by George Baxt
“Herb Villon,” corrected Powell.
“Oh yes, of course!” They shook hands with Villon, of whom Myrna then said with perspicacity, “He’s not really glad to see us. You’re not, Mr. Villon, are you?”
“This is a murder investigation,” said Villon, “not dinner at the Mocambo.”
“We understand that, Mr. Villon. We are here on Claire’s behalf.” She looked around. “Now then, what have you done with the corpse?”
Villon said, “What we usually do with a corpse. Send it to the morgue to be autopsied with an identification tag around the big toe.”
Myrna said with her patented charm, “I’m sure you don’t mean to be ungracious, Mr. Villon.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be,” and he managed a smile.
“I think Bill and I are going to surprise you and be of some help.” Villon groaned inwardly. “We’ve been doing a lot of theorizing on our way here. For example, I assume you’ve heard of the double indemnity clause in insurance policies?” She didn’t miss the look Villon flashed to Claire. “I see you have.” She turned to Claire. “Claire, I was telling Bill on the drive here how much I admire you. It takes the kind of guts I don’t think I’ll ever have to set yourself up as a target for a murderer. Oh dear, you look chagrined.” She said to Villon, “But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
Bill Powell said to her, “Minnie dear, slow down a bit.”
“Why?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. “I’m just getting warmed up. And I can tell our theories are good because Hazel is taking notes. I’m not going too fast for you, am I, Hazel?”
Powell said, “Nobody ever goes too fast for Hazel.” Villon tacitly agreed while Hazel kept writing in her pad, her handbag held tightly under her left arm.
Myrna asked Villon, “How do you suppose the killer got in the house? Do you suppose Fern knew him and opened the front door to him, which is rather ridiculous as he’d undoubtedly come to find the little black book and that being the case, he certainly doesn’t want anyone to know his identity. He obviously didn’t succeed because Claire seems to be upset only by Miss Arnold’s murder. I mean, Mr. Villon, when she came home and saw that a section of the room and her desk had been ransacked, she didn’t check to see the book was still safely hidden, that is, if it’s hidden in this room.” She smiled. “I’ll bet it is.”
Powell suavely moved closer to Myrna and said under his breath, “Minnie, try putting a lid on it for a while. I think Villon is finding you a bit tiresome.”
Myrna feigned astonishment. She was very self-assured about their theories. “Mr. Villon, I’ll bet we’re on the same wavelength. If we aren’t. I’ll go away and powder my nose.”
“A very lovely nose,” said Villon, and Hazel looked up from her pad, “and some pretty damned good theorizing.”
Myrna turned to Bill with a look of triumph, “Now how’s that for generosity!” She smiled at Villon. “You’re a good sport, Mr. Villon. And I’m having a perfeetly marvelous time. Shall I go on or shall I shut up?”
“Hell no,” said Villon.
“Hell no, go on or hell no, shut up?”
“Please continue. Miss Loy. You might come up with something I haven’t thought of. Detectives aren’t infallible.”
Hazel said, “Myrna Loy, don’t you dare stop. This is going to make a terrific feature story.”
Myrna suggested, “Be sure to mention the Nick and Nora Charles angle. That’ll keep Metro happy because they’re going to be pretty miserable when they find out we’re here.”
Powell asked, “And how will they find out we’re here?”
“Oh Bill, you can be so unbecomingly dense at times. With that gang of reporters and photographers out there, every one of whom would betray their country for an in with our Howard Strickling— he’s Mayer’s henchman,” she explained to the room in general, while smiling at Lazio, who had launched into a schmaltzy rendition of “As Time Goes By” — “Louis B. knows or will soon know. Mr. Villon, do all murder investigations have musical accompaniment?”
“Is it annoying you?” asked Villon.
“Oh heavens, no. I find it enchanting. Bill, have you anything to contribute, dear?”
“You keep right at it, Minnie. You’re doing splendidly. Don’t you agree, Claire?” Claire was mesmerized by a detective covering the bloodied carpet near the fireplace with an oilcloth. “Claire?”
