by George Baxt
“I was thinkin’ of packin’ more but I didn’t want to look pretentious. Oh, I see you brought the Rolls. Mae knows how to treat me good. What’s that filthy truck for?”
“Your luggage.”
Beverly took Seymour’s arm and he walked her to the Rolls. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf.” She smiled. “Am I that overwhelmin’?”
“Beverly, lay off,” cautioned Timony.
“I ain’t gonna hurt him.” She said to Seymour, “You ain’t afraid of me, are you, Seymour?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then why’s your voice shakin’?” She squeezed his arm. “We’re gonna be good friends, Seymour. Real good friends.” She released his arm, which freed him to find his handkerchief and mop his brow. Beverly had taken Timony’s arm. “Say, Jim, they caught this vampire yet?”
“No, he’s still elusive and still very dangerous. He killed a woman the night before last.” She showed no reaction. “She’d been doing her impersonations at a private party.”
“Say, listen, how does this guy know where to find his victims? How did he know she’d be doin’ a private party? How did he know where to track down the two boys?”
“There are just two agents in this town who represent female impersonators. It’s easy to phone and find out who’s appearing where and when. It’s easy for him to say ‘I’d like to book Nedda Connolly for such and such a date.’ And he’s told that’s just fine, she’s doing such and such tonight or tomorrow night or whenever and then he says ‘I’ll phone you to confirm my booking’ and then he knows where to find Nedda Connolly. In her case, he found out where she lived and just waited there until she came home.”
“Nedda Connolly. She was one of the few women doin’ Mae. Is Ruth Gillette still doin’ her?”
“I don’t think so. Haven’t heard of her in a long while.”
“Well, I’ll soon have the field to myself at the rate this vampire’s movin’. Mae’s in danger, ain’t she?”
“And so are you, unless you decide to cancel tomorrow night and leave town.”
“Jim, you know us Wests ain’t quitters. Mae’s not afraid of the competition, is she?”
“Beverly, there’s only one Mae West. You can look like her and you can talk like her, but you haven’t got that unique style and charisma that belongs to her and only to her.”
“Oh, I think I do pretty good. Don’t you agree, Sittin’ Bull?”
Seymour didn’t reply. He smiled enigmatically and Beverly was satisfied. He walked past her and Timony to the pickup truck and told the driver and his helper to collect Beverly’s luggage. Then he got behind the wheel of the Rolls and revved the motor. Once Timony and Beverly were settled in the backseat, he took off.
Annuity.
He wondered if Beverly had an annuity. Mae had to be supporting her. He knew Mae had a list of charity cases to whom she happily played Lady Bountiful. Old friends fallen on hard times in these hard times. Punch-drunk prizefighters, retired lovers, and at least one ex-con he’d heard her mention.
I’ve got to get an annuity.
The coroner sat in Villon’s office with Herb and Jim Mallory. He was glad to escape his grim venue if only momentarily. He held a cup of steaming black coffee while Villon read his neatly typed report on Neon Light’s autopsy following its quick exhumation.
“What’s oleandrin?”
“A poisonous juice distilled from the oleander plant.”
“I’ve never come across it before. I’m usually up against cyanide and rat poison, run-of-the-mill stuff like that.”
“Oleandrin is very exotic. It must have been administered by someone who’s a very original thinker. In a drink like Coca-Cola, for example, the victim would never detect the taste. This is excellent coffee.”
“I brew it myself,” said Villon, pleased. He indicated a hot plate and a coffeepot. “Coffee’s my special blend. I get it at a place in Chinatown. Would you like some?”
“That would be nice, Herb. Have you come across oleandrin before?”
“Just once, which is why I greeted it today like a long-lost friend. The first time around was, oh, let me think, some five or six years ago. Woman poisoned her husband. Beverly Hills. Very posh. Insurance thing. I went nuts trying to figure out what it was that killed him. It was certainly a toxic substance, but which one? I have a friend in Mexico City who’s a poison specialist. He tracked it down for me. We talked on the phone at great length. He was curious about the case. I told him the couple were Amanda and Douglas Harbor. He was a tax specialist. She was a hatcheck girl. The husband was some thirty years older than Amanda and very well off. Amanda was a greedy girl, she’s serving life now. I asked him how she could have heard of oleandrin, let alone get her hands on it. He said once you’ve got the oleander plant you just squeeze out the juices and you’re in business.”
