by George Baxt
“Don’t knock it, sweets,” said his wife, “it’s paying the bills.”
A beautifully liquid, sensuously husky voice interrupted. “Hello, you three.”
“Maggie! Maggie dahling!” Tallulah embraced Margaret Sullavan, who looked enchanting in a simple blouse, skirt, jacket with her trademark Peter Pan collar, and a beret coquettishly arranged on her head.
“What’s the occasion? Not another birthday, is it?”
“No, dahling, it’s something special. And don’t you dare ran away until after my big number.”
Sullavan’s face fell. “You’re not going to sing.”
“No, dahling,” said Tallulah with a laugh, “maybe I’ll ask you to sing.” She said to the Douglases, “Did you see Maggie in Shopworn Angel? She sang ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’ so deliciously!”
“Tallulah, that wasn’t me. I was dubbed.”
“Ridiculous, you’re just being modest.”
“Modest, my eye. You’ll faint when I tell you who actually did my singing. Ready? Mary Martin.”
Nobody fainted, but they were agreeably surprised. Tallulah grabbed Adam Todd as he went past her carrying a tray of drinks. “Dahling, take care of these celebrities. Give him your orders, dahlings, his name is Adam Todd and isn’t he adorable look at the gorgeous cleft in his chin so much for Kirk Douglas and Cary Grant and oh my God there’s Bea Lillie. Bea Bea what an adorable pillbox on your head”—under her breath—”and who’s the pill with you?”
“Coo Tallu and coo to you too!” greeted Beatrice Lillie to her four friends. “Kisses kisses kisses,” she said, her head working in their direction like a hen foraging for seed.
“Who’s your friend, dahling?”
“What friend?” She turned to the willowy young man at her right. “This person? He’s an impostor!” The young man’s face reddened. She continued dizzily. “He’s also an orphan. He’s an impostor orphan. He used to have a mother, but she hasn’t been seen since she went to Sotheby’s to bid on an armoire. The police have her listed as missing in auction. La! What madness.” Miss Lillie said to the young man who was looking for a hole to fall into, “Madness, dear, introduce yourself, I’ve forgotten your name. You do have a name, don’t you, dear? You’ll need it when the police arrive later to identify the bodies.”
Tallulah said nothing about how close the comedienne might be to the truth.
The young man was stammering. Mrs Douglas tried to put him at ease by taking his hand and shaking it. He finally said with a thick Southern accent, “Ah’m Fortinbras D’Artagnan Winterbottom the Fourth.”
“And don’t tell us what happened to the other three,” demanded Miss Lillie with hands on hips. “I call him Knuckles for short.”
“Why Knuckles, in heaven’s name, dahling?”
“Because he has ten! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha and coo. Knuckles writes cookbooks. Tell them, Knuckles, and forever hold your peace. If it’s too heavy, hold mine.” She winked at Tallulah. Margaret Sullavan considered offering the young man the Sazerac she was holding, but good Samaritan was a role she infrequently attempted.
The young man said, “Well, ah have mah best-sellin’ book on Southern cookery, Puttin’ On the Grits, and now ah’m headin’ west for a book on regional recipes, Home on the Range.”
Patsy joined them and interrupted, “Say, Tallu, there’s some nut who just got here telling everybody he’s come here to kill you.
“Oh, that’s got to be that dahling David Carney who tried to assault me in the zoo! Jacob dahling! Look who’s here, that dahling David Carney. Go say hello and frisk him, dahling!”
Singer hurried to Carney and said hello and frisked him. Estelle Winwood was appalled and went to Carney with a sweet smile and asked, “Young man, would you like something to drink?”
“I don’t drink,” said Carney, “I kill.”
Estelle said swiftly, “Oh, there’s Basil Rathbone and Ouida, do excuse me.” She fled to the other side of the room while Carney went to the kitchen to see where the knives were kept.
Bea Lillie spied the Rathbones and said to her group, “Why, there’s dear old Nasal Bathroom. And that looks familiar over there!”
“Where, dahling?”
“Near the bar, the little man with the mustache stalking the waiter 9
“Oh dahling, that’s Tennessee Williams, I didn’t see him come in.”
