by George Baxt
THE
TALLULAH BANKHEAD
MURDER
CASE
BY
GEORGE BAXT
ST MARTIN’S PRESS
NEW YORK
THE TALLULAH BANKHEAD MURDER CASE
Copyright © 1987 by George Baxt
All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the ease of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews For Information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y 10010
Design by Claire Counihan
Library of Congress Catalogue in Publication Data
Baxt, George.
The Tallulah Bankhead murder case:
1. Bankhead, Tallulah, 1902-1968—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3552 A8478T351987 813’ 54 87-16369
ISBN 0-312 01098-2
First Edition
for
JEAN MUIR
ONE
Not everyone was privileged to dance to their death, but Nance Liston was one of the fortunate few. At forty there wasn’t a telltale line on her face or an extraneous ounce of fat on her long, lithe body. There should have been lines and there should have been fat because for the past six months, from December of 1951 to April of 1952, Nance had been drinking and eating as though she’d been privy to the news of an imminent famine. There was now a famine of sorts in her life, but it had nothing to do with food or drink. It was a matter of unemployment.
Of course many of you recognize her name Nance Liston. The sexy, sensuous, magnificent siren of the Rhine in the musical comedy sensation of ten years ago, Bunker. A musical about a Nazi courtesan daringly produced at the height of the war seemed doomed to disaster as a monument of poor taste until Nance made her entrance in the middle of the first act, writhing on a rock overlooking the Rhine and mesmerizing the audience with some of Barry Wren’s most outrageously innovative choreography. Success followed success, and then wisely recognizing that encroaching age made one less seductively appealing to audiences despite the gorgeous body and the classically beautiful face, she embarked on a career as a choreographer. In rapid succession there was a hit musical, two big film hits, and a series of television spectaculars.
And then six months ago, silence.
Six months ago Barry Wren had been subpoenaed to appear before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Nance didn’t go to Washington to attend the hearing, but others did and told her how he sat on the stand, staring at those who accused him of communist affiliations, and then at his lawyer. Barry, Nance was told, looked as though he was suffering from the aftereffects of swallowing a tainted clam Barry Wren, her friend, her mentor, the magnificent dancer who partnered her in her first pas de deux with the old Baronovitch Ballet Company.
“The little weasel was sweating like a pig,” Nance was told. “You could see the beads of perspiration on his bald head, twinkling like fairy lights. We thought he’d take the Fifth, He didn’t. Yes, he told them, I was a communist, but I was very young, I was in my teens, it was at college His Inquisitor wasn’t interested in a schoolboy communist. They wanted big stuff. Big names Headliners. Who did you associate with in films and television and the theater who you knew to be communists? And the names came vomiting out. We’d heard most of the names before from previous testimonies of those who’d chosen to inform rather than risk the blacklist. And then he named you, Nance. It was absolutely unbelievable.”
Nance was slowly descending the stairs into the Times Square IRT subway station. She hadn’t been in the subway in years. She used taxicabs or chauffeured limousines or she walked, usually preferring walking if she had the time. She seemed impervious to the noise, the smell, the occasional admiring look, a whispered innuendo. It was spring, it was April, and it was surprisingly warm even for that time of the year. But Nance was as cool as a virgin’s rebuff. She wore a flared skirt, a blue blouse with a Peter Pan collar, no stockings, and a pair of blue flats she’d bought at Capezio just a few days earlier in a sudden but briefly experienced burst of enthusiasm that the dark cloud would lift and there’d be a call from a close friend in the business brave enough to defy the blacklist and offer her an assignment.
