by George Baxt
Said Valudni, “Well, if a mere mortal may speak—”
“Later, dahling, later,” she said, and waved him away.
Jacob Singer said to her, “It’s like I’ve been telling you, Tallulah, leave the detecting to the detectives.”
“Jacob dahling, why don’t you look at this as two sets of hands playing one piano? I’d hate to find out you’re a poor sport.”
He was looking past her to the little man who had shyly come into the party. Tallulah, I think that’s who you’re waiting for.”
Tallulah turned and, with a sob of relief, hurried to Herbert Sholom.
Cornelia Otis Skinner said to Mrs. Parker, “Who’s the quaint little man Tallulah’s talking to? Doesn’t he look Dickensian?”
“Yes, he does,” agreed Mrs. Parker, “Oliver Twitch.”
Lillian Graham said to her husband, who was doing a medley of his own songs at the piano, “Irvin, you’re not getting paid for this. Why don’t we get the hell out of here?”
“Not until I play some of my new numbers for Leonard Sillman. He’s planning a new revue for Imogene Coca and Tommy Dix.”
Lillian folded her arms and emitted a sigh that soon shattered against the ceiling “And who’s doing the choreography? Connee Boswell?”
Tallulah guided Herbert Sholom to the bar for a glass of wine. She talked a blue streak en route and he nodded his head sagely, absorbing every word Here he was at last, taking part in an important drama, or so Miss Bankhead led him to believe. Her instructions were simple and he knew exactly what he must do. What little dialogue she wanted him to speak he committed to memory without difficulty She said to Oscar Delaney, “Look after Mr. Sholom and guard him carefully. Without him, I’m a disaster area.”
Then she hurried to Irvin Graham at the piano. “Irvin dahling, give me a very loud fanfare.”
He did as Beth Valudni arrived and unfortunately found herself standing next to her husband
“It’s about time,” he said nastily. “Where the hell have you been? I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up.”
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t. Now shut up Tallulah s going to speak.”
“When doesn’t she?”
The fanfare had quietened the room Tallulah moved to the center of the floor with her arms upraised and smiling, she hoped, beguilingly. “Dahlings . she said, her eyes traveling from the Valudnis to Joseph Savage to David Carney, then to Jacob Singer and from him to Lewis Drefuss and then to Gabriel Darnoff, who was standing between Patsy and Estelle. “I’m so glad you all came, and I’m really delighted you did.”
“She’s repeating herself,” whispered Merman to Bea Lillie.
“After all these years, why not?”
“Do you suppose she’s announcing her retirement?” Ouida Rathbone asked her husband.
“Tallulah will never retire, dear, she’ll disintegrate.”
“Tonight, you see me in a totally new role, one I never dreamt I’d ever be playing Tonight, dahlings, I am not Tallulah Bankhead the actress, I am Tallulah Bankhead the detective.”
She heard a few titters and saw looks being exchanged and heard someone say, “God, she’s pissed again,” and her eyes locked for a moment with Herbert Sholom’s and he winked. She would remember that gesture always. He didn’t know it then, but the wink succeeded in shoring up her faltering confidence. “And I might add,” she said with a disarming little laugh, “I hope I don’t make a total fool of myself.”
Friendly laughter.
Adam Todd found her sexy.
Jacob Singers eyes traveled from suspect to suspect. There wasn’t a nervous one among them. He truly hoped for her sake, and probably for his own, that the scene she was about to play would be one of the most effective in her entire life.
Tallulah folded her arms and got down to business. “I suppose,” she said in her magnificent baritone, “you’re wondering why I’ve asked you all here …”
EIGHTEEN
Jacob Singer wasn’t humoring Tallulah Bankhead to promote a romance. They had come to the same conclusion as to the murderers identity by different routes. Singer had followed his usual slow, methodical, tediously tactical procedure of adding, subtracting, observing, digesting, discarding, re-reviewing until he made center target where the answer awaited him. Tallulah the enthusiastic amateur worked like a broken field runner zigzagging her way through the evidence, picking up ideas en route, procrastinating, taxing her memory until it finally unlocked the prisoner who could clinch for her the identity of the murderer. Unlike Singer, Tallulah was totally at ease freewheeling her way through the available information until all the pieces came together in a satisfying tapestry known as the solution. It was the same way she bid her way to a grand slam at bridge.
