by George Baxt
Edgar Dickens said, “And most welcome. He’s an old friend and associate and there’s plenty of room.”
Villon asked Nell, “Miss Dickens, have you ever acted anywhere beside this store?”
For a moment her face froze. Then it relaxed as she rubbed out her cigarette in a tray. “Years ago, I was with a stock company back East. It was just a whim. I can't act.”
Oh yes you can, thought Bogart, you’re doing one hell of a job right now. If I could see what you’ve got under all that makeup, I might recommend you to Jack Warner.
“I don’t trust that fat thing,” said Sidney Heep, “claimed she was some kind of contessa.”
“La Contessa di Marcopolo,” said Bogart.
“You've met her?” screeched Heep.
“No, but my wife has. Seems her father and the contessa's father were buddies some time back.” He quickly recapped the story of the Baron di Marcopolo's fatal voyage.
Villon said to Edgar Dickens, “Sound familiar?”
Edgar Dickens replied, “Actually yes. The hunt for the cornucopia is an old story. It’s been dormant for quite a while. Actually Mr. Bogart, I thought its revival might be a publicity ploy for your new version of Mr. Hammett’s old story.”
“Now don’t be mean,” said Bogart affably, “Mr. Hammett’s old story is a hell of a lot better then any so-called new stories I’ve read in the past ten years.” He said to Villon, “If the countess has already examined their cornucopias, no need for us to waste any time.”
Edgar Dickens interrupted. “Surely you mean to speak to other collectors? There are several unscrupulous scoundrels at large in this city.”
“Yeah. Mostly they produce movies,” said Bogart.
Villon asked Dickens, “Any suggestions?”
“Well sir, you can’t expect me to be pointing a finger!”
“Why not?”
“That would be unscrupulous!”
Villon and Mallory exchanged glances. Villon asked Dickens, “You wouldn’t by any chance have some scissors on the premises?”
“Oh I have some incredible scissors. One dating back to the Revolutionary War.0
“It doesn’t have to have a history. Just any old pair of scissors will do. I only wish to borrow a snippet of Miss Dickens’s hair.”
Nell glared at him. She opened a desk drawer and produced a pair of scissors and handed them to Villon. Then she snatched the wig from her head and said, “Here, help yourself.” She had a close mannish bob.
“Sorry to see you snatch yourself baldheaded,” said Villon.
“I’m not bald. I happen to wear my hair close cropped as a convenience for the wigs.”
“You have more?”
“I have dozens. They’re upstairs in my bedroom. Care to look?”
“I believe you.” He snipped a strand of the wig and put it into a cellophane bag he kept in his pocket.
“Now really, Mr. Villon, you don’t think I wear this thing outside of Venice.” She shook the wig vigorously and then fit it back over her head. “Voilà!”
Hellman said to Hammett, “Fascinating morning. Why can’t I have more of them?”
“Mr. Dickens.” Villon’s tone of voice told Bogart he meant business. Dickens stared at him while running a hand through his thick mane of hair. “Was yesterday the first time you’ve met the contessa?”
“Yesterday was her first time in Los Angeles, or so she told us.”
“You might have met her in Europe.”
Dickens smiled. “Europe is a long time ago in my life.”
“So you’re British.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look particularly British. You’re so dark. Mediterranean.”
“Actually I'm from Wales. There’s a strain of Welsh that could easily be mistaken for Mediterranean. For instance, there's Ivor Novello. He’s a famous star in England. He’s Welsh. He’s very dark and very swarthy.”
“And incredibly handsome,” said Hellman. “I’ve seen him on stage in London. But he happens to have Italian antecedents.”
“A great many Italians emigrated to the U.K. and settled in Wales.”
Sidney Heep chirruped, “And tons of them landed in Australia.”
“Why?” asked Hellman, “faulty navigation?”
Villon zeroed in on Nell. “You don’t look anything like your father.”
Hellman said, “How can you tell?” Her remark was ignored out of kindness.
Bogart was wondering what the hell was going on. It was obvious Villon had taken an instant dislike to the inhabitants of the shop. He attributed it to the grotesquerie of Nell, though the weird Sidney Heep wasn’t all that easy to take.
