by George Baxt
“Welcome, Humphrey Bogart, welcome.” He bowed several times. “It is an honor to welcome you to my house!”
“You’re Mrs. Charles Brabin?”
“Oh no. She is meditating but will soon be finished. I am Kito, a most important member of the household without whom the Brabins could not survive.”
Modest little devil, thought Bogart. Kito ushered them into the downstairs hall, shut the door and then scurried in front of them, leading the way to a huge, rococo furnished and decorated living room. The clock had been turned back, and this was at least two decades ago. Everything was brocades and velvet and a grand piano with a Spanish shawl draped across it. An original Tiffany chandelier hung from the ceiling and across an oversize divan was thrown a leopard skin. There was a polar bear skin on the floor, the bear's head oversize and its mouth open, revealing ferocious teeth. There were several end tables that held lamps with bases that were the heads of saints or Egyptian houris with legs extended and quaintly enough, Bo Peep with her crook looking not for her sheep but as though she was dying to get laid, or so thought Villon. He was given to flights of erotic fancy on the rare occasion he found himself in such exotic surroundings. This was a touch of old Hollywood, the Hollywood that was once so gloriously outrageous. The Hollywood of the woeful scandals that brought down such celebrities as “Fatty” Arbuckle, William Desmond Taylor, Wallace Reid, Mabel Normand, and countless others.
A strange, sickeningly sweet odor attacked their nostrils. Bogart looked around and saw Kito lighting a stick of incense protruding from the belly button of a statue of Buddha in the comer of the room. Bogart noticed an exquisitely wrought marble staircase leading up to a pair of blood-red drapes that hid, probably, a hallway. At the foot of the staircase was a good-size gong.
Bogart realized he hadn’t identified Villon and corrected the oversight. Kito bowed to Villon who was wondering if the little man’s name was on a secret roster of Japanese names compiled by the FBI for immediate round-up and detention in the event of a war with Japan. Bogart, among others, was perplexed as to why in some quarters Japan was seen as a possible threat to the nation’s security. He studied Kito. This little man a threat? He realized Kito was holding a pen and an autograph album under his nose.
“Please Mr. Bogart, would you sign my album?”
“Sure,” said Bogart, and scribbled his name.
“Oh sir, please. Above your name please write ‘To my good friend Kito.’ “
Bogart smiled. “No problem.”
“Oh sir, you are truly my most favorite actor in all the world. I see your pictures many times. I have seen High Sierra eight times.”
“No kidding? By now you should have built up an immunity to it.”
Villon glanced at his wristwatch. He was anxious to get on with it. “How much longer will Mrs. Brabin be at her meditation?”
From upstairs, they heard a bell tinkle.
“Aha!” said Kito. “The meditation is completed. Madam will be preparing to descend.” He hurried to a cabinet, opened its doors and exposed a Victrola. He wound it up hastily and then placed the arm holding the needle into the starting groove. They heard the haunting strains of “Pale Hands I Love Beside the Shalimar.” Kito hurried to the gong and struck it three times very slowly. It reverberated through the room. Kito hit a light switch at the foot of the stairs that were now enveloped in a clear, pink light. At the head of the stairs, a woman's hands parted the bloodred drapes. They saw a middle-aged woman wearing a black dress that reached her ankles and covered her arms. Her rich raven-colored hair was pulled tightly back from her head ending in a lavish chignon. Her face was alabaster white. Her lips were richly ruby red as were her fingernails. Slowly she descended the stairs staring down at Bogart and Villon. They heard Kito declare, “Gentlemen, Mrs. Charles Brabin.”
Of course, thought Bogart, of course. Charles Brabin had been a film director but it was his wife who had garnered the celebrity. Mrs. Charles Brabin. I’ll be damned. He wondered if Villon recognized the greatest vamp of the silent cinema, Theda Bara.
THIRTEEN
“HOW NICE TO WELCOME YOU to my home, Mr. Bogart.” Her voice was a mellifluous contralto. She was smiling at Villon. “And Mister … ?”
“Detective Villon.”
