by George Baxt
“Three,” corrected Bogart.
“She strike you as someone freshly derailed?”
“I can’t make a judgment, Herb. I mean, I know a lot of nut cases in addition to my sister.” He reeled off, “Jack Warner, Peter Lorre, my wife …”
“Hazel’s aghast at the thought of Lucy having murdered her mother.”
“Well Hazel’s another one of the walking wounded who believes in the sanctity of motherhood. This morning I liked Lucy at the Garden of Allah. Although presumably in mourning, she was doing a good job, I thought, of facing up to it and getting on with the burial. She asked me to speak at the funeral.”
“Well, you’re proven box-office.”
Bogart smiled. “At Canter’s I began to wonder what she was doing with a creep like Sidney Heep. But I have to remind myself there’s a hell of a lot of my fellow players sharing their beds with creeps and worse, so there’s a lot of truth in that saying there’s no accounting for tastes. Then when I found her in my house packing her mother’s stuff, there was something very creepy about her. I’m wondering now if she’s the murderer and if I had found her in the kitchen cleaning the knife, would I be here discussing her?”
“Well you wouldn’t for a couple of good reasons. The first being you caught her with the knife and the second being she has no option but to kill you as you’ve caught her with the goods.”
“Well I’m awfully glad I didn’t catch her in the kitchen.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder which knife it was if it was one of our cutlery. If it’s the carving knife, there’ll be no beef carved at our table ever again. How’d Jim Mallory beat us here?”
“He passed us a little while ago. You’re not exactly a demon at the wheel.” Bogart pulled up behind the unmarked car and a few seconds later, Hazel parked behind them and joined them on the sidewalk.
“Where’s your handkerchief?” Villon asked her.
“What do you need with my handkerchief?”
“There’s mustard on your chin.”
“Thanks,” she rasped, extracting a handkerchief from her handbag and wiping her chin.
“A little more to the left,” said Villon.
Bogart was unlocking the front door. He entered and turned on the foyer lights. Villon’s voice prevented him from going any further.
“Hold it, Bogie. Let Jim and me proceed.” Villon indicated for Mallory to do the upper floor. Hazel stood with Bogart as Villon went quickly from room to room. “Okay down here!” Villon shouted.
“Likewise up here,” shouted Mallory. He descended rapidly and the three followed Bogart into the kitchen. He unlocked the basement door, switched on the light and led the way to the storage room. He opened the door and there was the carton as it had been left when they last saw it, bound with a strong cord.
“Well, gentleman, with any luck, do you suppose this is the end of the rainbow with the pot of gold?” asked Hazel.
Bogart said, “Hazel, I feel more like Pandora about to unleash the Furies. Anybody know how to open a secret compartment? I’ve never had to deal with one before.”
Villon said, “Jim, you’re the mechanical one. Have a go at it.”
Hands on hips, Jim slowly circled the carton, examining the bottom with great care. He cut the rope binding the carton with his penknife.
“If we have to, we can slash the thing open,” said Villon, always the pragmatist.
“Patience, Herb, patience. I see a smudge. The kind of smudge made by dirty fingers.” He knelt and pressed the smudge. They heard the sound of a release of springs and a section at the bottom of the carton popped out slightly. Mallory helped it by prying with his fingers. There was an object wrapped in oilskin held together with masking tape. Mallory tightened his grip on the penknife.
Villon said, “It looks about right for a cornucopia. Cut it open, Jim.”
Bogart said, “Such stuff as dreams are made on.’ “ And then added, “And also nightmares.”
EIGHTEEN
FOR BOGART, THERE WAS SOMETHING incomplete about this moment in the basement. It lacked the sweep and the majesty of a Max Steiner score, very exotic, very oriental, with a clash of cymbals to underline the moment of discovery.
“It looks like nothing special to me,” rasped Hazel, shattering Bogart’s fantasy. Jim Mallory picked up the package and carried it to the bar.
“Is it heavy?” asked Villon.
“It’s heavy,” Mallory told him.
Bogart and Villon exchanged looks. Hazel went around the bar for a better position for the unveiling. Mallory unwrapped the oil cloth and pushed it to one side. Under the oilcloth was brown wrapping paper. “It’s an awful lot of wrapping,” said Mallory.