Nell was working on a fresh cigarette. Mallory made no effort to light this one for her. He was afraid that while bending over Villon would kick him square in the butt, and where Villon kicked, no grass grew ever. Nell exhaled a perfect smoke ring in Villon’s direction by way of telling him to stuff it. “I favor my mother,” she said. “She was light-skinned, light-haired, and light-headed. She lit out, so Dad brought us to the States. Fate brought us to Venice. Anything else?” The two words were more a challenge than a question. Bogart was wondering if she could beat every man in the store at Indian hand wrestling. Sidney Heep and probably Dash Hammett for sure.
“You've got the silliest damn look on your face, Bogie,” commented Hammett.
“That’s because I’m entertaining some damn silly thoughts,” he said with a sly grin.
Villon said to the Dickenses, “Who referred the contessa to you?”
Nell Dickens crossed her legs and said smoothly with a tinge of venom, “A friend of yours, she said. “Hazel Dickson. She spent some time with the contessa yesterday. Mrs. Bogart was there too. The contessa is a very dedicated woman.”
“I think a very determined woman is a lot more like it,” said Bogart. “For a new arrival, in under twenty-four hours she certainly has stirred a hornet’s nest in this town. Herb, maybe it’d be safer to have her deported.” He saw the look Nell and Edgar exchanged. “Just kidding, folks. Lily, see anything you want to buy?”
“My freedom.” Hammett took her by the arm and guided her outside. They called their good-byes over their shoulders as they left.
Edgar Dickens said, “Oh dear. I had so wanted to show them my collection of literary autographs. I have George Eliot, Louis Bromfield, Booth Tarkington, Mary Roberts Rinehart.”
“You seem to have a lot of hidden treasure here, Mr. Dickens,” said Villon.
Dickens said with a sigh, “I keep promising myself to do an inventory. But every time I plan one I keep putting it off.” He stretched his hands out expansively. “Just look at what I’ve got here. And look what’s outside. And you’ve no idea what there is in the basement and the upper floor. I know, I know. I should stop stalling and get down to it. Who knows, I might find I have enough with which to retire. Are we ready for retirement, my dear Nellie?”
His dear Nellie said with a rasp, “I haven’t even had breakfast. Sidney, go upstairs and fix something.”
“What’s broken?”
She shot him a look that dripped with menace and he hurried to the back of the store and the door that led to both the upper floor and the basement.
“You got any more business here?” asked Bogart of Villon.
“Probably, but there’s always tomorrow.” He turned to Mallory. “Who knows Jim when I might next suggest we go to the Dickenses.” Without saying good-bye, he headed for the front door followed by Mallory who mumbled good-bye to father and daughter.
“It was nice seeing you again, Mr. Bogart. Remember me to your wife.” Edgar Dickens stood near his daughter, looking like the grandfather in Heidi, smiling benevolently.
Bogart said, “Sorry you couldn’t sell us anything. Maybe next time.” He made his exit to the chimes of “The Land of Hope and Glory” and wondered why he was feeling so dispirited.
As the door closed behind Bogart, Nell jumped up, tore the wig from
her head and flung it on the floor. “Temper, my dear, temper,” cautioned Edgar Dickens.
“Oh bugger off!” snarled Nell, hardly very Dickensian in talk or demeanor.
Outside, Hammett had spotted an outdoor cafe where the waiters looked fairly presentable, not always the case with Venice restaurants. They were usually unemployed actors or writers whose capabilities as waiters were usually restricted to filling glasses with water and distributing menus and then disappearing to the backyard for a smoke.
Bogart was recognized by the management and the few patrons at other tables but no special fuss was made and nobody asked for an autograph. Only tourists asked for autographs and the population of Venice was determined not to be mistaken for tourists. There was a young man in uniform, probably home on leave with a middle-aged couple who were probably his parents. The woman smiled at Bogart who nodded and then gave his attention to his four companions.
Bogart spoke first. “That little visit left me a little depressed.”
“A little depressed,” said Hellman, “one more minute in there and I’d have attacked my wrist with one of Mr. Dickens’s ancient razors.”
