by George Baxt
THE
WILLIAM POWELL & MYRNA LOY
MURDER
CASE
BY
GEORGE BAXT
ST MARTIN'S PRESS
NEW YORK
THE WILLIAM POWELL AND MYRNA LOY MURDER CASE.
Copyright © 1996 by George Baxt. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Produttion Editor: David Stanford Burr
Design: Nancy Resnick
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Baxt, George.
The William Powell and Myrna Loy Murder Case / by George Baxt.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-14071-1
1. Motion picture actors and actresses—California—Los Angeles—Fiction. 2. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)—
Fiction. 3. Powell, William, 1892-1984—Fiction. 4. Loy, Myrna, 1905-1993—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3552.A8478W551996
813'.54—dc2095-33657
CIP
First Edition: February 1996
For Kelley Ragland and Linda Parisi
O N E
It was December third, nineteen hundred and thirty-six, there were twenty-one shopping days until Christmas, and Myrna Loy wished she was in Timbuktu. Not because she was particularly interested in visiting the place, but the name sounded mysterious and exotic and at this moment Myrna (Minnie to her friends) wished she was anywhere but Los Angeles, and Timbuktu would do just fine. It was one of those damned hot days in Los Angeles when a swimming pool and a highball would be preferable to standing on a street comer wearing a suffocating chinchilla coat (not hers, but on loan to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, her employers).
“Asta! Stop being such a pest!” She had a tight grip on the dog’s leash, the dog being very restless and, like Myrna, wondering when the photographer would settle on an angle that satisfied him. Myrna saw no reason to disguise her impatience. “Albert, for crying out loud do something!” Asta was straining to join Albert, who was fussing with the camera. “Asta, I’m losing my patience!” Asta ignored her, too busy trying to break loose and get to Albert, who, as far as Myrna Loy was concerned, was hardly very enticing. Myrna surrendered. “Damn you, Asta, we’ll go to Albert. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.” The dog strained at the leash and Myrna hurried to keep up with him.
Once at the photographer’s side, Myrna watched in horror as Asta lifted a leg against one of Albert’s legs. “Asta!” she shouted. “You little beast! That’s unsanitary!”
Albert Garber stared down at Asta’s performance and then spoke to the actress. “Minnie, don’t you know I’ve got a wooden leg?”
“That’s still no excuse for Asta to misbehave. We’ve done two pictures together and he’s always been a perfect little darling. Asta! You apologize to Albert at once!” Asta stared at Myrna, whose unique and lovely nose was quivering with indignation. Then he turned to Albert and barked once.
“No offense taken, Asta,” said Albert as he finally indicated to Myrna that she resume her position at the curb, “it’s happened before.”
Myrna led Asta to the curb while mumbling to herself, “Of all the dippy ideas of doing a shoot on Wilshire Boulevard when it could have been just as easy to do in the studio. And why am I so damned cooperative? Norma Shearer wouldn’t participate in a stunt like this. What the hell is Hollywood’s so-called perfect wife doing this in this awful heat!” She saw her maid, Teresa, coming from the studio van parked at the comer and bringing her what looked like a refreshing glass of lemonade. “Teresa, you’re heaven sent!”
“Hold it!” shouted Albert. The experienced actress froze, likewise the experienced Asta, and Albert Garber clicked away. The pictures would make their way around the world in newspapers and magazines, by way of wire services that fed Hollywood to the hungry universe. Myrna Loy was hot news. She was one of the ten top box-office stars, and had been ever since she co-starred with her pal William Powell two years earlier as the witty and sophisticated Nick and Nora Charles in The Thin Man. This year alone they had co-starred in three films, all winners. They were beginning the New Year with a comedy called Double Wedding.
But all was not well in Myrna’s world. There was a husband to contend with since her marriage in June in Ensenada. Mexico.
