[Celebrity Murder Case 03] - The Tallulah Bankhead Murder Case Page 4

  “He’s dead “ It was Beth who certainly spoke, but the voice belonged to someone else. It was hollow and lifeless. Ted said nothing. “He had a heart attack.” She arose from her seat and turned the set off. She picked up her glass of scotch and soda and then looked at her husband. “And so what happened in Washington? Did you take the Fifth?”

  “Now look, Beth, we’ve been through this over and over again and I’m fed up discussing it!”

  “Who did you name?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “I want to talk about packing and heading for the Coast, that’s what I want to talk about. I’ve decided to take Zanuck’s offer.”

  “Who did you betray?” He recognized this voice. “How many people will be crossing to the other side of the street when they see me coming? Who can I no longer phone and invite over for lunch? Did you name me? We met at the same fund-raiser. We acted in three plays together. We’ve been sharing the same bed for a long time.” Her voice rose a few octaves. “How many lives did you destroy, my beloved husband? How many?”

  He repeated the names of the men and women he had betrayed to save his own professional skin. She threw the drink in his face and then went to the bedroom to pack a bag. He sank into a chair without drying his face. Then he wondered if Broadway was ready for a revival of King Lear.

  Abner Walsh cried as he watched the eulogy to John Garfield on his television set. The vial of sleeping pills was uncapped in his hand, and one by one he popped a pill into his mouth, helping it along with a sip of vodka He was still popping pills when the eulogy was over and a cutesy weather girl was promising lovely weather for tomorrow. He kept downing pills and vodka until the vial was empty. He took all the pills because he wasn’t sure how many were necessary to complete the job of dying satisfactorily. He had never tried to commit suicide before, except that one time he had recorded a romantic ballad, “You’d Better Go Now.” The record was a flop and sent him back to folk songs with alacrity. He staggered to the record cabinet and through a bleary vision rummaged and found the recording. He had enough strength to put the record on the turntable and while he listened, he felt his life slipping away, without regret.

  “You’d better go now …. because I like you much too much …”

  Abner sank to the floor with his head against the speaker He whispered softly, “Okay … I’m going.”

  Abner had died early enough in the day to provide headlines for the afternoon newspapers. Gabriel Darnoff bought one at Times Square and thought: Another valiant is gone. My fathers friend, my father’s comrade, they fought together with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade during the Spanish Civil War. They always marched to the tattoo of the same drummer. They lived the same way, more or less, and they died the same way, more or less. Gabriel leaned against the news kiosk while crumpling the paper. My father defenestrated and Abner took pills. Both methods were highly effective. Maybe I should write my next play about them. They deserve a worthier epitaph than the ones they’ve received Newspaper print is cold and heartless. No number of words can give the reader the true measure of these wonderful men. They weren’t subversives. They were causists. They believed in something and fought for it and for this they were condemned. Men such as they fought in the Revolutionary War and it was men such as they who wrote the Constitution of the United States My God, thought Gabriel as he started walking slowly to the theater where his play would have its first preview that night after a disappointing am in New Haven, if Nathan Hale or Patrick Henry or Thomas Jefferson were alive today, they’d be subpoenaed by HUAG My, what another good idea for a play.

  “What did you say, young man?” asked a feisty little old lady prepared to hit Gabriel with her umbrella.

  “Are you talking to me?” asked Gabriel, waiting for the traffic light to change.

  “Well, you were talking to me! I didn’t hear what you said. Do you need help crossing the street? I hate boy scouts.”

  “What I said? Oh … yes … I said the world is rapidly running out of heroes.”

  “You some kind of a nut case?” The light changed and Gabriel fled.

  In Studio 8H of the NBC Studios in Rockefeller Center, from which “The Big Show” was broadcast, a pall hung over the rehearsal. The news of Abner Walsh’s death had brought a fresh spate of vituperation from Tallulah aimed at anyone silly enough to step into her line of verbal fire. The orchestra conductor, Meredith Willson, doodled at the piano a melody Abner had composed many years ago and Tallulah’s guest stars wisely repaired to their dressing rooms. Tallulah spotted Lewis Drefuss talking on the phone, crossed to him, and put her arm around his shoulders. He finished talking and hung up.