Bea Lillie trilled, “I was waltzing with my darling, to the Tennesseeeee Williams…”
Gabriel Darnoff and Joseph Savage stood off to one side discussing the trials and tribulations of blacklisting and playwriting. Lewis Drefuss was deep in conversation with a breathtakingly beautiful young blonde actress who had arrived alone. He had seen her on a Philco Playhouse with another blonde newcomer, Eva Marie Saint, and was impressed by both their performances. She wore little white gloves on her hands and sipped occasionally from a glass of chablis. He couldn’t remember her name and prayed someone would rescue him.
The actress told him, “I’m leaving for Africa to do a picture with Clark Gable and Ava Gardner. I just found out it’s a remake of one he did ten years ago with Jean Harlow, Dust. Now it’s called Mogambo. John Ford’s directing and I’ve been warned that means there’ll be a lot of whiskey consumed.”
“Are you co-starring?” He was running the alphabet through his mind searching for a clue to her name.
“I’m third billed, but I don’t know if it’s above the title. I was below in High Noon with Gary.”
The name clicked now. Grace Kelly He said, “Gary Cooper and now Clark Cable. Aren’t you lucky!”
“Cooper was a bore,” she said, “and Gable has false teeth. What fun.”
Margaret Sullavan was with Dorothy Parker. “How are you holding up, Dottie? Leland and I have seen so little of you lately What are you doing?”
“I’m on the lam.”
Sullavan laughed. “From what?”
“Life”
“Oh God, Dottie, you’re not thinking of suicide again!”
“Don’t mock me, dear, someday you’ll learn.”
“I’m not mocking. I sometimes wonder if I’d ever have the courage to do it.”
“Now who’s being morbid?”
Sullavan sipped her drink. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m in trouble.”
“Pregnant?”
“Christ no, thank God. Dottie, I’m going deaf.”
“Oh, my dear, my dear.”
“And what will I do when I can no longer hear cues? I won’t be able to do theater anymore.”
“Can’t something be done? There’s been so much progress …”
Sullavan shook her head. “I’ve been examined and poked by every renowned specialist here and abroad. It’s hopeless.”
Mrs. Parker took her hand and held it. The blacklist suddenly seemed unimportant.
Cornelia Otis Skinner asked Tallulah, “Sweetie, has Estelle Winwood ever played Shakespeare?”
“When they were youngsters, dahling.”
“I’m thinking of reviving The Merry Wives of Windsor. Would you and Estelle consider co-starring?”
“Me and Estelle on the same stage with you? Are you mad? By the time the curtain comes down on the first act, the audience will have forgotten your name, dahling, all three of them.”
Basil Rathbone said to Gypsy Rose Lee, “I don’t suppose you saw my werewolf movie? It was a howling success.”
“No, I didn’t, dear. Say, is that white-haired old man over there Albert Einstein? If it is, I want to challenge him on his theory of relativity.”
Armbruster and Eleanor Pershing were feasting on celebrities. “My God,” she said to him, “it looks like a benefit. Oh, there’s Maurice Evans!”
“Which one?”
“Over there with Helen Hayes, the one who spits a lot.”
“My, isn’t she tiny? And here comes Ted Valudni. Be nice.”
Through clenched teeth she said, “Ted Valudni, I’d sooner have a kidney removed. Hello, Ted dea
r!! How are you?”
He shook her extended hand lightly and said to her husband, “I don’t know why the hell we’re here, do you?”
“We were invited” was the rational reply.
“But why? What’s Bankhead up to? Look who’s here. There’s Joe Savage and Gabe Darnoff and that rotten bastard Singer, and you know what, I think the waiters are all cops. I’m telling you, Armbruster, I’ve directed enough thrillers and I ought to know one when I see one. This is a setup. Bankhead and the detective are up to something and I don’t like it one bit.”
Eleanor asked him, “How can you dislike it if you don’t know what it is?”
“Tell me, Eleanor,” asked Valudni, confusing her with an idiot child, “are you always this practical?”
Jacob Singer said to Tallulah, “When do you go into your act?”
“When Herbert Sholom gets here.”
“Supposing he stands you up.”
“Then, dahling, I’m up the creek without a paddle.”
“You could try improvising.”
“Wipe that sneer out of your voice, Singer.”