“There’s a weird place on Fairfax Avenue that carries oleanders, or at least it did then. It’s called the Witches’ Brew.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Ever been there?” Villon said he hadn’t. “I dropped in one day just out of curiosity. It’s run by a creep named Dwight Pratt. He’s a self-styled warlock. That’s a male witch, in case you didn’t already know. He’s got the sort of paraphernalia there that would make a horror film fan’s mouth water.”
“I wonder if he’s got something there that might make my mouth water.”
“Such as?”
“Vampire’s fangs.”
The coroner said, “It’s worth a look. He’s got a very original inventory. Well, I’d better get back to my carving.” Mallory showed a look of distaste. “Thanks for the coffee. If you need anything else, feel free.”
Villon remembered something. “Wait a minute. You did the vampire victim autopsies too?”
“But of course,” he said with exaggeration. “I’ve got a monopoly on them.”
“I’d like to see those reports again. Maybe you can save me time if you remember. Were there toxic substances left by the fangs?”
“No, and I gave the idea a lot of attention. It was the knife to the heart that did it. And you know, I sort of have this feeling there’s something symbolic about the fangs and the knife to the heart.”
Villon was very interested. “In what way symbolic?”
“Remember back in the early days of silent pictures?”
“I was a kid but I remember.”
“All those lady vamps, Theda Bara, Nita Naldi, Rosemary Theby. Vamps as in vampire. That’s the origin of the expression ‘vamp.’ I’ve been playing with this theory that the killer is saying the fang marks represent a woman, a vamp. And the thrust of the knife to the heart, well, don’t laugh. I think it’s a deadly metaphor for killing a vamp with a good heart.” He laughed. “Am I too far out?”
“No. It sounds good to me. Thanks, Doc, thanks a lot.” After the coroner left, Mallory took his place in the chair. “A vamp with a good heart. There’s no such thing.”
“Yes there is, and her name is Mae West.”
TWELVE
“WELL, WELL, WELL,’ SAID Mae as she saw Agnes Darwin come into view, “it looks like it might be standin’ room only around here soon. Here’s Herb Villon and Jim Mallory. They been entertainin’ me with some excerpts from Neon Light’s autopsy.” Agnes exchanged greetings with the detectives, not completely masking the strain she was under since her phone conversation with Milton Connery. “Desdemona, a chair for Miss Darwin. Agnes, I thought you’d be busy at the Tailspin today, what with tonight’s big bash.”
“Simon LeGrand has everything under control so I’ve got the day to myself.” She sat and searched in her handbag for the inevitable pack of cigarettes. “Oh, there’s Warren William. He’s one of my favorites.”
“Agnes, you’re a bundle of nerves.”
“I am?”
“You oughta know. It’s your bundle.”
“I feel perfectly fine.” She dropped the pack of cigarettes. Mallory picked them up and hande
d them to her. “Thank you.”
A manicurist was touching up one of Mae’s fingernails. “I thought bein’ that it’s Hallowe’en, your national holiday, you’d be busy at home over a hot kettle.”
“The day is unimportant. It’s the night that counts.”
“My very sentiments,” said Mae. “Herb, is this autopsy report a secret document, or can I let Agnes in on some of it?”
“You can let her in on all of it.”
Mae said to Agnes, “A rare specimen, a generous detective. Agnes, the autopsy shows that Neon was perzoned.”
“But I thought the blow to his skull killed him.”
“That’s what his killer wanted the cops to think. And that’s what they thunk ... is there such a word?” Villon shrugged. Mallory was grinning. “Well, if there ain’t, there is now.” She smiled at them, vastly enjoying herself and Agnes’s discomfort. “Anyway, Agnes, there was this crooked detective, Felix Dvorack, assigned to Neon’s case. The boys here”—she indicated the detectives—”suspected Dvorack was paid off by the killer to squelch the whole thing, which he did. He might have gotten away with it if I hadn’t suggested to the boys that Neon’s murder might have something to do with the three victims the vampire’s knocked off. Well, they confronted Dvorack and the poor son of a gun bumped himself off. So that proves he got paid to do a coverup. What was the name of that perzon again?”
