[Celebrity Murder Case 10] - The Humphrey Bogart Muder Case

by George Baxt

  “You mean his lover,” said Hellman.

  Bogart said, “Mine not to reason why. You’re so quick, Lily.”

  Hammett said, “Around Lily it’s essential to be a moving target.”

  “Aswan’s a very pleasant fellow,” said Bogie. “Very devoted to Josh Trent.”

  Hellman said, “Well I hope Trent left his buddy well fixed.”

  “Dear Lily, always the pragmatist.” Bogart winked at Hellman. “I’ll have to phone Mayo and tell her. She was very fond of Joshua. Played bridge at their place quite frequently. Mayo’s been after me to redo the house and so she heard about Joshua from Kay Francis and got in touch. Nice guy, Josh, real nice guy. And Herb. He was a very heavy collector. He bought and traded with others. He also did work for some of the studios when they were doing period pieces. I remember he was out at the studio a lot when they were doing Anthony Adverse. Poor Ned must have been wrecked by this.’’

  Villon asked Mallory, “The precinct say when he was murdered?”

  “Like I said, last night.”

  “So how come it wasn’t reported until this morning? Don’t the guys live together?” He asked the others, “Don’t they usually?”

  “It’s a matter of taste and preference,” said Hellman. Bogart said, “They lived together and they worked together. It’s a big place above Hollywood Boulevard in the hills. A section of it is their showroom and workroom, the rest is where they live, and I might tell you, quite lavishly.” Villon asked Mallory, “So how come Aswan waited until this morning to report the boyfriend's death?”

  “He was on a job in Santa Barbara. He didn’t get back until this morning when he found him.”

  “You’ve left out something.”

  “What?”

  “Wasn’t it ransacked?”

  “Ransacked? It was practically wrecked.”

  Hellman said, “Why are some people so unthoughtful?”

  NINE

  VILLON DROVE WITH BOGART TO the Joshua Trent house in the hills above Hollywood Boulevard. It was a treacherous drive, the roads here being narrow and winding. It’s as though the area had been laid out haphazardly and at the mercy of a city planner who had taken to drink. There were many magnificent mansions to be admired and Bogart was able to identify some of them, almost all dating back to the silent screen era. “That’s Falcon’s Lair behind the gates on the right. Valentino built that one.”

  “I know it. I’ve been there. Wife beating. Not nice.” Villon studied Bogart’s face. He wasn’t all that tough looking in person. Bogart grinned. “Approve of what you see?”

  “Always have. Nice of you and your friends to tag along on this case.”

  “Nice of you to let us. Besides, I’ve got a personal interest. My place was ransacked. My housekeeper murdered. I hope Warner got a studio crew over to my joint to fix it up. Not that I’m looking forward to moving back in. You sure you don’t mind Hammett and Hellman?”

  “Not at all. They’re the comedy interest. Can always use a few laughs even when they’re labored.”

  Bogart said, “They are not happy people.”

  “Aren’t they a solid twosome?”

  “What’s a solid twosome?”

  “Aren’t they madly in love with each other?”

  “Why Herb Villon, you sentimental momser. They’re a convenience for each other. They’re used to each other. They can just about read each other’s mind. I mean take a good look at them. Lily’s as homely as a can of shoe polish.”

  “But she’s got style.”

  “That’s for starters. She’s got a great mind. She’s a successful playwright. One of these days she’ll get rid of her husband if she hasn’t already on the quiet. She’s also one hell of a cook.”

  “Oh yes? She doesn’t strike me as the type.”

  “She’s the type. She’s Jewish. Southern Jewish. They’re even more the type. She’s perfect for Hammett. Back in the twenties he was a private eye, a Pinkerton man.”

  “That’s the elite.”

  “I’ve heard he was pretty good. That was in San Francisco. That led him into short stories and he was pretty successful in magazines like Black Mask. That led to book offers and a move to New York without his wife and child. After a couple of potboilers, he hit it big with The Maltese Falcon. He topped that with The Glass Key. And The Thin Man dropped all the pins in the alley.”

  “And since then?”

