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

by George Baxt

  Powell was asking Hazel, “Is Claire all right?”

  Hazel said, “That depends on how you define ‘all right.’ Right now she’s weeping into the bosom of a young woman who I assume is one of her young ladies. She travels — so help me God — with a violinist.”

  “Ah!” said Powell. “That would be Freda Groba. She’s Hungarian. Lazio is her entourage. Put Claire on the phone. I want to talk to her.”

  “I don’t think she’s in any condition to talk.”

  “Tell her it’s me. We’re very fond of each other.”

  “If I must say so myself, I make a damned good martini,” Myrna said.

  While waiting for Claire, Powell sipped his drink. “You most certainly do, Mrs. Homblow. One of your more agreeable assets.” Myrna asked, “Did you know the deceased well?”

  “We’ve chatted. She was a very amiable young woman. Devoted to Claire.”

  “Then Claire didn’t do it,” said Myrna firmly.

  “Hazel mentioned the room had been partially ransacked,” said Powell.

  “Aha!” said Myrna. “The little black book!”

  “What about it?”

  “You say ‘ransacked’ and the first thing that comes to my mind is the book. Why else ransack the place?”

  “I said partially ransacked. I’m hearing sirens.”

  “Where?”

  “On the phone. The cops have arrived. Ah! I hear a familiar voice giving orders. I do believe it’s our friend Villon.”

  “Francois?”

  “Herb.” He said to Myrna, “I wonder if Hazel’s forgotten me.

  Oh dear. Lazio is playing “The Music Goes ’Round and ’Round.’“

  Myrna said, “That’s hardly appropriate for a murder. I wonder if he knows ‘Rock of Ages.’“

  “Possibly, if it ever reached Hungary. Ah! Claire! Baby, this is dreadful.”

  Claire gripped the phone tightly. “I can’t think. Bill. I’m paralyzed. The cops are here and the press have arrived outside but Herb won’t let them in.”

  “Ah! Then it is Herb Villon’s voice I recognize. He’s a good cop, Claire. You can trust him.” For the moment, Claire reserved comment. “Listen, I’m coming over.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good idea. The place is swarming with reporters, photographers, you know, the press and the newsreels. It could look bad for you. Metro wouldn’t like it.”

  “Damn Metro!”

  “I second the motion,” cried Myrna heartily as she raised her glass.

  Powell was struck with an idea. “Myrna Loy’s here with me. I’ll bring her. We’ll say we’re researching our next Thin Man movie.”

  “Excellent thinking, Mr. Powell,” said Myrna, now at his dressing table and freshening her makeup.

  Claire made no further effort to dissuade Powell and hung up. Powell said to Myrna as he stood behind her, straightening his tie and then smoothing his hair, “Well, Miss Loy, we’ve got it at last.”

  “Got what?”

  “What you’ve been insisting we sorely needed. We’ve got a corpse!”

  Myrna stared at him in the mirror. “Now really, Bill, a dead woman is hardly cause for a celebration.”

  “I am not celebrating, nor am I crying hosannas. There was bound to be a murder sooner or later, and now that we’ve got one, let’s make the most of it.”

  Myrna said softly, “He’ll kill again.”

  Powell stared at her and said, “Oh.”

  “I don’t think he meant to kill Fern Arnold. She was murdered in Claire’s house.”

  ‘‘He was hunting for the book in Claire’s house.”

  ‘‘And also possibly hunting for Claire. Killing two birds with one stone.” Myrna arose. “I hope Detective Villon is as competent as you say he is. He’s got a lot on his plate right now and I don’t think it’s all that digestible.”

  Powell guided her out of his suite. “We’re going to be running the gamut of reporters and photographers. Be prepared.”

  “We’ve run that gamut before. We’re veterans of the wars. Push on!”