Her head jerked up. “What?”
“Don’t you think Myrna is doing splendidly?”
“Splendidly.” Powell crossed to her and put an arm around her shoulders. Claire was anxious to phone her aunt out in Venice Beach. They must have heard the news of Fern’s death by now, though her son wasn’t big for newscasts. Maidie would be upset, worried, even frantic. No, never frantic. Maidie was too level-headed for that. If Maidie had heard, she would have phoned by now.
Myrna was standing at the french windows. “The killer must have gotten in through these french windows.”
“They were open when we got here,” said Jim Mallory.
“I was wondering if you’d ever say anything,” said Myrna. “You have to be a detective. No reporters permitted on the premises.” Jim reminded her they had met when she came to the precinct for some instruction on police procedure for Whipsaw. Myrna didn’t remember him but sweetly said she did. Mallory wondered if it made sense to fall in love with her despite the fact she was married, albeit, from what he discerned, at the present somewhat shakily. Powell asked hopefully, “Myrna, have you finished?”
“Good heavens, no,” she said in a tone of voice meant to scold him. Her hands were on her hips while for a brief moment she wished Powell would make up his mind. First he says she’s doing splendidly and several breaths later he’s wondering if she’s finished.
“So here we are at the french windows through which it’s more than likely that he got into the house unheard by Fern, who was probably busy elsewhere. This charming young man,” — she indicated Mallory — “said they were open when you people arrived.”
“Which ‘you people’?” asked Powell.
“Oh now really, Bill. Mr. Mallory and of course Mr. Villon and most assuredly Hazel. The musical accompaniment and friends had to have arrived later. So he made his entrance through the french windows.”
“Or his exit,” suggested Villon in a very firm voice.
“Well,” said Myrna, with her trademark wrinkle of the nose, “let’s assume he did both. Don’t you agree, Mr. Villon?”
THIRTEEN
To the intoxicating strains of a wild czardas, one of the forensics experts wrapped the poker while Hazel assured Claire there was an excellent product on the market that removed bloodstains from rugs. Claire was appalled, and finally rescued by the ringing of the telephone. It was Maidie and she was relieved to hear Claire’s voice.
“Arc you all right? We just got back from shopping. We just heard it on the news.” She lowered her voice. “Elmer knows nothing. He’s listening to a serial. John’s Other John or something like that. I can’t tell one from the other. Now listen to me, Claire, you’re not safe in that house. You get out. Go to a hotel where there are lots of people. Please, Claire, please listen to me, I’m frightened.”
Claire reassured her. “I’m not alone.” She didn’t say she wished she was. Myrna caught the irony in Claire’s voice. “I’m surrounded by admirers. Reporters, photographers, newsreel people, an assortment of detectives, and William Powell and Myrna Loy.”
Maidie didn’t believe that at all. “Oh, go on with you! How can you crack jokes at a time like this?”
Claire resumed reassuring Maidie. “I won’t be alone tonight. Three friends are going to stay with me. Yes, one plays the violin. One’s a mad Hungarian with a heart of gold she’ll probably one day hock, and another is her best friend, who’s having stomach trouble. I’ll call you tonight. God bless.” She hung up. She said to Myrna, “My aunt Maidie. She lives in Venice.”
“Oh,
I’m so glad you have a relative. 1 was so afraid you were alone in the world, like anybody out here whose option was suddenly dropped. Bill Powell, why are you snooping around that desk?” He was on his hands and knees tapping the wood that masked the back of the desk.
“This piece of furniture might just have a hidden drawer. There was a desk like that in The Emperor’s Candlesticks.”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Myrna.
“Minnie, there’s no cause for you to be contrary. I was in that picture. You weren’t.” He resumed tapping.
Myrna said to Villon, “I’m sure you should probably be doing what Bill’s doing.”
Villon said knowledgeably, “I don’t think we’ll see that black book until Claire decides to show it to us. If she’s ever going to show it to us. If it even exists.”
