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

by George Baxt

  “You only meet girls at Claire’s. She sets appointments so that you don’t run into anyone you know. She has an uncanny gift for subterfuge.” A thought developed. “Would Hazel have known about Audrey Manners? Her nose for news makes Pinocchio’s look like a pencil stub. She told us Fern Arnold gave her the exclusive on the black book and Claire’s decision to close up shop.”

  Villon was out of the chair and pacing in circles around his desk and Jim Mallory. His hands were shoved deep into his trouser pockets and his brow was furrowed with trouble lines. “It’s all too pat, Claire folding the business and letting the world know there’s a little black book that could prove to be very troublesome.”

  “Or very profitable. Come on, Herb, be realistic. She may be an old buddy of yours but what she’s doing sounds like a clever heist and blackmail is blackmail.”

  Villon sat on the desk looking down at Mallory. “I’ll stand by my statement that Claire is a lady. I don’t say ladies sometimes don’t stoop to blackmail, because I’ve had to deal with a few in the past, but that’s because their backs were against the wall. And if Claire’s back is against the wall, I want to know why it’s there and who helped put it there.”

  “What about this guy who helped set Claire up in business?”

  “He’s bye-bye forever. If it’s finances that have her in trouble, I’m positive she has no one to turn to unless she was ever chummy with William Randolph Hearst but somehow I can’t quite see that.” He was thinking aloud. “It’s like there’s some sort of a shootout going on and Claire is deliberately moving into the line of fire.”

  “Anyway you look at it,” said Mallory, “she's a clay pigeon.”

  “Damn it, for some reason, I think she wants to be one. I’ve got to find out.”

  Jim said, “You really care.”

  “Of course I care.”

  “You’re still in love with her.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” Villon waved Jim’s statement away with a toss of a hand. He took his jacket from the back of his swivel chair where it was always draped and headed out of the office, Mallory tagging in his wake. As they passed a row of holding cells, both suddenly stopped in their tracks. They heard someone playing a violin. The tune was “Play, Fiddle, Play.” They had heard it often enough on the radio, especially the Sunday night show The A.&P. Gypsies.

  “Lazio,” said Mallory.

  “Is that a secret password?” asked Villon.

  “It sounds like Lazio. He plays violin exclusively for Freda Groba.”

  “Who is Freda Groba?”

  Mallory cleared his throat. “She’s a Hungarian whore. One of Claire’s girls.”

  “I see. Am I to assume you have met Freda Groba?”

  Mallory said staunchly, “I have met Freda Groba and have absolutely no regrets.”

  Villon said, “Her I’ve got to see.” They followed the trail of the violin music as it grew louder and louder. They reached the cell in which Freda and Lazio were incarcerated along with Lucy Rockefeller, who was emitting some heart-rending sobs.

  “Freda,” said Mallory, “I thought you were too clever to be pinched.”

  “I am always being pinched!” she said with a lavish smile. “Are you a gift from heaven? Look, Lucy, one of my favorite admirers.” Lucy looked and now her body shook with heavier sobs.

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  Freda asked, “You have never had the pleasure of Lucy Rockefeller?”

  “She one of Claire’s girls?” Villon was fascinated by the colloquy between whore and detective.

  “An alumna. Lazio,” she said sharply, “I have had enough of music for the soul. Select another venue.” Lazio segued into “Home on the Range.”

  “Dollink, could you perhaps be of some help? After all, we were leaving the orgy when the cops raided. Apparently they were late as they had trouble finding the house, it is so deep in the Hollywood Hills. It’s not as though they found us in flagrente delicious. We were getting into my car when they came up the driveway.”

  “Where’s the rest of the orgy?” asked Villon.

  Lucy said between sobs, “They got sprung already.”

  “I left word with Claire’s attorney, Ronald Derwitt, but something has delayed him.” Freda said to Mallory, “But what are you doing here? Why are you in police station?”

  Jim wished he could wipe the smirk off Villon’s face. “I work here.”

