Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.
—George Bernard Shaw
“WELCOME TO THE Moondance, Countess Von Vimko.”
The hostess who greeted me inside the dimly lit, black-curtained reception area was barely above drinking age, but her expression was hardened beyond her tender years. She wore her tumble of platinum hair over one eye, just like Veronica Lake, but neither her hair nor her silver-sequined gown managed to shimmer in such funereal surroundings.
“Would you like to purchase a dance, or simply enjoy the club?”
“I think this will take care of it,” I said, handing over Jack’s hundred-dollar bill.
The woman stuffed the bill in an iron box and handed me ten blue coins with grinning, winking man-in-the-moon faces on both sides.
“Present one to the escort of your choosing,” the blonde said as she drew velvet curtains aside to admit me. “The ballroom is through here and the Bower of Bliss is on the other side of the dance floor, beyond the golden curtains. And please, enjoy the champagne. It’s on the house.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I replied, and I meant it. This place was already creeping me out and I hadn’t even entered the main ballroom yet—let alone the “Bower of Bliss.”
As I walked into the cavernous ballroom, a band struck up a lively swing number. The bandshell was a huge plaster-of-Paris oyster, its maw open wide enough to fit a dozen musicians and their instruments, including a Steinway piano.
Like the reception area, the ballroom was draped in black velvet, with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Tables and plush lounge chairs circled the edges of the polished wooden dance floor. Among those tables and chairs, furtive black-tie waiters delivered trays of champagne.
Despite the sophisticated setting and the presumably exclusive clientele, the activity in this room most resembled the few high school dances I’d bothered to attend in my teen years.
Just like the dances in the school gym back in Quindicott, several couples who’d already comfortably connected spun to the music. Meanwhile, all the men—young, well-groomed, and clad in their best suits—stood on one side of the room while the women remained on the opposite side.
These women were mostly older but not exclusively. They sat, stood, or swayed solo to the music. Some silently gauged their choices while others, clustering in small groups, giggled like schoolgirls before one brave soul shyly crossed the dance floor, coin in hand.
A waiter drifted by. I snatched a glass of bubbly and downed it in a single gulp.
“Smooth,” I gasped, coughing. I immediately snagged another and downed it, too—without coughing.
Hey, I’m getting good at this. Only now I had a glass in each gloved hand, and nowhere to put them down.
“Allow me,” a mellow voice said. The empty glass vanished from my left hand, and a full glass replaced the empty one in my right.
I turned and, to my shock, Alan Ladd was standing in front of me—okay, not the Alan Ladd (frankly, this one was a little taller), but a man with the same white-blond hair, sturdy chin, and confident, crooked grin.
Even in this faint light I knew the likeness wasn’t perfect. But after a few champagnes . . .
I downed the third glass. “Would you care to dance, Mr. . . . ?”
“Beaumont,” he said with a gracious nod. “Edward Beaumont. And I would love to dance, Miss—”
“Countess,” I said with all the haughtiness I could muster after multiple glasses of liquid courage. “Countess Von Vimko.”
I reached into my purse and handed over a coin just as a waltz ended and the band segued right into a slow rendition of “Moonlight Serenade.”
Mr. Beaumont swept me into the middle of the polished floor. A superb dancer, he took complete control, moving me around the ballroom like a pawn on a chessboard. He held me close—a little too close, perhaps, but how often does a gal get to foxtrot with Alan Ladd?
As I scanned the couples trotting around us I realized that the dancers had all been hired for their resemblance to Hollywood leading men. The ladies on the dance floor were certainly enjoying themselves, living out their starstruck dreams.
Even I decided this might be fun after all.
When my dance with Alan Ladd ended, I did a turn with a Robert Mitchum imitator who was quite convincing—until he opened his mouth. Instead of the deep, almost melodious voice of the Hollywood rebel, out squeaked an Irish falsetto straight from Hell’s Kitchen.
My waltz with Jimmy Stewart was sadly a bore. My coin partner was as taciturn as most of Stewart’s characters, and when he did speak it was “ma’am” this and “ma’am” that—and that got old fast.
Happily, Cary Grant made up for it.
Most revealing, however, was my slow dance with the faux William Powell. Perfectly mimicking the star of the Thin Man movies, he was older than the other dancers and possessed a level of suave sophistication that none of the other toe tappers could match.
As we swayed in each other’s arms to “Begin the Beguine,” I noticed one of the other dancers staring at me. When I returned the stare, the man looked away but resumed his inspection as soon as he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
William Powell noticed, too.
“Do you know that man, my dear?” he whispered into my ear.
