by George Baxt
“I won’t find out until you tell me.”
“Exactly.” Pause. “Father, you still there?”
“Of course.”
“Well, here goes. First of all, I’m sorry I murdered Nedda Connolly. I really don’t like killing women.” Father Riggs folded his hands together and stared at them. “But I’m not sorry I murdered the homosexuals. And I’m not sorry I’m going to murder again tonight.” Father Riggs remained silent. “Doesn’t that shock you? Father, are you listening?”
“Yes, my son, I’m listening.”
“There’s going to be a lot of them out tonight for Hallowe’en.”
“Who do you mean?”
“Impersonators! They’ll be all over the place. They’ll be at the queer clubs. The Limp Wrist. The Angry Parrot. The Purple Passion. The Tailspin. There’ll be so many impersonating Mae. Oh, how my cup will runneth over!”
“Now you mustn’t be a glutton. Don’t make a pig of yourself.”
“Oh, of course not. I can only do one every so often. Committing murder is so emotionally exhausting. But I’ll be in again tomorrow to confess. I so look forward to our little chats.” Pause. “Father?”
“I’m listening.” He looked at his wristwatch. He hoped there was no one else waiting to confess. It got a little tiresome handing out all those Hail Marys and Stations of the Cross.
“I—I don’t bore you, do I?”
“Goodness, no.”
“That’s good. I wouldn’t want to kill you.”
Cops, thought Dwight Pratt. How I loathe cops. They don’t have to tell me they’re cops. I can smell them a mile away. He first saw them standing on the sidewalk staring at his special Halloween window display. He did it every year. Three witches around a cauldron straight out of Shakespeare, ornately swathed in black robes decorated with sparkling paillettes. After two decades of running the Witches’ Brew, the crones were getting a bit moth-eaten, a bit frayed around the edges, especially their noses and their chins. So what? It made them look that much more sinister and evil. The black cat with its back arched, its mouth contorted as if to screech. An assortment of ravens hanging by piano wire. This year there was a new touch added: a vampire. Yellow eyes, bloodred lips, sparkling fangs, dead-white face, very picturesque if not terribly frightening.
Dwight Pratt was getting impatient with Herb Villon and Jim Mallory. If they plan to come in, why don’t they get a move on?
He knew why they were here. Agnes Darwin had warned him to expect them. He didn’t like cops but he loved driving them around the bend with evasions and misinformation. Is it oleander you’re looking for, darlings? There’s a vase full of it right over there in the corner. Oleandrin, is it? You’ll have to squeeze it out yourself. Don’t you flat-footed darlings know it’s illegal to sell poison without a prescription? Aha! They’re making their move. The door opened and the bell jingled. Herb and Jim entered.
Herb thought Dwight Pratt looked like Uriah Heep, right out of David Copperfield. At least he looked the way Roland Young looked when he limned Uriah Heep in the movie version the previous year. Dwight Pratt was small and shriveled. He had a myopic squint despite the frameless glasses he wore. He always cocked his head to the right as though expecting a blow. One wondered if it disappointed him that none was ever delivered. Herb expected Pratt’s voice to sound like an unoiled hinge, and he wasn’t disappointed.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome to my humble establishment, a delightful bit of color on drab Fairfax Avenue. If you’re looking for costumes, I’m afraid I have a very limited selection. All that’s left are some skeleton costumes, one warlock’s outfit, and a black cat, but I don’t think it would fit either one of you.” Villon flashed his badge. “Good heavens! The police!” Pratt rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation of leading them around in circles.
Obsequious little runt, thought Villon. Jim Mallory wanted out as soon as possible. The minute he set foot into the store he’d felt a foreboding. The place was a mess. It smelled of dust and stale food. On the other hand, Villon understood the disorder. He’d experienced it before. He knew that to people like Dwight Pratt, there was order in the disorder. He was positive Pratt knew exactly where to locate any item requested. “You were recommended by Agnes Darwin.”
“Dear Agnes. An exemplary witch. She’s a wizard with the Tarot. We once danced a mad tango in Falcon’s Lair, Rudolph Valentino’s home said to be haunted by his specter. Well, my dears, we danced our little feet off for hours but Rudy didn’t materialize. Fie on him, I still believe in ghosts. I’ve owned this store for so many years, people think I’m one!” He cackled. Jim Mallory considered running screaming into the street but knew Villon would look on it unfavorably. “So tell me already, what exactly is it you’re looking for?”
