by George Baxt
“Mr. Bogart?”
“Yeah?” one eye cocked in the attendant’s direction and waiting for the expected request for an autograph.
“In the immortal words of the Bard,” said the attendant mellifluously, “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow, until we meet again on the morrow.’”
“Oh yeah? I don’t think we’ll be in the same vicinity tomorrow. I’ll be out in Venice Beach.”
The attendant smiled. “I’ll be at my mother-in-law’s funeral.”
“Some guys have all the luck.”
Back at the bar in the Garden of Allah, Dorothy Parker announced it was time to go to bed. “Every Cinderella has her midnight.”
“Where’s Prince Charming?” asked Hellman referring to Parker’s husband, Alan Campbell.
“Out somewhere getting himself beat up, I suppose. He’s going into the army.” She didn’t notice the variety of upraised eyebrows. “And I’m sure vice versa.” Nobody understood why so womanly a woman as Dorothy Parker chose to marry a homosexual. “He supposes he’ll be assigned to the Signal Corps. I hope he is. He’s awfully good at giving signals.”
Parker along with Hammett and Hellman, Charles Butterworth, Sidney Greenstreet, and Robert Benchley were seated at a round table. It in no way duplicated Parker and Benchley’s long departed, infamous Algonquin Round Table back in New York, but there was enough wit and bitchery to stir dormant memories.
“I’m glad Alan’s been conscripted,” said Mrs. Parker as she signaled for a fresh drink, conveniently forgetting her midnight had paused briefly and then passed on. “I’m real glad the army’s taking him. Now I can get to wear my dresses again.” This convulsed her and nobody else. Then came the fit of coughing accompanied by soothing noises from Benchley, the one man Dorothy Parker had ever really loved. Hellman stared at the two of them with undisguised disapproval. She didn't believe in unrequited love. It was a bore, just as the Ira Gershwin lyric had claimed back in 1930 in Girl Crazy. Hellman went after what she wanted tenaciously, and so she was in full possession of Dashiell Hammett despite his wife and daughter cooling their heels in parts unknown.
Charles Butterworth asked with his usual fey cock of the head, “Has anyone noticed Bogie is missing?”
“Over an hour ago,” said Greenstreet. “He was called to the phone and then hurried away.”
Hellman said, “Mayo is going home to Mother,” she pondered. “Maybe it was something to do with his house' keeper’s murder.”
“I’ve had a few housekeepers I’d like to have had murdered,’’ said Mrs. Parker. Then, “When was Bogie’s housekeeper murdered?”
Hellman told her. “Dash and I saw the body.”
Parker said smartly, “The privileged few. How come you get to get invited to places that I never do?”
Hammett recapped the evening for the benefit of those of his companions interested in listening. All were interested. By the time he reached the conclusion, Bogart returned and picked himself up a martini at the bar before joining them.
Hellman asked, “Mayo safely on her way home to Mother?”
“Yeah,” said Bogart, “the return of the native. But Venice is still on for tomorrow, at least for me.”
Said Hellman, “I wouldn't miss it for the world. I can’t wait to explore this Old Curiosity Shop.”
“I’ve been there,” said Charles Butterworth, “it’s awfully coy.”
Mrs. Parker interrupted, “Your poor housekeeper. What an awful way to die.”
“Is there a good way to die?” asked Bogart.
“I haven’t found it yet,” said Mrs. Parker, “and nobody’s attempted suicide as often as I have. So some burglar did it.”
Hammett said softly, “Burglars never commit murder. In my years as a private dick, I’ve seen this proven too often to refute.” He repeated, “Burglars never commit murder.” Little realizing this would be all he would ever have in common with la Contessa di Marcopolo, not that he would ever give a damn. “A burglar might hit you over the head.”
“Charming,” said Mrs. Parker.
“But that's only if you walked in on him and surprised him.”
“And burglars loathe surprises,” commented Hellman.
