[Celebrity Murder Case 11] - The William Power and Myrna Loy Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “No one in particular,” said Myrna, “it was so damn hot out on the back lot, I was probably rooting for the director to yell Cut so I could go get a glass of cold water.”

  Powell interrupted her. “I insisted Ida send one of her flunkies into the files and ferret out a picture of Audrey Manners. Well, my friends, it seems that anything referring to Audrey Manners has been obliterated, or so the flunky told Ida.”

  “You don’t believe that?” asked Myrna.

  “Of course not. I then asked Mayer, did he think Claire might be marked for obliteration.”

  “Why do you use such big words?” asked Hammett.

  “Because in this town, I rarely get a chance to use them.”

  “So there!” said Myrna.

  “For crying out loud,” said Hellman, “you two should be married to each other.”

  Hammett said with great sincerity, “Lily is right. There’s a unique chemistry between you two.”

  “Oh please,” said Myrna.

  “Shut up, Minnie, and let the man continue.” Powell flashed his teeth at Hammett. “Do go on, Dash.”

  “Christ,” said Hellman.

  Hammett said, “This is truly heartfelt before I have another martini and sink into a well-earned silence. You do have an amazing chemistry. You bring out the best in each other. In both Thin Man pictures, your rapport is magical.” He turned to Hellman. “Go ahead, Lily, shoot me down in flames.”

  “I will not,” she said, kissing his cheek. “It’s the sort of eulogy appropriate to a double funeral.”

  “Okay, Hammett.” said Powell, “I’m picking up the check.” Hellman, after lighting a cigarette, asked with her usual candor, “You mean to tell me you two have never had an affair with each other?”

  “There was never any time,” said Myrna. “You people don’t seem to understand what a Hollywood contract entails. Do you know my first year under contract I did six pictures?”

  “Dear God,” said Hellman.

  “Dear God, indeed,” echoed Myrna. “There was a period when I acted in three films at once. Bill wasn’t here then, he was still at Warner’s. I’d work on one film in the morning, grab a sandwich, and work on the second film in the afternoon. Then a bowl of soup — no, not chicken — and head for picture three for most of the night. Thank God I’m a quick study or I’d have gone berserk. Now do you understand why I went on strike last year for more money and fewer pictures? They replaced me in The Emperor's Candlesticks with Luise Rainer and then threatened me with Roz Russell and a new girl named Ruth Hussey…”

  “But the fans would have none of them,” said Powell proudly. “They wanted Minnie and only Minnie and now they’ve got her forever.”

  Hellman growled, “Where the hell’d you get that nickname?”

  “That’s nothing. My husband calls me Queenie.”

  “Queenie?” Hellman was aghast. “That’s a name for a Pekingese!”

  “Oh really? Do you suppose my husband is trying to tell me something? I often think I lead a dog’s life. If I remember correctly, Arthur insisted he was leading a dog’s life. I wonder if Arthur’s in Claire Young’s book.” She answered her own question. “I hope so. He hates to be left out of things.”

  “If he is in it, will you leave him?” asked Hellman.

  “I’ve already left him.”

  “No!”

  “Don’t you read the columns?”

  “What columns?” asked Hellman, thirsting for a refill.

  “The gossip columns!”

  “Hell no. I’m still ploughing through War and Peace.”

  Powell could see Hellman was parched and had signaled for another round. “I didn’t know anybody read War and Peace. I thought it was just talked about.”

  Hellman said, “I suppose Hornblow will do for a first husband.” Myrna was at a loss for words. Powell came to her rescue. “Why, Lily, there are lots of respectable first husbands in Hollywood. Some of my best friends have been first husbands. And I thought I was a pretty good first for Carole.”

  “Carole?” queried Hammett.

  “Why yes. Haven’t you heard of Carole Lombard?”

  “Oh yes. I read somewhere you just did a picture with her. Something about a forgotten butler,” said Hammett.

  “Not quite, but you’re close. It’s about a forgotten man who becomes a butler. My Man Godfrey.’'

  Hellman was puzzled. “You did a movie with your ex-wife? Wasn’t that awkward?”

