The Clark Gable and Carole Lombard Murder Case

by George Baxt

  Roy and Sammy were wondering what had brought on Gable’s sudden coughing fit. They hadn’t heard Carole’s softly spoken question, “Pappy, were Rambeau and Brady good in bed?”

  Two

  “What time is it?” Hazel Dickson asked Maude Chasen, Dave Chasen’s wife.

  Maude said patiently, “I just told you.”

  “Tell me again, I have a short attention span.” Without looking at her wristwatch, Maude told her it was a few minutes past three.

  Hazel said, “You didn’t look at your wristwatch. You pulled that number out of thin air.”

  “A few minutes ago I told you it was three o’clock. So now it’s a few minutes past.”

  Hazel looked at her wristwatch. “You’re right. It’s a few minutes past three.”

  Maude saw into the restaurant foyer where Carole and Clark had just arrived, Carole assigning Roy and Sammy to the bar and cautioning them not to talk to strange men because any man in Hollywood not working at three in the afternoon is either up or down to no good. Sammy promised her they could look after themselves, while Roy sauntered to a bar stool and ordered a couple of beers. Casually, Sammy joined him while hearing Carole’s high-pitched “Hazel! It’s been so long! And look how you look!” Sammy wondered aloud how anyone could tell how anybody looked because like all Hollywood restaurants, the room was dimly lit. “Have you been waiting long?” asked Carole after blowing a kiss to Mrs. Chasen, who blew one back.

  “Oh no, I just got here myself,” Hazel lied. “Clark, you’re looking handsomer than ever. And Carole, I adore your jacket.”

  “So does Pappy,” said Carole. She smiled at a waiter who was hovering nearby and asked him, “Do you come here often?”

  The waiter was an old Chasen hand and leaned down. “It’s me, Miss Lombard, Wendell.”

  “Wendell!” shrieked Carole. “I didn’t recognize you! Beaten up your wife lately?” Clark and Hazel sank lower on their chairs while Maude Chasen made a discreet retreat. Wendell was unfazed.

  “Let me see now,” said Wendell, “last time was about a month ago. She’s been behaving herself since then.” It seemed to Hazel that the waiter was unhappy about his wife’s good behavior. Possibly he missed the exercise.

  Clark interjected, “I want a scotch on the rocks. Hazel?”

  “A very dry gin martini and leave out the olive.” She said to Carole and Clark, “They take up too much space. So Carole, you’re going to do Made for Each Other for David.” She reminded Carole, “I was in the office when you called. That Jimmy Stewart is coming up real fast. You’re lucky to get him.”

  Carole stiffened. “He’s lucky to get me.”

  “Of course, darling,” said Hazel. “Any actor’s lucky to get you.” She said to Clark, “How’s the hunting?”

  Clark said affably while smiling at Carole, “I haven’t done much lately now that I’m an old married man.”

  “You’ve been an old married man twice before,” Hazel reminded him but refrained from adding “to two old married women.” “Do those two stunning specimens at the bar belong to you two?”

  “Our bodyguards,” said Carole.

  “And who’s their bodyguards?” asked Hazel.

  Clark said, “They can look after themselves. They’re young athletes, fresh out of UCLA. Louis B.’s got them under contract.”

  “Has Crawford or Shearer seen them?”

  Carole said, “We wouldn’t know. We don’t have a hotline to either one of the ladies. Wendell, you’ve forgotten about me.”

  “Oh no I haven’t. I’ve been waiting for you to make up your mind.”

  “I don’t have to make it up. It’s not rumpled. I’ll have tea with lemon.”

  Clark asked with concern, “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “I feel just dandy. But when I’m driving, I prefer not to drink.” She smiled at Hazel, whose capacity for gin was a Hollywood legend. “Hazel, how’s Herb?”

  Hazel said with a sigh, “Up to his ears in these kidnappings. He practically has no time for me at all. I park my car at his precinct just for an excuse to poke my head in his office and ask, ‘Remember me? I’m Pollyanna the Glad Girl.’”

  “Oh Hazel, you’re so cute,” said Carole. “What’s new with the kidnappings?”

