by George Baxt
“On the far right you have Marie Antoinette in the kitchen at Versailles icing the cakes for the poor. Just below her is George Washington crossing the Delaware and he is violently seasick. To the right of George is Alexander Graham Bell phoning information for a number and below him is Betsy Ross tearing the flag apart because she’s displeased with the color arrangement.” She stopped speaking. They stared at her. She shut her eyes and after a few beats, reopened them slowly. “Gentlemen. I am psychic. There is a sword of Damocles dangling over both of your heads. There are ectoplasms of death surrounding your bodies.” Bogart considered screaming but didn’t want to alarm Herb Villon. “I know the tainted history of the cornucopia you’re looking for. It may be mine. It’s sealed. I’ve never tried to open it. I like things to be left intact. It’s depicted in a painting I sold to the Goldwyns. I know about your house being ransacked and your housekeeper murdered, Mr. Bogart. Quelle tragedie. And Mr. Villon, I know about the ransacking at Joshua Trent’s and his tragic death. Un autre tragedie.” She smiled. “I’ve taken up studying French. You’ll forgive my occasional Gallic interjections. Mr. Bogart, do you perhaps speak any French?”
Bogart said, “Un peu.”
“Oh you do, you do! How clever you are.” She had crossed to a wall behind them and stood in front of the portrait of a handsome man who seemed rather effete, or that was how Mrs. Harper had caught her subject. “This is Joshua Trent.” The portrait nowhere resembled the grotesque corpse they had seen earlier in the day. “The mouth is not as good as I wanted it to be because he never shut it. Talk talk talk a mile a minute. Gossip gossip gossip. But a kind man and a generous one. Of course you know he was murdered.”
“I'm assigned to the case. Remember the cornucopia.”
“Indeed. As there are those who remember the Maine.” She walked slowly back to them. “Then you’ve met Ned Aswan. I assume he inherits everything.” She smiled. “Being men of the world, we accept that they were a homosexual relationship.” She paused for a moment. “Thank God I never married a homosexual. They're so fussy about their kitchens. In the kitchen I’m a slob. My husband Archibald wouldn’t let me near it. His was the magic touch with aspics and kasha vamishkas. After his death, Letitia inherited the responsibility. She wields one hell of a can opener. But I have not digressed too far from the cornucopia to lead you back.” She was back in the chair. “Such a lovely design.”
“May we see it?” asked Villon.
“Mais c’est impossible.”
“You don’t have it?”
“I loaned it to a friend who admired it so and wanted it for the centerpiece of her Thanksgiving table. For weeks I’ve been trying to reach her by telephone but she doesn’t seem to be answering the phone. She’s a bit on the private side, a little reclusive I’d say though given to the occasional Thanksgiving gathering. She’s a bit of a mystic like me and given to long days of meditation. You know what the French always say, Cherchez la femme!”
Bogart groaned inwardly. He was hungry. He wanted to be seated at a table at Cantor’s and munching on a half sour pickle while making a selection from the vast menu that promised monumental indigestion. “I’ll phone my friend again.” She went to a sideboard where there was a telephone hidden under a doll wearing a voluminous eighteenth-century ball gown. First she opened a drawer for her address book. She found the number and then raised the doll revealing the telephone. Villon looked at Bogart and shrugged, and Mrs. Harper dialed. She hummed “La Marseillaise” while she waited and then spoke, “Kito? It’s Mrs. Harper again. I must speak to Mrs. Brabin.” Her sigh was one of vast exasperation. “I am tired of indulging your mistress. I’m sending two gentleman to collect my cornucopia. One is Mr. Villon who is a detective with the Los Angeles police department and with him is a very famous movie star, Humphrey Bogart.” They heard a screech coming from the phone. Mrs. Harper said, “Kito, control yourself. It’s only a movie star. It’s not the second coming of Christ. They’ll be there shortly.” She slammed the phone down. “Kito’s a fan of yours, Mr. Bogart.”
“I heard. I’m only a movie star.”
“I’d love to paint you, Mr. Bogart. You have a most revealing face.”
“Oh yes. What does it reveal?”
She said mysteriously, “Much more then you do. It was so nice having you.” She told them Mrs. Brabin’s address.
Villon said not without a trace of irony, “It was so nice being had by you. We’ll find our way out.”
