by George Baxt
“I said it was all hearsay.”
“When you have solid proof, Mr. Villon, tell me about it. I find it curious that as intimate as I have been with Milton Connery, I’ve heard nothing about orgies and photographs and blackmail.”
“Now, why don’t we all calm down?” suggested Mae. “Goneril! Go find out what’s holdin’ up the works around here. My makeup’s beginnin’ to melt and I’m gettin’ as restless as a bimbo in a men’s club. Where you goin’, Agnes?”
Agnes was on her feet. “Frankly, I need some fresh air. I’m sure I’ll see you at the club tonight.”
“You’ll see all of us.” Mae’s tone of voice changed. “We didn’t mean to ruffle your pretty feathers, Agnes. I know you dropped by for some socializin’ and didn’t expect to get jumped the way you did. But that was just a stroke of fate. You probably saved Herb here some time.”
“You did, Miss Darwin. I was intending to have a talk with you.”
“Well, you certainly had it,” responded Agnes.
“Not as much as I would have liked. There’ll be another time.”
Agnes Darwin stared at him for a moment then turned on her heel and stalked out of the sound stage.
“Somethin’ tells me we have come to the end of a beautiful friendship,” said Mae. “Too bad she got mixed up with a bum like Connery, but then, all of us girls have our Achilles’ heel, and I’ve been mixed up with enough heels to prove it. Poor Agnes. Her head’s too big for her body and her tongue’s too big for her mouth.”
“Not this afternoon it wasn’t,” said Villon.
Mae crossed her legs. “Herb, you’re blind. She’s still carryin’ the torch for Connery. If it was me, I’d shove it under his rear end. Agnes ain’t the greatest looker in the world, but she has style. I can see where she could interest a rat like Connery. Agnes is different. She ain’t the sort of stuff I’m sure Connery was used to. Cigarette girls, hatcheck girls, and why don’t you ask Connery if he remembers a chick named Amanda Something?”
“I intend to.”
“She mentioned this here Simon LeGrand. Now I remember the name. He was a friend of Neon’s. He’s some sort of a manager at the Tailspin. Neon said he’s all over the place. You have to catch him with a butterfly net. I’m sure we can have him paged tonight. I know he’ll be delighted to meet me.” She picked imaginary lint from her dress. “I’m sure he’ll remember this Amanda person if she ever worked there. And if she did, five’ll get you twenty she learned about that perzon from the witch. And if the same perzon did Neon in, then I’m not too sad about the end of a beautiful friendship. What happens to Agnes if you can prove she provided the perzon both times?”
“It’ll be very unpleasant for her.”
“Oh, yeah? Maybe she better try to keep on my good side, although all my sides are good. If she gets sent to Alcatraz or San Quentin, I can always have Goneril bake her a cake with a chisel inside.”
“What was that about a cake?” asked Goneril, having found out what the delay was with Mae’s next scene.
“Never mind about the cake. What’s goin’ on over there?”
“They’s got a problem lighting the set. And it’s those bags under Mr. William’s eyes.”
“Well, why don’t they just check them bags someplace and let’s get on with it? I need time to prepare for the party. And, oh God, Beverly must be in the apartment by now.” She saw the assistant director hurrying her way. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Sorry about the delay, Miss West. Mr. Hathaway apologizes. It’s been solved. We’re ready now.”
“My makeup needs freshenin’ up.”
The assistant shouted, “Makeup!”
Mae covered her ears. “Don’t yell like that. You’re hurtin’ my eardrums.” The makeup girl arrived, studied Mae’s face with her practiced eye, murmured something about Mae needing more number eight, while Mae saw Villon signaling Mallory it was time they left.
“Mae, we’ll see you at nine at the Tailspin.”
Mae said, “Thanks for cornin’ by with the autopsy report. It makes me know you’ve got some kind of respect and admiration for me. I’m glad Agnes showed up too, not for her sake but for yours. What are you goin’ to do about Milton Connery?”
“We’ll wait until after the witch strikes some fear into his heart. I’m sure she’s gone straight to him to tell him what happened here.”
Mae said, “I’m still wonderin’ if maybe he’s the vampire.”
