[Celebrity Murder Case 03] - The Tallulah Bankhead Murder Case

by George Baxt

  And there are those, he reminded himself, who claim eight hours a day at the typewriter. Liars.

  Annabel Forsythe’s closet was piled high with hats. Annabel lived for hats. She never threw one away. She had an Empress Eugenie, a tricorne, hats galore inherited from previous employers who had quickly gotten bored with them. She had several John Fredericks and at least three Lilly Daches and God knows how many Florells. She wore hats to church and to the movies and to the park and to the toilet and to unemployment, but not too fancy a one there.

  She was selecting the appropriate hat to wear to Tallulah Bankhead’s cocktail party. Well, get me, girl! Miss Annabel Forsythe has arrived! She is going to a cocktail party at Miss Tallulah Bankhead and we are both Southern girls! True, Miss Forsythe will be passing around the canapes and attending the ladies in the bedroom and washing glasses, but Miss Bankhead said, “Dahling, you dress like a guest! I want you to feel right at home!”

  Bless your heart, Tallulah honey. I’m going to make myself right at home. She was trying on one of the Daches for the tenth time.

  “Honey!” she yelled. “What do you think of this one? How do I look?”

  Ike said from behind a copy of Confidential, “It makes you look too Jewish.”

  Ted Valudni shouted into the phone, “Beth, you’re being unreasonable! What’s so terrible about our showing up at Bankhead’s together?”

  “Guilt by association.” Beth was waving her left hand, drying her freshly polished nails.

  “Come off it, damn it!”

  “Ted, we are no longer a twosome. We are no longer an anything. We are permanently separated, like Peter Ibbetson and his sweetie. We won’t even meet in dreams. You go by yourself, and I’ll go by myself. We’ll say hello and then well mingle. You by yourself and me by myself.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Who?”

  “Tallulah! What’s this party all about, anyway?”

  “It’s a party. Does everything have to have a theme?”

  “You haven’t said a word about Nanette Walsh.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “She’s dead!” he mimicked her “I know she’s dead! And so’s Sholom and Barry Wren and Lester Miroff. They at least had something in common They were friendly witnesses. But where does Nanette figure?”

  “Maybe the murderer killed her because he was afraid he’d be accused of discrimination.”

  “That’s pretty cold-blooded That’s not you, Beth. That’s not the Beth I knew.”

  “Ted?”

  “What?”

  “Did you ever know me?”

  He exploded. “For God’s sake, Beth, let’s not go into that routine again! Ah, the hell with it! Go by yourself! I don’t need you! I don’t need anybody!” He slammed the phone down. He broke a vase. He threw a pillow across the room. He smashed a framed photograph of Beth. He burst into tears.

  Oscar Delaney’s wife was her mother’s favorite child. This was because they both shared one odious trait, suspicion. Mrs. Delaney suspected the landord, the butcher, the grocer, the neighbors, their children, total strangers, and Oscar. She sometimes suspected he wasn’t really a detective. She sometimes suspected he was still a patrolman walking a beat out in Brooklyn and kept his clothes in a locker and changed into them to come home, claiming he was a detective. Yes, there was now more household money, but he could be borrowing that from his father, as Oscar was his father’s favorite child. Oscar and his father had one trait in common: hatred. They hated their wives.

  “Why can’t I go to the party with you?” She was calmly attending to her hair, but at any moment the innocent hairbrush could turn into a dangerous weapon.

  “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not a guest, I’m on assignment? I’m going to be tending bar.”

  “Are you getting overtime?”

  “Sure, I’m getting overtime.”

  “How come you’re wearing your best suit to the party if you’re tending bar?”

  “We’re going to try on jackets at the hotel! The hotel is supplying us with white jackets! Miss Bankhead’s arranged everything!”

  “Who’s me?” He recognized the danger in her voice.

  “Me and the other boys. They’re posing as waiters!”

  “And what about the redhead in Coney Island?”

