by George Baxt
William Randolph Hearst succeeded in scooping his rival newspapers and bought Marion a diamond tiara that would later be inside the bag of jewelry she gave him to pawn when his newspaper empire was tottering on the brink of bankruptcy.
When Garbo came home from the studio that night with Lottie Lynton, she found Herb Villon and Arnold Lake waiting for her in Villon’s parked car. Villon apologized for the invasion of her privacy but since she and Salka Viertel were the only people he knew to have seen the Wolheims, it was possible she could make an identification, if the dead woman was indeed Mrs. Wolheim.
Wearily, Garbo said, “Come inside, gentlemen. Salka Viertel, my good friend, will be here any moment now. Perhaps she can assist in identifying the woman.”
Lottie took Garbo’s coat and bustled out of the room to prepare drinks. Villon and Arnold watched Garbo cross to the couch and slink down onto it. This is the fabulous Garbo, thought Villon, here she is in the flesh, and she’s even more beautiful and seductive then she is on the screen.
So this is Garbo, thought Arnold Lake. Big deal. Later, he would dine out on stories about his pal Greta until all of Washington, D.C., stopped inviting him to social events in hopes he would now have the time to find a new routine.
They heard Garbo say, “I’m sure Saloman also saw the Wolheims. He’s one of my neighbors. A retired insurance broker. A widower. He lives alone.” She indicated with a tired wave of a hand in which direction they might succeed in locating Mr. Saloman. “I’d phone and invite him here but I have never invited him here and I see no reason to upset a precedent. I assume you have a photo of the dead woman, so why not take it to Mr. Saloman, since Salka might be a while yet and I would like some time to pull myself together. The first day of a film is always very trying. You are working with actors mostly you have never worked with before, and you have to learn to accommodate yourself to so many of them. It’s like being given a new and unfamiliar family, you understand?”
They understood. Villon volunteered to go see Saloman. Arnold stayed behind and eagerly took the scotch and soda Lottie brought him. Garbo just as eagerly sipped her vodka on the rocks and kicked her shoes off. She studied Arnold for a while, her inquisitor eyes making him so uncomfortable, he thought she’d put Torquemada to shame. Finally she said, “You are a federal agent, you say?”
“Yes.”
“A G-man.”
“Yes.”
“Like James Cagney?”
“He’s not a G-man.”
“He was one in a movie I saw years ago. He was a cute G-man. Are there other G-men who are cute?”
“We don’t see ourselves as cute.”
“I think you’re cute.” She grinned. “Don’t take me seriously. After a day with Erich von Stroheim and Peter Lorre it is understandable that I’m feeling a bit quixotic.” She paused and then said, “I should like to play that part.”
He could barely keep up with the way her mind jumped about, “What part?”
“The character from which the word ‘quixotic’ evolved. Cervantes’s Don Quixote. But the correct pronunciation is ‘Kee-ho-tay.’ See, you are surprised. Garbo is educated.” She laughed. “Not really very much. I was a poor student. As I grew older, I learned and absorbed from others. That is why I am most frequently quiet. I am quiet because I am listening and learning. Ah! I hear Salka’s car! Lottie! Mrs. Viertel is here! Bring her a dry sherry to compliment her dry wit.” Garbo crossed to the door and Salka Viertel entered. Garbo introduced her to Arnold just as Herb Villon returned.
Salka liked both men at once. They were handsome and of the no-nonsense type she appreciated.
Villon told them, “Mr. Saloman gave me a positive identification.”
“Yes?” Garbo’s head was cocked to one side. “Show me the picture.” It was in the manila envelope he was holding. She and Salka examined the photograph. Garbo grimaced. Salka said, “Yes that’s the poor dumpy thing.” Garbo agreed. Salka asked, “How was she killed?”
“The coroner has tentatively suggested the possibility of a toxic metallic poison called thallium nitrate. You’ll notice she’s missing patches of hair. That’s one of the symptoms.”
Garbo left them and walked to the window that overlooked the ocean. “Look, Salka, look! The dolphins are out there playing!”
Salka explained to the men, “She dotes on dolphins.”
