by Donis Casey
When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Did you see Barclay?”
She sat down in the chair beside his bed and took his limp hand. “I did. He gave me some leads, some things to look into, Rudy. We’re going to find out what happened, hon. Don’t you worry. Don’t you worry about a thing. You just get better.”
“Everything is going to be all right, now, cara. George and I have talked about it. He will take care of everything. We have made all the arrangements.”
“Hush, now…”
He interrupted her. “Go back to California, cara. Go to Falcon Lair. In my bedroom, in the table next to the bed, there is a drawer that holds my diary. I leave it at home while I am on tour, since I have no time to write. Read it, my darling. In it I wrote everything, all the good and the bad. I have received many death threats and threats of harm, you know, more than just the one I showed you. I wrote about everything in the diary. It is mostly in French. I think you will be able to read it. Your French is good. Also, there are records, letters in my desk in the study. Take whatever you think will help. Give the list to your detective friend.”
He seized her wrist and pulled her close. His dark, liquid eyes were wide and stricken. “But there are other things in the diary, all my intimate thoughts. Please do not show anyone—not Natacha, not my brother or sister. Only you. When I am gone, they will make up things about me and I can do nothing about that. Please help me keep something of myself private.” He dropped her wrist and managed a wan smile. “And when you read the things I wrote, do not judge me too harshly. Be kind.”
“Oh, honey, you could not possibly have secrets as shocking as mine.”
His smile widened. “You? How bad could be the secrets of a girl as young as yourself?”
She shook her head. If he only knew. According to the old-time religion of her childhood, there was no atonement severe enough to wipe away her sins. She had broken every commandment, including thou shalt not kill, and all before she was out of her teens. And the worst part was that she regretted none of it.
Well, she did regret one transgression. She had dishonored her father and mother and would spend the rest of her life trying to atone for it.
“When you get back to California, go to Falcon Lair,” Rudy repeated. “All you need to know of my affairs is there. The answer is there, I’m sure of it.”
“Hon, I’m not going anywhere while you’re in the hospital.”
He gave her hand a weak squeeze. “It won’t be long, now, Bianca. You’ll be home soon.”
When Bianca emerged from the suite, she thrust herself between the doctor and George, interrupting their conversation. She looked desperate. “What can I do, George? What else can I do?”
George cast a look at his wife, who stood and slipped away to find a telephone. He took Bianca by the shoulders. “You’re doing all you can. There’s nothing else to be done for Rudy. It’s all up to him now. Listen, darling, Dr. Meeker took a swab from Rudy’s arm, but he says he’s almost sure the needle is not what made Rudy sick.”
She blinked at George, letting this information sink in. She turned to Meeker. “Almost sure,” she repeated.
Meeker nodded. “I can’t be one hundred percent sure until I have the swabs tested, but yes, the wound is clean and healing. Something else brought on the crisis.”
“The cigarettes, George. Rudy’s special cigarettes that he has made for him. Maybe they were poisoned. The doctor could test them. Where are they?”
“I imagine his cigarette box is still back at the hotel.”
“I will test them, as I said. Even if they are contaminated somehow, I seriously doubt…” Meeker began, but Bianca interrupted him.
“But what else? What else could it be?”
“It very likely is what it seems to be,” Meeker said. “A perforated ulcer, an infection. Pleurisy. The result of years of unhealthy living. He is in extremely critical condition, Miss LaBelle. You must prepare yourself.”
“But you will test the cigarettes?”
“I’ll send Beatrice to fetch Rudy’s cigarette box,” George answered for the doctor. “Go back to the hotel, Bianca. There isn’t anything else you can do.”
“No, Rudy wants me. I can’t leave unless there’s something for me to do. Something important I can do to help.”
George was taken aback by her stubborn insistence. She was on the verge of an uncharacteristic emotional outburst. He knew Bianca LaBelle casually, had met her many times and knew she was one of Rudy’s good friends. In his previous experience with her, Bianca was cucumber cool in every situation. Not this girl, with her flushed face and jutting bottom lip. He reminded himself how young she was. If nothing else, her quest to find a nefarious cause for Rudy’s illness would keep her busy and out of his hair, and he was grateful for that.
