[Celebrity Murder Case 08] - The Mae West Murder Case

by George Baxt

  He stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His lips formed into something that might be taken as a smile. “Yeah,” he said in a voice that hinted at culture and education, “you want to put out the fire?”

  Mae said, “Sure, if you supply the hose.” Her eyes covered him from hair to crotch and back up again. “Been trainin’ long?”

  “I’m not interested in pugilism.”

  “You ain’t? Then what are you doin’ here?”

  “I work out here. I keep in trim.”

  “You sure do. So what do you do?”

  “I’m a female impersonator.”

  “Say, kid, you kiddin’ me?”

  “I rarely kid around. I’m a female impersonator. Right now I’m on the bill at the Limp Wrist. You heard of it?”

  “I’ve heard of everything and a lot of things I wish I’d never heard about. You any good?”

  He said in an amazingly accurate imitation of Mae’s voice, “Then you know the Limp Wrist is in the valley. Why don’t’ cha come down and see me sometime?”

  Mae laughed. “That’s pretty good. Wasn’t that pretty good, men?”

  Timony said, “It’s perfect. The best I’ve ever heard.”

  Mae said to the redhead, “Cornin’ from him, that’s a real compliment, and he ain’t quick with the compliments. If you’re workin’ the Limp Wrist, how can you possibly work for me?”

  “Miss West, I am so bloody fed up parading around in drag knowing my impressions are giving the wrong impression that I’d kill to get into something else that isn’t trimmed in monkey fur.”

  “Okay, carrot top, what’s your name?”

  “Dudley Van Helsing.”

  “Where you from, Dudley?”

  “I was born in London. My family’s originally from Transylvania.”

  Timony spoke up. “Transylvania? Isn’t that the home of Count Dracula, the vampire?”

  “Well, sir, Count Dracula is Bram Stoker’s character in his book Dracula. The real Transylvanian vampire on whom Stoker based his character was called Vlad the Impaler.”

  Mae interjected, “Vlad the Impaler. Sounds real interestin’, especially the impaler part.”

  “Actually,” said Dudley, “Vlad wasn’t really a vampire, though he did murder a slew of men, women, and children and was said to have drunk their blood. Vlad was eventually murdered, but he stayed dead.”

  “That was mighty thoughtful of him,” said Mae. “I wish the one that’s after my neck would jern him.”

  Timony spoke again. “Your surname—Van Helsing. That’s the name of the professor in Dracula who drives the stake through the vampire’s heart.”

  Dudley smiled. “Sir, my family were actors. Bram Stoker was a theater manager. He was a good friend of my grandfather, Aubrey Van Helsing. He used Van Helsing in his book to please my grandfather, and I’m sure it did.”

  Mae said, “Why, Jim, I’m pleasantly surprised you know so much about this here book.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to read lately.” Mae got his message. “And since we’re mixed up with a possible vampire, I decided to do some reading about them.”

  “Well, we’ll have to find some time for you to tell me more. Well, Dudley, are you interested in guarding my body?”

  Unsubtly he said, “Very interested.”

  “You came out here to be an actor, am I right?”

  “They tested me at MGM.”

  “It didn’t work?”

  “It could have worked, but I prefer to sleep alone in my own bed.”

  “Smart. Very smart. You get that kind of a reputation in this town and you’re finished forever. You also don’t get much sleep. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “I need my bodyguards to go to work right away. What do you do about the Limp Wrist?”

  “I phone and tell them I’ve got a better offer. Drive over and collect what they owe me, pick up my costumes, and report for work wherever you want me.”

  “Ummmm, I want you, all right. Jim! Put a check mark next to Dudley Van Helsing. Okay, it’s Puccini, Selma, and Van Helsing. The rest of you gentlemen, I want to thank you for your patience and your cooperation. I ain’t never seen so many gorgeous hunks under one roof. Some nights when my insomnia intrudes, instead of countin’ sheep, I’ll count you gentlemen jumpin’ over my bed. And who knows, maybe someday our paths will cross again.” She sauntered over to Timony. “You take care of what I pay them. Give them a fair shake. These jobs are gonna be dangerous and exhaustin’. When it’s all over and they all survive, I may have to take them on a rehabilitatin’ cruise to Hawaii on a chartered yacht. Seymour, do you have to look so sullen?”

