Laurel and Hardy Murders (19 page)

“Wake up!” she ordered the Old Man, shaking him.

“Hah? Wazzup?”

“When does the Philadelphia convention begin?”

He blinked at her blearily for a moment, then suddenly shot up out of his chair, eyes filled with panic.

“Holy hog-warts!” he wailed. “Jerry Freundlich’ll kill me! I’m supposed to help set up!”

Hilary repeated her question.

“It starts
tomorrow
!”

“All right, cool it!” she ordered him. “Get me the phone book.”

I handed it to her. She flipped through it and found the number she wanted.

“Is Dutchy there?” Hilary asked. I picked up the other line and listened in.

Isabel Hovis told Hilary her husband was already en route to Philadelphia.

Hanging up, Hilary told me to pack an overnight bag.

“There’s nothing else we can do here till O. J. returns. Meanwhile, if we don’t get to Valley Forge, there’s liable to be another Sons of the Desert murder.”

The three of us were in the Packard in less than ten minutes.

“I
’M PLAYING A HUNCH,”
Hilary admitted as we emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel. “I could be wrong. Though I don’t think I am. What
might
happen—”

CUT TO

“They’re all over at Valley Forge already,” Butler told us, hanging up the phone in the turnpike restaurant. “We’d better get our asses over there pronto!”

CUT TO

“Where the Christ’s name you
been
, Frank?” Jerry Freundlich yelled. “You’re
supposed
to be the vice-president, remember? You’re expected to work!”

We pitched in to get the convention stuff ready for the next day. Hilary didn’t mind. The Two Tars includes plenty of women members.

During the evening, Dutchy showed up, looking worried. He called me over.

“I got another one. It scared my wife, she didn’t want me to take the chance, but I told her I trust you, Gene.”

CUT IN:

Extreme Close-Up of the note.

WAYNE POE DIED ONSTAGE.

YOU COULD, TOO...

DON’T GO TO PHILADELPHIA.

“I want a complete rundown of the program,” Hilary told Jerry Freundlich. “Especially any activity Dutchy is involved in.”

The Two Tars president nodded. “That’d be the initiation ceremony...”

CUT TO

Next morning.

“The bus from New York is here!” I said, looking out the window at the parking lot.

The first ones to disembark were Phil Faxon, Natie, Toby, and Della Wheete. Sandy Sable was greeted by Dutchy and the two of them walked off together, talking.

O. J. still hadn’t arrived from Altoona.

S
O:

LAP DISSOLVE

LONG SHOT.
Interior. Evening.

Nearly 150 members of the Sons of the Desert thronged the immense hall, a room brilliant with chandeliers reflecting off a glossily waxed parquet flooring which might have served as a dance floor (maybe it did) or a surface for basketball and tumbling exhibitions.

The decor was a strange mixture of anonymous functionalism and kitschy attempts to be quaint. The walls were festooned with old silver serving trays, hanging beer steins, and one ferocious moose head with a nine-point rack.

Toby and Natie cavorted in the Irish pub sketch, convulsing the audience. It was amazing how the New York tent’s treasurer conveyed the wispy wiriness of the late Jack Black, despite his own considerable girth. The pair performed on a low platform with wings and step units on either side to prevent access from the floor. There were no act curtains, but the management had draped the rear wall in bunting of the official club colors, blue and gray.

Butler and I sat on the end seats, left and right, of the front row. Hilary was back by the main door to the room, and she had a whistle around her neck. If she blew it, the Old Man and I were supposed to hop up on the steps where we could see above the heads of the crowd. She would point in the direction of the assailant for us.

There were many things wrong with the plan:

1. There was more than one access to the room.

2. Enough people kept going out to the bar to make it impossible for Hilary to keep a perfect watch over the main entrance. It would be easy to miss the person we were waiting for.

3. Dutchy rented two spotlights and planned to set them up for the initiation ceremony. He didn’t want the effect he’d worked up ruined by the garish room lighting. That meant it would be dark and extremely difficult to see during the most crucial part of the program.

Hilary didn’t like it. She’d wanted to call in the local police, but the officers of the Two Tars put their heads together and nixed it. They were worried that the Sons would walk in, see cops, and turn around and leave. Too many people were still extremely shaken up from the New York banquet.

