by George Baxt
Ivar Tensha had the Countess on his arm, an obscene cigar in his mouth, and an anxious look on his face. The Countess di Frasso looked none too happy. Monte Trevor was coming up behind them with the kind of look that made Dietrich wonder if he was planning to make off with the silver. Tensha took Marlene’s hand and kissed it. She planned to scrub the hand with a strong disinfectant. “Thank you for such a wonderful evening. Despite the unpleasantness, I had a very lovely time. Good night to all of you.”
“I’m sure we’ll be meeting again,” said Villon.
Marlene cried out in despair, beautifully timed and beautifully acted, “But you can’t leave so soon? It’s the shank of the evening.” It was one in the morning, but to Marlene any hour of the night was the shank. “There is still so much for us to talk about. I insist you have one more drink with me. I insist! Do not demur! Bartender?”
“Yes, Miss Dietrich?”
“Fresh drinks all around. In fact, there’s something missing from the champagne!” She diplomatically refrained from suggesting that what was missing was strychnine. “A few drops of green mint in each drink. It does wonders for your sinuses. Will any of us ever forget this night? Will you, Dorothy? Or you, Mr. Trevor?” She smiled at Villon, who could tell she was up to no good, and whatever it was he hoped it would take effect.
“May I join the party?” Anna May Wong looked wan and unhappy.
“Of course, darling. How terrible this has been for you. Anna May knew Mai Mai Chu since she was a child. Anna May, do you think Mai Mai read in her chart that tonight foretold tragedy for her?”
“She might have,” said Anna May. They’d discuss the possibility earlier. What is Marlene up to, she wondered.
Marlene’s eyes were like the beacon atop a lighthouse as they swept from face to face. “Have any of you who knew Mai Mai before tonight had their charts done by her? I know Monsieur Souvir had his read several years ago, a birthday gift from Dong See. Raymond is a Taurus. Taurus the bull. Very stubborn. He does not tell much. Dong, did Mai Mai read you?”
“I think so. I don’t recall.”
Anna May stared at him. Obviously she has read you and you remember what was important to remember.
“You, Mr. Trevor. You tried to get Mai Mai to star in a film about herself. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts before rejecting your offer she did a chart and was guided by it.”
“By Jove, come to think of it, she did do a chart and the bloody thing did work against me.”
Anna May said, “Then she also did your personal chart.”
“Actually, she did. But I couldn’t remember the time of my birth, I was so young then. She chose the neutral hour of twelve noon.”
“That’s a common practice among astrologers when the subject doesn’t know the actual time of birth. It doesn’t make for too accurate a chart, but the approximation is serviceable.” Anna May wondered if Raymond Souvir was feeling ill.
Marlene wasn’t satisfied with Trevor’s response and beamed her eyes at Tensha. “Mr. Tensha, why do I have a hunch Mai Mai once did your chart? I think tonight was not the first time you heard her predict another world war.”
He took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at the ash. He knew better than to flick it on the floor. He couldn’t stand the thought of Marlene ordering him on his knees and commanding him to wipe up the mess with a handkerchief. Though had he had a better view of the rest of the ballroom, he would have seen a vast expanse of untidiness that did not speak well for the community of Hollywood luminaries. “Marlene, you make me think of Cassandra. She was also a bit of a witch. Madam Chu did indeed read my chart several years ago and headed me off from what she predicted would have been a disastrous marriage. I was smitten with a German actress named Lya dePutti.”
“It was you!” gasped Marlene.
“I gather you knew Lya,” said the munitions czar.
“I adored her. She committed suicide. Was it because of you?”
“I choose to think not. I gave her a handsome settlement to release me from our marriage contract.”
Hazel Dickson was telling Herb and Mallory that Lya dePutti had been Emil Jannings’s leading woman in a brilliant German film, Variety, six years earlier.
The bartender had freshened Marlene’s glass. “Tell me, Mr. Tensha, did she put you off anything else?”
“No. She did predict I would have a long and unhappy life. Does that answer you satisfactorily?”
