by George Baxt
Myrna gave it some thought. “You might have a point there. First get your hands on the book, and then destroy it and her so she can’t reveal the contents of the book.”
Regan served the tea and the coffee. “Anything else? Dessert?” Myrna asked, “Is there coconut cream pie?”
“There sure is,” said Regan, sounding like a cheerleader. “Well, don’t you dare bring me any,” said Myrna sternly.
“Me either,” said Powell, “I don’t like gooey desserts, thank you, Regan.”
Regan left them, wondering if the actors at other studios were as nuts as those at M.G.M.
“You were saying?” Powell asked Myrna.
“Umm, oh yes. Find the book, destroy it and murder Claire. Dear God, is that me speaking? It sounds so awful! So coldblooded!”
“You must face the reality of murder, the way we did the Thin Man murders. They too were awful and coldblooded.”
“But those were movies. About as removed from reality as Louis B. Mayer.”
“Franchot is waving at him. And Virginia is smiling at him. Their option renewals must be coming up and murder is murder whether in fact or fiction. Mark my words. Someone is going to be murdered.”
“You’re so sure of yourself,” Myrna said.
“The set-up is perfect. There’s a madam with a little black book, the contents of which could destroy a lot of careers. And I’ll venture the guess that a large percentage of the names therein mentioned are emotionally unstable and will murder to protect their somewhat shaky reputations.”
“Including you?”
“I don’t have to. I’ve been reassured that my career is safe.”
“Reassured by Louis B. Mayer? You trust him?”
“I have to trust him. He’s all I’ve got. You think if all this gets too hot, he’ll dump me?”
“He tried to dump me last year when I went on strike. He had me on suspension without salary for months. Arthur almost didn’t marry me because I wasn’t collecting a salary. Oh, the hell with Mayer and the hell with Arthur, let’s talk about real people. You got any connections with the police?”
“Why? Do you think I might need them?”
“Well, it’s always handy to have a policeman in your back pocket. Say, wait a minute. We had a dick on Penthouse.”
Powell was reaching for his cup of coffee but instead cocked his head to one side. “A ‘dick’?”
“Well, isn’t that what they call detectives?”
“Yes they do, but coming from you it sounds like a language from another world. A ‘dick’ indeed!”
“Stop trying to be superior. We had this officer on the movie. Now let me think. What was his name? Hmmm. It was something very poetic.”
“Browning?” suggested Powell.
“No. That doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It did for Elizabeth Barrett.”
“That’s another part I was after. So was Marion Davies.”
“Heavens.”
“But Miss Shearer got it, as you well know.”
“Joyce Kilmer?”
“You’re not even warm.”
Powell made a mock bow and said, “Pardonnez-moi.”
“That’s it!”
“That’s what?”
“French! Villon! Francois Villon!”
“Francois Villon worked on Penthouse?”
Myrna was losing patience with him. “Of course not Francois Villon, but it was somebody Villon. Very attractive man too.” And then came the dawn. “Say wait a minute! Hazel Dickson was his girlfriend.”
“Our Hazel do sure get around.” He smiled. “Could it possibly be Herb Villon?”
Myrna smiled. “Oh Bill, bless your heart.”
“I met Herb Villon. When Carole and I had that unpleasant Russ Columbo experience.”
“Oh yes. I forgot they were a romance after you two divorced.”
“It wasn’t much of a romance. It was his boyfriend who shot him.”
“But it said in the papers it was accidental. They were examining a gun when it accidentally went off and killed Columbo. He had such a beautiful voice.”
“The funeral was nice too.”
“You were there?”
“I escorted Carole. She was very broken up, about as broken up as Carole can ever get.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not telling you anything I haven’t told her. She liked Columbo. She liked his boyfriend too. Underneath that wacky exterior of Miss Lombard’s there beats the heart of a dedicated romantic. I hope she’s happy with Gable.”
“He’s so dumb.”
“Why, Mrs. Hornblow!”
