by George Baxt
Brunhilde bit into the pastry. “Mmmm. Very nice. Prunes.”
“There’s also cheese and raisins and whatever. Tell me more about Leni.”
“She’s been winding up all her acting commitments to make more of those mountain pictures she loves to do. You know, skiing, climbing, and all that physical activity I abhor.”
“What sort of films have you been making?”
“Power. Films about power. Political power, financial power, the power of men over women and the power of women over men. I just finished one with Willy Forst and Hans Albers.”
Dietrich laughed. ‘‘I had affairs with both of them. I did a film with Willy in Vienna, Cafe Electric, That’s when Igo Sym taught me how to play the electrical saw. Believe me, my dear, that was one period when I was all charged up. Willy got mad at me when I returned to Berlin to do a musical with Margo Lion, It’s in the Air.”
“I remember that one. You and Margo played lesbians.”
“Yes. The lesbians lost.”
“Adolph intends the German film industry to be the biggest in the world. He has a tremendous amount of financial backing.”
“Amazing. I heard him talk once. He was so nondescript looking, but I must admit his effect on the audience was hypnotic. And now he is becoming powerful.” She thought for a moment. “Power can be very dangerous in the wrong hands. Very very dangerous. I wonder if Mai Mai accurately predicted his rise.”
“Oh, yes. Indeed she did.”
“You saw his chart?”
“No, but he read some of it at a dinner several months ago. She predicted truly astonishing things for him. Your friend Ivar Tensha was there.”
“Tensha is not my friend. I dislike him intensely.”
“But I see in the paper he was at your party last night.”
“The Countess di Frasso brought him. I met him last night for the first time.”
“Monte Trevor was here too. Isn’t he a friend?”
“He came with Dorothy di Frasso and Tensha. Same story. I met him last night for the first time. You know him?”
“Oh, yes. He spends a lot of time in Berlin. He’s looking to get a foot in the door of the movie industry. I’m sure he’s still badgering Tensha to invest in films.”
“Yes, I’m told that’s going on.”
“And everyone was here last night witnessing Mai Mai’s murder! Oh, why didn’t I try to reach you yesterday. I could have been here and seen all the fun!”
“Fun! Since when is murder fun?”
“You know what I mean! I should have called Raymond too.”
Marlene was fascinated. Tensha, Trevor, and Raymond Souvir? “You know Raymond Souvir?”
“Yes, the darling boy. I brought him to Berlin to test for a film I’m thinking of doing about the flying war ace, the Red Baron. I saw Raymond in a play in Paris and thought he had the right boyish good looks. The Red Baron was only twenty when he was brought down in flames.” She shrugged. “Talk about a misspent youth.” She was lighting a cigarette. Mar- lene lit one too, while deep in thought.
Marlene said, “The three are suspects in Mai Mai’s murder.” She told Brunhilde about the seven suspects, which was interspersed from Brunhilde with “No!” and “You don’t say!” and lots of tongue clucking. Finally Marlene said, “Souvir and Dong See are quite close.”
“I’m glad to hear Dong See has recovered.”
“Was he ill?”
“Automobile accident about half a year ago. He was badly smashed up.”
“There was nothing in the newspapers about it here. At least not that I recall.”
“Because it was kept out of the papers. His manager canceled his tour and Dong See was hidden in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps. The accident occurred in Italy, where they are perfectly dreadful drivers. They drive their cars as if they were riding bicycles. Italians are children. They’re lucky to have Benito Mussolini to direct their destiny. Well, at least Dong’s recovered. I hope the accident hasn’t affected his playing.”
“He’s in no rush to return to concertizing. He’s rented a house here in the hills above Sunset Boulevard. He says he’s going to spend the next three months composing a violin concerto.”
“How ambitious of him. I had no idea he composed too.”
“Many musicians give it a try.”
“I must get in touch with Dong. And with the others too.” Marlene looked at her wristwatch. “Am I keeping you from anything?”
“There’s still time. I have a date at two with Herb Villon, the detective investigating Mai Mai’s murder. Anna May Wong is joining us.”
“I see her picture’s on the front page. You’ve just done one together for von Sternberg, I read somewhere.”