  “I’m so sorry, dahling. You tried so hard to save Abner.”

  “We both did.”

  “My God, Lewis. The world’s gone mad. Absolutely mad. Oh for the good old days when people making speeches from soap boxes were a popular vaudeville joke!” She was hunting in her handbag for her cigarettes and when she had one between her lips, Lewis struck a match and lit it. “I’m a fighter, Lewis, but now I’m beginning to think I’m getting too old for it.” She savagely blew a smoke ring that barely missed hitting a stagehand. “Maybe I should retire quietly to Windows and spend the rest of my life taking nips from a bottle of gin while listening to my arteries harden. Well, aren’t you going to talk me out of it?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Lewis, you poor dahling You haven’t been listening.” She put her arm through his. “Let’s get some coffee and talk about the people we hate. Who’s that woman over there who keeps smiling at me? Even with my glasses on I don’t recognize her.”

  “That’s Beth Valudni. She’s doing the tea party sketch with you.”

  “That’s Beth Valudni? Why dahling, she looks as though she’s just been in a train crash. Beth! Dahling! Forgive me! It’s been so many years, I didn’t recognize you!” They fell into each other’s arms. Then to Lewis, Tallulah said, “Beth was my understudy in a piece of crap I did with that profile I was married to. For God’s sake, Beth, what are you doing working?”

  “I’ve left Ted. I need to work.”

  “Congratulations! Come have some coffee with us and we can verbally destroy the villain. Is it true he named you too?”

  “He named me and God knows what I’m doing here. I was stunned when I was told I had the job.”

  Lewis explained, “They couldn’t find any incriminating documentation on you.”

  “That must have ruined their day, dahlings.” She asked Beth as they reached the elevator, “Did you know Ted was going to name names?”

  “Well, Tallulah, I knew he had an offer from Hollywood that was contingent on his clearing himself. He’s going there in a few weeks.”

  The elevator arrived Although it was crowded, Tallulah took the two by the arm and pressed in. “Sorry, dahlings,” she said over her shoulder to the discomfited ones, “but my girlfriend’s pregnant and were late for my abortionist.” Beth blushed. She had seen an abortionist three days after leaving Valudni.

  They found a vacant table in Cromwell’s drugstore on the lobby floor that not only provided refreshments but was a clearinghouse for radio and television actors trading tips and gossip. The young waiter was having trouble taking their simple orders of coffee and sandwiches, and Tallulah, impatient with his ineptness, asked, “Young man, are you an actor?”

  “Why, yes!” he said brightly, glowing in his one and probably only moment in the sun.

  “Oh, good! Because you’re certainly not a waiter.” With sagged shoulders he went away. “Something’s got to be done about this.”

  “The waiter?” asked Beth.

  “Hell no, let’s leave him to heaven. These betrayals. The destruction of the innocent. Have you heard even I’ve been threatened? The next thing you know they’ll be after the Lunts, and then God help them. Well, any ideas?”

  Lewis crumbled a breadstick and the ta
ble fell silent.

  Martha Walsh wandered about the apartment trying to come to a decision. She had swallowed her pride and phoned her successor, Nanette Walsh, to offer her condolences and to tell her Abner wished to be cremated. Nanette said she knew that and he was to be cremated in the morning.

  She told Nanette of Abner’s visit a few days ago and of his strange request about the disposal of his ashes. There was silence from Nanette for a few seconds, followed by a hoarse laugh, and she said, “I’ll have them delivered to you.”

  And so Abner had been cremated and the tin of ashes now sat on the mantelpiece next to a photo taken many years ago of Abner, Martha, and their son, Leo, a small boy with a jagged scar on his left cheek. Martha touched the photograph gently, then touched the tin of ashes and, with resolve, referred to her book of phone numbers and dialed Lester Miroff.

  “Hello?” said Miroff while watching his friend, Oliver Sholom, stare dumbly out the window. Sholom had not been as fortunate as Miroff and so many others who had been cooperative witnesses. He’d blabbed all over the place, but still couldn’t get a job as a director. He couldn’t even get a job directing traffic.

