The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (18 page)

Miss Bentwhistle paid Mr. Blunt a hundred dollars for his contact, put her loot in the trunk, and tootled over to Diana Sweets to celebrate her good fortune over a Honeydew and a double Toasted Ritz. Her ducks were in a row. She couldn’t wait to confront the town fathers. What fun she’d have, telling them off and sailing out the door. If she succeeded, the rewards would beggar imagination. If she failed, she’d make a grand
jeté
from the Hollywoodland sign. It was as simple as that.

D
r. Howard “Howie” Silver, Dentist to the Stars, was on cloud nine. Whether downing a highball or drilling a molar, he alerted everybody he knew that his good friend the Baroness of Bentwhistle was coming to town with the barony’s fabled jewels. Not only that, he let them know that he was to be her Lord High Secretary and Steward of the Calendar,
pro tem
, responsible for lining up her social engagements in the city.

“The Baroness of Bentwhistle?”

“Yes,” he gushed, “
the
Baroness of Bentwhistle.”

After a little repetition the name invariably rang a bell. “The Baroness of Bentwhistle … , oh yes. Isn’t she the one who, uh…? Didn’t she, um, uh…? Don’t tell me. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Word spread.

A number of Dr. Silver’s well-heeled patients and associates claimed to have spotted the baroness on trips to England, at Wimbledon and/or Trafalgar Square. One recalled sitting next to her in a box at the West End. Others remembered her winning horse at Ascot, while still others understood that the king had praised her charity work with the families of unemployed chimney sweeps. There was confusion as to her height, weight, age, and complexion, but on one point they were unanimous: they’d love to see her again. Could Dr. Silver arrange a luncheon? The dentist’s social stock, always good, went through the roof. So did his rates.

Expatriate Brits in the Hollywood film community were caught by surprise. At parties and on the set, people asked them questions about the baroness. Pleading ignorance was inconceivable for those who’d padded their pedigrees or played royalty in period costume dramas. Besides, it’s always useful to appear in the know. So they smiled, confirmed every rumour, and conveyed the impression that they had inside information to which they were sworn to secrecy. Things got dicey when studio honchos started to leave messages asking them to bring the baroness to upcoming galas. They agreed, and made a mental note to be hospitalized on the days appointed.

Meanwhile, as requested by the baroness, Dr. Silver made a point to speak to his contacts in the financial community. The bankers were excited at the prospect of representing a baroness. Customers had been shy since the Crash. Securing the confidence of British nobility would be terrific publicity. They thanked Dr. Silver for his referral, and put their staffs on high alert; any communication from the baroness was to be given top priority.

Miss Bentwhistle waited to telephone personally until she was safely holed up in Chicago’s Fairmont. A call from the Windy City had more clout and raised fewer questions than one from the Canadian boondocks. Her conversations with the bankers were brief. “The Baroness of Bentwhistle here. We are en route to L.A. with the family jewels. May we pencil in a tour of your facilities?” Booking bank presidents turned out to be easier than booking parent-teacher interviews.

While Miss Bentwhistle lined up banks, Miss Pigeon scavenged old bricks and concrete chunks from derelict buildings. These were used to fill her ladyship’s strongbox, giving weight to the legend of the Bentwhistle Jewels. The errands took thirty-five trips and ruined the inside of Miss Pigeon’s purse.

Then it was off to the train station. It was the first time they’d worn their Ends and Means finery in public, and Miss Pigeon was embarrassed. “We look like the Easter Parade.”

“Chin up, Dolly. We aristocrats are famous for our eccentricity.”

Heads turned, children pointed, and undercover cops kept an eye out as the pair waltzed to the head of the ticket line trailing a dozen porters toting bags, wardrobes, and a most imposing strongbox. The station manager was there in a jiffy. One peek at the money in her suitcases and she was whisked to the V.I.P. lounge. Over a gin fizz, she booked a private sleeper car and a masseur. She also insured the bricks in her strongbox for ten million dollars.