“Captain Methot was a bit of a fussbudget,” Bogart told him. “That’s where Mayo gets it from.”
With care, Mallory removed the wrapping paper. There was indeed a cornucopia. It had a very beautiful, very elaborate design that twisted from its tail to its broad mouth.
“It’s a dragon,” said Villon.
“In China, they’re very big with dragons,” said Bogart. “Is the mouth sealed with cement?”
Mallory tested it with a finger. “It’s putty. Just plain old putty.”
From the strange look on Hazel’s face, Bogart could tell the basement had been invaded. He said to Villon, “I think we’ve got company. Hazel, we got company?”
“Why yes,” said Hazel, “and he’s absolutely gorgeous.”
Marcelo Amati was pointing a revolver at them from the bottom of the stairs. “Will the detectives put their weapons on the bar, please. Very slowly. Very gently. No sudden movements. I’m a crack shot and totally without mercy.” Violetta came down the stairs behind Marcelo, and behind her, very regal, with the look of a panther about to pounce on its prey, came the Contessa di Marcopolo.
“How nice to see you again so soon,” trilled Hazel as she clutched her handbag tightly. “I love your dress, Contessa.” La Contessa reacted without removing her greedy eyes from the cornucopia. “It’s a Chanel.”
“Very tasteful,” said Hazel winsomely. Bogart was wondering if he was in the middle of a dangerous situation or at the closing night of a drawing room comedy that had been slaughtered by the critics.
“That is indeed my cornucopia,” whispered the Contessa. “The dragon tells me. It is the true cornucopia, not the bargain basement garbage we saw in Venice.” She looked at Bogart. “We were positive it was in your wife’s possession. You are Mr. Bogart, aren’t you?”
“I’d better be. Why didn’t you find it last night?” asked Bogart.
“We weren’t here last night,” said Marcelo, sounding a bit offended. “Had we been here last night, the housekeeper would still be alive. We are adventurers, not murderers.”
“Oh my precious cornucopia! You are mine at last!” cried la Contessa.
Villon was moving slowly and subtly to Hazel’s side. Violetta spoke up. “Let’s take it and leave.”
“What’s the rush?” asked Bogart. “You won’t get very far with it.”
“Do not threaten us, Mr. Bogart. We are not secondary players in your grade B movies.”
“Aw now don’t be so insulting and condescending; some of them pictures were pretty damn good. It’s not nice to be insulted when you’re a guest in my house, especially an uninvited one. I suppose you used a skeleton key.”
“Mr. Bogart, forgive me if I sound like an ungrateful guest, but the security in this country lacks a certain savoir faire, a je ne sais quoi. In my country, a child could pick your locks without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“Okay, big mouth, drop the gun.” The voice came from the staircase. “My gun's bigger then your gun and my trigger finger is itchier.” She spoke over her shoulder, “Come on down, baby doll. I've got the drop on them.” Nell Dickens was a vision in black leather from head to toe. Behind her, Lucy Darrow came slowly down the stairs, Rebecca in search of her Sunnybrook Farm.
“Anybody else?” asked Bogart.
&n
bsp; “Just us chickens,” said Nell. Lucy had walked slowly toward the cornucopia seemingly hypnotized.
“Where's Heep? Where's Daddy?”
Nell smiled. “Daddy? You mean Edgar? He’s not my daddy. He’s my husband. I married him when he was Nino Brocco years ago in Italy.”
“Aha! I knew it!” cried la Contessa. “I thought he was familiar. Nino Brocco! Master thief! Criminal! Forger of works of art and masterpieces! And you,” she pointed a finger at Nell, “you shall not rob me of my heritage. It is my cornucopia! My father’s!” She pointed a shaky finger at Bogart. “His father-in-law stole it!”
“Now not so fast, Contessa,” Bogart said swiftly, “I never held any brief for Jack Methot but in this country you’re innocent until you’re proven guilty.”
“In my country you would get the firing squad!” countered the countess.
“I find that a little impetuous.” From a corner of his eye, he could see Hazel Dickens very carefully opening her handbag. Villon was now at her side and Bogart repositioned himself so that they could not quite be seen by the others. “Are Heep and Daddy waiting in Lucy’s blue coupe or do they have wheels of their own?”
“When last seen they were suffering smoke inhalation. The shop caught fire.”
