by George Baxt
Hellman said sincerely, “I think you’re behaving beautifully. If it was me I’d be shrieking the house down with hysterics.”
Ned said, “If you care to stick around, wait until you hear me later when all this really sinks in.”
“Ned, you know what a cornucopia is?” asked Villon.
“Of course I do. They’re absolute kitsch. Only a grandmother would own one.”
“Do you own one?”
“Oh years ago we had one. From the Henry B. Walthall estate. You might have heard of him. Joshua told me he was in Birth of a Nation. When he died about five years ago Joshua bought some of his effects. We didn’t really want them but the family wasn’t too well off and it was Joshua’s way of helping. He was always doing sweet things like that.”
Villon told him, “We think the killers were after the cornucopia.”
“That cheesy thing?”
Bogart told him the cornucopia story. At the finish, Ned exclaimed, “You mean we had those jewels under this roof and didn't know it?” He thought for a moment. “It was quite an interesting piece, come to think of it. Samuel Goldwyn bought it from us.”
“Sam Goldwyn? Maybe it was for his wife, Frances.”
Hellman interjected. “Nobody gives Frances Goldwyn a cornucopia. A necklace of matched pearls or a bracelet studded with star saphires. But a cornucopia? Never.”
Bogart was laughing. “I doubt if it was intended as a gift.”
“It wasn’t,” said Ned. “It was for a movie, that awful thing Gary Cooper did a couple of years ago. The Adventures of Marco Polo.” He paused. “This sudden quiet. You could hear a pin drop. Anyone got a pin?”
TEN
NOBODY HAD A PIN AND NOBODY wanted to hear a pin drop. Hellman said with irritation, “Of all the producers in this town to be involved with the cornucopia, it has to be the man I’m working for. He's probably been to my office by now, and, finding me missing, yelling his head off all over the lot.”
“Screw him,” said Hammett.
“You have no taste,” growled Hellman. “Wipe that silly grin from your face, Bogie, it's totally incongruous.”
“I grin when I'm amused. And I’m amused. I did Dead End for Sam four years ago. He didn’t give me any headaches. I got along with him just fine. Lily, you’ve got to learn to curb your temperament.”
“I am not in the least bit temperamental. Dash, am I temperamental?” He was lighting a cigarette so Hellman continued. “I can’t stand interference. Sam’s always interfering. When he hires a gifted person such as I am he should trust me. Let’s go give him a hard time.”
“About what?”
“About the cornucopia. He’s got a fortune under the studio roof, the very thought of it might bring on a stroke.”
“If it’s the one we’re looking for.”
Villon asked Bogie, “You game to take on Goldwyn?”
“What the hell,” replied Bogie. “He’s got a great liquor supply. I could use a drink.”
Ned Aswan nimbly leaped to his feet. “Let me see what I can find.”
“Oh no. Don’t you bother yourself,” said Bogie. “You’re in mourning.”
“Oh no,” said Ned softly. “I’m not mourning Josh, I’m celebrating him. I know this will sound maudlin, but he gave me my life. My opportunity to become somebody.” He smiled. “Now it’s my turn. Now I pick up the torch and run with it. I shall help someone make something of themselves the way Josh helped me.” He happened to look at Mallory and smile. Mallory’s face went ashen. Ned looked at Bogie. “I know there’s champagne in the refrigerator.”
Bogart said, “Forget it, Ned. Herb here’s got a heavy schedule and he's kind enough to let us participate. You might have heard I’m about to start a new movie from a book by our friend Hammett here. A detective named Sam Spade. I’m getting a lot of pointers from Herb.”
Villon smiled. He was feeling good. Bogart getting pointers from him. He heard Hellman say, “Another silly grin! It’s epidemic!”
“Bogie,” said Villon, “you’ve made my day.”
Hammett was at a window that overlooked the front porch. “They’re taking the body away.”
Ned howled. “Oh no! Not until I’ve said good-bye!” Villon stopped him from running downstairs. “Ned. He’s being taken for an autopsy. They’ll let you know when to claim his body. Probably some time tomorrow.”
“Autopsy,” echoed Ned. “What an awful word.”
Villon said to Bogart, “I repeat, you game for Goldwyn?”
