by George Baxt
“She won’t file charges,” said Bogart, “or I’ll file charges against her for having a musician on the premises without a license.”
“I had no idea you were so civic minded,” said Villon.
“Neither did I,” said Bogart. “I think we’ve taken up enough of Miss Barrett’s time.”
Jim Mallory held out a pad and pen to Karen Barrett. “Miss Barrett, may I have your autograph?”
“Oh shit, you’ve got to be kidding!”
“It's for my mother. She’s a big movie fan. I know she’ll be tickled pink to have it.”
“Well, okay.” She took the pad and pen. “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Mary Bessie.”
Hazel crossed her eyes. Karen Barrett wrote a message and signed it with a flourish. She returned the pad and pen to Mallory and then on impulse patted his cheek. “You’re too handsome to be a cop. Maybe Mr. Bogart can arrange a screen test.”
“No way,” said Mallory, “I’m very happy where I am.”
Villon said, “Come on, let’s be on our way.” He was holding the door open. “Thanks a lot, Miss Barrett. You’ve been very helpful. If you ever need me, I’m at the downtown precinct.” Hazel and Mallory filed out.
“Mr. Bogart?” asked Barrett. “Could I see you alone for a minute?”
Bogart said to Villon, “I’ll be right down.” Villon shut the door.
Miss Barrett retrieved her handbag and extracted five twenty dollar bills. “This is a new experience for me. Usually men took money from my handbag, not put money in it. Mr. Bogart, this is very generous of you and I shall cry myself to sleep tonight and a lot more nights after. It’s too much. I can’t take all this.”
Bogart made a fist. “You want a rap in the kisser?”
“You sound like one of my husbands.”
“Get your phone back on again. It can’t be all that much.”
“It isn’t.”
“Treat yourself to a new dress. Then phone me at the studio. I’ll leave your name at the switchboard. They’re always hiring stock players. Lots of old-timers. We’ve got Monte Blue and Wheeler Oakman and Larry Steers and probably when my time comes maybe somebody will do me a good turn with a stock contract. Only one thing, and forgive me for saying it because I’m sure you know my reputation for downing a few belts, but don’t spend too much on gin.”
“Oh honest to God, I won’t. Now I can go back to bourbon!”
Bogart laughed and hugged her. “Christ but how you gals are made of sterner stuff.” He had the door open. “Get the phone back on and be sure to phone me, I want to see you on the set of my next picture.”
He shut the door. She stood staring at it. She stared at the twenty dollar bills she was clutching. She replaced them in her purse. She went to the bathroom where she had left the glass in which were dissolved twenty-three sleeping pills. She poured the contents of the glass into the toilet bowl and flushed it. She rinsed the glass thoroughly and placed it on the rim of the sink. She stared at herself in the mirror in the door of the medicine chest above the sink. She removed the snood and stared at her mess of gray hair. “Girl, you're getting yourself a rinse and a dye job and a very fancy set and you’re going to phone Humphrey Bogart as soon as the juice is back on and get your tail over to Warners and take whatever they offer you. He’s not handing you a line cither, honey, and he didn’t suggest beddy-bye. He’s the real article.”
She stripped, ran the shower, stepped under it, and for the first time in too long a time, remembered what it was to be happy.
On the street, the others watched as Bogart rejoined them. He said to Mallory, “That was damned nice of you to ask for her autograph. That was really damned nice.”
“But I meant it. My mother’s movie crazy. I try to get her all the autographs I can. So help me, it’s true!”
Hazel asked Bogart, “How much did you slip her?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw you slipping those bills into her handbag. Nice job of sleight of hand if I must say so myself.”
“And you have,” said Villon.
“Hazel, if I see anything about this in somebody’s column, and I read everybody’s column religiously, like every other egomaniac in this town, I’ll slap you bowlegged.”
“She’s already bowlegged,” said Villon.
“You shut up!” scolded Hazel. To Bogart she said, “I have every intention of telling Louella about Karen’s bad luck because I know Louella will help. She’s not completely a mean old bitch. And Louella will pass it on to Marion who’s a good Joe and will probably invite Karen over to share a fifth of gin.”
