by George Baxt
“Haven’t even read it.”
“Prepare yourself for eccentrics. I don’t mean movie type eccentrics I mean eccentrics so far out they’re on another planet.”
“I’ve drunk at the Garden of Allah’s bar.”
“That’s rehearsed eccentrics. New York transplants. Dottie and Alan and Lily and Dash and Prancer and Dancer and Donder and Blitzen. An endangered species. They’re getting old which is unavoidable. What’s sad is there’s no new generation to provide replacements. The war’s going to thin the herd. Some awfully talented kids are going to be robbed of their chance to be heard from.”
Somewhat shyly, Mallory said, “I wish I had a gift.”
“Why? It’s your birthday?”
“A talent. Something special.”
“For crying out loud, you’re a good detective. And by the time you retire, you might be a great one. And in my books that’s one hell of a gift.”
“Sometimes I want to write a screenplay.”
“Why bother? It’ll only be rewritten. Let’s talk about the ransacking murderer. We can discount a professional burglar. This one’s a mean killer and has bad manners. The very idea of murdering Hannah Darrow. So damned unnecessary.”
“Maybe it was someone she recognized.”
Villon smiled. It was his first smile of the day. It pleased him. It was a very welcome smile. Maybe it was someone she recognized.
“Jim, I could kiss you,” said Villon.
“Please don’t. I promised my father I’d stay heterosexual.”
“Who the hell could she have recognized? She never met the countess and her motley crew. The Bogarts have airtight alibis and are hardly about to wreck their own place. Any number of celebrities have been to the house but who among them ever heard of a cornucopia?”
“Or can spell it.”
“Right. Now where does that leave us?”
Jim Mallory stared ahead, deep in thought, his hands relaxed on the wheel. “For starters, it leaves us with dealers and collectors…”
Villon sang, “Alive alive oh!” He sank into thought and almost immediately re-emerged. “I wonder if Hannah Darrow had any occasion to visit art galleries or meet some dealers. What art I saw on the Bogart walls wasn’t exactly Matisse or Modigliani.”
Mallory was impressed. “You know Matisse and Modigliani?”
“Not personally. But I get around to museums and exhibits. Hazel scrounges a lot of invitations to opening night cocktail parties. Especially when that crazy antenna of hers tells her there'll be lots of celebrities and lots of gossip.” Mallory had been thinking. “I’ll bet the Bogarts have had the Edward G. Robinsons to the house.”
“Probably. So what?”
“Robinson's supposed to have a great art collection, worth millions.”
“So?” .
“So he’s a collector. Hannah Darrow would have recognized him.”
“Oh for crying out loud. Robinson a ransacker? A killer? What the hell would he want with a cornucopia?”
“If it’s our cornucopia he’d want what everybody else wants, the jewels inside.”
“Scrub Robinson. He doesn’t have a drop of ransacker killer’s blood in him.”
“There’s Hearst.”
“Let him stay where he is. Let’s consider the more likely candidates.”
“Such as?” asked Villon.
“Collectors. Dealers.” And after a pause. “Fences. And we’ve got a lot of fences in L.A. who need mending. Aren’t we in Venice yet? I see nothing but ramshackle huts and broken down shacks.”
“We’re in Venice. Forgive me for not taking the scenic route, but this is faster.” In the distance they heard the calliope strains of Venice’s celebrated carousel playing “On the Good Ship Lollipop.”
Herb Villon scratched his jaw. “Hazel might come in handy after all. She knows lots of dealers and collectors. I’m sure she knows who are the shady ones. Hazel is a connoisseur where that sort of thing is concerned. Why you making a turn?”
‘‘You can’t drive on Ocean Front Walk. I’m taking a wild stab that this is the area of the Curiosity Shop.”
