by George Baxt
“How long ago was this?” asked Mayo.
“Five years ago.”
“My father’s been dead for three years or thereabouts. My mother and I went through his effects before disposing of most of them. I assure you there was no such letter. Contessa, do you know the name of this mysterious person who phoned you?”
“I shall never forget. His name was George Spelvin.” Mayo’s eyes widened and then she exploded with laughter. La Contessa was bewildered. She looked at Hazel who was equally mystified by the eruption and Marcelo and Violetta exchanged shrugs.
Mayo put her drink on a table, opened her handbag, extracted a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “Contessa,” she said after a few more moments, “I am very well acquainted with George Spelvin.”
“Aha!” shouted la Contessa. “Where is he? Where can I find him?”
“Where is he? Find him? Oh Contessa, he is up there in the heavens ..
La Contessa was aghast. “He is dead?”
Mayo was laughing again. “He is out there somewhere in New York, or Detroit, or possibly Philadelphia and St. Louis, anywhere there’s a play to be seen.” She sipped her drink again. “Contessa, you’ve been had.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“George Spelvin is a theatrical tradition. It is a name cloaked in anonymity. It is a name used by actors who don’t want their own names printed in the playbill or the program, as you better know it. Usually it’s an actor down on his luck, once well known, now relegated to playing a bit or a walk-on. You’d be surprised how often in a theatrical season George Spelvin trods the boards.”
“You are saying I was duped.”
“Very. Boy, wait till I tell Bogie about this one.”
The countess barked at Violetta to fling open the French windows, which the young woman did with alacrity. The welcome breeze upset Marcelo’s immaculately coiffured hair and he sought refuge in a chair next to Mayo. La Contessa said, “You and your husband will laugh at me.”
“Not at all. We will laugh at George Spelvin. You see, in a way he’s such an old friend. Bogie was George Spelvin a few times early in his career. It’s nostalgic.”
La Contessa was playing with her pearls, staring at Mayo with hooded eyelids. “Has your husband ever sailed with your father?”
Mayo smiled. “No, Contessa. My husband has never been to the Far East. Not even on location.”
Hazel informed la Contessa brightly, “But they do own a boat. The Slugger. Named for Mayo who …”
Mayo interrupted her. “Hazel, a most unnecessary non sequitur. Contessa, my husband and I are dining with a famous mystery writer, Dashiell Hammett.”
“What’s up?” asked Hazel.
“Oh, can it, Hazel. It’s just your ordinary run-of-the-mill non-gourmet dinner at the Brown Derby. As I was saying, Contessa, Mr. Hammett has written a book whose story is similar to that of the cornucopia.”
“The cornucopia is not a story. It is a fact. It is the truth.”
“Don’t fret needlessly, Contessa, I see now you were anxious to meet me hoping I had your father’s letter in my possession. And,” she added, subtly suspicious, “neither does my mother. At least not to my knowledge. Funny, her apartment in Portland … that’s up north in Oregon … was ransacked this morning. Nothing was stolen. You people haven’t been in Portland lately, by any chance?”
“How dare you!” bristled la Contessa.
“How dare I what?”
“Insinuate we were in Portland and ransacked your mother’s apartment!”
“Now really, Mayo,” said Hazel.
Mayo had risen. “The party’s turning sour and I have a date with some sales people at Magnin’s. Don't see me to the door, Marcelo. I know how to make an exit.” Within moments, she was gone.
In the hallway, Mayo paused to repair her face. She examined herself in the compact mirror and decided all she needed was some lipstick. She applied the special brand prepared for her by makeup expert Perc Westmore who with his brothers catered exclusively to the Hollywood elite. Moments later, waiting for an elevator, she thought about her father. She’d always suspected there was some larceny in her father’s soul. It went with the territory, the Oriental route. Drug smuggling. Gun smuggling. Developed by some more unscrupulous seafarers into a sophisticated high art. He had entertained and sometimes frightened her with tales of piracy in the Oriental waters. Had he stolen the cornucopia? Was he capable of such treachery?
George Spelvin.