“Karen prefers bourbon.” Bogart looked at his wrist- watch. “The day’s growing shorter, Herb. What’s the name of that pawnbroker?”
“Leo Bulgari.”
“Oh yeah. Him with the three brass balls. Let’s get going.” Villon was reading Mallory’s mind. “You can phone the precinct from Bulgari’s. Oh Christ, I almost forgot, there’s so much going on with this case—how’s Ned Aswan?”
“They expect him to pull through. I had a long talk with Josh Trent’s secretary, Zelda Sweet, back at the house. It seems that he’s always needed Joshua Trent to stabilize his emotional insecurity.”
Bogart asked, “I’m sure Trent left him very well fixed.”
“According to Zelda Sweet, more than very well fixed.”
Villon asked him, “When you having dinner with her?”
Mallory blushed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re blushing so you know what I mean.” Villon said to Bogart, “Jim's a sucker for a pretty face. But nothing comes of it. He’s still single. He never gets engaged.”
“Hell,” said Mallory, “engaged means a ring and who can afford a ring on my salary.”
Hazel said to Villon, “You earn more than he does.”
Bogart asked, “You following us, Hazel?”
“I don’t like that smirk, Mr. Bogart.”
“I never smirk, Hazel. My upper lip’s too stiff. Funny, with my stiff upper lip I don’t understand why I’m never offered no British parts. What do you think, Hazel?”
She said as she got behind the wheel of her car, “Scrub it, sweetheart. They’ve already done Little Lord Fauntleroy.”
FIFTEEN
“LEO PULGARI.” VILLON SPOKE THE name with a hint of contempt.
“Your paths have crossed before, I take it.”
“Many times. He’s so crooked he gives corruption a good name. He’s a Turk. We know he’s a fence but we’ve never caught him at it. He calls himself the pawnbroker to the stars. You’d be amazed at the number of names who have utilized his services. He's so greedy, he does house calls. He preys on has-beens like Karen Barrett. Too many silent screen actors had absolutely no business sense whatsoever. The exceptions were Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin and some shrewd mothers. Pickford’s mother. The mothers of the Talmadge sisters and the Gish sisters. Very clever with a buck and demons at the bargaining table. But ladies like Karen Barrett, they didn’t have mothers. They had husbands. Bloodsuckers who bled them dry. You slip her much?”
“A hundred.”
“Very nice. It’s tax deductible. Charitable contribution.”
“Forget it.” Bogart added, “And I don’t want Mayo to hear about it. Spread the word. Especially to Hazel.”
“Tell her yourself. Up ahead, I see three brass balls.”
“That’s Bulgari’s place.” He looked out the rear window. Mallory was right behind them, and behind him was Hazel who was more concerned with examining the recent repairs to her face in the rear mirror than she was with the oncoming traffic in the adjacent lane.
Bogart saw a space and parked. Mallory did a U-turn into a small lot that was adjacent to a hot dog stand. Hazel joined him. Traffic was surprisingly light for the late afternoon and Mallory and Hazel were able to make it across the street to join Bogart and Villon in safety. The pawn shop had two display windows offering unredeeme
d objects for sale. There were items of jewelry, a variety of watches and musical instruments, fur coats and jackets, cameras, radios, dishes, silverware, and linens.
“Look,” said Bogart, “the cornucopia.”
The cornucopia was set in the center of a display. Bulgari had placed a card alongside it on which he had printed, IS THIS THE HORN OF PLENTY?
“Brazen bastard,” said Villon.
Hazel said, “So that’s what a cornucopia looks like. I wouldn’t give it as a wedding gift to a couple I disliked.”
“It’s sealed,” said Bogart. He and Villon looked at each other. “You know, Herb, at the end of The Maltese Falcon when they find what they really think is the bird they’re looking for, it turns out to be a fake.”
“You trying to tell me something?”
“I’m trying to tell you not to be too disappointed if this thing is filled with crackerjacks.”
“Bogie, to me the cornucopia is an afterthought. I’m trying to catch a killer. He’s going to kill again. He’s undoubtedly gotten his hands on a list of cornucopia owners. This could spread into an epidemic.”
