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

by George Baxt

  It was Mallory’s turn to acknowledge the priest’s surprising presence. Father Riggs again explained what he was doing here and Mallory said, “Now that’s a bit queer.”

  “The right expression for tonight’s festivities,” said Agnes. Mallory ignored her. “I hope someone hasn’t played a cruel joke.”

  Father Riggs was perplexed. “But why call me? True, my church is nearby and convenient but … oh, well, no harm done. I don’t get much excitement in my life, and this is quite fascinating. It’s like being a part of the morning headlines.” The coroner said to Mallory, “I’ll have the meat wagon brought around the back. I don’t think it’s a good idea to transport the bodies through the club.”

  Mae overheard him as she returned with Villon. “It wouldn’t matter. That gang out there would think it was part of the show.” She asked Villon, “What are you gonna do with all my impersonators huddled out there? I can hear them growin’ impatient. Why don’t you let them go back and enjoy themselves? I don’t think this here vampire would be dumb enough to strike again tonight.”

  Villon reminded her, “You yourself said catastrophes usually come in threes.”

  “Well, I ain’t always right,” Mae said grandly. “Anyway, we don’t have to be afraid of no vampire with a priest here. That crucifix around his neck will scare him off, right, Father?”

  “It usually does in the movies,” he replied through a laugh, “but as I told you the other day, I don’t believe in the existence of vampires.”

  Simon LeGrand returned, out of breath. “You’re in luck, Father, Billie Doux was a Catholic.”

  Mae said, “How nice. So the evenin’ wasn’t a total waste at all.”

  “I’ll attend to her now, while there’s time.”

  Villon said, “Simon, would you—” He watched Father Riggs leaving the office, heading for the garden. Simon was waiting for Villon to finish the sentence.

  Simon asked, “Would I what?”

  Villon said, “What?”

  Simon said, “You said, ‘Simon, would you…” and I’m waiting for the rest of it.”

  Mae said swiftly, “Would you open these files, or aren’t they locked?”

  “If they are, the keys are in the top drawer. He keeps everything in the top drawer.”

  “I’ll bet I know what he keeps in them files.”

  Agnes spoke up. “Mae, let me give you some advice. Opening those files is like opening Pandora’s box.”

  “I never met any Pandora and if I did, I don’t remember openin’ her box.”

  Agnes explained the Pandora legend to her. Mae exclaimed, “So that’s the broad who started all the troubles in this world. Well, my mother taught Beverly and me not to stick our two cents where it’s not wanted. But what’s this got to do with openin’ them files?”

  Agnes turned to Villon. “Herb, you can guess what those files contain.”

  “So can I,” said Mae, “and as a tax-payin’ citizen I got a right to know what’s in them files.”

  It was Villon’s turn to put his hands on his hips. “Mae, I don’t get the connection. What’s paying your taxes got to do with your poking around in the files?”

  “Mmmmmm, I’d like to have a look at some of them pitchers. I’m sure they’re very interestin’, and I’m always interested in anything interestin’.”

  Agnes said to Mae, “Connery’s dead. Let what’s in those files die with him.” She said to Villon, “Herb, I know what’s there and what’s there could destroy a lot of people if it falls into the wrong hands. There’s a large barbecue in the garden. Have someone light it and burn everything in those files.”

  “Now wait a minute.” Mae looked suspicious. “Why do I think you’re lookin’ to see stuff go up in smoke that has something to do with you?”

  “I’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I never participated in the orgies. I admit helping to set them up, arranging for the participants. Yes, Neon was a part of them. Connery paid me handsome fees for my help and I don’t mind telling you”—her voice began to choke—”I’ll miss those fees.”

  Mae said softly and sympathetically, “Agnes, you could get a tan from that torch you’re carryin’.” She crossed to Agnes and put an arm around the troubled woman’s shoulder. “Boy, you’re one hell of a witch. You haven’t got the brains to cast a spell over yourself and give yourself some peace and quiet like I get when I’m soakin’ in my Olympic-size bathtub, which I wish I was doin’ right now.” She diverted her attention to Villon. “Whaddya say, Herb? You gonna burn the stuff?” Villon said to Agnes, “Agnes, Jim Mallory and I will go through the file drawers. We have to. We can’t destroy somebody else’s property without first seeing what is there. There might be something important that you don’t know about.” Agnes said, “What about Hazel Dickson?”