  “You don’t need these musclebound body builders!”

  “Says you.”

  “I am all the protection you need!”

  “What’s the matter Seymour, ain’t you heard ‘Variety is the spice of life’?” She sauntered away from him slowly. “Well, I’m always interested in variety, and I always need a lot of spice. Well, Jake, you handsome beast, you are a great talent scout. You approve of my cherces?”

  “I couldn’t have done better for you myself, Mae. Say, Mae, you know, for old times’ sake, maybe we could … you know … get together again sometime?”

  “Why, sure, you hesitant brute. Didn’t I invite you up sometime to kiss my mezuzah? I better not invite up too many, it could be unsanitary. Say, Jim! Ain’t I got an empty apartment on the floor below me next to the girls’ apartment?”

  “It’s a one-bedroom.”

  “That’ll do fine. Fix it up for the boys.” She said to her three new employees, “Boys, you’ll be required to sleep on the premises in an apartment under mine so should you hear me screamin’, you only have to run up the stairs, break down the door, and put me into a good frame of mind. I’m sure you’ll like the arrangement. My cook Goneril will take great care of you. Her sister Desdemona is my personal maid. They’re great gals. I know you’ll like them.” She winked at Selma, who flashed his smile, reminding her of a lighthouse. She said to Timony, “I should let Herb Villon know I’ve hired these boys.”

  “It might be a good idea to have him do a check on them,” suggested Timony.

  “My intuition is all the check we need. These boys are just what I need. I’m also thinkin’ somethin’ else.” She paused and Timony waited while Seymour Steel Cheeks stared at the three new additions to Mae’s household with undisguised hostility. “I’m thinkin’ it might be useful tomorrow night if Dudley Van Helsing wears his Mae West drag.”

  “Not a bad idea at that.”

  “Watch it, Jim. You’re agreein’ with me about somethin’. It could be catchin’.”

  For the first time in ages, he smiled. She smiled too and patted his cheek. “Tell Van Helsing where to find us after he gets back from the valley. Tell the other two to follow us in their cars. Give Jake my private phone number. Think of an errand for Seymour. He’s poutin’ like a small brat, and I don’t like lookin’ at him when he’s like that.”

  On her way to the door, she stopped to sign autographs, which she did gracefully with an occasional quip that made each athlete think she was a new best friend. In the doorway, she stopped and turned to her worshipers. “I’ll be lookin’ for you boys on the cards at the arena every Friday night. I’m a steady customer and win or lose, I’ll be around to see you in your dressin’ rooms. You don’t have to worry about lookin’ decent. You ain’t got nothin’ I ain’t seen before.” While they whooped with laughter, she turned and wiggled her way down the stairs, grasping the handrail for dear life.

  SEVEN

  THE TAILSPIN CLUB WAS SITUATED ON Sunset Boulevard, a few short blocks below Hollywood Boulevard and across the street from the Palladium Ballroom, where the big swing bands held sway. It was a few yards north of Earl Carroll’s theater, where Carroll’s semi-nude Vanities revue was a nightly sellout. Agnes Darwin parked her roadster in the Tailspin’s lot and went through the stage door in search of Mi
lton Connery. He was expecting her.

  There is nothing so depressing as a nightclub lit by a solitary work light. Two bartenders were at the long bar busy preparing setups for the heavy traffic they were anticipating. A young man sat at an upright piano improvising some riffs. Waiters were setting up tables, and two handymen were diligently waxing the dance floor. There were several workmen perched on stepladders decorating the walls with hobgoblins, skeletons, witches, and black cats under the impatient supervision of one of the club’s various managers. This one was Simon LeGrand, a willowy young man with flowing blond locks that reached to his shoulders, which was a fair excuse for the frequent tossing of his head. He wasn’t barking orders, he was purring them. He occasionally stamped his foot or looked upward silently seeking succor from a god who had turned his back on him at birth.