“Oh, it exists all right,” said Myrna with remarkable self-assurance. “You can attribute that to women’s intuition. I keep a diary. Nothing much to interest the prurient, meaning anyone with a dirty mind, like my husband.” She thought for a moment. “Well, it isn’t exactly a dirty mind. But Arthur is very jealous, very suspicious, and highly competitive. He’s also a chronic flirt and I’d love to see that book of Claire’s because I suspect Arthur is in it.”
“She’s here in the room. Why don’t you ask her?”
“That’d be putting her on the spot. She’s having a bad enough time as it is. If it was me I’d be flat on my back on the chaise longue in my bedroom with smelling salts in one hand and a gin martini in the other and wondering why had God forsaken me.”
“And … Claire’s made of sterner stuff,” said Villon.
“You speak with such assurance. Why do I suspect you go a long way back with Claire?”
“I don’t know, why do you?”
“Earlier she wasn’t too subtle about indicating she wanted you to follow her out of the room. And it wasn’t for protection.”
“Miss Loy …”
“Mr. Villon, please call me Myrna and I’ll call you Francois …”
“The name’s Herb.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, of course it is. And I’ll call you Herb. And you can call Mr. Powell Bill and … Look, he’s found something. A slip of paper. What have you got there. Bill?”
“A slip of paper. I found it under the desk.”
Claire crossed to him. He read what was written on the paper and gave it to Claire. “Here you are, my dear. I believe it’s a prescription written by Doctor Carewe. I can’t make head or tail of it. It’s in doctor hieroglyphics.”
“It was in one of the drawers,” said Claire. “One of the ransacked drawers.”
“Which explains what it was doing under your desk.” He said to Villon and Myrna, “It’s dated yesterday.”
“It should be. That’s when I saw him. It’s a prescription for sleeping pills. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Don’t let sleeping pills worry you, Herb. I know all about double indemnity clauses. Besides, it was Mitchell who suggested I have them.”
Myrna asked Bill, “Wasn’t that the name of the doctor we saw with Fern Arnold last night at Griselda’s?”
“Yes.” Bill said archly to Claire, “Griselda fingered him. Were Fern and the doctor what they call an item?”
Claire said icily, “Fern and no one were an item. Not lately.” She walked away from them to Freda and Lucy, and Lazio serenaded the room with “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?” Lucy said to Lazio, “Oh, not that one again.” He swiftly segued to “With My Eyes Wide Open I’m Dreaming.”
Claire said to the women, “Would you be sweethearts and set up a pot of coffee? There’s all sorts of sandwich stuff in the fridge. I can’t believe I’m hungry but I’m hungry.”
Jim Mallory overheard Claire and went to Hazel. “There’s going to be sandwiches and coffee.”
“Oh, thank God. My stomach’s been rumbling.”
Detective Zachary Forrest came into the house and went to Villon. Villon asked, “What’s up?”
“Some members of the press are complaining why does Hazel Dickson have special privileges.”
Villon was annoyed. He didn’t like reporters and he didn’t like photographers, having been misquoted often enough in the past to make him leery of the lot. Hazel was no exception despite his love for her and he had told her so often that he’d stopped repeating himself ages ago because he know all his reprimands fell on deaf ears. He told Forrest, “Hazel was with us when we found the body. Tell them she’s claiming squatter’s rights.” Forrest nodded and left.
Powell was saying to Myrna, “Minnie, you’re mumbling something.”
“No I’m not. I’ve acquired your favorite habit, talking to oneself.”
“And what are you telling yourself?”
“I’m telling myself not to be such a damn fool.”
“And why, if I may be so bold to ask, are you telling yourself not to be such a damn fool?”
“I think I’m suffering from the Thin Man syndrome.”
“I didn’t think there was such a thing.”
“It’s similar to that old murder mystery chestnut.”
“Are you thinking of Cherchez la femme?”
“As a matter of fact, that will do nicely too. What I’ve actually been thinking about is that other murder mystery chestnut, the least likely suspect.”
“Myrna, what we have here is the prospect of several hundred suspects.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being in the least bit ridiculous. Every man who has used Claire’s services I should think would contemplate homicide to keep that little black book from exposing their indiscretions.”