Lottie came from the kitchen with a tray of hors d’ouevres, and offered them to Garbo’s guests. She smiled at Villon. Villon thought, I know this woman. I’ve met her before. But I can’t remember. It’ll come to me. It usually docs.
“You have the weirdest look on your face. Herb.”
He told Arnold that he thought he’d known Lottie at another time.
Arnold suggested, “Why don’t you ask her. Did she look as though she recognized you?”
Villon couldn’t answer because Garbo and Salka returned from their dolphin watching and began bombarding him with questions. Salka took the lead. ‘Was there any evidence in the house as to her real identity? Obviously Wolheim is a pseudonym.”
Villon told them, “There was nothing. No purse, no identification whatsoever. The labels on her clothes were store-bought, cheap store-bought, downtown L.A., not easy to trace. Forensics have dusted the house but found nothing of any importance. A few fingerprints have been sent to D.C. for possible identification. The lab is examining some leftover peanut butter and apple jelly we found in the refrigerator for possible traces of the poison.”
Salka asked with interest, “The refrigerator was connected? The electricity hadn’t been disconnected?”
“And the phone was working,” contributed Villon.
“Then you must investigate the utility companies and find out who pays the bills.” Garbo was back in the spotlight again. “Well, shouldn’t you?”
Villon was abashed. “Chalk one up for you. Miss Garbo. We should have thought of that ourselves.”
“But the people who have paid the bills probably aren’t real.” She was stroking her chin. “Yes? I’m right? It’s logical, yes? If the Wolheims were German agents, whoever paid the bills didn’t use a real name. Oh my God!” Her hand flew to her mouth.
Alarmed, Salka cried, “What’s wrong? Greta, what is it?”
“Kriegman!”
Arnold asked, “Who’s Kriegman?”
“Guiss’s butler. Lottie, I need more vodka.” Garbo sat. “Earlier today, I was discussing the Wolheims in my dressing room with Peter Lorre and my friend Mercedes de Acosta. There had been some misunderstanding on Peter’s side when he thought one of the girls who works with von Stroheim was a mysterious woman in need of rescue on our beach several weeks ago. Nice girl, Lisa Schmidt.” Villon and Arnold refrained from exchanging glances. “Anyway, in discussing Mr. Wolheim, I had this feeling I had seen someone who resembled him, and then I remembered who that was. Kriegman!”
Again Arnold asked, “Who’s Kriegman?”
“He’s the butler who works for Albert Guiss!”
Now Villon and Arnold exchanged glances. Villon said, “We’ll have to meet this butler Kriegman.”
“I can phone Albert for you if you like,” offered Garbo.
“Oh no no. We need the element of surprise here.” Villon was adamant. “We’d prefer to drop in on Mr. Guiss by surprise.” Garbo sounded mournful. “Mr. Guiss is not easily dropped in on. He lives in a fortress in Bel Air equipped with very sophisticated electrical equipment to keep intruders out. I have been there several times. I know.” Lottie brought her the vodka refill.
Suddenly Villon asked Lottie, “Excuse me. But have we met before?”
Lottie rewarded him with a lavish smile. “But of course we have. Almost ten years ago. You arrested me.”
Garbo’s mouth hung open. Salka said, “He what?”
“He arrested me,” insisted Lottie. “And I’ll never forget, he was terribly polite and very nice.” She reminded Villon, “You had that blonde girlfriend of yours with you.”
&nb
sp; “Hazel Dickson.”
“That’s it. Hazel Dickson. She was a gossip writer or something.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s become of her? You dump her?”
“No. She joined the army. She’s a WAC Captain.”
“She ought to do right good at that.”
“Right now she’s having a bit of trouble keeping a lot of the girls serving under her from getting engaged to each other. Say, what’s your name again?”
Her hands were on her hips with annoyance, as though How dare he not remember her. “Lottie Lynton, for crying out loud!”
“Lottie”
“… Lynton. ” She underlined her name with impatience. Salka, shaking her head in disbelief, went to the bar to refresh her sherry.