“Darling, Beatrice has gone to telephone Fee, who should be here in a few minutes to take you back to the hotel. Please don’t make a scene here in the hall. Rudy would hear it and be upset. Believe me, everything is under control. I promise I’ll call you if anything changes.”
Bianca drew a breath to argue, her emerald eyes full of indignation. But inexplicably, she deflated, an expression crossing her face that George couldn’t put his finger on. “All right,” she said. “If you swear you’ll let me know instantly if there’s any change in his condition. Or if the doctor’s tests turn up anything. I’ll behave, don’t worry.”
George supposed he should be relieved that she was suddenly so biddable, but he didn’t believe it for a second.
Bianca was sitting next to Fee in the back seat of the cab as it pulled out onto West 50th when the mask fell away. “We’re not going back to the Ambassador,” she said. “We’re going to talk to Barclay Warburton again.”
Fee snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”
Bianca leaned forward and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. “Eightieth and Park, and hustle.”
~ Her mild tone, insistent, was more frightening than if she had been shouting. Barclay knew it was folly to resist her. ~
Fee plowed through the crowd of reporters to clear Bianca’s path at the entrance to Barclay’s building. They made it inside the lobby with a minimum number of bumps and bruises, only to be thwarted at Barclay’s apartment door by his stalwart butler.
“No, you can’t come in. Mr. Warburton is ill. Mr. Warburton is sleeping. What are you doing, you thug? Stop pushing me.”
“Barclay! Barclay!” Bianca yelled as Fee jostled their way into the apartment.
Bianca was not leaving, even if Barclay’s faithful servant decided to call security to drag her out. (In truth, she was pretty confident that nobody was going to drag her famous ass anywhere.) Fortunately, her confidence was not put to the test, since nobody could sleep through the clamor she was raising. Barclay staggered into the living room, tying the belt of his robe. His bedraggled appearance had not improved in the hour since Bianca had last seen him.
“What the bloody hell? Bianca? Who or what in blazes is that creature with you?”
“Barclay,” she said, over top of the butler’s restraining arm, “I have to talk to you. Just for a few minutes. I have more questions about the party.”
He sagged. “Geeze, I told you everything…”
“The doctor thinks it wasn’t the needle, Barclay. And probably not the cigarettes, either. But something happened to him that night. Please…”
“Oh, all right. Let them in, Neil. Bring us some coffee. In fact, make me a toddy while you’re at it.”
Neil the butler stood aside most unhappily and stalked to the kitchen to do his master’s bidding. Barclay waved his uninvited guests toward the couch.
“Did you get to see Rudy?” He began lowering himself into an armchair. “How is he?”
“Barclay, what kind of booze did you serve?” Bianca countered before his behind hit the cu
shion. “Any moonshine? Who was your supplier?”
Barclay was insulted. “I only serve the highest quality spirits, Bianca, and my supplier is top of the line. On Wednesday night I served champagne. Moët. From Champagne, of course.”
“Is that what Rudy drank?”
“Of course.”
“Is that all he drank?”
“Well, no. During the magic show I brought out a bottle of single malt whiskey from Iona. Everybody at the table had a shot.”
“How many shots did he have?”
“I don’t know. More than one, but I didn’t keep count. He didn’t even finish his last drink. Left it sitting on the table when he went back to the hotel. A waste of expensive… Say… I couldn’t stand to see my twenty-five-year-old scotch sitting there all lonely, so after Rudy left, I picked up his glass and slugged down the last of it. Could that be what did us in? Did somebody slip coffin varnish into Rudy’s drink?”
“Did you see anybody hovering around the table?”
“Dozens. After all, Valentino was sitting there.”
“Who else was at the table?”
“Jean Acker and the Ullmans, Jim Quirk, and myself.”