“Oh my. Is there some fine I’ve forgotten to pay?” The men shook hands with her and Bogart marveled at how youthful she looked until he realized she couldn’t be much older than him. She’d made her last film fifteen years earlier and at the time was not quite thirty years old.
Villon said, “Angelica Harper sent us. She phoned to let you know we were coming.”
“She spoke to your servant, Kito,” said Bogart.
She was draped across the sofa on the leopard skin. Bogart and Villon sat in chairs opposite her. Bara snapped her fingers at Kito and told him to shut off the Victrola and to kill the blue light on the staircase. Without asking if either man cared for some, she told Kito to bring tea. Kito bowed and backed his way out of the room still grinning at Bogart who didn’t quite know how to respond or if he was expected to.
Mrs. Brabin said to Bogart, “Don’t be discomforted by the perpetual smile. We never know if he’s happy or if he’s dyspeptic. At times we wait, after Kito has left the room, if the smile remains behind like Alice’s Cheshire cat. Kito can also be terribly forgetful. He did not give me the message. I don’t scold Kito because then he sulks and the atmosphere becomes unbearable.” She smiled at Villon. “Are you selling tickets to the policeman's ball? My husband and I don’t socialize very much but we’re happy to give donations for widows and orphans.”
“I’m not selling,” said Villon, “I’m investigating.”
“I see,” her voice was subdued but her face showed curiosity. “And for some reason your investigation has brought you to me.”
“You borrowed a cornucopia from Miss Harper,” Villon reminded her.
“Yes. This past Thanksgiving, an interesting object. I wanted it that one time for a table decoration. I knew I’d never use it again and there was no point in buying one of my own. So I borrowed hers. All terribly simple. Oh dear. I suppose she’s still irked I didn’t invite her to the dinner. I couldn’t. There were ten guests and my husband and myself. That’s twelve. Had I invited Angelica, that would have made thirteen at the table. As you know, superstitious people consider thirteen a very unlucky number. Kito is terribly superstitious. He won’t serve a table holding thirteen people. Kito is priceless.” Her smile was a tacit request for understanding. “Angelica isn’t.”
“There’s always somebody who’s expendable,” said Bogart. “Especially in Hollywood.”
“Yes, in time it happens to many of us.” There was a warm twinkle in her eye. “I think you recognize me, Mr. Bogart.”
“You haven’t changed a bit. You look the same. Maybe my friend here doesn’t recognize you. Herb, the lady was very famous once. Theda Bara.”
Villon brightened. “That’s who you are! I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.”
Mrs. Brabin leaned forward. “Tell me, is there a connection with the murder in your home, Mr. Bogart, and that of my dear friend Joshua Trent to Angelica’s cornucopia?”
“Do you know the legend of the cornucopia?” She didn’t and Bogart told her. Kito brought the tea and served it along with some excellent petit fours.
“And you think when you find the cornucopia you will have found your murderer?” She was nibbling a biscuit and knew she shouldn’t be. She had gained weight and had been advised by her doctor to lose it. She loathed advice.
Villon said, “I don’t know that at all. If you have the cornucopia, I don’t think you murdered for it.”
“Why not? I was famous for my interpretations of monstrous vampires. Sometimes life imitates art.” She laughed. “Quite honestly, I wouldn’t know how to commit a murder. I'm a nice Jewish girl from Detroit who had fame thrust upon her by a ruthless producer named William Fox. But unlike the fame, the name Theda Bara lives
on. I'm always in crossword puzzles! ‘Vamp Bara! Twenty-one Across.’” A troubling thought assailed her. “Mr. Villon, if I were in possession of the cornucopia, I’d be in danger of being ransacked and murdered.”
“It’s a possibility.” said Villon.
“Well what a relief. I don’t have the cornucopia.’’
“Where is it?” asked Villon.
“As far as I know, it’s back with Angelica.”
“But it isn't,” said Villon, “that’s why she sent us here.”
Mrs. Brabin was on her feet and pacing. “Now that’s very odd. I know I gave it to someone to bring to Angelica. Well, Angelica is so flighty, she might have forgotten it was returned to her. Oh wait a minute! I remember! I entrusted it to Karen Barrett! She lives near Angelica and said it would be no problem to drop it by the next day. Do you suppose she didn't?”