There had been a call from a friend, but it wasn’t an offer of a job. It was Tallulah Bankhead inviting her to a drink at Sardis. They had been seated at the first table to the left of the entrance, the one reserved for the royalty of show business. “It’s awful, dahling, absolutely awful. I mean you don’t know what I go through booking guests for my radio program.” Tallulah was applying a match to a Craven A, she went through four packs a day of the English cigarettes. “Waiter!” she barked, and when she had the man’s attention she said with a seductive smile, “Can’t you hurry those drinks, dahling, we’re late for an A. A. meeting.” To Nance she said, “We’re radio, we’re not visual, if there was a way to work you into the show, so help me God, dahling. I’d do it. I mean I’ve forced them to use Eddie Robinson, Judy Holliday, and Gypsy Rose Lee.” She thought for a moment as she directed a smoke ring to the ceiling. “True, they’re gray listed rather than blacklisted, but what in God’s name would Gypsy be doing in a communist cell? I mean even my fertile imagination can’t conjure up the image of Miss Lee addressing someone as comrade and then suggesting a plan for a raid on the Pentagon, What about your agent, dahling? Is he trying? Or has he given up on you?”
“Not George,” said Nance. “George doesn’t give up.” The drinks arrived and Nance sipped her martini. “There’s a community theater in New Jersey that would like me to do a production of Oklahoma!”
She hadn’t noticed Tallulah’s shudder. Community theater, Tallulah was thinking, the elephant’s graveyard of show business. Tallulah forced a smile and said, “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, dahling. I mean once you get the job machine rolling, one thing leads to another and the next thing you know you’re in demand in Delaware, Ohio and”—she added for no reason in particular—”Fairbanks, Alaska.” Tallulah didn’t notice Nance’s shoulders shaking, but she heard the sob. “Oh, dahling”—Tallulah put her hand on Nance’s—”do you need money? Let me help you. Please, Nance. When I get home tonight after rehearsal, I’ll call everyone I know who might help. I’ll badger them, I’ll threaten … what’s so funny?”
Nance was laughing almost uncontrollably. “I have to think of something funny to beat the blues. I suddenly remembered what you said to John Garfield after that roll in the hay with him.”
“Was it that funny, dahling? Really? I don’t remember. I never remember what I say. That night with Julie was weeks ago. I can’t remember what I said ten minutes ago. Oh control yourself and stop laughing and tell me what I said to the great movie star … Waiter! Another round! And step on it, were not here to establish residence!” John Garfield, another blacklisted actor, another victim. “Oh, do control yourself, Nance!” The smile was back on Tallulah’s face. “What did I say to him?”
Nance wiped her eyes with a napkin and said, “You said …” now giving a fair imitation of the celebrated smoke-and-whisky- bruised Bankhead voice, “‘If that was sex, dahling, you should be arrested for loitering.’”
The Bankhead laugh had boomed through the restaurant.
Now the sound of an approaching train boomed into the station. People on the platform were used to just about anything occurring in their notorious subways, but they’d rarely been privy to a sight as lovely and as touching as that of Nance Liston dancing. Only she could hear the music trapped in her bra
in. The choreography was fresh and innovative. She had just created it, special for today, special for her farewell performance. Some of the people waiting for the train to arrive seemed embarrassed; a few dug their noses into their newspapers/ the blas6 ones leaned against the pillars with arms folded and on blas6 faces a variety of expressions ranging from smirks to amusement. And then Nance broke into a series of pirouettes. She was sixteen years old again, auditioning for the ballet. From a corner of her eye she could see old Vanya Bar- onovitch, a look of pleasure on his face. She could see some of the other aspirants, some supportive, some envious, a few hostile. She saw the balding young dancer who had been the only one to offer words of encouragement, the one to whom she would always be grateful. And as she spun into a final pirouette, the people on the platform heard her shout, “Thank you, Barry Wren!” as she leapt in front of the incoming train.
♦ ♦ ♦
Tallulah Bankhead was not alone in the living room of her suite in the Hotel Elysee on East Fifty-fourth Street between Madison and Park when she heard the news of Nance Liston’s suicide. Sitting across from her on a divan was her best friend, the English actress Estelle Winwood. At the bar pouring drinks, a cigarette hanging somewhat precariously from her mouth, was another good friend, Patsy Kelly, who’d known success as a film comedienne. Tallulah was exhausted as she stood at the window looking down into the street, the inevitable Craven A held between index and middle fingers and the ash dropping onto the windowsill. She had sobbed and railed and cursed and thrown a vase at the wall and then calmly phoned others to make sure that Nance Liston would be given the beautiful funeral a woman of her stature so richly deserved. Patsy served the drinks and then settled herself on the divan next to Estelle Winwood.