“Not really. But it will serve for now. Dorothy? What about you? It seems to me there would have been at least one occasion when you might have looked for Madam Chu’s services.”
“I find your smugness most unbecoming, Marlene. I don’t see at all what horoscopes have to do with Mai Mai’s murder.”
“Horoscopes, my dear Countess di Frasso, have everything to do with Mai Mai’s murder. May I tell her why, detective Villon?”
Hazel stared at Villon with a quizzical expression. The son of a bitch has been holding out on me. He’s told Marlene something but he hasn’t told me. He’ll sleep alone tonight.
Herb Villon’s expression was neutral. He was like a car idling at a traffic light, waiting to shift gears. He didn’t know whether to consider hugging Marlene or strangling her. At the same time, he knew there was no stopping her. She’d had a lot to drink, although he didn’t know this didn’t matter, as she could drink almost a case of champagne a day, and frequently did, without any telling effect. He said, “By all means tell her whatever you plan to tell her, but I don’t remember telling you anything.”
“That’s quite right, Herbert, so stop staring daggers at him Hazel, he’s perfectly innocent of whatever you think he’s guilty of. So what I’m telling you, my dear Dorothy, is a de- duction of my own, and I think it’s a damned good one.” She paused for dramatic effect, took a deep swig of the bubbly, let her eyes slowly travel from face to anxious face, wishing en route she could pat Raymond Souvir on the head to assuage his apparent anxieties, winning Anna May’s admiration for the way she had the circle of people hanging on her every movement, her every word, and finally came back to Dorothy di Frasso. “In all these charts, I think Mai Mai predicted something involving the seven people she saw tonight before she was murdered. What she predicted was too terrible for her to try to handle. And I don’t think she realized the enormity of the prognostication until she saw all of you together. She suddenly realized that on separate occasions she had made this same terrible prediction about all of you. But someone knew this could happen, especially when told that Mai Mai was being brought to my party by Anna May, and so it was necessary to plot to kill Mai Mai. And it didn’t matter if she proved to be an immediate threat or not. She simply had to be eliminated as a precaution.”
“Absolutely, utterly ridiculous!” said Dorothy di Frasso.
“That’s what some nasty critic wrote about me in my first film, The Little Napoleon. I don’t know what’s become of the critic, but I’m sure doing fine.”
You sure are, thought Herb Villon, and whether you know it or not, you’ve just set yourself up as a target. He decided to try to take the curse off it. “Marlene, where do you get such outrageous theories?”
Marlene feigned sadness. “Ah, Herbert. Is it so outrageous? Is it any more outrageous then the Teapot Dome? The Boston Red Sox scandal? Your Jim Fiske’s plot to destroy the American economy in 1879 or whatever the hell the date was?” Ivar Tensha offered Dorothy di Frasso his arm, which she took willingly. There was obviously no Mrs. Tensha, and she was in need of a healthy bankroll. The crash of ’29 had hurt her more than she thought. Marlene kissed Souvir goodnight and then made a swipe at Dong See’s cheek but didn’t quite connect. She shook Monte Trevor’s hand and decided there was more strength in a filleted codfish. She caught the odd look with which Tensha favored her as he looked over his shoulder on his way toward the staircase. Dorothy di Frasso waved goodnight to several people as she passed them on the way out, and then she too took a last look at Marlene. Marlene raised her g
lass of champagne to her and then downed the contents.
Herb Villon said to her, “If you’re looking for trouble, I think you’ve found it.”
She looked coy. “Are you mad at me?”
Marlene Dietrich or no Marlene Dietrich, I’ll slap her silly if she’s after Herb, thought Hazel.
“You went a little too far, I think.”
“I don’t think so. I also don’t think I know what I’m talking about, but the theory just came to me in a champagne flash and I just couldn’t stop myself. Anyway, it made a lot of people uncomfortable. Maybe not all of them, but a lot of them. Now, whose got the keys to Mai Mai’s place. It’s somewhere near Chinatown, right Anna May?”
“She’s amazing,” Herb said to Jim Mallory.
Mallory said, “I’d go through fire for her without wearing asbestos.”