As the train rattled across the country, L.A. was in a frenzy of anticipation. The banks openly warred to secure the Bentwhistle Jewels. Wells Fargo was the first to erect a sign welcoming the baroness. The others hopped on board. Overnight, billboards praising Her Ladyship sprouted like dandelions along Sunset Boulevard and Rodeo Drive. The Beverly Hills Hotel decorated its Polo Lounge for a special reception. The mayor insisted on making a speech. The press demanded front-row seats — especially Louella and Hedda, who breathlessly reported every rumour confirmed by the Hollywood Brits. At the station, vendors stocked up on Union Jacks. The L.A.P.D. prepared a motorcycle escort. And all over town, citizens made plans to attend the arrival of the city’s latest curiosity.

T
he Baroness Horatia Alice Bentwhistle of Bentwhistle left the ceremony in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel for a relaxing bubble bath in the marble tub of the powder room off the Spanish Colonial boudoir of the Presidential Suite. Everywhere she looked, she saw sprays of orchids, statuary, gold faucets, porcelain mosaics, and towels as thick as Devon cream.

“Heavens,” she enthused, “I should have killed off my family years ago.”

The RADIO CITY REVIVAL

Her Sweetie

“H
ow
come you can put three tablespoons of sugar in your coffee and still stay skinny?” Mary Mabel asked.

Doyle batted his eyes. “It’s my destiny.”

She gave him a swat with her serviette. The two of them were having a pre-show snack in the backstage dressing room at the civic light opera house in Peoria, Illinois. Floyd and the stage manager were setting light levels, while a couple of ushers sat in the foyer folding programs. Aside from that, the theatre was empty.

She and Doyle had been seeing a lot of each other since Kalamazoo. It was hard not to. They were staying in the same hotels and her partners were no company whatsoever. Aside from work, Floyd’s whereabouts were a mystery. Brother Percy, for his part, had gotten odder by the day. After being laughed offstage in Flint, he’d vowed to rest his jaw till he could “scorch those hyenas with a lick of hellfire.” Now he was a hermit with no interest in hygiene, much less conversation.

That left Doyle.

Their socializing had begun quite innocently; Floyd had invited him on their visits with local sponsors. There were advantages all around. Doyle got material for his column, a heartwarming series on how Mary Mabel fulfilled heartland dreams, while their hosts got national exposure for their pet projects. This exposure, in turn, led to endorsements from county and state bigwigs. All of which enabled Floyd to double their guarantees.

Doyle was Mary Mabel’s godsend at these events. Whenever she was about to die of boredom, she’d look his way and he’d toss her a grin that tickled her inside out. In fact, he was so much fun that she suggested he ride in the Olds. “Brother Percy can sit up front with you,” she begged Floyd, “while K.O. keeps me company in the back.”

Initially, Floyd welcomed her newfound warmth for the press, but he soon grew suspicious of her happiness. When Doyle raced her to the car, Floyd grumped, “Here comes Little Mary Mabel Sunshine.” When Doyle gave her the giggles, he griped, “When was the last time Jesus bust a gut?” And when Doyle stretched his arm across the back seat behind her shoulders, he growled, “Don’t touch the merchandise.”

“I’m not merchandise,” Mary Mabel shot back, “and K.O. is a perfect gentleman.”

“Think of your image.”

“My coverage does more for her image than any two-bit lecture from you,” Doyle said.

It was true. His articles spared no detail of the tour or of Mary Mabel’s growing list of miracles. Each night, folks swore that a touch of her hands had improved their lumbago, sinus, toothache, or palsy. Sometimes Doyle’s descriptions went overboard. In Gary, Indiana, an old woman rose from her wheelchair; he reported that she danced the Charleston. In Muncie, a man born deaf and dumb made sounds; he had him reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

Mary Mabel asked Doyle to stick to the facts. He said that’s exactly what he’d done. When she protested, he said he guessed they had an honest difference of opinion about what happened. Then he accused her of wanting to censor the news and lectured her about the virtues of a free press.

As tales of the miracles multiplied, so did the crowds and the size of the tour’s venues. Hearst gave Doyle more column inches, and had him snap photos for the rotogravure. Doyle was overjoyed. According to him, people were much more likely to read news that came with pictures, and to believe it, too.

