by George Baxt
While Violetta fantasized on the bliss of being Mrs. Humphrey Bogart, Mrs. Humphrey Bogart was in the middle of her living room in Beverly Hills exercising her pitching arm. Her target, her husband the movie star, was too quick for her. He had successfully dodged a number of wedding gifts he loathed. There was a vase that he thought had been a gift from actor Barton MacLaine. It was painted with little bare-assed cherubs connected by a daisy chain. There was a candelabra he recalled came from Mr. and Mrs. Jack Warner. Then there was an oversize ashtray, the selection of comedian Frank McHugh and his wife. The vase had shattered against a wall. The candelabra tore a hole in a Renoir print that he loathed. The ashtray came perilously close to concussing him and Bogie shouted, “Close but no cigar, Slugger. But you’re improving!”
“You coldhearted brute! You miserable son of a bitch! Mother might have been murdered!”
“I’m not interested in what might have been!”
She sent a metal pitcher that she picked off the sideboard hurtling toward him. He leaped out of its path shouting, “No wonder I keep losing weight!” The pitcher shattered a window pane. “I thought we agreed no more breaking windows! You gave me your word!”
“She said the police were of no damned use either.” Her hands dropped to her side, then she sagged into an easy chair. ““What the hell could they have been after?”
Bogie leaned against a wall, eyeing his wife with suspicion. This suddenly sinking into an easy chair could be the warning of a sneak attack. Not too long ago she’d stabbed him in the shoulder with a steak knife and he was now reluctantly entertaining the notion that she might have recently bought a snub-nosed automatic, having heard her admiring one that Joan Crawford kept on her bedside table.
“It might have been the work of some neighborhood kids. What did the cops call it?”
“Mischief. They called it mischief.” She thought for a moment as she applied a lighter to a cigarette. “Neighborhood kids don’t lay their hands on skeleton keys. There’s something very nasty about that break-in.”
“Say listen, Slugger,” said Bogart warily, ready to duck and dodge if she made a false move. “Your mother being all this frightened and upset, maybe you ought to go up there and spend a few days with her.”
Her eyes were narrowed into slits. “You’d love to be rid of me, wouldn’t you.” Very prescient, thought Bogart. “You’d love me out of the way while you’re having your affair with Mary Astor,”
He exploded. “I am not having an affair with Mary Astor! She’s fully booked!”
Mayo rubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray and then jumped to her feet, fists clenched. “Don’t you think I know what this whole Maltese Falcon movie is all about?”
“Sure you do. You read the script.”
“I should be playing Astor’s part!”
“Now come on. Slugger. Let’s not go through that routine again. It's getting pretty tired. I suggested you to Jack Warner…”
“Half-heartedly!”
“Goddamn you, I’m always sticking my neck out for you and what do I get for it? Do I get any gratitude? All I get is the chop! I got you into Marked Woman, didn’t I?”
“Four years ago! And playing an over-the-hill whore!”
“Typecasting,” he said without thinking and to his immediate regret. Between her hands over her head she held a flowerpot, and sent it flying like a basketball player targeting a hoop. Bogart ducked behind a couch. The flowerpot crashed into a mirror hanging on the wall, a wedding gift from the Pat O’Briens. “Ha!” yelled Bogart triumphantly. “Seven years bad luck!”