Garbo was delighted at the unexpected confrontation. “Lottie has been with me over two years now. Her parole officer entrusted me to her care. She belongs to me now. She’s a treasure.”
It was coming back to Villon. “You killed your husband.”
“And how, the mean son of a bitch. I kept warning him to stop beating up on me. The damn fool called my bluff so I killed him. I still carry a lot of those scars.”
“I remember now,” said Villon. “You poisoned him.”
“You got it!”
“It was something like cocoa, something like that, right?”
“It was hot chocolate,” shrieked Garbo, unable to contain a sudden fit of laughter.
“That’s right!” cried Villon. “Hot chocolate!”
Lottie stood tall and proud. Poisoning her husband would be a feat about which she would crow for the rest of her life.
“It was cyanide, right?” said Villon.
“Wrong.” She folded her arms. “It was thallium nitrate!” Garbo’s laughter died. Lottie couldn’t understand the sudden silence. “Well that’s what it was. I read up on it in a book of poisons I found in my local library. The poor bastard. It took weeks for him to die. And I had to listen to him yelling in agony, how his feet were on fire and then the clumps of hair began coming out when he combed himself and I tell you, watching him go just about took my appetite away. But he finally went and they caught up with me and I’m out on good behavior and here I am.”
“Yes indeed,” agreed Villon, “Here you are.”
THIRTEEN
A few hours later over dinner at Musso and Frank’s popular restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard, Villon still couldn’t get over Lottie Lynton’s brazen performance in Garbo’s living room. “The way she carried on about poisoning her husband, you’d think she’d invented the safety pin. Have a potato pancake.”
Arnold declined the offer. “Do you think she did in Mrs. Wolheim?”
“No motive. Why would she? Just to keep in practice?”
“Well, we have a thallium nitrate killer living in the vicinity of a thallium nitrate victim. How coincidental can a coincidence get?”
“Thallium nitrate’s very popular. I had a case a couple of months ago involving some nut case who got rid of his wife, her mother and father, and three teenage children. He claimed God told him to do it.”
“Which God?”
“In his case? Probably Buddha. The family was Chinese. They owned a restaurant.”
Arnold speared a boiled carrot and was about to consign it to his mouth when he lowered the fork and said, “Martin Gruber.”
“What about him?”
“The butler. Kriegman.”
“Come on, man, make sense.”
“Gruber can take a picture of Kriegman and get it to us. We’ve got a new camera that works sensationally indoors. They’re sure to have one in the local office.”
“Arnold, you’re a genius.”
“I’ll get after it first thing in the morning.”
“Supposing Gruber balks? He can’t go chasing after Kriegman yelling ‘Hey Kriegman baby, watch the birdie!’ ”
“He’s clever. He’s one of the best informants we’ve ever had. He comes from a long line of traitors. He didn’t need much training when Lisa brought him to us.”
“He’s that good? You sure he isn’t double-headed?”
Arnold gave it some thought. “Work for us and work for them? Anything’s possible in this game.” He shook his head. “No, not Gruber. He’s given us too much stuff over the past year that’s been pure gold. He’s helped us crack two codes, he got us a great list of fifth columnists working in the country, and the Germans don’t pay all that good. We pay real good.”
“How long has he been in the Guiss camp?”
“Over a year now.”
“And he still hasn’t been able to nail Guiss and his satellites?”
“Herb, you’re such an innocent. When we’re out of this place. I’ll tell you some bedtime stories.”
“What’s wrong with here?” asked Villon, while challenging a limp, overcooked asparagus spear.
“You never know who’s in the next booth.”
“I know who’s in the next booth. A couple of French actresses, Fifi D’Orsay and Yola D’Avril. Nice girls.”
“Are they Free French?”
“Don’t know. I’ve had no call to make them an offer.”
* * *
“I swear, Herr Guiss, I swear I didn’t kill her! The last I saw of her was over a week ago when she was packing to leave for Canada.” Kriegman was dabbing at his damp forehead with a handkerchief. “It was arranged for our people in Toronto to get her back to Germany. Isn’t that so, Herr Henkel? You passed the message on to them.”
