as bad When he defected from the party, he really defected. That was when Hitler and Stalin signed their pact. Well, I suppose it was a betrayal, and I’m sure you know how I feel about betrayals, like how I felt about my nephew. I see you’re looking at my portraits of Stalin and Lenin. I’ll tell you what they represent for me. Miss Bankhead. It has nothing to do with politics. I was never a very good communist. It was my wife, may she rest in peace, who was a real tummler. You know what that means? That’s someone who likes to stir things up. She loved going on strike and she thrived on peace marches and she had a dead aim with a rock. Boy, do I miss her. If she was here this place would be a lot neater. I wouldn’t even be working, I think. We’d probably be living in Miami Beach. I’m not a poor man, though it looks it.”

  Tallulah crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. She needed him. She let him talk. It was killing her, but she let him talk.

  “I own this building and a couple of lots out in Bensonhurst, and believe it or not, despite how I felt about him, Oliver would have gotten it all. So now his other cousins will get it.” He scrunched up his face and asked, “You really think I can do this?”

  “I
really do, Mr. Sholom.”

  He sighed and offered a glass of tea but Tallulah declined. She was in a hurry. Time was precious, there was so little of it. “Well, Miss Bankhead, there’s a first time for everything. All right, I’ll do it.”

  “God bless you, dahling.”

  “I’ll be there when you want me. Don’t worry, I won’t let you down. Betrayal is one thing, but murder, hoo hah! That’s really something!”

  Back at her suite, Tallulah was a tornado of activity. Estelle Winwood adored parties and threw herself into action with enthusiasm Patsy, to whom a number of chores had immediately been delegated, began screeching Tallulah never found it difficult to decode Patsy “For chrissakes!” is what she had screeched. “Do you expect me to spend the rest of my life as your chief cook and bottle opener?” Tallulah asked the hotel caterer to come to her suite immediately and then phoned Mrs. Parker to tell her the news.

  “I haven’t been to a party in ages,” said Mrs Parker. “I haven’t a thing to wear.”

  “Just throw on any old thing, dahling.”

  “I will. I have lots of those. Has Jacob really agreed to this nonsense?”

  “It’s not nonsense, dahling. I promise you fireworks. Believe me, dahling, I promise you fireworks!”

  Patsy had the radio on the bar turned on and they listened to an overheated account of Nanette Walsh’s murder. The caterer arrived, bowing and scraping himself into the room, and the conference with Bankhead was short and to the point. After Estelle showed him out, Tallulah changed into a comfortable robe, tied a bandanna around her lush mane of hair, torched a Craven A, and settled down with the telephone.

  After an hour, she had contacted about half her guest list and left messages for the others. So far there were no refusals or protestations of conflict of invitation. The doorbell rang and Patsy admitted a bellhop who handed her a florist’s box. Although it was for Tallulah, Patsy tore off the ribbon and wrapping and flung aside the cover.

  “What is it, dahling?”

  “It’s a single long-stemmed rose.”

  Patsy held up the rose and Tallulah thought it lovely. “No card?”

  “Yeah,” said Patsy, and brought it to her.

  Tallulah read aloud “‘When this you see, remember me.’”

  SIXTEEN

  It was one of those mornings when the obituaries in The New York Times were a bore. Estelle Winwood set the newspaper aside and moved to her dressing table. Her favorite wig rested on its block, having been combed and curled the night before. She had decided she’d wear a flowery print to Tallulah’s party with a floppy picture hat and a single strand of pearls, and she’d carry her flowing embroidered lace handkerchief, which the late poet Rupert Brooke had given to her when most people were just a whisper in their mother’s ear. She thought of carrying a flower, a single perfect rose like the one Tallulah had received. “When This You See, Remember Me.” No signature. Tallulah’s enigmatic smile. Her phone call to Jacob Singer to tell him about the mysterious rose.

  Murder was something Estelle recognized but did not understand. She saw no reason for wars, for violence, for weapons, or for the Theater Guild. And the party worried her. This wasn’t one of Tallulah’s last-minute socials planned on a whim, she was giving it as much concentration and planning as she would bring to an opening night. Or the conquest of a prospective lover. This was a new kind of passionate involvement for Tallulah, a mysterious one that Estelle didn’t quite understand, involving policemen dressed as waiters and bartenders carrying concealed weapons. Now Estelle understood there might be danger and, good grief, perhaps gunshots. Would a bulletproof vest go well with the flowery print? Where could she get one on a Sunday? For a brief moment she thought of forgoing the party, claiming a sudden attack of anything, braving Tallulah’s fury. But Estelle adored parties, and she would never be” too old to enjoy an adventure. She would brew herself a cup of tea, nibble a Cadbury biscuit, read the script she’d promised to discuss with a young theater producer tomorrow. Then she would choose an appropriate scent for the evening. And at the party, she would try to stick close to Tallulah, to protect her. It would be simpler to protect a whirlwind.

  Patsy Kelly burnt the toast, the bacon, and the eggs sunny-side up. She ate them with relish accompanied by three cups of bitter coffee, read the comics in the Daily News, and ran herself a tub. While soaking with a Bloody Mary to keep her company, she decided to accept an offer to tour summer stock in a revival of the cobwebbed theatrical warhorse Ladies Night in a Turkish Bath. What the hell, it was a guaranteed ten weeks at three hundred bucks a throw. It wasn’t Hollywood money, but it was money. She couldn’t go on living off friends indefinitely, specifically off Tallulah. And after tonight, there might not be a Tallulah to live off of. Even when thinking, Patsy dangled prepositions. She’d had enough of parties. Thelma Todd had been one of her best friends, they had co-starred in a series of successful two-reelers for Hal Roach. When Thelma was found dead and there was an investigation of sorts, Patsy kept yapping at her lawyer, “I don’t want to be indicated by no grand jury!” She was never indicted, but she was questioned endlessly. There had been mysterious phone calls telling her to keep her trap shut. Keep her trap shut about what? Thelma’s love affairs were common gossip. When she was found dead she was living with Roland West in the apartment above the restaurant she was running in Malibu Beach. Running, ha! Fronting was more like it. Fronting for the mob. Thelma was always broke, like Patsy. She must have crossed them and that’s why she got it.

