by George Baxt
Villon felt himself blushing. He smiled, asked Mallory to pour him some coffee, and then told Mae about Nedda Connolly’s murder. He heard Agnes’s half whisper “Puncture marks.”
“Above the jugular. The kind of marks I suppose would be left by a vampire.”
“Puncture marks,” Mae said thoughtfully. “I’m not unfamiliar with puncture marks. But I ain’t familiar with vampires. Not the kind Bela Lugosi plays. They don’t exist,” she said with a disdainful wave of a hand.
“But they do exist,” Agnes said darkly, and Jim Mallory suppressed a chill. “There are blood worshippers scattered throughout the world. Believe me, Mae, they do exist and they do drink blood. They don’t drain bodies of every drop.”
“No? They don’t want to make pigs of themselves?”
“There was a cult of blood worshippers exposed in Mexico only a few years ago, and I’ve heard of a cult that’s flourishing right here in Los Angeles.” She said to the detectives, “They might have something to do with your murders.”
Mae got to her feet and paced. “Well, it sounds to me like all they do is drink the blood of these poor kids impersonating me. That Hopkins boy was damn good. I saw him at the Club Honky Tonk and it was like watchin’ myself in a mirror. What the hell’s goin’ on, Herb?”
“Mae, have you any enemies?”
“Only the censors. The Legion of Decency’s been after me ever since She Done Him Wrong. And I’m No Angel. Now, you seen me, ain’t you, boys? Do I do anything obscene or pornographic?”
“No way!” thundered Jim Mallory, a dyed-in-the-wool Mae West fan. Villon shot him a look but Mallory ignored it.
“They keep denouncin’ me from the pulpit all across the country when all I’m sellin’ is good clean raunchy fun. Hell, my pitchers along with Bing Crosby’s and Cecil B. De Mille’s rescued Paramount Pictures from the brink of bankruptcy. For cryin’ out loud, De Mille’s pictures have more sex in them then mine. Y’know, I’ve written Roosevelt that I could rescue us from this depression if he’d bring me into his cabinet as secretary of sex.” She took a moment to simmer down. She sauntered to where the detectives were sitting. “Say, boys, do you suppose this here killer vampire, whatever he is, is sendin’ me a message? Hmm .... I wonder if Frank Wallace is in town.”
Villon was interested. “Who’s Frank Wallace?”
“Some son of a bitch I married when I was nineteen years old, and don’t ask me what year that was.”
“I know the year,” Agnes said smartly.
“You do? Well, keep it under wraps or you’ve cast your last spell.” Mae said to the detectives, “Frank’s an oldtime song-and-dance man. I hear from him every now and then, usually when he’s short of the green stuff and tries to shake me down. One of these days I’ll get a divorce. Say, do you suppose he’s doin’ them heavy breathin’ phone calls? Ahh! It can’t be Frank. He never once tried to bite my neck.” They heard the door chimes. “That’ll be my personal manager, Jim Timony, and my personal bodyguard, Seymour Steel Cheeks. His father was a genyoowine Cherokee Indian. His mother was a genyoowine Greek belly dancer. They met in Athens thirty years ago when Seymour’s father was touring Europe with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show.” James Timony and Seymour Steel Cheeks entered. “Come on in, boys, and meet some old friends.” After the introductions, Mae explained there was another murder. “That’s four murders so far.”
“Three,” corrected Villon.
“Four,” insisted Mae. “A nice kid found dead in Griffith Park was first. He did an impersonation of me and a pretty good one too, though a bit overpadded, I thought. He wasn’t in costume when they found his body, which is why you may not remember. He called himself Neon Light.”
Mallory interjected, “It rings a bell.” He reminded Villon, “We were on the call girl murders at the time.”
Villon said, “I remember now. There was nothing special about the murder. No puncture marks on the neck, just a bashed-in skull.”
“Puncture marks or no puncture marks,” said Mae, “he impersonated me and I think he deserves a place with the other three.”
“Jim,” said Villon, “let’s dig into his file and see if this Neon Light ties in.”
Mae was at Seymour Steel Cheeks’s side and gently squeezing an arm muscle. “Oh, my, I think I’m feelin’ a new one.”