  Villon said, “What about her?”

  Agnes said, “You won’t tell her about what you’ll find in that cabinet?”

  “Positively not.” said Villon. “She’s done well enough for herself tonight. I wouldn’t want to spoil her. Come on in, boys.” Two morgue attendants entered with a stretcher.

  Mae headed for the door. “I’m goin’ back to the table. You cornin’, Agnes?”

  “I’d like to. I don’t want to be alone.” Agnes waited.

  Mae turned and looked at her. “Well, come on, for cryin’ out loud, or do you expect an engraved invitation?”

  Beverly West was boiling mad when Mae and Agnes returned. “Where have you been, Mae? Leaving me alone all this time.”

  “Ain’t my bodyguards been entertainin’ you?” Selma Hamilton Burr was back sitting with Salvatore Puccini and Dudley Van Helsing. “What’s the matter with you lunkheads? Don’t any of you know any dirty jokes? Wait a minute. There’s somebody I want you to meet, Beverly.” She called out, hoping she could be heard above the clamor. “Father Wally! Over here!” He saw Mae and joined the table.

  “My, isn’t it a bit wild in here?” Mae indicated he sit next to her.

  “You mean that striptease artist on the bar?” She asked her bodyguards, “Why is it the worst physiques like to bare them in public? Oh, Beverly, forgive me, you haven’t been introduced to Father Riggs. Beverly, this is Father Riggs. Father, this is my sister Beverly.”

  “The resemblance is remarkable,” commented the priest.

  “Tell me, Father, have you ever been in this den of iniquity before?” asked Mae sweetly.

  “Oh, my, no. This is quite a new experience for me.”

  “You could use it as the text of next Sunday’s sermon.”

  “I see no reason to. It’s just a party. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

  “You know what they say in the public library, Father. Don’t judge a book by its covers. There’s a lot of hidden heartbreak here tonight. A lot of these guys in drag were very close to the murder victims. Those brave kids dressed up like me know they’re takin’ their own lives in their hands. This vampire nut struck twice tonight. About Connery I got no regrets. He was a rotten skunk. And a skunk is just a rat wear in’ a fur coat. Billie Doux was something else. She was a sweet lady hopin’ and waitin’ for someone to love her. Why she thought she’d find him in this jernt tonight, I’ll never know. All she found was Superman, much, I’m sure, to her regret.”

  “Superman? What Superman?” Beverly had her compact open and was repairing her face, a face that some brave soul would one day tell her was beyond repair.

  “You been so busy tryin’ to make time with Jim Mallory, you didn’t notice. Talk about Jim, where’s Timony? And where’s my Indian?”

  Beverly said with a girlish squeal, “Oh, I sure do like your Indian!”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, don’t get your hopes up too high. I ain’t no Indian giver.” She spotted Timony at the bar with Desdemona and Goneril. “There’s Timony, with my girls. Ah, the poor things. Just look at them. All broken up over Billie’s murder. I hope they didn’t see the morgue boys removin’ the cold cuts.”

  �
��Would it help if I gave them some words of consolation?” asked Father Riggs.

  “A couple of brandy Alexanders would work better. Timony’s handling them. He’s been like a father to them. They’ll miss him when he goes back East.”

  “He’s leaving?” asked Father Riggs.

  “Yeah, Father. When you gotta go, you gotta go. There’s Seymour at the bar with Hazel Dickson. He’s talkin’ and she’s scribblin’. I hope he ain’t revealin’ any of my state secrets. If he is, I’ll put him in a state and I don’t mean Oregon. Now, as we were sayin’, Father, don’t judge a book by its covers.”

  “You were saying that,” he corrected.

  Mae smiled. “Thank you, Father, for not takin’ the words out of my mouth.”

  Beverly snapped the compact shut and popped it into her purse. “You were sayin’ somethin’ about Superman, Mae. What Superman?”

  “Why, the one Villon and me think is the murderer.”

  “Oh, come off it! You said the murderer dresses like a vampire.”

  “Well, he didn’t tonight and very smart of him. Very smart man, this murderer, Father, very smart man. If I was wearin’ a hat tonight, I’d tip it to him.”