“Don’t you have to stick around here?”
“To do what? My men are all over the place and I trust every single one of them. My forensics team is one of the best in the country. Let’s get going.” He put a hand on Ned Aswan’s shoulder. “I know you'll be all right.”
“I’ll be just dandy.” His voice was flat and morose. He looked around the once lavishly appointed room now in a pitiful state. “I never realized how big this place is. When you’re happy, size doesn’t matter.”
Hellman spoke the thought that had just come to her. “Ned, why don’t you come back to the Garden of Allah with Dash and me. It’s crazy for you to stay here by yourself until some sort of order is restored.”
“I’m not afraid. I know Josh is looking after me.” Hellman felt her skin crawl but said nothing. She foresaw an awful lot of conversations between Ned Aswan and the shade of Joshua Trent. Well why not. He would find it comforting. Bogart said to Hellman, “You and Dash jumping ship?”
“I relish no confrontation with Mr. Goldwyn at the moment. Okay with you, Dash? We grab some lunch someplace and go sit by the pool and splash everyone?”
“‘Whither thou goest,’ my love,” said Hammett as he bid Ned a warm good-bye and led Hellman to the grand staircase. Over his shoulder he called to Bogart and Villon, “You know where to find us if you get lonely.”
Mallory wished Ned well and Villon and Bogart took more time with him. Villon handed him a card. “If you think of something or if you need me, here’s my card.”
“I'm so grateful. You’re so kind.” He pocketed the card. “It’s hard to believe the gossip about police corruption.” Villon winced while Bogart took Ned’s arm and squeezed it reassuringly.
“Now I don’t want you in this place getting depressed all by yourself.”
“You mean I should invite a few friends over to get depressed with me?” asked Ned airily. “Actually, ‘Butch’ Romero and some friends are coming by later to take me to dinner. It’ll be more like a wake.” He paused and smiled. “It’s like I said. We’ll celebrate Josh’s memory.”
“Drink one for me,” said Bogart as he released Ned’s arm. He hurried down the stairs with Villon and Mallory in pursuit. Mallory caught the eye of a pretty secretary who at some other time might have signaled encouragement. He made a mental reminder to return with some trumped up excuse to see Ned Aswan and another go at the handsome woman. Villon said to Mallory, “Call the precinct and let them know we’re off to the Goldwyn studios and not for screen tests. I’ll stay with Bogie and make sure he keeps his eye on the road.”
Mallory trotted to the unmarked police car leaving Villon to field questions from the reporters who were still milling about. The photographers concentrated on Bogart while reporters wanted to know what was his connection to the investigation. Bogart reminded them he’d been victimized the previous evening and continued the myth of studying Villon for his new picture. He figured the least he owed Jack Warner was some gratuitous plugs. Villon said, “Should we maybe phone ahead and let Goldwyn know we’re on our way?”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be there. Sam’s one landlord who can always be found on the premises and that often includes Sundays.” At Hollywood studios before unionization, it was a six-day working week. Very often it was a seven-day working week with no overtime, something about which Bogart did a lot of grousing.
In the car, Bogart said, “I better refill the tank.” Villon suggested a station at Hollywood Boulevard and
Fairfax Avenue which was conveniently en route to the Goldwyn studios on Santa Monica Boulevard. They passed Mallory who was talking into the car radio and Bogart maneuvered carefully down the drive past badly parked police and press vehicles, unaware the departure was being watched by Ned Aswan from an upstairs window. Ned’s face was tear stained. He hadn’t lost a friend and a lover, he’d lost a father. He covered his face with his hands and whispered, “Help me. Please help me.”
In Bogart’s car, Villon said, “It’s better to have Hellman as a friend, isn’t it.”
“So you noticed. I don't think she realizes she’s so mean and ornery. It’s second nature to her. Dash says it’s her protective armor.”
“Protective from what?”
“Everything and anything. She and my wife are sisters under the skin. Everybody’s against them. Everybody’s out to get them. Be on the offensive before they get a chance to attack you. This business is loaded with their carbon copies. Crawford. Connie Bennett. Boy there’s a bitch on wheels if ever there was one. Like I said before, Cagney and Davis. On the other hand, there’re the sweethearts. Barbara Stanwyck for instance. A broad from Brooklyn and doesn’t forget it. Irene Dunne. A real lady with a great sense of humor. Joan Blondell. She’s my angel. If both of us were free I’d ask her to marry me, but she’s stuck with that putz Dick Powell. Glad Lily and Dash pulled out?”