If Doyle was hard-headed, he was also softhearted. That’s what Mary Mabel loved most about him. Once a day, he snuck off to talk on the telephone. She’d thought he was placing bets at the track. It turned out he was phoning his mother. “Ma’s an invalid,” he said. “I feel guilty being away like this. She devoted her life to me, and now I’m gallivanting about the country when she needs me most.”

He saw his ma as often as possible. Whenever the tour had a few days off, he’d take the all-night bus to Buffalo. Mary Mabel offered to go along to say a special prayer for her or to lay on hands. It’s the only time she saw him really mad.

“Save it for the customers,” he said. “Ma’s sick. She’s not going to get better.”

“I don’t offer guarantees. But what would be the harm?”

“The hope! The hope would be the harm. If you laid on hands and nothing happened, she’d blame herself.”

“Why?”

“Wake up! If God answers prayers for some, why not others? Do they sin? Lack faith? Don’t you feel responsible when prayers fail? Or when people throw away their pill bottles and suffer a relapse?”

“I’m not the one making claims in your newspaper,” Mary Mabel said quietly.

He looked away. “It’s not your fault. You’re just doing your job. People can believe what they want to. As for Ma, I shouldn’t worry. She’s not one for malarkey.”

Neither am I
, Mary Mabel thought. But he was hurting so bad, she let it pass.

A
t first, the other press syndicates had economized by using stringers, but as Doyle’s tales boosted Hearst’s circulation, they assigned full-time reporters of their own. This meant Doyle had to rent his own car again, since Floyd couldn’t afford to play favourites. He also informed Mary Mabel she’d best stop giving him special attention at host functions.

Nonetheless, the pair still managed to find private time. Mary Mabel insisted on having Floyd take her to their venues in the late afternoon. Doyle would arrive separately, parking his car some blocks from the hall. They’d hole up in the makeshift dressing rooms, munching treats and swapping tales, the door left open in the interests of public decency. If other reporters had discovered the arrangement, they had an alibi; they were doing an interview and would be happy to have the others join them. Fortunately, they were left to themselves. Doyle’s rivals considered the tour a dog-and-pony show; luncheons aside, they drank till dawn and slept till curtain time.

On the day of their Peoria engagement, Mary Mabel had more on her mind than Doyle’s addiction to sweets. Ever since they’d gone on the road, she’d felt uneasy. She’d put it down to nerves, bad dreams, and doubts about her partners. Still, her fear hadn’t gone away, and now she’d placed it. She waited till Doyle had gobbled the last of his donut and slurped his coffee.

“K.O.,” she said slowly, “I think I’m being watched.”

“No kidding.” He licked icing sugar from the down on his upper lip. “You’ve got a full house each night.”

“I’m serious. Someone’s following me.”

Doyle paused. “Following you?”

“Yes. I feel like an animal being tracked.”

He closed the dressing room door, pulled his chair beside her and leaned in. “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

“I’ve had the creeps since Kalamazoo. There are these eyes. They’re everywhere. When I leave the hotel. Before and after the show. Sometimes I even feel them when I’m alone backstage or at night in my room.”

“Do these eyes have a face?”

“No. To tell you the truth, I’ve never actually seen them. But they’re there. Around the corner. Outside my window. Everywhere. It’s a sixth sense.”

He held her hand. “Tell Cruickshank to give you some time off.”

“This isn’t nerves,” she said, pulling away. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a hunch.”

“Okay,” he allowed. “Sometimes I’ve spooked myself.”

“And sometimes you’ve been right.”

“So call the cops.”

“With no proof?”

“Get Cruickshank to hire security.”

“He’d say it would bring bad publicity.”

At the mention of his name, Floyd waltzed in. “I suppose a breeze must have blown the door shut.” He stared coldly at Doyle. “It’s time for Sister to get ready.”

“Sure thing.” As he rose to leave, Doyle whispered in her ear, “I’ll keep an eye out.”