  “There’s no redhead in Coney Island!”

  “Don’t you lie to me!”

  “Don’t you start in again!”

  “It’s that Spanish bitch on Delancey Street!”

  “There is no Spanish bitch on Delancey Street!”

  “I want the truth!” The brush sailed past his head and landed on the floor.

  “You want the truth? You want the truth?” he yelled as an uppercut sent her staggering against the wall behind her. “Here’s the truth! I’m fucking Eleanor Roosevelt!”

  “I knew it,” she gasped.

  Armbruster Pershing thought his wife Eleanor looked particularly beautiful and told her so.

  “Thank you, darling. I’ll never outshine Miss Bankhead, but I can certainly give it a try.”

  He put his arms around her from behind and kissed the nape of her neck.

  “Now, Armbruster, don’t go giving us an appetite there’s no time to fulfill.”

  “We could arrive fashionably late. It’s a showbiz party. Nobody will be on time.”

  That’s why we will. I want to talk to her and know her and laugh with her and make my bridge ladies rotten with envy.”

  “I hope you won’t be disappointed. I’m told she does all the talking at a blue streak, and getting to know her is as hopeless as a federal project.”

  “Well, I can’t be faulted for giving it my best shot I’ve always been fascinated by the woman. She’s an original, there’ll be no one like her again, and this is one experience I’m really looking forward to. I hope there’ll be fireworks.”

  “Knowing Miss Bankhead, you’ll get them. I don’t think this is your ordinary every Sunday show-business cocktail party. It’s a camouflaged time bomb. There’s a murderer on the loose out there somewhere and we know Miss Bankhead is involved in the case. She’s up to something and I think it’s going to be more fun than watching a Democrat lose an election.”

  Eleanor picked up a glass of sherry and sipped it. “Don’t tell me this is going to be one of those parties where all the suspects are being gathered in one room and then the killer is to be unmasked!”

  “Sounds suspiciously like it is.”

  “Oh, Armbrusteri How exciting! Oh!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Supposing it’s your dreadful Mr. Valudni!”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful! I’d be rid of him once and for all.”

  “Darling, if you so dislike him, why don’t you discard him the way you did your first three wives?”

  “For the simple reason his fees pay their acrimony … I mean alimony.”

  “Whatever you do, sweetheart, don’t ever bring him around here socially. While I loathe all commies and all leftists and the rest of that ilk”—she was from an old Boston family—”I detest anyone who betrays a friend to save his own skin.” She sipped the sherry. “What’s become of the noble gesture? Now stop smirking. There was a time when people had a finest hour. You know, like Winston Churchill and Calvin Coolidge. Where has it all gone to? If he survives this, what becomes of a snake like Valudni?”

  “Oooohhh, I suppose some thirty or so years from now, if he lives that long, he’ll be given a plush testimonial dinner in aid of some charity where they’ll show clips of his films, and many of the actors and actresses who worked with him will say wonderful things about him while his darkest hour and most degenerate gesture will be conveniently overlooked. He might even be declared a national monument.”

  “If for some perverse reason you’re trying to depress me, you’re succeeding.” She put the glass on the bar and went to her husband. “You’re such a lovely person, Armbruster. Do you suppose I�
�m the only one who knows that? I hope not. I hope your next wife will be as appreciative.”

  David Carney’s sister Audrey said to him over the telephone, “Is your suit all nice and pressed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there’s no ring around the collar of your shirt?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re wearing a tie that has no stains on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you won’t forget to take a clean white handkerchief?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you remember to polish your shoes?”

  Yes.”

  “And you’re wearing that nice clean pair of socks I bought you?”

  Yes.”

  “And you’re going to be a perfect gentleman and behave yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when will you come home to your apartment?”

  “After I murder Miss Bankhead.”