Her voice sang in their ears as they left. “Remember! Those swords dangling over your heads! ‘Forewarned is forearmed.’”
Letitia had made her way back to the harp and plucked away at the strings. Villon recognized “I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You Rascal You.”
They hurried outside and into the car. Bogart lit a cigarette. He exhaled some smoke, turned on the ignition, let the engine warm for a few seconds and then said to Villon, “Eh, mon vieux, peut-être Cantor’s?”
Villon exploded. “For crying out loud stop the frog crap and let’s go to Canter’s!”
TWELVE
THE LOOK ON BOGART'S FACE was sheer bliss, as he and Villon waited to be seated. The hostess was a tall, vastly overweight bleached redhead with a fixed smile and incredibly long, ominous looking fingernails. Villon thought in her spare time she might be a professional wrestler. As she advanced on them standing behind a velvet rope, the fixed grin broadened into a smile that revealed a slash of purple gums. There were also teeth but the gums predominated. Bogart recognized her from earlier visits.
“It's been so long since we’ve seen you, Mr. Bogart. Remember me? I’m Pearl. I'm sure you don’t remember my name, nobody does.” She smiled at Villon. ‘‘And you are?” head cocked slightly like a near-sighted pouter pigeon.
“Hungry,” said Villon taking no pains to mask his impatience with oversized and over aged coquettes.
Bogart intervened. “This is Detective Villon, he always gets his man.”
Pearl asked with a sly smile, “Does he always get his woman?”
Villon stared at her. “Does he maybe get seated and a shot at the menu?”
“Would you prefer a booth or a table?”
“A booth. How about that one straight ahead next to the one holding some people we know.” Bogart nudged Villon with an elbow. Bogart’s eyes directed Villon to the booth in question. He saw Sidney Heep with a woman he didn’t recognize.
“Who’s the broad?” asked Villon as Pearl unclipped the velvet cord and indicated they follow her.
“Her name's Lucy Darrow.”
“Any relation to your housekeeper?”
“Her daughter.”
“Well now isn't this a how-dee-do,” said Villon.
“How-dee-do,” repeated Pearl, “I recognize that. It's Gilbert and Solomon.”
Sidney Heep saw them coming and under the table nudged Lucy Darrow with his knee. This annoyed her and she looked at him questioningly. His eyes led her to Bogart and Villon. Bogart now saw both were nursing draught beers. The dish of sour pickles, sour tomatoes, red peppers, and sauerkraut seemed untouched. Bogart hungered to attack it.
“Well Lucy, what an unexpected pleasure seeing you twice in one day. Meet Mr. Villon. He’s a detective. He’s trying to find your mother's killer.”
Pearl said, “I’ve left menus on your table. Enjoy your lunch.” Bogart thanked her and she favored him with gums again as she walked away.
“Mr. Heep,” began Villon, “you’re a long way from home.”
Heep squinted up at him from behind his glasses. “I’m making my rounds. Today I see dealers and collectors. See what they’ve got to sell. Find out what they might be interested in buying.”
“Come across any cornucopias?” asked Villon.
“No,” snapped Heep. “I’m having a bad day. A very bad day. It began with you people this morning and then Joshua Trent is killed and we were old friends. The only nice thing to happen to me today was running into Lucy and she’s in mourni
ng for her mother.”
“Say Heep,” asked Bogart, “you know an artist named Angelica Harper?”
“She’s nuts.”
“So you know her. You deal with her?”
“Her stuffs too expensive. She thinks she’s Mary Cassatt reincarnated.”
“Some of her stuff is pretty good, I think,” said Bogart. “She’s got an interesting portrait of Joshua Trent. He was a pretty good-looking guy.”
“Pretentious.”
“The portrait or the subject?”
Heep said, “I knew Joshua Trent when he was a snotty hustler trying to work some of our richest boobs.”
“I guess he succeeded,” said Bogart.
“He certainly did.”
“I thought you said you were old friends.”
“We most certainly were. Joshua bought a lot of tchotchkes from us. So? I don’t mince words. He began as a snotty hustler and became terribly pretentious. Terribly grand and terribly rich. I'm not telling you anything I didn’t tell him.” He said to Villon. “Are you assigned to Joshua’s murder, too?”