Steel Cheeks said with pride, “I only developed it this week.” He added shyly, “I call it Mae West.”
“Well, how about that!” She explained humorously, “Seymour names all his muscles for movie stars. He’s a dedicated body builder and a faithful movie fan. I’m really flattered.” She felt the muscle again. “Well, folks, now you’ve really seen Mae West squeeze Mae West. Whaddya suppose the Legion of Decency would say to that?”
TWO
A FEW MINUTES LATER, MAE SAT on the couch next to Agnes Darwin, buffing her nails. She addressed Timony, her manager, who was portly, Irish, Brooklyn born, and chronically frustrated by Mae’s rebuffs of his unwanted amorous entreaties. “Whaddya think, Jim? You think these murders are leadin’ up to an attack on me?”
“Is that what Mr. Villon and Mr. Mallory think?” He was aching to light a cigar but knew if he did, Mae would exile him from the apartment.
“They ain’t said it for sure, but I know they’re entertainin’ the idea. Right, boys?” Neither corroborated her statement. “Sure you think it and Agnes thinks it and Jim thinks it and I think it. And that’s a majority. Who’s behind them phone calls might be the killer. And it has to be someone I know because I ain’t listed. Right, Herb?” Herb agreed.
Seymour Steel Cheeks spoke up. “Anybody lays a hand on you, I’ll break every bone in his body.”
Mae smiled. “Ain’t he adorable. From the first time I laid eyes on him in the ring, I knew I had to have him … um … work for me. He’s one Indian for whom I happily circle my wagons.” She caught a look of concern on Villon’s face. “What’s botherin’ you, Herb?”
“You’re too exposed.”
“You think so? I’m wearin’ one of my more conservative outfits.”
“I mean you’re too easy a target.”
“You think Seymour ain’t enough protection? I can hire some more. Jim, get me more bodyguards. Call a couple of gymnasiums and have them round up a lot of muscle for auditions this afternoon.” She advised the detectives, “I got the day off today. I’m shootin’ my new box-office bonanza, Go West, Young Man. Clever title, right? It’s from this here hit play, Personal Appearance. They had to change the title.”
“Why?” asked Agnes.
“Well, can you imagine the marquees across the world advertisin’ Mae West in Personal Appearance? They’d think I was there in the flesh. That kind of a mistake could cause riots.” The chimes rang. “I gotta get them chimes changed. I’m sick and tired of ‘Frankie and Johnny.’ Every time I go to a club the orchestras play it when I make my entrance and it’s getting boring. I think I’ll change it to ‘Easy Rider.’ “ She chuckled. “I also sang that one in She Done Him Wrong. You know that French expression double intended?”
Agnes said smugly, “You mean double entendre?”
Mae’s eyes signaled red. “Ain’t that what I said?” She said to the others, “It means it has a double meanin’, and boy, did that one have a double meanin’.” She sang suggestively, “Ohhhhh ... I wonder where my easy rider’s gone … ohhhhh” and broke off as Desdemona entered. “Who is it, honey?”
“Father Riggs.”
Mae said through a laugh, “It’s a good thing I didn’t sing the rest of it. The clergy’s here. Send him in, honey. Say, Jim, you notice Desdemona and Goneril have taken to imitatin’ my walk.”
“They love you,” said Jim. “You should be flattered by their devotion.”
“Ahhh! I think they think I’ve got a touch of the tar brush in me. Well, maybe I do. I used to be what they called a ‘coon shouter’ in vaudeville, y’know, singin’ the kind of lowdown jazz that appealed to the nigras.” She chuckled agai
n. “I sure do love them. I sometimes think they know me better than I know myself. They certainly have the same bad taste in men that I have. Oh, hello there, Father. Come on in, sit down. Delilah!” she shouted. “Bring me my checkbook, my bottle of ink, and my quill!” To the others she said, “This here’s Father Riggs. Wallace Riggs. He rules the roost at my local diocese. He gives great sermon.” Father Riggs sat on a straightback chair, his face wreathed in a saintly smile. “Look at that handsome face, look at them shoulders. He should be in pitchers himself.”
“You always say that, Mae. And I keep telling you get me a screen test and if I make good, I’ll gladly go into pictures.”