“Oleandrin,” said Villon.
“Yeah. That’s it. Not as famous as arsenic, but just as effective. It comes from a flower. Imagine, somethin’ as pretty as a flower has juices that kill. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. I love mushrooms, but you gotta be careful you don’t eat any perzoned ones. And that goes for boyfriends too. Ow!” The manicurist apologized. “That’s enough, dear. If I’ve gotten to the pernt where my audiences are interested in my fingernails, then I’m out of business.” The manicurist reluctantly gathered up her paraphernalia and left. “Take it from me, she can’t wait to spread this conversation to the rest of the studio. I tell you, gossip in this town is like an epidemic. Oh, well, I ain’t said much that they can’t read in the gazettes.” There was a pause as Agnes ground out the cigarette under the sole of her shoe. “The coroner said he only came across it once before in his experience. Some bimbo perzoned her husband for his insurance. You tell her, Herb. I forgot their names.”
“I’m sure you remember the case,” said Villon. “It happened a few years back.”
“The coroner said it was more like five or six years ago,” corrected Mallory.
Villon shrugged. “What’s a couple of years more or less?”
“Tell that to a woman,” commented Mae. “Right, Agnes?” Agnes said nothing. She seemed frozen in position, staring at Villon. Mae sensed Villon had struck a nerve. She looked at him but his eyes were glued to Agnes’s face, a cat about to ambush a canary.
Villon resumed talking. “A woman named Amanda Harbor poisoned her husband, Douglas. He was a very wealthy tax consultant.”
“Probably as shady as they come,” Mae said matter-of-factly. “The kind I wish I had doin’ my taxes. Sorry if I derailed you. Herb, my mind’s like a Mexican jumpin’ bean, it’s all over the place.”
“She poisoned him with oleandrin. It puzzled the coroner, who’s a pretty smart guy, when he did Harbor’s autopsy. But a friend in Mexico City came up with the answer. Very exotic poison. It doesn’t surface very often. As you gather, hard to identify. In your career as a witch, have you come across it? I mean, I’m sure you work with all kinds of obscure, exotic materials. They probably come in handy when you’re concocting a spell.”
Agnes was lighting another cigarette. “You should talk to Dwight Pratt. He owns the Witches’ Brew on Fairfax. I think I mentioned it to you the other day. He would know about exotic, unusual poisons.”
Mae said, “This here Amanda used to work as a hatcheck girl. Say, do you suppose she might have worked at the Tailspin?”
Agnes exhaled a perfect smoke ring. “There’s a big turnover in hatcheck girls at the Tailspin. She might have worked there. Amanda Harbor.” She paused. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It’s not supposed to. It’s supposed to jog your memory.” Mae was impatient. She was sure, as she supposed Villon was sure, that Amanda Harbor might have been employed at the Tailspin. Five or six years ago, Agnes was already involved with Milton Connery. And Mae assumed that therefore she spent a lot of time at the club. Agnes repeated Amanda Harbor’s name. “Harbor was her married name. If she worked there, it was under her maiden name. You know, like Amanda Smith or Amanda Jones or maybe Amanda Vorkapich.” She smiled slyly at the detectives. “There’s a kid in special effects called Slavko Vorkapich. How’s that for a jawbreaker? What do you say, Agnes, get the gray cells working.”
“What does her working at the Tailspin have to do with Neon’s murder?”
Mae’s impatience was at a boil. “What have you got between your ears, Agnes? Cottage cheese? Neon is perzoned by the same stuff she fed her husband. Where does some ordinary former hatcheck girl hear about something like … like what?”
“Oleandrin,” supplied Villon.
“Yeah, olewhateverthehell. The same thing that killed Neon. Damn it, Herb, it’s dollars to doughnuts the bimbo worked the Tailspin. Somebody connected with the Tailspin got her the stuff because she knew it was available at the witch store.” Agnes was aghast. Mae would look back on it as a brilliant spur-of-the-moment performance. “Mae! How dare you!”