Holding center stage at her own party wasn’t a new experience for Tallulah. Unmasking a murderer was, and it wasn’t long before her skeptical guests were spellbound. This wasn’t Tallulah the showoff, this was Tallulah the serious, Tallulah the crusader, who campaigned spiritedly and heatedly for a political candidate she was backing, who brandished her verbal sabers before the advertising agency executives who feared she was about to be branded a subversive by the House Un-American Activities Committee. It was Mrs. Parker who said, “Shipwreck Tallulah on a cannibal island and she’ll soon have it unionized.”
“Dahlings,” continued Tallulah, rubbing her hands together, her face composed and serious, unlike the usual comic mask she wore on these occasions, “this is not one of my usual party pieces, although I might later wish it were.” She saw Adam Todd and another detective position themselves at the front door. There was no other way out of the apartment. The window led to either fresh air or death. Jacob Singer leaned against a wall behind Mitchell Zang and the Valudnis. Oscar Delaney moved from the bar and remained in the bedroom doorway, near David Carney and Joseph Savage. Carney caught Beatrice Lillie’s eye and ran an index finger across his throat in a threatening gesture. She murmured “Caw blimey” to Lewis Drefuss on her left, who sat on the arm of her chair, head bowed and fingers interlaced, looking like a displaced worshiper from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Herbert Sholom was mesmerized by the sight of Margaret Sullavan, the only actress who could lure him to a movie house or legitimate theater.
“We have many of us here in some way been tainted by the misapplied brush of the House Un-American Committee. Yes, dahlings, I too have been threatened, but the only thing I ever did with a Russian that might conceivably be construed as subversive was a tumble in a rumble seat in the Hollywood Hills with Sergei Rachmaninoff, and that was terribly uncomfortable too, dahlings.” She got her laugh, and it encouraged her to continue. “Now don’t look about you so uneasily, dahlings, this party isn’t a fund raiser.” She got another laugh and wondered for a second if she should accept that offer to play Las Vegas. “You’ll forgive me if I dwell somewhat at length on murder, but murder is what this party is really all about There have been four murders this past week”—she enumerated them—”and the victims were in one way or another connected with the congressional investigations The men had one thing in common: they were friendly witnesses, to use the polite term. Nanette Walsh made the mistake of finding a missing photograph. Basil dahling, don’t look so bewildered.” She laughed “The poor dahlings played Sherlock Holmes so often, I’m sure he’d love to displace me in the spotlight.”
“Not at all, Tallulah,” said Rathbone with his urbane suavity which now creaked, “I’ve been condemned myself by Sherlock Holmes. It’s tough to get them to let me play anything else.”
“That’s showbiz, dahling, we must have lunch soon.” She lit a cigarette and thanked Lewis for the use of his lighter. She caught Singer’s eye and he nodded encouragement. She could have kissed him right then and there for the show of support. She said to her audience, “I won’t bore you with the details of each individual murder, I’m sure you’ve all read about it in the tabloids. I do have a story to tell, and I want you to promise to be very patie
nt and not wriggle and cough the way those bloody awful benefit audiences do.” Another laugh, but I’m on my own here, there’s nobody holding the prompt book, Jacob Singer swore he wouldn’t interfere, I wish that Carney nut would stop pantomiming stabbing me.
“I promise to try not to talk too fast. There, I’m ready. Curtain up. Act One. On stage we find Abner Walsh and his wife Martha, twenty years ago. They’re young, they’re married and have a son, Leo, and Abner is fiercely ambitious. I’m introduced to them at a rent party and I meet the boy, Leo. I find him withdrawn and introspective, and with hindsight, I realize something was not quite right with him. A few years pass and Abner is in Hollywood, where his career is beginning to take off. He sends for Martha and Leo. They travel by train and in Arizona there’s a ghastly accident. Martha is lucky, a very rare experience in her life as I’ll soon explain. She escapes with minor bruises. Leo is deadly unfortunate. It’s bad enough that since a fall during a playground escapade he’s had to suffer an ugly scar on his left cheek”—she saw Mitchell Zang finger his and then quickly move his hand away—”now he barely escapes with his life. Almost every bone in his body is broken, his face is disfigured beyond recognition, and if he survives, he is doomed to an unspeakable life of torture.”