  “Not at all. It was an excellent script and an enjoyable experience.” A thought hit him. “Say! Carole would be perfect casting as Claire Young.”

  Myrna gave it some thought. “Carole as a madam? I don’t think she’d go for that.”

  “Of course she would,” insisted Powell. “She’s got a vocabulary that would bring a longshoreman to his knees.”

  “You two are a pair of ghouls!” Hellman was truly appalled. “Why, the poor woman is hardly cold in her grave.”

  “Lily,” said Powell.

  “What?”

  “She’s still alive.”

  “Oh. Of course. Well, that makes it twice as ghoulish.”

  “Ah!” said Hammett as the waiter arrived with four martinis on a tray.

  As he served the drinks and retrieved the empties, the waiter told them, “Griselda has asked me to tell you about our two specials. There’s a very lovely Hungarian goulash and pot roast with potato pancakes.”

  “I’m for the pot roast,” said Myrna. The others chimed in with their orders with only Powell opting for the goulash, thinking in Hellman’s honor it should be spelled ghoulash. Myrna said to Powell, “Bill, did Louis B. mention getting together with the other studio heads to do something about Claire Young?”

  “You know, Minnie, with hindsight, I now realize that there was a devil-may-care attitude about him. As though he knew this situation would be resolved to his satisfaction.”

  “Oh please, Bill, don’t!”

  “Please Bill don’t what?”

  “You make it sound as though he knows she’s going to be killed.”

  “No comment.”

  “That’s so cold-blooded!” said Myrna. She said sternly, “Bill Powell, it’s your duty as a good citizen and a friend of Claire Young to warn her that her life could be in danger.”

  “Minnie,” he said with exaggerated patience, “I should think by now you realize our Claire — “

  “Your Claire. Not our Claire,” said Myrna. “I’ve never met the woman.”

  “Yes you did,” he reminded her with glee. “She helped you learn how to be a call girl.”

  Lillian Hellman feigned shock. “When were you a call girl, Myrna?”

  “Oh, damn it. It was for a movie.”

  Powell wagged a finger at her. “You’re behaving like all the rest.”

  Myrna waxed indignant. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded.

  “You want the curtain permanently drawn on your brief affiliation with Claire Young. You think it might be harmful.”

  “I don’t think that at all. It was a slip of the memory because I don’t think that brief occasion is of any importance.”

  “Well then,” said Powell, “why don’t we phone Claire and invite her to join us for dinner?”

  “I’d love to meet her,” said Hammett, expecting Hellman to explode.

  She disappointed him and said, “I’d love to meet her too. I once had a beer with Polly Adler.” Adler was New York’s most celebrated madam who at the height of her success had enrolled in a series of literature classes at a local university.

  Myrna was annoyed. “You’re treating her like a freak. She’s a human being, not a sideshow, despite her notoriety.”

  Lillian said, “Myrna’s right. Let’s not ask her to join us.”

  Hammett said, “She probably wouldn’t want to join us. She knows we’re a disreputable lot.”

  Myrna chirruped, “Oh good! Here’s our dinner!” Two waiters descended on them with the trays of food and
the delicious odors were intoxicating. In their wake came Griselda Cage, the proprietor, followed by a third waiter with a tray holding a bottle of red wine and four glasses.

  Powell was the first to espy her. “Why Griselda Cage, is that wine for us?”

  “Courtesy of the house and a chance for me to meet Miss Hellman and Mr. Hammett and to bring you the bad news, Bill.”

  “What now?” he asked as she supervised the pouring of the wine.

  “Long John Silver was an also-ran, just like in the book.” She explained to Hellman and Hammett that this Long John Silver was a racing horse. Powell sighed sadly and then introduced Griselda to Hammett and Hellman.

  “Pull up a chair, Griselda, join us.”

  “Not for long. I’ve got a heavy night.” She borrowed a chair from an adjoining table. “So what’s the latest buzz on Claire Young?”

  “If there’s anything new on Claire Young,” said Powell, “I’m sure you’re the one to tell us.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially, “I know all about your grapevine.”

