[Celebrity Murder Case 07] - The Marlene Dietrich Muder Case

by George Baxt

  Most features took from two to five weeks to complete. An occasional epic such as one directed by Cecil B. DeMille usually took ten to fifteen weeks to complete. The westerns were shot on the back lot or on a rented ranch in the valley. These were filmed in five days. Marlene’s films were the most expensive, and that was because Josef von Sternberg was painstakingly meticulous and demanded sets that were elaborate and expensive. For Shanghai Express, an entire village and miles of railroad track leading into it took months to construct. The sets were never to be used again.

  Expenses could also mount with screen tests, especially if they were personally directed by any of the studio’s “A” directors (so called because their films carried the heaviest budgets and topped the bill when double featured). “A” directors included DeMille, von Sternberg, and Ernst Lubitsch.

  Raymond Souvir’s test was definitely going to cost more than the studio planned to spend. Von Sternberg was the martinet to Raymond Souvir’s martyr. Marlene stood by helplessly as von Sternberg shouted and raged and struck furniture with his riding crop to emphasize his unreasonable dissatisfaction. Earlier that morning Marlene could no longer contain her equanimity and exploded.

  “This is not my screen test! It is Raymond’s! I’m already under contract! Stop bullying us!”

  Von Sternberg shouted back at her, and while the two roared and snarled at each other like kings of the jungle battling over the carcass of a fallen wapiti, Raymond Souvir’s already frayed nerves further unraveled until a makeup woman, on constant call for facial repairs, feared the young actor would fall victim to a nervous breakdown. The front office had already received a communique from a spy that things were not going well with the Souvir test and the suspicion was hinted that von Sternberg was deliberately sabotaging Souvir’s chances as a means of satisfying his current vendetta against Dietrich. He had been told that morning that after his next film with Marlene, Blonde Venus, she would do Song of Songs with Rouben Mamoulian directing. (“Marlene is mine,” he screamed at studio head B. P. Schulberg, “I am the only one who directs her! I discovered her! I created her! Without me she is nothing!”)

  The makeup woman busied herself wiping Souvir’s perspiration away and hoping he’d stay dry enough for her to apply a fresh layer of makeup. There were an unusual number of visitors on the set, which aroused the interest of the technical staff. Perhaps Souvir was more important than they thought.

  After all, von Sternberg is directing and Dietrich, a big star, is playing opposite Souvir. Marlene was also surprised. She was even more surprised that von Sternberg hadn’t ordered all visitors off the set. He was probably too busy being troublesome to notice.

  What in God’s name are the Ivanovs doing here? And who are those three people with them, two men and a woman who looked as though they had just returned from fighting a campaign in Afghanistan. Marlene had to satisfy her curiosity. “What brings you to the studio?” The very fact that a great star chose to mingle with them made the Ivanovs bristle with self-importance for the benefit of their friends.

  Gregory explained, “We are entertaining these very important visitors from our country. Please to meet them as I’m sure they’ll be very thrilled.”

  “I’d be delighted,” said Marlene while smiling at Monte Trevor, who was there killing time before his meeting with DeMille.

  Gregory pointed to the woman. “This is Masha Smetana, chairman of the Tractor Committee of the province of Georgia. And here I am pleased to introduce Bronislaw Ger- bernya, who manages the largest collective farm in the Ukraine. This trip is his reward for having produced over half a million dozen eggs, three quarters of a million bales of hay, a million bushels of corn, and cultivated thousands of acres of alfalfa and garlic. And last but surely not the least, Vladimir Gehoggurt of our secret police and the conductor of numerous successful purges.”

  “So,” said Marlene to Gehoggurt, “you are the conductor of numerous successful purges. How do you sleep?”

  Natalia explained, “He has no English.”

  “He also has no humanity,” said Marlene.

  Gregory said quickly, “Your studio was very kind to give us permission to visit today. We are so surprised to find so many acquaintances are also here.”

  Marlene wasn’t surprised at all. Countess di Frasso had arrived a few minutes earlier on the arm of the studio’s newest hopeful, Cary Grant. He was surprised Souvir was testing for the part of Marlene’s protector in Blonde Venus. He’d been told the previous week the part was his. He’d have to have a word with B.P. about it. Dietrich wasn’t in the least bit sur- prised to see Brunhilde Messer with Ivar Tensha. Marlene had an assistant director apprise Tensha that smoking was not permitted on this soundstage. His foul cigar offended her.