“I’m not telling you anything that you and everyone who knows him isn’t already aware of. He’s a dear man and he’s dumb. Let’s go back to the detective.”
“Where’d we leave him?”
Regan was back freshening their cups of tea and coffee.
“I presume we left him when he was investigating Columbo’s so-called accidental shooting.”
“You two are so blood thirsty what with needing a corpse and an accidental shooting!” Regan was appropriately bewildered.
Powell said, “We’re just rehearsing dialogue for our next Nick and Nora Charles adventure, The Thin Man Gains Weight.”
Regan stalked away but paused in her flight to see who Franchot Tone was waving at this time.
Myrna said, “So he was investigating the shooting and you were a great help to him.”
“No I wasn’t. I wasn’t much help at all. Luckily for Carole, at the time of the shooting we were at her lawyer’s signing papers and trading filthy jokes. You know, of course, Carole dotes on filthy jokes.”
“I don’t know that at all. She’s always on her best behavior when I’m with her, which isn’t very often.”
“I was Carole’s alibi.”
“Why did she need an alibi? The shooting was accidental.”
“How do you know?”
“You said so.”
“What I said was hearsay and it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law. My dear Myrna, the way Metro covered up Paul Bern’s murder when Baby was married to him. Paramount engineered a cover-up of Columbo’s killing to protect one of their very valuable properties, namely, Miss Carole Lombard.”
“Are you telling me the gun didn’t go off accidentally?”
“You look so disappointed. It was quite obvious the boyfriend in a jealous rage plugged him and thatta, as they say, was thatta. Un crime passionel, as the French would say, which brings us back to Mr. Villon. Now how do you expect a detective to help us? We are in no way involved in the crime that has yet to be committed and if it is committed we don’t want to be anywhere near it.”
“I’m sure Villon is well aware of what’s going on with Claire and the little black book.”
“Well, if he’s still Hazel Dickson’s boyfriend, he damn well ought to be.”
“And I’ll bet he’s been in on some of those orgies.”
“What? As a participant? Shameful, Mrs. Hornblow, shameful.”
“You know what I mean! He led the raids.”
“I doubt it. He’s an investigative detective. They don’t lead raids. They’re not all that physical. They look for clues and do a lot of thinking about who might have perpetrated the crime.”
“Bill, I find this all very frustrating.”
“In the meantime, I’ll toss you for the check.”
“Oh no you won’t. We’ll go dutch the way we always do. There’s Regan.” She signaled Regan for the check and then rummaged in her handbag for her wallet. Powell had his wallet on the table. Regan handed him the check.
As he studied the check. Powell said, “I suggest we go to my dressing room and wait for Hazel Dickson to arrive.” He looked at his wristwatch. “There’s still plenty of time before she’ll get here. Oh goody gumdrops. Perhaps I’ll attempt to rape you.”
Regan leaned against the table to steady herself.
Myrna was concerned. “Regan?
Do you feel faint?”
“I don’t know what I feel. First a corpse, then an accidental shooting, and now rape …”
Powell smiled and said, “We are a bit eclectic, aren’t we?”
“If that means you’re off your rockers, then you certainly are.” She took the check and the cash and hurried off to the cashier.
Myrna asked, “Why do I think this innocent lunch of ours might show up in somebody’s column? She is a spy, you know.”
“And undoubtedly regrets she has but one studio to give for her country. What a lousy sandwich. Wipe that peculiar look off your face, Mrs. Homblow. It’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I keep thinking of Claire Young,” Myrna said resolutely. “Madam or no madam, blackmailer or no blackmailer, whatever she is or isn’t, she’s much too young to die.”
