“My God! The first atomic shoot, and they blew it.”
“I woke up in a hospital in Boston—Burbank North—exactly like you. After I got out, I got a job.”
“As an artist?”
“Sort of. I’m an antique-faker. I work for one of the biggest art dealers in the country.”
“So here we are, Violet.”
“Here we are. How do you think it happened, Sam?”
“I have no idea, but I’m not surprised. When you fool around with atomic energy on such a massive scale, anything can happen. Do you think there are any more of us?”
“Shot forward?”
“Uh huh.”
“I couldn’t say. You’re the first I ever met.”
“If I thought there were, I’d look for them. My God, Violet, I’m so homesick for the twentieth century.”
“Me too.”
“It’s grotesque here; it’s all B picture,” Bauer said. “Pure Hollywood cliché. The names. The homes. The way they talk. The way they carry on. All like it’s straight out of the world’s worst double feature.”
“It is. Didn’t you know?”
“Know? Know what? Tell me.”
“I got it from their history books. It seems after that war nearly everything was wiped out. When they started building a new civilization, all they had for a pattern was the remains of Hollywood. It was comparatively untouched in the war.”
“Why?”
“I guess nobody thought it was worth bombing.”
“Who were the two sides, us and Russia?”
“I don’t know. Their history books just call them the Good Guys and the Bad Guys.”
“Typical. Christ, Violet, they’re like idiot children. No, they’re like extras in a bad movie. And what kills me is that they’re happy. They’re all living this grade Z synthetic life out of a Cecil B. DeMille spectacle, and the idiots love it. Did you see President Spencer Tracy’s funeral? They carried the coffin in a full-sized Sphinx.”
“That’s nothing. Did you see Princess Joan’s wedding?”
“Fontaine?”
“Crawford. She was married under anesthesia.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not. She and her husband were joined in holy matrimony by a plastic surgeon.”
Bauer shuddered. “Good old Great L.A. Have you been to a football game?”
“No.”
“They don’t play football; they just give two hours of half-time entertainment.”
“Like the marching bands; no musicians, nothing but drum majorettes with batons.”
“They’ve got everything air-conditioned, even outdoors.”
“With Muzak in every tree.”
“Swimming pools on every street corner.”
“Klieg lights on every roof.”
“Commissaries for restaurants.”
“Vending machines for autographs.”
“And for medical diagnosis. They call them Medicmatons.”
“Cheesecake impressions in the sidewalks.”
“And here we are, trapped in hell,” Bauer grunted. “Which reminds me, shouldn’t we get out of this house? Where’s the Webb family?”
“On a cruise. They won’t be back for days. Where’s the cops?”
“I got rid of them with a decoy. They won’t be back for hours. Another drink?”
“All right. Thanks.” Violet looked at Bauer curiously. “Is that why you’re stealing, Sam, because you hate it here? Is it revenge?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s because I’m homesick… . Try this; I think it’s Rum and Rhubarb… . I’ve got a place out on Long Island—Catalina East, I ought to say—and I’m trying to turn it into a twentieth-century home. Naturally I have to steal the stuff. I spend weekends there, and it’s bliss, Violet. It’s my only escape.”
“I see.”
“Which again reminds me. What the devil were you doing here, masquerading as the Webb girl?”
“I was after the Flowered Thundermug too.”
“You were going to steal it?”
“Of course. Who was as surprised as I when I discovered someone was ahead of me?”
“And that poor-little-rich-girl routine—you were trying to swindle it out of me?”
“I was. As a matter of fact, I did.”
“You did indeed. Why?”
“Not the same reason as you. I want to go into business for myself.”
“As an antique-faker?”
“Faker and dealer both. I’m building up my stock, but I haven’t been nearly as successful as you.”
“Then was it you who got away with that three-panel vanity mirror framed in simulated gold?”
“Yes.”
“And that brass bedside reading lamp with adjustable extension?”
