by George Baxt
“True. Lots of sealed cornucopias are darned heavy, filled with all kinds of objets d’art. Who knows? Maybe we had it after all.”
Nell said unpleasantly, “You trying to give me a stroke?”
“You’re not the stroke type, my dear.” He took the ledger from Sidney Heep and riffled the pages. The pages were stiff from age. There were water stain and food stains and little chicken scratches that Dickens didn’t bother to decipher because he knew he couldn’t. He lingered over a few transactions because they evoked pleasant memories of bargaining and friendly haggling. That’s what buying and selling and trading had been about. How shrewdly could you beat the other guy down.
Hannah Darrow. Joshua Trent. There would be more killings. And if he knew it, Herbert Villon knew it. Dickens wondered who beside himself had a register of cornucopia owners. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary. Perhaps there was but one authentic one. The one the Baron di Marcopolo entrusted to Jack Methot. Where had Jack Methot stashed it? Had he in turn entrusted it to anyone. His daughter Mayo? “Such a sigh, Edgar,” said Nell, “such a long, long sigh.”
“Such an awful predicament. And such fruitless murders, I think.” He slammed the ledger shut. “The hell with it. Let Villon do his own solving.”
Joshua Trent’s secretary, Zelda Sweet, the one who Jim Mallory had given the eye earlier that day, was glad he was back so soon, but sad that he was asking questions about Ned Aswan’s attempted suicide. She liked Ned Aswan as well as she had liked Joshua Trent. They were decent employers and not given to innuendo. They were interested in women only as clients. With them you didn’t have to worry about sexual harassment or veiled threats if you refused to unveil.
“I think you should attribute his attempted suicide to a sudden case of despondency,” suggested Zelda to Jim.
“There’s no such thing as a sudden case of despondency,” said Jim who had taken some training in psychology when he decided to go into police work. “Despondency has to accumulate and develop until it becomes dangerous.”
“You mean like a kid brother? I’ve got a rotten kid brother.”
Jim Mallory wasn’t interested in her rotten kid brother. “He always given to moods?”
“Ned? Well, he had a quick temper. And he was abnormally precise about everything. Look Mr. Mallory, Josh was the sun around which Ned orbited. Josh was his life. He was his father, mother, uncle, sister, and brother. Josh’s world was all the world he knew. It was all the world he wanted to know. Ned was just plain afraid to continue on his own. This business was Joshua Trent, and underline the name. Ned doesn’t know peanuts about business. He knows how to make estimates but it’s Josh who knows how to rob … figure the costs. You taking all this down?” Jim nodded. “Am I any help?”
“You’re lots of help. How long have you worked as Mr. Trent’s secretary?”
“Little over five years.”
“You happy here?”
“Until this morning. I don’t think there’s going to be any more business conducted here once the smoke clears. I know the contents of Josh’s will. He dictated it to me. Ned gets almost everything except for some small bequests to a few friends and employees and a marble torso of a prizefighter he’s bequested to Mae West.”
“Nice lady. Was involved in a case with her once.”
“Ned has no family. But with the kind of money he’s inheriting, he can buy himself one.”
“When are you free for dinner?”
“You name it.”
“I’d like to do it tonight, but I’m not sure if I can. I have to find my partner and see what more needs to be done.”
“You have to find a murderer.”
“We’ll nail him.”
“Maybe it’s a her.”
“Maybe it’s a him and a her. Who knows? That’s what’s so fascinating about murder. You never know who you’re going to find waiting at the end of the trail. So, when do you quit work?”
“Tonight, who can tell. The place is such a mess. Ned had invited company for tonight and I’m still trying to track down some of them to call them off.” She wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to him. It was the office number and her home number. “You’ll find me at either place. Unless I’m on a bus in between.” She smiled. “You’ll find me.”