They had lived together for four years before deciding at last to marry, four years during which she had walked out on him at least seven times, and only two weeks ago she had walked out on him again. Walking out on Arthur Homblow seemed to be her favorite form of exercise.
“Turn your head to the left and look up. Let’s get a good shot of that gorgeous nose!”
“Bugger my gorgeous nose. I need some of that lemonade.” She took the glass from Teresa and swallowed a healthy swig. Now a smile played on her lips as she fluttered her eyelashes and looked warmly at Teresa. “Mother’s milk, as Mr. Bernard Shaw called it.” The drink contained a hefty belt of gin. Teresa took the glass as Myrna turned her head to the left and looked up. She paid no attention to the six members of the studio’s private police force, who were holding back the small crowd that had gathered once word got around that the glamorous and glorious Myrna Loy was right here on Wilshire Boulevard posing for publicity pictures. Her mind was on the pretentious parvenu she had married, a successful producer and a damned good lover who considered himself a connoisseur of fine wines, who ate in only the very best restaurants and ordered his clothes from the artisans of London’s Savile Row. This man who made her read fine literature and attempted to teach her everything he knew about history and historic architecture, Galatea to his Pygmalion.
Mother’s milk indeed, thought Myrna as Teresa, reading her mind, brought the glass back to Myrna.
“Are we almost finished?” asked Myrna. “I’ve got a luncheon date at the studio and Mr. Powell hates to be kept waiting.” She favored her fans with a smile and hoped to God they wouldn’t mob her, though the six studio policemen were brawny bruisers and she had seen them handle crowds before.
“How’s about picking up Asta and hugging him?”
“How’s about picking up Asta and strangling him?”
Jean Harlow was pouting. Metro’s blonde bombshell was the studio’s best pouter. She was also very curvaceous and sexy and could take an ordinary line of dialogue and make it sound hilarious. Even while pouting. She sat on the couch in William Powell’s dressing room watching him read a racing form and dope the selections at Hollywood Park. Her hands were folded in her lap as she said petulantly, “You’re not paying any attention to me!”
“Of course I am, Baby.” Myrna Loy was Minnie and Jean Harlow was Baby and amazingly enough, the two opposites in femininity were very good friends. “From the sound of your voice I can tell you’re pouting. Why?”
“When are wc going to get married?”
“Oh that. I thought it was something important.”
“Why do you keep stalling?”
“What’s the rush? You’ve already had more than your share of husbands. You mustn’t be greedy.” If he married her, Powell would be number four. “Heavens! You’re only twenty-six and you’ve chalked up three marriages.” He thought for a moment and then said, “I had no idea marriage could be habit-forming.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I wonder what’s keeping Minnie? It’s past twelve-thirty.
She’s always on time. Maybe the shoot isn’t going well.”
“Albert Garber is a fussbudget.” Harlow brightened. “Did you know he has a wooden leg?”
“Everybody knows he has a wooden leg. I’m sure by now Asta knows he has a wooden leg and delights in the knowledge.”
“He tells everybody he lost it in the war. But that’s a lie. His sister, you know, the one in makeup, she told me he lost it in a car crash.”
“Aha! Wooden leg! That’s a sign!”
The blonde sat up. “Are you going mad?”
“Right here in the third. Long John Silver! And the odds are very favorable.” He wrote in a pad on the table at which he was seated.
“What about Long John Silver?”
“Have you never read Treasure Island?”
“I don’t remember. Hey! Wait a minute! Wasn’t that a picture a couple of years ago with Wally Beery and Jackie Cooper?”
Powell smiled. “Came the dawn.”
“Came the dawn,” she echoed. “Is that another horse?”
“No, Baby dearest, it isn’t a horse. It’s a cliché from silent films. Ah! You’ve stopped pouting! Now that’s the way I like to see you.” He crossed to her, lifted her in his arms, and gave her a kiss. He lowered her back onto the couch and studied her face. There was something about that beautiful face that now worried him. “Baby? Haven’t you been sleeping well?”