“Tragedy begets tragedy,” Tallulah said darkly.
“What’s that from?” asked Patsy, whose voice was a combination of screeching tires and a chorus of irascible parrots.
“It’s from me,” said Tallulah as she moved away from the window and began slowly pacing the room. “It’s the dark ages, the inquisition, the reign of terror, Torquemada has been reincarnated in Washington, D.C. Mady Christians dead. J. Edward Bromberg dead. And my dahling Canada Lee, oh what a joy it was to work with him in Lifeboat, my dahling Canada dead. How he had suffered. No work anywhere. Broke.” She sighed heavily. “Now Nance.” She was raging again. “And tomorrow? Who’ll die tomorrow? Who’ll suffer that fatal stroke, the heart attack, another suicide and then another … oh my God, it’s too awful to contemplate!”
Estelle said impatiently, “Must you be so morbid, Tallulah?”
“Yeah, Tallulah,” chimed in Patsy, “it’s bad for your ulcer.”
“You insensitive bitches.” shouted Tallulah as she circled the two women seated on the divan, a war party attacking the wagon train. She addressed the ceiling “That’s what I get for associating with two women born out of idle curiosity!”
Patsy was on her feet and spoiling for an argument. “I resent that! I’ll have you know I’m descended from one of the first families to land in New York!”
“Oh now really, Patsy,” said Estelle, assuming one of her favorite positions when skeptical, her right wrist propping up her chin, the lids half-masking her eyes, her thin lips drawn in a tight line, and one leg crossed over the other, swinging back and forth like a pendulum out of control.
“Estelle dahling,” said Tallulah, “Patsy’s family came over on the Hoboken ferry.”
The phone rang. Tallulah growled into it and heard the pleasantly familiar voice of Lewis Drefuss. Lewis coordinated the talent for her highly successful radio show, an anachronism in these days of live television. “The Big Show” ruled radio every Sunday night on the NBC network from six until seven-thirty p.m. It’s astonishing success was attributed to Tallulah’s still remarkable hold on a large coast-to-coast audience, this plus the cleverly assembled variety of major stars she presented as her guests.
“Lewis dahling,” she said as she watched Patsy pouring herself another large scotch, “I’m really not in the mood to discuss next week’s guests. You just don’t know what Nance Liston’s suicide has done to me. I mean really, dahling, I’m completely unraveled. Patsy, for crying out loud, why don’t you just drink from the bottle!”
Lewis was sympathetic. He was young, handsome, ambitious, and as Tallulah had told him the previous season, if he developed a strong sense of ruthlessness to add to his other assets, he could rule the world. Lewis wasn’t all that ambitious. “Actually, Tallulah,” Lewis said in a voice that made her wonder what he might be like in the sack, “I want to talk to you about someone who’s in the same situation as Nance was.” Tallulah said nothing. She waited to hear the name. “Abner Walsh.”
“Abner?” Tallulah was truly astonished. She knew the celebrated folksinger socially and had always considered him a sweet, kindly soul who would surely prefer the top of old Smokey to a communist meeting. “I can’t believe it They must be mistaken! I mean I know he sings all those protest songs, but they’re so dahling, dahling. Oh Christ, I can’t believe it, I just can’t!” She thought for a moment. “Who turned him down?” Lewis mentioned a network executive whom Tallulah had once described as being asocial, apolitical, and a pain in the ass. Red signals flashed in her brain. The anger mounted. “Book him.”
“Just like that?” Lewis wished he was standing next to her so he could throw his arms around her and give her a big kiss.
“Book him. I’ve had enough of this crap, dahling.”^
“Lady, I love you.”
Tallulah’s face lit up. “Do you really, dahling? Why don’t we have dinner this week?” They made a date, Tallulah hung up, and Patsy suddenly emitted a mournful howl. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Have I run out of scotch?”
