by George Baxt
“I hope you realize you came dangerously close to co-starring with Sholom this afternoon.”
“I most certainly do and you don’t have to raise your voice. I can hear you quite clearly. Have you visited the scene of the crime?”
He couldn’t resist. With great relish he described the condition of the corpse and the kitchen while Tallulah, unresponsive, shouted to Patsy to hurry up with her drink. Singer wondered if the actress ever admitted defeat.
“Jacob, I adore that marvelous man you’ve assigned to guard me. Is he downstairs in the lobby? Let’s have him up. Has he told you he saved my life today? Oh God, I forgot to tell the girls, I think. Or if I did I don’t remember. That playwright attacked me in the zoo!”
“What playwright?” screeched Patsy while bringing Tallulah her martini.
“What’s his name now?” wondered Tallulah for a second.
“How do I know? He attacked you, not me.”
“Really, Patsy, you’re no help at all. Carney. That’s his name. Art Carney.”
“Art Carney doesn’t write plays.”
“Who’s Art Carney? Do I know him? When did we meet?”
Jacob literally gulped his scotch. He then said, “David Carney.”
“That’s the man. David Carney.” She called after Patsy’s retreating figure. “Art Carney’s an impostor.”
“Oh, him again.” She explained to Estelle, “The play about the aging actress. Tallu should have attacked him.”
Tallulah spent five minutes on her attack and rescue and returned to the others as the waiter arrived with the hors d’oeuvres. Tallulah was looking good and she knew it. She signed the bill while almost dahlinging the waiter to death (the Elysee staff had long since grown immune to the Bankhead affectations) and then examined the tray. “Oh, good, no anchovies. I loathe anchovies.” She popped an hors d’oeuvre into her mouth and chewed wolfishly. “I haven’t the vaguest idea what this is I’m eating and don’t anyone dare venture a guess. It’s really quite good. Patsy, do offer the things around.”
Patsy wearily crossed to the tray and lifted it. When do you want me to do the windows?”
“Patsy dahling, I’ve more than enough irony in my fire.”
Tallulah,” said Jacob, swooping into a welcome pause, “you might have been murdered.”
“Dahling, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, death holds no fear for me. I’ve died so many deaths at the hands of the critics. I appreciate your concern, Jacob.”
“Keeping a man assigned to you is not inexpensive. I’d prefer that from here on in you’d stick out.”
She said to Lewis, “Don’t you adore police argot?” She suddenly erupted into song, her ghastly baritone set to Gershwin’s music, “Argot rhythm, argot music, Argot my man, who could ask for anything more?” She’d have loved to ask for a hell of a lot more, but she was too proud. She said to Jacob, who was still wincing at the sound of her singing, “You said yourself I managed to get some information out of Sholom that he’d succeeded in concealing when you questioned him after Miroff’s murder.” She suddenly turned to Lewis, the recipient of her new train of thought. “You were friendly with Abner Walsh, dahling. Did he ever mention his son, Leo?”
“I didn’t know he had a son.”
“Oh, didn’t you, dahling? I don’t know why I’m surprised. A lot of others have professed ignorance on the subject.”
Lewis asked Singer, “How’s his son connected to these killings?”
Jacob shifted in his seat after asking for a fresh drink, with which the intrepid Patsy obliged. “Well, Leo’s just a long shot. Stop me if I begin to bore you. You see, in most cases of murder sooner or later something turns up in your favor. Maybe a clue, maybe somebody happens to say something that helps lift the fog. Sometimes an informer turns up offering us a bargain. But we’ve had nothing much with both these killings. Like the guy who found Miroff’s body. No help whatsoever. The murderer’s had nothing but luck on his side. Nobody sees him coming in or out of the baths because he’s damned lucky. It was the right time of day. Business is slack, so the attendants goof off. They’re in a back room making coffee or whacking each other off or whatever the hell the employees do in a gay beehive. Same thing with Sholom.”
“Nobody sees him enter or leave the building. Sholom’s uncle lives on the floor below. He’s a tailor, he operates out of his place. He says he’s hard of hearing, so he heard nothing. And it’s even worse when he’s at his sewing machine, because it’s old and it clatters. All he remembers is Tallulah.”