“Burglars are very clever and very ingenious. I’m not discussing the ordinary upstart breakings and entries, small-timers who have neither taste nor finesse, you know, the window smashers, the lock pickers. The professional has his selection of skeleton keys. He knows how to smartly unseal a window. He plans his burglary very carefully. He cases his victim for days before pulling the job. He knows his victim's habits. When he comes and when he goes. I’ve dealt with a lot of burglars in my time and most of them have my deepest respect.”
“Dash, you’re a pervert,” said Mrs. Parker.
“Mind your tongue, Dottie,” said Hellman with a loving look at Hammett who cared less about Parker’s comment than the look on his paramour’s face.
“What we've got here is a classic case of a hunt for treasure,” said Hammett, “and treasure hunters are a very mean-spirited lot. They’re obsessed with greediness.”
“Well aren’t burglars?” asked Greenstreet.
“Hell no,” said Hammett, “Burglars are out making a living. They know exactly what to steal. You notice when you read in the papers the police are perplexed the burglars left untouched a stash of diamonds or some emerald earrings. Well if they’d learn to check the marketplace in the demand and supply of diamonds and emeralds, they’d find there’s little demand and too much supply and the burglar only takes what he’s pretty sure he can fence.”
Bogart said, “I read someplace that there are unscrupulous dealers and collectors who hire burglars to pick up some things they’re after.”
Benchley said wistfully and from out of an alcoholic haze, “Doesn’t anyone care to steal Mrs. Benchley?”
Mrs. Parker patted his hand. And returned her attention to Hammett.
“As I said, treasure hunters arc a mean-spirited lot obsessed with greediness.”
“Like archeologists,” insisted Mrs. Parker.
“Well they can hide behind the respectability of historical research,” said Hammett. “But archeologists don’t kill.”
“Not that we know of,” said Hellman. “I don’t trust any of them.”
“They’re pretty trustworthy, Lily. Anyway, Bogie. There’s more bloodshed ahead.”
Bogie had lit a cigarette and was fanning the smoke from his eyes. “You think so?”
“Inevitable.”
Parker rejoined, “As death and taxes.” She smiled, “Which, as you will all recall, was the title of one of my collections of poetry, now available in a Modern Library edition.”
“I’m chilled,” said Hellman eerily.
“Maybe somebody walked over your grave,” said Bogart.
Hellman embraced herself and said, “Damn rude of them.”
SEVEN
AT NINE IN THE MORNING, there weren’t many patrons in the Garden of Allah’s coffee shop. Those who were indentured to the studios had driven to work and those who were unemployed lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if the phone would ever ring with a promise of employment. Bogie’s coffee was growing cold, his toast was largely untouched, and the eggs sunny-side up stared at the actor with yellow, runny eyes. Bogart was engrossed in the Los Angeles Times and the front page story of Hannah Darrow’s murder. It was illustrated with a recent photograph of Bogart and a not so recent one of Mayo. There was a bonus photograph of Hannah Darrow’s body after the knife had been removed. Bogart thought it was obscene and in bad taste. The story was fairly accurate and there was a boxed story devoted exclusively to the legend of the cornucopia. Bogart folded the newspaper and put it aside. He looked at his wristwatch and then got the waitress’s attention. He asked for a fresh cup of black coffee. He also asked if she knew Hammett and Hellman and had they been in for breakfast yet. She knew them and they hadn’t, adding it was a tad early for them. It was a tad early for Bogart,
too, but Mayo awakened him at eight to let him know she had arrived safely and having thought it over, decided maybe she should return to L.A. and her husband and resume the role of dutiful wife. Bogart suppressed a guffaw and urged her to stay with Evelyn. Mayo seemed relieved and said she and her mother were going shopping. Bogart’s eyes crossed and then they said their good-byes.
Bogart picked up the newspaper and found yesterday’s racing results, pleased to see he had had a couple of winners and wondered if it was too early to phone his bookie. It could wait. He hadn’t won a phenominal sum. Lillian Hellman entered briskly wearing white slacks and a blue blouse, a jaunty sailor’s cap perched perkily on her head and dangling from a chain around her wrist, a blue and white handbag. Bogart eyed the getup and said, “I don’t know whether to salute or to kneel.”