Her father knew the origin of George Spelvin. He’d heard it from Mayo and Bogie. He could have used the letter and George Spelvin to mislead la Contessa. And taken the cornucopia for himself. She was now descending in the elevator. He’d suddenly been talking about retirement those months before his death. Her mother hated the word. Retirement. Jack at home, underfoot, his constant presence annoying her while she tried to entertain her muse. Leaving the elevator, she entered the hotel bar, sat at an isolated table, and ordered a gin martini. She knew she shouldn’t, but she did. There was plenty of time before she was due to meet the others at the Brown Derby. Plenty of time to tank up on gin martinis. She’d better not. She’d better have just this one and get on to I. Magnin’s. She could use another pair of shoes. She always needed another pair of shoes. She had almost as many pairs of shoes as Joan Crawford. The martini arrived and Mayo stared at it as though it might have been an ocean in the Far East. She had never seen her father’s ship, but it didn’t matter. She had a vivid imagination. His ship was right here in front of her eyes. It was circumnavigating the martini, her father leaning over the rail and plotting the future of the cornucopia. It was warm but she felt a sudden chill. Had the Baron di Marcopolo been murdered? By her father?
‘’What’s wrong, sweetie?”
Mayo’s head turned to the sound of the voice on her right. She had neither heard nor seen Hazel Dickson sitting opposite her. “Oh. Hazel. You startled me.”
“Didn’t mean to. I’m glad I found you. I’d like to discuss the cast of characters upstairs. Is that a gin martini I see? It’s inspirational. I think I’ll have one.”
“Take mine. I shouldn’t have ordered it. Go ahead, Hazel. Take it. I don’t want to show at dinner a bit squiffed. Bogie wouldn’t like that.”
“If you insist,” said Hazel as she moved the gin martini in front of her. “Twist of lemon. Just how I like it. I loved the George Spelvin bit. You had la Contessa going around in circles.”
“She’s awful fat. Is Marcelo her lover?”
Hazel made a face. “What a repulsive thought. He probably is because he’s probably penniless and any port in a storm. And she's quite a port.”
“Are you going to peddle the cornucopia story?”
Hazel airily flipped a wrist. “Isn’t it a hoot? I think it’s a damned good story.”
“You know the plot of The Maltese Falcon.”
“Sure.”
“It’s a cousin of the cornucopia.”
“Say! You’re right! Sidney Skolsky will love it!”
“Why not shoot for the big time? Louella.”
“I suppose I should, but I owe Sidney.” She downed a healthy swig of martini, and commented, “Could be colder. Mayo, aren’t you feeling well?”
“Do I look ill?”
“You have this strange look. Something’s bothering you.”
“George Spelvin is bothering me.”
“Now that was an inspiration, Mayo. You sure knocked la Contessa on her backside.” She thought for a moment. “I’m not so sure I like her very much. I could go for the boyfriend though. Couldn’t you?”
“I’m a married woman.”
“So?” Hazel downed the rest of the drink.
I’m a married woman. So? That’s Hollywood.
At Warner Brothers, the rehearsal had still not gotten underway. Bogie, Mary Astor, and Sidney Greenstreet were joined by director John Huston, son of actor Walter Huston and three other important cast members, Peter Lorre, Gladys George, and Elisha
Cook Jr. Miss George was looking painfully thin, and Bogie wondered if she was hooked on drugs as the rumor had it. In 1935, she’d been brought from Broadway to Paramount Pictures for the starring role in Valiant Is the Word for Carrie and was then signed by M-G-M, who soon had her playing supporting roles because no magic of a makeup man or a special camera lens could hide the fact that she was middle-aged. They’d found cocaine for Lorre in the Mexican barrio in downtown L.A. He was now as dapper and jovial as always. Gladys George kept dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief, a sure sign she was hooked on the funny powder, too.
Mary Astor urged Bogart to tell the late arrivals the story of the cornucopia. “Sure,” agreed Bogie, “I especially want John to hear it.”
Huston's curiosity was piqued. “Is it dirty? Does it have a great punch line?”
“It’s dirty, but not in the way you’d prefer it. As for the punch line, it’s waiting to be written.” Bogart told the story straightforwardly with Mary occasionally prompting him when she thought he was leaving out an important fact. He didn’t, at the time, have all that much story to tell, but what he did tell he told provocatively and colorfully and had everyone's undivided attention. He signaled he was finished when he lit a cigarette.