Scandal

W
illiam
Randolph Hearst was immersed in clarity: the lake of spring water that filled the Neptune Pool at his castle at San Simeon. Soon guests would be arriving from Hollywood for a weekend of horseback riding. Early birds Erroll Flynn, Dick Powell, and Charlie Chaplin had already unpacked and hit the tennis courts. Marion was playing hostess. He’d join them, but for the moment preferred his solitude, swimming brisk lengths over the green mosaics that lined the basin floor, past the marble statues of Venus, mermaids and cherubs that graced the deck, and between the Roman colonnades that bracketed this piece of heaven.

It was a great day to be alive. At his age, every day was. Not that he wasn’t at the top of his game. He’d been the first to puff Mary Mabel McTavish. He’d had the smarts to scout K.O. Doyle, too. Between the girl’s story and the kid’s rat-a-tat-tatty prose, the public couldn’t get enough. Neither could he. As the miracles multiplied like the loaves and fishes, his brain had been on fire. Mary Mabel’s life was the stuff of biopics. A natural for his Cosmopolitan Pictures. A vehicle for his sweetie. Marion was a bit old for the part, but so what? Better too old than too young. The idea of Shirley Temple raising the dead gave him gas.

“W.R.?” His secretary, Joe Willicombe, stood at the water’s edge.

Hearst swam over. “Wipe that frown off your face, Willicombe. It’s a glorious day to be alive.”

“Oh yeah?” Willicombe handed him a teletype.

B
obby Green, Bertie Green, and their friend Sammy Potter were kids with a dream. They wanted to be famous bank robbers. Stars of movie serials and comic books. They called themselves the Green Gang. Sammy’d wanted it to be the Potter Gang, but he got outvoted.

At ten, Bobby was the oldest and strongest, which is how he got to be leader. His first order of business was assigning the gang’s handles. He called himself “Pretty Boy” on account of three girls had tried to kiss him. He called his brother “Scarface” on account of the cat scratch on his chin. And he called Sammy “Baby Face.” Sammy complained that he wasn’t a baby face, he was eight. Bobby said tough luck, he was the boss and if Sammy didn’t like it he’d beat him up.

The Green Gang spent Saturday mornings in the alley behind the pool hall smoking their fathers’ old cigarette butts. Between hacking fits, they argued about how to start their life of crime. The quarrel was usually about whether to rob the bank on the corner or one across town. If they robbed the bank on the corner, Miss Wilson the teller might recognize them and call their mothers. On the other hand, a bank across town meant making their getaway on bicycles.

One day Bobby arrived with sandpaper he’d swiped from his dad’s toolbox. He said no matter which bank they robbed they should rub off their fingerprints. By lunchtime, they still had fingerprints, but they hurt like hell. Bobby said it didn’t matter, this was their gangland initiation, and if they touched fingertips they’d be blood brothers. Bertie said that was stupid, they were already brothers except for Sammy. Sammy said who cared, he didn’t want to be brothers with a couple of goofballs, anyway. The gang broke up for three days.

When they got back together again, Bobby said that rather than knocking off banks, maybe they should start small and work up. Sammy volunteered how he’d heard the cashier at the local Piggly Wiggly was epileptic. Maybe they could wait out front till he had a fit, and rob the place while he was flopping around. Bertie said they could be waiting forever; instead, maybe one of them could pretend to have a seizure and the other two could rob the place while the cashier was checking out the disturbance. It seemed like a pretty good plan. They took turns seeing who could do the best fit. Sammy won on account of he could spit, flail, and go cross-eyed at the
same time.

Full of beans, they headed off to the Piggly Wiggly, but by the time they arrived Sammy had cold feet. Bobby was exasperated. All you have to do is fall down and start twitching, he said. Sammy wanted to know what if the cashier thought he was making fun of him and went wacko? Or what if the cashier thought he was for real and took him to the hospital? Or what if while he was jerking around he accidentally knocked over a wall of cans and they fell on his head and turned him simple?

Bobby said if the cashier went wacko he’d be so distracted they could steal the money for sure; that if Sammy tried to weasel out,
he’d
send him to the hospital; and that as for cans falling on his head, Sammy was already simple.

Sammy looked to Bertie for support. Bertie kicked a few stones; maybe Sammy was right, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

Bobby blew up. How were they ever supposed to become famous bank robbers if they couldn’t even steal a few bucks from a stupid Piggly Wiggly?