“Always for von Sternberg. How I ache to do something with Ernst Lubitsch or Rouben Mamoulian. A cheeky piece of froth in which I can show my audiences how funny I can be. But no, they keep me chained to von Sternberg, and he continues to trap me into one piece of exotica after another. In my next I’m exiled to the tropics. The tropics, for crying out loud.”
Brunhilde adjusted her monocle and said firmly, “Fate has brought me to you. Marlene, I want you to come back to Germany and become the Fatherland’s greatest star. Don’t argue. Hear me out! You will do comedy with Oskar Karlweis, operettas with your Willy Forst …”
“Hardly my Willy Forst.”
“… or another erotic drama with Emil Jannings, another Blue Angel.”
“Work with that monster again? That mountain of dreck? Never!” She was on her feet and pacing, nostrils flaring. “Jennings is garbage! Garbage/”
“Achtung!” cried Brunhilde, flabbergasted by this sudden outbreak of invective.
Marlene swept her hair back and with hands on hips, towered over the seated Brunhilde and said, “I’ll thank you to keep a civil Achtung in your mouth.”
“Beloved Marlene. Come back to us. Come back to your roots.”
“I have new roots, Brunhilde. They are here. In this country.”
“In this house? Where a woman was murdered while your child slept under the very same roof?”
“Brunhilde, your monocle is slipping. It might fall to the floor and break.”
“No matter,” said Brunhilde, screwing the monocle back into place, “I have dozens of others.” Marlene sat, and Brunhilde took her hand and pressed it gently between hers. “Marlene.” The voice was now grave, dramatic. Marlene recognized something momentous was about to issue from her friend’s mouth. “I have a personal message for you from Adolph. I committed it to memory.” Now she was Adolph Hitler. All that was missing to complete the picture was his Charlie Chaplin mustache. “‘Fraulein Dietrich. I speak from my heart, a heart that is yours for the asking.’”
Marlene hastily lit a cigarette to keep from emitting an embarrassing guffaw. “‘I implore you to return. When I come to power as the Emperor of Germany, possibly the Emperor of Europe, possibly the emperor of the world, I will build you a palace. The walls and the ceilings will be imbedded with precious jewels. The fixtures will be of pure gold and platinum. I will build a movie studio especially for you. It will be the most magnificent in the world, the ninth wonder of the world. The world’s greatest scientists will discover the formula for eternal youth, and it shall be yours. While Garbo and Crawford and Shearer and Harlow grow old and wrinkled and turn to dust, you shall be forever young.’” Dietrich couldn’t contain herself any longer. She howled with laughter while clapping her hands together. Her cigarette fell to the floor, and with a look of undisguised annoyance Brunhilde retrieved the cigarette and consigned it to her coffee cup. Dietrich’s laughter soon subsided into a cough, and exhausted, she leaned back gasping for breath. “Brunhilde, you tell your beloved Adolph that I am flattered to know he thinks so highly of me…”
“He worships you.” She almost sang the words in high C.
“He mustn’t worship a false god. Look what happened to the Israelites when they put too much faith in Baal. They ended up with Baal
in the wrong court. No, Brunhilde Messer, no, no a thousand times no.”
“That is your final word? You won’t reconsider?”
“You’ve known me a long time, Brunhilde, and you remember, when I say No, it’s No.”
Brunhilde was polishing the monocle with a handkerchief. “How Adolph suffers. Just a few months ago he was shattered by Geli Raubel’s suicide.”
“And who was Geli Raubel?”
“His niece. The great love of his life.”
“Good heavens!” Marlene feigned shock. “He was shtooping his own niece? That’s incest!” She thought for a moment. “Isn’t it?”
“If Adolph indulges in incest, it is on a rarified plain.”
“Liebchen, incest is incest even if it’s kept in the family.”
“Now he has Eva Braun.”
“Another niece?”
“No relation. She is madly in love with him.”
“Good. Tell him to build the palace for her.”
“Marlene.” The voice was grave again. “You are taking this much too lightly. Adolph Hitler is not to be mocked or scoffed at. Soon, very soon, his voice will resonate through the world and …”
“Enough of this nonsense, Brunhilde. You didn’t come seven thousand miles to bring me his offer. You could have mailed me a postcard.”
“Well,” Brunhilde sighed, “then I must have a talk with Garbo.”