TEN
Hazel Dickson had spent the morning having her hair done by Mr. Eleanor in his beauty parlor on Fairfax Avenue, just off Wilshire Boulevard. It was convenient to Hollywood’s celebrated Farmers Market, where many of the stars shopped and Hazel frequently picked up some tips while doing her shopping. She had a legion of spies there among the produce vendors and their loyalty couldn’t be faulted. Today she skipped the Farmers Market because there was just time to beard her favorite lion in his den, Villon in his precinct downtown. That would give her plenty of time to get to Metro in Culver City and her interview with William Powell commissioned by a magazine in Denmark. She kept reappraising herself in the rear-view mirror of her car and wasn’t sure she liked what she saw. Mr. Eleanor had had a battle with his latest lover, a truck driver who was away on the road several times a week hauling gasoline for Texaco and he was still unnerved by the ordeal when working on Hazel. His hands shook and Hazel had a vision of herself emerging as the Bride of Frankenstein. Under the circumstances, she thought of suggesting he turn her over to his very capable assistant, Mr. Esmeralda, but once she was seated after having her hair washed, Mr. Eleanor began spouting the gossip he had picked up since he had last worked on her and much of it was choice. As he spouted away, Hazel silently admired the Christmas decorations and wondered what Villon was giving her.
Hazel inspected herself again in the rear-view mirror and questioned the permanency of the permanent wave. She was turning into the precinct’s parking lot when she espied Villon and Jim Mallory emerging from the building and heading toward their unmarked police car. She bore down on her horn and then stopped the car and rolled down her window. “You heading for lunch? I’ll join you.”
“We’re not heading for lunch. What did you do to your hair?”
Hazel panicked. “What’s wrong? I just had it done!”
Villon consulted with Mallory. “Don’t you think her hair’s a little too red?”
Mallory squinted at Hazel’s hair and then at her face and commented, “It doesn’t match her eyebrows. They’re black.”
Hazel fumed, “Who ever heard of anybody with red eyebrows?” Villon asked Mallory, “Didn’t I read somewhere Captain Bluebeard had red eyebrows? Bushy red eyebrows?”
Mallory said to Villon, “You only read newspapers and coroner’s reports. I never saw you crack a book.”
“You’re a big help.”
Hazel’s eyes darted from one man to the other. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“Never in broad daylight,” said Villon. “What are you doing here?”
“I had a couple of hours to kill before an appointment with Bill Powell at Metro so I decided to drive here and see if you had any dirt for me.”
Mallory asked Villon under his breath, “The orgy at Atwill’s?”
Villon cautioned him, “She reads Ups.”
“Another orgy at Atwill’s?” asked Hazel.
“You getting bored with them?” asked Villon.
“Everybody’s getting bored with them. They have to be used as blind items because the columnists don’t dare name names. Anybody unusual caught?”
‘‘Baby LeRoy.” Villon conjured up the erstwhile child actor from his long-dormant subconscious and wondered what had become of him. He could only be seven or eight years old, Villon figured, though in this town it could be considered an awkward age.
Hazel’s eyes were narrowed into slits. “That’s not funny. Where are you off to now?”
“I suppose if I don’t tell you, you’ll tail us anyway.”
“Right on the nose.”
“Claire Young’s.”
Hazel brightened. “Oh, is she back in business? That was a short retirement.”
“I felt like having a talk with her.”
“Why don’t you phone her?”
“I did. She wasn’t in but Fern Arnold was. She expected Claire back shortly, and by the time we get there, she ought to be there.”
“I’m suspicious,” said Hazel.
“That’s a chronic condition with you.”
“What’s up, Herb? Has Claire had some death threats? Come on, out with it.”
Herb Villon was losing patience with both the woman and the color of her hair. “I’m nursing a premonition.” Hazel waited. “There’s nothing else.”
“I think there is,” said Hazel. “Did you ever know an actress obscure in the annals of Hollywood history named Audrey Manners?”
Jim Mallory piped up, “Didn’t I read her name in Jimmy Fidler’s column today?”
“Either that or it was read to you. Herb? Did you ever hear of Audrey Manners?” Hazel had gotten out of the car and stood facing Villon. “I’ll jog your memory. Maybe it’ll help you. About twelve years ago she was under contract at Metro. She got into trouble with a producer whose wife blew the whistle on him and got Louis B. to drop the actress and blacklist her in the industry so no one else would hire her. Very nasty of him but what the hell, you know how nasty these big shots can get when they’ve got little else to do.”