At that moment fate intervened. A blind hobo with a white cane and a knapsack tapped his way down the street. He set up shop near the store’s entrance, arranging himself in a pitiful heap. The boys watched as occasional customers and passersby dropped spare change in the tin cup in front of him. Gosh, there was probably more money in that cup than in the Piggly Wiggly cash register.

A new plan was born. Sammy would go up to the blind man and pretend to be a good Samaritan. While they were talking, Bobby would steal the tramp’s knapsack and Bertie would steal his cup. The boys tiptoed over. Bobby and Bertie got in position while Sammy cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir. My Sunday school class is having a ‘Good Deeds Week.’ Can I do anything to help you?”

“Yeah,” said the blind man. “You can bugger off.”

“Nice talk,” said Bobby. He dove for the knapsack. Bertie went for the tin cup.

“Jesus Christ!” the blind man swore. He swung his cane. The hook caught Bobby round the neck. The blind man yanked. Bobby sailed backwards and cracked his head on the pavement. On the backswing, Bertie got whacked on the forehead. The brothers were out cold.

Sammy ran screaming into the Piggly Wiggly, the hobo in hot pursuit. “Goddamn little fuckers!” the hobo hollered as he chased Sammy around the aisles pitching cans at his head.

The cashier got in the way. “This store is for customers only.”

“Screw your granny!” the beggar roared, and shoved a jar of pickles through his teeth.

The cashier staggered backwards. He grabbed the gun from under the till. “Hands up!” The stress was too much. Bright lights flashed before his eyes. A white pain seared his brain. He lurched forward in full epileptic seizure, his finger jerking spastically on the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bullets ricocheted everywhere as he thrashed about the store.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Racks toppled like dominoes. Produce sailed through the air. Bottles exploded like grenades.

Within minutes, three cop cars, an ambulance, and a cab of reporters were on the scene. It didn’t look good. The windows of the Piggly Wiggly were blasted out. Two boys lay splayed and bloodied on the curb. The cashier, clutching a smoking gun, sprawled in the doorway drooling teeth. The brigade prepared for the worst. Then, through a haze of flour and cornstarch, came a little boy’s voice: “Over here!”

In the far corner, Sammy Potter stood in triumph on the Coca-Cola cooler. When the bullets started to fly, the beggar had hopped inside for cover. The latch snapped shut. He was trapped.

The picture in the newspaper showed Sammy held aloft by the Green brothers in front of the grocery store. The caption read: “Potter Patriots to the Rescue.” The accompanying article told how the young heroes had thwarted Wallace “Wally” Jones, a.k.a. “Whacker” Jones, a.k.a. “Wally the Cane,” a desperado who’d tried to knock over the local Piggly Wiggly disguised as a blind man. The mayor announced that the boys would get medals for bravery. Meanwhile, “Whacker” Jones was in the clink, charged with robbery, aggravated assault, attempted murder, and loitering.

That should have been the end of it. But when the cops told Whacker he could make one phone call, he didn’t ask to speak to a lawyer. He asked to speak to Brother Floyd Cruickshank of Holy Redemption Ministries.

H
earst closed his eyes. According to Doyle’s teletype, Cruickshank was reached at the Biggs Hotel and Grill in Tulsa. Whacker Jones demanded money to pay for a big-time lawyer. Cruickshank denied knowing him and hung up.

“I’ve just spoken to Doyle,” said Willicombe. “There’s more.”

Hearst held up his hand. “Let me guess. Whacker Jones feels betrayed. He’s accused the ministry of interstate fraud, conspiracy, and racketeering. Claims he was hired as a plant. He wants to cut a deal with prosecutors. If the Piggly Wiggly charges are dropped, he’ll sing.”

Willicombe nodded. “Doyle says reporters from the competition cornered Cruickshank in a booth at the hotel grill. He repeated the line about Whacker being a stranger.”

“At which point,” said Hearst, “I presume they pulled out a picture of the two of them together.”

“On stage. In Flint. With Sister Mary Mabel.”

“Life is so predictable.”