“Looks like it,” said Villon.
“Now that’s not very nice of her. Do you at all remember Karen Barrett? For a while there she was very successful as a serial queen. You know, like Pearl White and Ruth Roland. Her big success was The Terrors of Thomasina. It was fifteen chapters of absolute nonsense in which she disguised herself as an alley cat and went around rescuing people from predicaments they had no right getting themselves into. This is terribly naughty of her.” She crossed to the gong and gave it a thumping whack. “Poor Karen’s been having a hard time of it. She’s been on welfare. I have her for dinner as often as possible though she makes my husband nervous. Poverty tends to give him the hives. Other people’s poverty, that is.” Kito entered and of course remembered to bring the smile with him. “Kito, please phone Karen Barrett. I don’t remember her number.”
“I remember the number, Mrs. Brabin. I remember all your numbers, Mrs. Brabin.” He went to the table at the far end of the couch and dialed.
Mrs. Brabin was back sitting on the couch. “Like too many of the silent era, Karen didn’t invest wisely. Nor did she marry wisely all four times. Charles and I, as you can see, are among the fortunates. When I was a Fox star I got stock from the old Fox and it has multiplies! and now it’s Twentieth Century-Fox.”
“Not bad,” said Bogart.
She shrugged. “The tip of the iceberg.”
Bogart said to Villon, “What’s that crazy look on your face?”
“Where’s Jim Mallory? Where’d we lose him?”
“Maybe he decided to go back to the station. We passed him in the car checking the precinct on our way to Angelica Harper.”
“He was probably called back,” said Villon. “And no way of telling us. I’ll check in as soon as Kito is off the phone.” Kito had been off the phone for a while waiting for a chance to speak. He finally caught Mrs. Brabin’s attention. “Yes, Kito? What about Miss Barrett?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, the phone has been disconnected.”
“Oh dear, that doesn’t bode well, does it. Perhaps it’s just a matter of her being delinquent with her bill. Kito, give the gentlemen Miss Barrett's address.” She said to Villon, “I assume you want to check into this.”
“Very definitely. Mrs. Brabin, may I use the phone? I’d like to call my precinct. I seem to have misplaced my associate.”
“Please do.” As Villon availed himself of the phone, Mrs. Brabin said to Bogart, “Is detective work your hobby, Mr. Bogart?”
“No, not at all. I’m with Villon because of the murder and the ransacking in my house. Some other friends of mine were along with us but they dropped out.”
“Isn’t it rather unusual for detectives to let outsiders tag along with them?”
“Herb Villon isn’t your everyday run-of-the-mill detective. He’s a maverick. He hears a different drummer. If I was in the way, he’d get rid of me. But Herb likes someone along with him and Jim … Jim Mallory. His associate. Nice young man with a tendency to occasionally wander off as like right now. When last seen he was reporting to the precinct on his car radio. Maybe he was called back.”
“Maybe he was kidnapped,” suggested Mrs. Brabin, as though kidnapping was a common occurrence.
“No, he’s quite safe,” said Villon, returning from the phone. “He's at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital.” Bogart was startled. “Ned Aswan tried to commit suicide.” Bogart was on his feet.
“Joshua’s Ned Aswan?” asked Mrs. Brabin. When Villon said “Yes,” she said, “Oh how terrible! Kito! You must take him some chicken soup.” Kito was handing Villon a slip of paper on which he had written Karen Barrett’s address. Villon slipped it into a pocket.
“Is it bad?” Bogart asked Villon.
“When is it ever good. He drank poison. Something they use on furniture. He’s in a coma but they think he'll come out of it.”
“You going over to the hospital?” asked Bogart.
“No need to. Nothing I can do. Jim’s got it covered. The place is swarming with reporters and photographers and the big question from them is, did Ned Aswan commit the murder.”
“Oh for crying out loud,” said Bogart.
“Right,” agreed Villon. “He was in Santa Barbara when the murder was committed. Jim checked the people Ned was with. He’s got a solid alibi.”