Agnes was enchanted by his dimples.
Mae crossed her legs. “You’d really give up the pulpit for the silver screen?”
“It pays better.”
“It sure does. Pitchers have made me rich. I bought this buildin’ only a month ago from last year’s eamin’s. And Jim’s a pretty good manager. He gives good investment. So tell me, Father, you got any theories on these here impersonator murders?”
“God rest their souls,” he intoned as Delilah entered with a serving tray that held Mae’s checkbook, a bottle of ink, and a quill pen.
“Never mind their souls, tell me what you think.” She said to the others, “Father Wally’s a real smart cookie. One of these days he’ll be pope. My money’s on you, Father.” She had crossed to a white desk and was writing a check. “This ought to hold you for a while.”
“You’re a wonderful, generous woman, Mae.”
“I’m the most wonderful, generous woman walkin’ the streets.” She tore out the check, waved it to dry the ink, and gestured to Father Riggs to take it. As he crossed the room to her, Mae urged, “Now come on, Father, tell me what you think.”
“I think the murderer is a godless fiend.”
“You mean like Adolph Zukor, my boss at Paramount.”
Villon spoke up. “Do you believe in the existence of vampires?”
“While I have enjoyed reading mythology in my youth, I do not believe in the supernatural. There are no vampires, there are no ghosts, and there are no witches.”
“I beg your pardon!” fumed Agnes. “I am a witch and I’m a damned—oops—good one.”
“I don’t know about that, Agnes,” interjected Mae. “That last cauldron of soup you made had too much eye of newt.”
“This is not a laughing matter, Mae. I am a witch, my mother was a witch, and her mother before her and so on ad infinitum. My family dates back to the Middle Ages when several aunts and uncles were burned at the stake. You see. Father, you too suffer from a misconception about witches. Witches do good. At least most of us do. Oh, every now and then I cast a little evil spell on someone who annoys me, such as my butcher when he sells me inferior meat, but that’s really only to keep in practice.”
“How’s about castin’ a spell on this murderer?” suggested Mae.
“I can’t cast a spell without his picture and a lock of his hair and some of his nail parings.” She was torching a cigarette. Suddenly her eyes widened. “Oh my, oh my no.”
“What’s the matter, honey? Them cucumbers repeatin’ on you?”
“What? I—I’m sorry. I had a sudden spasm. I get them occasionally. They pass quickly.” She finished lighting her cigarette, while subtly her eyes moved from individual to individual.
“The ball’s back in your court, Father,” said Mae. “Do you have a theory? The boys here”—indicating the detectives— “share my suspicion that I’m the killer’s real target. These four murders are just a warmup, you know, like a show tryin’ out out of town before opening on Broadway.”
Father Riggs asked her, “Have you any idea why anyone would want to kill you?”
“Well, yeah, sort of, come to think of it.” Mae was pacing the room again. “It’s got to be some kind of a nut. Maybe a religious fanatic sort of. We’re not kiddin’ each other, Father, you’re one of the few clerics who hasn’t denounced my morals. Why, from time to time I’ve even denounced my morals”—she smiled insinuatingly—“especially when I’m in the path of temptation. And there’s nothing so temptin’ as temptation.”
Father Riggs was deep in thought. “The only connection between the three unfortunates was that they earned their living impersonating you.” He paused. “Did they know each other?” Villon told him, “Larry Hopkins and Danny Tuvallo were acquainted. We don’t know if either or both of them knew Nedda Connolly. But, Father, there was a fourth victim, we learned from Mae.”
“A fourth?” Father Riggs wore a startled expression, as though he might have just heard Judas Iscariot was thoroughly misunderstood.
“Yeah. A nice kid who performed under the name Neon Light. I never knew his real name. After seein’ me in my first couple of pitchers, he became a big fan of mine. Wrote me a very sweet letter about how he wanted to be a female impersonator and mostly he wanted to impersonate me. So I invited him to the studio to watch me work in Belle of the Nineties a couple of years ago. I fascinated him, as I always do. In no time at all, he walked like me, talked like me, sang like me, and finally looked like me. It was a terrific transition. I felt the kid had the stuff to make it real good in drag. But his family was givin’ him a lot of trouble. I don’t know much about them. He said he had an older brother who said he’d be punished because drag was immoral. Hell, in some places it’s even illegal.” She laughed. “In a lot of places they’re trying to declare me illegal. I’ve even been denounced in the Senate.”