“It all comes under the umbrella called cornucopia,” said Villon. “Got any theories?”
“About what?” asked Heep.
“About who’s the crazy behind these ransackings and the killings?”
“I’m not one given to theories. If I was, I’d be in detective work.”
“How about Dickens and Nell? They discuss it with you after we left this morning?”
“You were very rude to Nell. You shouldn’t be rude to Nell. Just because she’s so garish and otherworldly. Nell’s an original. She’s very clever. A very smart businesswoman.”
Bogart asked Lucy, “You find a dress for your mother, Lucy?”
“I’ve seen some potentials.” She indicated a notebook on the table. “I’ve jotted them down. I suppose I’ll be at it all day. Maybe tomorrow, too. Mr. Villon, when can I find out when my mother’s body will be released? I’ve made a reservation for her at Utter McKinley’s funeral parlor. It wasn't easy. They're very heavily booked. They’ve given me a selection of times for the chapel. I’ve got a priest standing by. Everything’s set. All I need is my mother.” Heep patted her hand. She gave him what Bogart supposed was a grateful look. “It was Mother who introduced me to the Curiosity Shop. I found it very curious. Mr. Heep has been very kind. I’m so glad we ran into each other today.”
Bogart said, “We'll let you get on with your lunch.”
“It’s taking an awful long time,” said Lucy. “The restaurant’s very crowded.”
Bogart nudged Villon. “Let’s order.” They said their good-byes and went to their booth. Bogart attacked the dish of relishes and selected a half sour pickle. He munched contentedly as he opened the menu. Villon was preoccupied. “What’s bothering you, Herb?”
“Lots of things are bothering me.”
“Such as?”
“Those two in the next booth, for instance.”
“Careful, they might hear you.”
“With all this din going on around us? They’re lucky if they can hear each other.”
“What about them?”
“They didn’t happen to run into each other.”
“You’re positive?”
“No, I’m not positive. But I trust my instincts.”
“What are you going to eat?” asked Bogart.
“Whatever it is, I’ll regret it.” Villon studied the menu. Bogart saw Lucy and Heep leaving.
“They’re leaving.”
Villon peered around the edge of the booth. “I don’t think they ate any lunch.”
Bogart said, “I don’t think they ordered any.”
“Then why come to Cantor’s?”
“Because it’s one of those places where they don’t expect to run into anyone they know.” Bogart smiled. “What’s the matter, Herb. Didn’t you ever make dates with women you didn’t want to be caught seeing?”
“All the time,” said Villon with the air of a practiced man about town. “I never thought of meeting a date in this place.”
“Why? You an anti-Semite?”
“Oh shut your face. Me an anti-Semite. I like that a lot. Hazel Dickson is not Hazel’s real name.”
“No kidding. What's her real name?”
“I can’t pronounce it. Neither can Hazel. That’s why she took Dickson.” A waiter stared down at them. He had a large Adam’s apple and his ears stuck out. He reminded Bogart of the comic strip character Happy Hooligan. He stood with pad and pencil poised for their orders.
“Are you ready to order?” asked the waiter in a thick, middle-European accent that made Bogart curious.
“Where you from?” asked Bogart.
“Don’t ask,” said the waiter with a sigh.
“You’re a refugee, aren’t you?”
“Everybody on earth is a refugee. We are all looking for a safe harbor. Some of us will find our safe harbor and the less fortunate won’t. That is Kossow’s law.”
“Who's Kossow?” asked Bogart.
“Me.”
Bogart laughed and order a triple-decker special. Villon decided on a sardine and mayonnaise on white bread and heard the waiter say under his breath, “Goy.”
Bogart asked the waiter, “You an actor, Mr. Kossow?”
He hit the right nerve. “An actor? Am I an actor? You want to know who I am? You have heard of Stanislav Kossow?” He held up a hand. “Don’t speak! Of course you have not heard of Stanislav Kossow. You have not had the glorious opportunity to see him! My Hamlet! My Macbeth! My Romeo! My etceteras! In Czechoslovakia I am their Laurence Olivier. You asked where I come from and I said ‘Don't ask,’ well now you know why I warned you. Mine is another of the hundreds of thousands of tragic stories that cross the thresholds of this free world. Yes, Mr. Bogart. I recognize you. Don’t look so modest. You’re a star. Make the most of it.” He leaned forward with his eyes popping. “Because it won’t last forever?”