“Did you hire a caterer?”
“No, my own staff waited on us. My longtime trusted staff.”
“What about Rahman Bey? The doctor doesn’t believe that it was the needle that delivered the dose of whatever it was that made Rudy so ill, but was this fakir in a position where he could put something in Rudy’s whiskey?”
“Well, he was situated right in front of our table, but he was standing on a makeshift stage that I had brought in.”
Bianca’s nose prickled, like a bloodhound who’s picked up an intriguing scent. “So he called Rudy up on the stage, which left Rudy’s drink unattended for a few minutes.”
“Yes. But I didn’t see…”
She interrupted. “Were you paying attention, Barclay?” She didn’t mean to sound accusing. Barclay had been hosting a gathering in his own home. Why would he be looking out for assassins? She apologized for her tone. “I’m just anxious to get to the bottom of this.”
Barclay looked mollified, more or less. “No, I wasn’t watching Rudy’s drink. But now that you mention it, Bey did have an assistant, a stringy little broad in a harem outfit, who kept flitting around the tables when she wasn’t handing the magician a prop for his act.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you kept Rudy’s unwashed glass.”
Barclay snorted. “I like Rudy, but I don’t worship the relics that his lips have touched.”
Bianca swiveled on the couch to face Fee. “We need to find this Fakir Rahman Bey.”
~ It was no use arguing with Bianca when she was hopped up on adrenaline. ~
All Barclay knew about the fakir’s whereabouts was that the last place he had performed before the party was at the Dalton Swimming Pool. Barclay’s secretary had telephoned the hotel manager, who put him in touch with Bey’s agent. Yes, the secretary still had the number. The very much put-upon Neil was persuaded to telephone Bey’s secretary, and Bianca left the building with the number of Bey’s agent in her purse.
Bianca and Fee went back to the Ambassador to make the telephone call. Bianca would have commandeered Barclay’s telephone then and there, but Barclay was fading fast and Neil was becoming more and more belligerent, so Fee persuaded her to make a strategic retreat.
It took nearly an hour to run down the fakir’s agent and manager, one Mr. Ismael. By that time Bianca was on the verge of leaping through the lines and pulling the answers she wanted directly out of the poor man’s throat.
“Yes, Madame, Mr. Warburton hired the fakir to appear at his party on the evening of August fourteen.” Mr. Ismael sounded breathless, as though he couldn’t quite get over the fact that he was talking to the great LaBelle. “But only three hours beforehand, Mr. Warburton’s servant telephoned to cancel. When Mr. Warburton hired the fakir, he paid with a cheque from the bank, but the next morning, after he canceled, a messenger came to my hotel with double the fee in cash. He said the extra money was for the trouble.”
Bianca stood up so quickly she nearly knocked over her chair. “Do you mean to tell me that the fakir never gave a private performance at Barclay Warburton’s apartment?”
“No, Madame, he did not.”
“Where is Mr. Bey now?”
“He is performing in Atlantic City, Madame. He will return in a week. May I…”
“Thank you, Mr. Ismael. If I need anything else, I will be in touch.” She hung up the telephone before the agent could finish his sentence. “Fee, Fee, Fee, did you hear what he said?”
Fee lifted an eyebrow. “Am I a bat, Bianca?”
She was rummaging through her pocketbook and missed the sarcasm. “I still have the playbill that Barclay gave me. Ah, here it is. Damn, there’s no photo of Rahman Bey on the front. But look, here’s a drawing inside.”
Bianca had resumed her seat at the telephone table. Fee walked over to peer over her shoulder. “You can’t tell much from that.”
“No. A tall, skinny jobbie in a turban and a nightgown. Looks like long, curly black hair, and skimpy chin whiskers. Listen, George and Beatrice saw whoever it was who impersonated Bey that night. Come, on Fee, we’ve got to get back to the hospital. I’ll bet you anything that the imposter’s ‘assistant’ poisoned Rudy’s drink.”