Villon shrugged. “People don’t bother me. If they're here, they’re here, if they’re not, they’re not. I’ve taught myself to tune out. That’s mostly thanks to my beloved Hazel who by now is finished at the beauty parlor and has her antennae out trying to track me down.”
“You ever going to marry her? I don’t notice her wearing an engagement ring. If you are engaged, let me tell you something I once overheard my mother telling one of my sisters. ‘Long engagements are hard on short tempers.’ One of the few times she ever gave them any advice that I knew of. She didn’t like them. Hey! There’s the gas station!” He pulled in, rolled down his window, said to the attendant “Fill it up!” The goggle-eyed attendant asked, “Are you really him?”
“Yeah,” said Bogart, “I’m Stan Laurel.”
“Ah g'wan,” said the attendant, while Bogart groped for his wallet.
Villon said, “Be nice to him. He might be the next Ned Aswan.”
After they left the filling station, Bogart asked Villon, “What do you think, Herb? Although I suppose it’s too early to tell. There being only two ransackings so far. Do you suppose it’s the start of a pattern?”
“Like I said, it could very well be. Your mother-in-law and you were ransacked because Captain Methot was the start of the Yellow Brick Road. That’s the countess and her bunch. I’m convinced they did the job in Portland and did it badly. Your wife pointed out what a cinch it was for them to make it here from Portland with plenty of time for tea. As for doing your place and murdering Hannah Darrow, their only alibi is each other. But somehow, I can’t buy them as killers.”
“Why not? Marcelo Amati strikes me as being hot-blooded.”
“That’s because he’s your stereotype hot-blooded Italian and as an actor you’re always dealing with stereotypes. But let me tell you, Bogie, in my experience with so-called hot- bloods and hot tempers it usually turns out they’ve mostly got piss in their veins. As to Joshua Trent, whoever did your housekeeper did Trent. Same modus operandi. Same kind of violence. Same kind of anger. This person is very familiar with the world of L.A. dealers and collectors. With Joshua Trent they were starting at the top. Big bucks and big contacts. They’d be in a position to get their hands on hidden treasures. Most of these people are duplicitous. Most of them are always suffering a slow cash flow. They live high off the hog because they’re expected to. But it’s a rough go. The trick is, did Joshua Trent know the origin of the cornucopia story or was he as much in the dark as Ned Aswan appeared to be?”
“I think if Josh suspected he had a hidden treasure, he’d have unsealed it and looked.”
“Maybe he did,” said Villon.
Bogart was lighting a cigarette. “Ned would have known.”
“You’re right. So if they had the treasure, they didn’t know it and sold it to Goldwyn for of all crazy coincidences, The Adventures of Marco Polo.”
They were nearing the studio. Bogart bore down on his horn as a teenager on a bicycle cut across him and sped into a side street. Bogart was furious. “And I suppose if I had hit him, you’d have booked me for manslaughter!” He turned into a dirt road that led to the studio entrance. He pulled into the gate. The guard recognized him and smiled.
“Hiya Bogie! Long time no see! Gonna be doin’ a pitcher with us?”
Bogart remembered his name. “No Isaac, I don’t do quickies.”
“Ho ho! Let the boss hear you say that. I don’t have you on my visitor’s list.” Villon flashed his badge. “Say! Who you after?”
“Goldwyn,” said Villon.
“No! What’s the beef?”
“Just after some information.”
Isaac looked from left to right and back again, as though there might be some danger of being overheard. He asked conspiratorially, “Morals?”
“I don’t know,” said Villon, “I suppose he has some.” Isaac guffawed. He said to Bogart, “He’s still in the same building.”
“Thanks Isaac.” Slowly, Bogart drove ahead and carefully. There was unusually heavy pedestrian traffic. “Sam must have rented a lot of space this month. A lot of independent producers use Sam’s lot. He offers top facilities and a good dining room. On the other hand, a lot of producers steer clear because Sam is always sticking his two cents in. Ever cross paths with him?”