“What a shame,” said Bogart, and he really meant it, “there goes another of Hollywood’s priceless landmarks.” He looked at Lucy. “Lucy, I’m disappointed in you.”
She was wide-eyed with amazement. That Bogart would be disappointed in her was unthinkable. She liked him. She respected him. And she told him as much. The innocence she managed to project was almost touching in its sincerity. “But Lucy. Matricide!” exclaimed Bogart.
“What?” she asked, face screwed up with questioning. “Matricide. A fancy word for murdering your mother.”
“I didn’t murder my mother. Why would I murder my mother? Nell murdered my mother. With your bread knife.”
“Oh well that’s a relief,” said Bogart, with a quick look at Villon and Hazel. Villon had Hazel’s gun but was in no rush to make his move. Here was the lucky break every detective prayed for. Mallory was closest to Lucy and he was prepared to use her as a shield should there be much cross fire. “Nell, that wasn’t nice murdering Hannah.”
“She did a damn fool thing. She was the one who grabbed the knife in the kitchen. She came at me. She didn’t see Lucy. She didn’t know Lucy was with me. That’s right, isn’t it, baby doll?”
“Yes. That’s right. You tripped her. Then you jumped on her and got the knife from her and we took it with us to use on Joshua Trent and that smelly pawn broker and …”
“It was very nice of you to bring it back and clean it and place it where it belonged,” said Bogart.
Lucy said with pride, “My mother taught me to clean up after using anything and put it back where it belongs.”
“You’re not mad at Nell for killing her?”
“I could never be mad at Nell. She was so good to me in the hospital. She helped me to survive. Nell loves me.”
“That's for sure, baby doll. Now pick up that thing and let’s get going. And don’t come chasing after us, coppers, because you can’t. We’ve slashed your tires.”
“Mine, too?” asked an incredulous Bogart. “They’re brand-new, damn it! I just bought them!”
“Mr. Bogart, this is neither the place nor the time for a temper tantrum. We'll just collect our spoils and be on our way.”
“Miss Dickens,” said Villon, “I think mine is a bit bigger than yours. And I don’t give a damn who I kill.”
Nell wheeled on him but Villon was too fast for her. He pulled his trigger and caught her in the shoulder. Mallory was fast and picked up Nell’s weapon and Marcelo’s. Marcelo made a move toward Mallory but Villon shouted a warning. Mallory spun on his heel and his right fist connected with Marcelo’s fragile jaw. Villon sent Hazel to the phone to call the precinct while he reclaimed his and Mallory’s revolver.
“I want my property!” bellowed la Contessa. “It is mine, it is rightfully mine!” Violetta went to her side to comfort her. Bogart helped Marcelo to his feet. La Contessa was at the bar stroking the cornucopia, tears in her eyes. “This is the only link left to my father. It is all I have. It’s mine.” Lucy knelt beside Nell, cradling her in her arms.
“Oh my God! It’s true! The Curiosity Shop’s in flames!” cried Hazel.
Bogart said to Nell, “My God but you’re an evil bitch. Are Dickens and Heep dead? Did you murder them?”
Nell said matter-of-factly, “We just tied them up. Edgar is indestructible. I’m sure he’s been rescued.” She yelled at Hazel. “Do you mind getting me an ambulance.”
“Not at all,” said Hazel, “and I’ll tell them to bring along a box of straitjackets.” She did as she promised.
Villon and Mallory herded the others together at the far side of the bar. Violetta held Marcelo’s hand while la Contessa made unpleasant whimpering noises. Lucy helped Nell to her feet and then provided her with a chair. Bogart viewed the miscreants with a mixture of contempt and amusement. Then he turned to Villon. “Hey Herb, I’m rehearsing a scene similar to this tomorrow except the company I’ll be with is a hell of a lot more appealing.”
Hazel was finished with the phone for the moment. She’d soon be peddling her story to the highest bidder. She reclaimed her gun and plopped it into her handbag. “Good old Harriet, at last you served a purpose.” Thanks to Villon she had a permit. She had no need of the gun until now. She couldn’t hit an elephant if it was standing next to her.
Bogart picked up Mallory’s penknife. He stared at the cornucopia. He said, “Herb, I claim the rights to do the honors. It’s been taking up space in my basement all these years.”