“Just get me some OJ and coffee, lots of coffee.” Bogart repeated her request to the waitress who brought his coffee and then asked, “How’s Dash?”
“Dashed.” She had seated herself across from Bogart who wondered if the lines under his eyes were as unhealthy looking as those under hers. “Whatever you do, don’t tell me I look well. I couldn’t tolerate dishonesty at this ungodly hour.” She rummaged in her handbag and found a pair of dark glasses which she promptly secured to her nose and ears. “Why did we stay up so late and drink so much?”
“Force of habit. Here's Dash. He seems to be walking at a very strange angle. Good morning, Dash, or do you prefer not to be spoken to.”
“Not at all,” he said huskily. “Tell me, Bogie, is this still the Garden of Allah?”
“Oh yes.” Without being instructed, the waitress brought two orders of orange juice and black coffee and placed them before Hellman and Hammett. Hammett gently patted her backside in gratitude and then recognized Hellman. “Lily, is that you?”
“It’s not Dietrich.”
“Why Lily, my dear, you look like the finale of Hit the Deck.” He stared down at his coffee. “This coffee is black.”
“You prefer it black,” Hellman reminded him.
“Yes. Of course. I prefer it black.” He took a sip. “I’d prefer it hot, too. But oh well, mine not to reason why. Anything special in the paper?”
“My house was ransacked and my housekeeper was murdered. And here comes Lucy Darrow.”
“Ingenue?” asked Hammett.
“My housekeeper’s daughter. I’ve got her mother’s handbag in my room. Good morning Lucy.” He introduced Hammett and Hellman who expressed condolences. Lucy thanked them and Bogart hugged her. “Sit down. Have some coffee.”
“No thanks, Mr. Bogart. I have to shop for Mother’s laying out.” She didn’t notice Hellman shudder. Lucy was a spinster in her mid-thirties who while not unattractive, wasn’t attractive enough. Bogart asked the waitress to get a bellboy which she promptly did. Bogart gave him the key to his room and instructions to bring him the blue handbag on the coffee table. Lucy continued, “They’re performing an autopsy this morning which I think is so completely unnecessary. I mean she was only stabbed to death, wasn’t she? There was nothing elaborate like maybe she was raped or something.” She found a tissue in her handbag as her eyes began to dampen. Bogart assured her her mother hadn’t been raped. Lucy said to Bogart, “You saw her body, didn’t you?”
“The three of us saw her body.”
“Oh I’m so glad she was in such good company.” She sniffled and dabbed. “Oh Mr. Bogart, she absolutely adored you and your wife. She was sorry there was only one cup left in the tea set but she said it was an ugly tea set to begin with.” Hellman said in an aside to Hammett, “I haven’t felt this touched since Little Eva was hauled up to heaven.”
Bogart said to the woman, “Lucy, I’m taking care of everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m paying for everything. The casket, the flowers, the grave site, everything.”
“Now that’s damned decent of you,” said Hellman.
“It’s more than decent,” said Lucy, “it's Christian. But it’s not necessary. Mr. Bogart. Mother arranged everything for herself only last year, like I’m beginning to think she might have had a premonition or something.” She said to Hellman and Hammett, “Mother was very psychic and had visions.”
“I can believe that,” said Hellman, “working for the Bogarts.”
“You see, Mr. Bogart, mother bought a family plot and arranged her own funeral and paid for it. The only thing she didn’t prearrange was what she would wear as she predicted styles would change and they sure have, so I have to go choose one for the laying out.”
The bellboy returned with the blue handbag, returned Bogart’s key and Bogart slipped him a couple of dollars.
Lucy took the handbag and opened it. She was sniffling again and dabbing at her eyes. “It’s all here. Her keys and all. Would you recognize the one to your house, Mr. Bogart? You should take it. She'll never need it again.” Hellman resisted the urge to suggest burying the key with Mother by way of tribute to the Bogarts but was sure the suggestion might be taken as thoughtless frivolity. Bogart retrieved the key and Lucy retrieved the handbag. “When the services are set, Mr. Bogart, I’ll let you know.”
“You be sure to do that. My wife’s up in Portland but I’ll positively be there.”