  “It’s Martha Walsh, Lester.”

  “Martha Walsh?” He couldn’t believe his ears. He had named Abner, everyone knew she was forever loyal to Abner, and here she was on the phone speaking to a man who had betrayed the only great love of her life. Now he needed a scriptwriter but there was none at hand. He had to improvise on his own. “Er … hello, Martha.”

  “I have something for you, Lester Abner wanted you to have it.”

  “Me?”

  “Will you be home for a while?”

  “Why, sure, sure I will. Actually, Oliver Sholom’s here. Visiting.” Sholom turned from the window when he heard his name.

  “I’ll be right over,” said Martha and hung up. Taking the tin of ashes, she left the basement apartment and walked purposefully the three short blocks to Lester Miroff’s building. When she reached his door, she pried the lid from the tin of ashes, and when Lester opened the door wide, a carefully manufactured smile on his face, Martha said, “Compliments of Abner Walsh.” She flung the ashes in his face. “Those are his ashes! I wish they were yours!”

  “Oh my God!” cried Oliver Sholom. “Oh my God! Such bad taste!”

  Lester Miroff neither said anything nor did anything. He was shocked with horror.

  When Martha returned to her basement apartment, she sat at the kitchen table penning a brief note. When she was finished, she put it in an envelope and sealed it. She took a five-dollar bill from her purse and went out into the street. She recognized the teenage boy playing stoop ball and called his name. “Nick!”

  Nick frequently ran errands for her and was generously rewarded. “Can you use five dollars, Nick?”

  Nick crossed to her and she explained the errand. Half an hour later he was in Studio 8H asking for Tallulah Bankhead. Lewis Drefuss suggested he wipe his nose. The boy smiled and inhaled. Lewis took him to Tallulah’s dressing room. “There’s a young man here to see you, Tallulah.”

  “Not too young I hope. I’m not the girl I used to be.”

  “He has a note for you.”

  “Yeah,” piped up Nick, “she gimme a fiver to make sure it’s delivered to you poisonally. You rilly Talluler Banghead?”

  “Bankhead. Yes, dahling. Is this the first you’ve ever seen me?”

  “Yeah!”

  “How I envy you.” She took the note, patted him on the head, offered him a martini which he refused, and then ushered him out the door. “Sweet child, probably contemplating a life of crime.” She tore open the envelope and extracted the note. She scanned it swiftly and then emitted a cry of dismay. “It’s from Martha Walsh! Thanking me for what I tried to do for Abner … and oh my God … she says she’s gone to join him!” Lewis ran out of the dressing room. “Where are you going? Phone the police! Someone! Phone the police! But where does she live? There’s no return address! Somebody help me!”

  A neighbor had smelled the gas while in the basement to dispose of her garbage. She banged on Martha’s door, shouting, “Mrs Walsh! Mrs. Walsh!” but there was no response. She ran upstairs and alerted the building superintendent. With his oldest son, the man rushed to the basement and together they broke the door down. Martha was on the floor of the kitchen, towels stuffed around window edges and under the doors. They turned off the gas and the son phoned for an ambulance. The neighbor patted Martha’s wrist and the janitor applied a damp dish towel to her forehead. But it was too late.

  Later Lewis Drefuss told a distraught Tallulah, “By the time I got there, the ambulance had gone. But someone told me she was dead. Gas.”

  Tallulah stubbed out her cigarette and then said in a husky voice, “If there’s a God, someone will pay for this.”

  “Miss Bankhead! Miss Valudni! Were ready to rehearse your sketch!” they heard the floor manager call.

  Tallulah said to Lewis, “Find out if she had any money. If she didn’t, then I’ll pay for the funeral. She and Abner were always so kind to me. They put up with so much. And I’ve got a bloody sketch to rehearse.”