In the kitchen, Hannah Darrow, their housekeeper and cook, leaned against the sink, arms folded, clucking her tongue. Hannah was a tongue clucker of the old school. Her tongue didn’t make little clicking noises; it rose and fell against her hard palate with all the vigor and force of a suction pump. The Battling Bogarts, as they were affectionately known in the movie colony, had earned their reputation. They had neither shame nor discretion. Their battles were not confined to the domicile. They had ferocious scrapes in restaurants, movie theaters, department stores, bowling alleys, and were especially adept at maneuvers in parking lots. Once Mayo had tried to run Bogart down, but he somehow managed to outrun her. Their sadomasochistic union was a joy to the gossip columnists. Why they continued to remain chained in wedlock was a puzzle their friends had long ago ceased trying to solve. Most of the sympathy was on Bogart’s side. He was a charmer with a good nature and an affable disposition. He did frequent battle with Jack Warner over better parts and better money because he felt he owed it to himself. He certainly couldn’t depend on his agent, who was one of Warner’s cronies. This had been a good year for him. After the surprise success of High Sierra he went into a circus movie, The Wagons Roll at Night, with Sylvia Sidney starting a screen comeback after several years away in the theater. Bogie had balked at doing this one, not because of the actress, whom he had supported in Dead End four years earlier, but because Wagons was a remake of the Edward G. Robinson and Bette Davis melodrama of four years earlier, Kid Galahad, in which Bogart had been the villain. Now he was playing Robinson’s role. Bogart thought there was something incestuous about it. But the film did well, and now he was rehearsing The Maltese Falcon, the third version of Dashiell Hammett’s successful novel. True, he was second or maybe third or even fourth choice for the part, and it would be the directorial debut of John Huston, who had also written the script. And a new director and an old story could be a fatal combination. Bogart didn’t care. Bogart believed in Huston, who was a friend, a poker-playing buddy, and a fellow skirt-chaser.
Mary Astor was something else. She had survived an ugly scandal in 1936 when she had divorced Dr. Franklin Thorpe and fought for the custody of her daughter Marilyn. Thorpe’s attorney produced her private diary in which she discussed playwright George S. Kaufman’s privates most indiscreetly, striking envy in the hearts of millions of readers around the world and sending Kaufman into temporary seclusion. Mary Astor was a fighter. She fought for her daughter and won her and she fought to retain her status as a star. Fortunately, she was extremely well liked in the industry and had powerful allies in most movie moguls. Now she was under contract to Warner Brothers for three features, and John Huston wanted her for Falcon. Bogart’s pitch for Mayo was made in a whisper that could barely be heard. Mayo was not a star. She would never be a star. She had no charisma whatsoever.
Hannah Darrow hadn’t been told yet if the Bogarts were dining in or out or at all. She was doing an inventory of what was stocked in the refrigerator when she realized a rare silence had settled in the house.
In the living room, Bogie had made a flying leap at Mayo and wrestled her to the floor. She was struggling ferociously, face down with Bogart holding her hands behind her in a tight grip. “You give up?” he shouted, knowing full well not to trust her if she did. She peppered the room with a series of expletives that both dazed and dazzled Bogart. Finally, she was exhausted. She was staring at Hannah Darrow who had entered the room with two raw filet mignons on a plate.
“Excuse me,” she asked sweetly, “are these steaks for dinner or for your eyes?”
TWO
HAZEL DICKSON STEERED HER FIVE-YEAR-OLD Studebaker with her usual panache and joie de vivre toward the very swank Hotel Ambassador in the downtown area of Wilshire Boulevard. Her dented fenders and shattered left headlight were a testimony to her indifference to the safety of either herself or other drivers. Behind the wheel of her car as in life, Hazel’s philosophy was every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. She was in her twelfth year of waiting for Detective Herbert Villon of the Los Angeles police force to declare himself and make her an honest woman. On the other hand, if he ever got around to popping the question, she was terrified she might say “Yes” and give up her long fought for and treasured independence. She recognized Herb as a satisfactory boyfriend and lover, but saw a grim prognostication for his qualifications as a husband.
Hazel was o
ne of those rare creatures indigenous to the film industry. She gathered gossip and news items about celebrities and peddled them at fancy prices to gossip columnists and the Hollywood correspondents from all over the world assigned to the glamour capitol. More people swore by her than swore at her, which was a rare accomplishment in this treacherous town. She had friends in high places and very important contacts in low places. There wasn’t an unlisted number she didn’t know and she had a legion of faithful spies who supplied her with invaluable tips. One of the desk clerks at the Ambassador Hotel tipped her of the arrival of la Contessa di Marcopolo, a direct descendant of the famed Italian explorer, or so emphasized la Contessa tirelessly and tiresomely. Hazel knew better than to ignore the arrival of a fresh title in town. And the contessa and her entourage of two had commandeered one of the most expensive suites at the Ambassador. Hazel lost no time phoning la Contessa, explaining she had access to such powerful columnists as Louella Parsons, Hedda Hopper, Sidney Skolsky, Jimmy Fidler, and Harrison Carroll to drop the names of the five leading dispensers of gossip, mostly vicious. She also promised invitations to private screenings and world premieres. La Contessa was interested indeed in meeting some famous movie stars, to be invited to their homes and their parties. La Contessa did not express over the phone an ardent desire to meet Mayo Methot, Mrs. Humphrey Bogart. Subtlety was in order here, and if Hazel Dickson was to prove a powerful friend and ally, la Contessa must move carefully into her good graces. If necessary, she’d lend her Marcelo Amati. And if her pendulum swung in the opposite direction, Violetta Cenci was hers.