“You’ll grow hoarse shouting.”
“She’s deaf?”
“No, she’s in Sweden. Had you known, you could have saved on the carfare. Tell me, Brunhilde, the Ivanovs, the Russians, Natalia and Gregory, did they ever take an excursion to Berlin?”
“He served in their Berlin embassy briefly before being assigned to Los Angeles.”
“I presume you met them.”
“They are peasants.”
“Don’t make sport of peasants. Without them there would be no crops.”
“Gregory is very boring. He used to do card tricks.”
“Oh yes? He has nimble fingers?”
“Very nimble fingers. I slapped them away twice.”
“Where are you staying, Brunhilde?”
“You want to be rid of me. I am annoying you.”
“On the contrary, you have been amusing me, but then you always did have a delightful sense of humor. Remember a performance of Gotterdammerung when Beniamino Gigli bowed to the audience and you pushed him into the orchestra pit and he fell headfirst into a tuba?”
“It wasn’t Gigli. It was Lauritz Melchior. Gigli couldn’t sing Wagner. He excelled at Puccini and Verdi. I’m keeping you from your appointment.”
“I still have time. Would you like to see Maria? She’s growing up into a very beautiful child.”
“I’d love to see her.”
“Now, don’t be annoyed with me, Brunhilde. You descend on me unannounced …”
“I’m sorry. I was so eager …”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m delighted you’re here. And if you’ll take the time to think about your Adolph Hitler’s very amusing offer … yes … amusing … nothing more and nothing less … you will realize in the long run it’s ridiculous and inappropriate, and wait until I tell von Sternberg. Ha! He could use a good laugh right now. Come!”
“Morton? Morton?” The landlady banged on the door with her fist. “There are a couple of flatfoots out here! They want to talk to you!” Her name was Bertha Gull and she looked familiar to Herb Villon and Jim Mallory, and Villon told her so. “You probably seen me in pitchers,” she said with what she was sure was a beguiling smile. “I do a lot of extra work. So does Morton.”
“I took a guess at that,” said Villon, “That’s how I tracked down his address.”
“Morton also works as a waiter. He worked for Miss Dietrich last night. Morton doesn’t do as much extra work as I do. I’m what they call a ‘dress extra.’ That’s because I own some exquisite ball gowns, which I lifted from … which I bought at Magnin’s with my savings. I get paid more then Morton does. I run this rooming house in case the movie industry suddenly collapses and disappears.”
“No chance of that, I’m sure.”
“Oh, no? Do you read Popular Mechanics? Well, it’s my favorite read next to Liberty magazine. Well, Popular Mechanics had this here article on television, which is a combination of radio and movies, and they predict in another twenty or thirty years television will wipe out both movies and radio. Morton?” She was banging hard on the door again. “This isn’t like him. I know he didn’t go out because I sit by the downstairs window all the time, especially on a holiday like today, just to check the comings and goings of my tenants, y’know, if they snuck somebody in for the night, which I do not permit. I run a clean house. You want hanky-panky, sit in the top rows of the Hollywood Bowl. Morton has the best apartment. The Presidential Suite. It has its own kitchen. Morton!”
Villon was growing impatient. “Use your passkey.”
“Well, all right, if you insist. This isn’t like him. Maybe he’s taking a shower and can’t hear me. I don’t want to frighten him.”
“Please open the door, Mrs. Dull.”
“Gull”
“Sorry. New Year’s Day whammies.” He’d had very little sleep, and Hazel had hogged most of the bed and the blanket. Too much wine had taken its toll and his performance was way below par, and Hazel didn’t hesitate to tell him as she stumbled to the kitchen to make herself a salami and provolone sandwich. The door was open and the detectives trailed the landlady into the seedy room.
“Well! He didn’t sleep here last night at all! The bed’s still made. Morton? Are you in the bathroom?” She looked inside the bathroom, but Morton remained elusive.
Villon shouted from the kitchen. “He’s in here. But if you have a weak stomach, stay where you are. Jim, call for the coroner and some of the boys.”
Bertha Gull screamed. She was standing in the doorway, with her hands on her cheeks.
“I told you to stay where you were,” Villon reminded her. She said in a tear-stained voice, “He owes me two weeks rent.”