  Bogart smiled. “The slow descent. The continuity for a comic strip. The script for a cheesy movie shot in New York. Some radio series. He’s not a well man. Lungs or something like that. Lily takes good care of him. They’re pretty straight with each other from what I can see. To tell you the truth, I’m a little surprised they’re tagging along today. Hammett’s always interested in police procedurals, of course. Keeps the hand in. You never can tell when he’ll start up again. As for Lily, she’ll do anything to keep her away from a screenplay. She likes the money but she hates the work. She’d rather be in her house on Martha’s Vineyard working on a play and baking bread.” He turned and looked out the rear window. “Our little caravan’s intact in a row.”

  “Ahead!” shouted Villon.

  Bogie swerved and by a hair avoided colliding with an oncoming Ford. “These damn roads! Why don’t they do something about broadening them! See if they’re okay behind us.”

  Villon looked out the back window. “They’re okay. Bogie, haven’t you learned never to look out the back window when you’re driving?”

  “Joshua Trent. Mayo took it hard when I phoned her from the restaurant. And it’s really got her frightened. I told her to stay put until I signal an all clear. ‘Such stuff as dreams are made on.’ Supposing we don't find this cornucopia?”

  “Still have to find the murderers. I hope we’re not entangled in a chain reaction. From Hannah Darrow to Joshua Trent to someone else and then further and so on.”

  “L. A. will be suffering a serious shortage of art dealers and collectors. We can’t have that. The town is suffering enough deficiencies as it is.”

  “I'm going to suffer a lot of flack from Trent’s murder. He was a heavy hitter. Very big connections.”

  “He overcharged.”

  Villon laughed.

  “Sure! You can laugh! You've never received a bill from him. I won't even ask you to guess what he charged me for a consultation. I almost took to my bed for a week. That’s it up ahead past that row of cedars of Lebanon. Lots of police cars.”

  “That’s just for show. For crying out loud will you look at that mansion. I mean talk about ostentation.”

  In Hammett’s car, Hellman said, “‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’ How do you live in a place like that?”

  “Luxuriously.”

  “If you sat in a lap of luxury you’d slip between its legs.”

  “I’m willing to risk it.”

  “If you’d get back to some serious work …”

  “Skip it, Lily. I guess I’ll pull in behind Bogie. There’s more room for a fast getaway.” He braked to a halt and then sat saying nothing.

  “Well? Are we getting out?”

  “Villon intrigues me.”

  “Why? He’s just another everyday homegrown detective.”

  “He’s different.”

  “I find him a bit pretentious. He name-drops a lot.”

  “There are a lot of names out here to drop. I admire his nuances, his subtleties. That bit about ‘banter.’ It’s what I did with Nick and Nora, except I didn’t really carry it off all that well. They did it better in the movie. Villon’s right. Let people chat away and they’ll not realize how much they might be giving away.”

  “Christ, you’ve got to be an awfully good listener for that, and I’m not a good listener. None of the Algonquin bunch were good listeners except maybe Heywood Broun. They were all too busy waiting for an opening to jump in with a wisecrack.”

  “You’ve got to be a good listener to be a good writer.”

  “A
re you taking a swat at me?”

  “No, Lily, I’m not. You didn't mean it when you said you were not a good listener. You say something like that because you want me to say ‘Oh Lily you’re a perfectly wonderful listener. Why it’s such a pleasure to watch you listening. I can see you absorbing everything with your wonderfully unique ears.’ “

  “How would you like a crack in the jaw?”

  Jim Mallory was saying to Bogart as they walked toward the graceful, superbly designed front porch, Villon leading the way, “I thought you guys were goners back there on the road.”

  “I was looking out the back window.”

  “And Herb didn’t chew you out?”

  “No, he was fairly understanding. He had to be. I’m a movie star.” He turned and asked Hammett and Hellman, “What do you think of the place?”

  Hellman said, “I’m interested if it’s priced right.”

  “Nothing would get you to relocate to this town.”