  The cardboard decorations were beautifully created, and Simon was meticulous about their placement. He held in one hand a diagram of the walls, which he had prepared weeks earlier. Every decoration would be placed where he wanted it placed or he threatened to spit.

  Agnes made her way up a short flight of stairs leading to the small stage and the backstage area where dressing rooms and offices were located. She nodded to a stagehand who was assisting another in raising a sequined backdrop up to the flies. She walked straight ahead to a door marked private and entered without knocking. Seated behind a desk, Milton Connery said without looking up from a ledger he was studying, “Come right in, Aggie. Make yourself at home: Where’d you park the broomstick?”

  “Broomstick gags are getting tiresome.” She settled into a chair across from Connery and lit a cigarette. He remained engrossed in the ledger. The sleek son of a bitch, thought Agnes. Jet-black hair, olive skin, strong chin, pencil-lead thin mustache, Bond Street suit and tie. Talk about the immaculate conception.

  “How’s Mae holding up?” He finally looked up. Handsome bastard, looking several years younger than the fifty she knew him to be.

  “Nothing fazes Mae West, not even the threat of death.” The swivel chair groaned for mercy as Connery leaned his large frame back and clasped his hands behind the back of his head. “Shame about Nedda Connolly, she was a good draw.”

  “Shame about Larry Hopkins and Danny Turallo too. Nice boys. Shame about Neon Light too.”

  Connery moved forward, hands now lying flat in front of him on top of the desk. “How did he come in to this?”

  “Why does it bother you?” She was under attack by a cloud of smoke of her own creation, and she was waving the smoke aside like a semaphore gone berserk.

  “Neon’s last year’s news.”

  “He’s more recent than that. He came into it by way of Mae West and was introduced by Mae to your old nemesis Herb Villon.”

  “I didn’t know they knew each other.”

  “As of today they’re bosom buddies. Villon and some jerk named Jim Mallory are on the impersonator killings.”

  “Ain’t that just grand?”

  “I was at Mae’s this morning when they were there hoping to learn something helpful from her.”

  “Ah, she’s not got much to tell them.”

  “She had them spellbound talking about Neon Light. She told them you were his manager.”

  “That was no secret.”

  “It was news to Villon. Villon and Mallory are back digging into Neon’s murder.”

  “How can they do that? It wasn’t Villon’s case in the first place. It was some schmo who could be played in the movies by Edgar Kennedy.”

  “Villon is hardly a schmo, as you so quaintly put it. Herbert Villon strikes me as one hell of a smart fellow. From what I heard this morning, I was very impressed by him.”

  “So what did you hear?” He was lighting a cigarillo, eyes narrowed to protect them from the smoke.

  “Villon doesn’t think Neon was murdered in Griffith Park. He suspects he was murdered elsewhere and then dumped in the park.”

  “A logical suspicion.”

  “Villon thinks Neon was murdered to keep him from spilling some highly select beans.”

  “What kind of select beans?”

  “Orgies. Hidden cameras. Celebrities. Blackmail.”

  Through a stifled yawn, Connery said, “Oh, that tired old scenario.”

  “I think Villon suspects it’s been freshened up. A neat rewrite that’s making it big box office. Does it worry you7”

  “I don’t like worrying. It leaves lines around the eyes. Remember my eyes? You used to think they were so beautiful until you took to spitting into them.”

  Agnes favored him with a phony smile. “How nice to know you’ve been blessed with total recall. How come you booked Mae’s sister into the club?”

  “What? You gone dumb or something? First of all, she’s Mae West’s sister and she’s a dead ringer for her on top of that. Second of all, she’s going to do her Mae West act, and it’s topical what with these impersonator murders. Third of all, the publicity we’re getting is worth her weight in gold and Friday night’s opening is sold out. And tomorrow night’s nightmare is almost entirely booked.”

  “Oh, God! Mae wants a table. A big one. I almost forgot.”

  “Oi vay, oi vay, oi vay, as my mother used to say when she was sober. How big a table?”