Hilary had brought her revolver, not the little target weapon, and I had one, too. But so did the Old Man.

Another very definite drawback.

The skit ended. Applause.

Two Tars president Jerry Freundlich strode onstage, clapping. He was tall, barrel-chested, had a great unruly shock of brown hair and a nose to rival Everest.

“I’d hoped,” he said, “that the president of the parent tent, Mr. O. J. Wheete, might be here for this part of the ceremony, but he called me earlier and said he might be getting in a little late. But, of course, he
will
be here in spirit for the toasts. Will the following persons please join me? Lehman Wilson, Barry Richmond, Natie Barrows.”

When they were onstage, Freundlich announced that the Two Tars treasurer, Lehman Wilson, would give the toast to Charley and Mae. Everyone stood up.

A white-haired gentleman with thick glasses and a frail quavering voice spoke into the microphone. “Here’s to the sweetest and the sourest of the Laurel and Hardy sidekicks—Mae Busch and Charley Hall!”

“
Hear, hear
!”

Some eight-score glasses were raised in salute.

“Natie Barrows, the parent tent treasurer, will toast Fin.”

Natie, still in his costume, lofted his beer.

“Here’s to his squinty eye!

Here’s to his head of skin!

The crusty, irascible guy

Who we all love...our FIN!”

“
Hear, hear
!”

“The toast to Babe will be delivered by a member of the board of the parent tent, a man who was also its treasurer until recently—Mr. Barry Richmond.”

Cheers from the New York people, intermixed with wisecracks.

Barry grinned at the audience and adjusted his glasses. Then he pointed in the direction of the most vociferous roisterers and said, “That’ll be enough out of you, as the street cleaner said to the horse!”

Good-natured groans.

He turned to Jerry Freundlich and pointed out that he wasn’t a mister, but should be addressed as His Excellency. The other looked rather mystified. Then Barry said hello to Natie.

“Nice toast,” he remarked. “How much money do you owe Marty Kondak?” It was a well-known fact that our Poet Lariat kept extra rhymed toasts on hand to help out Sons whose muses deserted them.

“The toast to Babe,” said Barry. “I quote from John Bunyan. In
Pilgrim’s Progress
, there’s a phrase that sums up the position Babe often ends up taking. To wit—‘Every fat must stand upon his bottom!’ TO BABE!”

“
Hear, hear
!”

We all drank again.

“I was going to take the final toast myself,” Jerry Freundlich stated, “but a most important guest just walked in the door, and I believe it is befitting that he handle the toast to Stan. I refer to the Grand Sheik of the Sons of the Desert...Mr. Al Kilgore!”

Wild cheering and stamping of feet. Our smiling, saturnine leader walked onto the stage, waving to the crowd. When he reached the microphone, he tugged his necktie out of his vest and twiddled it at the audience.

Everyone skritched their heads like Stan Laurel in response and joined hands to sing “We are the Sons of the Desert.” Then the Grand Sheik spoke.

“Sorry I’m late, I just got in. Had some work to do till the last minute, and couldn’t make the bus.” He did a sudden double take. “What the hell is
that
thing?” He pointed to the moose head. Stroking his goatee, he said, “That animal must of been running awful fast to plow into a wall like that!”

Laughter.

“Seriously, I just got here and—what? The toast to Stan? Jeez, I don’t have anything prepared.” He shrugged, then smiled at the group. “What can I tell ya? Stan was one of the greatest comedy geniuses that ever lived, and...well, if it wasn’t for him, I guess none of us’d be here tonight.
To Stan
!”

“HEAR, HEAR!”

All tipped their tumblers. Al accepted the glass of beer held out to him by Jerry Freundlich and took a sip. Some of it spilled down his chin. He eyed the glass suspiciously, then laughed.

“This cat gave me a dribble-glass!” He shook a finger at Freundlich. “I’ll getcha for that, Lefty!”

“And I’ll drink to that!” Jerry said as he took the glass from him. Raising it in honor of the Grand Sheik, the Two Tars prexy took a swallow, deliberately inundating his shirt in the process.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Hilary.

“What is it?” I asked, suddenly tense.

“Nothing yet. I checked the registration sheet. Negative. But stay alert, the initiation’s next, and they’re going to turn out the lights.”