“Herbert,” commanded Marlene, “we must go to her apartment and search her files. I’m sure she keeps files. We must search her files for horoscopes, copies of horoscopes, and then we’ll find out for sure if I’m crazy or not. Mr. Mallory, you don’t have a drink! Quick bartender, champagne for the adorable Mr. Mallory and his adorable dimples. Quick, Herb, catch him. I think he’s fainting!”
SEVEN
THE ORCHESTRA WAS playing “Good Night, Ladies” without much energy and even less enthusiasm. The few remaining guests who were still ambulatory took the hint and made their departures without so much as a ‘good night’ or a ‘thank you’ to their generous hostess. Marlene had indeed set a magnificent table, and never again would her guests witness the Niagara of bootleg booze and champagne she had provided.
What a waste of time, Gus Arnheim, the orchestra leader, was thinking. She could have thrown this bash at the Cocoanut Grove, one of the industry’s most popular night spots, which was his steady venue, and there wouldn’t be this mess to clean up. Not so much a waste of time as a waste of money. The party must have cost many thousands; what profligate spending in these financially depressed times. Then he reminded himself, Miss Dietrich is a queen, and queens are only happiest reigning in their own palaces.
Marlene urged Anna May Wong to spend the night in a guest room, and the emotionally exhausted actress was more than grateful for the offer. A butler escorted Anna May to the room.
Herb Villon stood in the hallway that separated the ballroom from the den and the library, obviously loath to leave. He’d sent Hazel home with Jim Mallory, Hazel trying her best not to be suspicious of why Villon was remaining behind.
From inside the ballroom, where she was pacing about in a wide circle, very deep in serious thought, Marlene saw Villon from a corner of her eye. She went to a bar, grabbed a bottle of champagne by the neck, dexterously maneuvered a grip on two glasses, and slunk her way toward the waiting detective with an exaggerated gyration of her hips. “I had an idea you’d hang around after the others left.” She led the way to the library. “It’s more comfortable in the library,” she said, “unless Mai Mai’s ghost is in there trying to make contact with you to name her killer.”
“I don’t think she knew who her killer was. In fact, I don’t think she had much time to do much thinking. Strychnine works faster than a whore on the make.”
Marlene handed him the bottle. “Here, darling, put your thumbs to work.”
“You sure you want more of this stuff?”
“Darling,” she said wearily, “let me hear the cork pop.” She took a cigarette from a Tiffany box on a table, lit it, and then sank into an overstuffed easy chair. She heard the pop and was at peace. She watched him pour through smoke-fogged eyes. She accepted her glass and he sat opposite her in a Morris chair. They toasted the New Year for the umpteenth time, and Marlene kicked off her shoes. “Imagine being a wallflower at my own party. I didn’t dance one dance tonight.” She laughed. “Wait till I tell Maria in the morning. Anyway, Herbert Villon detective first class par excellence, you stayed because you don’t think my conspiracy theory is all that farfetched.”
“No more farfetched than the one I’m kicking around. My big problem is picturing these seven suspects as conspirators. I can’t see them working in concert. Some of them don’t seem to know each other that well.”
“M’sieu Vee-yone,” and she thought of Raymond Souvir’s moments of stress, “when I walk on the set of a movie the first day of shooting, I might have met some of the other actors at some time or other, but mostly, I haven’t. In no time, in a few days or so, it’s as though we’ve known each other for years. Shooting a movie is a form of conspiracy. We actors are working in concert under a director we hopefully respect and with technicians who we know will do their damndest to make us look good, and if the Gods are smiling on us, our conspiracy will result in nine to twelve reels of a very entertaining movie. When we’re finished, we move on to the next conspiracy, probably never to see each other again, though in this town that’s hardly avoidable. I hope I’m making sense.”
“You’re doing great.”
“Let me continue. As to seeing these seven as conspirators, let’s begin with the two who have come to us already professing great affection for each other as bosom buddies, though neither one of them has much of a bosom to speak off. Raymond Souvir and Dong See.”
“Souvir’s a frightened rabbit.”