“Why? Do I look tired?”
“Your eyes aren’t sparkling. They usually sparkle.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll sparkle when the camera’s turning. Give me a cigarette.” He flipped open the lid of a cigarette box and the dressing room was filled with a tinkly music box air. Powell sang along with it as he offered her a cigarette. “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you …“
“That’s real cute. What does your cigarette lighter play?”
“Some old torch song. When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I don’t see doctors. We’re Christian Scientists.”
“Well, try a little Jewish science and have a check-up. I think you’re run down.”
“Daddy, you want to do something real healthy? Marry me!”
Myrna waved out the window of the limousine to her faithful fans as the car whisked her and Teresa back to the M.G.M. studios in Culver City. She looked at her wristwatch. “Damn. I’m going to be late.”
“Is it urgent?” asked the chauffeur over his shoulder.
“I’m meeting Mr. Powell for lunch. He hates being kept waiting.”
“We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Miss Loy, just close your eyes and keep them closed until we get there. I guarantee you it’ll be in ten minutes.”
Myrna said to Teresa, “You shut your eyes too.” Teresa’s eyes were already shut. Asta, sitting in the front with the chauffeur, yawned and then whined as he felt the limousine suddenly gaining momentum. The chauffeur was bent over the wheel, now in imitation of the racing wizard Barney Oldfield, his idol. Myrna felt them rounding a comer on what she was sure was two wheels. She groped for Teresa’s hand, found it, and clutched it tightly. Her heart was beating faster and she was positive her pulse was racing. She wanted to scream “Slow down!” but was positive by the time she got the words out of her mouth they’d be at the studio gate. She was almost right. They reached the studio in ten minutes flat.
“We’re home!” announced the driver cheerily. “I’ll take Asta to the kennel.”
“You do just that. And thank you. That was quite an experience. On the way drop Teresa at the commissary. You all right, Teresa?” Teresa nodded but said nothing; her vocal cords were paralyzed. Myrna hurried from the limousine into the executive dining room. Powell hadn’t arrived yet. Myrna exhaled, followed the chirruping hostess to the table, and en route paused to chitchat briefly with some fellow actors and several executives.
Louis B. Mayer was spooning his daily chicken soup, from his mother’s recipe and a speciality of the dining room. He sat with another executive, Benny Thau, who grunted when Myrna greeted him, a grunt being as gracious as he ever got. It was said of another producer who never missed church services on Sunday that he was holier than Thau. Mayer said to Myrna, “Make sure your chicken soup is piping hot.”
Myrna stuck her chin out and said with a twinkle in her voice, “What makes you think I’m going to order chicken soup?”
“You don’t want chicken soup?” He paused in midslurp, riveting his eyes to hers. She expected to hear him baric an order to have her stood against a courtyard wall in front of a firing squad.
“Not every day of the week I don’t. Louis, why do I suspect that in addition to your stable of horses you’ve cornered the market in chickens?”
William Powell was suddenly at her side, his right hand clutching the racing form, his left arm surrounding her shoulders. “Ah, the perennial chicken soup. Mother’s milk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Myrna, “it’s gin that’s mother’s milk.”
Powell inquired archly, “Are you planning on a bowl of hot gin?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m thinking of chili with a lot of hot sauce.” She said to Mayer and Thau, “You’ll forgive us, won’t you? We don’t want to be late for lunch.”
“Who’s joining you?” asked Mayer, fearful it might be their agent, who always gave him indigestion.
“Nobody’s joining us,” said Powell. “We’re both thirsting for a martini and I need a phone to place some bets.”
Mayer snorted. “What do you know about doping horses?”
“I’ve never doped a horse in my life. I select my horses with great care. My bookie says I’m the most elegant horse selector in Hollywood.”
Thau growled, “You got any tips?”
Powell winked at Myrna. “Long John Silver in the third at Hollywood Park.”