“I know.”

She hurried over to warn Butler.

There was a short recess and the setting for the skit was struck. Two tables were brought onstage. One held a bowlful of eggs, a large dish of walnuts, a nutcracker, several pairs of latex gloves, and an assortment of uninflated balloons in club colors. The other table had only one object on it, a large square box with a question mark painted on in black pigment.

“And now,” said Dutchy Hovis from the stage, “I’m pleased to announce the commencement of the very first official initiation ceremony in the history of the Sons of the Desert!”

Dutchy had on a long astrologer’s dressing gown, similar to Merlin’s in
The Sword in the Stone
.

“Will the Eggs-and-Nuts Maven kindly escort the candidates onto the platform?” Dutchy intoned with exaggerated solemnity.

Jerry Freundlich, now similarly arrayed in floor-length robe and sporting a bright red fez with gold string on top, walked up to the stage, leading the way for four giggling men and women.

When they all stood in a line between Jerry and Dutchy, the first portion of the initiation commenced. It consisted of each candidate stepping to the microphone to pantomime playing a ukulele while doing the hula and singing “Honolulu Baby,” a song from the feature film
Sons of the Desert
. Dutchy timed them with a stopwatch, and the trick was to keep it up for thirty consecutive seconds without cracking up, no matter how many distractions the members attempted. Each candidate got three tries.

As soon as the craziness began, the room lights were turned off and the spotlights illuminated the stage. I got up and took a position along the wall, shielding my eyes from the glare.

There was someone standing at a spot opposite me on the other side of the room. I hoped it was Butler.

It wasn’t. The lights came up for a moment while a third member of the Two Tars was summoned onstage for the next part of the ceremony. Butler was a little further back and out of the light. The person I’d seen was Sandy Sable. She was fiddling with her purse, rummaging around inside to find something.

The lights went off again and Dutchy stepped to the microphone.

“Each initiate will execute the following steps in sequence. Place a pair of gloves on your hands. Take a paper bag from the Eggs-and-Nuts Maven and fill it with hardboiled eggs and nuts. But first—you have to
shell
the nuts and eggs.”

“With gloves on our hands?” one woman asked ingenuously.

“That’s right,” Dutchy said, “unless you want to use your feet.” A burst of laughter.

The ensuing spectacle was ridiculous, but I could only devote part of my attention to it. Nor could I pay much mind to the next ritual, in which the third Celebrant (whom Dutchy called the Balloonatic) distributed the balloons to each candidate and told them to inflate them and tie off the necks without taking off the gloves. Somehow, after much tribulation, they all managed to do so—but as soon as the last balloon was blown up and suspended on the accompanying string, the Balloonatic methodically walked down the line and popped each one with a hat pin.

“And now,” said Dutchy, “we come to the final and most symbolic part of our demi-callipygian ritual!”

(Sporadic murmuring: “Demi-
whaa
?”
)

He leaned in to the microphone. “It means ‘half-assed.’”

“Then whyncha say so, boy?” the Old Man called out.

“Now I have already identified the offices of my colleagues,” Dutchy continued. “The Balloonatic and the Eggs-and-Nuts Maven. But I have not yet told you
my
title.”

Walking to the central table, he lifted the mysterious lid. Beneath it there was a huge, high-mounded whipped-cream pie.

“I,” said Dutchy, grinning, “am the Pie Mage.”

A ripple of laughter. There might have been more merriment, but many probably were remembering another certain messy bit of pastry.

“Critics have sometimes unfairly criticized the boys as undisciplined slapstick comedians. We of the Sons of the Desert know nothing could be further from the truth. The hallmark of Laurel and Hardy humor is generally controlled slapstick, a madly logical progressive destruction that only gets out of hand toward the very end of certain films. The greatest pie fight in all film comedy, as we all know, was at the climax of Laurel and Hardy’s
Battle of the Century
.” Dutchy pointed to the pie on the table before him. “In the spirit of controlled slapstick, we of the ritual committee have decided that it would compromise the innate dignity of the Sons...” (Laughter) “...if we were to treat every candidate for membership to a whipped-cream pie. Therefore, in this final ceremony, we shall select a single representative for the entire group!”