“Well now, why don’t you look on it as a farewell gift.”
“This is no time for levity, officer. Poor Morton. I recognize the hilt. That’s his best carving knife. Stainless steel. He bought it at the Broadway. I was with him. We’d just come from a day on Connie Bennett’s Common Clay at Fox. We each had a line, as a matter of fact.” Jim Mallory was delighted to leave Bertha Gull to Villon as he went out to the unmarked squad car to radio headquarters. “I said, ‘It was a delightful evening,’ and I think Morton said, ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ No chance he might still be alive?”
“Only if you believe in miracles.” He was hunkered down examining the space between the body and the sink. He got to his feet and saw the broken glass in the sink. “Must have been getting himself a glass of water when the knife hit.”
Bertha Gull said quite logically. “He wouldn’t be getting himself a glass of water if someone was breaking into the place, would he?”
“You’re right. Nice thinking, Mrs. Hull.”
“Gull. Just think of flapping wings and splashes when they dive into the water for a fish.”
“Sorry. I didn’t expect to find him dead. Maybe a little shaken, but not dead.”
“I read the paper this morning. I read about this here Chinese lady being murdered at Miss Dietrich’s. Morton worked there last night, like I told you. You think Morton had something to do with it?”
“Now I’m positive Morton had something to do with it. Enough to get himself killed to shut him up.”
“The boys are on their way,” said Mallory as he came back into the apartment.
Bertha Gull asked, “Why would somebody want to shut him up?”
“To keep him from talking.”
“Talking about what?”
Was she truly this innocent, Villon wondered, or was she slightly retarded? Mallory was smiling, the Bertha Gulls of the world would never cease to be a source of
constant amusement to him. Mallory was also an innocent and therein lay his charm. Marlene Dietrich had recognized this, and as a congenital protector of innocents, took to him immediately at the party. Villon saw no harm in giving Bertha Gull information, unless it might turn out in a surprising switch that she was Ivar Tensha’s mistress. “We think Mr. Duncan might have had something to do with the murder last night.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Go away!” She dismissed the information with a disdainful wave of a hand. “Morton and murder, they both begin with ‘m’ but that’s about as close as they’ll get. Morton was a gentle soul. He attended Mass religiously, and he never went to confession because he had nothing to confess. Believe me, gentlemen, Morton Duncan was just about the dullest and most tiresome man I ever met, and I suppose I’ll never see that back rent he owes me.” They had abandoned Morton Duncan and were in the bedroom-sitting room searching in drawers. “Believe my word, you won’t find a thing.”
The bottom drawer of the dresser was filled with pornographic material. Villon and Mallory feasted as they flipped through magazines, postcards, and obscene comic strips featuring such old favorites as Tillie the Toiler, The Katzenjammer Kids, and Moon Mullins in acts that were eloquently filthy. “What have you got there?” demanded Bertha Gull. She was at Villon’s elbow and could clearly see what was causing him to smirk. Her cheeks reddened and she backed away, looked at the corpse on the kitchen floor, and then said in a very small, sad voice, “Still waters certainly do run deep. Well, it’s no wonder he met such a violent death. It was God’s punishment for never confessing his guilt and taking his dose of Hail Mary’s.”
“Could you possibly spare a shopping bag?” Villon asked her. “These will have to be confiscated and taken to the station house.”
“Oh sure,” she said with a cynical sneer and left to find a shopping bag.
Villon leaned against a wall while Mallory settled into a chair. Mallory said, “Well, your hunch was right.”
“That was no hunch, that was detective work. It had to be him who dropped the pill in the champagne because his explanation of not seeing a hand pass over the glass was too damned elaborate, too well thought out. He was paid to drop the pill, but I don’t think he knew it was lethal. He was conned into thinking it was a joke, something like that. Probably slipped him a ten or a twenty, but when he realized she was dead, the price went up and who’s to blame him? A smart prosecutor could have nailed him good. So at the party he said more money or else. They met here and again the price went up, probably from, say, a hundred to maybe five or more. So his visitor, who is no dummy, knows Morton Duncan is now dangerous and therefore expendable. So he asks for a glass of water, follows Morton into the kitchen, and good-bye Morton and don’t forget to write.”