“Mae, he’s not the vampire. I’m positive he murdered Neon Light.”
“Then why don’t you bring him in?”
“No proof, beautiful, I’ve got no proof. All I can do is wear him and Agnes down until, with any luck, they break apart at the seams. But that still leaves me without a vampire to call my own.”
The makeup girl said, “There. You’re as good as new.”
“Honey, I’m always as good as new. By the way, how’s that no-good husband of yours?”
“Who? Oh, him.” She sighed. “Very bad. Very bad. The doctors say he’s lost his mind.”
“Well, for your sake, dear, let’s hope he doesn’t find it. So long, boys!” Mae sauntered away slowly, her mind dwelling on Agnes Darwin and Milton Connery, when she knew she should mentally be going over her lines. Agnes Darwin troubled her more than Milton Connery did. What makes a smart gal like Agnes go wrong? She was no beauty. She always worried about being flat-chested. Mae had advised her wisely that men do not live by breasts alone. Yet Agnes had remarkable assets. She had class, she had poise, she had wit of a sort, and she was a witch. Mae reminded herself she too was some kind of a witch. She had cast many a spell in her day and expected to cast many more.
“Ready, Mr. Hathaway?” asked the assistant director. “Let’s go,” said Henry Hathaway. “Okay, Mae?”
“I will be when I feel the heat of them baby pinks.” Hathaway shouted for the baby pinks. In a few seconds they were aglow. Mae took her position on a couch, arranging herself so that she looked as amusingly seductive as her audiences expected her to be. Warren William took his position standing over her.
Mae said sweetly, “Warren, you’re in my light.”
And he knew no one steps into Mae West’s light.
“Well, I suppose it’ll do.” Beverly was in the all-white guest room, which Jim Timony reminded her was far more comfortable than a hotel room. “There ain’t enough room for my luggage.”
“After you unpack, we’ll store the trunks in the basement.”
“There ain’t enough room for my things.” She opened a closet door. “Ummm, a walk-in. Well, that’s a help. How big’s the other closet?”
“Same size.”
“You must know it well,” said Beverly with a sly smile. “I have a feelin’ this was once your room.”
“I don’t deny it. I’ve spent many a night here.”
“You havin’ trouble with my sister?”
He told her about his decision to move back East. “Once this vampire killer is caught.”
“Supposin’ he’s too smart to get caught? Then whaddya do?”
“They’ll catch him. He’s bound to slip up.” Seymour Steel Cheeks and the pickup truck driver were struggling into the room with her luggage.
Beverly folded her arms. There was a strange look on her face. “I suddenly feel cold. Is it cold in here?”
“It’s over ninety degrees outside.”
“I’m cold. Jim, all kiddin’ aside, Mae’s in real danger, ain’t she?”
“Very real danger. You know she’s been getting these frightening phone calls.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Murderin’ her impersonators is kind of a warm-up for the big number, ain’t it?”
“That’s the threat Mae’s living with. We and the police are convinced it’s someone who wants her dead.”
Beverly sat at the dressing table. “At the Tailspin, he could confuse me for Mae, couldn’t he? I could be a marked woman. I don’t like the thought of ge
ttin’ killed. I got a lot of good years ahead of me.”
“If you’re frightened, I’ll cancel the engagement.”
“I ain’t chickenin’ out. I need this date, Jim. It’s no fun livin’ in reflected glory. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life imitatin’ my sister. But what do I do? I got no special talent. I can’t write or paint or compose music. I have a rough time with guys lookin’ for one, who wants me for me alone and not because with me he can pretend he’s sleepin’ with Mae West. When I was a kid I slept with Mae West.” She snorted. “Big deal. I had ambitions when I was a kid. Mae used to listen to me and encourage me, I’ve got to give her that.”
“Mae is very good to you.”
“Don’t I know it? Don’t I appreciate it? Don’t I hate it? Well, it ain’t right for me to knock the annuity she gave me.” Seymour Steel Cheeks was on his way out to get the rest of Beverly’s luggage. Annuity. There it is again. Annuity. I’ve got to have an annuity.