  Griselda’s laugh was deep and hearty. “Believe me, Bill, it’s vastly overrated. Sometimes Hazel Dickson lets me in on something juicy but that’s about it. She was in last night with her boyfriend, Herb Villon, the detective. She told him plenty but she told me nothing.”

  “And who is Hazel Dickson?” asked Lillian.

  “She’s a go-between,” said Griselda.

  “And what does she go between?” asked Hellman.

  “Lily, she’s a liaison,” said Myrna. “She marries items of gossip to the right columnists. She’s a very celebrated young lady in this town. She’s the best and the busiest gossipmonger there is. Drinks a little too much but then who among us dares cast the first stone?”

  “This wine is delicious, Griselda,” said Powell. “Very heavy, very fruity” — he looked at the impressive label — “and very very.” He showed the label to Hammett and Hellman, who smiled their appreciation. “Minnie, would you care to examine the label?”

  “No, thank you. I’m not much for examining labels. I've been put off them by a husband who prefers examining wine bottle labels to examining me.”

  “Now Myrna, Arthur adores you,” protested Griselda.

  “Not as much as he adores himself.”

  Powell said, “I move we change the subject. Let’s get back to Hazel.” He asked Griselda, “I suppose Hazel had the scoop on Claire Young.”

  Griselda shrugged. “You can’t tell by me. She didn’t mention a thing last night while she was still in a mentioning condition.”

  “Very possibly she didn’t have the scoop last night,” said Powell. “All hell didn’t break loose until lunchtime today. We first got it from a waitress in the executive dining room …”

  “Very classically named Regan,” added Myrna. “Oh Griselda, this pot roast is heavenly.”

  “Made it myself,” said Griselda with pride. “My grandmother’s recipe.”

  “And who was your grandmother?” asked Powell.

  “My grandfather’s wife.”

  Powell asked Hammett and Hellman, “Don’t you find this conversation scintillating?”

  “Bill, behave yourself,” cautioned Myrna. “I admire women who can cook. I can’t, and thank God I earn enough money to hire one.”

  Hellman said, “You pay for the cook? What about Hornblow?”

  “He criticizes.”

  “Charming,” said Hellman.

  “Not very,” said Myrna. “We run through a lot of cooks.”

  “Lily’s one hell of a cook,” volunteered Hammett proudly.

  “Dash, you lucky devil you,” said Powell.

  “Don’t overdo it, Bill,” said Hellman. “Look at him. Thin as a rail. Picks at his food. Look at what he’s doing to his pot roast.” She asked Griselda, “Doesn’t he upset you?”

  “Anyone who can write the way he does can do anything he likes with my pot roast.”

  “Is that a double entendre?” asked Powell.

  “Not meant to be,” said Griselda. She said to Powell, “Is all hell about to break loose?”

  “Meaning Claire?” asked Powell. Griselda nodded. “All hell has already broken loose and I suspect shall continue to break and loosen for many a day to come.”

  “Hell. This means a lot of people are going to get hurt.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Powell. “There are those who will undoubtedly fall by the wayside, but they were always meant to fall by the wayside. I suspect some of the studios will exercise the morals clause to cut loose actors already marked for termination.”

  “You’ll be okay, won’t you?” Griselda was genuinely concerned.

  “I’ll be perfectly fine,” said Bill, “or I’ll become a snitch.”

  “Cossack,” said Hellman and then stoked more goulash into her mouth.

  “Snitch on who?” asked Myrna. “Or should I have said whom?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Hammett. “I’m just a writer. We never know which is correct, who or whom.”

  “Out with it. Bill, who are you thinking of victimizing?” Myrna wasn’t distracted from her pot roast.

  “Snitching isn’t victimizing,” said Powell indignantly, “snitching is tattling. And if anyone gets my dander up, I just might identify some choice members of Claire’s clientele.”

  “Such as?” asked Myrna.

  “Oh, let me think. How about Lionel Barrymore?”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” laughed Myrna. “He’s too crippled with arthritis to be of any use to a prostitute.”

  “My dear Minnie, it’s supposed to be the other way around. The prostitute is supposed to be of use to Mr. Barrymore.”