They heard a bell tinkle as the pawnshop door was pulled open. “But of course! It is my old friend detective Villon! I thought I recognized you! And my heavens! Do I see before me Humfairy Bogart?” Leo Bulgari was possibly five foot seven inches tall. He seemed taller because he wore a fez on his head with a gold tassel that dangled to just below his left ear. He was fat and his stomach bulged over his trousers belt. He was brave enough to wear an earring at a time when only certain kinds of men favored earrings. Bulgari’s earring was a crescent moon worn on his right lobe.
Bogart mumbled, “This, I suppose, is Bulgari?”
“Yeah. The fez is familiar,” said Villon.
“I don’t go for that Humfairy business. He trying to be funny?”
“Ask him.”
Bulgari said to Hazel, “That is a delightful brooch you are wearing.”
“And shall continue to wear,” said Hazel.
For a man of his girth he bowed gracefully, one hand extended by way of inviting them into his store. Hazel was the first to enter followed by Mallory and Villon. Bogart managed to disguise his distaste as his eyes met Bulgari’s. “I am a great admirer, Mr. Bogart. You have given me very many pleasant hours.” Bogart managed a smile that Bulgari could interpret any way he saw fit. Bulgari shut the door and offered them chairs and Turkish coffee. Hazel sat. Nobody wanted coffee. “And how may I help, Detective Villon?”
“You know what I'm after. A certain cornucopia.”
Bulgari clasped his hands together and his eyes beseeched the ceiling. “What is it all of a sudden with cornucopias?”
Villon said, “Bulgari.”
“Yes?”
“You're overplaying.” Bulgari unclasped his hands. “That one in the window.”
“It is worthless. Unless you care to buy it.”
Villon handed him Karen Barrett’s pawn ticket. “Is this the ticket for the thing in the window?”
Bulgari examined the ticket. “Ah yes. Miss Barrett. An unfortunate victim of circumstances. Are you interested in redeeming the object? Twenty-eight dollars.”
“What! You gave her fifteen dollars.”
“In a rash moment of generosity. It has been here a long time and each day the interest on the loan increases.”
“That wasn’t Miss Barrett’s to hock. It belongs to someone else.”
Bulgari shrugged. “That is not my concern.”
“Take it out of the window. I want to examine it.”
“Take my word. It contains nothing of value. It is sealed because I sealed it myself. These things are dust catchers.”
Villon said to Mallory, “Jim, get it out of the window, pronto.”
Jim reached into the display and removed the cornucopia.
Bulgari hovered behind Mallory. “Careful, careful. Don’t throw anything over.”
Mallory carried it to a desk. Villon said to Bulgari, “Unseal it.” Bulgari shrugged. He took a pen knife from his pocket and with elaborate care unsealed the tin foil that obscured the cornucopia’s interior. “Surely your friend could tell by its light weight that it contains nothing as heavy as gems.”
Villon pulled back the tin foil. He knew he’d find nothing of value. He was enjoying harassing Bulgari who he seemed to have forgotten was unharassable. Bulgari said, “You see. There is only wads of cotton. So, do you wish to redeem the item?”
“I’ll think it over.”
“As you wish. It might interest you to know I have had another inquiry. A gentleman inquired on behalf of a royal personage.”
“La Contessa di Marcopolo.”
“Aha! You know about her. Her emissary tells me this cock and bull about her father and I humored him.”
“Were you successful?” asked Villon.
Bulgari shrugged. “He was a most disagreeable person. Very good looking. But very impatient and quick-tempered. Italian. They are usually very quick-tempered, and now that they are allied with the Nazis, I trust them even less.”
“Spoken like a true patriot,” said Bogart, enough iron in his voice to construct a battleship.
Villon asked, “You’ve got other cornucopias?”
“Only this misbegotten one. You doubt me? Look around. You will see no other cornucopias.”
“You've got a basement.”
“There is nothing of value down there. I assure you. No cornucopias.”
“I might come back with a search warrant,” threatened Villon.
Bulgari clasped his hands together. “How often have you threatened me with search warrants!” Bulgari said to the others, “It is a little game we play, but he never returns with a search warrant.”
“You do business with Edgar Dickens?”