Huston slapped his knee and roared with laughter. “Why, you slimy son of a bitch, that’s a variation on the Falcon!”
“I’m glad you noticed,” said Bogart, sending a smoke ring past Peter Lorre’s left ear.
“Is it supposed to be true?” Huston was openly skeptical. “Mayo’s over at the Ambassador having tea, I hope, with the lady who claims the thing belongs to her if it’s ever found. La Contessa di Marcopolo.”
“Oh sure,” said Gladys George and all eyes centered on her.
“You know her?” asked Bogart.
“Indirectly. I met her father years ago in London when I was an ingenue and looked it. The Baron di Marcopolo. Very rich and very much taken with himself.” She closed her eyes. “Let me think if I still remember.” Her eyes flew open. “Oh yeah. I remember.” Now she was smiling. “He had so many lovers, he was known as the Machiavelli of Mistresses. Quite a horseman, if you know what I mean.” She winked at Mary Astor who blushed. She knew what Gladys meant and would never regret that she did.
Peter Lorre had a wicked look on his face. “Gladys, did you ever come down the home stretch with him?”
“He didn’t interest me that way,” she said coolly. “But I could appreciate what the ladies saw in him. So he died on an ocean liner captained by Mayo’s father.”
“They were good friends,” said Bogart, “or that’s what la Contessa says.”
Huston said, “I don’t buy the letter. That one needs a rewrite.”
“You’re probably right,” said Bogart. “And I find myself not buying the cornucopia when I give it some sensible thought. After all, the Falcon never materializes. What we do find is a fake.”
“‘Such stuff as dreams are made on,’” said Greenstreet solemnly.
“Sidney, you’re stealing my line,” admonished Bogart. “It’s such a lovely line. I find it irresistible.” He sat with his hands folded across his formidable stomach. “Mr. Hammett, bless him, is no slouch at good lines of dialogue.” Huston wondered aloud, “Do you suppose Hammett at some point was privy to the cornucopia story?”
“Seems to me, John,” said Bogart, “there have been all sorts of stories handed down through the ages about priceless articles that have gone lost and are still being sought. The silver chalice of the Crusades, Christ’s cloak when he was crucified, the lost city of Atlantis …”
“My option at renewal time,” said Lorre wistfully.
Bogart told Huston and the others that he and Mayo had a dinner date with Hammett and Lillian Hellman and he had every intention of questioning the author on the subject.
“Okay. Let’s get back to our own legend, Bogie, I’d like to start with your first meeting, when Mary comes to your office with a trumped up story about a missing sister …”
While a troubled Mayo Methot drove several sales clerks at I. Magnin’s to the brink of insanity, Hazel Dickson steered her sad excuse of a car downtown to Detective Herbert Villon’s precinct. She wanted to see what he made of the cornucopia story. Darling Herb, longtime detective, longtime lover, longtime name-dropper known as The Detective of the Stars. Hazel looked in the rearview mirror, not to see if she was being followed but to check her face, which was still a rather attractive one.
She drove into the precinct’s parking lot, which she wasn’t supposed to do. But there'd be no squawk. Everybody in the precinct recognized Hazel’s Studebaker with its dents and bruises and gallant defiance of any form of destruction. She turned off the motor while wondering if Hitler had invaded another country this morning. The son of a bitch was gobbling countries as fast as la Contessa gobbled hors d’oeuvres. She locked the car despite its being on a police lot. Hazel Dickson trusted nobody. Had she been a man, she would have sported both belt and suspenders. She breezed into the precinct with a proprietary air, greeted the desk sergeant like a long lost brother, and without bothering to have herself announced marched down the long corridor to Herb Villon’s untidy office.
She opened the door briskly and saw Villon and his young partner, Jim Mallory, shuffling photographs. They didn’t look up. She hadn’t disturbed them. They were too engrossed in the photographs.
“Dirty pictures?” asked Hazel.
“Filthy,” said Villon without bothering to look up. Hazel crossed to the desk, looked over Jim Mallory’s shoulder, and let out a yelp.