  “William Powell, you should absolutely be ashamed of yourself unless you’re kidding us. You are kidding us.” The smile on his face was the familiar wicked one. And then just as suddenly, the smile disappeared. He saw two people entering the restaurant, a man and a woman. Myrna succumbed to her curiosity and turned to see what had wiped the smile from Powell’s face.

  “Who are they?” asked Myrna.

  “The woman is Fern Arnold,” said Powell. “She works for Claire. They’re pals from a long ways back. I don’t recognize the man.”

  Griselda identified him. “He’s a doctor. In fact, he happens to be Claire’s doctor. Mitchell Carewe.”

  “My dears,” said Myrna, much taken with Carewe’s good looks, “I am considering changing doctors.”

  “Why?” asked Hellman. “He looks like a floorwalker in a department store.”

  “Oh well,” said Myrna with an artificial sigh, “another illusion shot down in flames.” She watched as they were seated in a booth at the opposite side of the room and after giving a waiter their drink orders, engaged in what seemed to Myrna’s practiced eye to be a very heated conversation.

  “Minnie,” said Powell in a cautionary voice, “it’s rude to stare.”

  “So stop staring,” retoned Myrna.

  Hellman pushed her plate aside. “You two have got to be married. You simply have got to be married. You behave more married than any marrieds I know.” She stared at Fern and the doctor. “I don’t think those two like each other.”

  SIX

  Dr. Carewe was torching the cigarette in Fern Arnold’s mouth while saying, “I’m doing as much as any doctor can do for Claire.”

  ‘‘Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?”

  “For what reason? Her cancer’s in remission. She’s been in remission for close to two years now. She’s been luckier than most.”

  “How come now you tell her it’s inoperable?”

  “The remission is over. That’s what her tests and examinations showed at Mount Sinai. It’s spreading. I promise you, I told her as gently as I could. Fern, we know so little about cancer. I could put her into radiation again but I don’t think she can take it. You know what the side effects did to her the last time.”

  “I know what they did to me,” said Fern sadly, “sitting up nights with her
and holding her in my arms.” She flicked ash into a tray. “Oh what the hell, she doesn’t want to live. She doesn’t want to fight.”

  “She’s set the town on its ear with her bombshell. Everybody’s talking.”

  “Yeah, well I bet they ain’t saying much.”

  “Where does she keep the little black book?”

  Fern leaned back and took a drag on the cigarette. “I wouldn’t know. Why do you want to know?”

  “Curiosity. If there is a book …”

  “There is.”

  “…then it contains a lot of names familiar to me. The book’s worth a fortune.”

  “And as usual, you could use a portion or a share of it. Claire says you’re in to the boys for a very big bundle. You charge some pretty ritzy fees. Don’t tell me you can’t scrape enough together to pay off those mobsters.”

  “I’ll level with you, Fern. I’m in way over my head. I’m drowning.”

  “Don’t expect me to send flowers.”

  “Why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate you. I reserve hate for special occasions. I don’t like you because of what you put Claire through. She didn’t have to have an abortion.” Fern stared at the glowing ember at the tip of the cigarette.

  “I didn’t know she had one. This is news to me!”

  “Don’t hand me that!”

  “I swear, so help me God, I swear!” He seemed genuinely upset. “Did Claire tell you I was involved in an abortion?”

  “She said something about being very ill when she gave you the air. She had to go to the desert to recuperate. She was laid up for months.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe that was the seed of the cancer.”

  Carewe said knowledgeably, “A lot of Hollywood ladies have taken to the desert during the past few years. Off the top of my head I can name Constance Bennett, Miriam Hopkins, Loretta Young…

  “What about them?”

  “They went to the desert to recover from serious illnesses and when they returned, each one brought a baby they’d adopted.” He smiled, “Or so they said.”

  Fern said, “When you phoned to ask me to meet you, you said it was urgent. I haven’t heard anything urgent.”

  “I want to marry Claire.”

  “Oh come on …”

  ‘‘I’ve never stopped loving her. I never married, because no one could compare to Claire.”