  Oliver Sholom waited a decent ten minutes before leaving Lester Miroff in his apartment and hurrying back to his own shabby walk-up apartment on Tenth Avenue. A job, he was thinking, a job. I’ve got to find a job. Somebody out there has got to offer me a job. I’ve had some good successes on Broadway. I’ve directed big stars. Mary Boland. Jane Cowl. Lcnorc Ulric. Real big stars. I’ve got to find a job. Ashes. Abner’s ashes. Well, he was lucky she wasn’t carrying a gun. She might have murdered him. Murder. Oh my God, can it be that all this mess is coming to that? Murder.

  Lester Miroff had bathed and now sat wearing a bathrobe staring out the window. It had taken the ashes of an old friend flung in his face to finally bring home to him the enormity of his betrayals He would have to live with this for the rest of his life. Soon he’d be singing on his own TV show, but was it worth it? Was it really worth it? Who was still speaking to him these days? His agent, his mother and father who couldn’t understand why he was still a bachelor at the age of forty, the neighborhood tradespeople and … who … oh yes … Oliver Sholom, poor bastard, begging me to get him the job directing my program Oh, what the hell, maybe it’s worth a shot trying to get it for him. Oh my God, oh my God, what have I done to myself?

  The phone rang and he stared at it. Maybe it was wired to explode. He was feeling paranoid. It rang again. Answer it, you dummy, it didn’t explode when Martha phoned you. Martha. Abner. Ashes. He reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  “Lester Miroff.” The voice sounded faint, muffled.

  “Yes, could you speak up, please. I can barely hear you.”

  “Martha Walsh is dead.” Still faint, still muffled, but Lester heard. His mouth went dry and his skin was pale and clammy. “Lester, you’ll never sing again.”

  Click

  FOUR

  “So tell me what to do!” shouted Lester into the phone.

  “You’re getting hysterical, Lester,” said his agent, a formidable middle-aged woman named Leona Clystir who loathed her clients en masse.

  “Hysterical! I’ve just had a death threat!”

  “Lester, it’s just a crank. Face it, dear.” She had the phone cradled between her shoulder and chin while applying polish to a fingernail. “You’ll be getting a lot of flack from these pests. Crank call, crank letters, I mean for some kookieboos it’s a hobby.”

  “I’m going to call the police!”

  “Lester, save the effort. The best they’ll offer to do is tap your phone and, believe me, it’s not worth the invasion of privacy. Don’t sit around the house either. Go to a movie. Go to a Turkish bath. Go to a supermarket and shove geriatrics.”

  Lester went to a Turkish bath. It was located in the West Twenties off Broadway. It was a homosexual hotbed and named, amusingly enough, the Everhard. He taxied down from his apartment, too nervous and edgy to notice he was being follo
wed.

  It was too early in the day for much action, and Lester was grateful for the comparative peace and quiet. During rush hour the place sounded like the invasion of a chicken coop by fox and vixen. A towel comfortably wrapped around his potbelly, Lester settled down on a ledge in the dimly lit steam room. When his eyes became accustomed, he realized he had the place to himself. It was almost an intrusion when the door opened and through the steamy mist Lester saw a man enter. The man was fully clothed. Fully clothed, in a steam bath? Well, maybe that’s how he gets his kicks. Lester closed his eyes and leaned back, he could almost hear his pores opening and exuding body poisons, or at least that’s what they were supposed to do in a steam room. He sneezed and then yawned and then wondered what the other man was doing and if perhaps he was attractive. He opened his eyes and saw what the other man was doing. He was pointing a small gun at Lester, and before Lester could realize he was doomed, the man pulled the trigger. Lester heard a little fflfuttt, and that was the last thing he heard. The bullet hit him right between the eyes and killed him instantly. The man left the steam room cautiously, he made his way out of the building without being seen, and then he went to a Jewish delicatessen on Broadway and ordered a hot pastrami and corned beef combo, as lean as possible, please, and a celery tonic. Yes, a slice of half sour pickle would be nice too, but no coleslaw, thank you. Fascinating, the man thought as he waited for his order, absolutely fascinating. Killing is so easy. It’s such a cinch to commit the perfect crime. Lester Miroff. That’s one down, and just a few more to go. He smiled. Murder is like eating peanuts. Once you start, it’s hard to stop.