  “You vork here? What kind of vork you do here?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “A detective? I have been fawked by a detective?” She shrieked with laughter. “Oh oh oh, when I write Mama and tell her, she will dine off the story for weeks.” She shrieked with laughter again. Lucy’s sobs had abated and Lazio was inspired to play “Goodie Goodie.” Freda’s hand reached out to Mallory between the bars. “My good friend Irving Smith, can’t you help us?”

  Villon stared at Mallory and guffawed. “Irving Smith!”

  Mallory was perspiring. “Well, you didn’t expect me to give her my real name, did you?”

  “Vy you no tell me you are detective?” demanded Freda.

  “It might have given you a heart attack!”

  “Aha! A considerate detective!” She thought for a moment. “Of course. You are a friend of Claire’s. A, how they call it, a payoff. That is right?”

  “That is wrong,” countered Mallory. “I got a discount.”

  “Is also good but in a small way. Please,” she implored the detectives, “perhaps they have set bail. You vould ask them to consider my i.o.u.?”

  Villon said to Mallory. “Go to the desk and get a release order for these three. Whoever’s there, tell them I said so in case he tries to give you an argument.” Mallory was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief as he hurried off.

  Freda said to Villon, “I am forever in your debt. We three are forever in your debt. Ask of us anything. Ask anything, it will be yours.”

  “Okay, tell the fiddler to play ‘Body and Soul.’ It’s one of my favorites.”

  Amelia Hubbard’s apartment in West Hollywood was tidy though a bit on the shabby side. She had been taking dictation from Claire for over an hour, Claire having come to her because Amelia’s car wouldn’t start that morning. It was a 1929 Ford two-seater with a rumble seat and Claire advised her to donate it to the Smithsonian.

  “This is real hot stuff, Claire. Real hot stuff. Is that true about Victor McLaglen and Dolores Del Rio?”

  “Every word of it.”

  “Oh boy, if this ever gets published, they ain’t gonna like it.” Claire dictated some more and Amelia let out a sudden yelp, sounding like a puppy whose tail had been stepped on.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Claire.

  “Not H. B. Warner! He couldn’t have been a regular at them orgies of Lionel Atwill’s.”

  “Amelia, if I say he was there, he was there.”

  Amelia was crushed. “But he was in The King of Kings.”

  “So?”

  Amelia said reverentially, “He played Jesus Christ.”

  “Oh, that explains it,” said Claire. “He always asked if it was okay if he wore a crown of thorns. That picture must have unhinged him.” Amelia looked chagrined. Claire asked, “Look, honey, if you’re not up to any more of this, I’ll get somebody else.”

  “Hell no!” protested Amelia, “it’s an education!”

  “I’m tired. Let’s quit. I was at my lawyer’s doing my will.”

  “Is it still Ronald Derwitt?”

  “It’s been Ronald from the time I started the business. He was bequeathed to me by an old friend at Metro. If there’s ever any trouble and I’m not around, get in touch with him.”

  “What kind of trouble could there be?”

  “Just trouble, that’s all. Just trouble. You know this town. You’ve been around it long enough. You know the kind of mischief they can brew here.”

  Amelia held up her stenographer’s pad. “Like the kind you’re brewing?”


  “That isn’t mischief,” said Claire. “That’s the God’s honest truth.” She opened her handbag, retrieved a small envelope, and handed it to Amelia. “Here, honey. This should do you some good for a while.”

  Amelia took the envelope, opened it, and extracted a check, and as she stared at the figure her eyes widened. “Gee, Claire, this is more than I quoted.”

  “There’s more where that came from. Lots more. You’re worth every penny.”

  Amelia closed the stenographic pad and placed it on an end table at her side. “Good thing I’m not a prude or I’d burn this thing.”

  “You better not or I’ll come back and haunt you.”

  Amelia looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  Claire covered the slip. “Have you forgotten one of my favorite threats? Watch out or after I’m dead I’ll come back and haunt you.”

  Amelia said, “I think what you’re telling me is that you think somewhere out there there’s a bullet with your name on it.”

  “Why a bullet? Why not a knife or poison or a speeding car?”

  Amelia took Claire’s hand and squeezed it. “You’re not afraid. You act as though you don’t give a damn.”