  “I’m all at sea,” said Father Riggs. “You’re going much too fast for me.”

  “That’s what a lot of other guys have said to me from time to time. Fortunately, a lot of them caught up.” She smiled. “I’ll take it slower. Before Connery was killed, he was sittin’ right where you are, Father, and Herb Villon was givin’ him a hard time. This here guy in a wild Superman disguise with a weird mask to cover his face stood right next to the table makin’ like he was watching the goings-on on the dance floor, but what he was really doin’ was listenin’ to the talk between Villon and Connery. Villon just about laid it out for Connery that Villon knew he murdered Neon Light but didn’t have the proof with which to run him in. Connery got mad and got up, throwin’ his chair back. This here Superman caught it, by the way, which was very nice of him. Everythin’ else ain’t. Connery went back to his office and I saw Superman also head in that direction. Billie Doux already was dead. When Herb examined her body, which Simon LeGrand found, there were bloodstains on the hem of her gown. Superman must have wiped one of his weapons clean.”

  “Why would Billie’s killer be Superman?”

  “Connery was killed the same way the other five were killed: puncture marks above the jugular and a knife to the heart.”

  Beverly said nervously, “Must you be so graphic, Sis?”

  “Come off it. We seen worse when Pop was gettin’ beat up in the ring.” She returned to the priest. “Superman’s our best bet as the killer. For another thing, he beat a hasty retreat out of here. There are private guards on duty tonight and Villon set them out to look for Superman. Not a sign of him. If he was just another party guest, why go home so early? The evenin’s still young. It’s not yet midnight.” She said in an aside to Agnes, “Your favorite hour.” Agnes had signaled a waiter and requested a fresh bottle of champagne. “Go easy on the bubbly, Agnes,” cautioned Mae, but warmly. “It could make you dizzy and you might fall off your broomstick and hurt yourself.” She patted the priest’s hand. “Am I makin’ sense to you, Father?”

  “It all seems quite logical if it’s so. I still don’t see why he would want to kill Mr. Connery.”

  “He killed Mr. Connery because he believed Herb Villon’s suspicion that Connery murdered Neon Light. And we think the killer in the Superman costume is Neon Light’s brother.”

  “How extraordinary!” The priest accepted a glass of champagne. “Can you prove this?”

  Mae didn’t answer him. Herb Villon and Jim Mallory were returning to the table. She leaned back in her chair and asked, “I suppose I missed somethin’ real good.”

  “Mae,” said Villon, “I think what we had destroyed would have brought a blush even to your cheeks.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think the last time I blushed was when I was propositioned by Jimmy Walker when he was mayor of New York. At the time he made me blush, he was sittin’ in Helen Morgan’s nightclub with his wife and his mistress. Now that really took chutzpah.”

  “And what is chutzpah?” asked Father Riggs.

  “Nerve, Father, just plain nerve, sometimes of a very outrageous nature. Like Superman tonight. Two killin’s in a row within a half hour of each other. Now if that ain’t a perfect example of chutzpah, I’d like to know what is?”

  Simon LeGrand joined them and said to Agnes, “I still need to talk to you, Agnes.”

  “About what? Milton’s dead.” Her voice rose. “What’s there to talk about? His funeral. It’ll be a small affair, I can assure you. There aren’t that many around who’ll mourn Milton Connery. I’ll arrange the mortuary. There’s one on Fairfax across the street from the Witches’ Brew. It’s nondenominational. As for his personal effects, whether he left a will, I’ll phone his lawyer in the morning. He’ll take care of everything. As for the Tailspin, I suppose there’s enough cash on hand to go on with Beverly’s opening tomorrow night.”

  Beverly spoke and surprised Mae, who was glad to hear the words. “I think it would be sacrilegious to open tomorrow night what with Mr. Connery’s murder and all. No, I won’t open. Cancel it. Don’t you agree, Sis?”

  Mae leaned back with a lovely smile. “Beverly, I couldn’t agree more. Well, Herb Villon, we’ve got a lot to talk about tomorrow, don’t we?”

  “We sure do, Mae, we sure do.”