Hammett and Hellman tailed Bogart in his car. Bogart was listening to the news on the radio and liking none of what he heard. Britain under bombardment, the U.S. escalating conscription. In World War I Bogart had been in the navy. He hated it. He was a seaman second class on the Leviathan and became a master at swabbing decks. An accident scarred his upper lip resulting in his slight lisp which had already become his trademark. Now he was just past forty and didn’t think he'd be called up. The country was not yet at war but it was inevitable. There were rumors that President Roosevelt was listening with interest to the overtures of the British to come on in, the water’s just fine. But there were the isolationists in D.C. who promised their constituents that they would see to it the United States would never participate. Let the Brits and the Axis fight it out between them. There was already Bundles for Britain and Battleships for Britain though these were just a few steps away from being condemned as scrap metal. Bogart thought about his fellow actors at Warner Brothers. He couldn’t see Cagney, Paul Muni, George Raft, Pat O’Brien, Alan Hale bearing arms. The younger ones would be called. Bill Lundigan, Herb Anderson, and, with any luck, that pain in the backside Reagan who kept insisting one day he’d be president of the United States. Bogart had advised him, “First learn how to act. The presidency is a great part. It’s almost as good as Hamlet.” Next he tried to envision Mayo as a war wife. It wasn’t easy. Mayo baking him cookies? She’d need a compass to find the oven. Mayo knitting him sweaters. It was easier envisioning her shearing sheep for the wool. Mayo collecting his life insurance accompanied by a swelling score by Max Steiner or Erich Wolfgang Korngold. From behind, he heard Hammett bearing down on his horn. Bogart looked to the right and saw a street that led to Ocean Front Walk. He beeped in reply to Hammett and then swerved to make the turn. He’d been advised there was a small parking lot at the end of the road on the left. The Old Curiosity Shop was to the right. The parking lot was empty. Villon and Mallory had not yet arrived. Bogart and Hammett pulled into the lot and parked adjacent to each other. Hellman emerged from the roadster and inhaled luxuriously. “Ah! That magnificent sea air! The Pacific Ocean!”
Hammett said to Bogart, “She will now erupt into a fit of coughing.”
Hellman erupted into a fit of coughing. Tears welled up and she struggled in her handbag for a tissue. Hammett said to Bogart, “By law there should be a large billboard erected here, proclaiming breathing fresh sea air can be injurious to your health. I just might write to the Chamber of Commerce.”
“If you do,” said Bogart leading the way to the Old Curiosity Shop, “don’t take any bets there’ll be somebody there who can read.”
EIGHT
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP WAS two stories high. The store occupied the bottom half and the top half contained the living quarters. The entrance was centered between two large display windows that contained relics and curios and various assortments of oddments that would probably bring a paean of joy to the lips of a pack rat. On the walk in front of the store, there was a variety of junk furniture, bins with used books and magazines and a rack of T-shirts, one of which appealed to Hammett. On it was the legend: I OWE, I owe, so OFF TO work I go. Hellman was several feet away from Bogart and Hammett, still recovering from her fit of coughing. She did not hear Hammett’s comment as he and Bogart admired a cigar store Indian. “Startling resemblance to Lily, don’t you think?” The facade of the store was a fair replica of the Old Curiosity Shop in London near the Tower of London. Bogart hoped it hadn’t been bombed out of existence.
Hammett was asking, “Lily, you all right?”
“I'm just dandy.” She slowly walked in their direction while rudely staring at the variety of Venice denizens that were at large. There were the ever-present body builders with their abnormally developed pectorals and biceps. There was an assortment of women, young and old, in various stages
of undress and overdress. Some girls wore bathing outfits that emphasized their humongous breasts, while others emphasized their oversize buttocks. Legs ran the gamut of unusually shapely to varicose veins. Peddlers hawked souvenirs or ice cream or custard or cold drinks. One could purchase souvenir scarves and gloves and anklets. There were any number of shops and cafes along the sea front and there were wooden tables and benches for picnickers. There was the usual quota of musicians, some playing reeds, some playing accordions, and one sturdy individualist sat at a portable organ belting out hymn after hymn, with a female companion banging a tambourine and a small boy, presumably their son, worked the strollers with hat in hand soliciting contributions.