  “If you mean Lydia Austin, Herb doesn’t have any leads. It’s like she’s vanished into gin air.” She paused. “I mean thin air.” Then Hazel said, “How’re you enjoying the ranch?”

  “Great!” said Clark, lighting a cigarette.

  “I just adore it,” said Carole. “All that fresh air all day and all night long. It’s so healthy and invigorating.” Hazel was taking notes in a small pad.

  “What about coyotes?” asked Hazel.

  “I’m sure they also find it healthy and invigorating.”

  “I hear you’ve got horses.”

  “Four,” said Clark.

  “And you keep them in the barn?”

  Carole said, “There’s too much furniture in the library.” Hazel flashed her a look, which Carole ignored because she was busy stealing Clark’s cigarette. He lit another one for himself. Carole then said eagerly, “I’ll bet Herb’s got a theory about these kidnappings but he’s keeping it under wraps. Am I right?”

  Hazel shrugged. “Ask Herb. Say, Carole, wasn’t Lydia Austin mixed up with Mike Lynton?”

  Carole was not about to speak without choosing her words carefully. Mike Lynton was Hollywood’s most notorious gangster. His gambling casino in Marina del Rey was everybody’s home away from home. He held gambling markers on everybody in Hollywood except Shirley Temple. Carole was not about to admit that she had done some sparring with the handsome racketeer. George Raft, who had gangland connections, had introduced them five years ago while he and Carole were co-starring in Bolero. As Carole explained her brief but heated romance with Lynton, “I’m such a sucker for a pretty face.” And Lynton’s was indeed a pretty face, exceptionally handsome for a thug—chiseled featured and surprisingly enough no scars, which with other gangsters went with the territory.

  Carole spoke through a practiced smile. “Do you mean, was she Mike’s girl?”

  “Of course I do,” was the fearless Hazel’s brisk reply.

  “I don’t know for sure,” said Carole. The hell you don’t, thought Hazel. Clark recognized the change of tone in Carole’s voice. It was a warning to back down and change the subject. Carole was still that scrappy kid who had enchanted Allan Dwan fifteen years ago or more.

  “Lately I gather she’s been Groucho’s girl.”

  “You’re doing a lot of gathering, Hazel.”

  “That’s my job and right now, Lydia is news.” Bad news, Clark was beginning to think, and he wondered if either of the ladies knew about his brief fling with the ubiquitous Miss Austin. The waiter had returned with their orders and recognized the tension at the table. He served them quickly and vanished.

  Carole created a laugh, albeit a feeble one. “I just can’t envision Lydia and Groucho as an item. It’s too surreal.”

  “No more surreal than Lydia and W. C. Fields,” said Hazel as she lifted the martini to her lips.

  Carole howled with laughter and when she simmered down said, “I’ll bet it’s Bill himself who’s spreading that rumor. Poor old Bill, I think he’s getting senile.”

  “You may be right,” said Hazel. “He was in Selznick’s office prior to my appointment, and demanding he be tested for Rhett Butler.”

  “My God,” said Clark, “doesn’t he know the picture’s in the can?”

  “Oh pooh,” said Carole, with a disdainful wave of a hand. “Don’t you recognize a Fields put-on when you hear it?”

  “I didn’t hear it. David told me after Fields left and David was very upset.”

  Carole said to Clark, “The world’s gone mad!” She craned her neck toward the bar. “The boys seem okay.” Then she clucked her tongue. “Poor Lydia. I know she’s been playing around. All the kids play around. It goes with the territory. The
only ones who don’t play around are afflicted with paralysis.”

  Hazel couldn’t resist. “Did you play around?”

  Clark thought he heard a phantom bugle announcing a declaration of war. Carole leaned forward with an elbow on the table. “Hazel, there’s playing around and there’s playing around, if you catch my drift.” Hazel was scribbling on the pad. A saucy Lombard quote was always good for at least ten bucks. “There are those who bed-hop and those who bed-wet and those who make a lot of noise about sex to cover up the fact they rarely indulge. I’ve had two serious involvements in my life, Pappy here and Bill Powell.”

  “What about Russ Columbo?” asked Hazel. If Clark guffawed Carole was prepared to kick him under the table.

  “At the time,” said Carole with her special brand of hauteur, “I was seeing the world through Russ-colored glasses.