“How stupid!” declared Father Riggs.
“Anyway, I had Neon up here for dinner one night and set him straight. I said, ‘Neon, you stick to your guns. Follow your star. It’s obvious you’re meant to live your life in drag and you look so good in them dresses I lifted from Paramount’s wardrobe, you make me jealous a little. So anyway, Neon, female impersonatin’ might make you rich and famous.’ Well, he’s takin’ it all in eagerly. I tell him about Julian Eltinge, the greatest female impersonator what ever lived besides Queen Christina of Sweden. I knew Julian well back in the old days. He made a fortune. There’s a theeyater on Forty-second Street named for him; in fact, I think he built it himself. Take my friend Ray Bourbon, he’s never out of work even when he forgets to shave his mustache. The only female impersonator I know who came to a bad end was struck by lightnin’ on the Atlantic City pier, but that was because he was out cruisin’. Can’t remember his name but he did a great act.”
She sauntered slowly to her white fireplace and posed with one hand on the mantel. “Well, I helped get Neon his first booking. It was at the Limp Wrist in Brentwood. He was a sensation. You see, Neon didn’t only do me. He did a terrific Garbo. His Katherine Hepburn was a riot. He did a great Dietrich and his legs were better—she’s knock-kneed, y’know.” She lowered her hand from the mantel and began pacing again. “But then he got into bad company. He needed a manager and some son of a bitch put him onto a rat named Milton Connery.”
Jim Mallory said, “Isn’t the Tailspin his club?”
Mae responded, “I don’t know if he owns it outright or just has a piece of it, but he operates out of there. Christ… sorry, Father ... is he bad news. Among his specialties is organizin’ orgies”—she assumed it was the priest who was clucking his tongue—“and all sorts of kinky parties. You boys must have known about this. What about it, Herb?”
“We knew about it but it was so cleverly orchestrated, we couldn’t get a thing on Connery. Still can’t. But we did get a tip on an orgy going on at Lionel Atwill’s house—”
“The actor?” It was a rare moment when Mae West looked amazed. “Good old reliable Lionel gave orgies?”
“I haven’t got any figures, Mae, but he gave the one we raided. Collared some big names beside Atwill.”
Mae hip-wriggled her way to him. “Come on, come on, give. Names. Names, Villon, names. I gotta keep my girls in the kitchen happy.”
“We snared Wallace Beery and Walter Pidgeon for starter
s.”
“I love it! I love it! Say, Father, why ain’t they been denounced by the church?”
“Probably because the church didn’t know about them. Anyway, we’re not interested in what people do in the privacy of their homes.”
“What’s so private—no pun intended—about orgies?” She returned her attention to Villon. “There’s more to them orgies than what meets the eye, right?”
“Of course. There were hidden cameras that took pictures for blackmail. A lot of silver crossed a lot of palms.”
Jim Timony got some words in edgewise. “Say, I thought Berry and Pidgeon patronized Polly Adler’s whorehouse exclusively!”
“And you oughta know,” Mae said with a knowing wink. Agnes asked sweetly, “Doesn’t Polly Adler operate out of New York?”
“Yeah,” confirmed Mae, “but she fills mail orders. I never did believe in orgies though I’ve had my share of invitations. I’m a one-man woman—one at a time, that is. I ain’t never been caught in flagrante delicious. Anyway, do you suppose the autopsy on Neon showed he was wastin’ away? He got very sick. Look it up, Villon, I’d be interested to know. Poor kid, gettin’ his skull crushed in Griffith Park. Say, wait a minute … from what I hear that’s a pretty busy park, day and night. How come there was no witnesses?”
Timony suggested, “Maybe there were.”
“Nah,” said Mae, waving his suggestion away. “If there’d been a witness, his murderer would have been caught. Right, Villon?”
“Off the top of my head, Mae, it’s my guess Neon was murdered somewhere else and his body dumped in Griffith Park.”