In addition to Henkel, Risa Barron and Werner Lieb were in Guiss’s office, all of them worried about what consequences might result from Mrs. Wolheim’s murder. Henkel stifled a nervous yawn. “Yes, that is so. They didn’t particularly want her back.”
“Why is that?” asked Guiss.
“They had no further use for her back home. They would have preferred she stay here. They were arranging for her to work with a family in Boston, I believe their name was Kennedy. But Anna wanted to go home. She was frightened.”
“Yes,” bellowed Kriegman, “she was very frightened. She was gorging herself on peanut butter and apple jelly sandwiches when she wasn’t wringing her hands and muttering Achtung, achtung over and over again. And she was complaining how her feet were burning and she began losing her hair.”
“Nerves,” said Risa Barron flatly, “nothing but nerves. I had a sister who lost her eyebrows, her eyelashes and her pubic hairs when her husband left her for a houri in Morocco. Of course it all grew back later when she fell in love with a pharmacist. Nothing but nerves.”
Kriegman was babbling away again. “You said yourself an agent is hopeless once they begin to lose their nerve. Perhaps if we had stayed on in that house, if you hadn’t forced our disappearance after Pearl Harbor was bombed…”
“Your usefulness in the house was finished. I needed you here, just as I needed the boys to join my armed guards.” Guiss asked Risa, “The girl? Does she still dissatisfy you?”
Risa was busy fiddling with the clasp of a bracelet. “She tries hard. She’s so ordinary. How did she get into undercover work? She’s so plain, so ordinary. She should marry a butcher’s assistant and have babies.”
“She knows Mrs. Wolheim has been killed?”
“Of course she knows. She reads the newspapers.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“She said plenty to me. She’s frightened. There were people who saw them on the beach when they took their nightly stroll, that Jew Saloman who lives next door to Greta. And Greta too, and her friend Salka Viertel. And I think Marion Davies when she and Hearst played tag on the beach. Gott in Himmell We should send them all back to Germany and the sooner the better.”
Kriegman paled. “Please! Don’t send me back! I don’t want to go back. There’s nothing there for me.”
“Oh shut up, you fool!” shouted Guiss. He got up and moved away from his desk, thinking aloud. “She was packed to leave for Germany. W
as someone to escort her to the train?”
“I was,” said Henkel. Then he smiled, “She was rather fond of me.”
“Why didn’t you take her to the train?”
“When I went to get her, she was gone. Nobody saw her leave.”
“And nobody knows how she got back in the house.”
“Her murderer knows.” Risa Barron spoke sweetly, mellifluously. “Do you suppose the federals killed her? Do you suppose they murdered her and put her back in the house as a warning that they’re on to us?”
Guiss said matter-of-factly, “When they’re on to us, they’ll come and get us.”
Risa’s eyes widened. ‘"That prospect doesn’t frighten you?”
“I don’t frighten easily.”
Werner Lieb asked, while polishing his monocle with a tissue paper, “Has it occurred to you that the murderer might be among us?”
“It most certainly has,” said Guiss, “but who among us had a reason to kill her?”
“Do all murderers have to have a motive?” asked Lieb. “Aren’t there killers who kill just for the thrill of killing? She was of no further use to the cause, right? Therefore, she was expendable.”
Risa leaned forward in her seat. “You make it sound so plausible. Maybe you’re the one who killed her.”
“I’m a pragmatist, Risa. I think the investigation should be left in the hands of the police. The newspapers don’t say how she was murdered, just that the body of a woman known as Mrs. Wolheim was found in a bedroom of a Santa Monica beach house in the vicinity of the homes of some very important celebrities. Hearst himself scooped his rivals. I think we should be more concerned with the poor showing on the part of our artists on the first day of shooting. Von Stroheim managed less than two minutes of usable footage. That’s very bad.”
“From what I saw of the first scene with Garbo and Lorre,” contributed Risa, “their performances look very disappointing.”
“They will improve,” said Guiss with confidence, “and von Stroheim promises to get the lead out. They’re all nervous. A first day, they tell me, is never easy.”