FOURTEEN
ONCE AGAIN BACK ON FAIRFAX AVENUE, Herb Villon asked Bogart to pull over to an outdoor phone. He called the precinct to give them Karen Barrett’s address to be passed on to Jim Mallory when he checked in which Villon knew he did frequently. The phone was outside one of West Holly' wood’s tonier and more expensive beauty salons, Mr. Gwen. Hazel Dickson was at the counter settling her rather exorbitant bill. Hair dyes that obliterated the former color of roots, a facial, a manicure, a full-body massage, a pedicure, and lots of gossip always took their toll. Through the plate glass window Hazel saw, to her joy, her beloved Herb Villon talking on the phone accompanied by meaningless gestures, unless you heard what he was saying. Hazel thrust some bills into the cashier’s hand with instructions to distribute them as tips and then hurried out to the street to surprise Villon.
He was hanging up the receiver when he heard the familiar Dickson voice greeting him. He was genuinely pleased to see her and proved it by kissing her cheek. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
She pointed to the beauty salon. “My home away from home. I told you I’d be spending hours here.” She looked into the car. “Hi Bogie!”
Bogie lowered a window. “Hello gorgeous, you look good enough to eat.”
“Don’t talk dirty. There are women with toddlers in carriages who they have a bare memory of conceiving. What have you accomplished, Herb?” It didn’t take Villon long to cover the territory he and Bogart had covered. “Theda Bara, for crying out loud. I wish I’d been there.”
Herb was glad she hadn’t, but didn’t say so. “We’re on our way to Karen Barrett’s, want to tag along?”
“Karen Barrett, for Pete’s sake. Isn’t there anyone on your list who’s made a talkie? Mmmm,” she mmmm’d, “Karen Barrett on welfare. Louella will love that one. Back in the good old bad old days she, Karen, and Marion Davies used to pal around a lot. I’ll see if I can get Louella to put the touch on Davies for Barrett. Davies is always good for a touch. She has a list of dependants longer then her arm. Where does Barrett live?”
“Down the block past Angelica Hamper’s dump and a left turn. Where’s your car?”
“In the lot behind the salon. Give me a minute and I’ll tail you.”
Five minutes later. Hazel had rescued her car from the parking lot and two minutes later was tagging Bogart to Karen Barrett’s place. Ned Aswan's attempted suicide didn’t sit well with Hazel. She liked him and his nutty sense of humor, like the time he came to Cesar “Butch” Romero’s Hallowe’en party in drag and passed himself off as his own twin sister, a gag that collapsed when Marlene Dietrich took him aside and advised him to use a depilatory.
In Bogart’s car, Villon wondered if it would be appropriate to put his hand over his heart as they passed the Harper castle. Bogart said, “I wonder if I should be hurt she didn’t ask me to sit for my portrait. Some of her stuff’s pretty good. John Decker once asked me to sit for him in that filthy house of his on Mulholland Drive. I figured what the hell why not and arrived at the appointed hour of ten in the morning. Well let me tell you, never before have I stepped so gingerly into a drunken nightmare. His easel was set up under a gigantic skylight covered with bird droppings and rotting greenery probably blown there years earlier by a Santa Ana. On a podium was a throne chair in which I was supposed to sit, except it was already occupied by W. C. Fields who it was obvious was a bit incontinent. Sprawled on a couch was Errol Flynn and sprawled on Flynn was a nubile sweetie who, I might tell you, now has a stock player’s contract at Warner’s. They were but a small part of the population in that room. There was at least another dozen alcoholics in various stages of inebriation. Even the houseboy who admitted me had trouble stan
ding erect. It was a scene of such complete perversion that would have appealed to Hogarth’s shade had it been haunting the place.”
“Where was Decker?” asked Villon.
“He was presumably upstairs asleep. Obviously there’d been an all-night orgy and as Errol’s doxy was obviously underage, I made tracks fast and drove to the nearest church. It being Sunday I did not go in but for my own peace of mind I recited a couple of Hail Marys and a Stations of the Cross and then drove home to Mayo, spoiling for a really hot knock-down-drag-out and, bless her heart, Mayo didn’t disappoint me. Have I passed Barrett’s place?”
Villon was staring past Bogart out the window. “I think this is it here.” Bogart pulled over to the curb and parked. Hazel parked in front of him, sparing him a dented fender by a very narrow margin. The three stood on the sidewalk staring at a two-level apartment complex that at one time in its existence must have been a favorable address. Bogart later described it to Mayo as what appeared to be rows of rabbit warrens that were semidetached and undoubtedly semi-inhabitable. Attached to an outside wall was a directory on which Karen Barrett was indeed listed. Hazel said in her usual optimistic way, “I hope Barrett’s not our second suicide of the day.”
