If this was television, they could keep it. Never in my life had anything like the brawl with “Stoneface” happened to me. Maybe a TV camera brings out the worst in people, though some of them do all right without much prompting.
I’ve known Elsa Maxwell for years. I met her long before she came out to Hollywood under contract to Darryl Zanuck to stage a party for him in a picture he was producing with Linda Darnell as its star. Elsa’s inspiration was to dress every male as Abraham Lincoln and have two poodles dancing on a piano. Then she booked herself a lecture at the Los Angeles Philharmonic Auditorium on her perennial theme: “How to Give a Party.” For a solid hour, while the audience fidgeted, she eulogized Zanuck. After the performance she found she’d run into a roadblock. The backers of her lecture refused to pay her fee. “Go ahead and sue,” they said cheerfully. “You never got around to your subject. Let Zanuck pay you.”
I dutifully reported this in the column and added: “If she thinks she’s going to collect any money from Zanuck, she’s out of her ever-loving mind.” By way of reply, she sent me a large, fragrant bunch of catnip. Another feud was on.
While she was visiting Hollywood as Evelyn Walsh McLean’s guest, Elsa organized a victory party to celebrate the liberation of Paris toward the end of World War II. It was set up in the garden of the Countess di Frasso, complete with special outdoor stage, footlights, spotlights, and special effects all supplied by Mr. F. B. Nightingale, a minor celebrity of Beverly Hills, sometimes known as “the wizard of light,” who was recommended to Elsa by Lady Mendl.
“Why not make it complete by inviting some GI’s? You’ll have a lot of vacant seats at the back,” I suggested to Elsa.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said. “It isn’t a party for them, it’s for my friends.”
Nevertheless, it was a beauty, with top stars singing and dancing in Mr. Nightingale’s extravaganza. He was so proud of his job that he donated his and his assistants’ labor to the cause, and charged only $200 for materials. He sent a succession of bills to Elsa. They went unanswered.
Finally, Lady Mendl called me. “This is dreadful. Mr. Nightingale needs that money.”
“Oh, come on, Elsie,” said I. “Let’s each send him a check for $100 and forget it.” She was willing, but not Mr. Nightingale. He sent Elsa a receipted bill to which he added a postscript: “Your friends Lady Mendl and Hedda Hopper took care of it.”
Within forty-eight hours I had a telephone call from Elsa, and I got a $100 check from her one day after that. Elsie Mendl had to wait two weeks. But she didn’t have a daily column.