Bogart was the first to enter the Old Curiosity Shop. The doorbell chimed the opening bars of “The Land of Hope and Glory.” Bogart left the door open for Hellman and Hammett who were slow in joining him, so caught up were they in the spectacle outdoors. Bogart was captivated by the charm of the premises, the thousands of items on display, their tackiness. There was a lot of art work and referring to most of it as art was an uncommon generosity. There were lots of Indian heads painted on wooden boards; there were lots of bad copies of a variety of the masters; there was a plethora of Art Deco items that Bogart figured were of value to certain collectors. He remembered as a child a woman friend of his mother’s who collected salt shakers, one of which was decidedly obscene. There was a tray of Indian arrowheads and a display of old weapons; knives, pistols, swords, sabers, and cutlasses. Behind the display stood an elderly man who was Bogart’s height. He had a voluminous shock of white hair and a white goatee. Bogart guessed his age as anywhere from the late sixties to the mid-seventies. On the bridge of his nose was a pince-nez attached on each end to a ribbon that hung around his neck. He wore a sleeveless shirt and slacks tied around his waist with a rope. There was certainly nothing ostentatious about this person, thought Bogart, so he must be terribly rich. Bogart indicated the weapons on display.
“That’s quite an arsenal you’ve got here, sir.”
“These? A mere bagatelle. I've many more impressive items in the basement.”
“Oh? Some really good stuff?”
“All my stuff, as you put it, is good stuff.” He removed the pince-nez. “It’s been a long time since you’ve honored us with a visit, Mr. Bogart. Where’s your delightful wife?”
“This week she’s doing her shopping in another city. You might have heard about the recent unpleasantness we’ve suffered.”
“I have indeed. So tragic about Miss Darrow.”
“You knew her?” It was Villon who had just entered with Mallory. Hammett and Hellman were still, outside, Hellman suffering from a slight case of biceps fever.
“Hello Herb,” said Bogart, “meet Edgar Dickens. Edgar, this is Detective Villon and Detective Mallory of the downtown precinct.”
“How do you do,” said Dickens affably. “Yes I did know Hannah Darrow. A lovely person. Terribly tragic, her death. I must remember to phone her daughter Lucy and commiserate.”
Hellman and Hammett had entered. Bogart introduced them to Edgar Dickens. Hellman gave Dickens a thorough going over. “Perfect type,” she said to Hammett.
“For what?”
“Courtly Southern gentleman, what else?”
Bogart reminded them, “Mr. Dickens is of British descent, isn’t that right?”
“Most assuredly,” said Dickens. Hellman wondered why did so many British sound so affected. It seemed that every time they left the United Kingdom for destinations overseas, their accents became more pronounced and exaggerated, especially actors. Then she said under her breath, “Jesus Christ, now what?”
From the rear of the store, through a set of beaded curtains that tinkled softly as she rustled through, there arrived Nell Dickens. Bogart had commented when he first encountered her that to fully appreciate Nell Dickens one had to be perfectly sober. She was five or six inches over five feet in height. She wore a calico dirndl that revealed surprisingly shapely legs. Her shoes were a simple variation of ballet slippers, laced at the ankles. Her blouse was a frilly piece of froufrou that Hellman decided had once wrapped a large box of imported fancy candies. But the face. The hair. On each of her cheeks was a perfect circle of blood red rouge. Her lips matched her cheeks in color. Hellman thought she’d been slaking her thirst at somebody’s neck. Her eyelids were outlined with heavy black kohl. The lids were painted a deep blue and her eyebrows were two slashes of black mascara. They looked like they had been shaved. Her hair was something else. It was egg yolk yellow and carefully coiffured long, thick curls hung down to her shoulders. More thick curls crowned her head. She looked like the sort of dolls they gave away as prizes at sideshows. Hellman didn’t even try to guess her age.
“Aha! My Nell!” Dickens voice had turned even fruitier. “My enchanting daughter. You remember Mr. Bogart.”
Nell advanced toward them slowly. “Of course,” she said in a voice surprisingly husky. Hellman had expected the sounds of a lute. “Mr. Bogart is unforgettable. I’m so sorry about what happened in your house last night. We are entering an era of anarchy. The brutes are taking control of the world. I feel the coming of Armageddon. The destruction of the world.”
“I hope not too soon, my dear,” said Hellman, “I’ve got a screenplay to finish.”