  Miss Tallulah Bankhead was a vision in an infrequently worn Elsa Schiaparelli cocktail dress. She wore her best jewels and her most elegant shoes. Her makeup was subdued, but her enthusiasm wasn’t. She perked like a coffee pot as she examined the bar. It was beautifully set up. Oscar Delaney looked smart in his white jacket with blue trim, the blue matching the color of the bruise on his forehead, which she tactfully refrained from mentioning. Adam Todd and the other two detectives looked equally at home in their white jackets, as though born to the waiter’s calling. Annabel Forsythe was an oversized vision in a pink and purple number that Tallulah decided had been designed by a couturier named Haphazard. But oh God, that hat, well, forget it, Tallulah. Chacun, et cetera. She’ll certainly remove it when the guests start arriving. If she doesn’t, I’ll have Patsy knock it off her head

  “Estelle, you look positively radiant!”

  “Thank you, dear, what are you after?”

  “I’m after nothing, for crying out loud. Can’t I pay you a compliment?”

  “You do it so infrequently that when you do, I find it worrying.”

  Radiant, hell, I should have told her the truth. Estelle darling, you’re the victim of a poor job of embalming.

  “Patsy, what have you done to your hair?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh”

  “You like my dress?”

  “Love it. It’s you, it’s very you.”

  And all it lacks, dahling, is the ashes to go with the sack cloth, but oh, what the hell, no matter how you look, I love you. Her press agent, Richard Maney, was having a scotch mist and looked worried Tallulah asked, “Why the frown?”

  “The truth? I’m getting bad vibrations.”

  “Now don’t go mystical on me, Maney. This is not the time for it. There’s no turning back now.”

  “And what if this whole mess backfires?”

  “I’ll retire to the country for the rewrite.”

  “Tallulah, if this doesn’t work, you may not be around for the rewrite.”

  “Don’t be morbid, dahling. How’s Gloria Swanson’s show doing in Detroit?” She pronounced it Detwah. “Are they fixing? Has she gotten any new lines?”

  “Only around her eyes.”

  Tallulah diverted her attention to Adam Todd “Dahling, that bulge under your left shoulder is so obvious Can’t you do anything about it?”

  “That’s the only place I can wear my holster, Miss Bankhead.”

  “Let’s try it with the jacket unbuttoned. There! Perfect! And you have such a lovely flat stomach. You must come up sometime and share your secret. Oscar! Are you sure we have enough ice?”

  “Plenty, Miss Bankhead. If we run out, we can always phone downstairs for more.”

  “Of course we can, dahling. How clever of you to remember.”

  Jacob Singer arrived with Dorothy Parker.

  “Dottie, oh Dottie, that dress, that absolutely perfectly lovely little dress, you look like a painting by Velasquez.”

  “Dear, that’s what you said the last time you saw it.” To Adam Todd she said, “A Jack Rose on the rocks. Haven’t we met before? Oh yes! You’re the tail. Moonlighting?”

  Tallulah took Jacob’s hand and led him to the bar. “You’re looking incredibly handsome, Mr. Singer. You look rested. Did you have a good night s sleep?”

  “Your palm’s damp.”

  “My enthusiasm isn’t.”

  “What if you end up with egg on your face?”

  “As opposed to a knife in my ribs?”

  “You look real spiffy, Oscar,” Singer said to the detective as he noticed the bruise on his forehead. “I see the missus remembered to wave you good-bye.”

  “Cut it out,” grumbled Delaney as he poured Singer a drink.

  Singer leaned against the bar and sized up the other detectives “You boys look like fugitives from a bar mitzvah.”

  “Lay off, Jacob,” said Tallulah. “They look exactly right and you should be proud of them.”

  “Hello there, Annabel,” cried Singer as she entered from the bedroom. “That’s one hell of a hat.”

  “Beats hell!” retorted Annabel smartly. “This is genuine John Frederick!”

  Mrs. Parker almost choked on her drink. “I’m in the wrong profession,” she commented to no one in particular. “How are you, Patsy? Up to anything special these days?”

