Valentino Will Die

by Donis Casey

  Jean gave a self-deprecating grin. “That too. It did gain me some notoriety.”

  ~ The playboy tells his tale ~

  Barclay Warburton Jr. lived in a tony apartment building on 80th and Park Avenue, where he spent his days idling about and his nights annoying his high-class neighbors with his rowdy parties. It took Fee a few minutes to convince Barclay’s butler that, no, this telephone call was no joke. The actress Bianca LaBelle was in town and wanted to meet with Barclay as soon as possible. Bianca’s fame won the day, as it usually did, and after consulting with his boss, the butler told Fee that Miss LaBelle was welcome to call on Mr. Warburton at his residence at her earliest convenience.

  Fee didn’t like the thought of Bianca visiting a well-known carouser and womanizer alone and on his own ground, but the butler had assured Fee that Mr. Warburton was under the weather and preferred to entertain at home, if Miss LaBelle didn’t mind. Fee volunteered to accompany Bianca to the meeting. Bianca declined the offer of a bodyguard and went alone.

  She was sorry about that decision when the taxi pulled up in front of Barclay’s building. It was widely known by the press that Rudy had been taken ill after Barclay’s party, and several members of the fourth estate were slouching against the brick wall beside the canopied entrance. Bianca took a giant breath and plunged into the depths. The doorman, who had been instructed to be on the lookout for her, burst out from behind the glass door to run interference. One guy managed to get Bianca’s photograph, and somebody else knocked her hat askew. Otherwise, she made it into the building relatively unscathed. A solicitous assistant manager, outraged on her behalf, escorted her through the lobby and rode with her in the elevator up to the eleventh floor, where Warburton’s spacious digs took up the entire east end.

  Barclay Warburton shuffled into the parlor, where the butler had seated his illustrious guest. He was dressed in his pajamas and a silk bathrobe, looking anything but rowdy. Bianca eyed the bon vivant critically and decided that Barclay was an attractive man, tall and fair-haired, and surprisingly young, closer to Bianca’s age than to Rudy’s.

  Barclay’s eyes widened when he first got a look at the actress. He had seen many of her movies and knew she was beautiful, but he was not quite prepared for the sight of Bianca LaBelle in the flesh. Her eyes were a stunning shade of green, made all the more interesting by the flecks of gold glinting in her irises. Her bone structure, high cheekbones, and almond eyes suggested that her forebears sprang from some exotic clime. He was aware of the story that she was a French aristocrat on the lam, but that tale had not been repeated for some years. Besides, her curly, dark hair and olive complexion hinted more of Gypsy than of princess.

  Barclay greeted Bianca with great propriety before flopping himself into an armchair across from her. “Sorry, Miss LaBelle, I haven’t been feeling well. I have not been receiving visitors, but you said this has something to do with Rudy’s illness, that I might be of help? I’ve been meaning to get to the hospital to see him, but I just haven’t been up to it.”

  Barclay may have been ill, but Bianca noted that he still watched with appreciative pleasure as she removed her cotton gloves, one elegant finger at a time. She took her time crossing her long silk-clad gams and eased back into the cushions. No harm in softening up the respondent. “Please call me Bianca. Yes, Rudy suggested that I talk to you about the party you gave the night he collapsed.” She repeated the story she had told Jean Acker about the doctors wanting to know if anything unusual had occurred that could help them tailor Rudy’s treatments.

  Barclay slouched back with his arms stretched along the arms of the chair and listened with interest. His eyes were swollen, and he did look wan, Bianca thought. When she finished her tale, Barclay sighed.