“Balderdash.”
“Oh, I like that word! What made you think of it?”
“It just popped into my head. You know how things are always popping into my head. Let’s go to the french windows. I don’t want to be overheard.”
“There’s a detective stationed out there near them. Aren’t you worried he might overhear?”
“You don’t speak French, do you?”
“No I don’t. And neither do you.”
“I most certainly do. Some. Arthur and I picked it up when we spent that time in Paris when I was under suspension last year.”
“And what else did Arthur pick up?”
She ignored that as she walked casually to the windows, Powell keeping step with her. At the windows, he looked out. “Why, it’s a fenced-in garden. How pretty. Don’t you agree, Minnie? We’re in luck. The detective’s on the other side of the fence. And so here we are and from the look on Villon’s face I think he’s curious to know what we’re up to.”
“I’m sure he is. He thinks I’m awfully good at theory. Wave him over to join us. But subtly. The others might get suspicious.”
“Well, we certainly can’t have that, can we?”
“We certainly can’t.”
Villon went to join Powell and Myrna, unnoticed by Hazel, who was deep in conversation with Jim Mallory while Claire seemingly was standing guard over the forensics people dusting her bookshelves.
Powell said to Villon when he joined them, “Strange little case you’ve got here, Herb.”
“Very strange and not all that little. Well?”
“Well what?”
“What are you two up to?”
Myrna said, “I’m the one who’s up to something. Bill’s not up to a thing, at least not that I know of.”
Powell said, “Myrna is entertaining a theory about the least likely suspect.”
Villon stated flatly, “The fiddler.”
“Oh, never him,” said Myrna.
“You’re right. Because at the time of the murder he was behind bars with Freda and Lucy. They even let him share their cell though it’s a strict rule in our local lock-ups that men and women must be segregated.”
“Louis B. Mayer would approve strongly of that. He’s a stickler for segregation. Black actors are only hired at Metro to play menials. When I brought it to his attention
— much, I might add, to his discomfort — he called me a ‘Bolshevik.’ Anyway, I don’t consider Lazio or the ladies suspects, though it’s tempting because the three of them certainly come under the heading of least likely. Now listen carefully and don’t pass judgment until I’m finished.” She looked around to make sure no one else was within earshot. Then she said softly, “Claire Young.”
For the first time in a long time, Villon appeared dumbfounded. Myrna asked, “Cat got your tongue?”
Powell said, “I must say, Minnie darling, you’ve managed to roll Cherchez la femme and the least likely suspect into one rather untidy little package. I don’t see Claire murdering her best friend and confidante. I don’t see Claire murdering anyone.”
Myrna stood her ground though she was beginning to see it was a bit shaky. “What’s the matter with you two? Have you never suffered betrayal by a supposed best friend? I’m sorry I’ve upset you, Herb, I can see you harbor a Grade A quality of loyalty. And it’s quite obvious you’ve still got a soft spot in your heart for Audrey Manners. A little while ago you started to say Audrey was made of sterner stuff, but you caught yourself and substituted Claire for Audrey. She was obviously very important in your past and I think she still is. I know now there’s Hazel and has been for a long time and she’s quite a girl. But Herb, you can’t close your mind to a suspicion just because it involves someone you care about.”
“You’re right, Myrna. If it’ll make you feel better, Claire’s on my list too.” Myrna felt better. “I suppose you have a scenario as to how Claire might have done it?”
“Well, yes I do. It goes something like this. Claire comes home sometime around noon. Fern didn’t expect her back so soon and is hunting for the black book in the library. Claire surprises Fern. Fern didn’t hear her coming in.” She took a dramatic pause. “Fern has found the book and Claire is outraged.” She paused, her eyes darting back and forth between the two men.
“Go on,” said Villon.
“By all means, Minnie,” said Powell.
“You’re laughing at me,” said Myrna.
“Not at all. I’m fascinated. I’m completely in your thrall.”
“I don’t care what you’re in. We saw Fern and the doctor together last night. They looked as though they were cooking up something.”