Willicombe smiled grimly. “Suddenly Cruickshank’s memory improves. He remembers Whacker; he could have sworn he was legit. To hear him tell it, he’s been duped by a two-bit extortionist. He and Miss McTavish are victims.”

“The boys don’t buy it.”

“Natch. So he plays double or nothing. ‘It’s his word against ours,” he says. ‘Print a word and I’ll sue.’ Then he makes a run for it.”

Hearst slapped the water in fury. “We’ve invested a lot in this story!” He soothed his hands on the cool mosaics. “How does Doyle think it’ll play?”

“On the one hand, he says Cruickshank’s right. There’s no proof of ministry wrongdoing. If folks read that the girl’s been conned by a murderous tramp, she might even get sympathy.”

Hearst watched a sparrow wash its feathers in the lap of a marble cherub. “On the other hand?”

“He thinks the threat to sue was a mistake. The boys are buzzing like flies on a dog turd. By tomorrow, they’ll be running other claims of fraud, real or bought. Then watch out. When shit hits the fan, everyone stinks.”

“Exactly.” Hearst knew the game better than anyone. News is something that somebody doesn’t want printed; everything else is advertising.

He kicked off and swam a savage backstroke. Plants are a dime a dozen, but why had Cruickshank sunk to the likes of Whacker Jones? Surely he could have found a law-abiding widow who’d toss her cane for a bottle of pain killers and a month’s rent. Besides, Miss McTavish didn’t need plants. Adrenaline propels the lame two steps. Hysteria provides shadows to the blind. And a holy rap to the head can make the deaf hear bells.

Damn Cruickshank. His link to Whacker had popped the soufflé. If the public loves a saint, it loves a scandal even more. Each day, there’d be fresh dirt. Rumours. Allegations. Innuendo. The girl would be buried alive.

Worst of all, Hearst had lost control of the story. So far he’d had the inside track, negotiating its curves and straightaways like a demon. Now he was trapped in a demolition derby: Mary Mabel was roadkill; Marion’s vehicle was a write-off; and he was in a pileup, rammed on all sides, while the competition streaked by, threatening to hijack advertisers en route.

Hearst was so angry, he lost track of his backstroke and conked his head on the end of the pool. When he came to, he was flat on the deck, a doctor checking him for concussion. Hearst shoved the doctor aside. “Willicombe,” he announced, “I’ve had a vision.”

Willicombe observed the mad dilations of his pupils. “W.R., are you okay?”

“Okay?” Hearst laughed. “I’m back in the driver’s seat. Rent me Radio City Music Hall. On the double. And don’t forget to book the Rockettes.”

N
ext morning, the following editorial appeared on the front page of Hearst newspapers across the country.

SISTER MARY MABLE: SAINT OR S
INNER???

THE HEARST PRESS DEMANDS THE TRUTH

An editorial by publisher

Mr. W.R. Hearst

We Americans are a God-fearing people. It is therefore natural that we pay heed when we hear reports of Divine providence.

As publisher of the Hearst chain of family newspapers, I take it as my highest obligation to keep the public informed. Consequently, I have spared no expense to bring you, my readers, the most up-to-the-minute news on the alleged healings of Sister Mary Mabel McTavish.

Miss McTavish has convinced many that she is a conduit for miracles. Others allege that she is party to chicanery, greed, and corruption.

If she is a healer, she well deserves the accolades she has received. However, if she is a charlatan, she is the most despicable of wretches; for she will have betrayed the faith on which our great nation was built, in the process abetting the insidious forces of godlessness and Communism.

In light of the current controversy, this newspaper has rented Radio City Music Hall for Saturday evening, two weeks from today, at 8:00 p.m. At that time, we demand that Sister Mary Mabel McTavish submit to an onstage lie detector test. Saint or Sinner, Miss McTavish: which are you? America deserves the truth.

Signed,

Publisher Mr. W.R. Hearst.

Editor’s note: The previously scheduled performance by Mr. Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy has been cancelled. Tickets will be refunded or may be exchanged at the Radio City Music Hall box office, courtesy of the Hearst Press. Mr. W.R. Hearst wishes to apologize for any inconvenience, and to extend his thanks to Mr. Bergen for his co-operation in this matter of national interest.