“It’s mine! It’s mine! It belongs to me!” blubbered la Contessa.
“Oh be quiet!” scolded Marcelo, anxious to see what the object contained.
“I’m cutting your allowance!” snarled la Contessa.
All eyes were on the cornucopia. Bogart dug into the putty slowly. He cut away small pieces. Behind him he heard heavy breathing. The air was so thick with tenseness it could have been cut with a machete. Tiny beads of perspiration were forming on Bogart’s upper lip and forehead. In the distance they were alerted to the sound of approaching police sirens. Villon’s and Mallory’s eyes were on their captives. Villon honestly didn’t give a damn what the cornucopia contained. He had his murderer, assuming Nell Dickens would confess to all, aided and abetted by Lucy Darrow.
Hazel Dickson watched Bogart pull a hand full of jewels from the cornucopia’s gut as though he were eviscerating a chicken!
“Mine! They’re mine!” screamed la Contessa.
Hazel dug around in her handbag and found a jeweler’s loupe. She screwed it into her eye and picked up a jewel for a very close Dicksonian examination. She was her mother’s daughter. She examined a second and then a third. She smiled at Bogart and then at Villon and then turned to la Contessa. “It’s all junk, sweetie.”
“No! No! It can't be!” La Contessa seemed on the verge of swooning, and if she did, Villon wondered who among them would be brave enough to risk a hernia by catching her.
“Paste,” said Hazel. “You can buy better at the five-and-ten.” They heard the police cars arriving followed by an ambulance. La Contessa sagged against the bar. Then by way of reassurance, picked up one of the fake jewels and held it up to the light. It looked like an emerald, it almost felt like an emerald, but as Hazel later told her mother, it belonged on a stripper’s brassiere. Villon shouted up to the reinforcements who came tramping down into the basement. Hazel lost no time and phoned her scoop to the L.A. Times. Mallory was ready to commit a homicide by strangling Hazel for grabbing the phone before he could reach Zelda Sweet. Villon said to an officer, “This is Nell Dickens, Book her on suspicion of multiple murder, suspected arson, and endangering my life.”
“Arson my eye!” shouted Nell. “Lucy set the fire, I didn’t.”
Lucy’s e
yes were aglow. She endearingly misquoted Edna St. Vincent Millay. “‘My candle bums at both ends … oh what a lovely glow.’”
Bogart said to Villon. “I suppose she’ll plead insanity.”
“Why not?” replied Villon, “she's cornered the market.” Villon turned Marcelo, Violetta, and the contessa to the charge of two other officers. “Menacing with weapons, obstructing justice,” and fixing the countess with a steely eye, “and a pain in the ass.”
She said something to him in Italian, which though he did not speak the language, he got her message.
Hazel got off the phone and Mallory captured it. Bogart looked around the basement and said to Villon, “Looks like Warner’s going to have to send me a fresh crew tomorrow to clean up this mess. You need the cornucopia as evidence.”
Villon laughed. “‘Such stuff as dreams are made on!’ The Boulevard of Broken Dreams! Look at Jim. He looks like a teenager who just got himself a prom date.”
“Give him a break, Herb. Send him on his way.” Bogart raised his voice. “Last one out turn off the lights! I’m going to get very very drunk.” He spat an expletive. “But first I’ve got to phone Mayo and her mother.” In the living room, he sat down next to the phone. He looked at the ceiling and said, “God give me strength and may The Maltese Falcon be the hit I have a feeling it’s going to be. And then I suppose we might follow it with The Chinese Cornucopia.” He dialed as he said, “God forbid.”
Three days later, the day before the start of the actual shooting of The Maltese Falcon, Mayo returned from Portland with her mother in tow. The driver of the cab that brought them from Union Station brought in the bags. Then he brought in a small carton which Mayo asked him to put on the kitchen table. Evelyn Methot looked at the living room as she removed her gloves. “The place looks awfully good. You’d never know a brutal, bloody murder took place here.” The cab driver returned from the kitchen, accepted his tip from Mayo with a bewildered expression on his face and wondered if this place had any connection to the murders that had made headlines recently, the ones involving Humphrey Bogart. As he left, Bogart drove up and parked. The cab driver recognized him at once and was delighted. “Say, Mr. Bogart, is this your place?”