  “I know what they’re saying in the papers, Bianca, that the evening before he took ill, I threw a wild party with liquor and showgirls. But it was just a little gathering here at the apartment, maybe a dozen people. We had dual reasons to celebrate. Rudy’s movie was a hit, and my divorce became final that very day.” He gave a rueful smile. “Rudy, the Ullmans, Jean Acker, and I had dinner at the Colony and then went to see Scandals. After dinner, Rudy said he felt rotten and nearly went back to the hotel, but I had already asked a few friends over. James Quirk, Marion Banda, a couple of others I’m sure you’ve never heard of. I had hired a famous magician, Rahman Bey, to entertain at the party.” Barclay leaned forward, took a playbill off the coffee table, and handed it to Bianca. It was a souvenir program touting the fakir’s appearance at New York’s Selwyn Theatre in May. “He’s an Egyptian who’s been performing around the city all summer to sensational reviews. Rudy didn’t want to miss the show. He perked up as the evening went on, acted like he enjoyed himself. Certainly bent his elbow quite a bit, y’know. He was complaining of not feeling well, but he didn’t seem all that sick when he left to go back to the Ambassador. The Ullmans left early, and Jean went her own way after everyone else left. I didn’t learn that Rudy had collapsed until his valet telephoned me on Sunday morning.”

  “Where’d you get hold of this Rahman Bey magician?”

  One blond eyebrow cocked. “My pal Richie Wilcox saw him perform at the Selwyn back in June. He told me that the show was simply boffo. The fakir takes long needles and sticks dozens of them through his own cheeks until he bristles like a porcupine. Last month he had himself sealed up in a metal box and dropped into the Dalton Swimming Pool for an hour. I thought it’d be fun to have him entertain at the party, so I had my secretary make the arrangements.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He was keen. He looked the part of a fakir, for sure. Long hair, beard. Odd eyes. One was dark brown and the other kind of yellow.”

  “Jean and George both told me that he stuck Rudy with a needle.”

  “Indeed, he did. The old fella asked for a volunteer and some wag in the back hollered out Rudy’s name. I don’t think Rudy wanted to do it, but after that columnist in Chicago cast dispersions on his manhood, he probably felt like he had to show how brave he was. I felt sorry for him. Must be hard to have everybody looking at you all the time, eh?” He hesitated. “Look who I’m telling.”

  “Fortunately, I’ve never had to prove my manhood. I just have to watch out for nuts who want to use me to prove theirs. How many people did you say you invited to this gathering?”

  “Not so many. Maybe a dozen close pals. No one was there that I didn’t know personally, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “What about the person who volunteered Rudy for the magician’s trick? Do you know who it was?”

  “Oh, that was old Dickie Guttenberg. He’s a solid chap, just a joker. Good fun, old Dickie.”

  Bianca stopped herself from making a rude noise. She made a mental note of good old Dickie Guttenberg’s name. “Did this Bey person stick needles in anybody else besides Rudy?”

  “Just himself. No other guests.”

  “Did he use the same needle to pierce Rudy that he used to pierce himself?”

  “No, he had a whole case full of needles.” Barclay held his index fingers apart about eight inches. “Looked like old-fashioned hatpins.”

  “When did you become ill?”

  Barclay’s forehead wrinkled. “That same night that Rudy did, but not nearly as sick, thank goodness. I wondered if it was something we ate at the party, but we were the only two who fell ill afterwards. That I know of, anyway. If Rudy has ulcers, like they say in the papers, maybe whatever it was affected him a lot worse than it did me.”

  “What did your doctor say is wrong with you, Barclay?”

  “The sawbones don’t know. A bug of some sort, I reckon. Can’t keep anything down. Quite unpleasant. I shan’t sully your shell-like ears with the details.”

  “But you didn’t let the fakir stick you?”

  Barclay’s eyebrows shot up. It hadn’t occurred to him that something
might have been amiss with the needles. “No. Like I said, no one but Rudy. No needles through the arm for me. That can’t be what made me ill.”

  “Can you think of anything that the two of you did that no one else did, anything that could explain why only you and Rudy fell sick after the party?”

  He gave an exaggerated shrug. Bianca could tell that he was becoming annoyed by the implication that something or someone at his party had felled the great Valentino. “No, I don’t know what. He didn’t eat much that night, but I did. We both drank to excess. He smoked so much I thought he’d set his hair on fire.”

  “He always has…what?” The look of realization that passed over Barclay’s face gave her pause.

  “I asked Rudy to give me one of his gaspers. He told me that he has them specially made in Los Angeles with his own favorite Turkish blend of tobacco. I was curious. It tasted like the gunk at the bottom of a swamp.”