  “I’ll tell you Bogie, if this town had Times Square and Fifth Avenue, the Champs Elysees and Shaftesbury Avenue, I’d give it a chance. But all it has is ratty palm trees, tatty Hollywood Boulevard, and is nothing but a couple of dozen suburbs in search of a city. We are about to be besieged by photographers and reporters. Why don’t I just tell them that Hammett and I don’t really belong here, that we’re doing a survey for the United Jewish Appeal.” They managed to make their way up the stairs of the front porch relatively unscathed. Hellman said to Bogart, “For some reason I’m feeling some sort of guilt. Is it right, our trespassing on this protege’s privacy?”

  “His name's Ned Aswan.”

  “I mean shouldn't he be allowed the privacy of his grief?”

  “Nobody grieves in Hollywood. They reminisce.”

  In the front hall, Villon was getting information from a detective. Aswan had found the body in the showroom that occupied most of the first floor. The living quarters were on the next two floors and according to the detective looked as though it had taken a direct hit by an enemy bomber. Joshua Trent had been stabbed in the heart and probably died instantly. The body had not yet been removed and was still being examined by the coroner, the same man who had done Hannah Darrow's honors. Hellman averted her eyes from the body although she could tell the trousers and lounging jacket had that distinctive cut of London’s Bond Street. Several of Trent's employees hovered about mostly distraught upon arriving at work to find the police on the premises and their employer murdered. Ned Aswan had spoken to each of them offering them comfort and solace when it was he who was sadly in need of them. The employees set about trying to bring order to the chaos created by the ransacking while tears ran down cheeks and there was lots of snuffling and the expected array of expletives. Bogart spoke to some of the employees he knew and they appreciated his kindness while remembering to commiserate with him on Hannah Darrow’s death. Jim Mallory conversed with a detective who had been at Bogart’s house the previous night and said the Bogarts got off lucky. Villon was told Ned Aswan was on the next floor checking for any missing valuables. Villon headed up the rather grand staircase imported by Joshua Trent from a castle in Scotland. Villon gestured for Bogart, Hammett, and Hellman to follow, while Mallory continued talking to the detective.

  Hellman was impressed. She wasn’t easily impressed, but now she was impressed. The grand staircase, the imposing crystal chandelier suspended from a ceiling two stories above. The superb and some not so superb art that hung along the walls.

  “Tamara de Lempicka,” Hellman told Hammett, identifying a large oil of an aristocratic woman, with, sweetly enough, one breast exposed. It was a beautifully formed breast and Hellman admired it, while, Hammett was positive, envying it.

  “And who is Tamara de Lempicka? Or who was Tamara de Lempicka?”

  “In the twenties, Dash, she was the darling of Parisian high society, especially those with low morals. I’m surprised to see her work here. In Europe, she’s fallen into disfavor. Her work doesn’t sell anymore.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “No, she’s still alive. She’s not old. No more than about forty or so. I met her at a cocktail party in New York a couple of years ago. I like her work. I wish I owned one. I think someday she’ll be very very valuable.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Dash, remember how they scoffed at Modigliani? How I wish I owned a Modigliani.” Jim Mallory was taking the stairs two at a time. Hellman snapped, “Have you no respect for the dead?” Mallory flashed her a look and then chose to ignore her, continuing his ascent.

  The grand staircase led to an even grander reception hall that had been famous as the site of so many stupendous cocktail and dinner parties. There was more imposing artwork on the walls, all of them hanging askew, as though visited by a small army of house maids who wanted to impress the master of the house with their skillful dusting. Bogart was heartsick at the damage. He had enjoyed this room as a guest on several occasions, a warmly welcomed guest not because he was a celebrity but because Joshua Trent was a caring man who liked people and never discriminated.

  From his right he heard Ned Aswan’s familiar voice. “Oh Bogie. Shambles. At last we have something in common. If Josh was alive and saw this he’d drop dead.” They embraced.

  Then Bogart introduced him to Hellman and Hammett and then to Villon and Mallory.

  Aswan’s face lit up. “Lillian Hellman and Dashiell Hammett. Joshua will never forgive himself for missing the chance to meet you two. He knelt at the feet of genius.”

  For want of anything better to say, Hellman said, “We’re sorry we missed him, too. Bogie has told me so many wonderful things about him.”