  “Marlene, liebchen. Raymond asked me to give him moral support so here I am with Ivar, who was curious to see how the studio operates,” simpered Brunhilde.

  “It is not unlike a munitions factory. The films that are produced here are the ammunition needed for huge profits. Of course, because of the Depression the studio is hurting badly, the whole world is hurting badly, but the people need films to take their minds off the bad situation. Some films explode into fantastic successes. Appropriately enough, they are known as blockbusters.”

  “I find the analogy most interesting,” said Tensha, having ground the life out of his cigar under the heel of a shoe. “When I think of filmmaking in those terms, I’m almost interested in thinking of investing in the cinema.”

  “Ah!” cried Marlene. “The person I’ve been waiting for! Dong See, where have you been? Poor Raymond is being put through hell by that beast with the riding crop. I want you to meet him.”

  “I don’t think there’s much I can do to help.”

  She took his hand and led him to von Sternberg, who— remembering they had met at Marlene’s party—was suddenly a picture of charm and good manners.

  “Here he is, one of the world’s leading musicians. He belongs in Blonde Venus. Joe, you must test him. Look at his wonderful features. That bone structure. Where’s that violin I asked for? Ah! Thank you, darling.” The assistant director brought the violin to Marlene. Dong See’s face was a mask. Marlene fingered the strings and brought forth a melody. “You don’t know I’m a trained violinist,” said Marlene off-handedly, “Mother made me study very hard. I’ve even mastered the musical saw. I don’t play anymore. This looks like a very fine instrument. It’s not an Amati, but I know the magic of your fingers will make it sound like one.”

  “No.”

  “No? Then perhaps you will enrapture us with what might sound like a Stradivarius.”

  Dong See backed away a few feet.

  “Why, Dong See. You look absolutely terrified! The instrument won’t bite you! The violin is your friend; it is your life’s blood. Here … —she held it out to him—“take it, make love to it.” She signaled the cameraman and the sound engineer. “Boys! This is a take!” Von Sternberg stood with the cameraman, eyes blazing. Again she was usurping his position. Again she was sticking a finger in his eye. How she will suffer for this. What’s wrong with this Chinese fiddler? Why does he shy away from the violin? I recognize that expression on Marlene’s face. I’ve seen it often enough. It’s that look she gets when she’s proven something to herself. What is she up to now?

  “Does this violin displease you? Now, don’t disappoint me, darling. I promised myself I’d get some film of you and you mustn’t let me down.”

  Raymond Souvir watched the scene taking place in front of the motionless camera amidst an embarrassing silence. Dong See was on the spot, and Souvir knew him well, knew and feared his temper.

  “I cannot play,” said Dong See.

  “You mean you won’t play here, for the camera.” Marlene smiled. “You’re not prepared. I should have realized that.”

  “I can’t play because my fingers were shattered in the accident. They will never be the same again.”

  “How terrible.” Marlene placed
the violin on a table. “That’s why your tour was canceled.”

  “That’s right. I’m finished as a musician.” He walked away from her.

  Von Sternberg shouted, “Can we now get on with the business of making a screen test?” The set buzzed and hummed again.

  Marlene brightened on seeing Herb Villon and Jim Mallory standing near the soundstage door. She hurried to them. “Did you see the scene I just played with Dong See?”

  “I wish I had it on film,” said Villon.

  “So do I. Very heartbreaking. I’d burst into tears but I mustn’t ruin my makeup.”

  “Why, Marlene Dietrich, you’re a heartless beast.”

  “Not where this person who says he can’t play the violin any longer is concerned. At my party, Dorothy di Frasso said something about this Dong See that I can’t get out of my mind. She said something about not having seen him for quite some time, but that he’d changed some since then. Last night because I could not sleep, our talk, you darling man, was so exciting and stimulating”—Herb restrained from preening while Jim Mallory’s eyes were green with jealousy—“I got to thinking about everyone involved in the case. My mind was a motion-picture projector and the film unreeled them, and when I thought it necessary I stopped this film and studied my subjects carefully; I dissected them. Dong See worried me the most. I kept coming back to him over and over again. There’s so much goddamned noise, let’s go over there behind the backdrops.” They followed the leader.