  Bianca sat up straight. “Did you see anyone else smoke Rudy’s cigarettes?”

  “I did not. But that doesn’t mean that no one else did.”

  ~ Armed with a lead, however slim, Bianca rushes back to the hospital ~

  Barclay’s butler telephoned for a cab to pick Bianca up in the back of the building. Only one clever gal reporter had taken up a vigil at the back entrance. Since Bianca admired female initiative, she gave the woman a brief, if singularly uninformative, statement that since Mr. Warburton was under the weather, she had volunteered to pay a call and give him a personal update on the condition of their mutual friend Mr. Valentino.

  “And how is Mr. Valentino?” the reporter asked, as Bianca started toward the waiting cab.

  “I only saw him for a minute, but I understand he is doing better.” She tossed the answer over her shoulder and firmly closed the taxi door on any more questions.

  She glanced at the cabbie’s identity plate before sinking back in the seat and putting on her dark glasses. “Take me to the hospital, Mr. Wang.” She didn’t need to explain which hospital. While Rudolph Valentino was a patient there, there was only one hospital Bianca LaBelle could be interested in.

  A light rain had begun to fall as she ran the fan/reporter gauntlet at the main entrance to the Polyclinic and took the elevator to the eighth floor, excited to report the lead she had uncovered.

  Beatrice was sitting on the bench outside Rudy’s room. She looked up as Bianca stepped off the elevator. Her eyes were red. George was pacing the floor. Bianca paused mid-stride, her news forgotten. “George…” she said. “What is it?”

  “Rudy’s taken a turn. He has a high fever. The doctor thinks it’s pleurisy. They’ve injected saline into his chest. I don’t know what that’s supposed to do. I sent a cable to his brother, Alberto, in Italy that he should come to New York as soon as he can.”

  Bianca sat down heavily on the bench next to Beatrice. “Is it that bad, George?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances. Alberto should be here.”

  “Rudy isn’t in much pain right now, and he’s lucid, in spite of all the drugs,” Beatrice said. “Dr. Meeker thinks that’s not a good sign. He ought to feel worse than he does.”

  Bianca heaved a deep sigh. “What do doctors know, Bea? They’re all a bunch of quacks.”

  Beatrice smiled. She knew Bianca was whistling in the dark. “I hope they know what they’re doing, honey, at least enough to save his life.”

  “Can I see him?” Bianca looked to George for guidance, and George gave the uniformed police guard at Rudy’s door a questioning glance.

  “I have orders that only Mr. Ullman may go in. Miss LaBelle will have to have the doctor’s permission.” The guard seemed apologetic about having to thwart anyone as beautiful as Bianca.

  George opened his mouth to protest, but Bianca put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, George. I want to speak to the doctor anyway.”

  Bianca had not been raised to put much faith in medical practitioners and had not had reason thus far to be dissuaded from this belief. But Dr. Meeker, the surgeon who had operated on Rudy and was now in charge of his treatment, was a kindly looking man of about fifty who received Bianca in his third-floor office with a sympathetic dignity that she found comforting.

  “Miss LaBelle,” he said, after offering her a seat before his chart-strewn desk, “Mr. Valentino is in grave condition, I’m afraid, and I do think it best that he be kept quiet and allowed to rest.” His voice was soothing. He had much practice in calming hysterical relatives, she thought.

  She didn’t argue with him. “Doctor, do you have the results of the laboratory tests on Rudy’s stomach lining?”

  Meeker blinked at her unexpected question. “Miss LaBelle, I would not share the findings without permission if I had. Why do you ask?”

  Nothing about Bianca’s manner suggested anxiety, but she leaned forward slightly in her chair. “Were you aware that he was pierced completely through his arm with a needle shortly before he collapsed? Could that have had anything to do with his condition?”

  “No, I was not aware of that. Mr. Valentino did not mention it, nor did I notice a puncture wound. What are you suggesting?”

  Bianca sank back in the chair. “I don’t know.” She paused, then came out with it. “I’m suggesting poison.”