Fee wilted at the thought. “Oh, honey, it’s late. The Ullmans are probably already back in their room. You’ve spent the entire day running around like a madwoman. Can’t this wait until morning?” As soon as the words were spoken, Fee knew they had fallen on deaf ears. Still, it had to be said.
Bianca was already clicking the receiver to summon the hotel operator. “Hello, call a taxi for me, please. I’ll meet him at the back entrance.”
~ Life is not like a movie, Bianca. Everything doesn’t turn out all right in the end. ~
It had begun to spit rain under a darkening sky when Bianca arrived at the hospital. She had insisted that she wanted to go alone, but Fee was just as insistent on coming with her. Bianca’s heart dropped as the cab pulled up in front of the Polyclinic. When she had left that afternoon, there were a couple of dozen people milling around the entrance, waiting for news. Now more than a hundred fans and press were holding a vigil outside the hospital.
Bianca turned to Fee in the seat beside her. “What has happened?”
“I don’t know any more than you do, sweetheart.”
The crowd turned as one to see who had arrived, but there was no rush to accost the star when she dismounted the cab. The throng parted in eerie silence as she passed. She asked no questions and kept her eyes to herself. She didn’t want to know. Her heart was in her throat as she and Fee rode the elevator to the eighth floor.
George was standing in the middle of the hall, waiting for her. “Rudy’s in a coma,” he said before she could ask.
“I have to talk to you, George,” Bianca plowed ahead, pretending she hadn’t heard him. “I’ve found out that the man who entertained at Warburton’s party was not Rahman Bey. He was an imposter. I’m almost sure he and his assistant are responsible for poisoning Rudy’s drink that night. The doctor has to know right away. Maybe there’s time to counteract…”
George interrupted her. “Bianca, the doctor already knows Rudy was poisoned. He knew before you told him.”
Bianca blinked at him. “What?”
“His stomach tissues were full of arsenic. They already know, darling, and are treating him aggressively. It’s a secret, of course. Please don’t be insulted, we would have told you soon, but I think it best that as few people know as possible. We don’t want it splashed all over the tabloids.”
“But you have to tell the police.”
George scoffed. “No, no, no, we don’t want the New York police involved. We d
on’t know who to trust.”
“I thought this new mayor is trying to clean up the police.”
“Oh, Jimmy Walker is a reformer, all right. For a price. No, no police, not yet.”
“Does Rudy know what the doctor found?”
“Not for sure. Darling, the doctor thinks that his stomach was in such bad shape that the poison ate right though him like acid.”
“But what about the imposter magician?”
“I don’t know, Bianca. I think you’ve uncovered something important. But we’ll have to pursue it later. Rudy’s in a coma.” He repeated himself, not sure she understood.
But she had. “Is he going to die?” She didn’t seem upset. She had retreated behind her cool Bianca Dangereuse persona.
“I’ve sent for a priest,” he said as an answer. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Let me see him.”
“Certainly.” George stood aside and she stepped into Rudy’s room alone. The guards at the door didn’t try to stop her. The two nurses who were seated in wooden chairs beside his bed stood up and moved away to give her some privacy. When she entered, she immediately saw that everything but a small altar and the bed he lay in had been removed from the room. Bianca knelt beside the bed and whispered his name, but he didn’t answer. She bent over and kissed his forehead, but he gave no sign that he was aware of her presence. He looked like he was asleep, very peaceful. The red blotches on his face had faded. He was bone thin.
“Rudy,” she whispered again, and he stirred. He murmured something in Italian but didn’t open his eyes. “Rudy,” she said, but he didn’t answer. She kissed his forehead. He was cold.
“Miss LaBelle,” one of the nurses said. “I’m afraid you must leave now.”
Bianca didn’t argue. She stood and turned to go.
“Jenny,” Rudy said clearly.
Shocked, Bianca turned around. Rudy’s eyes were still closed. “Jenny,” he said again. “Jenny, Jenny, Jenny.”