  But Tallulah was something else. Tallulah fronted for nobody. And whether she knew it or not, she was the target for tonight. I’ll stick close to her, Patsy thought, I’ll protect her. I never knew a cop who could shoot straight. But a maniac. What the hell’s with her? A party for a killer? What would my sainted mother make of this!

  George Baxt and Lewis Drefuss were brunching at Regent’s Row on East Fifty-eighth Street. Baxt thought better about ordering a third Bloody Mary, threw caution to the wind and ordered it, knowing there was a fourth in his future, and then told Lewis to snap out of it.

  “I’m having these awful nightmares,” explained Lewis.

  “I shouldn’t wonder, those awful pictures of you in the Mirror”

  “I keep seeing that crushed skull, the mallet that killed her . .

  “So why’d you order the tomato surprise?”

  “Do you want to go to the party with me?”

  “I do, but I can’t. I’ve got four shows to watch tonight. I’ve got three of my charges on Philco and they’re a pain in the ass if I have to admit I didn’t watch them. Take somebody else.”

  “I’ll go alone.”

  “What are you doing this summer?”

  “I haven’t decided. You?”

  “God have mercy. I’m sharing a house with the Halls and Flora Roberts at Ocean Beach Will you stop drumming on the table? My hangover has a hangover.”

  “Maybe I won’t go to the party.”

  “Like hell you won’t And I expect a full report with quotes.”

  “Tallulah’s crazy.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “Giving this party. She’s so vulnerable. You heard about the death threat she got.”

  “They’ve heard about it in Tibet. By the way, is ‘The Big Show’ positively canceled?”

  “Down the drain forever.” He raised his old-fashioned. “‘To Tallulah.’”

  “And why not?” He signaled for his fourth Bloody Mary.

  Mitchell Zang strutted about his bedroom in the nude, a plucked peacock. The girl in the bed was bored with his endowment, bored with Mitchell Zang, bored with sex, and bored with the thought of going home to Chillicothe and forgetting about becoming an actress. “Tallulah Bankhead invites me to a party! Can you imagine that?” The girl grunted, a displeased sow. “Me! Mitchell Zang! Bankhead! The Big Time! The fucking cow, all that time I was with Nance Liston she treated me like I was invisible, now all of a sudden she invites me up for coc
ktails! Me! Mitchell Zang!”

  The girl said into the pillow, “Him … Mitchell Zang … shit on shingles.” Her voice was a muffled blur and he heard nothing but himself.

  “I’m going to take her for every nickel I can get.” He stood in front of a floor-length mirror, the one Nance Liston had used to perfect a movement. He preened. He stood full front, then side view. First the left, then the right. There’ll be some very important people there tonight. Producers. Writers. Rich bitches who know all the answers and all the right people. This is my lucky day, baby!” He sprang across the room, landed on top of her, and she screamed.

  “You trying to kill me, you asshole! Get off me! Oh, my back, oh, God, you’ve broken my back.”

  “Oh, shut up and get dressed. I’ll spring for breakfast.”

  “Big spender.”

  Her mind was made up. She was going home to Chillicothe.

  Joseph Savage stared at the sheet of paper in his typewriter. Then he looked at his wristwatch. He had hours before Tallulah’s party. He stared at the sheet of paper. It was still blank. He went to the refrigerator and had a few sips of milk straight from the carton. It was going sour. He dumped the carton into the garbage pail in the closet under the sink. He returned to the typewriter. He stared at the blank sheet of paper. He went to the window and looked out. It was a nice day. Some kids were playing stoop ball A couple of congenital dog walkers were comparing leashes, or that’s what it looked like. His landlady sat on a chair on the sidewalk reading the Sunday paper. Her husband sat on the sidewalk smoking his awful pipe and chugalugging from a can of beer. Joseph returned to the typewriter He stared at the sheet of paper. He went to the closet and checked the sports jacket and slacks he planned to wear to the party. They weren’t wrinkled. They weren’t wrinkled the last six times he checked them. He returned to the typewriter. He stared at the sheet of paper. He went to the dresser and looked in his billfold The eighteen dollars hadn’t matured into a larger sum. It was the same eighteen dollars he’d counted the last time. He scratched his chest. He went back to the window A man in a window of a building across the street was exercising with barbells. He looked as if he might be a model. Joseph never exercised. Getting out of bed in the morning was a major accomplishment. How come an invitation to a Tallulah party all of a sudden? I’m writing a play for her, but that’s no big deal. She’ll probably ask me not to use my own name. Oh, balls. Not Bankhead. She’d never stoop to a stunt like that. I wonder if Jacob Singer will be there. He returned to the typewriter. He stared at the horrible sheet of paper. It mocked him. It defied him. He would never outwit it. It brazenly defied him. Angrily, he accepted the challenge. His index finger tapped: The. He smiled with satisfaction. Now exhausted, he went to the sink, dampened a cloth with cold water, applied the cloth to his head, and stretched out on the couch.