“Hazel, you’re giving yourself a headache I don’t think you want.”
“Claire Young was thrown out of Metro and blacklisted,” said Hazel. “I knew there was a story there someplace. I kept the idea in the back of my head until Fern Arnold gave me the fresh scoop on Claire. So I decided to do some poking around.”
“Where did you do your poking?”
“In your apartment the other morning when you disappeared without waking me and kissing me goodbye.”
“I was in a hurry.”
“I was poking around in your desk for some writing paper. In the bottom drawer I found some pictures of some women. I figured you had a right to your personal gallery of old conquests.”
“Mighty generous of you.”
“They were all snapshots except one. It was a professional photo. The girl was very pretty. She looked familiar. On the back of the photo was the M.G.M. stamp and her name, Audrey Manners. I studied the picture for a long time, but I wasn’t sure who it reminded me of. Then when Fern phoned me the scoop on Claire Young, something clicked.”
Jim Mallory was feeling uncomfortable but wasn’t quite sure why. Possibly the look on Herb Villon’s face. It wasn’t a pleasant look.
Hazel continued. “I’d been to Claire’s. Fern took me there once after I promised not to write about it. That photo of Audrey Manners nagged at me, and you know what I’m like when something nags at me.”
“Tenacious,” said Villon. Mallory winced. Villon had spat the word.
Hazel wasn’t fazed. The rare time she had been fazed was when Mae West invited her to tea and actually served tea. “So I went to one of the stores on Hollywood Boulevard who deal in movie nostalgia …”
The store was called Movie Memories and the young man behind the counter who had been sorting a stack of movie stills greeted her with a friendly smile. He wore a green eyeshade such as those fancied by croupiers in the films he had seen and when he smiled his teeth almost matched the color of the eyeshade.
“Can I help you?” he asked through his nose.
“You’ve helped me before. Perhaps you can help me again. As I re
call, your studio photo file goes a long ways back.”
“I’ve got one of the best in town. Say, now I remember you. You’re the lady who offered me money if I had any tips for you. Did I ever give you any?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Shame on me.” He smiled and Hazel wished he wouldn’t. “The only gossip I know is what I read in the columns, and I don’t read those too often. I don’t have the time.”
“Are your pictures filed according to studio?”
“And cross-indexed. I do a lot of mail orders.”
“There was an actress at Metro back in the twenties. Very young and very pretty.”
“They all were. Who you looking for?”
“Her name is Audrey Manners.”
He placed an index finger against a cheek and gave Audrey Manners some heavy thought. “Metro’s in the back.” He led Hazel down a row of shelves stacked with magazines, photographs, and an imposing serendipity of movie memorabilia. Hazel heard some employees chattering away interspersed with an occasional squeal of discovery. “Oh what a gorgeous picture of Natalie Moorhead!”
“Say, don’t Myrna Kennedy look real dishy here?”
“Well, whaddya know, Ronald Colman without his mustache. And all along I thought he was born with it.” etcetera.
At the back of the store, there was a long row of filing cabinets. “I keep the more obscure artistes in these cabinets. The ones for whom there isn’t much call.” He walked slowly reading the labels on each cabinet drawer. Hazel patiently following him. He suddenly stopped and asked her, “Is she still alive?”
“She must be. She’s probably in her early thirties.”
“So? She could have been crushed to death in a car smash-up. You know’ how they drive in this town. Sweet Mary Magdalene, I got rear-ended last weekend and could have sworn I heard Gabriel blowing his horn. It was a street musician, thank God.” He slapped a fist on a cabinet that was ringed with black tape. “This is the land of the dead. Exclusively photos of those who have gone to their reward. Poor darlings. I’ve got everybody here. Dorothy Dell, Barbara LaMarr, Wallace Reid, Lilyan Tashman, Lowell Sherman, Bobby Harron. I’ve got some dirty ones of him, care to look?”