“I trust your memory is as good as your performance.” Smart ass. I’ll fix him. “Performance? You mean me? Oh, dearie me. You ain’t seen nothing yet. If you hang around long enough, I go into my Bell, Book, and Candle routine. You won’t sleep for days.”
“Do you remember a woman named Amanda Harbor?”
“Oh, yes indeed. Foolish little snip. Poisoned her very wealthy husband but didn’t get a dime. Sent up for life.”
“The poison was oleandrin. Purchased here, I’ve been informed.”
“Misinformed, dearie, misinformed. I do not sell poison. Illegal. Against the law. And I’m a very law-abiding citizen. I do sell the flower from which it is distilled, there’s a vase full of them over in the comer. But there’s nothing illegal about selling flowers, is there?”
Villon was looking at jars of colored liquids. “These things aren’t poisonous?”
“They could be toxic if administered incorrectly. But poisonous, oh, heavens no. We witches use them in casting our spells. We also make love potions, you know, so if there’ a young lady giving you a hard time and resisting your advances, give me half an hour and I’ll concoct you an antidote that will guaranteedly reverse her resistance.”
“If it doesn’t prove fatal.”
“Oh, never, never, never. You will never lay a death at my door. I am a dedicated warlock, a male witch, and tonight being Hallowe’en, a coven shall convene in my rooms above the store. A coven is thirteen witches, in case you are unfamiliar with our vocabulary. It’s much like a minyan in the Jewish religion. A minyan meaning the ten men required to commence their morning and evening prayers. You can see members of the congregation running up and down Fairfax looking for conscripts for their minyans. Witches, contrary to old wives’ tales, do not kill. We frown on homicide.”
“Oleandrin kills,” said Villon.
“So does cancer and heart attacks and reckless drivers and, heavens, I could go on forever.”
I hope not, thought Jim Mallory. Let’s get out of here. We’re getting nowhere with this freak. Hollywood’s a notorious breeding ground for off-the-wall eccentrics, but Mr. Pratt takes the prize. If there’s a Mrs. Pratt, may God have mercy on her soul.
Villon had moved to a display case. “What are these?”
“Ah! These are my treasures!” Pratt scuttled like a crab to Villon’s side. “Over here are the witch wands, a witch wouldn’t be caught dead without one. You have certainly heard of the great conductor Leopold Stokowski? He bought a supply of them from me several years ago and may I say, now that he conducts his symphonies with them, their performances have vastly improved. Here we have dried spiders, dried ants, dried tail of iguana, eye of newt—a very popular item—snuff, and stale com flakes for very special brews. Some of my ladies and gentlemen are very ingenious in the brews they concoct. Foul smelling and foul tasting, but if you’re brave enough to take the plunge, very effective.”
Villon was kneeling for a better look at some items on the bottom shelf of the display case. “Aren’t those fangs?”
“Good heavens but you’re perceptive.” He opened the display case and brought forth the tray of fangs. Jim Mallory, his curiosity piqued, joined them for a closer look. �
��See?” He had two fangs in the palm of his hands. “Sold a good lot of these this week. Those vampire murders have proven somewhat inspirational. There are going to be quite a number of vampires flitting about out there tonight.” He placed the fangs, one on a tooth, on either side of his mouth, his display of yellowed teeth filling Mallory with disgust. “There. A little clumsy to handle but practice makes perfect and in no time you can sink them into someone’s throat with devil-may-care alacrity!” His smile was as repulsive as he was. “Ouch! Oh, dear, I’ve bitten my lips. Oh, dearie me no, I’d never be comfortable as a vampire/’ He removed the fangs and unsanitarily placed them back among the others. “What have you found there? Mr. Detective, what’s that item you’re palming? Oh, the bat ring. Good heavens, I forgot I had another one.”
In the palm of his hand, Villon held a piece of jewelry that made his heart leap. His eyes locked with Mallory’s and Jim was equally elated. The ring was shaped like a bat’s head with two protruding fangs.