“That was me.”
“Too bad; I really wanted that. How about the tufted chaise longue covered in crewel?”
She nodded. “Me again. It nearly broke my back.”
“Couldn’t you get help?”
“How could I trust anyone? Don’t you work alone?”
“Yes,” Bauer said thoughtfully. “Up to now, yes; but I don’t see any reason for going on that way. Violet, we’ve been working against each other without knowing it. Now that we’ve met, why don’t we set up housekeeping together?”
“What housekeeping?”
“We’ll work together, furnish my house together and make a wonderful sanctuary. And at the same time you can be building up your stock, I mean, if you want to sell a chair out from under me, that’ll be all right. We can always pinch another one.”
“You mean share your house together?”
“Sure.”
“Couldn’t we take turns?”
“Take turns how?”
“Sort of like alternate weekends?”
“Why?”
“You know.”
“I don’t know. Tell me.”
“Oh, forget it.”
“No, tell me why.”
She flushed. “How can you be so stupid? You know perfectly well why. Do you think I’m the kind of girl who spends weekends with men?”
Bauer was taken aback. “But I had no such proposition in mind, I assure you. The house has two bedrooms. You’ll be perfectly safe. The first thing we’ll do is steal a Yale lock for your door.”
“It’s out of the question,” she said. “I know men.”
“I give you my word, this will be entirely on a friendly basis. Every decorum will be observed.”
“I know men,” she repeated firmly.
“Aren’t you being a little unrealistic?” he asked. “Here we are, refugees in this Hollywood nightmare; we ought to be helping and comforting each other; and you let a silly moral issue stand between us.”
“Can you look me in the eye and tell me that sooner or later the comfort won’t wind up in bed?” she countered. “Can you?”
“No, I can’t,” he answered honestly. “That would be denying the fact that you’re a damned attractive girl. But I—”
“Then it’s out of the question, unless you want to legalize it; and I’m not promising that I’ll accept.”
“No,” Bauer said sharply. “There I draw the line, Violet. That would be doing it the L.A. way. Every time a couple want a one-night stand they go to a Wedmaton, put in a quarter and get hitched. The next morning they go to a Renomaton and get unhitched, and their conscience is clear. It’s hypocrisy! When I think of the girls who’ve put me through that humiliation: Jane Russell, Jane Powell, Jayne Mansfield, Jane Withers, Jane Fonda, Jane Tarzan—Iyeuch!”
“Oh! You!” Violet Dugan leaped to her feet in a fury. “So, after all that talk about loathing it here, you’ve gone Hollywood too.”
“Go argue with a woman.” Bauer was exasperated. “I just said I didn’t want to do it the L.A. way, and she accuses me of going Hollywood. Female logic!”
“Don’t you pull your male supremacy on me,” she flared. “When I listen to you, it tak
es me back to the old days, and it makes me sick.”
“Violet … Violet … Don’t let’s fight. We have to stick together. Look, I’ll go along with it your way. What the hell, it’s only a quarter. But we’ll put that lock on your door anyway. All right?”
“Oh! You! Only a quarter! You’re disgusting.” She picked up the Flowered Thundermug and turned.
“Just a minute,” Bauer said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going home.”
“Then we don’t team up?”
“No.”
“We don’t get together on any terms?”
“No. Go and comfort yourself with those tramps named Jane. Good night.”
“You’re not leaving, Violet.”
“I’m on my way, Mr. Bauer.”
“Not with that Thundermug.”
“It’s mine.”
“I did the stealing.”
“And I did the swindling.”
“Put it down, Violet.”
“You gave it to me. Remember?”
“I’m telling you, put it down.”
“I will not. Don’t you come near me!”
“You know men. Remember? But not all. about them. Now put that mug down like a good girl or you’re going to learn something else about male supremacy. I’m warning you, Violet… . All right, love, here it comes.”