  “Oh brother,” exhaled Clark to no one in particular. Actually he was grateful Carole hadn’t drenched Hazel in a downpour of vulgarity. Carole Lombard had a notorious reputation for letting loose with curse and swear words that would give a longshoreman a stroke. But Carole had put the lid on the vulgarities out of deference and respect to the two bodyguards. As far as she could see they were two innocents and she had a deep respect for innocence, an emotion she had never experienced. Before and more so after the car accident, she built a reputation as Hollywood’s wild girl. During the flapper era other flappers flapped with envy. When she signed with Paramount in 1930, she was up against the imports from Broadway and England who were hired because they could “talk.” And talking pictures badly needed good diction and style. When Carole checked into the studio, she had among her credits a short series of knockabout comedies for Mack Sennett and some undistinguished roles in B features.

  Now at Paramount she was being served an opportunity to make it in the big time. But other newcomers offered strong competition. There was Miriam Hopkins, a terrific comedienne with a volatile temper. There was Sylvia Sidney, who made crying a high art and also snared studio head B. P. Schulberg for a boyfriend. There were Wynne Gibson and Virginia Bruce and the most formidable and gifted actress of them all, Ruth Chatterton, who in turn was up against the two clotheshorses Kay Francis and Lilyan Tashman. Amazingly enough, all the ladies were terribly friendly. They were even friendly with Paramount’s two major stars, the instant hits Claudette Colbert and Marlene Dietrich. And it was rumored they were more than just friends, frequently appearing in public in matching tuxedos. As Carole commented to her mother, “Oh what the hell. What does it matter if girls will be boys.” Carole’s mother, Bessie, said it was fine by her as she believed in live and let live and she hoped they went often to confession. Carole’s brothers, Stuart and Fred, were thoroughly disillusioned as both had a crush on Dietrich, little knowing that Dietrich also had a crush on Dietrich.

  “That’s a long pause, Mrs. Gable. Are you trying to move the conversation away from the late Mr. Columbo?”

  “No, I’m only trying to squeeze some lemon in my tea. Poor Russ, I hope he’s resting in peace.” Which was more than she was getting at the moment. “He could have had a brilliant career in films. Universal was looking for a story to co-star us.” She smiled at Gable. “Your silence is deafening, Pappy. Hazel is supposed to be interviewing both of us.”

  “Oh, I’ll soon be getting around to him,” Hazel assured Carole. “Were you friendly with Jean Harlow?”

  Carole responded, “Hazel, is what you’re really after is do I know of Bill Powell ever having an affair with her, you’d do better to ask Pappy. He was on the Metro lot with both of them. You know he co-starred with Jean in lots of pictures. Pappy, did you ever screw Harlow?”

  Gable said with a phony smile, “I’m the one who didn’t.”

  “Now there you go spreading nasty gossip,” scolded Carole.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re inferring Jean was fair game for every man at the studio!”

  “Okay, if it bothers you, I’ll rephrase the sentence. She wasn’t interested in me and the feeling was mutual. Every man she married or was involved with was a replacement for her father. Even that slimy stepfather of hers, Mario Bello.”

  “God damn it!” bellowed Carole. “Let’s talk about the dark cloud hanging over our heads!”

  Hazel stared at the ceiling with curiosity. “What dark cloud?”

  “The kidnappings!”

  “All I know is what I read in the papers,” pleaded Hazel.

  “Ha ha ha. You’ve got a direct line to the cops,” Carole said. “You can’t tell me Herb Villon isn’t blabbing to you about what he knows!”

  “Blabbing is hardly a verb I’d use for Herb Villon. There’s a man who doesn’t gossip, doesn’t discuss his work, keeps a tight lid on everything, and when he orders food, he whispers.”

  “What a catch,” commented Carole wryly.

  “And he doesn’t refer to them as kidnappings. He calls them disappearances.”

  “Very strange character, your Mr. Villon.”

  Hazel leaned toward Carole while Carole took a sip of her now very lukewarm tea. “Carole, there’s something seriously missing from these cases.”

  “Yeah?”

  “No ransom notes.”