“I didn’t see any razors,” said Hammett. “Lily, you’re always seeing things I never see.”
“There was a tray of them next to a pile of what looked like opera gloves.”
Villon said, “I didn’t like that threesome at all. Dickens put me in mind of a defrocked priest.”
“He put me in mind of another Dickens character,” said Hammett. “Magwich in Great Expectations. You remember him, Lily.”
“Why sure, we were old buddies.” She was lighting a cigarette and wondering what kind of bribe it would take to get the attention of a waiter.
Hammett reminded the others, “He was the escaped convict who was young Pip’s benefactor.”
“I loathe young Pip. A parvenu upstart.” Hellman was staring at four waiters deep in conversation near the entrance to the main dining room. She snapped her fingers at them. “Yes you. The U.S.C. Hadassah.” A waiter tore himself away and came to the table. He brought with him menus and the personality of a porcupine in heat. When he recognized Bogart, he became suddenly mannerly.
Bogart took command. “Bring us pots of hot coffee and some muffins and bread and jam and butter. Can you manage that?”
“Doesn’t anyone want lunch?”
“Look, son,” said Bogart with the look usually reserved for the actor on screen he was about to bump off, “just bring what I ordered and if you can’t cope with it send over the manager.”
The waiter’s face reddened. “Yes sir. Right away, sir.” He hurried to the kitchen.
Villon said with a faraway look in his eye, “The escaped convict who was young Pip’s benefactor. I saw the movie. Henry Hull played Magwich. Magwich lost. What about the other two?”
“They’re unreal,” said Jim Mallory.
“Are you always given to understatement?” asked Hellman. “Little Nell was bizarre to say the least, and I’m being kind which doesn’t happen very often.”
“She looked like a drag queen,” said Mallory.
Bogart disagreed. “Too off the wall for a drag queen. And I’m a drag queen maven. I used to know a lot of them in Greenwich Village when I was playing those ‘Anyone for tennis?' juveniles on Broadway. The really good ones have a lot of class. They have to fight for what little respect they get so they dress expensively and act so subtly that you can’t tell what gender they are. Nell’s just an angry woman sticking her finger in the eye of the world and thumbing her nose for good measure. She was probably the meanest kid on her block. Caught flies, tore the wings off them, and then ate them.”
“How disgusting!” exclaimed Hellman while Hammett chuckled.
Bogart resumed. “Nell's a Venice fixture. She revels in her notoriety. It’s probably all the identity she's got. What else is there for her? A junk shop and the apartment upstairs. Bleak House. More Dickens. She’s probably hugging forty and reluctantly.”
“Unmarried,” said Mallory, conveniently forgetting there was a moment when the lady held some allure for him.
Bogart asked, “Is unmarried a crime?”
“That wasn’t meant as an insult. I meant maybe she’s frustrated that the only men in her life seem to be her father and that creep Heep.”
Hellman folded her arms and said, “I don’t believe for one minute those are their real names. Not for one minute.”
Bogart said, “You might be right. There are an awful lot of aliases out here in Southern California.”
“But not nearly enough alibis,” said Villon.
The waiter returned with another waiter bearing pots of coffee, baskets of bread and muffins, butter, sugar, cream, plates, napkins, and utensils. Hellman murmured, “Greeks bearing gifts. Beware them.” The waiters exchanged glances. Neither one of them was Greek, though each in his own mind thought he was an Adonis.
Villon said to Mallory, “Jim. Hate to ask you to do it now but we should check the precinct.”
“No problem,” said Mallory as a third waiter arrived with pots of jams and jellies. Mallory grabbed a muffin, split it open, slavered strawberry jam in it and set off for the parking lot.
Villon said, “Venice is notorious for its anonymity. I had a homicide out here once and it was hell. Took months to nail the guilty party when it should have taken days. What do you think, Bogie? You’re the actor. Are the Dickenses and Heep performing?”
“I think what we’re seeing are masks. Those people are hiding from something. I always felt that from the first time Mayo took me there. But you see, when I first met them, I liked them. They were charming. Nell wasn’t all that grotesque. She didn’t wear a wig. She had her own hair. Not blonde, by the way.”