“And rabbits are great survivors. That’s why they have so much time to multiply. Souvir is frightened, perhaps, yet according to Dong See he drives like a devil pursued. Reckless drivers have a very macho image of themselves, and I believe Raymond Souvir is mucho macho. He’s also very ambitious. And I suspect he’s also very ruthless. The French are usually very ruthless, which is why I adore them and plan to spend my fading years in one of the better arrondissements of Paris. Souvir is driven by ambition. His only real worry tonight was whether the powers-that-be at the studio would cancel his test if he were implicated in Mai Mai’s murder.” She took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I don’t think you are reading Raymond’s fear correctly. There are lots of kinds of fear. I think Raymond, like all the others, has been very glibly lying. Let’s begin with his life-style.”
“He rents a very expensive, furnished house on Doheny. He’s at one club or another every night of the week except Sunday, I’ve been told, squiring a variety of beauties who have expensive tastes. Where does the money come from? His career in Europe? Let’s examine that. He’s had some success as a singer and made three films. I know the kind of salaries they pay in Europe. Nothing to compare to what we’re paid here. Raymond hasn’t been on the scene long enough to amass any impressive bank account or assets. The road to success is paved with parasites with their hands outstretched. So I suspect Raymond is being financed.”
Herb was sponging up her information. “You mean somewhere in the background there’s a rich sponsor.”
“It’s certainly not his family. They’re middle class and like all good French people live strictly within their means. The only French person I know who’s heavily in debt is Mistinguett, and that lady is famous for her legs, not her business acumen. My theory is that Raymond is financed by a group, a company, a corporation.”
“Why?”
“How the hell do I know? We’re only talking theory, right? Why is that bottle so far away. Put it on the table between us.” Chore finished, Herb settled back in his chair. “Raymond and Dong See profess a great bonding between them. This is not unusual between men without the specter of sex rearing its delicious head. How this came about I can only speculate. The usual deduction, if they’re not lovers, is they were introduced at some point, liked each other, and nursed the friendship along. But from the dark side of my speculations I see them assigned to like each other.”
“They’re good friends, strangers in a strange city, and yet they’re not living together.”
“Exactly, darling. Musical professionals are a drearily demanding and temperamental species. Living with them can be hell. And in Dong See I detect a very selfish, very single- minded young man who is terrified in Souvir
’s passenger seat. Musicians are very disciplined; they have to be or they’re second-rate. Dong See is very disciplined. I’m sure he does as he’s told.”
“Meaning he knows how to take orders and follow through.”
“That’s my theory, mind you. I don’t want to be charged with slander should you one day turn on me.”
“I don’t turn that easily.”
“That’s what I thought. Now the Ivanovs. They are Bolsheviks, not the best example of Bolsheviks, but they’ll do until something more dangerous comes along. They are underlings and will go through life as underlings. They were born to obey orders, although I suspect Natalia, behind all those phony tears, is a very determined woman. If this conspiracy is international, then of course the Ivanovs are the cubs of the Russian bear. Actually, I’m rather amazed the Russians are participating in a conspiracy with members of the outside world, because the Bolshies are so isolated and so insular. They are very suspicious people, and trust my words, their isolation and suspicion will be their undoing. Maybe not in our time, but in time. Let’s set them aside and save them for future reference.”
“I hope for their sakes they turn out to be priceless treasures. They’re both so nondescript I almost feel sorry for them.”
“They should do something about their teeth.” She paused, sipped some champagne, took another drag on the cigarette, and then, stifling a yawn, said, “Monte Trevor. Is he or isn’t he?”
“Is he or isn’t he what?” We know he’s produced movies.”
“Is he or isn’t he a conspirator. And if he is, why?”
“Do you suppose it takes special credentials to be a conspirator?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been one, except as a member of an acting company.” She laughed. “Come on, Herb. We’re both thinking conspiracies are secret meetings in sinister old mansions with hidden wall panels leading to secret passageways that end in a heavily draped room with a solitary lamp in the middle of a round table, and sitting around the table a mysterious assemblage of people with black hoods masking their faces.”