Villon’s question seemed to catch Bulgari by surprise. “Dickens?”
“You know who I’m talking about. The Old Curiosity Shop in Venice. You guys are always buying and selling and swapping with each other.”
“Ah! Of course! Today my brain is like a sieve. Whatever is there tends to slip through. Yes of course I have dealt with Mr. Dickens. And I may as well tell you I’ve also dealt with Joshua Trent. But this you have probably already surmised. We are a closely knit community here in Los Angeles. We know each other well. We buy, we sell, we trade, we haggle, we threaten, we fight, and then come to an agreement.” He added soberly, “But, my friend Villon, we do not commit murder.”
Villon’s hands were on his hips. His voice rasped. “Bulgari, are you a citizen of this country?”
“Soon. Soon. Very soon. I shall throw a banquet in my honor.”
Bogart said to Hazel and Mallory, “The bastard’ll probably charge admission.” He didn’t give a damn if Bulgari heard him or not. He disliked the man and was not about to make any bones about it. “Herb, we have to hang around here any longer? I need fresh air.”
“Let’s go,” said Villon.
“Villon!” The Bulgari charm had evaporated. “Do not threaten me. I will not tolerate being threatened. I conduct my business with decorum. I have no police record. I have never been charged. So do not threaten me.”
Villon left without saying a word. Hazel and Mallory followed. Bogart stopped in the doorway, turned, and said to Bulgari, “I don’t like the way you pronounced my name, fatso. Get it right. It’s Humfree. Right?”
Bulgari shrugged. Bogart left. The four huddled on the sidewalk. Bulgari watched them through a window. He wished he could read lips.
Bogart was saying, “That was a very unpleasant experience. I should have decked him. I need a drink. I need a couple of drinks. I’m going back to the Allah and check for any messages. Mayo may be looking for me. And the studio. Anyone care to join me?”
Villon said, “Thanks, Bogie. But Jim and I should get back to the precinct. We’ve got a lot to do. You going home, Hazel?”
“If that’s a hint. I’m not taking it. I’m tailing after you two bums so I
can use the john and the telephone and then Herbert Villon, you’re taking me to dinner.”
“You’re taking me. It’s your turn.”
“Gee,” said Mallory, “then I can invite Zelda Sweet to dinner.”
“Zelda what?” asked Hazel.
“Come on, come on,” said Villon, “let’s get going. Bogie, if anything turns up, I’ll call you at the hotel.”
“Thanks, Herb,” said Bogart. He got into his car and was soon heading to the Garden of Allah, which was only a five- minute drive from the pawn shop.
In the bar of the Garden of Allah, Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman were going through the motions of holding court. With the strong-willed characters inhabiting the bar at cocktail time, a favorite sport was jockeying for position. Hellman had been holding somewhat spellbound an audience consisting of Dorothy Parker, her husband Alan Campbell, Robert Benchley, and the portly Sidney Greenstreet. She was telling them about the encounters at the Curiosity Shop and the tragedy at Joshua Trent’s estate. She repeated the incidents well and with enough dramatic intensity that there were no inane interruptions with the usual fatuous wisecracks. At one point Mrs. Parker insisted the butler did it but Hellman insisted there was no butler, in Trent’s case, only a lover and an assortment of employees. Then surprisingly enough, especially for Hellman rarely given to compliments or kind words, she waxed generously enthusiastic about Herb Villon.
“He sounds absolutely spiffy,” said Mrs. Parker. She indicated her husband. “When Alan gets killed in action, I'll look up your Detective Villon.” Campbell didn’t look kindly on her statement but kept his peace. He had no intention of seeing action. He had wangled himself into Special Services where he would write scripts for army films.
“Seems to me,” said Benchley with a chuckle, “what this case needs is your thin man, Dash.”
“He wouldn’t be of any use,” demurred Hammett.
“Your modesty is appreciated but most unbecoming,” said Benchley, “Nick Charles would have this case solved in about the time it takes him to drink four martinis.”
Hammett said to Hellman, “Here we go again.” He said to Benchley, “Thanks to the film series, you’re under a bit of a misapprehension. Nick Charles is not the thin man.”