Pale dawn shone into the office of Inspector Edward G. Robinson, casting blue beams through the dense cigarette smoke. The Bunco Squad made an ominous circle around the apelike figure slumped in a chair. Inspector Robinson spoke wearily.
“All right, let’s hear your story again.”
The man in the chair stirred and attempted to raise his head. “My name is William Bendix,” he mumbled. “I am forty years of age. I am a pinnacle expediter in the employ of Groucho, Chico, Harpo and Marx, construction engineers, at 12203 Goldwyn Terrace.”
“What is a pinnacle expediter?”
“A pinnacle expediter is a specialist whereby when the firm builds like a shoe-shaped building for a shoe store, he ties the laces on top; also he puts the straws on top of an ice cream parlor; also he—”
“What was your last job?”
“The Memory Institute at 30449 Louis B. Mayer Boulevard.”
“What did you do?”
“I put the veins in the brain.”
“Have you got a police record?”
“No, sir.”
“What were you perpetrating in the luxurious residence of Clifton Webb on or about midnight last night?”
“Like I said, I was having a vodka-and-spinach in Ye Olde Moderne Beer Taverne—I put the foam on top when we built it—and this guy come up to me and got to talking. He told me all about this art treasury just imported by a rich guy. He told me he was a collector hisself, but couldn’t afford to buy this treasury, and the rich guy was so jealous of him he wouldn’t even let him see it. He told me he would give me a hundred dollars just to get a look at it.”
“You mean steal it.”
“No, sir, look at it. He said if I would just bring it to the window so he could look at it, he would pay me a hundred dollars.”
“And how much if you handed it to him?”
“No, sir, just look at it. Then I was supposed to put it back from whence it come from, and that was the whole deal.”
“Describe the man.”
“He was maybe thirty years old. Dressed good. Talked a little funny, like a foreigner, and laughed a lot, like he had a joke he wanted to tell. He was maybe medium height, maybe taller. His eyes was dark. His hair was dark and thick and wavy; it would of looked good on top of a barbershop.”
There was an urgent rap on the office door. Detective Edna May Oliver burst in, looking distressed.
“Well?” Inspector Robinson snapped.
“His story stands up, Chief,” Detective Oliver reported. “He was seen in Ye Olde Moderne Banana Split last night—”
“No, no, no. It was Ye Olde Moderne Beer Taverne.”
“Same place, Chief. They just renovated for another grand opening tonight.”
“Who put the cherries on top?” Bendix wanted to know. He was ignored.
“This perpetrator was seen talking to the mystery man he described,” Detective Oliver continued. “They left together.”
“It was the Artsy-Craftsy Kid .”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Could anyone identify him?”
“No, Chief.”
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” Inspector Robinson smote the desk in exasperation. “I have a hunch that we’ve been tricked.”
“How, Chief?”
“Don’t you see, Ed? There’s a chance the Kid might have found out about our secret trap.”
“I don’t get it, Chief.”
“Think, Ed. Think! Maybe he was the underworld informer who sent us the anonymous tip that the Kid would strike last night.”
“You mean squeal on himself?”
“Exactly.”
“But why, Chief?”
“To trick us into arresting the wrong man. I tell you, he’s diabolical.”
“But what did that get him, Chief? You already seen through the trick.”
“You’re right, Ed. The Kid’s plan must go deeper than that. But how? How?” Inspector Robinson arose and began pacing, his powerful mind grappling with the tortuous complications of the Artsy-Craftsy Kid’s caper.
“So how about me?” Bendix asked.
“Oh, you can go,” Robinson said wearily. “You’re just a pawn in a far bigger game, my man.”
“No, I mean, can I go through with that deal now? He’s prolly still waiting outside the house for a look.”
“What’s that you say? Waiting?” Robinson exclaimed. “You mean he was there when we arrested you?”
“He must of been.”
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Robinson cried. “Now I see it all.”
“See what, Chief?”