Mrs. Parker pursed her lips, examined a fingernail, and wondered if it would be de rigueur if she crept around the perimeter of the room to the bar and poured herself a Jack Rose.
“There is a sanitarium in Arizona that accommodates him. He is destined to spend years there. He will grow into young manhood there. But first he must undergo the tortures of physical rehabilitation—his body in a cast from neck to toes, plastic surgery at a time when the procedure wasn’t as sophisticated as it is today.”
Gypsy Rose Lee wondered if the rumor was true that Tallulah had recently had her breasts and her behind done and who, thank you very much, was the doctor and how much did he soak.
“Martha, being a wonderful mother, stayed in Arizona with the boy. A gallant but costly gesture. She lost Abner to Nanette.” Tallulah paced under a cloud of smoke. “The years pass, the boy is finally sent out into the world with scars healed, revealing a new face, bones knitted, everything in place again except one item that was apparently overlooked. His brain. The introspection and withdrawal of his childhood, aggravated by his tragic accident and years of confinement, resulted in manic depression. Jacob Singer, whom I’m sure you’ve all met tonight and if you haven’t that’s him over there leaning against the wall and blushing, got the cooperation of the Flagstaff police, who confirmed that Leo Walsh was kept on at the sanitarium for treatment of his mental disorder long after his body was healed. When he was released, Leo came to an agreement with his mother and father. He wanted the past obliterated He wanted a new chance with a new life. I suppose Martha’s agreement was somewhat reluctant, Leo was all she had. There was no new man in her life and she didn’t want one. But she agreed, Leo was owed this. Abner agreed with alacrity because he had a new wife who wanted no part of his other family and a fabulously successful career. There hasn’t been such an obliterating burial of an individual since Vesuvius erupted over Pompeii. May I have a glass of gin, Lewis?”
She continued, “We know Leo went to Los Angeles He took a new name, a successful new identity, but didn’t hesitate to make use of some of Abner’s friends there, never of course revealing that he was Abners son. Thank you, Lewis.” She sipped. Fresh color came to her cheeks and fresh strength shored up her voice. “He tried to become an actor but was unsuccessful. He decided to seek work behind the scenes instead, and that proved fruitful. He returned to New York, and yes, he was in touch with Martha and Abner. And now Abner needed him. He needed a strong right arm. Abner was under siege, his career and his life were being destroyed. Nanette had left him. He was such a ruin, he swallowed his pride and once again sought solace from Martha, which she generously gave because she would always be in love with him.”
“Coo,” whispered Bea Lillie to anybody as she dabbed at her moist eyes with a tissue, “I haven’t wept like this since Lassie Come Home”
“Abner, reunited with Leo, realizes what he has missed all those years. He has missed his son. Sorry if I sound maudlin, dahlings, but I’m working without a script. How those Actors Studio creatures do those endless improvisations I’ll never know, and don’t want to. So here’s Abner and Leo together again, father and son, and Leo wants to help the man he has come to love again. But it’s hopeless and Abner commits suicide. And less than twenty-four hours later, Martha follows Abner in suicide and Leo has lost the only two people in his life he has ever loved for a second and sorrowfully permanent time. He snaps!” She snapped her fingers and looked to see who had yelped. It was Patsy. She shot her a look and took a swig of the gin. Estelle sat with a silly grin on her face and Tallulah finally recognized why Estelle had never attempted tragedy on stage. “He will revenge his parents. He will murder Lester Miroff and Oliver Sholom and Barry Wren and perhaps me, yes, some of you know I received a death threat over the telephone from Leo. And he murders these people. And he’s brilliant! He’s positively brilliant! Dahlings, he absolutely doesn’t leave a clue! The police can’t find a shred of evidence pointing to the identity of the murderer. And what’s more, even if they did, they couldn’t prove it. The police have a genius for an adversary. Now Dottie Parker knows from experience, as I have just been learning, that Jacob Singer is one hell of a superb detective, but he’s hamstrung!”
Singer was studying the faces of his suspects. Only David Carney betrayed any emotion, with thumb and index finger he was taking imaginary potshots at various guests.