Mrs. Brabin said softly, “I had no idea love could be so powerful.”
Bogart said, “Maybe it was fear.”
Mrs. Brabin said, “Oh. Do you suppose he thought the murderer might come back for him?”
Bogart said, “He wasn’t afraid of dying. The suicide attempt is your proof. He was afraid of living. That’s my theory and I'm not all that much of a philosopher. Thanks for the hospitality, Mrs. Brabin.”
“My dear Mr. Bogart, it was hardly any trouble and very much worth it. I haven’t had such a wonderful time in ages. Cornucopias, murders, ransackings, a suicide attempt. I can’t wait for Charles to get back. He’ll never believe a word of it.”
Kito chimed in. “Oh Kito will back you up.”
“He’ll believe it even less. Good-bye, gentlemen. I do so hope we’ll meet again but under happier circumstances.” She followed them out and stood in the doorway of the house, waving as they got into the car. Bogart beeped the horn by way of farewell and Mrs. Brabin’s face beamed a splendid smile.
Nell Dickens was pacing back and forth in the rear of the shop, puffing a cigarette and sounding very agitated. “You had to meet her at Cantor’s. Half of Hollywood eats in Cantor’s!”
“Did I know Bogart and the cop would show up?” Sidney Heep was not happy.
“What’s the fuss?” asked Edgar Dickens. “You and Lucy are acquaintances. You ran into each other. Cantor’s was convenient. Why behave as though a crime was committed?” Nell started to speak but Edgar Dickens cut her short. “You’re both making too much of this. So Villon thinks I’m Italian. Well, he’s a pretty smart dick but I’m not easy to trace. It’s years since I left Italy. I served my sentence. I paid my debt to society or whatever corny phrase you care to substitute. I’m sure Mr. Villon has never heard of Nino Brocco. Why should he? He was a small boy when Nino Brocco was arrested for forging fake art treasures. Nino Brocco has been Edgar Dickens for a very long time now. Edgar Dickens is an American citizen.”
“You fraud,” snorted Nell.
“The dead man was an American citizen. When I took his name from a stone in the cemetery, I checked on him and he was indeed a born and bred American. Forging the appropriate documents reincarnating myself as Edgar Dickens was child’s play.”
Dickens was seated at his desk and Nell stared down at him. “Villon is a very smart cop. If he thinks he’s on to something with you and your possible Mediterranean origins, if he needs to he’ll try to make something of it. He’s got two murders to solve.”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” said Dickens. “You know I didn’t kill anybody.”
Heep piped up. “You’re forgetting something.”
“What?” snapped Nell.
“La Contessa di Marcopolo. For an old lady, she has a very sharp memory.”
“Why not. D
ecades ago I deflowered her. A woman never forgets the man who took her virginity.” He smiled. “She was so easily seduced.”
“She could make trouble,” said Nell. “She as much as threatened it yesterday. She worries me.”
“She won’t make trouble,” said Dickens confidently.
“She will if she doesn’t retrieve the cornucopia,” said Heep.
“She never had the cornucopia so she has nothing to retrieve,” said Dickens.
“She’s determined. I think she’s dangerous.”
Dickens said, “It’s as though this murderer had access to my records. I’m very meticulous about who we do business with. Who sold to us. Who bought from us. Who traded what with us. The Bogart tragedy, of course, is related to the ransacking of his mother-in-law’s apartment. That of course had to be Marcelo Amati and Violetta Cenci. But they didn’t have murder on their minds. They tricked the woman out of the apartment. But the Bogart ransacking is something else. It wasn’t them. They wouldn’t have killed the housekeeper. Someone else has taken over. I’m sure Herbert Villon is smart enough to be thinking along the same lines. You know something, Nell?”
“What?”
“At this moment, I don’t think it’s such a good idea for anyone in this town to admit to owning a cornucopia. Especially a sealed one. Sidney, give me that green ledger on the table there. I want to see who we’ve sold and traded the blasted things.”
Nell said, “We’d have known if we had the right one. It must be damned heavy.”