  Hazel Dickson had done her job well. She’d disseminated the news of Fern’s murder in time for the evening editions, and it was already a flash item on the radio. It wasn’t that Fern Arnold was a celebrity or a newsworthy personage, but it was her connection to Claire Young and the little black book that vastly enhanced her newsworthiness. Equally important, this wasn’t any old murder, it was a Hollywood murder, prime meat for the vultures to pick over. Newspapers dug into their picture archives to see what they had on Fern Arnold from her brief youthful skirmish as a promising starlet at Metro. Editors assigned their sob sisters to pursue the angle of another young innocent gone bad in Hollywood, like grapes left unpicked on the vine.

  The radio on a shelf behind the bar at Griselda’s wasn’t tuned too loudly, but it was loud enough for the customers at the bar to hear the startling news and begin speculating. Griselda stared at the radio while the bartender asked, “Wasn’t she the dame in here last night with that doctor?”

  Griselda nodded her head. She didn’t speak because an unidentifiable sadness had overtaken her. The dead woman was someone she knew. She was a habitué at Griselda’s Cage. Not every night or afternoon of the week but often enough to bring a cheery greeting from Griselda whenever she came in. She never came alone, always with someone. Sometimes one of Claire’s girls, sometimes one of Claire’s unmarried clients, and a few times with Claire herself.

  She heard the bartender saying, “I’ll bet last night she didn’t dream today she’d be a corpse.”

  “That’s not funny,” snapped Griselda.

  “I wasn’t meaning it to be funny, Griselda. I’m just saying we don’t know from one day to the next what’s going to happen to us.”

  “Howie, I had no idea that under this roof 1 was harboring a philosopher.”

  Howie grinned. “Me? A philosopher? Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Probably,” said Griselda as she went to greet a couple looking for a late lunch.

  Outside Claire’s house, the photographers and reporters were in a feeding frenzy, but there was little for them to feed on. Villon had assigned one of his veteran detectives, Zachary Forrest, to try and keep order among the gentlemen of the press. Forrest immediately assigned a detective to the other three sides of the house to keep the press from trying to trespass unnoticed. Some of the more enterprising reporters and photographers busied themselves photographing the house and grounds from all angles and ringing the doorbells of neighbors to see if they had noticed any suspicious-looking characters in the vicinity.

  “Madam,” a reporter asked a middle-aged woman whose bridge game he had interrupted, “have you seen anyone around here today that might have looked like a killer?”

  “Just you,” she snapped and slammed the door shut.

  Inside Claire’s house, the coroner’s examination of Fern was a cursory one. He didn’t need a diagram to illustrate to him that the blow to Fern’s skull was all it took to kill her. He did comment that it was a vicious wound and it made Villon say to Mallory, “I wonder if she knew her killer.”

  “I wouldn’t be the least surprised,” said Mallory. “Leaving those french windows open is an invitation to anyone to come on in.” The french windows were at the opposite side of the room and Villon said, “It’s a warm day. Fern must have opened them and maybe gone into the kitchen to fix something for herself. Everybody in this town leaves windows and doors open. Nobody thinks they might be inviting a criminal by making entry so easy.”

  Mallory said, ‘‘How many times have I seen a body being removed and why do I still get a queasy stomach?”

  Freda crossed herself as the attendants carrying the stretcher onto which Fern’s wrapped body was strapped passed her and Lazio and Lucy Rockefeller, who turned her face away or risked a rapid return to the bathroom. Claire’s eyes followed the stretcher out of the room. She was seated at her desk with her hands folded, fighting tears. She saw Villon go
out of the room and got up to follow him. Hazel watched her and then lit a cigarette. Mother had warned her there might be days like this. She wished she wasn’t jealous of a romance that had occurred about a decade ago. Mallory was talking to Freda Groba.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked her.

  “I came to talk business with Claire. I did not expect to find murder.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Prostitute business, vot other kind is there to discuss? But I suppose now is not the time. But we’ll stay with Claire for a while. Now is not the time for her to be alone. You agree?”

  “Freda,” said Mallory, feeling in his gut there was worse to come, “I most certainly agree.”

  TWELVE

  Claire followed Villon to an enclosed porch off the front hall which afforded privacy from prying eyes by a row of tall, thickly grown hedges. Claire sat in a wicker chair while Villon leaned against the wall with his arms folded. Claire asked, “Who was it that phoned the police?”