Beverly removed the picture hat and tossed it on the bed. “It ain’t all that great livin’ a hand-me-down life.” She stared at her reflection in the mirror. “The years are catchin’ up on me, Jim. They’re catchin’ up on Mae too. Does it worry her, Jim?”
“Beverly, don’t you know by now that Mae considers herself indestructible?”
“Oh, yeah? Well, has somebody told that to this here vampire killer?”
She picked up a brush and attacked her hair vigorously. Jim Timony walked slowly to a window and looked out at the deserted street. Nobody walked in Hollywood, sidewalks were a redundancy. Beverly’s words echoed in his ears. Does the killer really think he’ll succeed in murdering Mae?
He said, “You know, Beverly, you’re right. It is a little chilly in here.”
THIRTEEN
SIMON LEGRAND WAS BEHIND THE BAR, artistically gluing tinsel to the mirror, humming “Stormy Weather” under his breath, dreading the coming of night. Hallowe’en. All those fagots running amok without a license. All the screaming and yelling and the falling-down drunks and the tears and the arguments and bottles flying and glasses flying. And the getups, the bizarre getups. Mardi Gras time. All that would be missing were the floats. Mae West must be out of her mind reserving a table for tonight of all nights. She needs this place two nights in a row like she needs a third tit. He let fly a few choice epithets under his breath. Two nights in a row of madness and mayhem and murder.
Murder?
Simon stared at his reflection. It came to him like the snapping of a finger. Murder. It’s been two days since the last one. Nedda Connolly. Nice lady. No trouble ever. No trouble ever again. She’s gone. Larry Hopkins and Danny Turallo are gone. Nice boys. No temperament. Good performers. All they asked out of life was applause and a decent fee. Neon Light. So sweet. So innocent. So naive. If there was a dark side to him, Simon had never seen it. Who would want to murder him? Why? He knew there was a brother someplace who didn’t like Neon’s profession. But so what? Simon had three older brothers who didn’t like Simon, but again, so what? He was humming “Star Dust.” He always hummed it when he was feeling melancholy. Thinking of Neon always filled him with melancholia. Could Connery have murdered Neon? Something’s up. Simon had read the morning paper, about the exhumation, Dvorack’s suicide. He remembered Dvorack. The detective had questioned Simon about Neon. He also questioned Connery. Then all of a sudden, no more questions, no more investigation. He said aloud, “Very, very fishy.”
“What’s very, very fishy?”
Simon yelped. “You damn fool, you frightened me out of twenty years!” He hadn’t heard the bartender coming behind the bar to prepare the setups for the festivity that lay ahead.
“You shouldn’t talk to yourself,” said the bartender, “it could become dangerous.”
Simon replied with hauteur, “It’s the only time I get intelligent answers!”
They heard shouting from the backstage area followed by a door slamming. The voice was muffled, but they could tell Connery was doing the shouting.
The bartender asked, “Who’s he got in there with him?”
“His favorite witch. I’ll give you odds it has something to do with that item in the paper this morning about Neon.”
“I don’t read the papers. What was the item?” Simon told him. The bartender was washing glasses. “You got any ideas about who might have killed Neon?”
“Just one, dear. Just one.”
In his office, Milton Connery was pacing back and forth, spuming his wrath like a preacher in the boondocks promising hellfire and brimstone. “How the hell could you let yourself play into their hands?”
“Did I know those bastards would be there with Mae? I only went there to find out what she knew about the investigation being reopened,” explained Agnes.
“Well, you sure found out, didn’t you! God damn it! Ye gods!” He slammed a fist against a wall.
“That isn’t going to help any, Milton. Now sit down and let’s talk this over rationally. Did you hurt yourself.7” He was flexing his fingers, a pained expression on his face. “Milton, Villon’s got nothing on you. He’s got no proof.”
Connery took a bottle of scotch from a desk drawer. He produced two glasses and filled them. As he did this, he said: “He’s got his suspicion and I’m it.”
“I repeat, he’s got no proof.”