“Don’t you get the picture, Ed? The Kid watched us leave with this dupe. Then, after we left, the Kid entered the house.”
“You mean … ?”
“He’s probably there right now, cracking that safe.”
“Great Scot!”
“Ed, alert the Flying Squad and the Riot Squad.”
“Right, Chief.”
“Ed, I want roadblocks all around the house.”
“Check, Chief.”
“Ed, you and Ed come with me.”
“Where to, Chief?”
“The Webb mansion.”
“You can’t, Chief. It’s madness.”
“I must. This town isn’t big enough for both of us. This time it’s the Artsy-Craftsy Kid—or me.”
It made headlines: how the Bunco Squad had seen through the diabolical plan of the Artsy-Craftsy Kid and arrived at the fabled Webb mansion only moments after he had made off with the Flowered Thundermug; how they had found his unconscious victim, the plucky Audrey Hepburn, devoted assistant to the mysterious gambling overlord Greta “Snake Eyes” Garbo; how Audrey, intuitively suspecting that something was amiss, had taken it upon herself to investigate; how the canny cracksman had played a sinister cat-and-mouse game with her until the opportunity came to fell her with a brutal blow.
Interviewed by the news syndicates, Miss Hepburn said, “It was just a woman’s intuition. I suspected something was amiss and took it upon myself to investigate. The canny cracksman played a sinister cat-and-mouse game with me until the opportunity came to fell me with a brutal blow.”
She received seventeen proposals of marriage by Wedmaton, three offers of screen tests, twenty-five dollars from the Hollywood East Community Chest, the Darryl F. Zanuck Award for Human Interest and a reprimand from her boss.
“You should also have said you vere ravished, Audrey,” Miss Garbo told her. “It vould have improved the story.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Garbo. I’ll try to remember next time. He did make an indecent proposal.”
This was
in Miss Garbo’s secret atelier, where Violet Dugan (Audrey Hepburn) was busily engaged in faking a calendar of the Corn Exchange Bank for the year 1943, while the members of the Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers consulted.
“Cara mia,” De Sica asked Violet, “can you not give us a fuller description of the scoundrel?”
“I’ve told you everything I can remember, Mr. De Sica. The one detail that seems to help is the fact that he computes odds for one of the biggest bookies in the East.”
“Mah! There are hundreds of that species. It is no help at all. You did not get a clue to his name?”
“No, sir; at least, not the name he uses now.”
“The name he uses now? How do you mean that?”
“I—I meant—the name he uses when he isn’t the Artsy-Craftsy Kid.”
“I see. And his home?”
“He said somewhere in Catalina East.”
“There are a hundred and forty miles of homes in Catalina East,” Horton said irritably.
“I can’t help that, Mr. Horton.”
“Audrey,” Miss Garbo commanded, “put down that calendar and look at me.”
“Yes, Miss Garbo.”
“You have fallen in love vith this man. To you he is a romantic figure, and you do not vant him brought to justice. Is that not so?”
“No, Miss Garbo,” Violet answered vehemently. “If there’s anything in the world I want, it’s to have him arrested.” She fingered her jaw. “In love with him? I hate him!”
“So.” De Sica sighed. “It is a disaster. Plainly, we are obliged to pay his grace two million dollars if the Thundermug is not recovered.”
“In my opinion,” Horton burst out, “the police will never find it. They’re dolts! Almost as big a pack of fools as we were to get mixed up in this thing in the first place.”
“Then it must be a case for a private eye. With our unsavory underworld connections, we should have no difficulty contacting the right man. Are there any suggestions?”
“Nero Volfe,” Miss Garbo said.
“Excellent, cara mia. A gentleman of culture and erudition.”
“Mike Hammer,” Horton said.
“The nomination is noted. What would you say to Perry Mason?”
“That shyster is too honest,” Horton snapped.
“The shyster is scratched. Any further suggestions?”
“Mrs. North,” Violet said.