“Bite your tongue,” said Villon. “I need her.” They climbed the cement stairs to the second level. Villon was in the van. Now they were standing in front of the door to Karen Barrett’s apartment. Her name was in a slot over a bell. Villon pressed the bell. They waited. He pressed it again. The door opened a few inches. There was a protective chain.
“I’m a friend of Mrs. Brabin’s. She sent me and my … er … associates to see you.”
“Why?”
“To ask some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“If you’ll let us in, I’ll give you some samples.”
“Don’t try to kid me. You’re here to dispossess me.” The fear and the pathos in her voice affected the three.
Villon’s tone of voice was gentler. “Miss Barrett, I’m Detective Herbert Villon. It’s to do with the cornucopia Mrs. Brabin gave you to deliver to Angelica Harper the day after Thanksgiving.”
“Oh God.” She shut the door. They heard the chain removed and then the door opened. Karen Barrett wore what was once a Japanese kimono, held in place by a strip of what might have been curtain material tied around her waist. A worn, tired snood held her hair in place and her feet were encased in scuffs that were frayed at the edges. It was a one-room apartment with two windows on the wall opposite the front door that looked out on a courtyard. There was a sofa that Hazel assumed opened out into a bed, a table, and four kitchen chairs, a half-sized refrigerator, a stove, a sink, and a door that opened onto a small bathroom. On a shelf above the sink Bogart spotted a box of dry cereal, a can of condensed milk, a box of soda biscuits, a few canned goods, and a near-empty gin bottle. Déjà vu, thought Bogart. A replica of the roach-infested studio he lived in when he first came to seek his fortune in New York. There were some bits of clothing strewn on the floor and the couch.
Karen Barrett wore no makeup, and was still a handsome woman despite the evidence of vicissitude. On the table was an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “Forgive the mess,” she said in a voice tortured by too much cigarette smoke and too much gin and too much talking to herself, “it’s the maid’s day off.” She gestured at Bogart. “You’re Bogart, right?”
“Right,” said Bogart, managing what he hoped was a friendly and sympathetic smile.
Barrett looked at Villon. “So you must be Herbert Villon. Very fancy monicker, I must say, so I’ve said it.” She looked at Hazel Dickson. “I know, don’t tell me. You’re the Spirit of Christmas Past, back in the days when there used to be Christmas.” Her words were soaked in gin. “Have a seat. Anywhere you like. They’re equally uncomfortable.” Bogart saw the phone on a small end table at the end of the sofa. He sat on the sofa next to the phone. The sofa was lumpy. “You can’t use the phone because it doesn’t work. It’s been disconnected. How do they expect you to pay your bills if you can’t get work and haven’t got a dime to call your own?” Mayo’s spending sprees were flashing through Bogart’s mind. He made a mental note to give her some swift kicks in the behind when next he saw her. Better yet, he might go home and pack all her clothes and send them to Karen Barrett except they weren’t the same size, Mayo was petite, Barrett was tall and with an athletic body. Serial screen queens had to be athletic in the silents. They didn’t have doubles. They did their own stunts and survived to give interviews about their athletic prowess.
There was a knock at the door.
“Oh shit!” exclaimed Miss Barrett. “That’s him. From the sheriffs office with my dispossess. Where the hell do they expect me to go? Griffith Park?”
There was another knock at the door.
Karen Barrett squared her shoulders and shuffled to the door, a brave action more conducive to a brief appearance before a firing squad. She opened the door and Jim Mallory said, “Is Detective Villon here?”
Karen Barrett’s smile was like a klieg light at a Hollywood Boulevard premiere. “Who gives a damn if he is or isn’t. You’re absolutely adorable. Come right in. And you’re blushing. I haven’t seen a man blush like that since I seduced a teenager who wasn’t worth the trouble.” Barrett shut the door. “Well, there must be some hope coming out from under the rocks. Mr. Villon, introduce me to this improvement.” Villon introduced them. “Mallory. Jim Mallory. Any relation to Boots Mallory? Cute kid who did some features at Fox in the early thirties. I don’t know what’s become of her.”