Connery leaned forward, a savage expression on his face, his voice an ugly rasp. “Why do you think Dvorack killed himself.7 Villon made him sing. He told Villon about my bribing him to ice the investigation. Dvorack was frightened into killing himself. And now Villon’s going to play games with us. I know his reputation. I know all about the psychological games he plays with suspects. Damn it to hell!” He knocked back the scotch.
Agnes lit a cigarette. “Fear isn’t going to help. You’re a smart man, Milton. If Villon had the goods on us, he’d have picked us up yesterday. He doesn’t frighten me. He doesn’t frighten me one bit.”
“He doesn’t? So how come you’re spilling ashes all over yourself?”
“Damn it!”
Connery refilled his glass and the swivel chair groaned as he sat back. “Oleandrin. It had to be something fancy like oleandrin. It couldn’t have been plain old ordinary cyanide. And Amanda Harbor, for crying out loud. They’re bound to find out she once worked here.” His elbows rested on the desk. “Amanda Baker. Did they make them any dumber than Amanda Baker?”
“She was smart enough to find herself a safe Harbor. So help me, I didn’t know she really meant to kill anybody. I thought she was content to have landed herself a meal ticket. I still remember her dropping by my place for a drink and weaseling out of me that the Witches’ Brew was the place to get poison without a prescription.”
“I suppose Villon knows that too?”
“When we were at Mae’s together. It came up very innocently in the conversation then. Dwight will know how to handle Villon. He’s tangled with the cops before.”
“Who the hell are you talking about?”
“Dwight Pratt owns the Witches’ Brew. He’s a warlock.”
“Oh, don’t get started on that crap again.” He was on his feet again and pacing. Worried. Frightened. There was so much at stake. It wasn’t easy progressing from small-time hood to big-time club owner, although he always insisted, for income tax purposes, that he only had a small interest in the place. Bigtime blackmailer. The victims wouldn’t blow their cover. It would destroy their careers. “Come on, Agnes, you got any ideas?”
“Only one. Do nothing. Sit tight. You got a big night tonight and another one tomorrow night. Go home and soak in a tub for an hour. Mae will be here with the detectives. Villon’s girlfriend is Hazel Dickson, the one who buys and sells gossip. Be the affable host. Send a bottle of champagne to the table.”
“Spiked with oleandrin?”
“I can’t help you there. I’m fresh out. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“I hear you.”
“Bluff it out. You don’t know who
killed Neon. You were crazy about the kid. You were grooming him for the big time. You wish you could lay your hands on his killer. You’d mash the son of a bitch good. Why, Neon was like a son to you.”
“Daughter.”
Agnes smiled. “That’s it, Milton. Make with the jokes. The snide remarks. Go yell at Simon LeGrand.”
“Spare me. He spits and stamps his foot all the time. Sometimes I think he’s going to bare fangs.”
“Really? Vampire fangs?”
Milton looked at her. “Agnes, not by a long shot can I imagine Simon LeGrand as the vampire killer.”
“Milton, never erase a suspicion without first making a thorough examination.”
“Agnes, now it’s my turn. You go home and soak in a hot tub.” He stared at the ceiling while shaking his head with disbelief. Simon LeGrand as a killer. Just not possible.
Father Wallace Riggs was in the confessional for the eighth time that day. He wondered what it was about Hallowe’en that made certain people want to bare their souls. The voice he was listening to was a familiar one. He came to confession every day. Father Riggs was convinced the man was crazy.
“Oh, Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”
Father yawned while he forgave. “Yes, my son?”
“I am the vampire killing those Mae West impersonators.”
“My son, you’ve been saying that for weeks.”
“That’s right.” He could tell the man was smiling. “And you can’t snitch on me to the cops because a priest can’t tell what he’s heard in the confessional.” He paused. “Why is this place so cramped?”
“It’s a standard design.”
“Actually, I’m here today to give you a little treat.”
“Oh, how nice.”
“Sort of a preview of things to come. You know, like in the movie houses.”
“I have a very busy day today.”
“Now, don’t get impatient. Priests aren’t supposed to get impatient. Especially when they’re listening to a poor soul confessing his sins.”
“What’s the preview?”
“Don’t hurry me.” He then spoke like a child taunting another one. “It’s for me to know and for you to find out.”