“Depends on what you think I’m darin’.”
“You’re insinuating it was me that familiarized this Amanda person with the poison. And you’re insinuating I had something to do with killing Neon!”
“Now, ladies,” cautioned Villon, “this accidental get-together is starting to get out of hand.” He directed his words at Mae, and she got his message. Use a soft pedal.
“I’m sorry, Agnes. I didn’t mean to get you all hot under the collar. But all of a sudden it’s startin’ to get to me. I’m surrounded with murder, new murders and old murders, and it ain’t pleasant. I get tired of listenin’ to innuendo and out the other.” She said in an aside to Mallory, “That’s an old one but it’s always effective.”
Agnes was off and running. “I don’t remember any Amanda anything working at the Tailspin. I had little to do with the hired help.”
“Not very democratic of you, Agnes.” Mae wasn’t about to let her off the hook.
“Come off it, Mae. We’ve been good friends for a long time, but your behavior and your insinuations are unbecoming. And, Mr. Villon, I had nothing to do with Neon’s death, and frankly, I find it insulting in suddenly being put in the position of defending myself for no damned good reason.”
Villon smiled. “You haven’t been accused of anything, Miss Darwin, so why do you say you’ve been forced to defend yourself?”
Agnes bristled. “If you have a suspect, why don’t you tell me who it is?”
“That isn’t the way we detectives work. We’re like bricklayers. We have to build our suspicions slowly, brick by brick. And we only share our information with each other, except for the occasional rodent who can be bought. You knew Felix Dvorack, didn’t you?”
“I did not. I know he questioned Milton Connery about Neon, but that’s logical as Milton was Neon’s manager.”
“And it’s logical that you knew Neon.”
“Of course I did. Mae knows that.”
“Did you like Neon?” Mae was wondering, while listening to the give and take between Villon and Agnes, what was taking the director so long in setting up her next scene.
Agnes thought for a moment as she fumbled for a cigarette. “I neither liked nor disliked him. I really can’t say. We didn’t talk much on the occasions we were together. Neon wasn’t a very exhilarating conversationalist. He might have been with others, but never with me.”
“Was he trying to blackmail Connery?”
Agnes looked as though she had been shot. Mae was begi
nning to feel sorry for her. She came to visit, never expecting to end up on a hot seat. But that, as a fortune-teller once told her, is the unexpected twists and turns of fate. Villon repeated the question.
Agnes looked and sounded composed. Mae wondered if she had ever acted professionally. “If he was, I knew nothing about it. But why would he want to blackmail his own manager, the man running his career?”
“Maybe it’s because the man has long been suspected of running other things besides Neon’s career and the Tailspin Club.” Agnes made no comment. “You knew and I’m sure still know Connery very intimately. You had to know the things he was involved in behind the scenes. Of course, all this is hearsay, but it’s common gossip in this town that he’s been setting up orgies for the sheer purpose of taking pictures of celebrities with hidden cameras and then blackmailing the poor saps.”
Agnes snapped each word. “And where are these orgies supposed to have taken place?”
“Various homes rented for the occasion. I’m sure you know real estate values have hit rock bottom due to the depression. It’s very easy to rent a house for the night. It’s very easy to hire a specialist to rig the house with hidden cameras.”
“I don’t know anything about things like that!”
Mae drawled, “Aw, come on, Agnes, witches know about everything. Don’t witches take part in orgies? I thought that was one of the big enticements in bein’ a witch. My good friend Dorothy Parker once told me some publisher named Horace Liverright used to hold orgies in his penthouse back in the mid-twenties. He was always askin’ Mrs. Parker to join in, but she refused because she said she wouldn’t know which way to turn. Too bad I didn’t know her then. I could have given her some useful pernters.” She winked at Mallory and the blood rushed to his face. In the dressing room, Goneril and Desdemona were overhearing the conversation with delight.
“I repeat,” Agnes said firmly, “I don’t know anything about things like that.”
Villon was thinking, In a court of law she’d be one hell of a witness for the defense.
Agnes wasn’t finished. “Have you any proof of these allegations, Mr. Villon?”