At the Ambassador, Hazel turned her miserable Studebaker over to a parking attendant she’d known and liked for years. He asked her his usual question about the auto, “When are you going to shoot this thing and put it out of its misery?” and was rewarded with her usual reply, “I’d sooner shoot you. Don’t park it next to any limousines. It has enough of an inferiority complex.”
In la Contessa’s suite, her highness was prepared to enchant and captivate Hazel Dickson. She wore her most alluring Coco Chanel hostess gown despite the fact it was three years old (how would the Dickson woman know?), and had room service stock the suite with liquors and liqeurs and a tray groaning under the weight of some beautifully arranged hors d’oeuvres. (Easy on the anchovies, she cautioned; la Contessa had a sodium problem.) Violetta was smartly dressed in the one suit she owned and Marcelo Amati had positioned himself against a French window leading to an American balcony, the sunlight behind him giving him a radiant halo that proclaimed here indeed sits a golden boy.
The desk announced Hazel Dickson, and Violetta told the clerk to send her right up. La Contessa settled onto the couch, cigarette smoldering in its holder. She instructed Marcelo, “You’ll see to the drinks, mi amore. Violetta, you’ll pass the refreshments. They do them much more creatively at the Hotel Flora in Rome.” She sighed. “How I wish I was having an aperitif at the Flora right now with Edda Ciano.” Marcelo advised her not to name-drop Mussolini’s daughter in the United States, and la Contessa said, “Oh dear, you’re right. One has to make so many adjustments.”
The doorbell buzzed and Violetta counted ten and then crossed to the door and opened it, favoring Hazel Dickson with what she hoped was an enchanting smile despite one discolored front tooth. “Miss Dickson?”
“Yes, I’m Hazel Dickson,” said Hazel briskly, with her own brand of enchanting smile.
Violetta closed the door and led Hazel across the foyer and into the sitting room where la Contessa sat in all her Coco Chanel glory, aided by strings of pearls around her neck and across her bosom. She lifted her right hand, a ring on every finger except the thumb, and around her wrist a display of bracelets that almost blinded a very impressed Hazel Dickson. Hazel held la Contessa’s hand as they exchanged greetings and then was introduced to Violetta and Marcelo Amati.
Hazel smiled at Amati while thinking, movie-star material. He’s gorgeous. I could eat him with a spoon. She and Marcelo shook hands and he offered her a drink. Hazel asked for a ginger ale, knowing if she started the gin martinis they'd be hauling her out of the suite on a stretcher.
Once all were seated and settled with drinks and hors d’oeuvres, Hazel said smartly, “So I’m the first to welcome you. I indeed feel privileged. Tell me, Contessa, are you just visiting or perhaps planning on settling here? We have so many refugees from the horrors in Europe.” She rattled off the names of directors, writers, and actors, and la Contessa acted suitably impressed. When Hazel paused to take a much-needed breath, la Contessa spoke, Hazel finding her accent more thick than charming. “I have always wanted to visit this famous city. And when circumstances made it necessary to flee my beloved homeland, we were most fortunate to receive visas and passage here.” She refrained from mentioning Edda Ciano’s assistance in securing the necessities.
“Have you seen much of America?” asked Hazel while sneaking looks at Marcelo Amati, who seemed to be wearing a permanent smile. His teeth were porcelain white and Hazel wondered if she was too old for him. Then in a flash she realized she wasn’t, not if he was la Contessa’s lover. God, she thought. Not really. But what the hell.
