Free Laurel and Hardy Murders by Marvin Kaye Page B

important issue,” Barry replied glibly, “and I just enacted an edict that all female citizens have to wear a government-issue standard one-size bra. The next step will be to make them all equal in height. We’ve got a Japanese Secretary of the Exterior, but his plan to extend foot-binding from the soles of the feet to the top of the head is definitely not going to last. Get it?”
    “Got it.”
    “Good.”
    “Speaking of length,” he went on unflagging, “did I ever mention how long the Montmartre year is?”
    Hilary shook her head. “You couldn’t have. We just met.”
    “No, I don’t mean did I ever mention it to you, but did I ever mention it at all?”
    She laughed, defeated. “I don’t know, Mr. Tambo, but tell me, how long is the Montmartre year?”
    “It’s a problem,” Barry admitted, adjusting his glasses, “because it’s only 365 days long, not 365 and a quarter. So every Leap Year we lose a day!”
    Hilary drained her glass in one swallow and headed back to the bar for a much-needed refill. Barry sometimes has that effect.
    Suddenly, everything went dark. At the front of the room, there was a noise: Hal pulling down the movie screen. A bright light played on it and became the image of Oliver Hardy, dressed elegantly, beaming at the camera. He told us with great self-importance that dinner was ready, “everything from soup to nuts.” In this way, the Sons informed everyone that The Lambs dining staff was about to serve dinner.
    The room rocked with laughter, the lights came back on, and there was a general move toward the tables. Hilary took my arm, not so much out of affection as a need for an anchor, and we went to the place designated on our identification badges.
    Each table held ten settings, but only nine people were seated at ours. The woman beside me was next to the empty chair. During introductions, I learned her name was Isabel Hovis, Dutchy’s wife.
    “He’s going to be late, he had to work overtime,” she told us as she tried to smile. But the expression was unsuccessful because she had too many lines on her face headed in the opposite direction.
    “We’re used to Dutchy arriving late,” Natie Barrows remarked.
    She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “So am I.”
    No more was said about our absent member, but I wondered why he didn’t want his wife to know he was already there.

P HIL FAXON WAS ONE of the other people at our table. I heard him grumbling to Natie about Wayne Poe, who was seated on the dais with the other guests.
    “I give him his start, that louse, y’know that?”
    Natie shook his head, pretending to be ignorant of the fact.
    “Why, sure,” Phil said. “I used to be an agent, once upon a time, didn’tcha know?” He lowered his voice an octave, so that he sounded like Tony Marvin, Arthur Godfrey’s radio announcer. “Phil Faxon, young man-about-town, impresario, agent, and producer.” He changed back to his natural tone. “I discovered Wayne Poe. Lot of good it ever did me, what he pulled, almost got my head blown off.”
    Natie feigned surprise, made interested sounds, and let Phil ramble. Everybody on the executive committee had frequently heard how Poe had embroiled Phil Faxon with gangsters a good fifteen years before, but it was not considered gentlemanly to call Phil on his eternal repetitions. What else did the poor old coot have to talk about?
    Despite the fact that the Sons constitution states that all officers must sit at the head table, it is rarely done. That night, O. J., in the seat farthest left and closest to Barry’s platform stage, wisely occupied the place next to Wayne Poe, thus reducing potential dais friction 50 percent. On Poe’s left, Jack Black ate slowly and occasionally addressed a remark to his neighbor, Rosina Lawrence. Ray Goulding also chatted with her, while his partner, Bob, engaged in conversation with Sons co-founder Chuck McCann, resplendent in a shiny summer-weight gold blazer. Rodney Dangerfield had the next