“It’s not a sneer. You can’t treat detecting lightly. I take great pride in my work.”
“Jacob dahling”—her voice was dripping icicles—”it might help if you learned the difference between pride and arrogance.”
Beatrice Lillie said to David Carney, “And tell me, dear, how many fatalities have you scored in your favor?”
“I don’t like to brag.”
“How becoming. Tell me, dear, do you hire out?”
“Why, is there someone you’d like murdered?”
“As a matter of fact, I would. Have you ever heard of Noel Coward?”
“Excuse me, aren’t you Beatrice Lillie?”
“Who? Me? Let me see. Where’s a looking glass? Ah! Right there!” She took Mitchell Zang by the hand, wondering where he’d gotten that delicious scar on his left cheek, and led him to the mirror. “Ah! Here we are! Aha! It isn’t Garbo, it isn’t Dietrich,” she sang in her delightful falsetto, “or that neat trick…” She dropped his hand. “We must stop meeting like this, people will say were in love.”
“I just had to tell you how much I’ve admired you all these years.” Each word was extremely well greased and emerged effortlessly.
“All what these years?” She held up her hand. “Don’t tell me! I’ll tell you. You adored me in At Home Abroad. You worshiped me in Set to Music. You suh-wooooooned when you saw me in The Show Is On! And what did you think of my Ophelia in Tom Mix’s Hamlet? Stop! I never played Ophelia What do you think of Lillian Gish? Are you interested in joining my movement to help stamp out Mickey Rooney? Don’t toy with me, you’ll burn your fingers. Well, well, come, come, out with it, what’s your name?”
“Mitchell Zang. I’m an actor.”
She yelped. “An actor! I’ve lost interest! Don’t bother waiting for me under the Astor clock! I’ve a previous engagement with my parole board.”
“Please don’t go. I don’t know anyone here.” Except that fink detective and Bankhead and a couple of commie bastards. “Please, have a heart.”
“My heart’s in the right place. You’re not. My heaaaaart’s in the highlands …” she sang. “Oh very well, you seductive creature, get me a gin on the rocks and the key to the city.”
Mrs. Parker said to Tallulah Bankhead, who kept looking at her wristwatch and saying “Damn,” “You’re a bundle of nerves, Tallulah, what’s the matter?”
“I’m afraid I’m being stood up.”
“Are you demented? The party’s packed. It’s a smash. And for crying out loud, where’d you dig up Mae Murray?”
“Mae Murray? Is she here?”
“Well, why do you think Irvin’s playing ‘The Merry Widow Waltz’?”
Irvin Graham, the celebrated composer of The Whale Who Wanted to Sing at the Met. was playing the piano Tallulah had brought in for the occasion. The diminutive Mae Murray, erstwhile star of the silent screen, stood next to the piano and swayed to the music, waiting to be recognized. Tallulah came to her rescue and said loudly, “Mae Murray, how marvelous of you to come!”
She said in a small voice, “Nils Asther brought me. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course I don’t mind I would have invited you if I’d known you were in town.”
“I’m staying at the Gorham and—”
Bankhead interrupted. “Where’s Nils? I haven’t seen him since we both struck out with that carabiniere in Roma God knows how many years ago. Nils Nils come kneel at my feet dahling you look positively gorgeous you haven’t changed one bit how’s Vivian? Divorced? When did that happen oh what the hell were you doing getting married in the first place everyone everyone here’s Nils Asther and here’s Mae Murray and of course they have voices, dahlings, they did talkies too didn’t you, dahlings, Mae stop blowing kisses you’re dribbling Nils what are you doing here I mean New York not the party …”
“Some nut named George Baxt tracked me down and got me a part on a Kraft television theater in Dodsworth with Anthony Ross and Irene Manning. I loathe television.”
“Yes, dahling, isn’t it beneath us all, I wish I could get a series Excuse me, dahling, dance with Mae while I have a word with Patsy.”
Gypsy Rose Lee said to Dorothy Parker, “What was it you said to Connie Bennett? I mean did you see the expression on her face?”
“No, dear, she left early and took her face with her.”
“I’ve been to a mahhhhhvelous party,” Bea Lillie sang to Tallulah. “Tell me, dear, who’s the stud dogging my trail?”