  “Nobody phoned us. A couple of hours ago Jim Mallory and I were batting suppositions back and forth. About you, the black book, your abrupt defection from the business. We agreed you had set yourself up to be murdered.”

  Claire found a cigarette in her handbag, lit it, popped the lighter back in the handbag, and snapped it shut. She exhaled smoke and then their eyes met. Hers were not unkindly. “That’s a pretty crazy idea.”

  “Not if you carry insurance with a double indemnity clause.” She stared at the lighted end of the cigarette. “And in case you don’t know, a double indemnity clause means there’s no pay-off if the subject committed suicide.” He paused and then took the plunge. “You want to be killed so there’ll be a pay-off. I’m not asking who to, it’s none of my business. Are you that seriously ill?”

  “I never heard of anyone being ill just for the fun of it. I have an inoperable cancer and my timetable is cutting it too close for me to kid around.”

  “Which is why you put out the news about the book. You figured someone would come gunning for you.”

  “That’s right. Only it was Fern who took the heat … She fought back tears. “What a dirty trick I played on myself. Fern! My best friend. The only person I could really trust. And how would you like a laugh? She’s the executor of my will!” She took a long drag on the cigarette while Villon studied her face. Still beautiful, the skin as lovely as ever, no telltale lines, not a sign of illness, even more beautiful than when he first met and fell in love with her. He heard Claire ask, “What are you looking for?”

  “I found it. The pretty kid I met a long time ago.”

  Claire deftly sidestepped the remark. “You came out here because you and Jim decided I had set myself up to be killed. And how did you think you could prevent it?”

  “That remains to be discussed.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “You’re in danger and with Fern murdered in your house that makes it a case for the police. You may want to get yourself bumped off but it’s my job to see that you don’t.”

  “If you’re thinking of setting up watchdogs to protect me, you can forget it.” She stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. “Hazel’s in love with you, right?”

  “On a clear day.”

  “She knows I was Audrey Manners.”

  “Hazel’s a very smart lady.”

  “Well, tell her to stop following my every move as though I might think of running off with you. You’re the past, Herb, and I don’t live in the past. Not that I wouldn’t trade the present for a hope of a future but I never kidded myself about anything and I’m not about to start now.” She got up.

  “Why is Audrey Manners supposed to be such a mystery?”

  “Because she’s the past. She had nineteen pretty good years and could have had more if she hadn’t screwed up. Claire Young’s done pretty damn well for herself and Claire Young could use a stiff drink.” She turned on her heel and walked away from him briskly.

  A few minutes later Jim Mallory found him. “The forensics squad is here. They’re dusting the place. What about the book? You find out where she’s hidden it?”

  ‘‘You know, Jim. I didn’t even think of asking her.”

  “Bill, sometimes you’re so damned clever,” said Myrna to Powell as he tooled along in his custom-built Cadillac convertible, “I never heard of double indemnity. How’d you know about it?”

  “My insurance agent told me about it after I got some new policies when I divorced Carole. He thought I was all broken up about it and toying with suicide.”

  “How could anybody think of you committing suicide? The very idea!”

  “Well now, Mrs. Hornblow, that’s very sweet of you. But there have been times when I’ve entertained the notion of doing away with myself.”

  “I don’t believe you. Not you. Never.”

  “Never say never. I believe there’s a song on the subject.” Myrna wore a shawl wrapped around her head to protect her hair from the wind, Powell having commented she looked like a very chic Ukrainian peasant. “Claire Young is a very courageous woman.”

  “Why?”

  “Setting herself up to be murdered! That takes courage!”

  “There are those who might call it an act of idiotic stupidity.”

  “Well, I’m not among them,” said Myrna. “Of course, I have no sympathy for suicide.”

  “Why? Did someone near and dear have a go at it?”

  “Goodness no. My father died in the great flu epidemic of 1919. Bill, are you sure you’re going in the right direction?”