  She expected to see an expression of shock on Meeker’s face. She was alarmed to note that he only looked thoughtful. The doctor said, “Even if he had been injected with a poison or something equally virulent, on the night he became ill, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the ravaged condition of Mr. Valentino’s stomach. The perforations and inflammation that I saw would have taken weeks, if not months to develop.”

  “Doctor, you know that Barclay Warburton took ill on the same night as Rudy, after the party they both attended. No one else that we know of was affected. Barclay told me that Rudy let him have one of his cigarettes, a specially made blend that only Rudy smokes. Could the cigarettes be contaminated with something?”

  “Well, if he had been smoking contaminated cigarettes over a long period of time. Something like that could conceivably contribute to the longtime deterioration of his lungs. But his stomach? Unlikely, but not impossible. A cigarette would have to be soaked in a virulent poison to bring on the sudden crisis that Mr. Valentino suffered.”

  “Doctor, is there any way that you could tell if either the puncture wound or the cigarettes are what brought on Rudy’s condition? If there is any sort of test that can tell, please do it. I’ll pay for it.”

  “I understand, Miss LaBelle. Mr. Ullman told me that Mr. Valentino believes someone is trying to do him harm. He also told me that Mr. Valentino has asked you to find out who it is. Mr. Ullman seems to have great faith in your discretion, so I will tell you this. Mr. Valentino has suffered from ulcers for a long time. I believe that tension and unhappiness have greatly contributed to his condition. But something else brought on this crisis, and I am doing everything I can to find out what it was. Everything. Thank you for bringing the puncture wound to my attention. I will examine it. If you can produce one of Mr. Valentino’s cigarettes, I’ll send it to the lab on the outside chance there is something to your suspicions. Otherwise, I’m afraid that I cannot tell you anything else. If I discover anything untoward, I will inform Mr. Valentino or his representative George Ullman. It will be up to them whether or not to tell you my findings.”

  Bianca was surprised that George had told the doctor anything about her at all. After she put the bug in Meeker’s ear about the needle wound and the cigarettes, she had rather expected to be summarily dismissed from his office for being a self-important, entitled busybody. She took advantage of the doctor’s indulgence while she had the chance.

  “May I have your permission to see Rudy for a few minutes?”

  There was a moment of silence as the doctor considered. He stood up. “I will escort you to his suite. If he is
awake and I think he’s up to it, you may visit him. Briefly.”

  Meeker was in Rudy’s room for several minutes. Beatrice sat on the bench and twisted her handkerchief. Bianca and George paced the hallway together, deepening the ruts that George had already worn in the floor after more than a week of keeping vigil, while she told him what she had found out from Warburton.

  “I’m glad that the doctor knows to look for poison,” Bianca said.

  “I told him about Rudy’s fears right away, even before the operation. I like Meeker. I think that if there’s anything unnatural to find, he’ll find it.”

  She didn’t have a chance to comment before Meeker emerged and crooked a finger at her. “You may go in, Miss LaBelle. Against my better judgment. He’s awake and knows you’re here and insists on seeing you. Please don’t agitate him.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Bianca didn’t want to give him time to reconsider. She disappeared into Suite Q.

  Meeker turned to George. “I examined the puncture wound Miss LaBelle mentioned. It is barely noticeable, almost completely healed. I took a swab from the area and will have it tested. However, I don’t believe it has anything to do with Mr. Valentino’s condition.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s good, but now we’re right back where we started.”

  “Miss LaBelle seems to think there’s a possibility that Mr. Valentino’s custom-made cigarettes may have been poisoned. I cannot imagine that they were, but she was quite adamant, so I told her I would send one to the lab and test for poison. Did he have a cigarette case on him when he came to the hospital?”

  George gave the doctor a look that suggested he had lost his mind. “Cigarettes? I certainly wasn’t thinking about bringing his cigarettes when I was riding with him in the ambulance. You can’t seriously think…”

  “Probably not. But given the laboratory results that I’ve already shared with you, I don’t intend to leave any stone unturned.”

  * * *

  Bianca knew that Rudy had been given large doses of morphine, so she was surprised at how alert he was. In fact, he looked positively at ease, even though his breathing was loud and rasping, like a tin bucket full of rocks, she thought. He smiled at her, and she choked back a sob.