“You hire everybody for that goddamn show of yours but me! You know I can t get arrested in Hollywood anymore, they tell my agent my type of comedy’s dated. For chrissakes, that’s a pail of bilge and you know it!”
“Calm down, Patsy!” shouted Tallulah.
“I can’t calm down. Lately I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t think, Patsy. It could cause brain damage.”
“I thought you were my friend!”
“I am your friend,” said Tallulah as she lit a fresh Craven A.
“You have a hell of a way of showing it! How long can I go on borrowing money from you! Tallulah, if I don’t find work soon—”
Estelle interrupted “Now Patsy, I don’t want to hear any suicide talk from you!”
“I would never commit suicide,” screeched Patsy. “It’s un-American!”
In the Oak Bar of the Plaza Hotel, across the street from Central Park, Dorothy Parker smiled at detective Jacob Singer while waiting for the waiter to serve their drinks. “I don’t know why they sing songs about April in Paris,” said Mrs. Parker, “when they should be singing about April in New York. Collared any interesting felons lately, Jacob?”
They hadn’t seen each other in almost twenty years. It was back in 1926 that Mrs. Parker had been of such invaluable assistance to Singer in the celebrated case in which she and Alexander Woollcott had helped to break up a dangerous murder ring operating in New York and Los Angeles.
“Nobody as interesting as Lacey Van Weber,”
Lacey Van Weber. Mrs. Parker sipped her Jack Rose as she tried to recall Van Weber’s face. “Isn’t it funny,” said Mrs. Parker to Jacob Singer, who was munching a peanut.
“What’s funny?”
“I can’t remember Lacey’s face. I was in love with the man and I can’t remember his face.”
“You’re lucky. There’s a lot of faces I wish I could forget. You’re looking great, Mrs. Parker. What brings you back from Hollywood?”
“I’m in exile.”
“You broke up with your husband?”
“What husband? Oh you mean Alan. That husband. No such luck. Haven’t you been reading the papers lately? I’m washed up. I can’t get work at the studio
s anymore. I’m blacklisted. I’m a dangerous subversive. As a matter of fact, maybe you’d better sit at the table across from us. You might get fingered, guilt by association.”
“You know, I’m really flattered. After all these years you haven’t forgotten me. I mean, when did you get here?”
“Day before yesterday.”
He sounded and looked pleased. “And right away you invited me to have a drink.”
“Unlike George Washington, who was a fraud, I cannot tell a lie. There were several others I contacted first”—she smiled a very small smile—”but the several others weren’t in to me. I’ve left lots of phone messages, but just like in Hollywood, even the nobodies don’t return my calls.” She sipped her Jack Rose. “Except Tallulah.”
Tallulah Bankhead?” Singer was impressed.
“I don’t mean Tallulah Horowitz. Why are you wolfing those peanuts? Haven’t you eaten today?”
“I’m nervous,” he replied candidly.
“Do I make you nervous?” He said nothing, but his cheeks had reddened “Is it because you’re an officer of the law, and a bastardized offshoot of the law accuses me of being a subversive? Why, Jacob, just about the only subversive thing I’ve ever done in my life was write a movie for Ginger Rogers.”
“That’s not why I’m nervous.”
“I’d suggest another drink, but you haven’t finished the one in front of you.”
Jacob Singer shifted in his seat. “Mrs. Parker, after all these years I have to tell you the truth. Ever since we worked together on that case back in ‘twenty-six and you fell for that shit Van Weber—”
“Now Jacob, he wasn’t all that much of a shit. I mean he was a killer, Jacob, but he had lovely manners.”
“I was jealous of him.”
“But why, for heaven’s sake? Surely you’ve killed a few people in your time.”
“I was jealous you were in love with him.”
Mrs. Parker’s mouth formed an O and then with twinkling eyes she said, “You’re such a dear old-fashioned boy, Jacob Singer. Why didn’t you come right out with it and say you wanted to go to bed with me?”