“No, but he certainly thinks he knows me,” I replied. “Who is he?”
My dance partner laughed gently. “Surely you recognize our Cesar Romero?”
“Is that who he’s supposed to be?”
“His real name is Billy Bastogne.”
Just as Jack predicted, I thought, Billy Bastogne found me. Time to make like a detective and ask some questions . . .
“What do you know about Mr. Bastogne?” I asked.
“Well, he acts like a native New Yorker, but he speaks with an accent most believe is French. However, the trained ear of a seasoned radio actor such as I recognizes it as French-Canadian.”
“Anything else?”
William Powell sighed as if the subject was beginning to bore him.
“I understand Billy pays the rent without purchasing the groceries. He could live a life of leisure, but he’s here most nights wowing the ladies to feed a habit.”
“Habit?”
“Yes. We all have them, don’t we? Billy’s is losing at the races.”
“Now, that I understand. But paying the rent? Buying the groceries?” I shook my head, confused. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“Ah, I forgot. You are a countess from another land and don’t understand our American lingo.”
The tone William Powell used when he called me “a countess from another land” suggested he didn’t believe that whopper for a minute.
No matter, I wasn’t trying to fool him.
“The phrase ‘paying the rent’ means Billy is living in a clandestine relationship,” he explained. “Not buying the groceries indicates the young lady pays the bills. In plain terms, Billy Bastogne is a kept man.”
“Do you know her?”
“I don’t even know the trollop’s name. Do you think I would associate with such riffraff if I wasn’t forced to by dire economic necessity?”
Inspiration hit me, and I asked another question. “Do you know a Phyllis Harmon? She’s a model, I think.”
“A model?” He sniffed. “Only part-time. And I hear Phyllis only models in order to scout new . . . shall we say talent . . . for her boss.”
“And her boss is . . . ?”
“Phyllis is Harry Amsterdam’s gal Friday.”
It took me a moment to digest that.
Phyllis worked for one of the most powerful producers on Broadway, the very man who gave Syble Zane the Tears of Valentino—and then took them back to re-gift them to Thelma Dice, now the late Miss Dice.
But if Phyllis worked for Harry, she wouldn’t need Jack’s connections to land an acting job. All she’d have to do is ask her boss. Yet back at the House of Fashion, she pretended she was some penniless wannabe actress in need of help.
Why was she playing Jack? And more importantly, did the great Jack Shepard know he was being played?
Phyllis also claimed she was simply Thelma Dice’s friend and looking for justice. Could she be looking for something else too? Like the priceless Tears?
Now that Thelma was dead, did Harry want them back again?
At that point in my conversation with William Powell, the song ended. And as the ticket was only good for one dance, the pretend Thin Man star broke our clinch and gallantly kissed my gloved hand.
“Goodnight, Countess,” he said, a dubious eyebrow raised.
When he was gone, I snagged another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, gulped it down, and returned it to the tray before the server could escape. Meanwhile, the band struck up another slow number.
“I’d be delighted to share this dance, Countess,” a rough voice snarled in my ear. Suddenly, Billy Bastogne seized my elbow from behind, swung me around, and practically dragged me among the swaying bodies on the dance floor.
He pulled me close, and I nearly gagged on the smell of cheap cologne. Billy Bastogne didn’t do a very good job of shaving, either. With his face against mine, I felt like I was rubbing my cheek on Bookmark’s scratching post.
“You know who I am, right, Countess?” Bastogne’s sneer told me he didn’t buy my royal pedigree, either.
“Sure,” I replied, trying to match his tough talk with my own. “You’re going to show me some cut glass you’re lame enough to think are diamonds.”
He gave me a murderous look. “Hey, don’t try to pull that stuff on me. You tell Klaus Bremen my debt gets forgiven, and I walk away with ten grand or the deal’s off.”
When I didn’t reply I saw flop sweat blossom on his forehead.
“Bremen’s got to give me that,” he rasped. “I’m facing the chair if the police get wise to me. Don’t you see that I got to get out of town fast?”
I didn’t need to be reminded that the hands holding me tightly had choked the life out of Thelma Dice, and I suppressed a shiver.
“Fine,” I said, relenting. “Let’s see what you’ve got and maybe we can negotiate.”
The song ended and we broke the clinch. “Where are the Tears?” I demanded.
“Hidden.”
“Here?”
He nodded.
“Well, let’s go get them.”
“Oh no,” Billy said. “I’m not going to let you see where I’ve hidden them. Meet me in the Lilac Garden in the Bower of Bliss. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’ll have the rocks and you can take a gander at them. Then you’ll know they’re the real thing.”