“I do,” said Bogart, “she’s Jimmy Cagney's sister-in-law, married to his brother Bill.”
“Well what do you know about that,” said Barrett. Jim Mallory told her Boots was no relation. “I’m sorry I’ve got no refreshments to offer you,” she said, obviously determined to hold on to what few belts of gin remained in the bottle, “but I’m fresh out. Sit down, Jim. The kitchen chairs are serviceable.” He chose to remain standing by the door as though a hasty exit might soon be called for.
“About the cornucopia, Miss Barrett,” began Villon.
“I was afraid you’d get back to that.” She pointed to a small radio on a shelf above the refrigerator. “I know all about the murders. I was one of the first to give Joshua Trent a break.” She paused. “He stopped returning my phone calls. Funny, but just telling you that, it still hurts.” The others in the room were veterans of unreturned phone calls, although Hazel tended to get violent about it and send threatening letters to constant offenders.
The silence in the room was broken by Jim Mallory. “Herb, should I check the precinct?”
Hazel said, “You’ll have to use drums. The phone’s disconnected.”
Barrett said with a small laugh, “What’s worse, I’m fresh out of drums.” She stood in front of Villon and saluted him smartly. “Sir, I’m a disgrace to the regiment and I throw myself on your mercy. I know that somewhere under your skin there beats an understanding heart. But in dire need of food and to pay my electric bill, I hocked the God-damned thing.”
“Jesus,” said Villon.
“He also existed on handouts,” Barrett said. She sat at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. She asked no one in particular, “I still got some looks. Do you think I could make it on the streets? Maybe I should try Chinatown. There they don’t give a damn who they sleep with as long as the price is right.”
“Now don’t you talk that way,” said Hazel softly. “Remember, in every cloud there’s a silver lining.” Bogart strained to hear a sad violin but no sounds were forthcoming. “You used to be a good pal of Marion Davies’s, why haven’t you asked her for help.”
“I’m too ashamed.”
“But you mustn’t be!”
“But I am. In those days, I used to pick up the tabs. For Marion it was a fresh experience and Louella was always a freeloader.” She fiddled with the snood for a moment. “Funny how many people drop o
ut of your life when you’re no longer picking up the checks.” She now wore a tender smile. “I used to love to take people out. Well, them days are gone forever.” She shuffled to a table where she kept her handbag. It was the table with the phone next to where Bogart was sitting. “Here’s the pawn ticket.” She fumbled with the purse. “Leo Bulgari’s on Sunset near La Brea. There’s three brass balls hanging over the entrance, one more than Bulgari has. Though he’s usually pretty fair.” She was staring into the purse.
“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” Bogart asked with a smile.
She said nothing. Her eyes were misting up. She sat next to Bogart and rummaged in the purse. She was careful not to expose the twenty dollar bills Bogart had surreptitiously slipped into the bag. She didn’t want to embarrass either herself or Bogart. She found the pawn ticket, shut the handbag and leaned across Bogart to replace it on the table. She arose and took the ticket to Villon. He studied it.
Villon said, “Bulgari’s not all that generous.”
She stared him in the eyes. “I had some good meals and saw a couple of good pictures, and if I’m under arrest, you’ll have to wait while I get into something glamorous.”
Bogart spoke swiftly. “You’re not under arrest. Certainly not for hocking some crappy thingamabob.” His words were directed at Villon.
“Of course you’re not under arrest. Mrs. Brabin would have to file a complaint, and I doubt she’d do that. She sounded as though she’s very fond of you.”
“Yes, I guess she is even though I outlasted her in pictures. We got our start around the same time, but after five or six years of them, the public grew tired of vamps. They grew tired of my serials too but I was able to move into adventure pictures and Westerns. As a matter of fact, I did some talkies. Cheapies on Poverty Row. I made three for a couple of rats who were lowercase impressarios. The evil of two lessers.” She smiled at Villon. “Mrs. Brabin wouldn’t file charges because the thing didn’t belong to her. It belongs to Angelica Harper.”
