Free Laurel and Hardy Murders by Marvin Kaye Page A

considered wings, stretching toward 44th Street. Deep, luxurious beige carpeting covered every inch of the flooring and there were immense oil paintings of Kean, Booth, Beerbohn-Tree, and other bygone thespians suspended all about the room. Twenty linen-covered dining tables covered most of the area. The head table, mounted on a dais, stretched the width of the room. A huge blow-up poster of Al Kilgore’s escutcheon rested in front of it, while behind, on the wall, there was a big movie screen, not yet pulled down.
    On the side of the room opposite from where we entered, an alcove provides access to a second staircase running both up and down, to the men’s rest room, and a door into the second-floor kitchen. At the moment, the area of the alcove was the scene of considerable bustling of Lambs waiters and cooks.
    As we headed for the bar, Hilary commented on the small, attractive platform stage Barry had constructed to the left of the dais. Though there was the theater on the floor above, it was too big for intimate cabaret entertainment, so Barry spent a healthy chunk of Sons capital to provide a stylish place for the performers of the evening: a proscenium draped in the club colors, blue and white, with stills from Laurel and Hardy films adorning the uprights.
    The extreme left edge of the stage abutted the wall. Steps led down from the platform and out of sight to the far door of the kitchen, which later on would be used as “wings” for performers to wait in before going onstage.
    On our way over to the bar, we had to pass right by the door to the second staircase. As we did, I noticed a man slinking stealthily upstairs. As he neared the open door to the banquet hall, he ducked his head, hurried past, and continued on his way to the third floor, where the dressing rooms were located.
    I wondered why Dutchy Hovis was acting like a fugitive. Whom was he hoping to avoid?
    A large crowd of people thronged the ell in which the bar was situated. Men in white jackets, leisure suits, blazers embroidered with Sons of the Desert escutcheons, milled around the lineless service counter and vied for the bartender’s attention. Women in slacks, evening gowns, tailored suits, and here and there a simple skirt-blouse combo, laughed and chatted with one another or whichever guest they cared to flatter. Wayne Poe was in the middle of the group, talking louder than anyone. I had to walk by his coterie to get to the bar; he was holding forth on the trials of putting on a network TV series. I shuddered; it would be too much to hope that O. J. hadn’t run down film clips of Poe’s turkey of a program.
    Toby called me over and introduced me to Rosina Lawrence, the heroine of Laurel and Hardy’s feature Way Out West. One zealous tent member tracked her down after her whereabouts had been unknown for years. Ironically, she lived not far from Manhattan. Her delicate features and winsome smile were little changed since the year the film was released, 1937.
    Hilary took the Gibson from me and we ambled about, saying hello to various members of the Sons I wanted her to meet. Nearby, I saw Natie talking to Bob and Ray. I heard Bob Elliott asking, with great gravity, whether the dulcimers had been purchased as he’d stipulated.
    “You know we can’t do any of our material without the dulcimers,” he warned Natie, who was doing his valiant best to keep a straight face.
    Ray Goulding chimed in. “I think I saw the crate of monkeys downstairs. I hope they sent all six.”
    Barry Richmond tapped me on the shoulder. He had his usual Coke in his hand and looked deservedly exhausted.
    “Hilary,” I said, “meet His Excellency Sir Barry Alan Richmond—”
    Before I could finish, she was in the midst of a curtsey. “Your honor,” she said deferentially, “your fame precedes you!” She rose, cocked an eyebrow, and demanded that Barry tell us what was being done for women’s equality in Montmartre.
    “As a matter of fact, that’s a very