“Careful, dearie,” cautioned Mr. Pratt. “Those fangs can cause a deadly puncture.”
Villon asked, “How much?”
“For you, dearie? Since you haven’t hassled me, fifty dollars. And that’s a bargain!”
“I’ll take it.” Pratt took the ring to place in a box while Villon selected two twenties and a ten from his wallet.
As Pratt wrapped the box into a neat little package, he prattled away breezily. “This ring’s a collector’s item. It had a twin but I sold that many months ago to a young man.”
Villon felt a tingle, the kind that told him he was getting a much needed lead. “Do you remember his name?”
“Oh, yes. A dear little thing. He’s dead. Murdered. There was something about him in this morning’s paper. Neon Light. Not his real name, of course. He bought the ring as a birthday present for a relative. His brother, I think he said. Oh, my dears! Talk about coincidence! It was Agnes Darwin who sent him here! She is so generous with her recommendations. She should be in real estate. Here you are, all nicely wrapped. And thank you for the fifty. What lovely crisp new bills! Did you also want some oleanders? They’re only five dollars a dozen.”
“No, thank you,” Villon said as he pocketed the small box, “I’m very happy with the ring.” And with the little tidbits of information that came gushing out of your foul little mouth, dearie.
“Do come back again. Move it when someone’s as appreciative of my little establishment as you are.” He asked Mallory, “Oh, dearie, aren’t you feeling well? You have such a look of disgust on your face.”
Mallory said nothing and fled outside with Villon in his wake. Villon asked, “Aren’t you feeling well, dearie? I’m feeling just great. This ring. Its twin. Whoever owns that twin is our killer. Now to track down Neon’s brother.”
“Herb, that little rodent Pratt could have been feeding us a line. Neon could have bought the ring as a gift for someone else, like maybe Milton Connery.”
“Jim, my money’s on the brother. I want to get my hands on that file. I want to track down Neon’s adoptive parents, the Williamsons. They just might give us a lead as to the brother’s whereabouts.” A thought struck him as they walked to their unmarked police car. “Who buried Neon? Who claimed his body?”
“Probably the Williamsons.”
“Better still, maybe the brother. Let’s go back to precinct pronto. I want that file, and I want you to find out from the morgue what mortuary handled Neon’s funeral and who arranged it. I’m feeling real good, Jimmy boy, real real good!”
“You’re lookin’ real good, Bev. Real good. In fact, you’re lookin’ so real good, I’m beginnin’ to wonder which one of us is which. I’m wearin’ black tonight, so I’d like you to wear white. That way we can tell each other apart. Whaddya think of my bodyguards?” Her eyes twinkled. One of the few things Mae West and her sister had in common besides their uncanny resemblance to each other was their taste in body builders.
“I wish you didn’t need them.”
“Amen,” said Desdemona, who had brought in the tea cart with refreshments to sustain the sisters until dinner at the Tailspin.
“Now, listen you two, and you can pass it on to Goneril, I don’t want any crepe hangin’ around here any more. Things are black enough as they are and it’s infectin’ my performance in the pitcher. Now seriously, Bev, whoever this killer is, he ain’t got much discrimination. If you’re goin’ around dressed like me and talkin’ like me, you’re a marked woman. So you gotta be careful. Until they catch this nut case, you’re stickin’ close to me, attached at the hip. I can’t send Timony out to round up another team of bodyguards. The traffic around here is heavy enough as it is. To be perfectly frank, much as I’m glad to see you, I wish you had stayed back East.”
“To tell you the truth, Mae, I wish that too. But I ain’t cancelin’ my bookin’, it’s unprofessional.”
Mae threw a heaven-help-me look at the ceiling. “Boy, where were you when they were handin’ out the brains? Desdemona, what are you hangin’ around for? We can help ourselves. Thank God you and your sister ain’t goin’ to the Tailspin dressed up like me.”
“I don’t think he’d kill a black Mac West, do you?” Desdemona eyes were about to pop.
“He don’t give a damn about black or white or pink, it’s the thought that counts. Now beat it, you’re makin’ me nervous.” Desdemona hurried back to the kitchen. Jim Timony had gone to his apartment nearby to change his clothes. Seymour Steel Cheeks was in the garage applying wax to the Rolls-Royce. Mae was preparing to soak in the bathtub for a while and advised Beverly to do the same.