“He’s giving me the creeps,” said Villon in an aside. Kossow looked over his shoulder to ascertain if Pearl was within hearing distance and scold him. “Mr. Bogart, I will do anything. Bits, extras, walk-ons.” He smiled. “Perhaps you can arrange a screen test?”
Bogart said, “Call me at the studio tomorrow. I’ll leave your name at the switchboard. Stanislav Kossow.”
“You remember my name?”
“Why not? I only heard it a minute ago.”
Villon pleaded, “Kossow, will you please place our orders?”
“Immediately! At once! Mr. Bogart, I kiss your hand!” He hurried off.
“Who knows?” said Bogart, “he might be the next ‘Cuddles’ Sackall.”
Villon asked Bogart, “You think Heep and Lucy Darrow are what the columnists might call ‘a thing’?”
“Maybe. What if they are. What’s it got to do with the case?”
“How do I know? I’m open to all suggestions. I’ve got a clueless case to deal with.”
“What about that strand of hair from my place?”
“Unreal. Useless. That's why I thought it might match that wig of Nell’s. But I don’t think she wears that thing anyplace but in the store. She’d stand out like the red light over the entrance of a whorehouse. I also think there’s more to the Curiosity Shop than meets the eye.”
“Such as?”
“Edgar Dickens. That trace of an accent. I’ve got a good ear for accents. I come up against them all the time and I know how to identify them.”
“Always on the nose?”
“Give or take. Dickens’s accent is not Welsh. Because the Welsh, they have a lovely lilt to their voices. A cousin to the Scotch brogue.”
“The brogue is too thick for me.”
“Okay, then an Irish accent. I mean a real homegrown Irish accent, not an exaggeration like Barry Fitzgerald’s.” He speared some sauerkraut. “I’m telling you Dickens is from somewhere on the Mediterranean Sea. Italy’s my guess.”
“I didn’t notice any statues
of Christ or nuns or crucifixes in the shop.”
“They’re there,” he stated positively. “Upstairs someplace or in the basement.”
“What’s all this got to do with the cornucopia?”
“I don’t know. I’m shadowboxing. I’m catching flies. That's how it always is with me at the beginning of a case. It’s like running into an alley and finding there’s no way out at the end. You got to turn around and go back and follow something else. Very frustrating. Very aggravating. Very stimulating. By God here’s Kossow with our order. How’d you get it so fast, Stanislav?”
“I promised they would cater my big party!” he told them eagerly as he placed their sandwiches on the table.
“When you having this big party?” asked Bogart.
“When I sign my contract with Warner Brothers! And you are both positively invited!”
Bogart didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Now this is a very impressive piece of real estate,” said Villon to Bogart as they pulled up in front of the Brabin estate in Brentwood.
“Why does a dame who lives in a palace like this have to borrow a cornucopia for a Thanksgiving dinner center-piece?”
“That’s why she lives in such splendor and elegance. She’s thrifty.”
“Or has a rich husband.”
“Who is also thrifty.” Villon suggested Bogart drive up the circular roadway and park next to one of several impressive pillars at the front of the house. Bogart drove in and parked under a shade tree.
“Mrs. Charles Brabin,” said Villon. “That name strike a bell?”
“I don’t have any bells for it to strike. There’s somebody peeking out at us from an upstairs window. Feel like playing Living Statues?”
“Let's not horse around. I've got to be taken seriously.” They were now standing at the most impressive front door with its sculpted panels and an immense door knocker that might have been silver. “I don’t think I can lift this knocker,” said Villon.
“You don’t have to. There’s a bell button.” Bogart’s index finger connected with the bell button that was in a side panel to the right of the door. More chimes. Villon thought just about everyone in Hollywood must have a set of chimes attached to their door. These chimes played “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” and from behind the door, though slightly muffled, sounded ominous and foreboding. The sky was clouding over and Bogart feared they were about to lose their bright, sunny day. They heard the pitter-patter of what might be tiny feet hurrying to the door. The door was pulled open by a diminutive Japanese man who was smiling from ear to ear and, thought Bogart, beyond the ears.