Tallulah handed her empty glass to Lewis and continued vivaciously. “At this point, enter Tallulah. No cracks, please, there were no fanfares, no tributes, no red … oops … carpet, and Dottie had introduced me to Detective Singer and were now great great friends, dahlings.” She brushed her hair back, took a moment to recompose herself, and then continued. “Before the murders began, on the day Martha Walsh committed suicide, I had unconsciously noticed something important, but as I so frequently do, I committed that piece of information to near oblivion in the back of my mind, and it would remain there until just very recently. You see, Martha wrote a note to me and had it delivered by one of the neighborhood boys. It was a sweet note, thanking me for my continued friendship, thanking me for trying to rescue Abner. I told my dear Lewis here what the note was about, that Martha was going to kill herself, and Lewis fled from the studio to rush to her rescue, but Lewis, dahling, how did you know where she lived?”
Lewis stared at Tallulah. Bea Lillie stared at Lewis. He was standing as if paralyzed.
“I knew you had a drink once with Abner Walsh to explain why we couldn’t use him on the show, but was there any reason for you to have known Martha?” She waited, but Lewis remained immobile, not speaking, standing stiffly like a soldier at attention.
“Another piece of good luck came our way. Oliver Sholom’s Uncle Herbert.” She explained to her guests, “He has a tailoring establishment on the floor beneath the apartment in which Oliver was murdered. And dahling Herbert Sholom is with us right now”—she sounded like Jack Parr introducing his next guest—”and here he is.”
“My God,” said Dorothy Parker, “it’s Oliver Twitch.”
Herbert Sholom went to Tallulah, who put her arm around the little man. “Herbert Sholom saw the murderer come down the stairs from Oliver’s apartment. He always leaves his door slightly ajar in this warm weather to try and collect a breeze. Mr. Sholom, who did you see leaving your nephew’s apartment? Is that person here?”
“He certainly is,” said Herbert Sholom, pointing a finger at Lewis Drefuss, “that’s him. That’s the man.”
Lewis turned beet red and screamed, “That’s a lie! That’s a fucking lie! Your door was shut! I could hear your sewing machine—”
“Bingo!” shouted Jacob Singer as the police closed in.
“Shit,” said Lewis Drefuss as he rubbed
a hand across his eyes with confusion.
“Lewis dahling,” said Tallulah with compassion, “murdering Nanette was such a stupid mistake. It was obvious you had to be the one to kill her. I mean it was only a matter of some twenty minutes or so from the time she phoned me and I sent you to her to collect the photo of Leo Walsh. Didn’t Nanette recognize you?”
“No,” said Lewis, “she didn’t recognize me. Not right away she didn’t. The picture was ten years old. It was me with the nurses, it wasn’t all that good a shot of me. I had written on it ‘When this you see, remember me,’ you know, like the card I enclosed with the rose I sent you.”
“That was another mistake. Nanette had read me the inscription over the phone.”
“I wanted to be remembered by him. He’d left me and Mom. I hated Nanette. I didn’t know her, but I hated her And there I stood in her studio looking at her and the picture in her hand and the bust of Abner she was doing, and every bit of hatred I felt for her came rising up my throat like vomit, and I picked up that mallet and hit her and hit her until … until… and I tore up the photo and flushed it down the toilet… and I went into the kitchen for a glass of water until I could calm down and put together a story for the police. I mean … there were still others who had betrayed Abner who had to be killed … like him”—he pointed at Ted Valudni, who shrank back against Melvyn Douglas, who moved away from him with a look of revulsion—”and then I was going to go to Hollywood and get rid of … well … you know who, Tallulah …”
Lewis’s hands were cuffed behind the back Oscar Delaney held his right arm and Adam Todd his left. Jacob Singer had phoned for a patrol car while Mrs. Parker finally made it to the bar for her Jack Rose.
Tallulah had a hand on Lewis’s cheek. “I still adore you, dahling, and I always will. I don’t condone what you did because much as I have wanted to commit murder in the past, I have no stomach for it, but I understand why you did it. Dahling, I’m paying for your defense. I swore I would and Bankhead never reneges on a promise. Tell me, dahling, now tell me what I can do for you before they lock you up in the pokey.”