  “Won’t they be looking for you?” asked Herb.

  “They’ll find me. Von Sternberg’s on my back. He’s poking around wasting time and money and I’m afraid poor Raymond isn’t coming across at all. A robot has more animation.”

  “Let’s get back to Dong See,” Villon prompted.

  “I studied his face hard. A thought kept coming to me. He was in an automobile crash so terrible that it caused him to be confined to a clinic for six months. Now think, what had the crash done to him?”

  “Shattered his fingers for starters,” said Jim Mallory.

  “While he told us this, I had a good look at his hands. There are no scars.”

  “There was probably plastic surgery,” said Villon.

  “Those fingers had no plastic surgery. His face has had no plastic surgery. The process is not all that infallible. It leaves scars. Have you noticed Carole Lombard’s left cheek? She too was in a terrible automobile accident and had extensive surgery for months before being given any hope she would be able to work in front of a camera again. She still has a scar on her left cheek. It’s barely noticeable because our makeup men here are magicians.”

  “She’s gorgeous,” said Jim Mallory, then feeling like a traitor.

  “Of course, darling, that’s because her makeup is borrowed from mine. I shave my eyebrows and use a pencil; so does Carole. My makeup emphasizes hollows in my cheeks; so does Carole’s. But so what, our personalities are totally dissimilar. Listen to me, boys. It is not easy to reconstruct shattered bodies and shattered faces. There are hospitals in Europe where tragedies are quartered. Men whose faces were so badly destroyed and deformed that they are kept hidden away from the public eye.”

  “Dong See was one of the lucky ones.” Jim Mallory looked innocent enough to betray, thought Marlene, and hoped the future would be kind to him.

  “This Dong See has had no plastic surgery, Herb. Trust me. Believe me.”

  “But six months in a Swiss clinic. What was that all about?”

  “What’s it all about? It’s a trumped-up story, that’s what it’s all about. There was no six months in a clinic. This person is perfectly healthy. Don’t you get it? Why do you think I planned this scene? And if I must say so myself, I pulled it off brilliantly. Boys, I had to see and hear him play the violin. I had to trump up getting him here and putting him on the spot. This man can’t play the violin. He is not Dong See.”

  “Are you thinking of confronting him with that suspicion?”

  “Of course not. He’ll just continue playing his act as beautifully as he did just now, when he weaseled out of a tight spot. You mark my words, gentlemen. The real Dong See is probably dead. There probably was an accident and it killed him. Why wasn’t it in the newspapers? Dong See was world famous. News of his terrible accident should have spread around the world. This man is not Dong See. He’s an imposter. He’s an agent. He’s an instrument. Impersonating Dong See opens doors for him that would be shut to any ordinary Oriental. And these people are seeking to have doors opened.

  “Herb, are you allowing Monte Trevor to leave the city?”

  “Like hell I am.”

  “Ramon Novarro told me Trevor is planning a trip to Mexico. He tried to convince Ramon to consider returning there and helping resuscitate Mexico’s film industry. I phoned Dolores del Rio and Lupe Velez and they confirmed that Monte Trevor made the same pitch to them. Herb, Monte Trevor acts the pushy pest, but it’s an act. He’s a very clever man, I’m positive. He must be. Why else does he have Tensha’s ear? Check him out and you’ll see he’s not had a money-making film in years. He stays in an expensive suite. Who’s paying for it? Raymond Souvir lives and spends like an emperor. Who’s paying for it? How did the Ivanovs move to such important embassies as Berlin and Los Angeles if they are the bourgeois dolts they appear to be? And Dorothy di Frasso. She flaunts wealth as though she really has it. That mansion she lives in. That expensive car she drives.”

  “I thought she got a big settlement from her ex-husband.”

  “Yes, it was a handsome settlement that soon began to lose its looks, the way she spends. Gary Cooper told me she tried to borrow money from him and at a time when Gary wasn’t making the kind of dollars he earns today. Who supports this Dong See effigy? Herb, these people are subsidized.”

  “Tensha?” Herb knew as he spoke the name it was a waste of breath.

  “No, darling, I doubt that very strongly. Oh I suspect Tensha is heavily involved financially in whatever is going on. Herb, if you haven’t been thinking about it, then I urge you to contact Interpol about these people.”