“Well really, dahling, I am memorable.”
Singer ignored her. He was too appreciative of Lewis’s undivided attention. He liked the guy. When Lewis was interested, he showed it. And he hadn’t yawned yet. “Taking it a step further, all we can round up is a cab driver who remembers picking up Tallulah and bringing her here.”
“All right, dahling, I confess. I murdered them.”
“Don’t joke about it, lady. Maybe you did “ Her laughter made the walls shake. “So you see, Lewis … you don’t mind me calling you Lewis …” Lewis said of course not and Singer continued “So you see … all we’ve got is a long list of possible suspects. You know, the ones he fingered, relatives of those who committed suicide or those who died of heart attacks and stuff like that, maybe brought on by the stress of the blacklist. I’m sorry if I sound so cold-blooded, but that’s what a murder investigation is all about. So to continue and to make a long story short—”
“Too late,” growled Tallulah. She wanted her spotlight back and would pout until she got it
“—this brings us to the offspring of these suicides, et cetera. Maybe one of them did it. They’ve got the motive. Hatred. Revenge. It boils inside and then finally erupts. Some people scream and hit their fists against a wall or go out on a bender or beat up their wives But there’s always the one guy who explodes with murder. Well, I suppose if there wasn’t, I’d be out of business. So the only offspring that’s a missing link is this Leo Walsh.”
Tallulah leapt in. “Dahling, has it occurred to you he might have changed his name?”
“It has most certainly occurred to me.” He explained to Lewis, “All we’ve got to go on is that he’s got this ugly scar on his left cheek.”
“He might have had plastic surgery,” suggested Lewis.
Singer smiled. “That disheartening thought has also occurred to me.”
The phone rang and it was Dorothy Parker. Tallulah said to her, “Of course, dahling. Don’t be depressed and please don’t think about committing suicide until after dinner, dahling. I’ll meet you there in an hour.” She hung up and said to the others, “That was Dottie Parker and she’s suicidal which,” she said to Lewis, “is chronic with her. Her miserable Pekingese died in her arms a couple of hours ago. Apparently no last bark with which to comfort Dottie. Care to join us at Tony’s dahling?” she asked Singer.
“Sorry, I got a lot of paperwork to do tonight. I’m trying to catch up with this Barry Wren guy, but his answering service keeps telling me he’ll be home later. You’d think at least a guy in show business would pick up his messages.”
Lewis asked, “I know Barry Wren. Is he a suspect?”
“Lewis,” said Singer, accepting Tallulah’s offer of another drink, “everybody’s a suspect right now I might even think of admitting you to the club. Or Patsy here or even Estelle.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, dahling. The only thing Estelle ever murders is another actor’s laugh.”
Estelle said nothing, she’d heard the line too often in the past. Bankhead constantly repeated herself, to the delight of some and the chagrin of most.
“What are you up to tonight, Lewis dahling? Would you care to join us? Of course it’ll undoubtedly be a bit depressing, but then Tony’s might be fun and perhaps Mabel’s gotten over her cold and will be singing. Have you ever heard Mabel Mercer sing, Jacob?” He couldn’t squeeze in a reply. Tallulah left him no space. “She’s absolutely unique.
Her phrasing is something you’ll never hear anywhere else except perhaps from Sinatra and Sylvia Syms, who admit they worship her and copy her. I mean full marks for anyone who copied from the best and of course, dahlings, I have dozens of imitators except none of them ever really get me right except on occasion Miss Bette Davis as in whatever became of but then of course the best other Tallulah in show business is T.C. Jones and he’s a female impersonator, dahling, but of course I’m always accused of being a female impersonator and of course I freely admit I’ve copied from Ethel that’s Barrymore not Merman or Waters what were you trying to say, Lewis dahling?”
“I can’t make it. I’d love to. But I can’t. I’ve got a date uptown.”