Lucy asked shyly, “Mr. Bogart, would you perhaps say a few words? I know it would mean so much to Mother.”
“Sure, Lucy. If Mayo was here, we’d arrange a fight for old time’s sake.”
“Oh wouldn’t that be splendid!” said Lucy. “I’d better be going. It takes me forever to pick out a dress for myself. God knows how long it’ll take me to pick out one for Mother.” She was standing, Bogart standing with her.
He said to Lucy, “Too bad there’s not enough time to get Orry-Kelly at the studio to design one.”
“Oh wouldn’t that have been wonderful. But, we can’t have everything, can we?” She said her good-byes to Hellman and Hammett and confirmed to Bogart she’d be in touch and then compulsively threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek and then hurried out of the coffee shop.
Bogart sat as the waitress poured fresh coffee for the three of them. Hammett announced he was suddenly hungry and wanted a bowtie Danish, Hellman spoke up for a prune Danish, and Bogart asked for some aspirin. He looked at his wristwatch. “I wonder what time the shop opens. It’s about an hour’s drive out there and it'll be another half hour before we finish here.”
“When we’re ready to go, why don’t I lead and Dash, you follow me.”
“Blindly,” said Hammett. “Bogie, from the look on your face you’re having maudlin thoughts.”
“Didn’t you know that under this tough exterior there lies a sentimental slob? I was thinking of Lucy Darrow and her having to do all the arrangements on her own. Hannah has a sister somewhere downtown. Mayo tried to get Lucy to get hold of her last night. I guess she didn't.”
“Bogie, has it occurred to you that our Lucy absolutely revels in all her tragedy? She is the bereaved and therefore the center of attention. How often do you think she’s been the center of attention. She’ll hold the spotlight until the last mourner has departed, and then back into the oblivion of spinsterhood. That’s the fate of all the Lucys of this world. Sad. She has excellent features. If she’d only learn how to do her face correctly, she’d be very attractive.”
It fascinated Bogart, how anyone as homely as Lillian Hellman could dare suggest improvements to another woman. He caught Hammett’s eye. Hammett winked, Bogart grinned and Hellman’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men. “What’s going on here?”
“Why what do you mean, Lily?” asked Hammett innocently.
“That look that just passed between the two of you.”
“Why Lily,” said Hammett, “we realized we've fallen in love.”
“Go to hell!” cried Hellman.
The waitress was distributing the pastries and the aspirins. “Will there be anything else?” she asked.
Hell
man said, “Some artificial respiration for my two friends here.” She poked her prune Danish with an index finger. “This thing looks stale.”
“Lily,” said Hammett wearily.
“What?”
“Shut up and eat.”
Herb Villon and Jim Mallory were on their way to Venice Beach in an unmarked police car. Jim was driving while Villon read the morning newspaper. Jim asked Villon, “What happened to Hazel? I thought she’d be tagging along this morning.”
“Don’t we get enough of Hazel?”
“You getting bored with her?”
“It’s not a matter of being bored with her, it’s just that there are times when one needs a rest from Hazel. She’s at the beauty parlor. An earthquake couldn’t tear her away from the beauty parlor. Especially when the roots are beginning to show. I’m not happy with what forensics turned up at the Bogarts.”
“They didn’t turn up much.”
“That’s why I’m not happy.”
“I wonder why they didn’t rummage through the basement.”
“Probably discouraged by what they found in the rest of the house.” He whistled atonally for a few moments which meant Villon was thinking. “Christ but detective work is boring. It’s even worse when we don’t have a clue except for that strand of blonde hair.” His voice went up an octave. “We don’t even have a decent set of suspects. An adipose countess, her gigolo, and something that passes for a secretary.”
“What’s an adipose countess?”
“A big fat slob.”
“Where do you find words like adipose?”
“First in a crossword puzzle and then in the dictionary.” He resumed whistling. Jim thought he detected a tune that sounded like it might be “The Music Goes ’Round and ’Round” but then he thought it might be “America the Beautiful.”
“You ever been to the Old Curiosity Shop?”