  “I’m quite sure. And if I’ve forgotten the way, which is hardly likely, my trusty Cadillac convertible can find its way there on its own. This clever mechanical marvel has gotten me safely home when I’ve been in no condition to drive. Why one morning after a wild night at Charlie Chaplin’s — one of his typical nights of nubile nymphets and much champagne sec and brut and the host’s monumental ego — I awakened in my bachelor’s boudoir stretched out in bed in a very wrinkled tuxedo. It took me some time to realize I was in my own bed in my very own bedroom. But the Cadillac, I worried, in what condition is the Cadillac? I made my way downstairs with, of course, some difficulty because the house seemed to be swaying — “

  “Earthquake?” asked a concerned Myrna, who was convinced they were traveling in the wrong direction.

  “No silly, monumental hangover. Anyway, there in the garage was this dependable old darling, and you know what?”

  “No, what?”

  “I had washed it!” She flashed him a look of skepticism. “So help me Hannah. Ah! Look ahead! Police cars! Newsreel trucks! Reporters! Camera men! Detectives protecting the house like Cerberus at the gate. Off with the shawl, Minnie. Murder will out, as they say, but movie stars have got to be eternally glamorous. Off with the shawl.”

  “I’ll have you know it’s a Schiaparelli made especially for me by Elsa herself as a personalized gift. She doesn’t market shawls as a rule, you know. Oy oy oy, here comes the conquering horde! Smile! Let’s look affable.”

  “Don’t be silly. This is a very sad occasion. Now remember. We’re here to do research.” Powell parked and Myrna removed the shawl. As they got out of the car, they were immediately recognized and surrounded, mercilessly bombarded with questions while the cameras rolled.

  Powell shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen of the press! Come to order, please. We are here quite unofficially. We are doing research for our next Thin Man movie.”

  “What’s the title?” shouted a reporter.

  “Title? Title? Minnie, do you remember the title?”

  “Me? Remember the title? Oh sure. The Thin Man’s Dandruff.” They were having difficulty reaching the front door.

  “Hey Bill!” yelled a reporter. “Does Louis B. Mayer know you know Claire Young?”

  “I keep nothing from Mr. Mayer. He’s like an uncle to me. Uncle Louis.”

  “Hey Myrna. Are you and Hornblow split for good?”


  “No,” riposted Myrna, “we’re split for bad.”

  A sob sister asked, “You giving him a Christmas present?”

  “Oh heavens no,” said Myrna, enjoying herself immensely. “The whole point of the separation was to avoid giving him a Christmas gift.”

  Inside the house, Villon had told Mallory to see what all the fuss was outside. Mallory checked and reported that Loy and Powell had arrived.

  “Who invited them?” asked Villon.

  Claire spoke up. “Bill Powell is a very good friend of mine. He volunteered to come here with Miss Loy.”

  Villon asked in exasperation, “Is this a murder case or a three-ring circus?”

  Hazel Dickson had hurried to the front door to greet the stars. On opening the door she found them detained by the detective assigned to stand guard there. Powell was insisting, “Let us by, we’re expected.”

  Hazel tapped the detective on the shoulder. “They’re expected,” she corroborated, “to give aid and comfort.” The detective reluctantly stood to one side, thoroughly unimpressed by the celebrity of the stars. Hazel gushed at the stars as she led them inside the house and Myrna wondered what the woman was thinking of dyeing her hair that awful red color. Myrna’s hair was a true, shimmering red, and she would permit Sidney Guilcroff, the Metro hair stylist, only to touch it up with the highlights necessary for the cameras.

  Claire hurried to Powell, who embraced her, hugging her tightly. “Go ahead and cry, dear, it’s good for the ducts.”

  “I’m all cried out,” said Claire. “Thanks for coming.” She said to Myrna, “I remember meeting you under happier circumstances.”

  “There’ll be other happier circumstances,” said Myrna and then her eyes widened in amazement at hearing a violin rendition of “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” Claire explained Lazio and introduced Myrna to Freda and Lucy who were genuinely delighted to meet her. “Oh, there’s Francois Villon,” said Myrna.