  “Enough of melodrama. Keep these pages stashed in a safe place. There are those who know I use you as a secretary.”

  “So?”

  “There are those who might suspect I’m spilling the beans. There are those who don’t want the beans spilled.”

  Amelia stood up and took a dramatic pose, with arms outstretched. “I shall guard these pages with my life.”

  “Fine. And while we’re on the subject of your life, get yourself a new car. That jalopy of yours is a terminal case.”

  “What’s wrong?” Claire said nothing. She couldn’t. She was choked up. “You look like you’re going to cry.”

  “It’s because I’m tired. Yesterday, today, it’s catching up with me.”

  “You want a drink? I’ve got some Manischewitz wine. A gift from an old admirer. My mother.”

  “No wine. No nothing. I'm going home and lie down.”

  “Why do I feel you need someone to look after you?”

  Claire managed a smile. “Fern is looking after me. She’s at home waiting for me.”

  “Good old Fern. Old faithful. True blue and reliable.”

  “Good old Fern and good old Amelia.” She patted Amelia’s cheek. “I’ll call you in the morning.” She blew her a kiss and was out the door. Amelia stood staring at the door Claire shut behind her.

  You better not or I'll come back and haunt you.

  The dictation at a feverish pace. The little black book. Folding the business. Haunt you.

  Dear God, she said to herself, it can’t be. It can’t be. She sat down and stared at the stenographic pad. She opened the pad and began reading her shorthand notations. Some of it was funny. Some of it was sad. Claire dictated in a very matter-of-fact voice. It wasn’t as though she was speaking startling revelations. She was like an accountant giving statistics. Claire had to know it was incendiary. Claire had to know there were those who would kill to suppress the book. And there was someone who might be determined to kill Claire.

  Amelia suppressed a shudder. Claire wants to be killed. That’s got to be it. Claire wants to be killed.

  You better not or I'll come back and haunt you.

  She found the bottle of wine and poured herself a glassful. She lit a cigarette. She stared at the stenographic pad she had put back on the table and then looked at the closet door behind which on the upper shelf she had placed yesterday’s typewritten pages.

  Claire’s dying. Amelia had to know for sure. She had to know. She stared at her typewriter and at the sheet of paper onto which she had been transposing dictation when Claire arrived. She crossed to the phone and dialed Information. She asked for Dr. Mitchell Carewe’s number. She jotted it down. Now she waited for the courage to phone him.

  NINE

  You know what this case lacks,” William Powell said to Myrna Loy at about the time Claire was giving Amelia dictation, ‘‘it lacks a corpse.”

  “Good heavens. How dare they deprive us of a corpse.” Myrna was staring at herself in a compact mirror while waiting for Regan to deliver their club sandwiches. Each had a very dry gin martini in front of them. Powell lit a cigarette after which he nodded at several colleagues who were waving at him. One colleague was pointing a finger at Myrna indicating he wanted to wave at her too. “Myrna?”

  “What?”

  “Franchot Tone would like to wave at you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose he’s partial to waving.”

  Myrna said while still engrossed with her reflection, “It’s Walter Pidgeon who’s partial to waving. Once on the set he nodded off but his hand kept moving.”

  Powell observed, “I think Franchot is beginning to feel snubbed.”

  “We can’t have Franchot thinking that. Heaven forbid. He might complain to his wife and she might get Mr. Mayer to put me on suspension.”

  “Miss Crawford wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “Why not? She elbowed me out of Forsaking All Others and got the part for herself. There!” She snapped the compact shut and sought Franchot Tone. She found him and waved. “Oh good. He’s smiling. He does have an enchanting smile, don’t you think?”

  “That depends on one’s definition of an enchanting smile. Minnie Mouse has an enchanting smile.”

  “I’m in complete accord on that.” She sipped her drink and tossed her head haughtily. “You’re forgetting Jean.”

  “I could never forget Jean.” He stared at his drink. “ I wish they’d stop putting these oversize olives in my drink. They occupy so much space. Didn’t we ask for lemon twists? The world’s against us.”