Nell’s eyes embraced Hellman, and it made the writer uncomfortable. Dickens introduced Nell to the others. “Ah! Detectives! It’s been so long since we’ve had detectives.” Nell’s curls shook and it seemed to Hellman they had lives of their own. She wondered if they had ever suffocated anyone Nell had slept with. Nell seated herself at what was purportedly an antique desk, and found a cigarette in a musical box that played “Yes! We Have No Bananas.” Mallory hurried to her with his lighter at the ready and prayed it wouldn't betray him. As he lit her cigarette, she said seductively, “I am always looking to the comfort of strangers, Mr. Detective.”
Villon interjected, “How long’s it been since you’ve had detectives?”
“You mean in the store?” she asked alluringly to the accompaniment of fluttering eyelashes, also coal black.
Villon chose to ignore the double entendre, while Hammett and Hellman exchanged glances. They’d be dining off little Nell Dickens for many nights to come. Hellman couldn’t wait to describe her to Dorothy Parker. “Do detectives visit here often?”
“Every time there’s a robbery of any consequence,” said Dickens. “After all, I buy. I don’t ask where the object for sale originated unless it arouses my suspicion. But according to reports, Mr. Bogart, nothing was stolen from your place.”
“Only its dignity. And a good person was murdered.”
A tragic wail enveloped them. Little Nell was clutching her ample bosom. “Our poor Hannah! How could this have happened to our poor benighted Hannah?”
Hellman whispered to Hammett, “I may scream.”
He replied, “If you don’t, I will.”
Villon said, “Have you got much in the way of cornucopias?”
“Oh not again!” It was an unfamiliar voice coming from the back of the store. From a wing chair there arose a slender man of slight height, with squinty eyes protected by rimless glasses and crew cut hair that made him look like a military brush. He wore a blue apron over faded blue jeans and a brown tee shirt.
“My God,” said Hellman, “could it be Roland Young?”
Edgar Dickens laughed. “A reasonable assumption as Mr. Young portrayed Uriah Heep in David Copperfield and this is my shop assistant who laughingly enough is called Sidney Heep.”
“I’m sure no relation,” said Hellman, “as Uriah Heep was fictional.”
Sidney Heep laughed. “There are those who think I am too. Ha ha ha. Actually, I’m the only Heep on this side of the ocean. There’s a heap of Heeps back in Blighty. We're not in touch.” He came closer to Villon and Mallory. “You’re detectives. I can tell by the way you slouch.” He turned to Hammett and Hellman. “You’re both literary
. I can tell by the snide asides.” Hammett introduced himself and Hellman to Sidney Heep who recognized the names with delight. “Capital! Capital! Two fine writers!” He concentrated on Hellman. “I didn’t much like your lesbian play. I don’t like lesbians. They worry me. They make me feel weak and ineffectual. You're not a lesbian, are you?”
“Not lately,” said Hellman wishing for a breath of fresh air despite the possible threat of a coughing fit.
Sidney Heep turned to Villon and Mallory. “Yes we have cornucopias, but not the one you’re looking for. Heh heh heh.” He sidled to a space next to Nell Dickens. “A crazy fat lady was here yesterday with two minions looking for cornucopias. We showed her everything we had, didn’t we Nell?”
“Well yes,” said Nell on the verge of another double entendre, “we showed her everything we had in the way of cornucopias, that is. Her boyfriend should have a frame built around him and be put on exhibit. He’s the sort of man who makes a woman glad she’s a woman, if you know what I mean.”
Bogart was wondering if that strand of hair Villon found in the house might be one of Nell’s. Villon was apparently reading his mind. Bogart heard him asking Nell, “Were you by any chance in the vicinity of Mr. Bogart's house last night?”
She smiled a rather vague smile. “There’s nothing very subtle about you, is there Mr. Villain.”
“Villon. As in Francois Villon.”
“The poet?” asked Sidney Heep somewhat shrilly.
“The poet,” said Villon.
“Well there’s nothing very poetic about you, sir. There’s never anything poetic about detectives. At least not the ones we’ve been getting. They’re poor imitations of Tommy Dugan and Fred Kelcey.”
Bogart explained Dugan and Kelcey were actors who specialized in fumbling comedy detectives.
Villon repeated his question to Nell.
“We shut the shop a little before ten and went upstairs for some supper and a couple of rounds of Monopoly.”
Villon indicated Heep. “He live here, too?”