  Jim Mallory smiled as Villon told her, “What was that about two great minds?”

  Marlene laughed, threw her arms around Villon, and kissed his cheek. After which she decided to give Jim Mallory equal time, not realizing he’d be days recovering from the shock. “Let’s see what’s going on out there. God, we’ll never finish this bloody test.”

  Von Sternberg was supervising a fresh camera setup at the top of his lungs. Hazel Dickson, chatting with Monte Trevor, saw Marlene, Herb, and Mallory out of the corner of an eye and abruptly left Trevor. “Well, well, well, the unholy three,” said Hazel.

  Marlene oozed charm and concern. “I’m so glad to see you got home safely last night, Hazel.”

  “I didn’t know I was in any danger. I suppose you’ve seen the papers.”

  “I haven’t had the time, darling. Von Sternberg has kept us hopping, the sadistic bastard.”

  “Lewis Tate’s made headlines. I mean, forgotten by the press and the public and the powers that be all these years, and so he goes and hangs himself and all of a sudden he’s big news. The poor slob, if he were alive somebody would probably offer him a contract.”

  God bless you, Adela Rogers St. John, thought Marlene; God bless you. Lewis Tate may be dead, but today he lives, more alive than he has ever been.

  Hazel was speaking directly to Marlene. “I hear I missed a hearts and flowers episode between you and Dong See. What was it all about?”

  “Let Herb tell you.”

  “Herb can’t tell me anything.” Villon winced as each word struck him like a pellet shot from a BB gun. “I got a hot item out of Monte Trevor. He’s been asked to come to Mexico to help pump some new life into their dying film industry. God, they make lousy pictures. Oh oh, di Frasso’s got her tentacles around Cary Grant. He’d better be careful.”

  “I’m told he can take care of himself,” Marlene reassured Hazel. “I don’t see Raymond.
I should go over some lines with him. Poor baby, I’m sure he’s learning to his sorrow that working in Hollywood is a far cry from working in Europe. I’ll see what I can do to pump some energy into this test. Ah! There’s Dong See with Brunhilde and Tensha. I must apologize to him.”

  Von Sternberg was shouting. “I am ready! Marlene Dietrich!” She kept walking toward Dong See without missing a beat. “Where is Mr. Souvir? Are we making a test here or is this some kind of tea party?”

  Herb Villon thought, If it’s a tea party, it’s more the Mad Hatter’s than one given by his Aunt Hattie. He watched Marlene as she spoke to Dong See. Smooth as silk. What a woman.

  “I do understand,” said Dong See with charm. “I know you didn’t mean to embarrass me.”

  “Still, no longer being able to play. What a loss. What a tragedy. I’ll never forget your “Flight of the Bumble Bee.” That bee was so real, I remember looking around for a flyswatter.”

  Von Sternberg shouted her name again. Marlene shut her eyes, clenched her fists, and took a deep breath. Brunhilde whispered something to Tensha about expecting fireworks, while Marlene opened her eyes and past Brunhilde and Tensha she saw Raymond Souvir holding a paper cup, clutching his stomach and staggering forward. Marlene shouted for Villon, and he and Mallory hurried to her on a trot. She rushed to Souvir’s side and Villon and Mallory were too late to catch him. He fell face down, crushing the paper cup beneath him. Villon and Mallory turned him on his back and Marlene knelt and shouted Souvir’s name over and over again. He didn’t respond. His eyes were half-open and from what she could see of them, Dietrich told Villon they reflected no life.

  “He’s dead. Look, those beads of perspiration. Poor soul. Poor Raymond. He’s perspired his last.”

  SIXTEEN

  “WHAT FOUL FIEND destroyed this beautiful youth! Who did this to Raymond! Oh my poor child, cut down in the prime of life!” Tallulah Bankhead beseeched God to strike the unknown killer with lightning and thunderbolts. Word of the murder had spread through the studio like brushfire, and Tallulah’s anguished cry in the fitting room caused the walls to tremble. Her secretary drove her to the soundstage where the test was supposed to be shot and Tallulah swept into it like Medea satisfied at her success in polishing off her two brats. With fingers intertwined and a loosely tied dressing gown showing two incredibly well shaped legs, she stood staring down at the corpse, which had been covered with a blanket.