“Just a week in New York City and then directly here by train. That was a nightmare. So much shunting onto sidings to let troop and supply trains through. One would think this country was also at war.”
“We will be,” said Hazel matter-of-factly, “it’s unavoidable.”
“Oh, really?” said Marcelo. “What about your isolationists?”
“A minority. There’ll be a war. War means big bucks and we’re struggling out of the Depression and we need big bucks. Tell me, Marcelo, are you an actor?” La Contessa smiled a very small smile. The fish had taken the bait.
“Interesting you should ask. I have at times in the past given it some thought. You have heard of the actress Isa Miranda?”
Hazel acted startled. “Heard of her? Why she was a buddy of mine when she was at Paramount a couple of years ago making a pair of stinkeroos. Forgive me. I mean failures.”
“Isa was also a friend of mine,” said Marcelo warmly while la Contessa’s eyes were veiled with jealousy at the mention of Miranda’s name. “She made with me … oh how do you call it…”
I’d call it “whoopee,” thought Hazel.
“Ah yes … a screen test.”
“How’d it come out?”
“I never found out. With the confusing first days of the outbreak of war, I lost all contact with Isa. Anyway, I don’t think the time was appropriate to inquire as to the outcome of a screen test.”
Hazel gushed, “I’ll bet you photograph divinely. Now, I must interview la Contessa. Tell me, Contessa, are you truly descended from Marco Polo?”
“Indeed I am.”
“But you spell the name as one word.”
“It saves time.”
Marcelo explained, “The names were joined over a century ago by la Contessa’s grandfather.”
“Did you see Sam Goldwyn's movie about Marco Polo? It came out three years ago.”
La Contessa said with distaste, “I saw it out of curiosity. Absolute nonsense.”
“But he did go to China, didn't he?”
“Oh that's quite true. And he brought back the first samples of what the Chinese called Spa Get Ti. And now it is spaghetti!”
“Well, how about that! And I suppose he brought back all sorts of treasures. Jewels, tapestries, and all that jazz.”
“Oh, yes,” said la Contessa. “He returned to Venice with great wealth. Over the years, much of it was stolen, and equally, much of it was recovered. There are still certain items we are trying to trace.”
“Oh, really. Say, you’re not here on a treasure hunt, are you? This town goes looney over treasure hunts.”
“Does it really?” La Contessa and Marcelo exchanged looks. Violetta passed around the hors d'oeuvres tray. “Actually, there is one interesting object I would love to recover for my family.”
Hazel crossed her leg
s and leaned forward with interest. Marcelo wondered why she wasn't taking notes. He didn’t know Hazel had a memory like a steel trap.
La Contessa continued. “It’s a cornucopia.”
“A what?”
“A cornucopia. It is shaped like a conical horn. Not too large, but big enough to hold a wealth of valuable jewels.” Hazel whistled. “Cornucopias are also known as The Horn of Plenty.”
“That’s a horn I wouldn’t mind blowing,” said Hazel. “What’s become of it?”
“It has disappeared. It was a gift to Marco from the emperor of China. It was stolen shortly after Marco’s death. Later it was recovered and the thief’s hands were severed at the wrists and his eyes burnt out with hot pokers. Then he was tortured. For centuries there has been a game of cat and mouse thievery until it finally was recovered by my father, the Baron di Marcopolo.”
“And where’s your father?”
“He’s dead. He died on a ship making its way to China where my father rather generously was preparing to return the cornucopia to the Chinese government.”
Hazel looked and sounded perplexed. “Wasn’t that a bit rash of him?”
“We thought so. It killed my mother. She had a heart attack. When my father’s ship docked, there was no sign of the cornucopia. My father was supposed to entrust a letter with the ship's captain explaining the cornucopia’s fate. The captain was to have then delivered the letter to me. I never received the letter.”
“I see,” said Hazel. “Dirty work at the crossroads.”
Marcelo spoke. “Of course, there is the possibility there was no such letter. That it didn’t exist. And perhaps the cornucopia was not on board the ship.”