“Ha!” ha’d Mayer. “Like the Stevenson character, that nag also has a wooden leg!”
“Oh really?” said Myrna. “I must tell Asta. He has a taste for wooden legs.”
Powell yanked her away from the table and led the way to theirs. “Well, Minnie, it’s been too long a time since we’ve lunched.”
“Three days, for God’s sake.”
“That’s much too long a time.” Myrna smiled. She adored her friend. Not once since their first film together in 1934, Manhattan Melodrama, had he ever made a pass at her. Unlike Spencer Tracy and Clark Gable and director Victor Fleming, who never ceased to try to force their attentions on her. Her marriage to Arthur Horn- blow hadn’t dampened their enthusiasm, it just heightened the challenge. “How’s Baby?”
“I just left her.”
“Why didn’t you ask her to join us?”
“Because I want you all to myself. Besides, Baby had to do some fittings. I don’t think she’s looking well.” They were seated and a waitress had taken their orders for two very dry martinis with lemon peel. “There’s no sparkle in her eyes today.”
Myrna said wryly, “Maybe she’s exhausted by your whirlwind courtship.”
“Stop trying to fill me with guilt. Maybe she’s exhausted by the constant demands of those two vultures she’s living with.”
“Now Bill,” said Myrna, “that’s no way to talk about her mother and her stepfather.”
“They are vultures and they are bleeding her dry and they’re not going to dig their talons into me and my money.”
“Oh? Do you have much money?”
“Anything over ten bucks is much money to them.” Myrna was studying a menu but paused to give Powell a mock stem look.
“Mama Jean adores Baby. So does Mario Bello.” He was Mama Jean’s husband, a suave Italian gigolo with a mustache not unlike Powell’s. In fact, he somewhat resembled Powell as did two of Harlow’s earlier husbands, the M.G.M. executive Paul Bern and cameraman Hal Rosson. Because of these resemblances, Myrna often found herself wondering if Harlow was looking for a stepfather figure. Paul B
ern was mysteriously murdered just a few months after he and Harlow were married, but thanks to Mayer and his powerful political connections, Harlow’s career survived the scandal.
Powell said, “I think that greaseball wishes Mama Jean was out of the way so he could have Baby Jean all to himself.”
“How terribly astute you are,” Myrna said as she buttered a roll. The waitress was serving the martinis. Myrna asked, “What took so long?”
The waitress adored Myrna and was used to her sometimes merciless teasing.
“The bartender had a hard time slicing the lemon peel.”
“You sure he didn’t try a pass?” He said to Myrna, “I tried a pass at her once and suffered a severely sprained wrist. She doesn’t know her own strength.”
“Oh yes I do. Ready to order?”
“I’ll have the chili. With lots of hot sauce.”
“No can do.”
“Why not?” Myrna bristled with indignation.
“Mr. Mayer says you’re to have the chicken soup.”
Myrna suggested to the waitress what Mr. Mayer could do to himself.
Powell exclaimed, “Why, Miss Minnie Loy! I should wash your mouth out with laundry soap. To think a lady would say a thing like that. Let alone Hollywood’s perfect wife.”
Myrna waved her wrist at him disdainfully. “If you bring me chicken soup, I shall dump it on Mr. Mayer’s head.”
The waitress said, “If you do, I’ll phone that in to Louella.”
“Aha!” said Powell. “I’ve long suspected you were one of Louella Parson’s spies. That’s how she gets the stuff for that deadly column of hers.”
The waitress leaned forward and took them both into her confidence. “You think we can live on the salary they pay us?”
Myrna leaned forward. “Got any hot tips for us? You know, some juicy little tidbit?”
Said Powell, “Like who’s laying May Robson.” Robson was a septuagenarian character actress who had been a reigning Broadway star at the turn of the century.
“If anybody’s laying her,” said the waitress, “we’d be planning her memorial service.” She zeroed in on Powell pointedly. “But there’s something cooking with Claire Young.”