  “Just about everything about Josh was wonderful. His capacity for friendship, for loving and spreading love among his friends, his superb taste, his Toll House cookies.” Ned Aswan was of medium height and in his late thirties with a handsome face that stopped short just this side of decadence. When he had just passed his eighteenth birthday, Joshua Trent discovered him working at a gasoline station. As the legend goes, it was something about the way he handled the gas pump that caused Trent to swoop the young innocent into his Cadillac convertible and brand him as his own. Ned Aswan never looked back because he never cared to. Here was the very reasonable facsimile of a fairy godmother who was also incredibly rich and decently attractive and offering to train him in interiors with Ned proving in time to be a very worthy apprentice.

  “I don’t know how I'll survive without him,” said Ned.

  “You’ll do just fine. My money’s on you, Ned.”

  “You’re so generous, Bogie. Oh my God! Where’s Mayo? Does she know?”

  “I phoned her. She’s at her mother’s in Portland. Couldn’t cope with our own disaster.”

  “I don’t know if I can cope with this one. Does her mother have another spare bedroom?” And he suddenly exploded. “What the hell kind of madmen could do a thing like this? Murder poor Joshua! Murder him! Not just tie him up and stuff a gag in his mouth! But murder him! The monsters! May they roast in hell!”

  Villon said, “Maybe he made the mistake of fighting back.”

  “Joshua? Joshua fight back? How? Oh God. When the smoke has settled I must think of a memorial service.” He righted an overturned chair and sat on it. “I don’t understand this! I just don’t understand this! As far as I can tell so far, nothing’s been taken. The wall safe hasn’t been broken into. It’s behind Whistler’s Uncle. One of his lesser known paintings. There’s not a scratch. There’s so much in this house they could have stolen, I’m insulted they haven’t made off with a thing.” Mallory had provided chairs for the others and even found some ashtrays in the wreckage on the floor. Bogart and Hellman promptly lit up while Villon positioned himself next to Aswan.

  Villon began, “Tell me Mr. Aswan …”

  “Please call me Ned. I loathe Aswan. It’s a perfectly awful name. I once thought of changing my name to Ned Hepburn because I adore Katharine Hepburn. But at the time Josh woul
dn’t let me because she was box-office poison. Now she isn’t anymore but I haven't the strength to think of anything but getting this house back in order and oh Christ getting in touch with Josh’s family… one of the secretaries can do that … and oh my God will somebody give me a cigarette?”

  “You don't smoke,” said Bogart.

  “I do now.” Bogart gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. Aswan puffed but didn’t inhale. Neither Bogart nor Hammett relished hearing another fit of coughing.

  Villon was speaking. “Ned, I believe you spent last night in Santa Barbara.”

  Ned’s eyes widened. “You’re questioning me! Oh my God! I can’t possibly be a suspect!” He asked Bogie, “Am I?”

  Bogie said, “It’s just police routine.”

  “Oh God, I can’t face questions now.” The look on Villon's face told him to face questions. “Yes I spent the night in Santa Barbara at Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Potter’s. I was doing an estimation for redoing their villa which is a monstrosity. I stayed for dinner and by the time we’d polished off a lot of port it was too late for me to head back to L.A. and I was in no condition to drive anyway. I left early this morning and got here around eight. Our employees don’t get in until half past nine and that would give me time to shower and breakfast with Joshua which is a ritual with us so we can plan the day.” His eyes were misting and Hellman was suddenly feeling maternal with an urge to take him in her arms until a cooler head prevailed. “I came in from the garage which is behind the house. It’s a six-car garage except we only have five cars.” He shrieked. “The kitchen! What they did to the kitchen! I was terrified by what I saw! I shouted for Josh. I ran from room to room until I was in the showroom and there he was, stabbed in the heart. So much blood, so much blood. What’s that line from Macbeth?”

  Jim Mallory provided it. “‘Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’”

  “Aren’t you clever. Except he wasn’t all that old. He was only fifty-three and he’d kill me for telling you.” He bit his lower lip. “I’m sorry. I’m not behaving well.”