“A stud. Steer clear. He’s bad business.”
“Aha! You’ve traded with him. He’s bitten you.”
“No and God no. He was Nance Liston’s fellow.”
“Dear sweet Nance. So he’s the one who was punching her around, eh? The brute, the beast, the actor.” Her voice became confidential. “Tell me, dear, what’s this all about? I have a heavy date with a thin baseball player …”
“What about young Winterbottom?”
“Oh, I just carry him around for show His mother was in Chariot’s Revue with Gertie and me back in the dark ages before man learned to walk upright. Who’s the divine little man at the piano?” Tallulah told her. “And who’s that thin little woman standing near him making wisecracks.”
“His wife Lillian.”
“Remind me not to turn my back on her. Ahaaaa!” Four young men were entering. “Here comes the Harvard Hadassah!”
Tallulah went to the bedroom In her handbag she found the slip of paper on which she had written Herbert Sholom’s number and dialed. After ten rings, she hung up.
“I’m going to kill you.”
Tallulah spun around and faced David Carney. “Don’t creep up on me like that, you almost scared me shitless. Wouldn’t you like to meet a nice young girl?”
“No.”
“Boy?”
“No.”
Lewis Drefuss entered the bedroom
“Ah! Here’s Lewis! Saved by the bell! Lewis, have you met David Carney? He’s a very clever young playwright and outpatient with homicidal tendencies but I think it’s all a cry for attention yes attention you heard me attention must be paid now why didn’t I invite Artie Miller if anyone should be here it should be Artie I wonder if I could get him to write me a play do you think he’d go for Death of a Saleswoman or All My Daughters. Mister Carney will you stop pulling at my dress!”
Where is the bathroom, please?”
“Right through that door, dahling, and for heaven’s sake don’t lock yourself in on the other hand though …” She pulled Lewis Drefuss back to the party. Talk about the best-laid plans of mice and men.”
Lewis interrupted her. Tallulah, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m not up to this. I don’t feel well.”
“Nonsense! Of course you feel well! Patsy will get you an aspirin!”
“I haven’t been sleeping and Christ knows I’ve had no appetite since finding
Nanette’s body. I’ve got to go home.”
“Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it.” She looked solemn. “I need you, Lewis. Something’s afoot, but I can’t tell you what it is. You must stay. I need you. I really need you.”
He was beaten. “Okay. I’llget myself a drink.”
“Of course, dahling. Have a straight gin. Mother’s milk. It does wonders if you have the curse. Ethel at last! What kept you, dahling?”
“What a shindig, Tallu,” shouted Merman, and the windows trembled. “Where’d you dig up all the gorgeous men? Who’s the bartender? What’s his price! Hey you! Bartender! Pour me a red wine!”
Bea Lillie said to young Winterbottom, “The air raid alert’s arrived.”
“Isn’t she Ethel Merman?”
“Yes, dear, and you must forgive her. She’s rather subdued tonight. Ah, there she goes challenging the bartender to a hand-wrestling match. Good old Merm, she chooses her musicals brilliantly and her men badly and don’t we all, tra-laaaaa!”
Tallulah said to Jacob Singer, “My skin feels so tight around my skull. I’ll give Mr Sholom five more minutes, and then I go it alone. People are starting to leave, damn it. Dahlings! You can’t leave just yet! I’ve a big surprise prepared! You don’t want to miss it! Oh, look! Here comes the press! Earl dahling! Walter, you angel!” She greeted Earl Wilson and Walter Winchell as they entered from the hall. “Don’t tell me you came up in the elevator together!”
“Along with my lunch,” said Wilson. He found pen and pencil in his inside jacket pocket and began noting down the names of the celebrities present
“Ed Sullivan’s going to try and make it after his show. Earl, where’s your beautiful wife?”
“Home with Junior. He’s got a cold.”
“The poor dahling. There, I said it. Doesn’t that prove I don’t loathe children? Walter, let me get you a drink. I’m sure you know just about everybody here. Ted Valudni, where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m tired I don’t like parties. I’m going home.”
“I’ll be very displeased if you do. Give me five more minutes.”
“For what?”
Winchell said to him, “Valudni, haven’t you learned by now never to cross a goddess?”