“You son of a bitch, I feel like throwing up!”
“You know where the toilet is,” said Villon. Then he sighed with defeat, “Jim, we still have a leg left over.”
Mallory straightened up and with hands on hips said, “This isn’t a dismembered body; it’s a jigsaw puzzle.”
“Who is it?” asked Hazel in a small voice.
“We’re assuming she was a prostitute. We were able to fingerprint her and we are waiting for the answers, but we couldn’t find her head.”
“Oh God!” wailed Hazel. “What sort of maniac would do such a thing to a person!”
Villon finally looked up. “Someone, I should think, who has gone to pieces.” He added glumly, “You’re wearing that hat.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I happen to like this hat. It was a gift from an old admirer. My grandmother.”
“Tell your grandmother to wear it. It would suit the old bat. She still cheating at pinochle?”
“Of course. It’s all she lives for. Listen, Herb, I just spent some time with la Contessa di Marcopolo at the Ambassador and …
“Oh, for crying out loud! Not more of those phony European titles of yours!”
“She’s not phony, she’s authentic and she’s got the royal rocks to prove it. Will you please pay attention? She’s here on some kind of a treasure hunt.”
Villon sank into his swivel chair. Jim Mallory folded his arms and leaned against a wall. He thought of lighting his pipe but remembered his dentist’s warning his teeth were eroding from biting down on the stem. Hazel sat in a chair opposite them and placed her handbag on the desk, crossed her legs, and warned them, “Now no interruptions. I’m giving this one to Sidney Skolsky.” She told the cornucopia story without embellishments but with a kind of intensity that had them more or less believing it. “Well? Do you think la Contessa has something or she belongs in a loony bin?”
“I've heard crazier ones. In fact I’ve read one similar to it.”
“The Maltese Falcon,” said Hazel.
“Right on the nose. You think Mayo Methot’s father pulled a fast one?”
“I prefer to think not. I’m very fond of Mayo despite that time at Mocambo she threw a highball at Bogie, who ducked and it hit me.”
Jim Mallory said, “I like that bit about George Spelvin. I wonder who invented George Spelvin?”
“Don’t open that can of peas,” cautioned Hazel. “But if the story
is at all true, then I think Captain Methot took off with the thing and then pulled the Spelvin thing to mislead the contessa, who, as you gather, is not easily misled.”
“Tell me, Hazel,” asked Villon, “if you were a stuffed cornucopia, where would you be hidden?”
“How the hell should I know? I’ve never been a stuffed cornucopia.”
Mallory asked, “The baron was buried at sea?”
“Yes, that’s part of the plot.”
“And the captain remained on board for the return voyage?”
“Isn’t that what captains are supposed to do?”
“Not necessarily,” said Villon. “He could have arranged for someone else to supervise the return voyage. They some' times do that.”
Mallory said, “I don’t think the thing left the ship. I think Methot ran the return voyage and from wherever it docked, he brought the cornucopia back with him. It’s more logical.” Villon threw up his hands. “Who needs logic in this illogical world! Anyway, how do we know there really was a cornucopia?”
“Because my woman’s intuition, my gut instinct, tells me there is a cornucopia lurking in some dark, sequestered corner.”
Villon asked, “You leaving town, Hazel?”
“What the hell for?”
“To hunt for the cornucopia.”
“Why would I leave town? If la Contessa is here, then she thinks it’s here. And what about that ransacked apartment of Mayo’s mother? Mayo practically accused them of doing the job though she’d have a hard time proving they were in Portland.”
Said Villon, “The countess sounds too fat to do any ransacking.”
“If they were in Portland and did the ransacking, then my finger would point at Marcelo.”
Villon asked, “What about this Marcelo?”
“He’s her lapdog.”
“Oh. One of those.”
“Very sexy.”
“How would you know?” asked Villon as he applied a match to a cigarette.
“I’m not blind and you know my vivid imagination.”
Villon said to Mallory, “I wonder what Bogie makes of all this?”
“Don’t ask him, ask me,” insisted Hazel. She told him about the dinner date at the Brown Derby. “Maybe you feel like taking me to dinner at the Brown Derby?”