  “Did you breakfast with Baby this morning?”, asked Myrna, ignoring the olives.

  “No, she didn’t spend the night. As a matter of fact, I dined with Jean and her mother this morning.”

  “You breakfasted with Jean and her mother.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that when one eats breakfast one is not dining?”

  Myrna thought it over while toying with the stem of her martini glass. Finally she spoke. “One is dining when one eats dinner. Just as one lunches when one is eating lunch, and I hope our sandwiches will soon materialize. And when one is at breakfast, one breakfasts. Breakfast meaning to break a fast, having slept all night and therefore eaten nothing.”

  “That’s not entirely true. Some people awaken in the middle of the night and raid the refrigerator.”

  “They won’t find anything worth raiding in mine.”

  Powell said as he folded his arms, “I’m considering wringing your neck.”

  “Why don’t you consider wringing Franchot’s neck.” She could see the actor’s reflection in the wall mirror behind Powell. “He’s waving again.”

  “Not at us. He’s waving at Virginia Bruce. She’s at the next table. Oh now she’s smiling at us. Smile, Myrna. She was with us in The Great Ziegfeld.”

  Myrna turned her head and smiled and then said to Powell, “I’m getting a bit dizzy what with all this waving and smiling. Now, let’s get back to Jean and her mother. Did you convince Mama Jean that Baby looks as though she needs a doctor?”

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. We found a compromise. She’s taking Baby to a health spa on Catalina.”

  “Well, that’s a step in the right direction.” Regan arrived with their sandwiches as Myrna said, “You’re right, Bill. We need a corpse.” Regan almost dropped their plates. “Steady, dear.” Powell asked Regan, “Any new nerve-shattering tips for us today?”

  “Yeah. Your ex is shacking up with Clark Gable.”

  “No!” He exchanged a glance with Myrna, who had busied herself scaling down her club sandwich from three slices of bread to two. “Did you hear that, Mrs. Hornblow?”

  “Frequently this week. From my hairdresser, my manicurist, the wardrobe mistress, and a de
sk clerk at the Chateau Marmont, who voiced a very fervent disapproval. He wants Clark for himself.”

  “The very idea, the hussy.”

  Regan asked, “You want another round of drinks?”

  Myrna asked for tea with lemon. Powell opted for black coffee. He told Myrna, “Have to have my wits about me. I’m being interviewed by Hazel Dickson.”

  “Not really.”

  “The one and only.” Regan departed, wondering who was the elderly lady Franchot Tone was waving at on the opposite side of the room.

  “Clutch opportunity by the throat,” said Myrna. “See what you can get out of her.”

  “About what?”

  “About what? Why, Claire Young of course. That might lead us to a corpse.”

  Powell leaned forward conspiratorially. “Frankly, my dear Myrna, I think Claire is our most likely candidate for a corpse.”

  “Hush!” She looked about with apprehension. “Lower your voice. You might incriminate yourself.”

  “How?”

  “Well, supposing Claire is found murdered and you’ve been heard saying she’s the most likely candidate for a corpse.”

  “The only one close enough to have heard is Virginia Bruce and she’s still busy smiling, and heaven help me, Franchot’s forgotten we already waved back and forth because he’s waving again. Either that or he’s doing semaphors.”

  Myrna said forthrightly, “He’s had my last wave. I’m not waving again. I don’t believe in overdoing a thing.”

  “I didn’t sleep too well last night.”

  “You should have heated up some milk.”

  “I wasn’t hungry, I was sleepy.” He wasn’t enjoying his sandwich. It was too thick, wet, and unmaneuverable. Myrna was doing fine with hers thanks to her having excised the third slice of bread. “Once it became obvious to me that I wasn’t welcome in the arms of Morpheus, I got out of bed, put on my robe and went to the study where I poured myself a large highball.” Myrna nodded by way of tacit understanding. “I sat in my favorite chair and gave Baby some thought and when there was soon very little more to think about, I centered my attention on Claire Young. You know, Myrna, although I do think she’s the most likely candidate for a corpse, 1 think she’s safe as long as the book remains hidden.”