  SEVENTEEN

  FOR A LOT OF PEOPLE, THE next day was a truly black Friday. Goldie Rothfeld sat at the kitchen table sipping hot black coffee and staring at a slice of her own coffee cake. The rabbi had come in very late the previous night. He’d been coming in late rather often these past two months. Was there another woman? Would Morris cheat on her? She considered awakening him and asking him and just as quickly decided not to. If there’s another woman, let it run its course. The phone bell nagged and she crossed to the wall.

  “Hello?”

  “Could I speak to the rabbi, please?” It was a woman. “He’s asleep. On Friday the rabbi sleeps late. If you give me your number I’ll have him phone you.”

  “Am I speaking to his wife?”

  “Yes. And who am I speaking to?”

  “I’m Madame Kvitcherdicker, his vocal coach.”

  Goldie’s heart skipped a beat. “Vocal coach? Since when?”

  “Hasn’t he told you? Oh, I could bite my tongue. He probably wanted to surprise you. He said you wanted him to resume his singing career. And my dear Mrs. Rothfeld, how right you are. He has a glorious instrument. He must share it with the world. It certainly won’t interfere with his rabbinical duties. There are many other rabbis who play professional dates. You’ve heard of Yosele Rosenblatt?”

  “Of course. He’s the best.”

  “Your husband’s better, take my word for it.” Goldie was on cloud nine. “We worked into the wee hours last night until I got a death threat from a neighbor. Now, Mrs. Rabbi …”

  “It’s Goldie. Call me Goldie.” Her voice dripped with joy.

  “Oh, Goldie, we must meet soon. But don’t give it away that you know he’s studying with me. We were planning on working again Sunday night but I can’t make it. We’ll have to set another date.” She paused. “Oh, dear. If you tell him I called, then he’ll know that you know and there won’t be any surprise. Do you love surprises? I loathe them. Anyway, why don’t I call back later? Will an hour be too soon?”

  “That should be just right. You really think he’s good?”

  “Goldie, you are appropriately named, because you are married to a potential gold mine. Soon I’ll be arranging auditions for him, and you mark my words with a red pencil, that rich Jewish Hollywood crowd will be falling all over themselves to book him. And those gorgeous looks of his don’t hurt any either. My dear, if I was twenty years younger, would I be giving you a hard time!” Her voice cascaded into a waterfall of laughter, and from the sound of
her, Goldie envisioned a woman of extraordinary weight.

  Half an hour later, wearing his familiar tattered bathrobe and his worn bedroom slippers, Morris Rothfeld shuffled into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his head. Goldie threw her arms around him and gave him a sloppy kiss.

  “Please, Goldie, not on an empty stomach.”

  “I love you, Morris Rothfeld, I love you love you love you.”

  His eyes widened with amazement. “How come? You heard I inherited money?”

  Enrobed in a harlequin peignoir, Mae West opened the door to admit Herb Villon and Jim Mallory. Villon asked, “The great lady answering the door herself?”

  She wiggled her way to the sideboard. “The great lady had no cherce. I think Desdemona and Goncril died in their sleep. Or else they’re in a coma what with all the drinkin’ they did at the club and all the wailin’ for Billie when we got home.”

  “I suppose Beverly is still in the arms of Morpheus?” asked Villon.

  “No, handsome, she slept alone last night.” She indicated the coffee and rolls on the sideboard. “Help yourselves. It’s a little sparse but it’s the best I could do.” She swayed to the throne chair where a cup of black coffee awaited her attention on an end table. “I ain’t seen the papers yet. Did last night make headlines? I didn’t notice no reporters or photographers.”

  “Hazel was a one-woman army. She scooped everybody in town.” He poured coffee for himself and Mallory.

  “Nice lady, Hazel, if a little ditsy. You plannin’ on marryin’ her. Herb?”

  “What for?”

  “Ain’t you in love with her?”

  “Do I have to be?”

  “You don’t have to be anything. I’ve got a woman’s unnatural curiosity. If there’s no payoff in the cards for her, why’s she stickin’ around?”

  “Because if I must say so myself,” said Villon, “I’m about the best she’ll ever get in this town.”

  Mae tsk’ed and said, “And they say I’m an egomaniac. Compared to you, Herb Villon, I’m Snow White minus the dwarfs. I hear activity in the kitchen. The ladies are alive.”