“Mae, haven’t you a clue as to why this maniac is after you?” Beverly was stirring honey into her tea, said to be good for the complexion.
“As a matter of fact I do. I think it has something to do with Neon and his brother. You see, Brother was against Neon’s becoming a female impersonator. In fact. Neon said he got pretty violent about it. Well, I’m the one that encouraged Neon. So Neon gets murdered, and this I think is what may have sent his brother around the bend. I think he figures if he hadn’t gone into the impersonation business, he wouldn’t have gotten in with the kind of people that led him to get murdered. And he’s right. I shoulda stuck out of it. I should have left the kid alone. But I was a sucker for that sweet face of his and the way he worshiped me. And he did, Bev, the kid absolutely worshiped me.”
“It’s not your fault he took the wrong path, Mae.”
“Well, I didn’t have no control over Milton Connery throwin’ stardust in the kid’s eyes. I think it was leamin’ he didn’t have long to live that warped Neon’s mind. He made a bad move and the poor little bastard paid for it.”
“Well, it wasn’t your fault, Sis!”
“Sure it wasn’t my fault,” stormed Mae, “so go find that nutty brother of his and convince him. Anyway, there’s nothin’ to be done about it tonight. Now, listen Bev, go easy on your date. He’s a nice guy, and he’s a little shy. None of that squeezin’ his thigh under the table.”
“I don’t do that any more!” Beverly seethed with indignation.
“Oh, no.7 So what do you squeeze?”
“I don’t squeeze nothin’!” She refilled her cup. “By the way, Mae, what’s with the Indian?”
“You lay off him. I ain’t ready to dump him. I’ve handed you enough of my discarded lovers in the past, but I ain’t ready to discard this one. I got too much on my mind what with the vampire and my pitcher, and I ain’t got the time right now to audition a replacement.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe I’ll be through with him come Thanksgivin’ and then you’ll have somethin’ to be thankful for, but until then, lay off or I’ll belt you one. I’m gonna take my bath.” When she reached her bedroom, she paused in the entrance. “We’re gonna drive them nuts when they see us together!”
FOURTEEN
NEON’S FILE WAS ON THE DESK when Villon and Mallory returned to the office. Villon said, “God is looking kindly on us today. I must h
ave done a good deed without realizing it.” He sat and eagerly opened the folder. He didn’t expect to find much and he wasn’t disappointed. “For a slob, Felix kept a meticulous file. Look at this garbage.” He mumbled as his eyes scanned the few pages. “Michael Williamson a.k.a. Neon Light … Mumble mumble mumble… found in Griffith Park … skull crushed …” Mumble mumble mumble. ‘Interrogated Simon LeGrand … manager at Tailspin Club where deceased had been appearing …” Mumble mumble mumble, while Mallory contemplated the window behind Villon. “Interrogated Milton Connery … distraught ... such a great performer … such a nice boy … et cetera et cetera et cetera … No feasible leads … dead end … body claimed by Nicholas and Maria Williamson … Villon looked up. “There’s an address here for them. Cynthia Avenue. That’s between Sunset and Santa Monica, on the border of Beverly Hills. No need to bother with a mortuary. Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later they stood in front of a burned-out house on Cynthia Avenue. “You sure this is the address?” Mallory asked Villon.
“I’m sure. Damn it.” He crossed to the house, which was set some fifty feet back from the sidewalk. All that remained was a charred shell.
“Nick and Maria were killed.” It was a woman who spoke in a cultured voice and introduced herself as Helen Maynard. Villon recognized her face. She’d been a leading lady in several popular westerns. She was pleased he recognized her, she’d been out of films for years and sounded as though she had no regrets. “Nicholas and Maria did stunt work. Maria used to double for me. I’m terrified of horses. Were you friends of theirs?” Villon showed her his badge and explained he and his associate were investigating Neon’s murder and the murders of the vampire killer’s victims. She grimaced. “Nasty business.” Villon indicated the charred remains of the house. “How long ago did this happen?”
“About a week after Mickey’s funeral. I mean Neon, I suppose. I hated that name.”