“I couldn’t tell what color her hair was when she tore off the wig,” said Villon.
“It’s dyed,” said Hellman, “henna. Has anyone tried this blueberry jam? It’s absolutely gorgeous.”
“I’m so glad you’re happy,” said Hammett.
“Who the hell said I was happy? I’m just asking if anyone's tried the blueberry jam?”
“They also brought peanut butter,” said Bogart with undisguised distaste. “Did we order peanut butter? I can’t stand peanut butter especially when somebody else is eating it.”
“Off with their heads,” said Hammett regally.
Bogart was removing the peanut butter to an adjacent table when Hellman cried out, “Hey! I like peanut butter. Bring it back!”
Bogart placed the peanut butter back on the table. “There’s perverse and there’s perverse.”
“Listen, smart ass,” said Hellman, “you know who else likes peanut butter? The Lunts.”
Bogart asked, “What Lunts?”
“And Tallulah Bankhead. Though I dread to tell you how she eats it.”
Hammett said to Villon, “None of this pointless banter is getting you anywhere, is it Herb?”
“You know, Dash, it’s sometime the pointless banter that is the substance of some surprisingly solid substance. Bogie thinks we’ve seen masks. That threesome might be hiding from something. Banter, but very interesting banter. Are they hiding behind masks? Is it possible they’re not what they’re trying to look like? I happen to think that’s a pretty damned good observation. They been in Venice a long time, Bogie?”
“Search me,” said Bogart, pouring himself more coffee. “Mayo and I got hitched in August of thirty-eight, three years ago. She started her shopping sprees that Christmas. Of course I wasn't suspicious I had a demented woman on my hands because Christmas time almost everybody goes berserk with shopping for gifts. But a couple of weeks later Mayo is off and running again and running up bills and conning me into going with her when I wasn’t needed at the studio which isn’t too often. Jack Warner gets his money’s worth out of all of us. He makes Shylock look like a shrinking violet. Anyway, Mayo had been tipped about the Curiosity Shop so there we went. It looked then like it had been around a long time.
They seemed to know everybody who patronized the place. I know this: Heep is local. Told Mayo he used to teach drama. I’d hate to see his results but who knows, who can tell.”
“Maybe he’s having an affair with Nell,” suggested Hammett.
“Why?” asked Hellman.
“Because she's there,” growled Hammett, “and she's not getting any from the old man.”
Hellman said, “He could be an old goat, you know.”
“Well if he is,” said Hammett, “he’s probably happier sniffing around some other assortment of nannies.”
Villon said to Bogart, “Am I right in assuming Hannah Darrow was brought here by your wife?”
“Oh yes. Hannah went along with Mayo lots of times because I urged her to in order to try and put a rein on Mayo. Sometimes I wonder if Mayo’s a wife or a bad habit.”
“Don’t get maudlin on us, Bogart,” chided Hellman, “what we need is more helpful banter for Mr. Villon.” Villon said, “I think I know why they skipped searching the basement.”
“They?” asked Bogart.
“There had to be more then one. Jim Mallory hit on an idea on the drive here. He suggested Hannah Darrow was murdered because she might have recognized the ransackers.”
“I like that very much,” said Hammett, “very much indeed.”
Bogart snapped his finger. “Hannah went with Mayo to some of the galleries. She’s met some dealers. She was always giving out her special recipe for pineapple cheesecake.”
“Oh yes?” asked an alert Hellman. “How does it go?”
Hammett suggested a seance. “Why don’t we touch fingers and try to reach Hannah Darrow. It’s a lovely day for it.”
“Why don’t you take a flying hop?” countered Hellman. Jim Mallory was back. The look on his face told Villon there was trouble. “Out with it.”
Mallory sat. “There was another murder last night. An interior designer named Joshua Trent.”
Bogart whistled.
Villon said, “The Joshua Trent?”
“Could there be others?” asked Hammett innocently.
“When was it reported?” asked Villon.
“This morning. It was reported by his associate, someone named Ned Aswan.”
“Oh yeah,” said Bogart. “His protege.”