  “Well, yeah, come to think of it, Dottie. I’m starting work on my memoirs.”

  “How nice. It shouldn’t take long to fill five pages.”

  Patsy moved away from her as though in fear of contamination. Mrs. Parker called across the room to Tallulah. “Dear, supposing nobody shows up?”

  “I’m confident I’m still a draw, Dottie. They’ll show up.”

  Estelle was now at Tallulah’s side. “I know what you’re up to, Tallulah, and I’m frightened for you.”

  “Dahling, you of all people should know I’ve spent most of my life walking a tightrope without a safety net for protection.”

  “I shall be right next to you the entire evening.”

  “Why?”

  “To protect you, of course.”

  Tallulah was touched. “Dahling, Tallulah is a survivor.” She shouted to Oscar Delaney. “It’s time I had a drink! Oscar! Mix me a perfect dry vodka martini and leave out the garbage!” The phone was ringing and guests were being announced. Tallulah laughed and then said in her loudest baritone, “Fasten your seat belts, dahlings! it’s going to be a bumpy party!”

  SEVENTEEN

  Gabriel Darnoff decided to take another walk around the block. It was just a few minutes past six, and he didn’t want to be one of the first to arrive at Tallulah’s party. He had seen Jacob Singer and Dorothy Parker entering the hotel, and he was in no mood for either of them. His producers had folded his play abruptly the previous night, having wisely posted a provisional closing notice the number of days required by union rule prior to the play’s official opening night. He chewed on a cigarillo while ambling along Park Avenue, and wondered what Tallulah was up to. She’d never made social overtures before, even when he had two big hits going for him. This sudden invitation, her promise that “Something interesting is going to happen, I hope, dahling,” piqued his curiosity. He turned onto Fifty-third Street. There wasn’t a soul in sight. It was Sunday in New York on a warm spring evening. He looked at his wristwatch. The hell with it. He quickened his step.

  The party was livening up, and Tallulah was pleased. The celebrities she’d invited were beginning to make an appearance and heighten the color of the soiree. Mrs. Parker commented to Jacob Singer as New Faces producer Leonard Sillman entered with Gypsy Rose Lee, “Here’s arsenic and old face.”

  Gypsy said to Tallulah after they embraced, “Now I hope you’re not going to do your strip act and those embarrassing cartwheels.”

  “Not tonight, dahling. I reserve my outrageous behavior for more formal events. Leonard, you look unusually pretty tonight, have you found some fresh suckers for your next show?”

  Patsy asked Estelle Winwood, “Who’s that woman b
y the window talking to herself?”

  “That’s Cornelia Otis Skinner. She frequently does a one-woman show.”

  The great Greek actress Katina Paxinou arrived with her equally celebrated husband, Alexis Minotis. She scolded Tallulah amiably. “You haven’t been to see our play!”

  “Dahling, I can’t even pronounce it!”

  Paxinou’s magnificent eyes widened with mockery. “And what is so difficult about Oedipus Tyrannus?”

  “Now what made you decide to appear in a jawbreaker like that, dahlings?”

  Minotis said amiably, “You know what happens when Greek meets Greek.”

  “Yes, dahling, they usually open a coffee shop. There’s Mel and Helen! Dahlings, how sweet of you to come. Helen, you’re as pale as a ghost. What’s wrong?”

  “It was the cab ride,” said Helen Gahagan Douglas. “I’m terrified in taxicabs. I’ve got rider’s block.”

  Douglas saw and recognized Ted Valudni and his face turned to stone. “What’s that shit doing here?”

  Tallulah took his hand and squeezed it. “Melvyn dahling, don’t make a wave. I can’t explain now, but in a little while you’ll understand everything.”

  Melvyn Douglas continued bristling. “He’s one of the reasons I’m out of Hollywood.”

  “I know, dahling, I know. How’s your play doing?”

  “Splendidly, for a trifle. It proves that lack of taste can be profitable.”