  “If there are no ransom notes, maybe they weren’t kidnapped. Maybe they just upped and disappeared. A lot of husbands and wives who are fed up with their marriages do.”

  Clark said, “That’s an interesting point, baby.”

  “There’s another interesting point,” said Hazel. “As far as I know, Lydia Austin is the only woman who’s vanished.”

  “Lydia’s the only woman reported missing?” Carole said with heated indignation. “Why, that’s discrimination! Don’t you agree, Pappy?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s still a crime. There’s another point you ladies seem to have missed.”

  “Go on,” egged Carole.

  “Most of the men were Japanese.”

  Hazel was scratching her chin. “That’s a pretty good observation, Mr. Gable. I’m sure Herb’s aware of it. Let me see…” Hazel did a hasty calculation. “Seven Japanese as opposed to three white men. Most of them influential in business circles.”

  “Well, they’re usually loaded financially,” reasoned Carole, “which makes them the most favorable victims. Sayyyy, a lot of us in Hollywood have impressive savings accounts.”

  “I don’t,” said Clark glumly. Hazel was busy scribbling. Carole was staring into her tea cup.

  “Can anybody here read tea leaves?”

  * * *

  In Herb Villon’s office at the precinct, Detective Jim Mallory had flung open the two windows at Herb Villon’s pleading. Cigar smoke polluted the room and the perpetrator was pacing back and forth in his familiar half crouch. Off screen Groucho Marx wore real glasses for his nearsightedness as opposed to the painted black ones he sported in films. He was singing one of the songs associated with him since he introduced it in A Day at the Races, and it seemed most appropriate to the current situation afflicting the film colony. “‘Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, oh, have you seen Lydia…’” Jim Mallory chimed in and Herb Villon exploded. “Oh, shut up the two of you!”

  “Why don’t you get another off-key cop in here and the four of us will make it a barbershop quartet. Of course, it’ll be a close shave.” Groucho stopped and stared at Herb. “Forgive me for that one. On the other hand, forgive Chico because he thought it up. While I”—he feigned moroseness—“stand here in sorrow. If you had a bed, I’d lie in a bed of pain. We’ll have to make good with a vale of tears.” He leaned across the desk and Villon shrank back. “I want you to know I’m very sweet on Lydia Austin. I don’t want to marry her, I just want to be sweet on her. As I recall, lots of men have been sweet on Lydia. Men gather around her like moths around a flame. I wonder if Mike Lynton’s our man. He’s perfect casting for a culprit. Culprit! How’s that for a fancy word? And they say I have no class. I have lots of class but no pupils. I suppose
I could call Central Casting and tell them to send over a couple of dozen pupils. But no, I’d have to feed them.” He sprawled across Herb’s desk and affected a seductive pose. “Can I interest you in Mike Lynton? Or a double dozen of a dozen damask napkins? Didn’t you know Mike was one of Miss Austin’s boyfriends?”

  Herb knew but chose not to answer. He didn’t have to. There was no chance to get a word in edgewise. Groucho babbled on like an undammable brook. Jim Mallory was enjoying himself immensely. One of the perks of being Herb Villon’s partner was the variety of drop-in trade. There’d been a lot of Groucho Marx since Lydia’s disappearance. Also Lydia’s three housemates, quite a delectable lot, especially the Eskimo even if her lips were always greasy.

  Jim heard Groucho persisting. “Well, what about Mike Lynton? It would be so sweet of you to put him away where he can’t keep calling in my markers. That’s my darling Lydia, little Miss Marker.”

  “That was Shirley Temple!” crowed Jim Mallory.

  “What was Shirley Temple?” asked Groucho.

  “Little Miss Marker! One of her first starring roles!”

  Groucho said to Herb Villon, “Don’t you realize this young and handsome flatfoot is being wasted around here?” He zeroed in on Mallory. “Have you no ambition? Don’t you wish to make something of yourself? If I bought you some wool and some knitting needles, then would you try to make something of yourself? Of course not!” He hopped off the desk. “Lydia couldn’t knit. She couldn’t crochet. She couldn’t even tat lace. But she knew how to collect jewelry. Mike Lynton showered her with jewelry. Pearls, diamonds, emeralds, lapis lazuli imported from the Far East, zircons imported from Woolworth’s…”