  “How big a table you got?” She rattled off what she could remember of Mae’s guest list. “Jim Timony, Seymour the Indian gigolo if gigolos are still in style, Herb Villon and girlfriend, Jim Mallory and maybe a girlfriend, and an assortment of bodyguards she’s auditioning at Hasseltine’s Gym at this very moment.”

  “Oh, that’s good. My customers as you well know favor muscle boys. There’ll be lots of squeaks and squeals and trading of phone numbers. I’d better line up the table now.” He spoke into his intercom. He instructed a wraith at the other end to arrange for Mae’s table. “And where she can be seen by the whole room. Let’s make the most of her.” He took a puff of the cigarillo, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk and brought forth a fifth of scotch and two glasses. “Could you use a snort?”

  “I could use some money.”

  “That goes without saying, darling, why else are you here?” He set a glass of scotch in front of her and then poured a hearty glassful for himself. “So Mae’s bringing the fuzz with her tomorrow night. Knowing her, she’s got her sights set on one or both of them.”

  “She seems genuinely fond of them, but hardly in a motherly way. The vision of Mae West as a mother is as impossible as the vision of Franklin Pangborn as a father.” Pangborn was one of the few character actors in films who had made a success with his effeminacy. “Mae told them all she knew about Neon, and it was she who suggested there might be a link between the recent three murders and Neon’s.”

  “Since when did Mae West take to playing detective?”

  “Since the cops entered her life.”

  “Don’t she realize she could be playing with fire?”

  “If she does, then she’ll soon be auditioning firemen.” She watched him take a tin box from another drawer, lift the lid, and count out several fifty-dollar bills. “She also put me through some cross-examination.”

  “About what?”

  “About how come I’m connected to you. How come I’m going to be at the party tomorrow night.”

  “It’s a free country. You can go anyplace you like except the men’s toilet.” He handed Agnes the money, which she swiftly consigned to her handbag. “You tell Mae we were once an item?”

  “A very brief item,” Agnes stressed as she crossed her legs.

  “Aw, come on, Aggie, it wasn’t all that bad.”

  “It wasn’t all that good.”

  “You witch. Villon got any leads?” Connery changed the subject.

  “He’s got a lot of suspicions. I never can tell a suspicion from a lead, can you?”

  “It’s pretty obvious to anybody with half a brain that this killer, this vampire if such a thing exists, is practicing for the big time, Miss Mae West in person,
in the flesh.”

  “In the punctured flesh.” She was lighting another cigarette while Connery stubbed his cigarillo out in a tray and then poured himself another scotch. Agnes had yet to touch hers. She commented, “Aren’t you going a little heavy on the scotch?”

  “It’s bothering you?”

  “Only to the extent I’ve never seen you drink in broad daylight.” She smiled. “Maybe that’s because you might be a vampire.”

  “That ain’t funny, Agnes. Like it wasn’t very funny when that Edgar Kennedy type questioned me around the clock when Neon was killed.”

  “How come at the time you never expressed any opinions of your own as to who might have killed Neon? I don’t remember hearing any.”

  “That’s because at the time his murder had me talking to myself most of the time. The kid was making great money. I was taking a hefty percentage.”

  “Milton, did you know he was already dying?”

  “Yeah, very tragic.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He didn’t want anybody to know.”

  “He told Mae.”

  “He did?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “I guess he told her, all right. She was everything to him. Mother, father, aunt, uncle, sister, brother, the holy ghost. What other secrets of his was she in on?”

  “If there were others, she didn’t say. Milton …”

  “What?”

  “Who was Neon Light really?”

  Connery said airily, “He wasn’t real at all. Like Mae, he was his own creation. He came up from nowhere to somewhere, and that was mostly thanks to Mae West. She taught him everything she knew about drag and female impersonation. You heard of Ray Bourbon?”

  “Mae’s friend. She mentioned him this afternoon.”

  “Mae brought him in from the East to work with Neon. Bourbon is one of the all-time great female impersonators. He taught him how to walk, talk, sing. Neon couldn’t sing for shit, but by the time Bourbon got through with him, you’d think he was a skylark. I remember how Bourbon compared good female impersonation to good stripping. Gypsy Rose Lee, for instance, the greatest burley-Q stripper in the business today. Ever see her?”