“Oh, dahling, is uptown becoming fashionable again? I suppose the trend’ll be back to Harlem soon. I gather the murder rate up there is on the increase and why doesn’t Harry Truman do something about racial tensions and forget about Margaret’s dreadful voice? Lewis is the White House still pushing to get us to use Margaret as in may God have mercy.” She snapped her fingers. “Sayyyy! There’s the solution! I’ll trade Harry Margaret for getting that bloody HUAC off my back. Maybe I can be nice about it and throw in Lillie Hellman did I tell you we had a delightful drink together and sort of buried the hatchet that is until I tell her I just can’t go touring in Foxes again I’ve had it up to here with Regina Giddons though God knows I’m one of the few troupers left in the business who adores trouping audiences on the road are so generous and giving except in Detroit where they’re a collective pain in the backside which I strongly suspect has something to do with assembly lines but Jacob I thought you questioned Barry Wren thoroughly after Miroff was murdered I could have sworn you told me that!”
“I had this talk with Zero Mostel, which is why I was delayed getting here …”
“Poor dahling Zero, how is he managing to survive?”
“By the skin of his teeth. Sweet guy if a little eccentric. Anyway, I found some notes about him in Sholom’s apartment, so I asked him over to see me. True, when he entered the station he waved his cane and yelled ‘Storm Troopers! Fascists,’ which didn’t immediately endear him to anyone. In fact he offered to stand trial for the murders because he hated both guys and could use the publicity. I don’t mind telling you I almost agreed to go along with him.” He chuckled at the memory of Mostel. “Anyway, he loathes Wren even more, but he thought Wren might know Leo Walsh’s whereabouts. Mostel thinks that at the time he was out there doing a picture at Metro, before the blacklist, of course, Wren was there trying to get a foot in edgewise since Metro you know does all them big musicals. You see, Mostel remembers Abner Walsh was out there at the time, doing some guest shot in some Abbott and Costello looney tune and all them of course were still chummy. Mostel’s pretty positive the Walsh boy was there too, he thinks trying a shot at acting. So you see, maybe there’s a chance the kid kept in touch with Wren after he made it big on Broadway. Who the hell knows? I can’t pass up anybody. Who knows when I’ll draw the lucky buck?”
“Poor Jacob,” sympathized Tallulah, “you sound so frustrated.”
“Tallulah, I don’t mind admitting, I haven’t been this frustrated since Helen Morgan refused to sleep with me.”
Tallulah smiled “Well, dahling, it was probably easier for her to sing “My Bill” than “My Jacob.” She tried it. “See, it doesn’t work.”
“Doesn’t it, Tallulah?”
The innuendo embraced her gently. For the first time in years, Tallulah Bankhead blushed.
Barry Wren had bought his town house in the East Seventies at a time when real estate in the area was depreciating and town houses were going begging. With his occasional luck, the East Side was on the rise again and he now resided in a very valuable property, a property he knew he’d have had to unload at a beggar’s price had he not cooperated with the inquisition. Oh, what the hell, J. Edgar Hoover himself had Barry in for a secret session and convinced him he was doing the right thing. So what if it had made Barry nervous that the head of the FBI sat there shamelessly holding hands with the man who lived with him?
It was after nine o’clock when Barry let himself in through the front door and then chained and bolted it. He was frightened. He’d been frightened when Lester Miroff was murdered Oliver Sholom’s brutal murder added fuel to Barry’s flames of fear. He checked his answering service after turning on all the lights downstairs, and there was another message from Jacob Singer. He sat down and mulled over the idea of seeing Singer in the morning and cooperating with him in return for protection. He was truly gifted at cooperating and there was no reason not to provide Singer with a taste. There was a draft in the room. Damn that woman, meaning his housekeeper I warned her to lock all the windows carefully when she left. He found the open window in the kitchen at the back of the house. He slammed it shut and tried to latch it. The latch was broken.
Damn.
He thought for a moment. What to do to dissuade any possible invader? He lined up several empty bottles on the sill and when he was done felt proudly creative. They’d make enough of a racket if anyone tried to enter. He turned off the lights and went upstairs to run a bath. He was bone weary, brain weary, and conscience weary.