“Oh yeah. Back in twenty-nine. A series of killings involving Diamond Films. Remember Alexander Diamond?”
“Sure. ‘If It’s A Good Film, It’s a Diamond.’ “
“Goldwyn was a friend of Diamond’s.” He chuckled. “Diamond was having trouble with an actress who was forever forgetting her lines. Goldwyn is supposed to have suggested she might be suffering from magnesia.”
“It makes for a good joke,” said Bogie, “but all those Goldwynisms were and still are dreamed up by a smart press agent. You don’t get to the top of the heap where Goldwyn is by being a Mrs. Malaprop. There’s a parking space. God is on my side. I’ve never seen the lot this crowded.”
Sam Goldwyn had been presiding over his kingdom for almost two decades, when he broke away from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to go it as an independent. He let them keep his name and they let him keep his integrity. He had only a few stars under contract, but they were top drawer. His major asset was Ronald Colman who he nursed successfully from silents into talkies. He developed Gary Cooper into a major star. His only serious misjudgement was the Russian actress Anna Sten who was very beautiful and a very good actress but not in English. She cost him a lot of money, a blow he was a long time recovering from. Goldwyn’s near-implacable taste in film properties was now legendary. Most importantly, he invested his own money. He earned millions and poured it back into his own productions. He happened to be standing at a window that overlooked the entrance to his building, hands folded behind his back, deep in thought, when he saw Bogart and Villon approaching. He was pleased. The man with Bogart seemed familiar but he couldn’t place him. Goldwyn went to his desk and signaled his secretary on the intercom. “I'm available now.” He was positive Bogart and his friend were coming to see him. Who else would a star like Bogart come see at his studio? The secretary announced Bogart and Villon.
Goldwyn was standing, arms outstretched as the door opened and Bogart came in with Villon. Magnanimously, Goldwyn cried, “Hungry Bogart! What a nice surprise!” Bogart winced. “Sam, you old gonif.” They shook hands. “This is Herb Villon. He’s a detective with the downtown precinct. You might remember him from those Alexander Diamond murders.”
“Of course! How could I forget such a clever detective!” He hadn’t the vaguest remembrance of ever having had met Herb Villon. “Sit down, b
oys, sit down. Terrible thing that happened to you, Bogie.” He said to Villon, “I assume you're heading the case and tracking the murderer. That’s why you come to me? Maybe I'm the murderer?” He laughed. “They write stories about how I murder the English language. Believe me. I’m not all that exclusive. I also murder French and Spanish.” He winked at Bogie. “Something tells me you could use a little schnapps. How about you, Herb Vilson?”
“Villon.”
“So what did I say.”
“You said ‘Vilson’,” said Bogart, knowing Goldwyn had mispronounced his name deliberately.
Goldwyn said, “Maybe I was thinking of Woodrow Villon.” He was at his well-stocked bar.
Villon said, “I never drink while on duty.”
“So make believe you’re not on duty. You’re in Sam Goldwyn’s office, so have something. Some bourbon? Some rye?”
Villon said, “Have you got some seltzer water?”
Goldwyn snorted. “You heard of a Jewish producer who doesn't stock seltzer? By us it’s better then a blood transfusion. Bogie?”
“Scotch’ll be fine.”
“I’ve got a great brand here. Smuggled to me exclusively from Mexico. You can imagine what the war is doing to the scotch industry. War.” He shook his head from side to side. “Everything’s rationed. What I go through getting film stock!”
Bogart smiled. “But you get it.”
“Of course I get it. We all get it. We need entertainment and the movies are the number one entertainment in the world next to sex, and it’s less energetic. Talk about sex, how’s your wife Mamie.”
“Mayo.”
“Mayo?” He was pouring the scotch. “When did she change it?”
“Come on, Sam, we’re here on serious business.” He brought Bogart his drink and then found a seltzer bottle and squirted a glass full for Villon.
“So get serious. I’m stopping you?”
“There’s been another murder. Maybe you haven’t heard about it. Joshua Trent.”
“My God. I wonder if my Frances heard. Joshua Trent? But how? Why?” Bogart told him the how and the why.