And he was lonely. He was frighteningly lonely. A few months ago there’d have been a dozen messages with his answering service. Tonight, just Jacob Singer, persistent bastard. Barry turned on all the lights of the second floor, which consisted of the guest bedroom and bath in the front and his own mammoth-sized bedroom and bathroom in the back. He threw his knapsack on the bed, the trademark that held his rehearsal slippers, costume, miscellanea, and box of Oreo cookies. He went to the bathroom designed especially for him by Elsie de Wolfe, the celebrated Lady Mendl, who’d made a fortune doing interior decoration in between standing on her head at parties. He was lavish with the bath salts imported especially from Paris and then returned to the bedroom, where he turned on the television full blast, the better to hear it when he was in his bath. It occasionally occurred to him to position the set so he could see it from the tub. He did this now. He stripped to the buff and then lay down on the floor where he exercised his legs for a few moments. He heard a comedian’s joke and he laughed, not because he found it funny but occasionally these days when he was alone he liked to remind himself he hadn’t gone mute. The commercial was on and he loathed tap-dancing beer cans and so went into the bathroom. He tested the water and found the temperature suitable. He turned off the taps and slowly lowered himself into the water. Once stretched out, he lay still, the water and the salts soothing him.
His eyes were closed. Little beads of perspiration were forming on his bald head. He stroked his genitals to make sure they were still there, He could hear one of his favorite women singers doing wonderful things with ‘I’ll Be Seeing You.’ Barry Wren never saw anything again. The powerful hands weighed down on him and forced him under the water. Every nerve in his body shrieked and pleaded for rescue. His legs thrashed and his hands tried to wrench those powerful hands away, but he was no match for his killer.
The killer was hoping it would be considered death by accidental drowning, which is why he tidied up the bathroom before leaving it and going out the back window, which he had entered by jimmying open the lock. It was an easy climb over the backyard fence into the yard of the tenement on the other side. Then he thought of where to eat.
Killing people gave him a ferocious appetite.
ELEVEN
With hands shoved deeply into his trouser pockets, Gabriel Darnoff walked into the lobby of the Belasco Theater. It was almost eleven P.M. and the curtain should be coming down soon on the third act of his play. He went into the theater and stood in the back, where his nervous producers were pacing back and forth. The two men had been behind his earlier two hits and out of loyalty had gone along with Gabriel’s new one. The one who was the first to voice a lack of faith in the script had commented to his partner, “Abe, loyalty is bad business.” Gabriel was prepared to be destroyed by
the critics A strong star performance might have rescued it, but strong stars had turned it down. His producers had refused to gamble on his father for the lead because in the months following his blacklisting, Michael Darnoff had been gradually falling apart, drinking heavily and causing embarrassing scenes in public. To assuage his own guilt, Gabriel had convinced the producers to offer his father a smaller role, but Darnoff the elder was no fool. He knew the appearance of a star such as he in a supporting role would upset the balance of the play, not that there was much balance to upset.
Abe whispered to Gabriel, “Where you been? Why’d you disappear when the curtain went up?”
“How’s it going?” asked the playwright
“It’s gone,” replied Abe glumly. The other partner, Webster by name, was sucking on his teeth, a sure sign the ship was sinking and don’t bother radioing for help.
Webster said to Gabriel, “Your mother loves the play.”
That confirmed it was a disaster. Everything his mother loved turned to dust, especially his father. Had his mother hated the play, he’d have gone out and invested in a fresh mistress. The curtain came down slowly. There was an embarrassing pause and then at last the applause began.
“They’re applauding,” said Webster.
“Probably because their hands went dead,” replied Abe “Come on, Gabe,” he said to Darnoff, “failure isn’t the end of the world You’re entitled. That’s the trouble with this goddamn business, they don’t allow you to fail. On the other hand they’re dying to see you fail, they hate it when you’re successful. Oh God, why don’t I go back to ladies’ pajamas!”
Bella Darnoff, coming up the aisle, saw her son and waved with enthusiasm. She threw her arms around him and cried, “It’s your best yet! I’m so thrilled and so proud to be your mother. Oh, if only your father was here tonight, that he should have missed this triumph.” Triumph, thought Gabriel, it’s worse than I thought. “Smile, darling! What s the matter with you? You look like you just killed somebody!”
